The Black Lizard Big Book of Locked-Room Mysteries

by Otto Penzler

Doctor Hager took charge of the introductions, and I learned that the woman was a Mrs. Eve Brent, from Chicago. The older man was Charles Kingsley, and I recognized him as a retired manufacturer, whose name was prominent in financial circles.

  “These are some New York publishers,” Doctor Hager announced proudly, “who have come all the way up here to talk with Douglas.” Then, turning to us, he explained, “Our house here is always open to visitors. Mrs. Brent and Mr. Kingsley are staying with us for a few weeks to try and find themselves spiritually.”

  I had taken the chair next to Mrs. Brent, and I asked her where Douglas Zadig was, just to get the conversation started.

  “He’s upstairs in his room; I think he’ll be down shortly.”

  “You’re a long way from Chicago, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “My … my husband died a few years back. Since then, I’ve just been at loose ends, traveling to Europe and South America; it wasn’t until I read one of Douglas Zadig’s books that I found myself again.”

  I saw that Simon was busy talking with Hager and Mr. Kingsley. But all conversation stopped with the sudden entrance of a thin young man whom I knew to be Douglas Zadig.

  He was taller than I’d supposed, with gaunt, pointed features of the type that stayed in your memory. There was a slight limp to his walk, and I remembered reading now that he’d had the limp when he first appeared, more than ten years ago in England.

  “I’m sorry to be late,” he apologized, in a rich full voice, with barely a trace of English accent. “But it happened again.”

  Whatever it was that had “happened” was enough to bring gasps from the Doctor and the two guests. Hager rushed to Douglas Zadig’s side and quickly examined his head.

  “The same side as before, Adam,” the young man said. “I was shaving, when suddenly I felt this blow on the temple; there’s not much blood this time, though.”

  “The skin is broken, though,” Doctor Hager said. “Just like the other time.”

  Simon Ark arose from his chair and went forward to examine the young man. “Just what is the trouble here?” he asked, addressing the question to the four of them.

  It was Mrs. Brent at my side who answered. “Douglas has been the victim of two mysterious attacks, both while he was alone in his room. We … we think it might be the … the devil.…”

  I saw Simon Ark’s quiet eyes come alive at the word, and I knew that in some mysterious way he’d come into conflict again with the Evil he eternally sought. From outside, a slight wind stirred the barren trees; and through the window I could see a brief gust of snow eddy up into the air.

  Charles Kingsley snorted and took out a cigar. “This whole business is nonsense. We’re not living in the Middle Ages anymore; the devil doesn’t come around attacking people.”

  “I fear you’re quite wrong.” Simon Ark spoke quietly. “Satan is just as real today as he was a thousand years ago; and there’s no reason to suppose that his tactics have changed any in that time. If I were more certain he was among us, in fact, I’d suggest a rite of exorcism.”

  “We’d need a priest for that,” Mrs. Brent said; “there isn’t one within miles of here.”

  Simon Ark shook his head. “In the early days of Christianity, it was quite common for lay persons to exorcise the devil. But I would not want to attempt it under the present circumstances.”

  Douglas Zadig spoke from the doorway, where he’d remained during Simon Ark’s brief examination. “Just what do you mean by that, sir? You talk oddly for a book publisher.”

  “I have other professions. I refer to the peculiar doctrine you preach as to the eternal war between the two great forces of good and evil. It reminds one somewhat of the teachings of Zoroaster.”

  The young man seemed to pale slightly at the name “I … I have read about his doctrines, of course. But if you’d completed your study of my teachings and published works, I think you’d find that my theory of evil holds that, as a force, it is a part of God, and is willed by Him—not that it is a separate and distinct power.”

  “Oh, come now, Mr. Zadig,” Simon Ark said with almost a chuckle, “Thomas Aquinas disproved that idea seven hundred years ago. In case you’re not familiar with it, I refer you to chapters thirty-nine and ninety-five in Book One of his Summa Contra Gentiles. For a preacher of a new religion, you seem to be quite confused as to your own doctrine.”

  Douglas Zadig turned on him with blazing eyes. “I need not listen to these insults in my own house,” he said, and turned from the room. Doctor Hager ran after him and followed him onto the front porch.

  Kingsley and Mrs. Brent seemed shocked at Simon Ark’s tactics; I walked over close enough to speak to him without their hearing us. “Perhaps you were a little hard on the fellow, Simon; I’m sure he means no harm.”

  “Whether he means harm or not, the fact remains that false teachings like that can always cause harm.”

  Doctor Hager returned to us then, and through the window we could see Douglas Zadig walking off across a snow-covered field, his open jacket flapping in the breeze. “He’s gone for a walk,” the doctor informed us; “he wants to be alone with his thoughts.”

  Simon Ark walked to the window and watched him until he was out of sight over a hill of snow.

  “Really,” Mrs. Brent said, “I think you owe him an apology when he returns. In his own way, he’s a great man.”

  Simon Ark turned from the window and faced the four of us. “Have any of you ever heard the story of Kaspar Hauser?” he asked quietly. And when he saw our blank expressions, he went on, “Kaspar Hauser was a German youth of about sixteen, who appeared suddenly in Nuremberg in May of 1828. He was dressed as a peasant, and seemed to remember nothing of his past life. In his possession were found two letters, supposedly written by the boy’s mother and his guardian. A professor in Nuremberg undertook his education, and he remained there and in Ansbach until his death in 1833. Twice before his death, while he was living with the professor, he suffered mysterious wounds; and his death from a stab wound while he was walking in a park during the winter has never been explained.”

  Doctor Hager spoke from between tightened lips. “Just what are you driving at?”

  “I am suggesting that Douglas Zadig’s life, his appearance out of nowhere in England ten years ago, his friendship with you, Doctor, and even the two odd wounds he has recently suffered, follow very closely the life of Kaspar Hauser.”

  Mrs. Brent was still beside me, and her fingers dug unconsciously into my arm. “Perhaps you’re right. What does that prove?”

  “Don’t any of you see it?” Simon Ark asked. “This man we all know as Douglas Zadig has no life of his own. Everything he has done and said has been done and said before in this world. He bears the name of a fictional character from French literature; he teaches a doctrine of a man dead nearly three thousand years, and he lives the life of a man from the nineteenth century. I don’t propose to explain it—I am only stating the facts.…”

  There was silence when he finished speaking, and the four of us who were with him in the room looked at each other with questioning glances. There was something here which was beyond our understanding. Something …

  Doctor Hager broke the silence. “How … how did this man … this Kaspar Hauser die?”

  “He was stabbed to death while walking alone in a park. There were no other footprints in the snow, and yet the wound could not have been self-inflicted. The mystery has never been solved.”

  As if with one body our eyes went toward the window where last we’d seen Douglas Zadig walking. And I knew there was but a single thought in our minds.

  Doctor Hager pulled a coat from the closet and threw it over his shoulders. “No, not that way,” he said, giving voice to the fear that was in all our minds. “He’ll come back the other way, at the rear of the house.”

  We ran out, Hager and Simon Ark in the lead, closely followed by Kingsley, Mrs. Brent, and myself. We gave only a passing glance to the single set of footp
rints leading off over the hill, and then we ran around the back of the big white house.

  It was cold, but somehow we didn’t notice the cold. We saw only the snow—clear and white and unmarked ahead of us—and far away in the distance across the field, the lone figure of Douglas Zadig walking back toward us.

  He walked quickly, with the steady gait of a young, vigorous man. The thin layer of snow did not impede his feet, and his short jacket flapped in the breeze as if it were a summer’s day. When he saw us he waved a greeting, and seemed to walk a little faster toward us.

  He was perhaps a hundred yards away when it happened. He stopped short, as if struck by a blow, and his hands flew to his left side. And even at this distance we could see the look of shock and surprise on his face.

  He staggered, almost fell, and then continued staggering toward us, his hands clutching at his side. “I’ve been stabbed,” he shouted, “I’ve been stabbed.” And already we could see the bloody trail he was leaving in the snow.…

  Doctor Hager was the first to break the spell, and he dashed forward to meet the wounded man, with the rest of us in close pursuit. When Hager was still some twenty yards from him, Douglas Zadig fell to his knees in the snow; and now the blood was reddening his shirt and gushing out between his fingers. He looked at us once more, with that same surprised expression on his face, and then he toppled over in the snow.

  Hager was the first to reach him, and he bent over and quickly turned the body back to examine the wound. Then he let it fall again and looked up at us.

  “He’s dead …” he said simply.…

  We knew it was impossible, and we stood there and looked down at the impossible and perhaps we prayed.

  “He must have been shot,” Eve Brent said; but then Doctor Hager showed us the wound, and it was clearly that of a knife.

  “He stabbed himself,” Charles Kingsley said, but I knew that Kingsley didn’t even believe it himself. There was no knife in the wound, no knife back there in the snow; and Hager settled it by pointing out that such a wound would be difficult to self-inflict, and impossible while the five of us watched him.

  We went back to where the bloodstains started, and searched in the snow for something, anything—even the footprints of an invisible man. But there was nothing. The snow was unmarked, except for the bloodstains and the single line of footprints.

  And then we stood there and looked at the body and looked at each other and waited for somebody else to say something.

  “I suggest we call the local police, or the state troopers,” Simon Ark said finally.

  And so we left the body of Douglas Zadig where it lay in the snow and went back into the house. And waited for the police.

  And when they came—a bent old man, who was the local barber and also at times the constable, and a wiser one, who was the town doctor and also its coroner, we knew no more.

  Could the wound have been inflicted by someone on the other side of the hill, before he came into view? That was my question, but the half-formed theory in my mind died even before it was born. The blood had only started at the point where we’d seen him grip his side; and besides that both doctors agreed that such a wound would cause almost instantaneous death. It was a wonder he’d even managed to walk as far as he did.

  And presently the barber, who was the constable, and the doctor who was the coroner, left, taking the body of Douglas Zadig with them.

  Simon Ark continued to gaze out the window at the occasional snowflakes that were drifting down from above. Mrs. Brent and I managed somehow to make coffee for the others, but for a long time no one spoke.

  Presently I heard Simon Ark mumble, “The man from nowhere.… Nowhere.…” And seeing me watching him, he continued, “Dear, beauteous death, the jewel of the just! Shining nowhere but in the dark; what mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, could man outlook that mark!”

  When he saw my puzzled expression, he explained, “The lines are not original with me. They were written back in the seventeenth century by Henry Vaughan.”

  “Does that tell you what killed Douglas Zadig out there in the snow?”

  He smiled at me, something he rarely did. “The answer to our mystery might better be found in Shakespeare than in Vaughan.”

  “Then you do know!”

  “Perhaps.…”

  “I read a story once, about a fellow who was murdered with a dagger made of ice.”

  “That melted and left no trace? Well, you’d hardly expect a dagger of ice to melt when the outside temperature is below freezing, would you?”

  “I guess not,” I admitted. “But if it wasn’t done in any of the ways we’ve mentioned, then it must have been supernatural. Do you really mean that Douglas Zadig was possessed of the devil?”

  But Simon Ark only repeated his favorite word. “Perhaps.…”

  “I don’t care,” Charles Kingsley was saying, in the loud voice I’d come to expect from him. “I’m not a suspect, and I don’t intend to stay here any longer. I came because I believed in the teachings and writings of Douglas Zadig; now that he’s dead there’s no reason for me to remain any longer.”

  Doctor Hager shrugged and gave up the argument. “You’re certainly free to leave any time you want to, Mister Kingsley. Believe me, this awful tragedy strikes me a much greater blow than anyone else.”

  Mrs. Brent had taken out a checkbook and her pen. “Well, I’ll still give you the money as I promised, Dr. Hager. If nothing else perhaps you can erect a memorial of some sort.”

  I could see that she was serious. I had known Douglas Zadig for only a short time on the final day of his life, but I could see that he’d had a profound effect on the lives of these people and others like them. To me he had been only a name half-remembered from the news stories of ten years ago, but to some he had become apparently the preacher of a new belief.

  And then Simon Ark spoke again. “I would like you people to remain for another hour if you would. I think I will be able to show you the manner in which Douglas Zadig died.”

  “If you can do that,” Kingsley said, “it’s worth waiting for. But if there really is some sort of devil around here, I sure don’t want to stay.”

  “I promise you that I’ll protect you all from the force that struck down Douglas Zadig,” Simon Ark said. “I have one question, though: Dr. Hager, do you keep any chickens here?”

  “Chickens?” Hager repeated with a puzzled frown. “Why, no; there’s a place down the road that raises them, though. Why?”

  “I wondered,” he replied, and then he would say no more. After that, he disappeared into a remote section of the house and the four of us were left alone. We knew that the state police would be arriving before long, to continue the investigation; and I could understand why Kingsley and Mrs. Brent were anxious to get away.

  They were beginning to grow restless again when Simon Ark reappeared, this time holding in his hands the small ansated cross he always carried. “If you people will accompany me outside, I believe I will be able to show you how Douglas Zadig met his death.”

  “You mean you know who killed him.”

  “In a way I suppose I was responsible for his death,” Simon Ark answered. “The least I can do is to avenge it.…”

  We followed him outside, to the snow-covered field very near the spot where Douglas Zadig had died just an hour earlier. The four of us paused at the edge of the snow, but Simon Ark walked on, until he was some fifty feet away from us.

  Then he stood there, looking up at the bleak November sky and at the distant trees and mountains. And he seemed to be very much alone.…

  He held the strange ansated cross above his head, and chanted a few words in the Coptic language I’d come to know so well.

  From somewhere a large bird swooped in a giant circle overhead. It might have been an eagle, or a vulture, lured north into the cold weather by some unknown quirk of nature. We watched it until it disappeared into a low brooding cloud bank, and then our eyes returned to Simon Ark.

>   He stood there, chanting in the strange tongue, as if calling upon some demons from the dark past. He stood there for what seemed an eternity, and what must have been the longest five minutes of my life.

  And then it happened.

  Again.

  He dropped his hands suddenly to his side, and when they came away we could see the blood. He took a single step forward and then collapsed on his face in the snow, one outstretched hand still clutching the ansated cross.

  We rushed forward behind Adam Hager, and I could feel my knees growing weak at the sight before us. Simon Ark, whom I’d come to think of as almost an invincible man, had been struck down by the same force that had killed Douglas Zadig.…

  Dr. Hager reached him first, and felt for his heart. And then …

  … In a moment I’ll never forget, Simon Ark suddenly came alive, and rolled over in the snow, pinning Hager beneath him.

  And we all saw, in Hager’s outstretched helpless hand, the gleaming blade of a thin steel dagger.…

  “They were just a couple of small-time swindlers who came close to hitting the big money,” Simon Ark said later, when the state police had taken away the cursing, struggling, figure of Dr. Hager.

  We were back inside—Kingsley, Mrs. Brent, several police officers, and myself—and listening to Simon Ark’s explanation. Somehow the tension of the past few hours was gone, and we were a friendly group of people who might have been discussing the results of the day’s football games.

  “It’s always difficult to imagine yourself as the victim of a swindler,” he was saying, “but I saw at once that Zadig and Hager had invited you two here for the purpose of getting money from you. We might never know how many dozens were here before you, people who’d read Zadig’s book and written to him. If you’ll check further, I think you’ll find that the book’s publication was paid for by Zadig and Hager, and that most of his speaking engagements were phony, too—like his occasional limping.”

  “He did ask us for money to carry out various projects,” Kingsley admitted.

  “As I’ve already told you,” Simon Ark continued, “the very fact that his name, his life, and his so-called doctrine were copied from the past made me suspect a swindle of some sort. There was just nothing original about the man; his was a life copied out of an encyclopedia. I suppose after he met Hager in London, the two of them thought up the scheme. I imagine you’ll find that Hager has tried this sort of thing before under various names.”