Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📖
- Author: Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall
Book online «The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📖». Author Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall
Inside of a minute we had that piece of trim down from its place. First, I carefully examined the timber framework behind, expecting to see traces of the varnish where, presumably, it had seeped through. There was no sign. Then I inspected the reverse side of the finish, just behind the peculiar spot. I thought I might see a region of wide open pores in the grain of the pine. But the back looked exactly the same as the front, with no difference in the grain at any place.
Placing the finish right side up, I proceeded to daub the spot some more. There was no change in the results. At last I took the can, and without stopping, poured a quart and a half of the fluid into that paradoxical little area.
“Well I'll be darned!”—very loudly from Johnson. But when I looked up I saw his face was white, and his lips shaking.
His nerves were all a-jangle. To give his mind a rest, I sent him for a hatchet. When he came back his face had regained its colour. I directed him to hold the pine upright, while I, with a single stroke, sank the tool into the end of the wood.
It split part way. A jerk, and the wood fell in two halves.
“Well?” from Johnson, blankly.
“Perfectly normal wood, apparently.” I had to admit that it was impossible to distinguish the material which constituted the peculiar spot from that which surrounded it.
I sent Johnson after more varnish. Also, I secured several other fluids, including water, milk, ink, and machine oil. And when the painter returned we proceeded with a very thorough test indeed.
Presently it became clear that we were dealing with a phenomenon of the Blind Spot. All told, we poured about nine pints of liquid into an area of about twenty square inches; all on the outer surface, for the split side would absorb nothing. And to all appearances we might have continued to pour indefinitely.
Ten minutes later I went down into the basement to dispose of some rubbish. (Charlotte didn't know of this defection in our housekeeping.) It was bright sunlight outside. Thanks to the basement windows, I needed no artificial luminant. And when my gaze rested upon the ground directly under the parlour, I saw something there that I most certainly had never noticed before.
The fact is, the basement at 288 Chatterton Place never did possess anything worthy of special notice. Except for the partition which Harry Wendel and Jerome, the detective, were the first in years to penetrate—except for that secret doorway, there was nothing down there to attract attention. To be sure, there was a quantity of up-turned earth, the result of Jerome's vigorous efforts to see whether or not there was any connection between the Blind Spot phenomena which he had witnessed and the cellar. He had secured nothing but an appetite for all his digging.
However, it was still too dark for me to identify what I saw at once. I stood for a few moments, accustoming my eyes to the light. Except that the thing gleamed oddly like a piece of glass, and that it possessed a nearly circular outline about two feet across, I couldn't tell much about it.
Then I stooped and examined it closely. At once I became conscious of a smell which, somehow, I had hitherto not noticed. Small wonder; it was as indescribable a smell as one could imagine. It seemed to be a combination of several that are not generally combined.
Next instant it flashed upon me that the predominating odour was a familiar one. I had been smelling it, in fact, all the morning.
But this did not prevent me from feeling very queer, indeed, as I realised what lay before me. A curious chill passed around my shoulders, and I scarcely breathed.
At my feet lay a pool, composed of all the various liquids that had been poured, upstairs, into that baffling spot in the wood.
XXI. — OUT OF THIN AIR
Except for the incident just related, when several pints of very real fluids were somehow “materialised” at a spot ten feet below where they had vanished, nothing worth recording occurred during the first seven days of our stay at Chatterton Place.
Seemingly nothing was to come of the Rhamda's warning.
On the other hand we succeeded, during that week, in working a complete transformation of the old house. It became one of the brightest spots in San Francisco. It cost a good deal of money, all told, but I could well afford it. I possessed the hundred thousand with which, I had promised myself and Harry, I should solve the Blind Spot. That was what the money was for.
On the seventh day after the night of Harry's going, our household was increased to three members. For it was then that Jerome returned from Nevada, whence he had gone two weeks before on a case.
“Not at all surprised,” he commented, when I told him of Harry's disappearance. “Sorry I wasn't here. That crook, Rhamda Avec, in at the end?”
He gnawed stolidly at his cigar as I told him the story. Then, after briefly approving what I had done to brighten the house, he announced:
“Tell you what. I've got a little money out of that Nevada case; I'm going to take another vacation and see this thing through.”
We shook hands on this, and he moved right into his old room. I felt, in fact, mighty glad to have Jerome with us. Although he lacked a regular academic training, he was fifteen years my senior, and because of contact with a wide variety of people in his work, both well-informed and reserved in his judgment. He could not be stampeded; he had courage; and, above everything else, he had the burning curiosity of which Harry has written.
I was upstairs when he unpacked. And I noted among his belongings a large, rather heavy automatic pistol. He nodded when I asked if he was willing to use it in this case.
“Although”—unbuttoning his waistcoat—“I don't pin as much faith to pistols as I used to.
“The Rhamda is, I'm convinced, the very cleverest proposition that ever lived. He has means to handle practically anything in the way of resistance.” Jerome knew how the fellow had worsted Harry and me. “I shouldn't wonder if he can read the mind to some extent; he might be able to foresee that I was going to draw a gun, and beat me to it with some new weapon of his own.”
Having unbuttoned his waistcoat, Jerome then displayed a curious contrivance mounted upon his breast. It consisted of a broad metal plate, strapped across his shirt, and affixed to this plate was a flat-springed arrangement for firing, simultaneously, the contents of a revolver cylinder. To show how it worked, Jerome removed the
Comments (0)