The Horror on the Links

by Seabury Quinn

“Because of Baby!” she sobbed. “Everyone thinks I killed him—I, his mother! The neighbors all look at me as though I were a monster—call their children away when they see me coming—and never speak to me when I pass them. Even Iring, my husband, is beginning to suspect, I’m afraid, and so I wanted to die—would have done it, too, if you hadn’t stopped me.”

  Utter, hopeless misery was in her tones as she spoke, and de Grandin bent forward with quick impulsiveness, taking her hand in his. “Tell us the story, Madame,” he begged. “It will relieve your nerves to talk, and it may easily be that Friend Trowbridge and I can be of help—”

  “No, you can’t,” she negatived sharply. “Nobody can help me. There isn’t any help for me this side of the grave, but—”

  It was a long, heart-rending story the young mother retailed as we sped over the dusty summer road to the pretty little suburb where she lived. Ten days before, she and her husband had been to a party in New York and it was nearly two o’clock in the morning when they returned to College Grove. Iring Junior, their ten-months-old baby, had been left in charge of the Negro maid of all work, and both he and his nurse were fast asleep when his parents gently unlatched the front door and tiptoed down the bungalow hall. Dismissing the maid, Mrs. Candace had crept into the little blue-and-white room where the baby slept, raised the window a few inches—for the maid steadfastly refused to accept the virtues of fresh air—bent down and kissed the sleeping child, then stepped softly to her own room across the hall.

  Tired to the point of exhaustion, both parents were soon in bed, but some evil premonition seemed to keep the mother’s eyelids open. Sitting up in bed suddenly, she heard a tiny whimper in the nursery, the half-articulate sound of a little boy-baby turning restlessly in his sleep, and without waiting to don either house-robe or slippers, she ran barefooted across the hall, pushed open the nursery door and switched on the bedside lamp.

  The boy was gone. In the little white pillow of his crib was the dent where his curly head had rested; the shape of his straight little body could be traced by the rise of the light blanket-sheet, but, save for the brown, woolly Teddy bear and the black patent-leather cat mounting guard at the foot of the crib, the nursery was untenanted.

  “I called my husband,” she went on between deep, heart-racking sobs, “and we searched the house, then looked everywhere outside, but our little son was nowhere to be found. The nursery door was latched, though not locked, but his baby fingers could not have unfastened it, even if he had managed to crawl that far. The nursery window was open about ten inches, and there was no screen in it, but Baby could not have crept through it, for I had the blanket fastened down at the head and foot with clamps to keep him from kicking it off during the night, and he couldn’t have gotten out of bed by himself. Yet our baby was nowhere.

  “We looked for him all night, and kept our search up most of next day; but there isn’t any clue to his whereabouts, no sign to show how he left us, unless—”

  She shuddered convulsively.

  “Yes?” de Grandin prompted.

  “And the rumor got about that I killed him! They say I did away with my own little baby, and they won’t come near me, nor let me come near them, and when I walk down the street the mothers run and snatch their children into the house as though I carried plague germs!”

  “Mordieu, but this is infamous, this is intolerable, this is not to be borne!” de Grandin exploded. “You have undoubtlessly advised the police of the case, Madame?”

  “The police?” her voice was thin, high-pitched, like the muted scream of one in pain past bodily endurance. “It was the police who started the rumor!”

  “Nom d’un coq!” de Grandin demanded in incredulous amazement. “You would have us to understand that—”

  “I would have you to understand just that!” she mocked. “There is no clue to the manner in which my baby disappeared. No footprints, no fingerprints”—for a moment she hesitated, breathing deeply, then continued—“nothing. When the police could find nothing to go on, no person who would wish us misfortune or have a reason for stealing our baby, they said I must have done it. The only reason I’m not locked up this moment, waiting trial for murder, is that they have not been able to find Baby’s body—though they’ve had our cellar floor up and knocked down half the partitions in the house—and our maid’s testimony shows that Baby was alive and well fifteen minutes before my screams woke her. They can’t figure how I’d had time to kill him and hide his little body in that time—that’s the only reason they haven’t arrested me! Now you know why I wanted to die, and why I fought you when you saved me,” she concluded. “And”—defiantly—“why I’m going to kill myself the first chance I have. There won’t always be someone to stop me!”

  De Grandin’s little round eyes were shining like those of a cat in the dark, and on his small, pointed-chinned face was a half-thoughtful, half-dreamy expression, like that worn by a person trying to recall the notes of a long-forgotten tune. Suddenly he leaned forward, staring straight into the tear-stained face of the young mother.

  “Madame,” he spoke with slow insistence, “there is something you have not told us. Twice did I notice your speech halt and falter like a poorly trained horse before the hurdle. At the back of your brain lies another thought, a thought you have not clothed in words. What is it you have not yet told anyone, Madame?”

  The girl’s large, dark eyes widened suddenly, as though a light had been flashed before them. “No, no!” she almost screamed.

  “Madame,” de Grandin’s tone was low, but his voice was inexorable, “you will please tell me the thing you have not yet spoken of.”

  “You’d think me crazy!”

  “Madame Candace, you will tell me!” Again the low, even tone of command.

  “I—I was brought up in the country,” the girl stammered, fighting for breath between syllables like a runner nearly spent, or an exhausted swimmer battling with the surf. “I was brought up in the country, and the day after Baby disappeared I noticed something down at the lower end of our garden—something I hadn’t seen since we lived on the farm and I used to walk barefoot on the dirt roads.”

  De Grandin’s features contracted sharply, as though a presentiment of what she would say had come to him, but he persisted. “Yes? You saw—”

  “A snake track—the track of a snake, fresh and unmistakable in the soft earth of the rose beds—but not the track of any snake I’ve ever seen, for it was wide as the mark of an automobile tire!”

  “Ah?” the little Frenchman’s voice was lower than a whisper, but swift understanding shone in his small blue eyes. “You think, perhaps—”

  “God in heaven, don’t say it!” she screamed. “It’s bad enough to live with the thought; but if you put it into words—”

  “Trowbridge, my friend,” de Grandin whispered sharply, “yonder is her home. Help me carry her there. She has swooned.”

  A YOUNG MAN WHOSE FACE showed the deep etchings of sleepless nights and tormented days answered our ring at the cottage door. “Stella!” he exclaimed as he caught sight of his wife’s white, drawn face; then, to us: “I’ve been looking all over for her. This terrible trouble has”—he paused as a sob choked back the words—“her mind, you know, gentlemen.”

  “U’m?” responded de Grandin noncommittally as we bore her to the couch.

  “I’ve been terribly worried about you, dear,” her husband told Mrs. Candace as a slow wave of returning color suffused her face. “When I couldn’t find you in the house I went outside, and called and called, but—”

  “I know, dear,” the young wife interrupted wearily. “It was so hot and stuffy here, I thought I’d take a little walk, but it was too much for me, and these kind gentlemen brought me home.”

  Young Candace looked doubtfully at us a moment, as though debating whether it was safe to speak before us; then, abruptly deciding we were to be trusted, he blurted: “We’ve news at last, dear. Part of the mystery is cleared up. Baby’s alive—if thi
s is to be believed—and we’ve a chance of finding him.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Candace sprang from the couch as though suddenly shocked by an electric current. “What is it, Iring? What is it?”

  For answer he extended a sheet of yellow paper, the sort schoolchildren use to figure their sums upon. “I found this tucked under the screen door when I came back from looking for you,” he replied.

  Without pausing for permission, de Grandin gazed over the mother’s shoulder as she perused the missive her husband had handed her. As she finished reading, he took the paper gently from her and passed it to me.

  The words were formed of letters cut from a newspaper and pasted irregularly together, making a sort of crazy-quilt of small characters and large. Many words were grotesquely misspelled, but the message as a whole was easily decipherable:

  Mr. & Mrs. Candace, Esq., yUr kid is al right anD well anough and i aM takin gooD care of it but i aint go ing to wait foreVr I’m a poor man an I got to live and you better get me some money mighty dam quik or Ill quit makiNG a bOarding House of myseLf and forgET to feed him but i will hold him in good shape for one week more If you wAnt to see him agan have two thousand $ in cash mOney redy next Tuesday nite at midnite tweLve oclock and throw it from Yur automobil as YOu ride down the piKE between harrisonville an Rupleyville Throw the moneys out where You see a light in the Woods an dont try no triks on me or have the poLice with you or yull never see yur kid no more on account of i bein a desprit man an dont intend no foolin an if they do catch me I wont never tell where he is no matter how much they beat me so yur Kid wIll starv to deth. Have the mony redy when I say an no foolin or you wont never see him agan

  Yurs trulie

  By way of signature the note was subscribed with a long, serpentine flourish, like an inverted capital S.

  “Eh bien, Friend Trowbridge,” de Grandin remarked judicially as he took the note back into his hand, “I should say—”

  A thunderous knock at the door interrupted his opinion, and a moment later a heavy-set, sandy-haired man in high, mud-spattered boots, corduroy pantaloons and a far from clean blue sweater stalked into the room. “Evenin’, Mr. Candace,” he greeted, removing his battered felt hat. “Evenin’,” he nodded curtly to Mrs. Candace. Of de Grandin and me he took no more notice than if we had not existed. “Did you say you’d had a note from th’ kidnaper? Lemme see it.

  “Hum,” he commented, inspecting the patchwork piece of blackmail under the glare of the living-room electrolier. “Hum-m. When did you git this?”

  “I found it tucked under the screen door a few minutes before I ’phoned you,” Candace replied. “Mrs. Candace had gone out without letting me know, and I was looking for her. When I couldn’t find her in the house I started out into the garden, and found this note folded under the door when I came back. I—”

  “Hum.” The big man cleared his throat portentously. “Mis’ Candace wuz out, wuz she? An’ you found this here note in th’ door when you come back from lookin’ for her, did you? Hum; hum-m. Yeah. I see.”

  “This is Mr. Perkinson, the assistant county detective,” Candace offered a belated introduction, as he indicated de Grandin and me with a wave of his hand. “He’s been working on the case, and when I found this ransom letter, I thought it best to get in immediate touch with him.”

  “Ah,” de Grandin murmured softly; then, turning to the detective: “It seems, Monsieur, that whoever sent this letter was a cunning miscreant. He has taken most excellent precautions to disguise his handwriting, and the fact that he chose such people as Monsieur and Madame Candace for his victims argues more cleverness. They are neither rich nor poor, but comfortable bourgeois. A rich man would have scoured the country with his hired detectives. A poor man could not have paid a ransom. This villain has stolen a child of the middle class and demanded a ransom which the parents can afford to pay. What does it mean? Parbleu, I think it indicates he has intimate knowledge of the family’s affairs, and—”

  “You’re damn tootin’, Doc,” Assistant County Detective Perkinson’s agreement interrupted. “I’ll say she knows th’ family’s affairs. Stella Candace,” he put a large, freckle-flecked hand on the mother’s bowed shoulder, “I arrest ye for the abduction of Iring Candace, Junior, an’ it’s me duty to warn ye that anything said now may be used agin ye.”

  “See here—” Iring Candace stepped forward angrily, his face flushed, his eyes flashing dangerously.

  “You ignorant, blundering fool!” I exclaimed, thrusting myself between the officer and his prey.

  To my amazement, Jules de Grandin remained perfectly calm. “Your perspicacity does you utmost credit, Monsieur,” he assured the officer with an ironical bow. “By all means, take Madame Candace before the judge. I make me no doubt—”

  “I’ll be damned if he will!” protested the husband, but Mrs. Candace interposed.

  “Don’t resist him, Iring” she begged. “He’s been aching to arrest me ever since Baby disappeared, and you’ll only make matters worse if you try to interfere. Let him take me peaceably, and—”

  “And tomorrow, parbleu, we shall seek your release on writ of habeas corpus!” de Grandin interjected. “After that we shall be free from interference, and may give attention to important matters.”

  “Good night, dear,” Stella Candace turned her lips up to her husband’s. “I’ll be brave, and you can see a lawyer in the morning, as Dr. de Grandin says. Don’t worry.”

  “Very well, Mr. Perkinson,” she said. “I’m ready.”

  “OH, MY GOD!” IRING Candace dropped into a chair, propped his elbows on his knees, cupped his face in his hands and shook with retching sobs. “What shall I do; what shall I do? I can’t think Stella would do such a thing; but Perkinson—there might be something in his suspicions, after all. It’s strange I should have found that note after she’d gone out, and yet—”

  “Mordieu, my friend, there is no yet,” de Grandin cut in. “That Perkinson, he is one great zany. Nom d’un nom, were all his brains secreted in the hollow of a gnat’s tooth they would rattle about like a dried pea in a bass drum!”

  “But if Stella’s not guilty, how are we going to recover our boy? The police are convinced she did it; we can get no help from them, and the kidnaper will—”

  “Monsieur!” de Grandin interrupted, offended dignity in his voice. “Have I not said I would undertake the case? Parbleu, this kidnaper shall meet his just deserts, be he human or be he—never mind; if I do not apprehend this stealer of little children I am more mistaken than I think I am.”

  “How will you manage it?” the bereaved father asked with hopeless matter-of-factness. “What can you do that the police haven’t already done? The kidnaper will surely suspect if you try to trap him; then our little boy is lost. Oh!”—a fresh burst of sobs broke his words to fragments—“oh, my little son; my little baby boy!”

  “Monsieur,” the Frenchman assured him, “I am Jules de Grandin. What I undertake, that I accomplish.

  “Allons, Friend Trowbridge,” he turned to me; “there remains much to be done and little time in which to do it before we have this child-stealer by the heels.”

  “NOM D’UN MOUCHERON, BUT it is strange!” Jules de Grandin muttered to himself the following morning as he finished his after-breakfast perusal of the Journal. “It is unusual, it is extraordinary, it is ghastly, yet I make no doubt it has some connection with the vanished little one.”

  “Eh, what’s that?” I demanded.

  “Read, my friend,” he thrust the newspaper into my hand. “Read, and tell me what it is you see.”

  JERSEY DEVIL IN NEW GUISE?

  queried the headline to which his neatly manicured forefinger directed my attention. Below, couched in facetious journalese, was a short article:

  Has the well-known and justly celebrated Jersey Devil assumed a new form this summer? William Johannes, a farmer living near Rupleyville, thinks so. Little has been heard of this elusive specter this season, and tired newspapermen
had about decided he had retired on a much-needed vacation when Johannes sent in a hurry call to inform the world at large and the Journal’s city room in particular that he had seen the Devil, and he didn’t mean perhaps, either.

  Shortly after eight o’clock last night William, who vows he hadn’t had a thing stronger than his customary cup of Java with his dinner, was startled to hear an unearthly concert of squeals emanating from the direction of his pig-pen. Armed with his trusty bird gun, William set out hot-foot to see who was disturbing the repose of his prize porkers. As he neared the odoriferous confines of the porcine domicile, he was astonished to hear a final despairing squeal invoke high heaven for assistance, and to see a great, brownish-green snake, at least forty feet in length, go sliding through the bars of the pig-coop. He fired at the monster, but apparently his shot had no effect, for it wriggled away among the bushes and was quickly lost to sight.

  Arriving at the pig-sty, William was desolated to discover that three of a litter of six prize Cochin China sucking pigs had completely disappeared, leaving their mother, Madam Hog, in a state bordering on nervous collapse.

  In proof of his story William showed your correspondent the tracks of the marauding monster in the soft loam of the woodland adjoining his pig-pen. There were two well-defined trails, one coming, the other going, serpentine in course, and about the width of an automobile—not a Ford—tire. Both were plainly visible for a distance of some twenty feet, after which they were lost in the leaf-strewn ground of the woods.

  William says he doesn’t mind good clean fun, but when it comes to stealing three valuable piglets the matter ceases to be a joke, and he’s going to have the legislature pass a law or something about it.

  “Humph!” I grunted, passing the paper back to him. “Some smart-Alec reporter’s practicing his imagination again. That ‘Jersey Devil’ is a standing joke in this state, de Grandin, like the annual sea-serpent fable at Cannes, you know. There’s always a stack of fool stories like this in the newspapers about this time of year.”