Foreign Bodies

by Martin Edwards

  The well-kept road led to the edge of the woods. When they came within sight of the foresters guarding the corpse, Dagobert stopped the car.

  ‘You, Frau Violet, stay here in the car. The dead man will be no sight for your eyes. I will report to you later if I find out anything.’

  With these words he walked to the place where the body lay. The two foresters had done their duty,—it could be immediately seen that no unauthorized person had approached the murdered man. A number of peasants, in awed silence, formed a wide circle about the spot. Dagobert did not touch the body, but looked around for possible clues with which to begin his investigation.

  When the Commission arrived the surgeon was permitted to approach first. He knelt down and, with some exertion, turned over the body which had been lying face downward. His findings, given at intervals during the examination, were:

  ‘Suicide or accident out of the question…Murder beyond a doubt…The man was strangled…Finger-prints are plainly visible…Pomum Adami crushed. Moreover, the thyroid cartilage and the Santorian cartilage are broken…Death must have been instantaneous…The murder was committed eight or ten hours ago—probably before midnight.’

  ‘Permit me, doctor,’ said Dagobert; ‘the exact time might be of some importance. I believe we have the necessary data at hand.’

  ‘I do not think so, Herr Dagobert,’ replied the surgeon. ‘Science does not make it possible for us to fix the time of death to the hour or minute.’

  ‘In that case, then, we will have to try without science. It rained last evening or last night. Though the road is now dry, one can see that it has been raining recently, especially here where the body was lying. The wet clothes of the victim, now almost dry, have left a moist rim on the ground. We will surely be able to ascertain when the rain began.’

  ‘I can state that to the minute,’ put in the head game-keeper. ‘From a quarter to eight until eight we had quite a downpour, with thunder and lightning.’

  ‘So we have a start anyway,’ said Dagobert. ‘I maintain that the murder was committed before the rain fell. See for yourselves. The ground under the body is dusty, whereas the road is dry but not dusty. There is also evidence that the rain began falling immediately after the murder,—but of this more later: the indications may prove to be misleading, and we will not go into that point at present. However, the dust does not lie. So, then, Diwald was killed before a quarter to eight. We know that he received the money at the château at half past six, and that he put the linen bag containing it into his pocket.

  ‘Furthermore, it has been ascertained that he went from the château to the village tavern, drank two pints of wine, and started on his way home shortly after the seven-o’clock Angelus bell tolled. After this, however, the time does not seem to jibe; but the difference is only a matter of minutes.—I am convinced that he got here shortly before the rain began. But walking here should have taken him at most a quarter of an hour. We do not know why he took at least twice as long; but we have succeeded in fixing the time within a quarter of an hour.’

  The members of the Commission continued to discuss the various matters relating to the crime, and exchanged opinions and advice as to the proper methods of procedure. Dagobert did not disturb them. He returned to Frau Grumbach; and Marius was told to drive slowly back to the château.

  ‘Well Dagobert,’ asked Frau Grumbach, ‘have you hopes?’

  Dagobert briefly related the facts and continued to inspect the side of the road with great interest. He then lapsed into silence and appeared to be considering the case.

  ‘It was an ordinary matter of robbery,’ he said after a while. ‘And yet it has certain peculiar features. The indications contradict one another in a seemingly incomprehensible way. One is led to the belief that the murderer is a native of these parts—some one who was familiar with local conditions. One does not attack a poor forest guard unless one is pretty certain that he is carrying a large sum of his master’s money.’

  ‘For a miserable 450 kronen!’ said Frau Grumbach, tears coming into her eyes. ‘We would rather have lost ten or even a hundred times that amount than the life of a loyal and devoted servant.’

  ‘Only a local person could have known of Diwald’s regular Friday mission to the château. And yet the signs all point to a stranger.—Tell me, Frau Violet, has there been, within the past few days, any circus with acrobats or tumblers in the village?’

  ‘Surely not, Dagobert.’

  ‘Or gypsies?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘Has there been a fete of any kind in the neighbourhood?’

  ‘Not within miles.’

  ‘It’s very strange—and something quite new to me. I would have sworn the murderer was an acrobat.’

  ‘Why an acrobat, of all men?’

  ‘Or have you in the village somebody who is known to do acrobatic tricks?’

  ‘No, Dagobert.’

  ‘It’s enough to drive one insane. I can prove to you that it was a native who killed Diwald; and I can prove, just as conclusively, that it could not have been a native.’

  They had now arrived at the place where the cripple was sitting. Dagobert suddenly threw him two pieces of silver with one gesture. The coins flew apart, and neither of them dropped into the extended hat. Both fell upon the roadway several yards from the beggar. Dagobert descended from the car, but was in no haste to help retrieve the money. Instead, with somewhat cruel indifference, he watched the cripple move along on his hands to collect the coins. Then he reentered the car and drove to the château, arriving there simultaneously with the Commission.

  The members immediately busied themselves with the drawing up of their report. Dagobert, apparently not wishing to disturb them, retired. He would, he said, take a short walk and look at the scenery until they had finished.

  The secretary was occupied for a little over an hour drawing up the minutes which had been dictated to him by the District Judge; and the finished report was just about to be read over to the Commission, preparatory to its being signed by the members present, when Dagobert arrived. Grumbach was very much pleased that he had returned, and asked him to listen to the reading of the minutes so that, if they were in accord with his views, he, too, could sign them.

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ replied Dagobert, taking a seat. ‘I rather fancy we will have to draw up a new report.—Here is the stolen money.’

  He came forward and placed on the table the little linen bag that Diwald had always used. The amount of the money, as was immediately ascertained, was complete. The members of the Commission were greatly excited. Frau Grumbach threw Dagobert a look of pride and gratitude: she knew—and had always said—that they could rely on Dagobert.

  At once the questions began to fly. Since he had recovered the money, he must be in possession of clues pointing to the actual culprit.

  ‘As far as the culprit is concerned,’ said Dagobert, ‘I have taken the liberty of apprehending him myself and delivering him to the local jail.’

  ‘Who, in Heaven’s name—who is it?’

  ‘Permit me to proceed in order. The surgeon had determined two things with certainty—the impossibility of suicide, and death by strangulation. He did not add, however—and anyhow it was no concern of his—that the circumstances showed that the attack had been made from behind. This fact is proved by the plainly visible finger-prints on the throat, and by the position of the body—which was face downward. There were no signs of a fight or a struggle; and from this arose the first difficulty in analysing the situation. It was hard to conceive that the attack had been made so quickly and suddenly that the victim had had no time even to turn round.—The second difficulty was still more bewildering. Indeed, I was confronted by something entirely new—something that perhaps had never happened before. The chief of gendarmes, you recall, had conscientiously looked for footprints. Conditions for su
ch a search were partly advantageous, partly disadvantageous. Disadvantageous, because any footprints made before the storm would have been obliterated by the rain. Advantageous, because any footprints made after the rain had fallen would be, after drying, all the plainer, since the soil at the scene of the crime contained lime.

  ‘Now, there were no footprints visible aside from those made by Diwald himself. But there was something that was not at first observed—something that presented an extraordinary riddle. Hand prints! I was able to follow these strange tracks easily and I came to the conclusion that the crime had been committed by an acrobat who, in order that he should make no footprints, had left the place standing on his hands and with his feet in the air.

  ‘This conclusion, however, was wrong, although the murder was certainly done by someone who walks on his hands. In the whole district there is only one man who does this—the beggar Lipp. And he is the murderer.’

  ‘Impossible! Quite impossible!’ came the unanimous opposition. ‘The man cannot move.’

  ‘Be calm, gentlemen. He is unquestionably the criminal. And the crime was all the more repulsive because it was the reward of an act of charity on Diwald’s part. Lipp had asked Diwald to carry him part of the way home. Diwald took the cripple on his back and carried him, thereby sealing his own fate. This also explains the difference in time, which I previously noted. With his burden Diwald took half an hour for a trip which otherwise would have required only a quarter of an hour.

  ‘My investigations are complete. Besides, I have here Lipp’s confession signed before me and the chauffeur Marius as witnesses. When I left you I took Marius along and told him to put a strong rope in his pocket. I also borrowed from your gendarme a pair of handcuffs. We went to Lipp’s hut. His housekeeper, an old hag, was there, and she was in a towering rage. Last night, she complained, Lipp had been late again in coming home; he had stayed at the tavern until ten o’clock. I straightway found out that he had not been at the tavern at all; and I also ascertained that, with his slow method of locomotion, it would require at least two hours for him to get home from the situs criminis.

  ‘The rest is obvious. I searched his hut, and found the money under a loose board in the floor. Then I went to the road where Lipp was stationed, and accused him point-blank of murdering Diwald. At first he attempted to deny it; but when I showed him the money he collapsed and, tremblingly, admitted having done it.

  ‘At a sign from me Marius threw the rope over his shoulders from behind, pinioning his arms to his body. Lipp raised his hands in an instinctive gesture of self-defence, and so presented them to me for the manacles. Marius and I then lifted him into the car and drove to the jail.—As far as I am concerned this closes the case. The final word will rest with his judges. It is they who will decide whether or not he is fully responsible for his acts…I must now ask your permission to go, as I am very busy on another unusually difficult case.’

  Dagobert bowed to the commission, kissed Frau Grumbach’s hand with his usual courtesy, and two minutes later was on his way back in the car with Marius at the wheel.

  The Kennel

  Maurice Level

  Maurice Level was the pseudonym of Jeanne Mareteux-Levelle (1875–1926) who worked as a doctor before earning success as a playwright and author of popular fiction. He demonstrated a particular flair for writing macabre tales, melodramatic but often very powerful; some were performed at the legendary Le Theatre du Grand Guignol in his native Paris. H.P. Lovecraft described this type of story as ‘the so-called conte cruel, in which the wrenching of the emotions is accomplished through dramatic tantalizations, frustrations and gruesome physical horrors.’

  Level’s fiction was evidently influenced by that of Guy de Maupassant and Edgar Allan Poe, and film versions of his work include The Roadhouse Murder (1932). His reputation has not survived the passage of time, and he is—especially in comparison to Lovecraft—now essentially a forgotten writer. Perhaps he is due for a revival. This grim little story comes from Level’s Tales of Mystery and Horror (1920), translated by Alys Eyre Macklin.

  As ten o’clock struck, M. de Hartevel emptied a last tankard of beer, folded his newspaper, stretched himself, yawned, and slowly rose.

  The hanging-lamp cast a bright light on the table-cloth, over which were scattered piles of shot and cartridge wads. Near the fireplace, in the shadow, a woman lay back in a deep arm-chair.

  Outside the wind blew violently against the windows, the rain beat noisily on the glass, and from time to time deep bayings came from the kennel where the hounds had struggled and strained since morning.

  There were forty of them: big mastiffs with ugly fangs, stiff-haired griffons of Vendée, that flung themselves with ferocity on the wild boar on hunting days. During the night their sullen bayings disturbed the country-side, evoking response from all the dogs in the neighbourhood.

  M. de Hartevel lifted a curtain and looked out into the darkness of the park. The wet branches shone like steel blades; the autumn leaves were blown about like whirligigs and flattened against the walls. He grumbled.

  ‘Dirty weather!’

  He walked a few steps, his hands in his pockets, stopped before the fireplace, and with a kick broke a half-consumed log. Red embers fell on the ashes; a flame rose, straight and pointed.

  Madame de Hartevel did not move. The light of the fire played on her face, touching her hair with gold, throwing a rosy glow on her pale cheeks and, dancing about her, cast fugitive shadows on her forehead, her eyelids, her lips.

  The hounds, quiet for a moment, began to growl again; and their bayings, the roaring of the wind and the hiss of the rain on the trees made the quiet room seem warmer, the presence of the silent woman more intimate.

  Subconsciously this influenced M. de Hartevel. Desires stimulated by those of the beasts and by the warmth of the room crept through his veins. He touched his wife’s shoulders.

  ‘It is ten o’clock. Are you going to bed?’

  She said ‘yes,’ and left her chair, as if regretfully.

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’

  ‘No—thank you—’

  Frowning, he bowed.

  ‘As you like.’

  His shoulders against the mantelshelf, his legs apart, he watched her go. She walked with a graceful, undulating movement, the train of her dress moving on the carpet like a little flat wave. A surge of anger stiffened his muscles.

  In this chateau where he had her all to himself he had in bygone days imagined a wife who would like living in seclusion with him, attentive to his wishes, smiling acquiescence to all his desires. She would welcome him with gay words when he came back from a day’s hunting, his hands blue with cold, his strong body tired, bringing with him the freshness of the fields and moors, the smell of horses, of game and of hounds, would lift eager lips to meet his own. Then, after the long ride in the wind, the rain, the snow, after the intoxication of the crisp air, the heavy walking in the furrows, or the gallop under branches that almost caught his beard, there would have been long nights of love, orgies of caresses of which the thrill would be mutual.

  The difference between the dream and the reality!

  When the door had shut and the sound of steps died away in the corridor, he went to his room, lay down, took a book and tried to read.

  The rain hissed louder than ever. The wind roared in the chimney; out in the park, branches were snapping from the trees; the hounds bayed without ceasing, their howlings sounded through the creaking of the trees, dominating the roar of the storm; the door of the kennel strained under their weight.

  He opened the window and shouted:

  ‘Down!’

  For some seconds they were quiet. He waited. The wind that drove the rain on his face refreshed him. The barkings began again. He banged his fist against the shutter, threatening:

  ‘Quiet, you devils!’

  T
here was a singing in his ears, a whistling, a ringing; a desire to strike, to ransact, to feel flesh quiver under his fists took possession of him. He roared: ‘Wait a moment!’ slammed the window, seized a whip, and went out.

  He strode along the corridors with no thought of the sleeping house till he got near his wife’s room, when he walked slowly and quietly, fearing to disturb her sleep. But a ray of light from under her door caught his lowered eyes, and there was a sound of hurried footsteps that the carpet did not deaden. He listened. The noise ceased, the light went out…He stood motionless, and suddenly, impelled by a suspicion, he called softly:

  ‘Marie Therése…’

  No reply. He called louder. Curiosity, a doubt that he dared not formulate, held him breathless. He gave two sharp little taps on the door; a voice inside asked:

  ‘Who is there?’

  ‘I—open the door—’

  A whiff of warm air laden with various perfumes and a suspicion of other odours passed over his face.

  The voice asked:

  ‘What is it?’

  He walked in without replying. He felt his wife standing close in front of him; her breath was on him, the lace of her dress touched his chest. He felt in his pocket for matches. Not finding any, he ordered:

  ‘Light the lamp!’

  She obeyed, and as his eyes ran over the room he saw the curtains drawn closely, a shawl on the carpet, the open bed, white and very large; and in a corner, near the fireplace, a man lying across a long rest-chair, his collar unfastened, his head drooping, his arms hanging loosely, his eyes shut.

  He gripped his wife’s wrist:

  ‘Ah, you…filth!…Then this is why you turn your back on me!…’

  She did not shrink from him, did not move. No shadow of fear passed over her pallid face. She only raised her head, murmuring: