CHAPTER IX
There was no further possibility of a mistake. Marten's inability tofind the body could not be further attributed to a mere confusion as toits correct location. In the few minutes we had been phoning and whilethe remainder of the guests had been searching for the murderer, thebody of the murdered man had vanished from the shore of the lagoon. Norhad any mysterious over-sweeping of the water carried it away. We found,easily enough, the place where it had lain, and we knew it by thecrushed vegetation and an ominous stain on the earth.
For a moment we all stood speechless, almost motionless, gazing down onthe place where the body had been. The guest's faces all looked oddlywhite in the moonlight. Then I heard Nealman and Nopp talking in asubdued voice at my side.
"You see what it means," Nealman said. "The murderer came back to thebody--that's the only explanation! That means he's still on thegrounds--perhaps within a few hundred yards."
"But what did he do with the thing? I wish I did know what it meant. Itmakes no sense. But there's nothing we can do----"
His words blurred in my consciousness, and I suddenly ceased to hearhim. The reason was simply that my own thoughts were now too busy toadmit external impressions. If there was one thing needed in this affairit was careful investigation and research--the very key and basis of myown life's work. I was a scientist--at least I had gone a distance intoscientific work--and scientific methods were needed now. Why shouldn't Idirect the same method that made me a successful naturalist into theunraveling of this mystery?
Science has explored the lightless mysteries of the deep, has measuredthe stars and traced the comets through the heavens: there was no causeto believe it couldn't conquer now. I was of a branch of science thatmainly studied externals, my methods were simply accurate observation,tireless investigation, and logical deduction--the methods of allnaturalists the world over; and they were just what was needed here.
Presently I forgot the shaken men about me and began really to observe.First, I tried to fix in my mind the exact way the body had lain. It hadbeen curiously huddled, lying rather on the right side--and the torn,stained shirt-front had been plainly visible. Its location was not farabove high-tide mark, at the edge of the lawns--and because the craggymargin of the lagoon was rather precipitous at that place, not more thantwenty feet from the water's edge at low tide.
It was impossible even to hazard a guess what kind of a weapon hadinflicted the death wound. But it had not been a clean, stabbing woundto the heart. The wound itself must have been a long gash downward alongthe breast, for the shirt and waistcoat had been curiously ripped andtorn. And possibly the weapon might be found in the grass where the bodyhad lain.
I quietly moved back and forth among the group of men, searching for thegleam of moonlight upon a knife blade. It didn't reveal itself, however,and there seemed no course but to wait for daylight. But as I was aboutto give up the search my eye caught the glimpse of something white,half-hidden in the grass in the direction of the house.
I quietly picked it up, saw that it was a folded piece of heavy paper orparchment, and slipped it into my pocket. Then I rejoined the littlecrowd of guests.
"Good Lord, what can we do...?" Pescini was saying excitedly. "The lakecan't be dragged until to-morrow. There's no use to post guards aroundthis big house--the thickets are so heavy that any one could stealthrough almost any place. We've got the road guarded--and the officerswon't come till to-morrow. It's true that a couple of us could standguard here----"
"I don't see what good it would do," Nopp replied. "The murderer wouldhave no cause to come back again. I suggest we go to the house and getwhat rest we can. We may have to make some posses in the morning."
In the privacy of my own room I took from my pocket the paper I hadfound. It proved to be of heavy parchment, whitened by time; and I feltat once I was running on a true scent.
There could be little doubt as to the age of the document. The ink wasfading, the handwriting itself was in the style of long ago. The factthat the script was scratchy and uncertain, indicated that a man ofmeager education had written it. It was, however, perfectly legible. Ijudged that the date of the missive was at least ten or twenty yearsprior to the civil war.
Across the top of the page were written the words, referring evidentlyto the script beneath, "Sworn by the Book." At the very bottom was thecryptic phrase "int F. T." And the following, mysterious column laybetween:
aned dqbo aqcd trkm fipj dqbo scno ohuy wvyn dljn dtht
Of course no kind of an explanation presented itself at first. I took itto a mirror, tried to read it backward, then sat down to give it acareful analysis.
I copied the column carefully, then tried to rearrange the letters tomake sense. But no such simple treatment was availing. The fourth,ninth, tenth, and last words, for instance, were made up entirely ofconsonants, and no word of any language, known to me, entirely omitsvowels. Four of the remaining seven words contained but one vowel.
But I was in no mood to go further to-night. The events of the past fewhours had been a mighty strain on the entire nervous system, and my mindcould not cope with the problem. I spread the original parchment on thelittle table in the center of the room, then quickly undressed, turnedout my lights, and went to bed.
Sleep came at once, heavy and dreamless. I barely remember the welcomechill that the pre-dawn hours brought to the room. But it wasn't writtenthat there should be many hours of refreshing sleep for me that night.
In hardly a moment, it seemed to me, I came to myself with a start.Wakefulness shot through me as if by an electric shock. It was thatfast-flying hour just before dawn: the cool caress of the wind againstmy face and the pale-blue quality of the darkness on the window-panetold that fact with entire plainness. It had been wakened by a hushedsound from across the room.
It was useless to try to tell myself that the sound was a dream only, animagined voice that had no basis in reality. For all that it wassubdued, the sound was entirely sharp and clear, impossible to mistake.And instantly I knew its source.
Some one had opened my door. There was no other possible explanation.Nor had it been merely the harmless mistake of one of the guests,confusing my room with his own. I heard the door open, but I did nothear it close. Nor did I hear departing steps along the corridor.
My nightly visitor had come in stealth, and there was nothing to believebut at that instant he was waiting in the darkness on the other side ofthe room.
It isn't easy to decide what to do at a time like this. I was perfectlywilling to simulate slumber if by so doing I could increase my ownsafety. Florey's affair was still fresh in my mind. A cruel andcold-blooded murder had been committed at Kastle Krags earlier thissame night: this tip-toeing visitor in my room was in all likelihood adesperate man, willing to repeat his crime if his own safety demandedit. My possessions were few: it was better to let them go than take sucha risk.
Yet a wiser, saner self told me that this was no business of thievery.The thing went deeper, further than I could see or guess. I laylistening: from time to time I could hear the boards settle beneath hisfeet. Evidently he was groping about the darkened room, in search ofsomething.... Then a faint jar told me that his hand was on the ironrailing of my bed.
It wasn't a reassuring thought that he had been groping about the roomsolely to find my bed. My muscles set for a desperate leap in case Ifelt him groping nearer.... There was a long, ominous instant ofsilence. Then a little triangle of light danced out over my table-top.
It was a ray from a flashlight, and it came and went so soon that therewas no chance to make accurate observation. I did, however, see just theedge of his hand as he reached for something on the flat surface of thetable. It was a white, strong hand--long, sensitive fingers--evidentlythe hand of a well-bred, middle-aged man.
The light flashed out. Steps sounded softly on the floor. Then my doorclosed with a slight shock.
There is no use trying to justify my inactivity
during his presence inthe room. At such times a man is guided by instinct--and my instinct hadbeen to lie still and let him do his work. The action might condemn mein some eyes, but I felt no shame for it. And as soon as the door closedI sprang to the floor.
Groping, I found the light, and the white beams flooded the room.Presently I opened the door and gazed down the gloomy hall.
It was still as a tomb. There were a dozen doors along it, and any oneof them might have closed behind the intruder. It was the hall of awell-ordered country manor, rather commonplace in the subdued light of asingle globe that burned over the stairway. The opportunity to overtakethe intruder was irredeemably past.
It wasn't hard to tell what had been taken. The sheet of parchment, onwhich was written the mysterious cryptogram, was gone from the table.The only satisfaction I had was that the thief had failed to see andprocure the copy of the document I had made just before retiring.
Kastle Krags: A Story of Mystery Page 9
