Number 17

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Number 17 (1910)
by E. Nesbit
3372120Number 171910E. Nesbit

Number 17.

By E. BLAND.[1]

I YAWNED. I could not help it. But the flat, inexorable voice went on.

“Speaking from the journalistic point of view—I may tell you, gentlemen, that I once occupied the position of advertisement editor to the Bradford Woollen Goods Journal—and speaking from that point of view, I hold the opinion that all the best ghost stories have been written over and over again; and if I were to leave the road and return to a literary career I should never be led away by ghosts. Realism's what's wanted nowadays, if you want to be up-to-date.”

The large commercial paused for breath.

“You never can tell with the public,” said the lean, elderly traveller; “it's like in the fancy business. You never know how it's going to be. Whether it's a clockwork ostrich or Sometite silk or a particular shape of shaded glass novelty or a tobacco-box got up to look like a raw chop, you never know your luck.”

“That depends on who you are,” said the dapper man in the corner by the fire. “If you've got the right push about you, you can make a thing go, whether it's a clockwork kitten or imitation meat, and with stories, I take it, it's just the same—realism or ghost stories. But the best ghost story would be the realest one, I think.”

The large commercial had got his breath.

“I don't believe in ghost stories myself,” he was saying with earnest dullness; “but there was rather a queer thing happened to a second cousin of an aunt of mine by marriage—a very sensible woman with no nonsense about her. And the soul of truth and honour. I shouldn't have believed it if she had been one of your flighty, fanciful sort.”

“Don't tell us the story,” said the melancholy man who travelled in hardware; “you'll make us afraid to go to bed.”

The well meant effort failed. The large commercial went on, as I had known he would; his words overflowed his mouth, as his person overflowed his chair. I turned my mind to my own affairs, coming back to the commercial room in time to hear the summing up.

“The doors were all locked, and she was quite certain she saw a tall, white figure glide past her and vanish. I wouldn't have believed it if——” And so on da capo, from “if she hadn't been the second cousin” to the “soul of truth and honour.”

I yawned again.

“Very good story,” said the smart little man by the fire. He was a traveller, as the rest of us were; his presence in the room told us that much. He had been rather silent during dinner, and afterwards, while the red curtains were being drawn and the red and black cloth laid between the glasses and the decanters and the mahogany, he had quietly taken the best chair in the warmest corner. We had got our letters written and the large traveller had been boring for some time before I even noticed that there was a best chair, and that this silent, bright-eyed, dapper, fair man had secured it

“Very good story,” he said; “but it's not what I call realism. You don't tell us half enough, sir. You don't say when it happened or where, or the time of year, or what colour your aunt's second cousin's hair was. Nor yet you don't tell us what it was she saw, nor what the room was like where she saw it, nor why she saw it, nor what happened afterwards. And I shouldn't like to breathe a word against anybody's aunt by marriages cousin, first or second, but I must say I like a story about what a man's seen himself.”

“So do I,” the large commercial snorted, “when I hear it.”

He blew his nose like a trumpet of defiance.

“But,” said the rabbit-faced man, “we know nowadays, what with the advance of science and all that sort of thing, we know there aren't any such things as ghosts. They're hallucinations; that's what they are—hallucinations.”

“Don't seem to matter what you call them,” the dapper one urged. “If you see a thing that looks as real as you do yourself, a thing that makes your blood run cold and turns you sick and silly with fear—well, call it ghost, or call it hallucination, or call it Tommy Dodd; it isn't the name that matters.”

The elderly commercial coughed and said, “You might call it another name. You might call it——

“No, you mightn't,” said the little man, briskly; “not when the man it happened to had been a teetotal Bond of Joy for five years and is to this day.”

“Why don't you tell us the story?” I asked.

“I might be willing,” he said, “if the rest of the company were agreeable. Only I warn you it's not that sort-of-a kind-of-a-somebody-fancied-they-saw-a-sort-of-a-kind-of-a-something-sort of a story. No, sir. Everything I'm going to tell you is plain and straightforward and as clear as a time-table—clearer than some. But I don't much like telling it, especially to people who don't believe in ghosts.”

Several of us said we did believe in ghosts. The heavy man snorted and looked at his watch. And the man in the best chair began.

“Turn the gas down a bit, will you? Thanks. Did any of you know Herbert Hatteras? He was on this road a good many years. No? Well, never mind. He was a good chap, I believe, with good teeth and a black whisker. But I didn't know him myself. He was before my time. Well, this that I'm going to tell you about happened at a certain commercial hotel. I'm not going to give it a name, because that sort of thing gets about, and in every other respects it's a good house and reasonable, and we all have our living to get. It was just a good ordinary old-fashioned commercial hotel, as it might be this. And I've often used it since, though they've never put me in that room again. Perhaps they shut it up after what happened.

“Well, the beginning of it was, I came across an old schoolfellow; in Boulter's Lock one Sunday it was, I remember. Jones was his name, Ted Jones. We both had canoes. We had tea at Marlow, and we got talking about this and that and old times and old mates; and do you remember Jim, and what's become of Tom, and so on. Oh, you know. And I happened to ask after his brother, Fred by name. And Ted turned pale and almost dropped his cup, and he said, 'You don't mean to say you haven't heard?' 'No,' says I, mopping up the tea he'd slopped over with my handkerchief. 'No; what?' I said.

“'It was horrible,' he said. 'They wired for me, and I saw him afterwards. Whether he'd done it himself or not, nobody knows; but they'd found him lying on the floor with his throat cut.' No cause could be assigned for the rash act, Ted told me. I asked him where it had happened, and he told me the name of this hotel—I'm not going to name it. And when I'd sympathized with him and drawn him out about old times and poor old Fred being such a good old sort and all that, I asked him what the room was like. I always like to know what the places look like where things happen.

“No, there wasn't anything specially rum about the room, only that it had a French bed with red curtains in a sort of alcove; and a large mahogany wardrobe as big as a hearse, with a glass door; and, instead of a swing-glass, a carved, black-framed glass screwed up against the wall between the windows, and a picture of 'Belshazzar's Feast' over the mantelpiece. I beg your pardon?” He stopped, for the heavy commercial had opened his mouth and shut it again.

“I thought you were going to say something,” the dapper man went on. “Well, we talked about other things and parted, and I thought no more about it till business brought me to—but I'd better not name the town either—and I found my firm had marked this very hotel—where poor Fred had met his death, you know—for me to put up at. And I had to put up there too, because of their addressing everything to me there. And, anyhow, I expect I should have gone there out of curiosity.

“No, I didn't believe in ghosts in those days. I was like you, sir.” He nodded amiably to the large commercial.

“The house was very full, and we were quite a large party in the room—very pleasant company, as it might be to-night; and we got talking of ghosts—just as it might be us. And there was a chap in glasses, sitting just over there, I remember—an old hand on the road, he was; and he said, just as it might be any of you, 'I don't believe in ghosts but I wouldn't care to sleep in Number Seventeen, for all that'; and, of course, we asked him why. 'Because,' said he, very short, 'that's why.'

“But when we'd persuaded him a bit, he told us.

“'Because that's the room where chaps cut their throats,' he said. 'There was a chap called Bert Hatteras began it. They found him weltering in his gore. And since that every man that's slept there's been found with his throat cut.'

“I asked him how many had slept there. 'Well, only two beside the first,' he said; 'they shut it up then.' 'Oh, did they?' said I. 'Well, they've opened it again. Number Seventeen's my room!'

“I tell you those chaps looked at me.

“'But you aren't going to sleep in it?' one of them said. And I explained that I didn't pay half a dollar for a bedroom to keep awake in.

“'I suppose it's press of business has made them open it up again,' the chap in spectacles said. 'It's a very mysterious affair. There's some secret horror about that room that we don't understand,' he said, 'and I'll tell you another queer thing. Every one of those poor chaps was a commercial gentleman. That's what I don't like about it. There was Bert Hatteras—he was the first, and a chap called Jones—Frederick Jones, and then Donald Overshaw—a Scotchman he was, and travelled in child's underclothing.'

“Well, we sat there and talked a bit, and if I hadn't been a Bond of Joy, I don't know that I mightn't have exceeded, gentlemen—yes, positively exceeded: for the more I thought about it the less I liked the thought of Number Seventeen. I hadn't noticed the room particularly, except to see that the furniture had been changed since poor Fred's time. So I just slipped out, by and by, and I went out to the little glass case under the arch where the booking clerk sits—just like here, that hotel was—and I said:—

“'Look here, miss; haven't you another room empty except seventeen?'

“'No,' she said; 'I don't think so.'

“'Then what's that?' I said, and pointed to a key hanging on the board, the only one left.

“'Oh,' she said, 'that's sixteen.'

“'Anyone in sixteen?'I said. 'Is it a comfortable room?'

“'No,' said she. 'Yes; quite comfortable. It's next door to yours—much the same class of room.'

“'Then I'll have sixteen, if you've no objection,' I said, and went back to the others feeling very clever.

“When I went up to bed I locked my door, and, though I didn't believe in ghosts, I wished seventeen wasn't next door to me, and I wished there wasn't a door between the two rooms, though the dour was locked right enough and the key on my side. I'd only got the one candle besides the two on the dressing table, which I hadn't lighted; and I got my collar and tie off before I noticed that the furniture in my new room was the furniture out of Number Seventeen; French bed with red curtains, mahogany wardrobe as big as a hearse, and the carved mirror over the dressing table between the two windows, and 'Belshazzar's Feast' over the mantelpiece. So that, though I'd not got the room where the commercial gentlemen had cut their throats, I'd got the furniture out of it. And for a moment I thought that was worse than the other. When I thought of what that furniture could tell, if it could speak——

“It was a silly thing to do—but we're all friends here and I don't mind owning up—I looked under the bed and I looked inside the hearse-wardrobe and I looked in a sort of narrow cupboard there was, where a body could have stood upright——

“A body?” I repeated.

“A man, I mean. You see, it seemed to me that either these poor chaps had been murdered by someone who hid himself in Number Seventeen to do it, or else there was something there that frightened them into cutting their throats; and upon my soul, I can't tell you which idea I liked least!”

He paused, and filled his pipe very deliberately. “Go on,” someone said. And he went on.

“Now, you'll observe,” he said, “that all I've told you up to the time of my going to bed that night's just hearsay. So I don't ask you to believe it—though the three coroners' inquests would be enough to stagger most chaps, I should say. Still, what I'm going to tell you now's my part of the story—what happened to me myself in that room.”

He paused again, holding the pipe in his hand, unlighted

There was a silence, which I broke.

“Well, what did happen?” I asked.

“I had a bit of a struggle with myself,” he said. “I reminded myself it was not that room, but the next one that it had happened in. I smoked a pipe or two and read the morning paper, advertisements and all. And at last I went to bed. I left the candle burning, though, I own that.”

“Did you sleep?” I asked.

“Yes. I slept. Sound as a top. I was awakened by a soft tapping on my door. I sat up. I don't think I've ever been so frightened in my life. But I made myself say, 'Who's there?' in a whisper. Heaven knows I never expected anyone to answer. The candle had gone out and it was pitch-dark. There was a quiet murmur and a shuffling sound outside. And no one answered. I tell you I hadn't expected anyone to. But I cleared my throat and cried out, 'Who's there?' in a real out-loud voice. And 'Me, sir,' said a voice. 'Shaving-water, sir; six o'clock, sir.'

“It was the chambermaid.”

A movement of relief ran round our circle.

“I don't think much of your story,” said the large commercial.

“You haven't heard it yet,” said the story-teller, dryly. “It was six o'clock on a winter's morning, and pitch dark. My train went at seven. I got up and began to dress. My one candle wasn't much use. I lighted the two on the dressing table to see to shave by. There wasn't any shaving-water outside my door, after all. And the passage was as black as a coal-hole. So I started to shave with cold water; one has to sometimes, you know. I'd gone over my face, and I was just going lightly round under my chin, when I saw something move in the looking-glass. I mean something that moved was reflected in the looking glass. The big door of the wardrobe had swung open, and by a sort of double reflection I could see the French bed with the red curtains. On the edge of it sat a man in his shirt and trousers—a man with black hair and whiskers, with the most awful look of despair and fear on his face that I've ever seen or dreamt of. I stood paralysed, watching him in the mirror. I could not have turned round to save my life. Suddenly he laughed. It was a horrid, silent laugh, and showed all his teeth. They were very white and even. And the next moment he had cut his throat from ear to ear, there before my eyes. Did ever see a man cut his throat? The bed was all white before.”

The story-teller had laid down his pipe, and he passed his hand over his face before he went on.

“When I could look round I did. There was no one in the room. The bed was as white as ever. Well, that's all,” he said, abruptly, “except that now, of course, I understood how these poor chaps had come by their deaths. They'd all seen this horror—the ghost of the first poor chap, I suppose—Bert Hatteras, you know; and with the shock their hands must have slipped and their throats got cut before they could stop themselves. Oh! by the way, when I looked at my watch it was two o'clock; there hadn't been any chambermaid at all. I must have dreamed that. But I didn't dream the other. Oh! and one thing more. It was the same room. They hadn't changed the room, they'd only changed the number. It was the same room!”

“Look here,” said the heavy man; “the room you've been talking about. My room's sixteen. And it's got that same furniture in it as what you describe, and the same picture and all.”

“Oh, has it?” said the story-teller, a little uncomfortable, it seemed. “I'm sorry. But the cat's out of the bag now, and it can't be helped. Yes, it was this house I was speaking of. I suppose they've opened the room again. But you don't believe in ghosts; you'll be all right.”

“Yes,” said the heavy man, and presently got up and left the room.

“He's gone to see if he can get his room changed. You see if he hasn't,” said the rabbit faced man; “and I don't wonder.”

The heavy man came back and settled into his chair.

“I could do with a drink,” he said, reaching to the bell.

“I'll stand some punch, gentlemen, if you'll allow me,” said our dapper story-teller. “I rather pride myself on my punch. I'll step out to the bar and get what I need for it.”

“I thought he said he was a teetotaller,” said the heavy traveller when he had gone. And then our voices buzzed like a hive of bees. When our story-teller came in again we turned on him—half-a-dozen of us at once—and spoke.

“One at a time,” he said, gently. “I didn't quite catch what you said.”

“We want to know,” I said, “how it was—if seeing that ghost made all those chaps cut their throats by startling them when they were shaving—how was it you didn't cut your throat when you saw it?”

“I should have,” he answered, gravely, “without the slightest doubt—I should have cut my throat, only,” he glanced at our heavy friend, “I always shave with a safety razor. I travel in them,” he added, slowly, and bisected a lemon.

“But—but,” said the large man, when he could speak through our uproar, “I've gone and given up my room.”

“Yes,” said the dapper man, squeezing the lemon; “I've just had my things moved into it. It's the best room in the house. I always think it worth while to take a little pains to secure it.”

Copyright, 1907, by E. Nesbit-Bland.

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.

The longest-living author of this work died in 1924, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 99 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.

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