by Otto Penzler
“As he boasted,” Dwight said, “science was his god. Anything, even the use of humans in his experiments, was justified in his mind. Society, of course, would not permit it, and that irked him. He wanted to raise the dead, to be a sort of god himself.
“Then the idea of getting Guttman to escape and take a chance on a revival after he was drowned must have occurred to him. He had a special reason for that. Guttman was reputed to have a million dollars hidden, and with that money Collins could have financed his dangerous experiments to the end of his days. And that was what he desired most in life.
“The reason he brought me into it is obvious. He wanted a reliable report of his death to be circulated. That would leave him to work unhindered in his secret slaughterhouse, and it would also leave his reputation unstained.”
“It’s horrible, horrible,” the girl muttered. “I—I’m glad, now, that my poor brother was killed. It—it’s better for him. But I can’t forget the horror of it all.”
“You can try,” Dwight said. “And if you’ll let me, I’ll try to help you. I think I can. There are so many things I want to talk to you about. You might begin by telling me your name.”
Smiling wanly, she told him. They nestled a little closer together on the seat. Outside the window of the car the fog swirled and billowed, but it was no longer sinister. It seemed soft and somehow comforting, like a pleasant veil that shut out all fearful memories, and walled them in an intimate world of their own.
SAMUEL WHITTELL KEY (1874–1948), who wrote under the pseudonym Uel Key, was born in York, England, and was educated at Westminster and St. Mary’s College, Cambridge University. The Reverend Key served as a clerk in holy orders for most of his life. Among his works were The Material in Support of the Spiritual (1916) and The Solace of the Soul (1918). He wrote short stories for such publications as London Magazine and Pictorial Magazine.
In 1917, he began a series of virulently anti-German stories for Pearson’s Magazine featuring his series protagonist, Professor Arnold Rhymer, an English medical doctor and lecturer who works closely with Scotland Yard to solve weird and seemingly occult mysteries. Although the stories are described as tales of psychic investigation, they mainly deal with cases the professor believes to be of German psychic espionage. Much like Sherlock Holmes, with whom Key’s publisher attempted to compare the detective, he is tall, slender, and given to keen observations and deductions. Rhymer appeared in two books: The Broken Fang and Other Experiences of a Specialist in Spooks (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1920), which contained five stories (“The Broken Fang,” “The Shrouded Dome,” “A Post-Mortem Reversal,” “A Prehistoric Vendetta,” and “A Sprig of Sweet Briar”), and The Yellow Death (A Tale of Occult Mysteries): Recording a Further Experience of Professor Rhymer the “Spook” Specialist (London: Books Ltd.,1921).
“The Broken Fang” was originally published in 1917 in Pearson’s Magazine.
“SORRY TO TROUBLE you, sir, but can you help to clear up a mystery which, I’m bound to own, is baffling us?”
The individual thus addressing Professor Arnold Rhymer, M.D.—the young and distinguished savant in psychical phenomena—was a big, finely-built man. He placed his hat and stick on the table and deposited his frame in an easy chair, to which the professor motioned him.
“My name is Brown,” he explained, “Detective-Inspector Brown of the C.I.D., Scotland Yard. My chief has put me on to a case which doesn’t seem quite—well—normal, you know. These sort of problems are in your line, I believe; or else I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
“What’s the nature of your case?”
“The Blankborough murders. Surely you’ve read about these mysterious crimes committed near the country town of Blankborough?”
“Yes,” Rhymer admitted, “but the papers don’t give much detail.”
“I know, for we’ve suppressed details to disarm the criminal, until we’ve got hold of some sort of clue towards identification. That’ll be no easy matter, though, I dare bet. Will you help us, sir?”
“I’ll give you what assistance I can,” he replied, “but I shall want some details first, for I know nothing more than the newspapers have outlined, and, as you admit, that amounts to very little.”
“I’ll be frank with you,” the detective affirmed; “but what I’ve to tell you is confidential.”
“I shan’t say a word.”
“The police-surgeon,” Brown continued, “laid emphasis upon two points of deduction. The first was that he did not believe—judging from the appearance of the corpses—that the victims had succumbed as a direct result of the mutilated condition of the bodies.”
“That was certainly the impression I gathered from the reports,” Rhymer volunteered. “Three healthy young men murdered in one week, in the same locality—close to a peaceful country town, and their bodies mutilated with some sharp instrument.”
“Just so,” Brown acquiesced, “only the surgeon held a different opinion, since he discovered two punctures in the neck of each victim, and he was convinced that death was primarily due to a loss of blood from these incisions. His second deduction was that these wounds were inflicted with something sharp and wedge-shaped, and that the identically same thing was not used in wounding the third victim—or possibly the first—since the end was found broken off and embedded in the neck of the second victim.”
Rhymer seemed puzzled as he mentally absorbed these details.
“Were the wounds in the necks small?” he queried.
“Quite.”
“Merely incisions, not gashes?”
“Yes.”
“Then it seems improbable that the victims rapidly bled to death from these wounds alone?”
“That’s what struck me at the time; but I’ve yet to add that the surgeon’s opinion was that death supervened in each case from haemorrhage, probably due to suction, as though a small vacuum pump had been applied to the incisions.”
“Or the mouth of some living creature?” Rhymer hazarded with a significant glance.
“Good heavens! that never occurred to me,” the detective cried.
Rhymer pursed his lips and his brow contracted as he asked:
“What was the broken piece like, found in the wound of victim number two?”
For reply, Brown searched his waistcoat pockets and produced a small metal box. This he opened and handed to Rhymer.
The latter took it and, glancing within, suddenly stifled an exclamation, for that which he beheld, revealed a supposition more horrible than he had previously contemplated.
“Don’t mislay that piece of evidence, whatever you do,” he enjoined, handing the box back to the detective. “This is going to prove a complicated case,” he added, “but it’ll furnish us with interest and excitement as well, I’ll be bound.”
“I guessed it would be in your line, sir, for I’ve heard tell that you’re O.K. on abnormal problems, and this one’s creepy enough for anything.”
LATER ON IN the day Professor Rhymer left his flat in Whitehall Court and, meeting Inspector Brown, by arrangement, at Charing Cross station, they boarded an evening train for Blankborough, arriving there an hour later. They at once proceeded to the best of the several inns which the little town afforded. This house—quite a superior hostelry of its kind—was known as the King’s Arms Hotel. Brown had previously taken up his quarters there when recently visiting the scene of the murders. After a frugal war-meal, Rhymer proposed a quiet stroll, where they might be free from interruption or chance eavesdroppers. Accordingly they sauntered out into the old-fashioned town—the detective leading his companion along several back streets and alleys, which eventually brought them into a lonely country lane.
“Now we are free to talk without much fear of being overheard,” Rhymer remarked, “and there are several things I want to ask you.”
“Fire away, then, sir.”
“I take it you’ve viewed the bodies of the victims.”
“Yes,” replied Brown, “I saw them
yesterday.”
“Did you happen to notice if each body was mutilated in a similar manner?”
“I noticed that the mutilations were alike in this respect—the bodies appeared to have been ruthlessly hacked about with a keen-bladed weapon of sorts. It resembled the work of a fanatic more than a responsible person.”
“So the police-surgeon thought these poor fellows weren’t killed by violence as their remains seemed to suggest?”
“He intimated as much.”
“Then how on earth did he account for their mangled condition?”
“Oh, he put that down to the assassin’s endeavour to create a false impression, that its victims had been killed in that way; or possibly to lessen the chance of identification. He was, however, inclined to favour the former theory, since the corpses were not so badly disfigured as to cause any difficulty in the latter direction.”
“Were the victims robbed?”
“No; they were all respectable young fellows, of the artisan type, who don’t usually carry valuables about; but their pockets, containing some treasury notes and loose silver—being pay day—were intact. A solid gold watch was discovered on one of the bodies—evidently a presentation, from the inscription it contained. So robbery is entirely out of the question.”
“One thing’s very evident,” Rhymer remarked, “these murders were not committed by an ordinary individual. They’re not a bit like common crimes done for revenge or robbery; there’s evidently a far deeper motive than external appearances present.”
“Not unlike the old ‘Jack-the-Ripper’ tragedies,” Brown remarked.
“Yes, there is some similarity, only his victims were women,” Rhymer observed, “but in this case they are men, and it’s significant to note that they were young and active as well.”
“Which looks as though the murderer possessed considerable muscular strength, and audacity into the bargain—”
“Hulloa! What’s this?” Rhymer suddenly interrupted, coming to a standstill and gazing straight in front of him.
Brown hurriedly glanced in the same direction, where he beheld a blurred figure rapidly approaching them along the narrow lane. It was about fifty yards ahead. The midsummer twilight was rapidly fading, so it was difficult to see clearly at that distance. Its general aspect, however, was so forbidding, that Rhymer grasped the detective sharply by the arm and dragged him into a gap in the hedge, at the same time motioning him to silence.
They were only just in time, for a moment or two later the object was alongside their hiding-place, thus enabling them to obtain a clearer vision of it without being observed themselves.
This transitory view, as the figure shot past them, was far from reassuring. As they crouched there, an accountable sense of chilliness was prevalent. Brown afterwards owned up to an uncontrollable feeling of nausea as he beheld the figure. The unearthly face conveyed features devilish in their cold and pitiless cruelty, lifeless in their immobility, vacant in their utter lack of human expression—lifeless, yet living. The eyes were lack-lustre, yet wide open and round. The figure resembled that of a male, judging by its height and build. It was hatless and enveloped in a long cloak, from the folds of which an emaciated hand protruded—grasping a long, gleaming knife.
As the Creature swept past, a fetid, pungent smell was evident—horribly nauseous and corrupt.
Almost directly after the Thing had passed their place of concealment, Rhymer sprang into the lane.
“Come along,” he urged in a loud whisper, “as quietly as you can. We mustn’t lose sight of it.” Then, setting off after the retreating figure, beckoned Brown to follow.
The detective was middle-aged, stout and out of training, whereas Rhymer was lean and agile. As a consequence, he soon outdistanced the former, resulting in him and the object of his chase shortly being hidden from the detective by a sharp bend in the lane.
A few moments later, Brown was alarmed by the sudden report of a shot, followed by a hoarse cry for help. Redoubling his efforts he was soon round the aforementioned bend, and there, a few yards in front, he beheld two figures sprawling in the middle of the lane.
As he hastened to the spot where they were struggling, his ears were assailed by a sound like that of a ferocious animal when worrying its prey. Then the figure that was uppermost in the scrimmage suddenly sprang up, and turning upon the detective a ghastly face, distorted with the fierce passion of blood-lust, revealed the repulsive features of the Creature they were pursuing. With an indescribable, sickening, voiceless wail—which, somehow, seemed to give expression to anguish born of ungratified desire—it sprang, with one frenzied leap, over the hedge and disappeared.
Quickly approaching the other figure, which lay in a motionless heap upon the road, Brown beheld the limp form of the professor. Gently raising him, he was infinitely relieved to see him open his eyes.
He sighed audibly, and then stared with a dazed expression. In less than a moment, however, full consciousness returned. A flashing light of comprehension shone in his eyes as he regarded his rescuer.
“Have you collared it?” he cried.
“If you mean the thing that’s just attacked you, I haven’t.”
“You don’t mean to say that devil’s given us the slip?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but the brute was one too many for both of us; it jumped clean over the hedge before one could say ‘Jack Robinson’; but I hope you’re not seriously hurt?”
“I shall be all right in a few minutes; but it’s a confounded nuisance that ‘freak’s’ got away,” said he, looking far more annoyed than injured. Raising his hand he placed the tips of his fingers upon his neck for a moment, and as he withdrew them Brown observed they were smeared with blood. Glancing with a thrill of apprehension at Rhymer’s neck, he observed two small incisions from which a slight stream of blood was slowly oozing.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, “your injury’s similar to those of the three Blankborough victims; only, thank goodness, you’ve escaped with your life and any, more serious, wounds.”
“Your arrival, undoubtedly, saved me from a loathsome death, and butchery as well,” he replied as he took a white silk handkerchief from his pocket and deftly bound it round his neck, adding, “Then you didn’t come to grips with that fiend?”
“No, for the beggar bolted directly it saw me, before I had a chance even of attempting to seize it. What was the shot I heard?” he added.
“The report of my automatic pistol, and the strange thing is, I plugged the beggar at close quarters, clean through the body—impossible to have missed at such a close range—just as it tackled me—the moment I rounded the bend in the lane, where it had apparently halted.”
“Didn’t attempt to stab you with that knife it carried?”
“That’s the remarkable thing about it,” he replied. “The Creature—who possessed abnormal strength—made one spring and floored me, at the same time dropping the knife, which fell with a clatter upon the road. Then it pinned me firmly down with its hands and knees, and bent its face close to mine. I was quite helpless in its grasp. It bared its fangs with a snarl, and deliberately bit me in the neck. I was speechless for the moment with horror, but by a supreme effort I succeeded in raising a cry for help, though the exertion proved too much and I lost consciousness.”
“It’s evident you’ve narrowly escaped the fate of those other poor fellows. Great Scot, it was a near shave! Here, take a pull at this,” he added, producing a flask from his pocket.
The stimulant rapidly revived Rhymer.
“Thanks,” he exclaimed, returning the flask. “That’s better. Now we must be getting on, for there’s no time to be lost if we are to follow up this clue.”
“Anyhow, we’ve had a glimpse of the criminal we’re after, that’s very evident,” Brown asserted, “and we shall both be able to swear to its identity, since I, for one, shall never forget the features of that monstrosity, if I live to be a hundred. Besides, since you say you’ve lodged a bullet in its
carcase, it’s not likely to travel far. We had better search over the hedge yonder.”
“You’re free to search to your heart’s content, but I’m going straight back to the hotel to cauterise and dress this bite in my neck.”
Brown looked askance at this remark, which was uttered with a trace of petulance.
“This thing cannot be dealt with by the customary C.I.D. methods,” Rhymer went on to explain, “for I’m convinced that neither powder and shot nor even cold steel will have any effect in the ultimate capture of this Living-death, which you vainly hope to find over that hedge. Neither would your steel bracelets have any purchase upon its wrists. We’re up against something abnormal here, and we must cut our coat according to our cloth.”
Brown at first appeared a trifle crestfallen, after listening to these disparaging comments upon his latest suggestion. The extraordinary circumstances sorely puzzled him, but he had the intuition to realise that some influence outside the usual rut of criminal investigation was facing them, and being previously assured of Rhymer’s experience in such matters, was content to be guided by him, at any rate for the present.
“I’m blessed if I can follow the hang of the thing,” Brown grumbled, “for I had labelled your assailant as a dangerous lunatic at large. Your last remark, however, puts quite another complexion on the matter.”
“You detectives are such a hidebound crowd,” Rhymer remarked with an indulgent smile, “you try to handcuff clues as well as criminals. Give me plenty of scope when hot upon a clue, then I can forge ahead unencumbered.”
“Have you any definite clue, sir, to follow?”
“Yes, Brown, I’ve three. First, there are the incisions in my neck; secondly, there is this,” and displaying the palm of his right hand, he exhibited a fragment of dark cloth, which, from its frayed appearance, had evidently been torn from some garment in the recent struggle. “And here is the third,” he added, betraying a note of triumph, as, taking a few steps, he stooped and picked up an object lying at the side of the road.
