CHAPTER XIX
After I went to my room I worked for an hour on the cryptogram, foundbeside Florey's body. The mysterious column of four-letter words,however, did not respond to any methods of translation that I knew. Foranother hour thereafter I lay awake in my bed beside the window.
It was one of the few spots in the house that offered a fairly clearglimpse of the lagoon. The trees opened, like curtains: I could see thewater darkly blue in the starlight, and the faint, gray line, like acrayon mark, that was the natural rock wall. The tide was coming in now:I could see the white manes of the sea-horses as they charged over thebarrier. The whole surface of the lagoon was fretted by them.
Had Nopp spoken true--could there be a recurrence of last night'stragedy? Could any situation arise in human affairs that would result inthree murders, one after another, all under practically the same and themost mysterious conditions? It was possible, by a long stretch of theimagination, to conceive of two such crimes occurring on successivenights--the murderer striking again, through some unknown movement ofevents, to hide his first crime--but coincidences do not happen thrice!If indeed these disappearances could be wholly attributed to humanactivities, human designs and human passions, there was no need of lyingawake and expectant this third night. Surely no super-criminal haddeclared remorseless war against _all_ of the occupants of that house.Certainly we could sleep in peace to-night!
But I couldn't get away from the same thought that haunted mebefore--that these crimes lay somehow without the bourne of human eventand circumstance, that they were some way native to this strange, oldmanor-house beside the sea. It wasn't easy to lose one's self in sleep.I felt no shame at my own uneasiness. It was true that the crimes hadboth occurred, evidently, on the shore of or near the lagoon, but couldthe curse that lay upon the old estate extend its baleful influence intothe house itself? Anything could happen at Kastle Krags, Nopp had said,and it became increasingly difficult to disbelieve him.
Since the intrusion of two nights before I had slept with a chairblocked firmly against my door, knowing that no one could enter fromthe corridor, at least without waking me. My own pistol lay just undermy mattress where the hand could reach it in an instant. Both thesethings were an immense consolation now. I would not be so helpless incase of another midnight visitor.
Yet I had no after-image of terror in thinking upon the intruder of twonights before. Strangely, that hand reaching in the flashlight was theone redeeming feature of this affair of Kastle Krags. That hand wasflesh and blood, and thus the whole mystery seemed of flesh and bloodtoo. If this incident did not confine the mystery to the realm of humanaffairs, at least it showed that there were human motives and humanagents playing their parts in it.
Was that intruder Pescini? The hand could easily have been his--firm,strong, aristocratic, sensitive and white. After all, there was quite acase to be made against Pescini. "Find George Florey and you'll find themurderer," William Noyes had written. And the whole business of provingthat Pescini was George Florey was simply that of proving hishandwriting and that of the "George" notes we had found in the butler'sroom were the same.
"They have been bitter enemies since youth." Rich, proud, distinguished,had this bearded man carried a life-long hatred for the humble servitorof Kastle Krags? What boyhood rivalry, what malice, what blinding,bitter jealousy had wakened such a hatred as this? Yet who can trace theslightest action from its origin to its consummation; much less such acomplex human drama as this. No man can see truly into the human heart.It seemed fairly credible that this gray servant might hate, with thatbitter hatred born of jealousy, his richer, more distinguishedbrother--yet human relations, in their fullness, are beyond the ken ofthe wisest men. It would be easy to prove or disprove whether or notPescini and Florey were brothers: the "George" letters were secure inthe hands of the State, and a copy of Pescini's handwriting could beprocured with ease. Besides their lives and origins would likely be easyto trace.
Florey's letter to his sister was further proof of Pescini's guilt. Imade an entirely different interpretation of it than that of theofficials. I did not think that he was referring to any physicaldisease. I believed, at the first hearing, and I believed still that hehad written in veiled language of the persecutions of his brother:
"My old malady, G---- is troubling me again," Florey had written. "I don't think I will ever be rid of it. It is certainly the Florey burden--going through all our family. I can't hardly sleep and don't know how I'll ever get rid of it. I'm deeply discouraged, yet I know...."
I did not share the sheriff's view that "G----" referred to somelong-named malady that, either for the sake of abbreviation or becausehe could not spell it, he had neglected to write out in full. I feltsure it meant "George" and nothing else. "The Florey burden----"--whatwas more reasonable than that his family had been cursed by feudswithin. I hadn't forgotten my talk with Nealman. He had spoken of thehatred sometimes borne by one brother for another; and had named theJason family, main characters in the treasure legend of the old manorhouse, as a case in point. But Florey had got rid of his burden at last.He had got rid of it by death.
Could I make myself believe that Pescini had lured his brother to theshore, killed him, seized an opportunity to hurl his body into thelagoon, from which, by the thousandth chance, our drag-hooks had failedto find it; and the following night, to conceal his guilt, had struckdown his host? Perhaps the former was true, and that the crime, comingjust previous to his own financial failure, had suggested suicide toNealman's mind. No one had track of Pescini the night of the crime. Forthat matter, unlike Van Hope, Major Dell, and several others, he was notundressed and in his room when Nealman had disappeared. And the coronerhad suggested a motive for murder in the matter of Pescini's suit fordivorce.
It wasn't easy to believe that such an obviously distinguishedand cultured man could stoop to murder. There is such a thing,criminologists say, as a criminal face; but Pescini had not the leastsemblance of it. Criminologists admit, however, in the same breath thatthey are constantly amazed at the varied types that are brought beforethem, charged with the most heinous crimes. Pescini looked kind,self-mastered, not given to outlaw impulses. Yet who could say for sure.
I was already falling to sleep.... It was hard to keep the sequenceof thought; absurd fancies swept between. Ever my hold on wakefulnesswas less. It was pleasant to believe that the mystery would soon beunraveled, all with a commonplace explanation.... At first I gave noheed to a rapid footfall in the corridor.
Yet in an instant I was wide awake. In the silent hall the footfall wasperfectly distinct, carrying through the walls of my room, and echoingsomewhere in the wall behind me. In any quiet home, in any land, itwould have been impossible to disregard those footsteps. There was adistinct tone of urgency behind them that simply could not be denied. Inthis dark house of mystery the senses rallied, quickened, and seemed tolie waiting to contend with any emergency.
The steps were not only hurried and urgent. They were_frenzied_--although they were not running footsteps. At the same timethey gave the image of some one trying to hurry, some one trying toconquer himself, and yet not move too loudly. It was as if he was someway fearful to waken the poignant silence of that shadowed corridor.
"He is coming to my door," I told myself. It was wholly likely that Ispoke the words aloud; at least, I believed them as unwaveringly as ifthe man outside had thus announced his intentions. No man can ever tellhow such knowledge comes to him. Perhaps it is coincidence--that heexpects such a summons on a hundred different occasions before it evercomes to him in reality. Yet many things already proven true are athousand times harder to believe than telepathy--the transmission ofmessages according to no known laws of matter and space.
The tread itself was peculiar. It had an odd, shuffling quality that washard to analyze. Then some one rapped excitedly on my door.
"What is it?" I asked.
I was already out of bed, groping for my light switch.
"It's me--Wilkson," was the reply. "Boss, will ye open de do'?"
I knew Nealman's colored janitor--a middle-aged servant of anold-fashioned, almost departed glory--but for an instant I found italmost incredible that this was his voice. The tones were blurred,lifeless, spoken as if from drawn lips. There was only one thing tobelieve, and I fought it off as long as I could: that the man outside mydoor was simply stricken and almost dead with fear.
It wasn't easy to open the door to hear what he had to tell. A scream inthe night is one thing; a chattering fellow man, just on the other sideof a pine door, is quite another. But I took away the chair and turnedthe knob.
The man's face was almost as hard to recognize as his voice. It wasWilkson, beyond possibility of doubt, but he was no longer the tranquil,genial serving-man. His face had the strangest gray hue pen ever triedto describe. I could see the whites of his eyes, his lips were rounded,he was almost unconscious from sheer terror.
At that moment I began to strive hard to remember certain truths--one ofthem being that little things, laughed away by an Anglo-Saxon, have beenknown to instill the most unfathomable depths of fear into an unletteredsouthern negro. What seemed terrible to him might be only laughable tome. I thought of these things in order to brace myself for what he hadto tell.
At that moment I knew the inroads that the events of the last two nightshad made upon me--likely upon every man and woman in the house. I couldhave met that gray face much more bravely the night previous, and wouldhave likely been largely unmoved by it two nights before. But mystery,the lack of sleep, the terrible possibilities to which both crimes hadpointed, had over-stretched the nerves and taken the pith from thethews. The sight of that terrified face sent a sharp chill of fearthrough every avenue of my nerves. I felt its icy touch in my veins.Kastle Krags was getting to me--denial of that fact was impossible evento myself.
"Iscuse me, Boss," he said humbly, pathetically, if I had ever knownwhat pathos was. In his terror he wanted to propitiate the whole world,and was begging my indulgence of his intrusion. "Boss, is Majo' Del inyo' room?"
"No." I didn't reprove him for failing to notice that my light was out."Where is he?"
"Boss, he am gone. He's gone just like them other two am gone." Hisvoice died and a low moan escaped his lips. "Boss, who'll they be takin'nex'? Gawd, who'll they be takin' nex'----?"
I seized his arm, trying to steady him. "Listen, Wilkson," I commanded."How do you know he's gone----"
"Telephone message come for him, Boss. Telegram, from Ochakee. And heain't here to get it. He's gone--just like dem oder two men has gonebefo' him."
Kastle Krags: A Story of Mystery Page 19
