For ten days there was no abatement of it, and evening after
evening, as I consulted my barometer, feeling sure that the black finger
would show that we were coming to the end of these abominations, I found
that it had sunk a little lower yet, till it stayed, like a homing
pigeon, on the S of storm. I mention these things in depreciation of the
story that follows, in order that the intelligent reader may say at
once, if he wishes, that all that occurred was merely a result of the
malaise of nerves and digestion that perhaps arose from those
storm-bound and disturbing conditions. And now to go back to the
beginning again. I had written to engage a room at the Hôtel Beau Site, and had been
agreeably surprised on arrival to find that for the modest sum of twelve
francs a day I was allotted a room on the first floor with two beds in
it. Otherwise the hotel was quite full. Fearing to be billeted in a
twenty-two-franc room, by mistake, I instantly confirmed my arrangements
at the bureau. There was no mistake: I had ordered a twelve-franc room
and had been given one. The very civil clerk hoped that I was satisfied
with it, for otherwise there was nothing vacant. I hastened to say that
I was more than satisfied, fearing the fate of Esau. I arrived about three in the afternoon of a cloudless and glorious day,
the last of the series. I hurried down to the rink, having had the
prudence to put skates in the forefront of my luggage, and spent a
divine but struggling hour or two, coming up to the hotel about sunset. I had letters to write, and after ordering tea to be sent up to my
gorgeous apartment, No. 23, on the first floor, I went straight up
there. The door was ajar and--I feel certain I should not even remember this
now except in the light of what followed--just as I got close to it, I
heard some faint movement inside the room and instinctively knew that
my servant was there unpacking. Next moment I was in the room myself,
and it was empty. The unpacking had been finished, and everything was
neat, orderly, and comfortable. My barometer was on the table, and I
observed with dismay that it had gone down nearly half an inch. I did
not give another thought to the movement I thought I had heard from
outside. Certainly I had a delightful room for my twelve francs a day. There
were, as I have said, two beds in it, on one of which were already laid
out my dress-clothes, while night-things were disposed on the other. There were two windows, between which stood a large washing-stand, with
plenty of room on it; a sofa with its back to the light stood
conveniently near the pipes of central heating, there were a couple of
good arm-chairs, a writing table, and, rarest of luxuries, another
table, so that every time one had breakfast it was not necessary to pile
up a drift of books and papers to make room for the tray. My window
looked east, and sunset still flamed on the western faces of the virgin
snows, while above, in spite of the dejected barometer, the sky was bare
of clouds, and a thin slip of pale crescent moon was swung high among
the stars that still burned dimly in these first moments of their
kindling. Tea came up for me without delay, and, as I ate, I regarded my
surroundings with extreme complacency. Then, quite suddenly and without cause, I saw that the disposition of
the beds would never do; I could not possibly sleep in the bed that my
servant had chosen for me, and without pause I jumped up, transferred my
dress clothes to the other bed, and put my night things where they had
been. It was done breathlessly almost, and not till then did I ask
myself why I had done it. I found I had not the slightest idea. I had
merely felt that I could not sleep in the other bed. But having made the
change I felt perfectly content. My letters took me an hour or so to finish, and I had yawned and blinked
considerably over the last one or two, in part from their inherent
dullness, in part from quite natural sleepiness. For I had been in the
train for twenty-four hours, and was fresh to these bracing airs which
so conduce to appetite, activity, and sleep, and as there was still an
hour before I need dress, I lay down on my sofa with a book for excuse,
but the intention to slumber as reason. And consciousness ceased as if a
tap had been turned off. Then--I dreamed. I dreamed that my servant came very quietly into the
room, to tell me no doubt that it was time to dress. I supposed there
were a few minutes to spare yet, and that he saw I was dozing, for,
instead of rousing me, he moved quietly about the room, setting things
in order. The light appeared to me to be very dim, for I could not see
him with any distinctness, indeed, I only knew it was he because it
could not be anybody else. Then he paused by my washing-stand, which had
a shelf for brushes and razors above it, and I saw him take a razor from
its case and begin stropping it; the light was strongly reflected on the
blade of the razor. He tried the edge once or twice on his thumbnail,
and then to my horror I saw him trying it on his throat. Instantaneously
one of those deafening dream-crashes awoke me, and I saw the door half
open, and my servant in the very act of coming in. No doubt the opening
of the door had constituted the crash. I had joined a previously-arrived party of five, all of us old friends,
and accustomed to see each other often, and at dinner, and afterwards in
intervals of bridge, the conversation roamed agreeably over a variety of
topics, rocking-turns and the prospects of weather (a thing of vast
importance in Switzerland, and not a commonplace subject) and the
performances at the opera, and under what circumstances as revealed in
dummy’s hand, is it justifiable for a player to refuse to return his
partner’s original lead in no trumps. Then over whisky and soda and the
repeated “last cigarette,” it veered back via the Zantzigs to thought
transference and the transference of emotion. Here one of the party,
Harry Lambert, put forward the much discussed explanation of haunted
houses based on this principle. He put it very concisely. “Everything that happens,” he said, “whether it is a step we take, or a
thought that crosses our mind, makes some change in its immediate
material world. Now the most violent and concentrated emotion we can
imagine is the emotion that leads a man to take so extreme a step as
killing himself or somebody else. I can easily imagine such a deed so
eating into the material scene, the room or the haunted heath, where it
happens, that its mark lasts an enormous time. The air rings with the
cry of the slain and still drips with his blood. It is not everybody who
will perceive it, but sensitives will. By the way, I am sure that man
who waits on us at dinner is a sensitive.”

It was already late, and I rose. “Let us hurry him to the scene of a crime,” I said.