When I say that the man’s words proved electrical, I do not exaggerate the effect which this astounding proposition had upon us. Halesowen was fairly startled out of his chair, and stood with his eyes fixed on the other in a fascinated gaze.
Zeda, entirely returning to his customary urbanity, shrugged and smiled. “You believe my story?”
Lesty was the first to recover himself, and his reply was characteristic. “Can’t say I do,” he drawled, frankly. “I don’t say that you may not, though,” he added.
“Then do you not owe it to assist in proving my words? A little séance? You are sceptical, quite? Very well; I try to show you. If I fail, then it is unfortunate, but—I bow to an inevitable!”
We looked at each other, interrogatively, and then Halesowen answered, “All right. It’s a queer yarn, but we leave the matter entirely in your hands.”
The doctor bowed. “Shall we say to-night to begin?” he said, tentatively.
“By all means.”
The doctor expressed himself delighted, and, carefully relocking the fragment of the vase in its double case, he was about to depart, when a point occurred to me.
“Might I ask whom you suspect of the attempted burglary?” I said.
He turned, in the door, and fixed a strange glance upon me. “There are others,” he replied, “who seek as I seek, and who do not scruple to gain their ends how they may. Of them we shall beware, my friends, for we know they design upon us!”
With that and a low bow he retired.
Little of interest occurred during the day, until about four in the afternoon, when Halesowen aroused us out of a lazy doze to show a letter just received from the British Museum.
It was in reply to one asking why he had received no acknowledgment of the photographs and drawings submitted; and it informed him that no such photographs and drawings had come to hand!
We usually took tea in the afternoon, and Halesowen joined us on this occasion, whilst, at about five o’clock, Doctor Zeda also looked in. He remained until it began to grow dusk, when we all went over to Halesowen’s to arrange the first “sitting”—for so the doctor referred to the projected séance. Retiring, for a few minutes, to his own establishment, Zeda returned with the iron box and explained what he proposed to do.
“Around this small table we sit, as at séance,” he said; “but no medium—only the potsherd. With these flexible bands I will attach, temporarily, the parts, and stand the vase in Mr. Halesowen’s frame, here by the window—so. Beside it we will place the lamp, shaded thus—so that a dim light is upon it. We can just see from where we sit in the dark. We will now wait until it is more dusk.”
Accordingly, we went out on to the balcony and smoked for an hour, Zeda polluting the clean air with the fumes of the long, black cigars he affected. They had an appearance as of dried twigs and an odour so wholly original as to defy simile. Between eight and nine o’clock he expressed himself satisfied with the light—or, rather, lack of it—and we all gathered around the table in the gloom, spreading our hands as he directed. For close upon an hour we sat in tense silence, the room seeming to be very hot. A slight breeze off the Common had wafted the fumes of Zeda’s cigar in through the open windows, which he had afterward closed, and the reek filled the air as with something palpable—and nauseous. I was growing very weary of the business, and Lesty, despite the doctor’s warning against disturbing the silence, had begun to cough and fidget irritably, when the rumbling foreign voice came, so unexpectedly as to startle us all: “It is useless to-night; something is not propitious. Turn up the lights.”
From the celerity with which Halesowen complied, I divined that he, too, had been growing impatient.
“There is some not suitable condition,” said Zeda, relocking his portion of the vase in its case. “To-morrow we shall make some changes in the order.”
He seemed not at all disappointed, being apparently as confident as ever in the ultimate success of the séances. One of the windows, he suggested, should be left open on the following evening during our sitting; and this we were only too glad to agree upon, since it would possibly serve to clear the atmosphere, somewhat, of the odour emanating from the doctor’s cigars. Several other points he also mentioned as being conceivably responsible for our initial failure—such as our positions around the table, and the relative distance of the potsherd. “We shall see to-morrow,” were his last words as he left us.
“A perfect monument of mendacity!” muttered Lesty, as we heard the retiring footsteps of our foreign friend on the gravel below; “and I think his accent is assumed. I don’t know why we even seem to credit such an incredible fable.”
“I don’t know, either,” said Halesowen, reflectively. “But he certainly possesses the missing part of the vase, and if he does not believe the story himself, what earthly object can he hope to serve by these séances?”
“Give it up!” replied Lesty, promptly; and that, I think, rather aptly expressed the mental attitude of all three.
We saw nothing of Zeda throughout the following day, but he duly put in an appearance in the evening, and placed us around the table again, but in different order. One of the French windows was left open, and the potsherd, with the lamp beside it, placed somewhat to the left.
After persevering for about forty minutes, we were rewarded by a rather conventional phenomenon. The table rocked and gave forth cracking sounds. There was no other manifestation, and, at about half-past ten, the doctor again terminated the séance.
“Excellent!” said Zeda, enthusiastically, “excellent! We were en rapport, and within the circle there was power. To-morrow we shall triumph, my friends, but there is again an alteration that occurs to me. You, Mr. Clifford, shall sit next to Mr. Lesty on the left, Mr. Halesowen shall be upon his right, and I, facing Mr. Lesty between. Also, there is too much light from the lamps in the road. It is good, I think, to have open the windows, but this Japanese screen will keep out that too much light and shelter the vase. To-morrow we will observe these things.”
This, then, concluded our second sitting, and brings me to the final episode of that affair which, strange enough in its several developments, was stranger still in its dénouement.
IV
Zeda, on the following day, entertained us to luncheon in town, followed by an afternoon concert, for which he had procured seats, being interested, or professing to be, in a certain fiddler who figured largely in the programme. We had arranged that Halesowen and the doctor should dine with us in the evening, before we went to the former’s flat for the séance, and we accordingly returned direct to our rooms and chatted over the doings of the day until dinner was served. Zeda surpassed himself in brilliant conversation. He must, I remember thinking, have led a strange and eventful life.
At about nine o’clock, we walked over, in the dark, to our friend’s flat, where we had to grope for and light an oil lamp which he had, Zeda declaring that something in the atmosphere was propitious and that the electric light would tend to disturb these favourable conditions. He seemed to be strung to high tension, perhaps with expectancy, but was not so preoccupied as to forget his black cigars, one of which he lighted as he was about to go out for the iron box. He borrowed my matches for the purpose and forgot to return them.
It was, perhaps, a quarter to ten before Zeda had matters arranged to his satisfaction, and so dark, by reason of the tall Japanese screen which stood before the open windows, that I could see neither Zeda, on my left, nor Lesty, who sat on my right. Halesowen was a dim silhouette against the patch of light cast by the oil reading lamp beside the vase, which stood the whole length of the room away. I was conscious of a suppressed excitement, which I am sure was shared by my companions.
I heard a distant clock striking the half hour, and then the three quarters; but still nothing had occurred. A motor car drove around from the road and stopped somewhere at the outer end of the drive. I wondered, idly, if it were that of the surgeon who lived at Number 10. After that, everything was very quiet, and I was expecting to hear the hour strike, and straining my ears to catch the sound of the first chime, when the rocking and cracking of the table began. This was much more violent than hitherto, and Zeda’s gruff tones came softly: “Whatever shall happen, do not remove your hands from the table!”
He ceased speaking, and the rocking motions, together with the rapping and cracking that had sounded from all about us, also ceased, with disconcerting suddenness. A silence fell, so short in duration as to be scarcely appreciable; for it was almost instantly broken by an unexpected sound.
It was a woman’s voice, very low and clear, and it seemed to mutter something in a weird, rising cadence, with a high note at the end of every third bar or so, and this over and over again—an eerie thing, vaguely like a Gregorian chant.
“Triumph!” whispered Zeda. “The ‘Hymn of the Souls Who Are Passing.’ ”
His speech seemed to disturb the singer, but only for a moment. The Hymn was continued.
This singular performance was proving too much for my nerves; at each recurrence of the quiet, clear note on the fourth beat of the third bar, a cold shudder ran down my spine. Then, as the very monotony of the thing was beginning to grow appalling, I suddenly became aware of a slim, white figure standing beside the vase!
The chant stopped, and I could hear nothing but the nervous breathing of my companions. Seated as they were, I doubted whether Halesowen or Lesty could see this apparition, but I was facing directly toward her—for it was a woman. I could see every line of her figure—the curves of her throat and arms and shoulders, the dull, metallic gleaming of her clustering hair. As she extended her hand toward the light, I distinctly saw the large green stone set in a ring on her index finger. She must be very beautiful, I thought, and I was peering through the gloom in a vain endeavour to see her more clearly, when there came a disconcerting crash—and utter darkness! The table whereat we were seated was overturned, and I found myself capsized from my chair!
“Hold him!” yelled the voice of Lesty. “Hold him, Halesowen—Clifford!”
A door banged loudly.
“Confound it! I’m on the floor!”—from Halesowen.
I shouted for someone to turn up the light, at the same time scrambling through the gloom with that intent. After severely damaging my shins against the intervening furniture, I found the switch. It would not work!
“It’s cut off!” I cried. “Strike a match, somebody.”
“Haven’t got any!” said Lesty.
“Zeda has mine!” responded Halesowen. “Open the door.”
“Locked!” was Lesty’s next report.
“Break it down!” shouted Halesowen, hurling aside the Japanese screen. “The potsherd is gone!”
Lesty applied his shoulder to the oak—once—twice—thrice. Then all together we attacked it, and it flew open with a splintering crash.
“Round to his flat!” panted Halesowen, running downstairs.
Out on to the drive we sprinted, into the next entrance and up to the first landing. Knocking and ringing proved ineffectual, and the door was too strong to be burst open. We stood in dismayed silence, staring at one another.
“Off your balcony, on to his and through the French window!” said Lesty, suddenly; so back we all ran again.
I had never before realized how easy it was to get from one balcony to another, until I saw Lesty swing himself across. Halesowen and I followed in a trice, and we all blundered into the dark room through the open window and made for the electric switch beside the mantelpiece. We turned on the light. The room was unfurnished!
“Good Lord!” breathed Halesowen, hurrying into the next.
That, too, was quite bare, as were all the rest! The outer door was locked.
“While we were fooling at that concert, he had every scrap of stuff removed!” I said. “He probably had the lot on hire from a big furnishing firm—curios and all. I remember noticing that his curiosities were of a very ordinary character, considering his extensive travels and the nature of his studies.”
“No doubt whatever,” agreed Lesty. “His burglary proved a failure (and, I think, must have been interrupted), though I am compelled to admire the neat manner in which he handled the very delicate situation that resulted. His more recent and elaborate device has turned out all that could be desired—from Zeda’s point of view!”
“But how has he got away?” said Halesowen, in bewilderment.
“Motor waiting at the corner,” replied Lesty, promptly. “Heard it come up. When the reading lamp was capsized, and whoever had crept from his balcony to yours and in behind the screen had returned the same way—with the vase!—Zeda overturned the table and pushed you two men backward in your chairs. Then, before I could reach him, he bolted out and locked the door after him. For, having lulled my suspicions by two practically uneventful séances, he cunningly placed himself nearest to the door and me farthest away. He probably removed the key when he went out for the box and placed it outside in the lock when he returned. His accomplice had run straight through Zeda’s flat and out to the waiting car, and there he joined her. They may be thirty miles away by now!”
Being unable to open the door, we perforce returned to Halesowen’s balcony by the same way that we had come, our friend bewailing his lost potsherd and exclaiming: “The cunning, cunning scamp!”
“I knew he had some deep game in hand,” said Lesty; “but I hadn’t bargained for this move. Of course, I had noticed the dodge of borrowing all our matches, but I didn’t grasp its importance until too late. It never occurred to me that he’d disconnected the electric light (which he probably did sometime in the night, by the way). I was a fool not to realize it, too, when he insisted on our using only the oil lamp. Then, again, I was slow not to go straight through the window and into Zeda’s flat that way. It is just possible I might have caught the lady songster if I had done that in the first place. The possibility, however, had not been overlooked, since she took the precaution to lock the door after her.”
“A clever rogue!” I declared. “But wasn’t the first attempt—for I suppose we must classify the mysterious arm under that head—more than a trifle indiscreet?”
“No doubt,” agreed Lesty. “But we didn’t know, then, that Zeda was in London, and the flat was still unfurnished. Also, they may have thought Halesowen was in bed; or the woman (whom he has so cleverly kept out of sight) may have exceeded her instructions in attempting to touch the potsherd while any one remained in the room.”
“But,” said Halesowen, slowly, “we don’t know that there was any woman!”
“Eh?” queried Lesty.
“Did you see her?”
“No.”
“I did. She was lovely, very lovely—for a woman!”
Lesty stared curiously. “You surprise me,” he commented, drily.
“Zeda was a strange man,” pursued the other, “and there were certainly things occurred as we sat round that table that need a lot of explaining.”
“Very ordinary three-and-six-a-head phenomena!” was the reply. “Merely a blind.”
“Then what was the reason of his burning desire to secure my potsherd, if not to complete the vase?”
“Do you mean to tell me,” asked Lesty, “that you are going to credit that story about the priestess—now, after he has shown his hand? Do you wish to suggest that he was aided by a spirit?”
“Then why was he so keen to get the thing?” persisted Halesowen.
Lesty looked at him, looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and began to load his pipe. Having done so, he sat smoking and staring at the brilliant moon.
“Well?” inquired our host.
“Give it up!” admitted Lesty.
(Conclusion of Mr. Clifford’s Account)
V
One of my visits to the Wapping curio shop of Moris Klaw was made in company with Mr. Halesowen, who, with the others mentioned in the foregoing narrative, I subsequently had met.
Somewhere amid the misty gloom of this place, where loot of a hundred ages, of every spot from pole to pole, veils its identity in the darkness, sits a large gray parrot. Faint perfumes and scuffling sounds tell of hidden animal life near to the visitor; but the parrot proclaims itself stridently:
“Moris Klaw! Moris Klaw! The devil’s come for you!”
That signal brings Moris Klaw from his hiding place. He shuffles into the shop, a figure appropriate to its surroundings. Imagine a tall, stooping man, enveloped in a very faded blue dressing gown. His skin is but a half-shade lighter than that of a Chinaman; his hair, his shaggy brows, his scanty beard, defy one to name their colour. He wears pince-nez.
When upon this particular occasion I introduced my companion, and Moris Klaw acknowledged the introduction in his rumbling voice, I saw Halesowen stare.
Klaw produced a scent spray from somewhere and sprayed verbena upon his high yellow brow.
“It is very stuffy—in this shop!” he explained. “Isis! Isis! Bring for my visitors some iced drinks!”
He invoked a goddess, and a goddess appeared: a brilliantly beautiful brunette, with delightfully curved scarlet lips and flashing eyes whose fire the gloom could not dim.
“Good God!” cried Halesowen—and fell back.
“My daughter Isis,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “This is Mr. Halesowen, from whom we rescue the Egyptian potsherd!”
“What!”
Halesowen leant forward across the counter.
“You recognize my daughter?” continued Moris Klaw; “but not Doctor Zeda, eh? Or only his poor old voice? You gave us great trouble, Mr. Halesowen. Once, you came in just as Isis, who has climbed on to your balcony, is about to take the potsherd——”
“There was no one in the room!”
“I was in the room!” interrupted the girl, coolly. “I was draped in black from head to foot, and I slipped behind the window hangings, unseen, whilst you fumbled with your lamp!”
“It was indiscreet,” continued Moris Klaw, “and made it harder for me; because, afterward, you lock up the treasure and my search is unavailing. Also, I am interrupted. Pah! I am clumsy! I waste time! But, remember, I offered to buy it!”
“Suppose,” said Halesowen, slowly, “I give you both in charge?”
“You cannot,” was the placid reply; “for you cannot say how you came into possession of the sherd! Professor Sheraton was in a similar forked stick—and that is where I come in!”
“What! you were acting for him?”
“Certainly! I happen to be in Egypt at the time, and he is a friend of mine. Your thief, Ali, left a small piece of the pot behind, and I am entrusted to make it complete!”
“You have succeeded!” said Halesowen, grimly, all the time furtively watching the beautiful Isis.
“Yes,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “I am the instrument of poetic justice. Isis, those cool beverages. Let us drink to poetic justice!”
He sprayed his ample brow with verbena.
In conclusion, you may ask if the value of the potsherd justified the elaborate and costly mode of its recovery.
I reply: Upon what does the present fame of Professor Sheraton rest? His “New Key to the Egyptian Book of the Dead.” Upon what is that work founded? Upon the hieroglyphics of the Potsherd of Anubis, which (no questions being asked of so distinguished a savant) was recently acquired from the Professor by the nation at a cost of £15,000!
THIRD EPISODE.
CASE OF THE CRUSADER’S AX
I
I have heard people speak of Moris Klaw’s failures. So far as my information bears me, he never experienced any. “What,” I have been asked, “of the Cresping murder case? He certainly failed there.”
Respecting this question of his failure or success in the sensational case which first acquainted the entire country with the existence of Crespie Hall, and that brought the old-world village of Cresping into such unwonted prominence, I shall now invite your opinion.
The investigation—the crime having baffled the local men—ultimately was placed in the hands of Detective-Inspector Grimsby; and through Grimsby I was brought into close touch with the matter. I had met Grimsby during the course of the mysterious happenings at the Menzies Museum, and at that time I also had made the acquaintance of Moris Klaw.
Thus, as I sat over my breakfast one morning reading an account of the Cresping murder case, I was no more than moderately surprised to see Inspector Grimsby walk into my rooms.
He declined my offer of a really good Egyptian cigarette.
“Thanks all the same,” he said; “but there’s only one smoke I can think on.”
With that he lighted one of the cheroots of which he smoked an incredible quantity, and got up from his chair, restlessly.
“I’ve just run up from Cresping by the early train,” he began, abruptly. “You’ve heard all about the murder, of course?”
I pointed to my newspaper, conspicuous upon the front page of which was:
“THE MURDER AT CRESPIE HALL”
“Ah, yes,” he said, absently. “Well, I’ve been sent down and, to tell you the white and unsullied truth, I’m in a knot!”
I passed him a cup of coffee.
“What are the difficulties?” I asked.
“There’s only one,” he rapped back: “who did it!”
“It looks to me a very clear case against Ryder, the ex-butler.”
“So it did to me,” he agreed, “until I got down there! I’d got a warrant in my pocket all ready. Then I began to have doubts!”
“What do you propose to do?”
Grimsby hesitated.
“Well,” he replied, “it wouldn’t do any good to make a mistake in a murder case; so what I should like to do would be to get another opinion—not official, of course!”
I glanced across at him.
“Mr. Moris Klaw?”
He nodded.
“Exactly!”
“You’ve changed your opinion respecting him?”
“Mr. Searles, his investigation of the Menzies Museum outrages completely stood me on my head! I’m not joking. I’d always thought him a crank, and in some ways I think so still; but at seeing through a brick wall I’d put all I’ve got on Moris Klaw any day!”
“But surely you are wasting time by coming to me?”
“No, I’m not,” said Grimsby, confidently. “Moris Klaw, for all his retiring habits, is not a man that wants his light hidden under a bushel! He knows that you are collecting material about his methods, and he’s more likely to move for you than for me.”
I saw through Grimsby’s plan. He wanted me to invite Moris Klaw to look into the Crespie murder case, in order that he (Grimsby) might reap any official benefit accruing without loss of self-esteem! I laughed.
“All right, Grimsby!” I said. “Since he has made no move, voluntarily, it may be that the case does not interest him; but we can try.”
Accordingly, having consulted an A.B.C., we presently entrained for Wapping, and as a laggard sun began to show up the dinginess and the dirtiness of that locality, sought out a certain shop, whose locale I shall no more closely describe than in saying that it is close to Wapping Old Stairs.
One turns down a narrow court, with a blank wall on the right and a nailed-up doorway and boarded-up window on the left. Through the cracks of the latter boarding, the inquiring visitor may catch a glimpse, beyond a cavernous place which once was some kind of warehouse, of Old Thames tiding muddily.
The court is a cul de sac. The shop of Moris Klaw occupies the blind end. Some broken marble pedestals stand upon the footway, among seatless chairs, dilapidated chests, and a litter of books, stuffed birds, cameos, inkstands, swords, lamps, and other unclassifiable rubbish. A black doorway yawns amid the litter.
Imagine Inspector Grimsby and me as entering into this singular Cumæan cave.
Our eyes at first failed to penetrate the gloom. All about moved rustling suggestions of animal activity. The indescribable odour of old furniture assailed our nostrils together with an equally indescribable smell of avian, reptilian, and rodent life.
“Moris Klaw! Moris Klaw! The devil’s come for you!”
Thus the scraping voice of the parrot. A door opened, admitting a little more light and Moris Klaw. The latter was fully dressed; whereby I mean that he wore his dilapidated caped black cloak, his black silk muffler and that rarest relic of his unsavoury reliquary, the flat-topped brown bowler.
In that inadequate light his vellum face looked older, his shaggy brows, his meagre beard, more toneless, than ever. Through the gold-rimmed pince-nez he peered for a moment, downward from his great height. He removed the bowler.
“Good morning, Mr. Searles! Good morning, Inspector Grimsby! I am just from Paris. It is so good of you to call so early to tell me all about the poor murdered man of Cresping! Good morning! Good morning!”
II
Moris Klaw’s sanctum is certainly one of the most remarkable apartments in London. It is lined with shelves, which contain what I believe to be a unique library of works dealing with criminology—from Moris Klaw’s point of view. Strange relics are there, too; and all of them have histories. A neat desk, with flowers in a silver vase, and a revolving chair standing upon a fine tiger skin are the other notable items of furniture.
The contrast on entering was startling. Moris Klaw placed his hat upon the desk, and from it took out the scent spray without which he never travels. He played the contents upon his high, yellow forehead—filling the air with the refreshing odour of verbena.
“That shop!” he said, “it smell very strong this morning. It is not so much the canaries as the rats!”
“I trust,” began Grimsby, respectfully, “that Miss Klaw is quite well?”
“Isis will presently be here to say for herself,” was the reply. “And now—this bad business of Cresping. It seems I am just back in time, but, ah! it is a fortnight old!”
Grimsby cleared his throat. “You will have read——”
“Ah, my friend!” Moris Klaw held up a long, tapering white hand. “As though you do not know that I never confuse my poor brain with those foolish papers. No, I have not read, my friend!”
“Oh!” said Grimsby, something taken aback. “Then I shall have to tell you the family story——”
Isis Klaw entered.
From her small hat, with its flamingo-like plume, to her dainty shoes, she was redolent of the Rue de la Paix. She wore an amazingly daring toilette; I can only term it a study in flame tones. A less beautiful woman could never have essayed such a scheme; but this superb brunette, with her great flashing eyes and taunting smile, had the lithe carriage of a Cleopatra, the indescribable diablerie of a ghaziyeh.
Inspector Grimsby greeted her with embarrassed admiration. Greetings over—
“We must hurry, Father!” said the girl.
Moris Klaw reclaimed his archaic bowler.
“Mr. Searles and Inspector Grimsby will perhaps be joining us?” he suggested.
“Where?” began Grimsby.
“Where but by the 9:5 train for Uxley!” said Klaw. “Where but from Uxley to Cresping! Do I waste time, then—I?”
“You have been retained?” suggested Grimsby.
“Ah, no!” was the reply. “But I shall receive my fee, nevertheless!”
At the end of the court a cab was waiting. Outside the cavernous door a ramshackle man with a rosy nose bowed respectfully to the proprietor.
“You hear me, William,” said Moris Klaw, to this derelict. “You are to sell nothing—unless it is the washstand! Forget not to change the canaries’ water. The Indian corn is for the white rats. If there is no mouse in the trap by eight o’clock, give the owl a herring. And keep from the drink; it will be your ruin, William!”
We entered the cab. My last impression of the place was derived from the invisible parrot, who gave us Godspeed with:
“Moris Klaw! Moris Klaw! the devil’s come for you!”
As we drove stationward, Grimsby, his eyes rarely leaving the piquant face of Isis Klaw, outlined the history of the Crespie family to the silent Moris. In brief it was this:
The late Sir Richard Crespie, having become involved in serious monetary difficulties, employed such methods of drowning his sorrows as were far from conducive to domestic felicity; and after a certain unusually violent outburst the home was broken up. His son, Roland, was the first to go; and he took little with him but his mother’s blessing and his father’s curses. Then Lady Crespie went away to her sister in London, only surviving her departure from the Hall by two years. Alone, and deserted, first by son and then by wife, the debauched old baronet continued on his course of heavy drinking for some years longer. The servants left him, one by one, so that in the end, save for faithful old Ryder, the butler, whose family had served the Crespies for time immemorial, he had the huge mansion to himself. Apoplexy closed his unfortunate career; and, since nothing had been heard of him for years, it was generally supposed that the son had met his death in Africa, whither he had gone on leaving home.
With the passing of Sir Richard came Mr. Isaac Heidelberger, and he wasted no time in impressing his noxious personality upon the folks of Cresping. He was a German Jew, large and oily, with huge coarse features and a little black moustache that had been assiduously trained in a futile attempt to hide a mouth that had well befitted Nero. A week after Sir Richard’s burial, Mr. Heidelberger took possession of the Hall.
The new occupant brought with him one Heimer, a kind of confidential clerk, and, old Ryder the butler having been sent about his business, the two Jewish gentlemen proceeded to make themselves comfortable. The nature of their business was soon public property; the grand old Hall was to be turned into a “country mansion for paying guests.”
Very strained relations existed between the big Jew and the ex-butler, who, having a little money saved, had settled down in Cresping. One night, at the Goblets—the historic village inn—Heidelberger having swaggered into the place, there arose an open quarrel. Said Ryder:
“Sir Richard, with all his faults, was once a good English gentleman, and, but for such as you, a good English gentleman he might have died!”
It was exactly a week later that the tragedy occurred.
“We come to it now, eh?” interrupted Moris Klaw at this point. “So—we also come to the station! I will ask you to reserve us a first-class carriage!”
Grimsby made arrangements to that end. And, as the train moved out of the station, resumed his story.
“What I gather is this,” he said.
[I condense his statement and append it in my own words.]
The Goblets was just closing its doors, and the villagers who nightly met there were standing in a group under the swinging sign, when a man came running down the street from the direction of the Hall, and, observing the gathering, ran up. It was Heimer, Isaac Heidelberger’s secretary. He was hatless and his flabby face, in the dim light, was ghastly.
“Quick!” he rasped, hoarsely. “Where does the doctor live?”
“Last house but one,” somebody said. “What’s the matter?”
“Murder!” cried Heimer, as he rushed off down the village street.
Such was the dramatic manner in which the news of the subsequently notorious case was first carried to the outside world. The facts, as soon made known throughout the length and breadth of the land, were, briefly, as follows:
Heidelberger and his secretary, who were engaged in making an inventory of the contents of the Hall and in arranging for such alterations of the rooms and laying out of the neglected grounds as they considered necessary, had practically reached the end of their task. In fact, had nothing intervened, Cresping would, on the following day, have seen the old mansion in the hands of an army of London workmen.
At about half-past seven in the evening, Heidelberger had entered the room occupied by Heimer and had mentioned that he expected a visitor. The secretary, who had more work than he could well accomplish, did not pause to inquire concerning him, believing the other to allude either to the architect or to Heidelberger’s man, who was coming down from London. Heidelberger had then gone up to the library, saying that he should not require Heimer again that night.
Between eight and half-past—Heimer was not sure of the time—there was a ring at the bell (that of the tradesmen’s entrance). Knowing that Heidelberger could admit the visitor directly to the library, Heimer, hearing nothing more, concluded that the two were closeted there.
The first intimation that he received of anything amiss was a loud and angry cry, apparently proceeding from the old banqueting hall directly overhead, and unmistakably in the voice of Heidelberger. Springing from his chair, he took a step toward the door, and then paused in doubt. There was an angry murmur from above, the tones of the Jew being clearly distinguishable; then a sudden scuffle and an oscillation of the floor as though two heavy men were at hand grips; next, a crash that shook the room, and a high-pitched cry of which he only partially comprehended the last word. This he asserted to be “holy.”
That Heimer stood transfixed at the open door throughout all this, suffices to brand him a coward. It was, in fact, only his stories of shadowy figures in the picture gallery and his general disinclination to leave his room after dusk that had prompted Heidelberger—a man of different mettle—to wire to London for the servant.
At this juncture, however, moved as much by a fear of the sudden silence as by any higher motive, he took a revolver from the table drawer, and, holding it cocked in one hand and seizing the lamp in the other, he crept, trembling, up a narrow little stair that led to a door beneath the minstrel’s gallery. To open it he had to place the lamp on the floor, and, at the moment of doing so, he heard a sound inside the hall like the grating of a badly oiled lock.
Then, with the lamp held high above his head, he peered inside; and, considering the character of the man, it is worthy of note that he did not faint on the spot, for the feeble light, but serving, as it did, to intensify the gloom of the long and shadowy place, revealed a scene well calculated to shake the nerves of a stouter man than Heimer.
Less than six feet from where he stood, and lying flat on his back with his head toward the light, was Heidelberger in a perfect pool of blood, his skull cleft almost to the chine! Beside him on the floor lay the fearful weapon that had wrought his end—an enormous battle-ax, a relic of the Crusades such as none but a man of Herculean strength could possibly wield.
Sick with terror, and scarcely capable of keeping his feet, Heimer gave one glance around the gloomy place, which showed him that, save for the murdered man, it was empty; then he staggered down the narrow stairs and let himself out into the grounds. Slightly revived by the fresh night air, but fearful of pursuit by the unknown assassin, he ran, as fast as his condition would allow, into the village.
“Here it is—Uxley!” jerked Moris Klaw.
III
“Ah!” cried Moris Klaw, in a species of fanatic rapture, “look at the blood!”
We stood in the ancient banqueting hall of Crespie. By a distant door I could see a policeman on duty. A ghostly silence was the marked feature of the place. Klaw’s harsh, rumbling voice echoed eerily about that chamber sacred to the shades of departed Crespies.
Isis Klaw stood beside her father. They were a wildly incongruous couple. The girl looked down at the bloodstained flooring with the calm scrutiny of an experienced criminologist.
“This spot must be alive with odic impressions,” she said, softly.
A local officer, who formed one of the group, stared uncomprehendingly. Moris Klaw instinctively turned to him.
“You stare widely, my friend!” he said. “It is clear you know nothing of the psychology of crime! Let me, then, enlighten you. First: all crime”—he waved one long hand characteristically—“operates in cycles. Its history repeats itself, you understand. Second: thoughts are things. One who dies the violent death has, at the end, a strong mental emotion—an etheric storm. The air—the atmosphere—retains imprints of that storm.”
“Indeed!” said the officer.
“Yes, indeed! I shall not sleep in this place—as is my usual custom in such inquiries. Why? Because I am afraid of the shock of experiencing such an emotion as was this late Heidelberger’s! Ah! you are dense as a bull! Once, my bovine friend, I slept upon a spot in desolate Palestine where a poor woman had been stoned to death. In my dreams those merciless stones struck me! Upon the head and the face they crashed! And I was helpless—bound—as was the unhappy one who for her poor little sins had had her life crushed from her tender body!”
He ceased. No one spoke. In such moments, Moris Klaw became a magician; a weaver of spells. The most unimpressionable shuddered as though the strange things which this strangest of men told of, lived, moved, before their eyes. Then—
“Yonder is the ax, sir,” said the local man, with a sudden awed respect.
Klaw walked over to where the huge battle-ax stood against a post of the gallery.
“Try to lift it, Mr. Klaw,” said Grimsby. “It will give you some idea of what sort of man the murderer must have been! I can’t raise it upright by the haft with one hand.”
Moris Klaw seized the ax. Whilst Grimsby, the local man and myself stared amazedly, he swung it about his head as one swings an Indian club! He struck with it—to right—to left; he laid it down.
“My father has a wrist of steel!” came the soft voice of Isis. “Did you not know that he was once a famous swordsman?”
Klaw removed his hat, took out the scent spray and bathed his forehead with verbena.
“That is a man’s ax!” he said. “Isis, what do we know of such an ax? We, who have so complete a catalogue of such relics?”
Isis Klaw produced from her bag a bulky notebook.
“It is the third one,” she replied, calmly, passing the open book to her father; “the one we thought!”
“Ah,” rumbled Klaw, adjusting his pince-nez, “ ‘Black Geoffrey’s’ ax!” He turned again to Palmer, the local officer. “All such antiques,” he said, “have histories. I collect those histories, you understand. This ax was carried by ‘Black Geoffrey,’ a very early Crespie, in the first Crusade. It slew many Saracens, I doubt not. But this does not interest me. In the reign of Henry VIII we find it dwelt, this great ax, at Dyke Manor, which is in Norfolk. It was not until Charles II that it came to Crespie Hall. And what happened at Dyke Manor? One Sir Gilbert Myerly was slain by it! Who wielded it? Patience, my friends! All is clear to me! What a wonderful science is the Science of Cycles!”
Behind the pebbles his eyes gleamed with excitement. It seemed as though his notes (how obtained I was unable to conjecture) had furnished him with a clue; although to me they seemed to have not the slightest bearing upon the case.
“Now, Mr. Grimsby,” continued Moris Klaw: “In a few words, what is the evidence against Ryder, the butler?”
“Well,” was the reply, “you will note where the ax used to hang, up there before the rail of the minstrels’ gallery. The theory is that the murderer rushed up, wrenched the ax from its fastening——”
“Theories, my friend,” interrupted Moris Klaw, “are not evidence!”
Isis gazed at Mr. Grimsby with a smile. He looked embarrassed.
“Sorry!” he said, humbly. “Here are the facts, then. In the right hand of the dead man was an open pocket knife. It is assumed—— Sorry! Several spots of blood were found on the knife. Do you want to see it?”
Moris Klaw shook his head.
“It has been ascertained,” continued Grimsby, “that Ryder went out at eight o’clock on the night of the murder and didn’t return until after ten. He was interrogated. Listen to this, Mr. Klaw, and tell me why I haven’t arrested him! He admitted that he was the man who rang the bell; he admitted being closeted with Heidelberger in the library; and he admitted that he was in the hall when the Jew met his death!”
“Good!” said Moris Klaw. “And he is still at large?”
“He is! He’s made no attempt to run away. I had his room searched, and found a light coat with both sleeves bloodstained! He had a cut on his left hand such as might be caused by the slash of a pocket knife! He said he had caught his hand on a door-latch, but blankly declined to say what he was doing here on the night of the murder! Yet, I didn’t arrest him! Why?”
“Why?” said Moris Klaw. “Tell me.”
“Because I didn’t think it feasible that a man of his age could wield that ax—and I hoped to use Ryder as a trap to catch his accomplice!”
“Ah! clever!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “French, Mr. Grimsby! Subtle! But you have just seen what a poor old fool can do with that ax!”
I have never observed a man so suddenly lose faith in himself as did Grimsby at those words. He flushed, he paled; he seemed to become speechless.
“Tell me, Mr. Grimsby,” said Klaw, “what does the suspected man do that is suspicious? What letters does he write? What letters does he receive?”
“None!” replied the now angry Grimsby. “But he visits Doctor Madden, in Uxley, every day.”
“What for, eh?”
“The doctor says the interviews are of a purely professional nature, and I can’t very well suspect a man in his position!”
“You have done two silly things,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “You have wasted much time in the matter of Ryder, and you have accepted, unquestioned, the word of a doctor. Mr. Grimsby, I have known doctors who were most inspired liars!”
“Then you are of opinion——”
Klaw raised his hand.
“It is Doctor Madden we shall visit,” he said. “This Ryder cannot escape us. Isis, my child, I need not have troubled you. This is so simple a case that we need no ‘mental negatives’ to point out to us the culprit!”
“Mr. Klaw——” began Grimsby, excitedly.
“My friend,” he was answered, “I shall make a few examinations and then we shall be off to Uxley. The assassin returns to London with us by the 3:45 train!”
IV
As we drove through the village street, in the car which Grimsby had hired, upon the gate of one of the last cottages a tall, white-haired old man was leaning. His clear-cut, handsome features wore an expression of haggard sorrow.
“There he is!” rapped Grimsby. “Hadn’t I better make the arrest at once?”
“Ah, no, my friend!” protested Klaw. “But stop—I have something to say to him.”
The car stopping, Moris Klaw descended and approached the old man, who perceptibly paled at sight of us.
“Good day, Mr. Ryder!” Klaw courteously saluted the ex-butler.
“Good day to you, sir,” replied the old man, civilly.
Whereupon Moris Klaw said a simple thing, which had an astounding effect.
“How is he to-day?” he inquired.
Ryder’s face became convulsed. His eyes started forth. He made a choking sound, staring, as one possessed, at his questioner.
“What—what—do you mean?” he gasped.
“Never mind, Mr. Ryder—never mind!” rumbled Klaw. “Isis, my child, remain with this gentleman and tell him all we know about the ax of ‘Black Geoffrey.’ He will be glad to hear it!”
The beautiful Isis obeyed without question. As the rest of us drove on our way, I could see the flame-coloured figure passing up the garden path beside the tall form of the old butler. Grimsby, a man badly out of his depth, watched until both became lost to view.
“I’ve got evidence,” he suddenly burst out, “that Ryder declared Heidelberger to be the direct cause of Sir Richard’s downfall! And I’ve got witnesses who heard him say, ‘Please God! the Jew won’t be here much longer!’ ”
“Good!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “Very good!”
During the remainder of the journey, Grimsby talked on incessantly, smoking cheroots the whole time. But Moris Klaw was silent.
Doctor Madden had but recently returned from his morning visits. He was a typical country practitioner, fresh-faced and clean-shaven, with iron-gray hair and a good head. He conveyed the impression, in some way, that he knew himself to be in a tight corner.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he said, briskly.
“We have called, Doctor Madden,” rumbled Moris Klaw, wagging his finger, impressively, “to tell you that Ryder is in imminent danger—imminent danger—of arrest!”
The doctor started.
“And therefore we want a word with one of your patients!”
“I do not understand you. Which of my patients?”
Moris Klaw shook his head.
“Let us be intelligent,” he said, “you and I, and not two old fools! You understand so perfectly which of your patients.”
Doctor Madden drummed his fingers on the table.
“Are you a detective?” he snapped.
“I am not!” replied Moris Klaw. “I am a student of the Science of Cycles—not motor cycles; and a humble explorer of the etheric borderland! You lay yourself open to grave charges, Doctor!”
The doctor began to fidget nervously.
“If indeed I am culpable,” he said, “my culpability only dates from last night.”
“So!” rumbled Klaw. “He has been insensible?”
Doctor Madden started up.
“Mr. Klaw,” he replied, “I do not know who you may be, but your penetration is uncanny. He had lost his memory!”
“What?—lost his memory! How is that?”
“He was thrown from his horse! Come; I see it is useless, now, to waste time. I will take you to him.”
As we filed out to the waiting car, I glanced at Grimsby. His stupefaction was almost laughable.
“What in heaven’s name is it all about, Mr. Searles?” he whispered to me. “I feel like a man in a strange country. People talk, and it doesn’t seem to mean anything!”
En route:
“Tell me, Doctor,” said Moris Klaw, “about your patient.”
The doctor, without hesitation, now explained that he had been called to attend a Mr. Rogers, an artist, who was staying at Hinxman’s farm, off the Uxley Road. On the evening of the tragedy Mr. Rogers went out on Bess, a mare belonging to the farm, and, not having returned by ten, some anxiety was felt concerning him, the mare possessing a very bad reputation. At about a quarter-past ten the animal returned, riderless, and Rogers was brought home later, in an insensible condition, by two farm hands, having been found beside the road some distance from the farm.
For some time Mr. Rogers lay in a critical condition, suffering from concussion. Finally, a change for the better set in, but the patient was found to have lost his memory.
“Last Saturday,” added the doctor, “a specialist whom I had invited to come down from London performed a successful operation.”
“Ah,” rumbled Moris Klaw, “so we can see him?”
“Certainly. He is quite convalescent. His memory returned to him completely last night.”
In a state of uncertainty which can well be imagined, we arrived at, and entered, Hinxman’s farm. Seated in the shade of the veranda, smoking his pipe, was a bronzed young man who wore a bandage about his head. He was chatting to the farmer when we arrived.
Moris Klaw walked up the steps beside Doctor Madden.
“Good day, Mr. Farmer,” he said, amiably. A rosy-cheeked girl face was thrust from an open window. “Good day, Miss Farmer!” He removed the brown bowler. He turned to the bronzed young man. “Good day, Sir Roland Crespie!”
V
When Grimsby and I had somewhat recovered from the shock of this dramatic meeting, and Sir Roland, Madden, and Moris Klaw had talked together for a few moments, said Moris Klaw:
“And now Sir Roland will tell us all about the death of Mr. Heidelberger!”
Inspector Grimsby was all eyes when the young baronet began:
“You must know, then, that I, together with three others, have been engaged, since my departure from England, in a mining venture in West Africa. Up to the time when I left, and, for the sake of my health, came to England, our efforts had been attended by only moderate success. Thus, on arriving in Cresping and taking lodgings with Hinxman as ‘Mr. Rogers’—for the circumstances under which I left home made me desirous of remaining unknown in the village—I, on learning that my father had just died and that the Hall had fallen into Heidelberger’s hands, realized that my slender capital would not allow of my buying him out. The facts of the case came as a great shock to me, and, without revealing my identity—the beard which I had cultivated in Africa, but which the doctors have removed, acting as an effectual disguise—I made inquiries concerning Ryder. I had little difficulty in finding him, and he alone, in Cresping, knew who I really was.
“I now come to the events that immediately preceded Heidelberger’s death. There was one object in the old place for which I determined to negotiate, and which, owing to its associations, I particularly desired to retain. This was my mother’s portrait. I may mention here that, for certain reasons which I would prefer not to specify, I had rather have burnt the picture than see it fall into the hands of the Jew.
“With this object in view, then, I enlisted the services of Ryder, though from none other than myself would he have accepted the task. This brings me to the day prior to Heidelberger’s death, and, on that morning, I received news from Africa which led me to hope that I might, after all, be able to save my old home from an ignominious fate. Herein my hopes have since been realized, for I learnt to-day that the mine has made rich men of us all; and I assume that some ill-advised remark upon the part of Ryder, regarding Heidelberger’s possible expulsion, gave rise to the idea that the old man contemplated a violent deed.
“It therefore came about that he made an appointment with Heidelberger, an appointment which he duly kept; and it was solely due to my anxiety on Ryder’s behalf, and lest he should meet with some ill-treatment from the Jew—whom I knew for a man of most brutal disposition—that I took certain steps which, indirectly, brought about the tragedy.
“In common with most old mansions of the period, the Hall has its hidden entrances and exits—though, in accordance with certain ancient traditions, the secret of their existence is strictly preserved among the family. With a view, therefore, to becoming an unseen witness of the transactions between Ryder and Heidelberger, I made use of a passage that opens into a shrubbery some fifty yards from the west wing. Entering, and mounting the steps at whose foot the tunnel terminates, I found myself at the back of an old painting in the banqueting hall. The frame of this picture forms a door which opens upon pressing a spring, but the apparatus, owing to its great age, works very stiffly. From this position, then, I could hear all that took place in the hall, where, I had anticipated, the negotiations would be conducted, as my mother’s picture hangs there.
“This proved to be the case; for I had but just gained the top of the steps when I heard the two enter the hall. Heidelberger spoke first.
“ ‘Think of you wanting to buy Lady Crespie’s picture, you sentimental old fool!’ he said. ‘If it had been another I could name who wanted it, the case would have been different!’
“Then I heard Ryder’s voice. ‘What do you mean, Mr. Heidelberger?’ he asked.
“I awaited the Jew’s reply with some curiosity. As I had anticipated, it consisted of a foul and unfounded imputation against my poor mother. It was, in fact, more than I could bear in silence, and the tolerance of old Ryder, too, had reached its limit. For, at the moment that I wrenched open the panel and sprang into the room to confront this slanderer, I heard the sound of a blow, followed by an animal-like roar of anger from Heidelberger.
“The next moment, he seized the old man by the throat. Before he had time to proceed further I struck him heavily with my fist, so that he released his grip and turned to face his new assailant.
“One tribute I must pay to Heidelberger. He was, seemingly, incapable of fear; for this sudden attack by a person he had not known to be present seemed only to arouse a new resentment. His face, as he turned and looked me up and down, contained no trace of fear.
“ ‘So it’s you that wants the picture, is it?’ he sneered. ‘I suppose you are——’
“ ‘Stop!’ I said. ‘I am Roland Crespie, and can listen to no more of your foul slanders!’
“For a second he hesitated, looking from me to Ryder and then toward the picture, dimly discernible in the light of the candle which he had brought with him. Then, before I could divine his intention, he drew a knife from his pocket, and, opening a blade, took a step in the direction of the portrait. ‘You shall never have it!’ he said.
“He had actually inserted the blade in the canvas—as an examination will show—when I came upon him, and we closed in a desperate struggle.
“In what followed, one can almost trace the finger of destiny. Heidelberger was a more powerful man than myself, but in his fury he endeavoured to stab me with the knife which he held in his hand!
“I seized his wrist, but he wrenched it from my grasp. I leapt back from him—as he struck down with the knife—and to the left of one of the posts supporting the minstrels’ gallery.
“In the blindness of his anger, Heidelberger failed to perceive the proximity of this post. Moreover, it was very dark under the gallery. He threw himself forward savagely—and struck his shoulder against the post. The impact was tremendous.
“Gentlemen! I tremble, now, to relate what happened! The ax of ‘Black Geoffrey,’ which had hung for centuries before the rail above, was shaken from its place by the shock and its time-worn fastenings were torn bodily from their hold. At the instant that Heidelberger’s huge body struck the post, the great ax, as though detached by invisible hands, fell, blade downward, cleaving the head of the unfortunate man and remaining, with quivering shaft, upright in the oaken floor!
“The suddenness of the tragedy almost dazed me, and I was awakened to its awful reality by old Ryder’s cry—‘Oh, Master Roly!’ As Master Roly I had always been known to the old butler, and this name it was which someone stated to be ‘holy.’
“Our subsequent action was, perhaps, ill-advised. Removing the ax and raising the head of the victim, examination showed him to be dead, and, hearing hesitating footsteps upon the narrow stair beneath the gallery, we seized the candle and retreated through the secret panel, Ryder severely cutting his hand in endeavouring to force the rusty bolt into place. It was not until we stood in a lane bordering the grounds, where I had tethered the mare upon which I had ridden from the farm, that the seemingly guilty nature of our action dawned upon me. Now, however, was too late to atone for what I attribute to a momentary panic; and requesting Ryder to keep silence until he received instructions from me, I mounted the mare, intending to return to my lodgings and think the matter quietly over.
“By an unlucky accident, the brute threw me, at some distance from the farm, thereby all but bringing about a second tragedy; and what followed is already known to you.
“Of Ryder I need only say that rather than incriminate me he was prepared to pay the penalty for a deed which was in truth a visitation of God. Doctor Madden recognized me, of course, and to him also I am eternally indebted. I had proposed to make this statement before a magistrate later to-day.”
“You see,” said Moris Klaw. “I have done nothing! It would all have happened the same if I had been in Peru!”
Grimsby cleared his throat.
“Without casting any doubt upon Sir Roland’s word,” he began, “there’s no evidence to go to a jury that he didn’t——”
“Pull down the ax himself?” suggested Klaw.
Grimsby looked uncomfortable.
“Well—is there?”
“There is!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “I am he! This case most triumphantly substantiates my theory of Cycles! Almost parallel it occurred hundreds of years ago, at Dyke Manor! The ax has repeated itself!”
“H’um!” said Grimsby. “Your theory of Cycles wouldn’t hold water with twelve good men and true, I’m afraid, Mr. Klaw!”
“Yes?” replied Moris Klaw. “No? You think not, eh? Well, then, there is another little point. I am an old crank-fool, eh? So? But you? You are sublimely mad, my Grimsby! You say he, or Mr. Ryder, may have snatched down the black ax? Yes? Have you tried to reach the spot where it hung before the rail?”
“No,” confessed Grimsby, with the light as of the dawning of an unpleasant idea in his eyes.
“No,” said Klaw, placidly; “but I have. Mr. Grimsby, it is impossible to reach within three feet of the spot, from the stair or from the gallery; and no live thing but a giraffe could reach it from the floor!”
We were seated in the train, homeward bound.
“For this case,” grumbled Klaw, “I get no credit. It will be said that it all came out without aid from you or from me. Never mind—I have my fee!”
He patted the haft of the great ax, which ghastly relic in some way he had arranged to appropriate. Grimsby was watching Isis Klaw out of the corner of his eye. From a dainty gold case she offered him a cigarette. Grimsby is no cigarette smoker but he accepted, with alacrity.
The beautiful Isis took one also, and lay back puffing sinuous spirals from between her perfect red lips.
FOURTH EPISODE.
CASE OF THE IVORY STATUE
I
Where a case did not touch his peculiar interests, appeals to Moris Klaw fell upon deaf ears. However dastardly a crime, if its details were of the sordid sort, he shrank within his Wapping curio shop as closely as any tortoise within its shell.
“Of what use,” he said to me on one occasion, “are my acute psychic sensibilities to detect who it is with a chopper that has brained some unhappy washerwoman? Shall I bring to bear those delicate perceptions which it has taken me so many years to acquire in order that some ugly old fool shall learn what has become of his pretty young wife? I think not—no!”
Sometimes, however, when Inspector Grimsby of Scotland Yard was at a loss, he would induce me to intercede with the eccentric old dealer, and sometimes Moris Klaw would throw out a hint.
Beyond doubt the cases that really interested him were those that afforded scope for the exploiting of his pet theories: the Cycle of Crime, the criminal history of all valuable relics, the indestructibility of thought. Such a case came under my personal notice on one occasion, and my friend Coram was instrumental in enlisting the services of Moris Klaw. It was, I think, one of the most mysterious affairs with which I ever came in contact, and the better to understand it you must permit me to explain how Roger Paxton, the sculptor, came to have such a valuable thing in his studio as that which we all assumed had inspired the strange business.
It was Sir Melville Fennel, then, who commissioned Paxton to execute a chryselephantine statue. Sir Melville’s museum of works of art, ancient and modern, is admittedly the second finest private collection of the kind in the world. The late Mr. Pierpont Morgan’s alone took precedence.
The commission came as something of a surprise. The art of chryselephantine sculpture, save for one attempt at revival, in Belgium, has been dead for untold generations. By many modern critics, indeed, it is condemned, as being not art but a parody of art.
Given carte blanche in the matter of cost, Paxton produced a piece of work which induced the critics to talk about a modern Phidias. Based upon designs furnished by the eccentric but wealthy baronet, the statue represented a slim and graceful girl reclining as in exhaustion upon an ebony throne. The ivory face, with its wearily closed eyes, was a veritable triumph, and was surmounted by a headdress of gold intertwined among a mass of dishevelled hair. One ivory arm hung down so that the fingers almost touched the pedestal; the left hand was pressed to the breast as though against a throbbing heart. Gold bracelets and anklets, furnished by Sir Melville, were introduced into the composition; and, despite the artist’s protest, a heavy girdle, encrusted with gems and found in the tomb of some favourite of a long-dead Pharaoh, encircled the waist. When complete, the thing was, from a merely intrinsic point of view, worth several thousand pounds.
As the baronet had agreed to the exhibition of the statue prior to its removal to Fennel Hall, Paxton’s star was seemingly in the ascendant, when the singular event occurred that threatened to bring about his ruin.
The sculptor gave one of the pleasant little dinners for which he had gained a reputation. His task was practically completed, and his friends had all been enjoined to come early, so that the statue could be viewed before the light failed. We were quite a bachelor party, and I shall always remember the circle of admiring faces surrounding the figure of the reclining dancer—warmed in the soft light to an almost uncanny semblance of fair flesh and blood.
“You see,” explained Paxton, “this composite work, although it has latterly fallen into disrepute, affords magnificent scope for decorative purposes; such a richness of colour can be obtained. The ornaments are genuine antiques and of great value—a fad of my patron’s.”
For some minutes we stood silently admiring the beautiful workmanship; then Harman inquired, “Of what is the hair composed?”
Paxton smiled. “A little secret I borrowed from the Greeks!” he replied, with condonable vanity. “Polyclitus and his contemporaries excelled at the work.”
“That jewelled girdle looks detachable,” I said.
“It is firmly fastened to the waist of the figure,” answered the sculptor. “I defy any one to detach it inside an hour.”
“From a modern point of view the thing is an innovation,” remarked one of the others, thoughtfully.
Coram, curator of the Menzies Museum, who up to the present had stood in silent contemplation of the figure, now spoke for the first time. “The cost of materials is too great for this style of work ever to become popular,” he averred. “That girdle, by the way, represents a small fortune, and together with the anklets, armlets, and headdress, might well tempt any burglar. What precautions do you take, Paxton?”
“Sleep out here every night,” was the reply; “and there is always someone here in the daytime. Incidentally, a curious thing occurred last week. I had just fixed the girdle, which, I may explain, was once the property of Nicris, a favourite of Ramses III, and my model was alone here for a few minutes. As I was returning from the house I heard her cry out, and when I came to look for her she was crouching in a corner trembling. What do you suppose had frightened her?”
“Give it up,” said Harman.
“She swore that Nicris—for the statue is supposed to represent her—had moved!”
“Imagination,” replied Coram, “but easily to be understood. I could believe it, myself, if I were here alone long enough.”
“I fancy,” continued Paxton, “that she must have heard some of the tales that have been circulated concerning the girdle. The thing has a rather peculiar history. It was discovered in the tomb of the dancer by whom it had once been worn; and it is said that an inscription was unearthed at the same time containing an account of Nicris’s death under particularly horrible circumstances. Seton—you fellows know Seton—who was present at the opening of the sarcophagus, tells me that the Arabs, on catching sight of the girdle, all prostrated themselves and then took to their heels. Sir Melville Fennel’s agent sent it on to England, however, and Sir Melville conceived the idea of this statue.”
“Luckily for you,” added Coram.
“Quite so,” laughed the sculptor, and, carefully locking the studio door, he led the way up the short path to the house.
We were a very merry party, and the night was far advanced ere the gathering broke up. Coram and I were the last to depart; and having listened to the voices of Harman and the others dying away as they neared the end of the street, we also prepared to take our leave.