The Master of the Macabre

by Russell Thorndike

  “In the small of the back, a seam had been taken in to conceal a hole, singed round the edge, which might have been made by a revolver bullet.

  “During that three weeks I had to go one evening to Charing Cross and meet some girl cousins returning from school on the Continent. On the platform I noticed an elderly gentleman watching me. I was getting used to that sort of thing by this time. I was wearing the coat, and so had been followed by the Indian from Westminster. My new Nosey Parker was the typical Anglo-Indian, hard-bitten, bronzed and swagger. I put him down for a retired colonel. His penetrating stare was so offensive that I was about to ask him what he meant, when the train steamed in. A few minutes later I was escorting my young cousins through the archway, when we had to step on to the narrow pavement to make way for a private bus. Inside was the colonel and a party of little girls. He caught my eye, and banged on the window for the driver to stop. He then pulled down the back window and beckoned to me ferociously. I raised my hat and stepped towards him.

  “ ‘That coat,’ he snarled.

  “ ‘Yes, sir?’ I asked innocently.

  “ ‘It is,’ he muttered. ‘But it’s really not my business, and I’m damned if I’ll be mixed up in it. Drive on.’

  “Up went the window with a bang, and the family bus jerked on, which sent the old gentleman sprawling on top of his charges, which served him right, for having given me something fresh to puzzle over in my mystery.

  “After this the square was haunted by an Indian in a white turban, who always carried a suit-case. It was a large case, and from the easy way he handled it, I suspected it to be empty, and as you shall hear, I was probably right.

  “Whenever I spoke to him, he always answered that he was waiting for his master.

  “One evening some friends dropped in and told us that this Indian had come up our basement steps with his suit-case and had taken on their taxi. They had been told the story of the coat and wanted to see it.

  “I went upstairs to get it, and found the wardrobe locked and the key gone. We never found the key, and finally had to get a locksmith to open the door. You no doubt guess what we found. No coat. It had gone, and so had the discarded red lining which I had kept out of interest.

  “Well—there you are—we saw no more Indians and no more coat, and the only sequel was that I received a receipt for repairs to coat from the tailor. I went round and said I had not paid. He told me that an Indian servant had come into his shop and asked for my bill which he promptly paid in my name. So at least they were honest in that they did not expect me to be out of pocket for their theft. Well—I mean, I suppose they stole it, but I don’t really know. Perhaps they had some claim on it. Anyway, why all that fuss for a coat? I am convinced that there was some deathly important secret somehow connected with it, but I don’t mind telling you the whole damned business has irritated me for years, because nothing seemed to fit the lock of the puzzle. Let us now see what Carnaby has made of it.”

  Even the little energy required to break the seals made Hogarth wince with pain, and his irritation burst out with, “Confound this neuritis—paralysis—common or garden cramp, or whatever it is; but I won’t let it spoil my enjoyment. No, not when I’ve waited for it since 1912. I will open this thing.”

  With an effort he forced his fingers to obey him, and slowly turned back the folds of the thick paper.

  As he looked down into the parcel, he gave a low whistle of astonishment.

  “Hallo,” he cried. “So he’s got it after all.”

  “The solution?” I asked eagerly.

  “No—the red lining—and wait a minute—a card.”

  He lifted a calling card and looked at it closely, raising his left eyebrow and closing his right eye. Then half amused—half puzzled—he went on, “But it’s not Carnaby’s card. It’s from—let’s see——

  The Very Reverend O. K. Preddal, B.A.,

  The Vicarage,

  Little Middleston,

  Nr. Great Middleston,

  South Riding,

  Yorks.”

  He looked across at me. “And how many phoney things do you get out of that?”

  “Phoney?” I echoed. “A comic address, perhaps. Who is the Reverend gentleman? Ever heard of him?”

  “No more has anyone else,” he answered, “outside Carnaby’s bright imagination. I spotted six impossibilities. First, I’ll bet you a fiver there’s no such name as O. K. Preddal in Crockford’s Clerical Directory. I’ve got an old one in my reference library, and you could see if you doubt me. Then it is extremely unlikely that a Very Reverend would still be but a Bachelor of Arts. The initials O. K. are quite ridiculous—the name Preddal is a scream. I’m sure there is no such place as Little or Great Middleston, and, of course, there is no such district as South Riding. North, East and West are the three Ridings. The very name means a Third. Old Carnaby can’t bowl me out on that. He might at least explain himself.”

  “Could the name and address be one of Carnaby’s codes?” I suggested. “Ever since I’ve known him he’s had a mania for them. Wait a minute, though,” I added, for Hogarth had moved his fingers from the back of the card and I saw some writing, “there’s something written on this side.”

  Probably ashamed of his neglect, my host gave way to irritation again.

  “So there is,” he muttered. “Then why can’t the damned fool be thorough and put p.t.o. under his assumed name?”

  “What’s it say?” I asked.

  “Sounds like a Samson riddle in the Bible. Listen.” And he read out slowly:

  “The coat was made for the lining.

  Not the lining for the coat.

  “Now, what the devil? … Hallo again. I thought this was his scribbled signature, but I can see now, it’s ‘More Anon.’ Now why shouldn’t he have been more explicit? Carnaby isn’t the man to get the wind up about things. Why should he be so cagey?”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “it is because he’s a brave man that he can be brave enough to recognize danger and respect its power. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if you had told me that those Indians who followed you about had tried over and over again to take your life. In fact, I was surprised that they made no sort of violent attempt against you.”

  “And his sartorial riddle then,” said the Master, “in your opinion is Carnaby, not in a jocular mood, but in a careful one.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “Because of some danger, perhaps to you or himself, he thinks it dangerous to be explicit. His meaning seems quite clear that it is the lining that is more important than the coat. The mystery must revolve around the red lining. Who knows—perhaps it is really a red flag of danger, and—in spite of Carnaby’s caution—may be bringing a horde of Asiatics to your door.”

  “Or window,” corrected the Master in a low whisper, and I saw that he was staring hard at something behind my back. I was about to ask him what was wrong, when he spoke again through his teeth and without moving his lips perceptibly. “Get up naturally and with your crutches cross to get a book or something. I want to know if you can see what I can see looking through the window behind you.”

  I did as he told me, and as I turned towards the bookcase I saw, framed behind the glass of the central window, a black beard pressing against the rimy pane and the dark turbaned swarthy face of an Indian.

  CHAPTER NINE

  the captain’s vengeance

  I have seldom seen anything more sinister than this apparition. He stood there rigid, staring at me through the lead-rimmed glass. At the same time the deep bell of Wrotham Church at the end of the grounds began to strike the hour. Twelve o’clock. To be truly ghostly in the accepted style it should have been twelve midnight. But it was noon—a lovely day, with a bright sun shining on the hard snow. Somehow it enhanced the frightening picture that the Indian made. Was he the first of the Asiatic horde that I had just mentioned? Behind him against the skyline stood the lofty ridge of Wrotham Hill, whose snow-covered woods looked as white as the lofty peaks o
f the Himalayas. Against such a background the silhouetted stranger was in his right element. Indeed, it couldn’t have been more fitting had he brought his native scenery from the North-West Frontier with him to impress us further. As I gazed back at him, hypnotized by his strange wild face, an astonishing thing happened. The great red velvet curtains from each side of the window swept together and blotted him out.

  For a second I could see nothing. After the dazzling sun on the snow, I seemed in complete darkness, and then a heavy hand gripped my shoulder, and the weight of a man’s body fell against me. It was the Master. He had, with a superhuman effort, got from his chair and pulled the cord of the curtains which had prevented the Indian from seeing in, and I had not heard him passing my left shoulder when I was held by the vision at the window.

  “Help me back to the chair,” he whispered, “or I shall faint. We will then deal with the bloke outside.”

  “What on earth made you get up to pull the curtains?” I asked, as I assisted him back to the chair.

  “In case he should pull a gun on you,” he explained in a whisper. “Coming on the top of your warning and the talk about Carnaby, put the wind up me. Ring for Hoadley and get him to find out who this fellow is.”

  “Was he—‘real’?” I asked.

  “Listen at the other window,” he answered. “I’m getting so mixed up between ghosts and dreams that I don’t know whether I’m seeing or not. If he’s real, he ought to be a decent sort of a bloke, because he was wearing a dark green turban, which means he is a Holy Man who has taken the great pilgrimage to Mecca. No doubt he may also be a wild fanatic where his religion is concerned, and if he thinks we are his enemies, we’d better watch out. No, perhaps we had better not let Hoadley loose on him. If he wants entry here, he’ll no doubt try the front door, and he wouldn’t harm a servant for admitting him. He’d be much too careful.”

  Well—I looked through the curtains when I could hear nothing, and the man, whoever he was—man or thing—had completely disappeared. Neither could I see from the window any footprints in the virgin snow. Of course, that convinced us both that the thing was just another of the ghosts about the house.

  We rang for Hoadley and when we asked him if anyone had seen the Indian gentleman, he said “No.” His Master ordered him to make inquiries in the village when he went for his glass of beer. On his return he said he’d drawn a blank. No one answering our description had been seen by the shopkeepers.

  “Then all I can say,” stated Hogarth, “is, that the mystery of the overcoat deepens. How long do you suppose Carnaby means by Anon?”

  Well, evidently Carnaby did not mean that day, for there was nothing from him by the post, no telegram, no telephone, and no visit, and what is more, no one saw anything of an Indian. During the afternoon the masseurs came from the hospital and seemed thoroughly mystified as to any reason for my host’s pain, which was just as acute till dinner-time when it eased up for a bit.

  When we were more or less comfortably ensconced in the Library after our meal and were once more sipping our port, Hogarth asked if I was sick of his stories, or would care to hear another which might be the means of taking his attention from his pain.

  “Certainly,” I replied with enthusiasm. “I realize that I have already had a very thrilling one to-day, but when all is said and done, that is still a mystery and no complete tale at all, and if you do not give me a proper one, I shall consider myself cheated.”

  “And what relic appeals to you to-night?” he asked. “Have you chosen?”

  I told him that I had been divided between the skulls and the moth, but that now I chose the moth because of all the relics it seemed to be the most pathetic.

  “Not a bit of it,” he replied. “That little creature has one of the most violent stories in my collection. Now, if you want pathos—a sad sort of horror—let me tell you the story of that little brass button, that is all bent and corroded.”

  When I had brought it over to my chair he lit his pipe which I had filled for him, as his hands were still cramped, and he began:

  “Some years ago a ship’s company and passengers, including myself, witnessed the last act of a drama which had taken ten years to work itself out to its final curtain. The chief actor in this heroic epic was a hard-bitten old sea-captain named Dawson, though during his last ten years he was always referred to as ‘Old Sharks.’

  “It is the tale of his vengeance which he planned and carried out to its extraordinary conclusion.

  “I was lying in a deckchair trying to keep cool beneath the awning when I first clapped eyes on him. Tall and gaunt, his white hair and beard unkempt, he walked the blistering planks of the Palamcitta, barefooted. His green eyes, wide open, defied the glare of the harbour buildings.

  “His costume was peculiar, and hardly the sort in which to come aboard a mail boat, for it consisted merely of a blue bathing suit, faded by sea and sun, and a great leather gauntlet, ornamented with brass studs, which he wore on his right hand. As he gazed over the deep waters of Zanzibar, his gnarled, mahogany body quivering with excitement, I watched him open a paper parcel which he had placed on the bulwarks. Raw meat. He fixed a red morsel to a hook fastened to a cork and line. Then he whirled it overboard.

  “Curiosity compelled me to get up and brave the sun. A shark was lazily cruising among the floating debris of vegetable mess that spreads around a ship at anchor.

  “ ‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Shark?’

  “He nodded without looking at me, and when all my attempts at conversation failed to get any response but a nod or shake of the head, I returned to my chair, irritated.

  “I tried to read, but the old man fascinated me more than my book.

  “Fishermen should be patient, but he wasn’t. He kept tugging at his line, which he gripped in his gauntleted fist. It struck me that he was using up his vitality by giving way to a consuming rage. Still I watched him till the bell went for lunch.

  “The first-class saloon was under the aft deck. I sat next to the chief officer and asked him about the crazy old man above. I could see that my question was resented.

  “The chief frowned. ‘Yes—he’s crazy all right, and with good reason. Used to be skipper of this old tub. Captain Dawson; but he’s known as “Old Sharks.” For ten years he’s been trying to kill “Great Crafty,” and the quayside is pretty divided between the two of ’em. Though most of us would like to see “Old Sharks” win, there are some who hold that the harbour wouldn’t be the same without “Great Crafty.”’

  “ ‘Who’s he?’

  “ ‘A man-eater. A great shark that haunts the harbour. I’ll point him out to you. We shall be taking in cargo all day, so there’ll be plenty of opportunity. We’ve known him for years. An uncanny brute. Seems to know when ships are coming in, and if they’re favourites of his he will go miles out to meet ’em and pilot ’em in.’

  “ ‘And was it this old shark that sent Captain Dawson crazy?’ I persisted, for I wanted the story naturally.

  “The chief frowned again. ‘I don’t like the yarn, because in telling it I live it over again. You see, I was there. I saw the whole thing, and it’s ten years to-day. I wonder if the old man remembers the date? I was up on the bridge with him when it happened. Four bells and a sweltering afternoon like this.

  “ ‘Dawson’s wife was spending the day on board and had brought her kid daughter with her. Mrs. Dawson was the daughter of our shipping agent ashore. She was a pathetic creature with a weak heart—never been strong since the birth of her only kid. We all loved that child. The crew couldn’t do enough for her. Just five, she was, and as pretty as a picture. Fair hair and a jolly little face, and sea-green eyes like her father’s.

  “ ‘I remember that the noise of the donkey engines worried the skipper, because his wife was asleep under the aft awning. He kept going half-way down the ladder to see if she was moving, and each time he came back, he muttered, “All right so far.”

  “ ‘It was on one of these lit
tle trips that it happened. I thought he’d gone mad, for he suddenly leapt down the remaining steps to the well-deck and, knocking people aside, ran for the aft ladder. Knowing something must be wrong, I followed to see, and, my God, there was the kid crawling on hands and knees on the outside ledge—the wrong side of the bulwarks. She had managed to squeeze herself through the opening of the bollard and was watching something below her in the water. She was wearing a little white coat with brass buttons, and I remember thinking what a row the kid would get into as there was a smear of black oil across her back.

  “ ‘Just then I saw Mrs. Dawson wake up. She looked round for the kid, and then saw her husband leaping along the deck. With an awful scream she jumped up and ran too. Whether it was the scream that frightened the child or the sight of her father dashing towards her, I don’t know, but she slipped and fell overboard. I can see it all now. Mrs. Dawson leaning against the bulwarks with her hand pressed to her heart, as her husband stripped off his jacket and dived overboard. In the meantime I had dashed down from the bridge and raced aft.

  “ ‘The skipper had just risen to the surface when I got there, and then the water round him was churned into a maelstrom, and the white belly of a huge shark flashed in the sun. Up came the great tail clear of the water and then down into the depths went that dear kid to her doom.

  “ ‘We dashed now to get the skipper aboard before the shark came up again. Only just in time, too, for as we dragged him to safety, we saw the evil black fin once more.’