by Sax Rohmer
“Well, Coates?” said I.
He cleared his throat.
“There are footprints in the radish-beds, sir,” he reported.
“Footprints?”
“Yes, sir. Very deep. As though some one had jumped over the hedge and landed there.”
“Jumped over the hedge!” I exclaimed. “That would be a considerable jump, Coates, from the road.”
“It would, sir. Maybe she scrambled up.”
“She?”
Coates cleared his throat again.
“There are three sets of prints in all. First a very deep one where the party had landed, then another broken up like, where she had turned round, and the third set with the heel-marks very deep where she had sprung back over the hedge.”
“She?” I shouted.
“The prints, sir,” resumed Coates, unmoved, “are those of a lady’s high-heeled shoes.”
I sat bolt upright in bed, staring at the man and scarcely able to credit my senses. Words failed me. Whereupon:
“Will you have tea or coffee for breakfast?” inquired Coates.
“Tea or coffee be damned, Coates!” I cried. “I’m going out to look at those footprints! If you had seen what I saw last night, even your old mahogany countenance would relax for once, I assure you.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Coates; “did you see the lady, then?”
“Lady!” I exclaimed, tumbling out of bed. “If the eyes that looked at me last night belonged to a ‘lady’ either I am mad or the ‘lady’ is of another world.”
I pulled on a bath-robe and hurried out into the garden, Coates showing me the spot where he had found the mysterious foot-prints. A very brief examination sufficed to convince me that his account had been correct. Some one wearing high-heeled shoes clearly enough had stood there at some time whilst the soil was quite wet; and as no track led to or from the marks, Coates’ conclusion that the person who had made them must have come over the hedge was the only feasible one. I turned to him in amazement, but recognizing in time the wildly fantastic nature of the sight which I had seen in the night, I refrained from speaking of the blazing eyes and made my way to the bathroom wondering if some chance reflection might not have deceived me and the presence of a woman’s footmarks at the same spot be no more than a singular coincidence. Even so the mystery of their presence there remained unexplained.
My thoughts were diverted from a trend of profitless conjecture when shortly after breakfast time my ‘phone bell rang. It was the editor of the Planet, to whom I had been indebted for a number of special commissions — including my fascinating quest of the Giant Gnu, which, generally supposed to be extinct, was reported by certain natives and others to survive in a remote corner of the Dark Continent.
Readers of the Planet will remember that although I failed to discover the Gnu I came upon a number of notable things on my journey through the almost unexplored country about the head-waters of the Niger.
“A most extraordinary case has cropped up,” he said, “quite in your line, I think, Addison. Evidently a murder, and the circumstances seem to be most dramatic and unusual. I should be glad if you would take it up.”
I inquired without much enthusiasm for details. Criminology was one of my hobbies, and in several instances I had traced cases of alleged haunting and other supposedly supernatural happenings to a criminal source; but the ordinary sordid murder did not interest me.
“The body of Sir Marcus Coverly has been found in a crate!” explained my friend. “The crate was being lowered into the hold of the S.S. Oritoga at the West India Docks. It had been delivered by a conveyance specially hired for the purpose apparently, as the Oritoga is due to sail in an hour. There are all sorts of curious details but these you can learn for yourself. Don’t trouble to call at the office; proceed straight to the dock.”
“Right!” I said shortly. “I’ll start immediately.”
And this sudden decision had been brought about by the mention of the victim’s name. Indeed, as I replaced the receiver on the hook I observed that my hand was shaking and I have little doubt that I had grown pale.
In the first place, then, let me confess that my retirement to the odd little retreat which at this time was my home, and my absorption in the obscure studies to which I have referred were not so much due to any natural liking for the life of a recluse as to the shattering of certain matrimonial designs. I had learned of the wreck of my hopes upon reading a press paragraph which announced the engagement of Isobel Merlin to Eric Coverly. And it was as much to conceal my disappointment from the world as for any better reason that I had slunk into retirement; for if I am slow to come to a decision in such a matter, once come to, it is of no light moment.
Yet although I had breathed no word of my lost dreams to Isobel but had congratulated her with the rest, often and bitterly I had cursed myself for a sluggard. Too late I had learned that she had but awaited a word from me; and I had gone off to Mesopotamia, leaving that word unspoken. During my absence Coverly had won the prize which I had thrown away. He was heir to the title, for his cousin, Sir Marcus, was unmarried. Now here, a bolt from the blue, came the news of his cousin’s death!
It can well be imagined with what intense excitement I hurried to the docks. All other plans abandoned, Coates, arrayed in his neat blue uniform, ran the Rover round from the garage, and ere long we were jolting along the hideously uneven Commercial Road, East, dodging traction-engines drawing strings of lorries, and continually meeting delay in the form of those breakdowns which are of hourly occurrence in this congested but rugged highway.
In the West India Dock Road the way became slightly more open, but when at last I alighted and entered the dock gates I recognized that every newspaper and news agency in the kingdom was apparently represented. Jones, of the Gleaner, was coming out as I went in, and:
“Hello, Addison!” he cried, “this is quite in your line! It’s as mad as ‘Alice in Wonderland.’”
I did not delay, however, but hurried on in the direction of a dock building, at the door of which was gathered a heterogeneous group comprising newspaper men, dock officials, police and others who were unclassifiable. Half a dozen acquaintances greeted me as I came up, and I saw that the door was closed and that a constable stood on duty before it.
“I call it damned impudence, Addison!” exclaimed one pressman. “The dock people are refusing everybody information until Inspector Somebody-or-Other arrives from New Scotland Yard. I should think he has stopped on the way to get his lunch.”
The speaker glanced impatiently at his watch and I went to speak to the man on duty.
“You have orders to admit no one, constable?” I asked.
“That’s so, sir,” he replied. “We’re waiting for Detective-Inspector Gatton, who has been put in charge of the case.”
“Ah! Gatton,” I muttered, and, stepping aside from the expectant group, I filled and lighted my pipe, convinced that anything to be learned I should learn from Inspector Gatton, for he and I were old friends, having been mutually concerned in several interesting cases.
A few minutes later the Inspector arrived — a thick-set, clean-shaven, very bronzed man, his dark hair streaked with gray, and with all the appearance of a retired naval officer, in his well-cut blue serge suit and soft felt hat; a very reserved man whose innocent-looking blue eyes gave him that frank and open expression which is more often associated with a seaman than with a detective. He nodded to several acquaintances in the group, and then, observing me where I stood, came over and shook hands.
“Open the door, constable,” he ordered quietly.
The constable produced a key and unlocked the door of the small stone building. Immediately there was a forward movement of the whole waiting group, but:
“If you please, gentlemen,” said Gatton, raising his hand. “I must make my examination first; and Mr. Addison,” he added, seeing the resentment written upon the faces of my disappointed confrères, “has special information which I am going
to ask him to place at my disposal.”
The constable stood aside and I followed Inspector Gatton into the stone shed.
“Lock the door again, constable,” he ordered; “no one is to be admitted.”
Thereupon I looked about me, and the scene which I beheld was so strange and gruesome that its every detail remains imprinted upon my memory.
The building then was lighted by four barred windows set so high in the walls that no one could look in from the outside. Blazing sunlight poured in at the two southerly windows and drew a sharp black pattern of the bars across the paved floor. Kneeling beside a stretcher, fully in this path of light, so that he presented a curious striped appearance, was a man who presently proved to be the divisional surgeon, and two paces beyond stood a police inspector who was engaged at the moment of our entrance in making entries in his note-book.
On the stretcher, so covered up that only his face was visible, lay one whom at first I failed to recognize, for the horribly contorted features presented a kind of mottled green appearance utterly indescribable.
Stifling an exclamation of horror, I stared and stared at that ghastly face, then:
“My God!” I muttered. “Yes! it is Sir Marcus!”
The surgeon stood up and the inspector advanced to meet Gatton, but my horrified gaze had strayed from the stretcher to a badly damaged and splintered packing-case, which was the only other object in the otherwise empty shed. At this I stared as much aghast as I had stared at the dead man.
The iron bands were broken and twisted and the whole of one side lay in fragments on the floor; but upon a board which had formed part of the top I perceived the figure of a cat roughly traced in green paint.
Beyond any shadow of doubt this crate was the same which on the night before had lain in the garage of the Red House!
CHAPTER III THE GREEN IMAGE
“YES,” said Gatton, “I was speaking no more than the truth when I told them that you had special information which I hoped you would place at my disposal. Some of the particulars were given to me over the ‘phone, you see, and I was glad to find you here when I arrived. I should have consulted you in any event, and principally about — that.”
He pointed to an object which I held in my hand. It was a little green enamel image; the crouching figure of a woman having a cat’s head, a piece of Egyptian workmanship probably of the fourth century B.C. Considered in conjunction with the figure painted upon the crate, the presence of this little image was so amazing a circumstance that from the moment when it had been placed in my hand I had stood staring at it almost dazedly.
The divisional surgeon had gone, and only the local officer remained with Gatton and myself in the building. Sir Marcus Coverly presented all the frightful appearance of one who has died by asphyxia, and although of course there would be an autopsy, little doubt existed respecting the mode of his death. The marks of violence found upon the body could be accounted for by the fact that the crate had fallen a distance of thirty feet into the hold, and the surgeon was convinced that the injuries to the body had all been received after death, death having taken place in his opinion fully twelve hours before.
“You see,” said Gatton, “when the crate broke several things which presumably were in Sir Marcus’ pockets were found lying loose amongst the wreckage. That cat-woman was one of them.”
“Yet it may not have been in any of his pockets at all,” said I.
“It may not,” agreed Gatton. “But that it was somewhere in the crate is beyond dispute, I think. Besides this is more than a coincidence.”
And he pointed to the painted cat upon the lid of the packing-case. I had already told him of the episode at the Red House on the previous night, and now:
“The fates are on our side,” I said, “for at least we know where the crate was despatched from.”
“Quite so,” agreed Gatton. “We should have got that from the carter later, of course, but every minute saved in an affair such as this is worth considering. As a pressman you will probably disagree with me, but I propose to suppress these two pieces of evidence. Premature publication of clews too often handicaps us. Now, what is that figure exactly?”
“It is a votive offering of a kind used in Ancient Egypt by pilgrims to Bubastis. It is a genuine antique, and if you think the history of such relics is likely to assist the investigation I can give you some further particulars this evening if you have time to call at my place.”
“I think,” said Gatton, taking the figure from me and looking at it with a singular expression on his face, “that the history of the thing is very important. The fact that a rough reproduction of a somewhat similar figure is painted upon the case cannot possibly be a coincidence.”
I stared at him silently for a moment, then:
“You mean that the crate was specially designed to contain the body?” I asked.
“I am certainly of that opinion,” declared Inspector Heath, the local officer. “It is of just the right size and shape for the purpose.”
Once more I began to examine the fragments stacked upon the floor, and then I looked again at the several objects which lay beside the crate. They were the personal belongings of the dead baronet and the police had carefully noted in which of his pockets each object had been found. He was in evening dress and a light top-coat had been packed into the crate beside him. In this had been found a cigar-case and a pair of gloves; a wallet containing £20 in Treasury notes and a number of cards and personal papers had fallen out of the crate together with the cat statuette. The face of his watch was broken. It had been in his waistcoat pocket but it still ticked steadily on where it lay there beside its dead owner. A gold-mounted malacca cane also figured amongst the relics of the gruesome crime; so that whatever had been the object of the murderer, that of robbery was out of the question.
“The next thing to do,” said Gatton, “is to trace Sir Marcus’s movements from the time that he left home last night to the time that he met his death. I am going out now to ‘phone to the Yard. We ought to have succeeded in tracing the carter who brought the crate here before the evening. I personally shall proceed to Sir Marcus’s rooms and then to this Red House around which it seems to me that the mystery centers.”
He put the enamel figure into his pocket and taking up the broken board which bore the painted cat:
“You are carrying a top-coat,” he said. “Hide this under it!”
He turned to Inspector Heath, nodding shortly.
“All right,” he said, with a grim smile, “go out now and talk to the crowd!”
Having issued certain telephonic instructions touching the carter who had delivered the crate to the docks, and then imparting to the representatives of the press a guarded statement for publication, Inspector Gatton succeeded in wedging himself into my little two-seater and ere long we were lurching and bumping along the ill-paved East-end streets.
The late Sir Marcus’s London address, which had been unknown to me, we had learned from his cards, and it was with the keenest anticipation of a notable discovery that I presently found myself with Gatton mounting the stairs to the chambers of the murdered baronet.
At the very moment of our arrival the door was opened and a man — quite obviously a constable in plain clothes — came out. Behind him I observed one whom I took to be the late Sir Marcus’s servant, a pathetic and somewhat disheveled figure.
“Hello, Blythe!” said Gatton, “who instructed you to come here?”
“Sir Marcus’s man — Morris — telephoned the Yard,” was the reply, “as he couldn’t understand what had become of his master and I was sent along to see him.”
“Oh,” said Gatton, “very good. Report to me in due course.”
Blythe departed, and Gatton and I entered the hall. The man, Morris, closed the door, and led us into a small library. Beside the telephone stood a tray bearing decanter and glasses, and there was evidence that Morris had partaken of a hurried breakfast consisting only of biscuits and whisky and soda
.
“I haven’t been to bed all night, gentlemen,” he began the moment that we entered the room. “Sir Marcus was a good master and if he was sleeping away from home he never failed to advise me, so that I knew even before the dreadful news reached me that something was amiss.”
He was quite unstrung and his voice was unsteady. The reputation of the late baronet had been one which I personally did not envy him, but whatever his faults, and I knew they had been many, he had evidently possessed the redeeming virtue of being a good employer.
“A couple of hours’ sleep would make a new man of you,” said Gatton kindly. “I understand your feelings, but no amount of sorrow can mend matters, unfortunately. Now, I don’t want to worry you, but there are one or two points which I must ask you to clear up. In the first place did you ever see this before?”
From his pocket he took out the little figure of Bâst, the cat-goddess, and held it up before Morris.
The man stared at it with lack-luster eyes, scratching his unshaven chin; then he shook his head slowly.
“Never,” he declared. “No, I am positive I never saw a figure like that before.”
“Then, secondly,” continued Gatton, “was your master ever in Egypt?”
“Not that I am aware of; certainly not since I have been with him — six years on the thirty-first of this month.”
“Ah,” said Gatton. “Now, when did you last see Sir Marcus?”
“At half-past six last night, sir. He was dining at his club and then going to the New Avenue Theater. I booked a seat for him myself.”
“He was going alone, then?”
“Yes.”
Gatton glanced at me significantly and I experienced an uncomfortable thrill. In the inspector’s glance I had read that he suspected the presence of a woman in the case and at the mention of the New Avenue Theater it had instantly occurred to me that Isobel Merlin was appearing there! Gatton turned again to Morris.
“Sir Marcus had not led you to suppose that there was any likelihood of his not returning last night?”
