by Sax Rohmer
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 axe, sir,” said the local man, with a sudden, awed respect.
Klaw walked over to where the huge battle-axe 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 axe. 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 axe!” he said. “Isis, what do we know of such an axe? 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 axe!” He turned again to Palmer, the local officer. “All such antiques,” he said, “have histories. I collect those histories, you understand. This axe 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 axe, 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 axe used to hang, up there before the rail of the minstrels’ gallery. The theory is that the murderer rushed up, wrenched the axe 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 doorlatch, 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 axe — 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 axe!”
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 Dr. 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 Dr. 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.
&nb
sp; “Never mind, Mr. Ryder — never mind!” rumbled Klaw. “Isis, my child, remain with this gentleman and tell him all we know about the axe 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.
Dr. Madden had but recently returned from his morning visits. He was a typical country practitioner, fresh-faced and cleanshaven, with iron-grey 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, Dr. 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.”
Dr. 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?”
Dr. Madden started up.
“Mr. Klaw,” he replied. “I do not know whom 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 verandah, 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 Dr. 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, realised 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 whom 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 realised, 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 sentimen
tal 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.
