With a horrid shriek he leaped back, his features contorted into a grin of mingled fear, surprise, and mortal agony. Then he stiffened, toppled; his blackening lips quivered, and he fell to the ground.
As was to be expected, Mahmud Abudi remained cool. With Thorwald, he leaped to Lyman’s side, and together, they stretched his stiffening body on the floor of the tent.
“In the name of reason, what has happened?” Thorwald demanded, seemingly regaining possession of himself. “What can we do for him?”
Mahmud Abudi’s ear was at Lyman’s heart. He straightened and smiled faintly. “There is nothing we can do for him,” he said slowly. “He is dead!”
Mahmud Abudi arose and strode to the mummy case, where the spring of the serpent’s tongue still vibrated. He examined the golden pectoral briefly.
“The dark science of ancient Egypt seems to be responsible,” he said. “It is a device evidently intended to work the undoing of tomb robbers. Rather strange. I have heard of such infernal machines, but I never saw one before. Of course, Mr. Thorwald, in situations like this it is necessary to make the most complete investigation possible. My presence here is very opportune. You say that no one touched anything in this coffin?” Mahmud Abudi questioned.
“Certainly not,” Thorwald replied. “As I said, I peeped in, that was all. And I assure you that none of my men are allowed any liberties in my tent.”
The Egyptian detective was looking at the mummy. “This is very queer, Mr. Thorwald,” he stated. “Look!” His fat forefinger was pointing toward the lapis lazuli scarab of the pin which Thorwald had substituted for the pin or gold that had originally supported the golden pectoral on the mummy’s bosom.
Thorwald smiled. “What is queer?” he questioned, in a perfect imitation of mild interest.
“See!” Mahmud Abudi replied. “This scarab pin bears the cartouche, User-Ma-Ra-Mer-Amen, one of the numerous names of the Pharaoh who is now known as Rameses III, while this breastplate bears the cartouche, Soiep-Er-Ra-Mer-Amen, or Rameses II. Between the reigns of the two lies a gap of fifty-three years! Odd, don’t you think, that a priestess, who obviously was buried at least half a century before Rameses III ascended the throne, should wear an amulet bearing his cartouche?
“I think I understand, Mr. Thorwald. Even an expert can make such a trifling and not easily noticed mistake. These ancient monarchs had so many titles that it is difficult to remember them all correctly. But I must remind you that in Egypt, murder is a crime punishable by death!”
Thorwald’s jaw tightened. “Is this an accusation?” he demanded levelly.
Mahmud Abudi shrugged. “Well, without a doubt the coffin was opened since it was removed from the tomb. Only you could have opened it. Oriental courts do not mince matters as Western juries do so often. Clearly, you substituted this scarab pin for another probably much more valuable—one which you desired for yourself.
“In making the change, which required that you touch the breastplate repeatedly, you could not have remained unaware of its sinister purpose. There can be but one conclusion: That you willfully plotted the death of your employer, Cass Lyman!
“The evidence is against you. Except for that trifling error of dates, you committed a perfect crime, invoking the dark wisdom of Ancient Egypt and assisting it with your own cleverness. Only you were careless. Just one small anachronism. How trivial!” Mahmud Abudi’s tone was mocking.
Thorwald’s mind had become suddenly a trifle hazy. He was caught! If he could only shoot his way out of this…his hand was creeping toward his hip pocket.
“Stop!” Mahmud Abudi commanded. His fist bulged in his coat pocket, and there was something angular and menacing clutched in that fist.
Thorwald’s arms dropped to his sides. “All right,” he said. He knew he was doomed by the curse of the mummified priestess for trying to rob her coffin.
An hour later a truck started out across the desert, headed for Luxor. In addition to an Egyptian detective and a young Egyptian driver, it bore a canvas-covered corpse, the coffin and body of an ancient priestess, and a sullen man. A man who watched the staring enamel and turquoise eyes of the mummy case before him and wondered in hazy fashion about the strange tricks of human destiny.
THE MURDER OF SILAS CORD, by Harold F. Sorensen
Originally published in Ten-Story Detective, January 1942.
After the emotions and tumult aroused by the murder of Silas Cord had subsided, there remained the mystery. No one knew the murderer; none was more anxious than Cord’s secretary, Harry Bligh, to discover him. Any suspect of so determined a detective as Lieutenant Ware would have wanted to gain the truth to save himself. But Bligh was haunted by a fear far worse than that of execution for the murder of his employer.
The trouble began when Bligh learned that Mr. Cord was threatened with blackmail. Cord would not tell more than that, Bligh defiantly called in the law. But when the police arrived at the fine old house, Cord told them the entire matter was Bligh’s mistake, there was no blackmailer.
Murder came the night of the second day thereafter.
The police credited the blackmail story then. Only they could not discover any reason why Cord might have been blackmailed. If ever a man had prospered and lived long without doing wrong or incurring hatred, it was Silas Cord. His life was confined to his home, his interests to his nephew and two wards who lived with him.
Harry Bligh was unquestionably the hardest hit. In hopes of gleaning some clue, his mind dwelt continually on that last day that Silas Cord had lived.
It was September, the weather characteristically erratic. Cord’s last day was coldish; alternately bright and dark as the sun escaped, then again to be engulfed by clouds, at which overcast times the wind blew furtively, whipping the leaves about the extensive grounds surrounding the house. They were in the study, Cord in the big chair, the tartan plaid rug over his knees, Bligh working at the desk.
“Harry,” Cord called quietly. And when Bligh looked up, Cord went on, “I want you to go downtown for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Silas Cord smiled and winked his eyes behind his glasses. He had a round, creamy-skinned face with a rosy tint, fine, silver hair; a small mouth and large, blue, jovial eyes. A short rotund man, he was in the aggregate harmless and even angelic appearing. His air was that of impeccable benignness which confidence men strive to simulate. Bligh had never known any man to look so honest and not be a crook.
Bligh had rescued Cord from a bandit-minded tramp one morning in the park. Silas Cord offered Bligh a job. Bligh laughed; he had rescued Cord because of the disparity in his size and that of his attacker, and despite his appraisal of Cord’s character.
Bligh wanted a job. A migrant orphan, he had no relatives. Wherever he went, he sought work, and though he got it often, he never obtained the lasting sort of job. But while he worked, he attended school and studied. At thirty he was tall, hardy, strong. He’d had enough fights so that he didn’t care for any that had no sensible basis. His face was long and somewhat wide, with startlingly gray eyes under straight black brows.
To humor the old fellow, Bligh went home with him.
Whereupon Bligh received the surprise of his life. He learned that Silas Cord really owned this fine old house with its lawns and groves on the city’s far outskirts. Silas Cord had long been the city’s outstanding realtor, so that even now, retired as he was, Cord was a wealthy man.
Bligh took the job with grateful humility. In a few months he was a good stenographer, displayed a good head for figures and a fine spirit for imposing discipline on Mr. Cord’s household.
On this September day, Bligh had thought they would work on Mr. Cord’s book, which was to be about real estate values in relation to taxes. There was nothing unusual in it when Cord sat with the rug over his knees while Bligh worked at the desk, and Cord said he wanted Bligh to go to the city. Bligh leaned his elbows on the desk and waited for the silver-haired, rotund little man to tell him what errand he wa
s to do.
“I wish you to stay in the city all evening.” Cord smiled gently. “I’m having everyone go. I want to be here alone.”
Bligh shuddered. A cloud obscured the sun at that moment, throwing the room into gloom. Bligh dropped his pen and spread his strong brown hand flat on the desk.
“The blackmailer! He’s coming here tonight for money. I won’t have it. You can fire me, but—”
“Harry,” Cord broke in, “you must not tell the police.”
“I have to!” Bligh retorted. “You’re starting something that will never end. You’ve got to fight, not submit—”
“You mustn’t.” Cord’s round, rosy face was a trifle stiff. “For your sake. You were a hobo. It doesn’t matter that you were always seeking work. The police do not like your background.”
“I know that.” Bligh’s eyes clouded.
“But you don’t know that they think you the blackmailer.”
“How can they be that dumb,” Bligh demanded disgustedly, “when I’m the one that brought them into this?”
“That, in their opinion, is the beauty of it.” Cord smiled at Bligh’s perplexity. “The police think you discovered some secret and demanded money. I refused to pay and threatened to have you arrested. You called my bluff by sending for the police. You defied me to tell them the truth and have my secret come out.” Cord cocked his head. “The police worked on me a long time, Harry, trying to convince me to tell the truth about you and rely on them.”
Bligh loosed a string of heartfelt curse words.
“But I still don’t care! I’m not sitting by while you are bled white for something that happened in the past.”
Cord’s blue eyes dwelt on Bligh. The sun broke out and poured into the room, lighting up Cord’s face. His eyes had filled, he closed them quickly.
“Mr. Cord!” Bligh cried out. “What have I done?”
“You do me little credit, Harry,” Cord sighed.
“I think you’re the greatest guy that ever lived,” Bligh gasped. “That’s why neither fear of losing my job nor of the police is going to get me out from between you and this blackmailer.”
“Harry, I have been informed that the extortion was a momentary madness, something never intended to be consummated. I have given my word that this person can reveal himself and tell me all. You will not inform the police. You protected me before from what you thought my weakness. But now you must respect my pledged word.”
Tom Grayson burst into the study. He shot Bligh a disgusted look and addressed his uncle.
“What’s this about you wanting the house quiet tonight?” Grayson yelled. “I’ve invited my friends here. I got a stack of new phonograph records and a lot of other stuff, and now you want me to call the party off.” Grayson never remembered that the preparations he made for his friends were paid for with Cord’s money. “Fine dope it would make me. I won’t do it.”
Cord indulged this boy far too much. The bad feeling between Bligh and Grayson was the result of Bligh’s interference. Gray was an exhibitionist, insane in his efforts to impress his importance on those about him. He drove the fastest cars over the worst roads, while drunk. He was the big noise and the big spender at the parties he gave his cronies.
Yet he suffered a fear that he had not made himself important enough even in their eyes. He courted catastrophe, as if he would give limb or life if only it would make him the imperishable hero of a moment no one would forget.
The light in which Bligh saw this young fool opened Cord’s eyes, too. Bligh could not keep Grayson from being a fool, but he saw to it that Grayson had less money to be a fool with. Besides, Grayson had been involved in a few scrapes, and Bligh had prevented Cord from helping. Having extricated himself from his predicaments, Grayson had less appetite for them. He hated Bligh.
“There will always be tomorrow, Tom—”
“You can put off whatever it is you want quiet for,” Grayson shouted. “You take tomorrow, I want tonight.”
“Your uncle wants to have an old friend here tonight.” Bligh took a slow step toward Grayson. “That’s enough for you.”
Grayson shook with anger, but kept his mouth shut. He had gone too far with Bligh once, he wouldn’t again. With a cry of rage, Grayson flung out of the study, slamming the door behind him.
Bligh made one last appeal to Cord.
“I don’t see why I can’t be here tonight.”
“Please do not be difficult,” Cord pleaded.
“I won’t,” Bligh swallowed. “I am only an employee. It would do me good to remember that more often.”
“Harry!”
“I’m as spoiled as Grayson.”
“Take care of everything, won’t you, Harry?”
“Of course I will.”
Bligh had no trouble with Cord’s two wards.
Louise Envers was twenty-two. Her mother and Mrs. Cord had been lifelong friends until their deaths, at nearly the same time. Cord took Louise in, made her one of the family.
Maurice Rooper was the son of a man now dead who’d been Cord’s partner in the early days. Cord had taken Rooper in, too. Whereupon Maurice Rooper settled down to a life of ease. He was a nut on hobbies. And Bligh suspected that Maurice’s friends enticed him into one hobby after another, knowing he would buy superb equipment, tire of it, and give it to the one who wanted it.
Dinner was early that evening. Bligh told the servants to take the family car and go where they wished. Louise Envers said she was going out, and went. Tom Grayson loaded his booze and phonograph records into a sporty roadster and departed sulkily. Maurice Rooper had been gone since midday, and was not likely to return. He was in the throes of a passion for chemistry and had gone to a friend’s laboratory.
Bligh informed Cord that the house was empty. Cord did not invite him to remain. Bligh drove off in his secondhand coupe.
He drove away, but he couldn’t stay away. He tried, he fought himself, but it was no use. He parked off the road and walked back through the darkness. The only light was in the study. Taking every precaution, Bligh gained the side of the house. Bushes grew in a long row here, and he hid crouched between them and the wall.
The study window was large, with a low sill and commonly used as an entrance and exit. The curtains were drawn, the light streamed out. But the bushes ended short of the window. Bligh could not approach to look in without being boldly silhouetted to anyone watching the house.
The colder Bligh became the more he worried for Mr. Cord. With no heat and the window open, Mr. Cord must be freezing. Maybe the blackmailer had lost his nerve and would not come, and Mr. Cord would get pneumonia.
The clock within the house chimed nine. At the last stroke, the bright study light went out.
Bligh sprang up. He thought he heard a door close. He broke through the bushes into the open. He restrained an impulse to dash through the window into the study. The closing of that door was an indication that someone had left the study and gone into the hall, and would be coming out by the front.
Bligh rushed round to the front door, unlocked it and ran down the hall. He fumbled and fumbled for the study door knob, till he thought he was in a nightmare, and then he discovered the door was not closed at all. He reached in and snapped on the ceiling lights, not the lamp that had been burning.
Bligh’s tan face turned greenish. His knees knocked. He clutched his shirtfront. His stomach rolled. He tottered into the study, breathing laboriously through his nose with his mouth clamped shut to control nausea.
The bust of Plato that always stood on the marble column just within the study door was what had been used. There was no question about Silas Cord’s death. One solid blow with that bust would crush any head.
Bligh recovered, and dashed out by the window. As before, he neither saw nor heard anything. Still, he ran. He turned the corner at the back of the house, his foot caught in something solid, and he fell heavily. Bligh leapt up, expecting to have to fight for his life, but there was no such necessit
y. He had tripped over Tom Grayson, who sprawled insensibly, foully drunk. Bligh dragged Grayson into the house and phoned the police.
* * * *
After the emotions, hysteria and general tumult aroused by the murder of Silas Cord had subsided, there still remained the mystery. And Harry Bligh’s anxiety to know the murderer.
The servants were not suspected. They had all been together the entire evening.
Louise Envers and Maurice Rooper lacked alibis, yet their activities had been normal. Louise had gone to the theater, been bored and gone out. She dropped into a surrealist friend’s studio later, but even under grilling it was obvious that his knowledge of time was limited to the fact that it was A. D., and the police could do no better with him.
Maurice Rooper was even worse off. He had left his friend’s laboratory at eight o’clock. Rooper admitted that he had driven home, but declared he felt restless, went past the house and for a long ride.
Tom Grayson came in for the worst grilling. The police had three hooks in him. He had been at the scene of the crime. His car was found up the road, as if he’d approached the house stealthily. Third, he was the important heir. Louise Envers and Maurice Rooper were left substantial amounts under Silas Cord’s will and permission to make lifelong homes in the house. But Tom Grayson got the bulk of the considerable estate.
The three hooks pulled loose. Though Grayson had been at the scene of the crime, the doctor testified that he was far too drunk to have struck the blow that killed Cord, especially in the dark. The car was up the road not far from the house, but that looked legitimate too, for it was out of gas. And though Grayson inherited so much, still he had never lacked money while Cord lived and therefore had little motive for the crime in that respect.
What was more, the police favored Bligh as the killer. His blackmail talk ruined any case they might work up against Grayson, Louise or Rooper. The police considered the five thousand dollars Bligh inherited, as considerable to him as all the thousands were to Grayson.
The new theory was that Bligh had known he was going to murder Cord, so he had prepared for it by starting this blackmail fuss. Bligh stayed on at the house as the will gave him the right to; besides, the police would never have permitted him to leave.
The Murder Megapack Page 23
