The Beard of the Prophet

by Gerald Verner

  Except for the intermittent flashes of lightning the night was pitch-dark. There might be a full moon somewhere, but there was no sign of it, and the heavy thunderclouds shut out even the faint light that might have come from the stars.

  The car hissed and splashed and bumped along the narrow road, the windscreen wiper working furiously, and the headlights glittering on the downpour, so that the falling drops, as they came within their rays, looked like little globules of molten fire.

  They sped through the sleeping village, ascended a steep hill, the wheels skidding and sliding, and came to a halt at the entrance to a footpath between a tangle of briars.

  “We’ll have to walk from here,” grunted the inspector. “It’s too narrow to take the car up.”

  Mr. Budd got silently down and waited for Hadlow to join him. The inspector led the way along the narrow, winding track that passed through a dark coppice, and presently ended altogether in front of a tiny building, which was set in an oblong of garden. It was very small, and the big man drew in his breath quickly as he saw a glimmer of light shining dimly from behind a latticed window.

  Hadlow led the way to a gate, opened it, and walked up a cinder path to the creeper-covered porch. A vivid flash of lightning illumined the scene, and Mr. Budd saw that the garden was full of old-world flowers that in daylight must have been a blaze of colour.

  Hadlow reached the porch, and raising his fist, hammered on the door. There was a movement within, a shuffling step on bare boards became audible, and then the door was jerked open and the tall figure of a man, holding a lamp, peered out at them.

  “Who comes at this hour?” said a deep voice. “What do you want?”

  “We’d like to have a word with you, Mr. Thane,” said Mr. Budd before Hadlow had time to reply. “Mr. Reuben Hayles has been murdered!”

  A pair of dark, hollow eyes turned on him.

  “When did it happen?” asked a deep voice.

  “Shortly before half-past one this morning,” answered the superintendent.

  “Then the prophecy has been fulfilled,” said the strange man. “Mohammed has struck down the desecrator of his grave! The vengeance of the prophet has fallen upon him!”

  Never in his life before had the stout superintendent had such an extraordinary experience. There was something unreal, unnatural, about the whole situation. The thin, wild-looking figure of the man with the lamp, framed in the cottage doorway, the rumbling of the thunder, and the incessant flickering of the lightning, the monotonous hissing splash of the rain and the deep voice, were like the component parts of some nightmare.

  Hadlow must have felt something of the same sensation, for he seemed at a loss. It was Daniel Thane who broke the silence that followed on his last speech.

  “Are you friends of Reuben Hayles?” he demanded, and Mr. Budd jerked himself out of the spell that had fallen over him.

  “No,” he answered. “We represent the police.”

  “The police?” repeated the queer man, and there was no sign of apprehension either in his voice or face. “Why, then, have you come to me?”

  “Mr. Hayles,” said the fat detective, “received several letters threatenin’ him. From information received, we’re under the impression that you wrote them.”

  “Supposing that to be true, what then?” asked Daniel Thane.

  “Then,” said Mr. Budd shortly, “I should like an account of your movements between half-past twelve and half-past one this mornin’.”

  “Are you labouring under the delusion,” said the queer man, “that I am responsible for the death of this man, Hayles?”

  “I don’t know what I’m labourin’ under,” said the stout superintendent irritably. “But I want to know what you were doin’, all the same.”

  “I had no hand in Hayles’ death,” said Daniel Thane, “but I read it in the stars and in the music of the breeze. He died because he had violated the tomb of the prophet.”

  “That may be,” said Mr. Budd. “But somebody killed him.”

  “The hand of Mohammed killed him,” declared the queer man. “It was written that Reuben Hayles should die, and he died.” He drew himself up, his gaunt figure in its curious monkish robe looking strangely dignified in the flickering light of the lamp. “For the sake of knowledge, for the sake of worldly power and prestige, he violated sacred things. You tell me he is dead, and I am not surprised. Let others take heed and walk in the paths of righteousness and humility.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” said Mr. Budd stubbornly. “I asked you what you were doin’ between half-past twelve and half-past one!”

  “I was out,” replied Daniel Thane. “When the moon is at its full, the spirits are abroad. The ancient goddess of Isis dances with Thor on such a night, and the souls of men can rise above the trivialities of mundane things and commune with the glories of nature.”

  “Crazy as a coot!” murmured Mr. Budd below his breath, and looked a little helplessly at Hadlow.

  He had dealt with all sorts of strange people during his long career, but Daniel Thane was completely outside his experience.

  “During the time you were out did you go anywhere near the Manor House?” asked the divisional inspector, in an endeavour to answer the mute appeal in his confrère’s eyes.

  “Why should you question where I went?” demanded the queer man. “Is not the country free to all who would enjoy its changing moods?”

  “There’s certain laws of property,” said the big man.

  “I violate no laws!” retorted Daniel Thane. “Neither the laws of man nor the laws of nature. But if you would speak further with me, come inside. My habitation is open to all men who are heavy laden.”

  Mr. Budd was inclined to take this as a subtle reference to his stoutness, but he followed the other into the narrow passage, glad to get out of the rain, which was trickling coldly down his back.

  The floor was bare of covering, but scrupulously clean, and the queer man led them into a room on the right. Here, also, was neither carpet nor linoleum, but the boards had been scrubbed to a whiteness that was dazzling. There was scarcely any furniture. A plain deal-topped table stood in the centre, and beside it a chair. Against one wall had been built a row of bookshelves, also of plain wood, containing several battered volumes. On another table near the window, rather to the big man’s surprise, stood an ancient typewriter.

  The sight of it set any doubts he might have had at rest. Old Reuben Hayles’s suspicions had been correct. The letters that had so alarmed him had come from this strange individual who had set the lamp down on the centre table and was regarding them gravely.

  “You are looking at my typewriter,” he said suddenly. “A present from my niece, and an instrument that has been of inestimable value to me in my studies.”

  “Very useful things,” said Mr. Budd. “So you did write those letters to Mr. Hayles?”

  “Why should I deny it?” answered Daniel Thane. “I knew that death was coming to him, and I warned him. I could do no more.”

  “How did you know?” The superintendent adopted a conversational tone.

  “It was revealed to me,” said the queer man. “I was vouchsafed a vision.”

  “But why did you send them anonymously?” inquired the fat detective. “And post ’em in London?”

  “Because I did not wish Hayles to know they emanated from me,” answered the other. “Had he been aware of the source he would have ignored them. He was a self-willed, obstinate man.”

  “You often go to London?” asked the superintendent.

  “I go occasionally to visit my niece who works in a large store,” said Daniel Thane. “I did not anticipate that my warnings would have any effect, but I hoped that they might prepare Reuben Hayles for the doom that was inevitable.”

  Mr. Budd gently rubbed his chin. He was in something of a quandary. He lacked sufficient evidence to arrest this man for the crime, even had he believed him guilty, which he did not. To do so would necessitate endow
ing him with supernatural powers. But at least his visit had resulted in something. He had discovered the origin of the letters, and the discovery had satisfied him about one thing, and the new possibilities it gave rise to surprised and puzzled him. He wanted time to consider this extraordinary case from the fresh angle that his discovery had suggested.

  In some respects it was alarming, and the problem how anyone got in or out of Reuben Hayles’s bedroom was still unsolved. But it offered fresh material to work on.

  There was nothing to be done with Daniel Thane at this stage of the inquiry, and they took their leave of that strange man. He accompanied them courteously to the door, and here Mr. Budd put his last question.

  “Why did you sign those letters ‘the Prophet’?” he asked casually.

  The queer man surveyed him haughtily.

  “Because,” he said gravely. “I am a direct descendant of Mohammed!”

  He watched them until they reached the gate, and then closed the door.

  “Well, what do you make of that?” said Hadlow, as they set off to return to the car.

  “The poor feller’s barmy!” answered the big man briefly.

  “I know that!” The divisional inspector was a little impatient. “I mean do you think he’s guilty of Hayles’s murder?”

  Mr. Budd shook his head.

  “No, I don’t think he’s guilty,” he declared. “He wrote those letters, and he certainly had a hand in the killing of Hayles, but I don’t think he’s guilty of murder.”

  “You mean he’s mad, and therefore not responsible for his actions?” said Hadlow. “But still, I don’t see—”

  “That’s true, but it isn’t what I meant,” answered Mr. Budd cryptically.

  And all the way back to the Manor House the divisional inspector tried to discover some sense out of this contradictory assertion, without success. If ever Hadlow had been relieved to have a murder investigation taken out of his hands, it was now.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FIND THE MOTIVE

  The storm ended with the coming of daylight, and dawn brought a clear sky and the prospect of a fine day. The police photographers arrived just after it was light, and for some little while there was the popping of magnesium flares in the death-room, and the acrid odour of burnt powder.

  When they had gone, the body of the archaeologist was removed to a waiting ambulance and taken to the mortuary to await the inquest. Divisional Inspector Hadlow went back to the station to make his report, and Mr. Budd, accompanied by the melancholy and yawning Leek, went out into the sunshine for a tour of inspection.

  He satisfied himself that the oak tree grew too far away from the house for anyone, however active, to have used it as it means of reaching the study window. Neither was there any means by which the wall could have been scaled. There was no ivy here, and nothing that offered a hand or foothold.

  “I keep tellin’ yer,” protested Leek wearily, as he watched his superior conduct this examination, “that nobody could ’ave come this way! I was within a few yards of the place the ’ole time, and I’d ’ave ’eard ’em!”

  “You may have been in a trance!” grunted Mr. Budd.

  “You’ve never found me neglectin’ me duty!” said Leek indignantly. “I was as alert last night as I am at midday!”

  “Then I should think a regiment of soldiers could have come by you and you wouldn’t ’ave noticed ’em!” retorted Mr. Budd unkindly.

  The long-suffering sergeant sighed.

  “You will ’ave your little joke,” he said aggrievedly. “But seriously, I tell yer, no one could ’ave come this way without me seein’ ’em.”

  The big man was prepared to believe it. He went in from his fruitless search and interviewed the servants, but he learned nothing. The rest of the household were not up, and after an early breakfast he settled himself in the drawing room to consider the position.

  He felt certain that so far as the anonymous letters were concerned, they could be eliminated. They had, in his opinion, nothing to do with the death of old Reuben Hayles beyond suggesting it to the murderer. That was the new angle that had occurred to him during his interview with the queer man. Daniel Thane had sent those letters purely as the outcome of a delusion, and the person who had killed the archaeologist had seized upon them as a screen behind which he or she could carry out their crime. At least, that was the theory that Mr. Budd was working on.

  Daniel Thane might be crazy, but he was not a killer. The big man could not imagine him killing anyone, much less could he imagine him wandering about in a false beard. That, he felt, was the crux of the whole business.

  He had examined the beard carefully, and discovered that it was not even made of real hair. It was a very bad beard; the kind of trumpery thing that one uses at Christmas. It would have been obviously false if anyone had worn it. And yet the murderer had worn it, and the old man had, apparently, torn it off just before he died. There was no other way to account for its being found in his hand.

  Discarding the letters as having any bearing on the archaeologist’s death brought up a fresh question. What was the motive? Originally it seemed that he had been hailed by some crazy fanatic because he had violated the tomb of Mohammed. But according to Mr. Budd’s new theory this didn’t still hold good. Therefore, he had been killed for some other reason. What was it? If he could discover the motive, then the identity of the murderer shouldn’t be difficult, and that brought him once more to the principal problem. How had the crime been carried out?

  It was useless finding the murderer until he could explain that. The killer could afford to snap his fingers. “You say,” Mr. Budd could hear him remarking triumphantly, “that I killed Hayles. Prove it! Show how it was possible, in the circumstances, for anybody to have killed him!”

  And that was his strong suit. Until that could be answered satisfactorily he was safe—safe even though everyone in the world knew him to be guilty.

  The big man threw away the butt of the cigar he had been smoking and lighted another. What had promised to be a very boring business had turned out to be remarkably interesting. Someone had taken advantage of the threatening letters for their own purpose; had even made a profitable use of the presence of Mr. Budd himself. Behind the murder of the old man was a cunning brain, and the stout superintendent, the more he thought of it, the more uneasy he became. The pattern was not yet complete. At the back of his mind he had an unpleasant feeling that there was more to come—that this killing of the archaeologist was only an item in the scheme which had been hatched by the unknown.

  However, his visit to Daniel Thane had led to something. He was no longer hampered by those anonymous letters. He might have wasted a lot of time on them. Now he was free to devote his inquiries elsewhere.

  Just before lunch Reuben Hayles’s solicitor arrived. He was a jovial, red-faced man, not in the least like the usual conception of a lawyer. The stout man learned that Washington Brown had telephoned for him.

  “This is a dreadful thing—a terrible thing!” he said, when Mr. Budd had a private interview with him. “Have you any idea who could have been responsible for the poor old fellow’s death?”

  The big man shook his head.

  “Not at the moment, but I’m rather glad you’re here, though, because you may be able to help me.”

  Mr. Kinman looked at him in mild surprise.

  “In what way?” be demanded.

  “Well, I’m anxious,” explained Mr. Budd, “to discover a motive, and the most likely motive is money. Was Mr. Hayles a rich man?”

  “It depends,” said the cautious lawyer, “what you consider a rich man. Reuben Hayles was very well off. Everything considered, I suppose he was worth about two hundred thousand pounds.”

  Mr. Budd whistled softly.

  “I’d call that almost a millionaire,” he murmured. “Who gets all this money, sir?”

  The solicitor smiled and shook his head.

  “I’m afraid that’s not going to help you,” he
said. “Everything goes to his niece, Miss Travers, and I don’t think you could suspect her.”

  Mr. Budd scratched his chin.

  “No, I don’t think I can, sir,” he admitted. “Not because she’s a girl and pretty, but because this crime was carried out by somebody more powerful. I doubt if she’d have the strength to administer a blow like what killed Mr. Hayles. So she gets all the money, does she?”

  “Yes. I have the will with me,” replied Mr. Kinman.

  “And did she know she was goin’ to get it?” asked the fat detective.

  The lawyer shook his head.

  “No, she had no idea!” he declared. “The only people who knew were myself, Mr. Hayles, and the secretary, Brown.”

  “H’m!” said the big man disappointedly. “Well I don’t think that’s goin’ to help me a lot. Had Mr. Hayles any enemies?”

  “Every man has enemies,” retorted the solicitor sententiously. “But I know of no one who hated Hayles so much that they would wish to kill him.”

  And on this unsatisfactory note the interview ended.

  The big man had to admit that he was completely at sea. With the exception of the beard, he had no clue at all to the identity of the killer. Neither could he find a motive, which might have given him a pointer.

  What was the reason behind the old man’s death? He had exhausted money, and vengeance seemed unlikely. What remained? Jealousy?

  He rambled about the neglected grounds after lunch, smoking cigar after cigar, irritable and depressed, and he was coming despondently back to the house with the intention of going to his room for a short rest, when he saw Murley looking anxiously about. The butler caught sight of him at the same moment, and came quickly towards him.

  “I’ve been trying to find you, sir,” he said, and his face was drawn and worried. “I’ve found something important.”

  “What is it?” asked Mr. Budd hopefully.

  “If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you, sir,” said the big-nosed man, and led the way into the house.

  He ascended the staircase, passed along the corridor in which Mr. Budd, on the previous night, had kept his vigil, and paused outside a door at the far end.