The Devil's Rosary

by Seabury Quinn

  Further conversation developed he was attached to the Turkish consulate in New York, that he had met Mrs. Heacoat in England the previous summer, and that he would be exceedingly glad when he might bid his hostess good night.

  “Tiens, they stare so, these Americans,” he complained. “Now, in London or Paris—”

  “Monsoor and Modom Bera!” announced the butler, his impressive, full-throated English voice cutting through the staccato of chatter as the booming of the surf sounds through the strains of a seaside resort band.

  We turned casually to view the newcomers, then kept our eyes at gaze; they were easily the most interesting people in the room. Madame Bera walked a half-pace before her husband, tall, exquisite, exotic as an orchid blooming in a New England garden. Tawny hair combed close to a small head framed a broad white brow, and under fine dark brown brows looked out the most remarkable eyes I had ever seen. Widely separated, their roundness gave them an illusion of immensity which seemed to diminish her face, and their color was a baffling shade of greenish amber, contrasting oddly with her leonine hair and warm, maize-tan complexion. From cheek to cheek her face was wide, tapering to a pointed chin, and her nostrils flared slightly, like those of an alert feline scenting hidden danger. Her evening dress, cut rather higher than the prevailing mode, encased her large, supple figure with glove tightness from breast to waist, then flared outward to an uneven hem that almost swept the floor. Beneath the edge of her sand-colored chiffon gown her feet, in sandals of gold kid, appeared absurdly small for her height as she crossed the room with a lithe, easy stride that seemed positively pantherine in its effortless grace.

  Older by a score of years than his consort, Monsieur Bera yet had something of the same feline ease of movement that characterized her. Like hers, his face was wide from cheek to cheek, pointed at the chin and with unusually wide nostrils. Unlike his wife’s, his eyes were rather long than round, inclined to be oblique, and half closed, as if to shade them from the glitter of the electric lights. Fast-thinning grey hair was combed back from his brow in an effort to conceal his spreading bald spot, and his wide mouth was adorned by a waxed mustache of the kind affected by Prussian officers in pre-Nazi days. Through the lens of a rimless monocle fixed in his right eye he seemed to view the assemblage with a sardonic contempt.

  “Ye Allah!” the young Turk who stood between de Grandin and me sank his fingers into our elbows. “Bism’ allah ar-rahman ar-rahim! Do you see them? They look as if they were of that people!”

  “Eh, you say what?” whispered Jules de Grandin sharply.

  “It is no matter, sir; you would not understand.”

  “Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur, I understand you very well, indeed. Some little time ago I had to go to Tunis to make investigation of a threatened uprising of the tribesmen. Disguised as a Père Blanc—and other things—I mingled with the natives. It was vile—I had to shave off my mustaches!—but it was instructive. I learned much. I learned, by example, of the djinn that haunt the ruins of Carthage, and of the strange ones who reside in tombs; a weird and dreadful folk without a name—at any rate, without a name which can be mentioned.”

  Arif Pasha looked at Jules de Grandin fearfully. “You have seen them?” he asked in a low breath.

  “I have heard much of them, and their stigmata has been described to me. Come, let us seek an introduction to la belle Bera.”

  “Allah forbid,” the young Turk denied, walking hastily away.

  The lady proved gracious as she was beautiful. Viewed closely, her strange eyes were stranger still, for they had a trick of contracting their pupils in the light, bringing out the full beauty of their fine irises, and expanding in shadow till they seemed black as night. Too, I noted when she smiled her slow wide smile, all four canine teeth seemed overprominent and sharp. This, perhaps, accounted for the startling contrast between her crimson lips and her perfect dentition. Her hands were unusual, too. Small and fine they were, with supple, slender fingers but unusually wide palms, and the nails, shaped to a point and brightly varnished, curved oddly downward over the fingertips; had they been longer or less carefully tended they would have suggested talons. Her voice was a rich heavy contralto, and when she spoke slow hesitant English there was an odd purring undertone beneath her words.

  The odd characteristics which seemed somehow exotically attractive in his wife were intensified in Monsieur Bera. The over-prominent teeth which lent a kind of piquant charm to her smile were a deformity in his dun-lipped mouth; the overhanging nails that made her long fingers seem longer still were definitely claw-like on his hands, and the odd trick of contracting and expanding his pupils in changing lights gave his narrow eyes a furtive look unpleasantly reminiscent of the eyes of a dope-fiend or a cruel, treacherous cat.

  “Madame, I am interested,” de Grandin admitted with the frankness only he could employ without seeming discourteous. “Your name intrigues me. It is not French, yet I heard you introduced as Monsieur and Madame—”

  The lady smiled languidly, showing pearly teeth and crimson lips effectively. “We are Tunisians,” she answered. “Both my husband and I come from North Africa.”

  “Ah, then I am indeed fortunate,” he smiled delightedly. “Is it by some great fortune you reside in this city? If so I should greatly esteem permission to call—”

  I heard no summons, but Madame Bera evidently did, for with another smile and friendly nod she left us to join Mrs. Heacoat.

  “Beard of a small blue man!” de Grandin grinned wryly as we rejoined the young Turk, “it seems that Jules de Grandin loses his appeal for the sex. Was ever the chilled shoulder more effectively presented than by la charmante Bera?

  “Come, mes amis,” he linked his hands through our elbows and drew us toward the farther room, “women may smile, or women may frown, but champagne punch is always pleasant to the taste.”

  We sampled several kinds of punch and sandwiches and small sweet cakes, then made our adieux to our hostess. Outside, as Arif Pasha was about to enter his taxi, de Grandin tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “If we should hear more of them, I can find you, my friend?” he asked cryptically.

  The young Turk nodded. “I shall be ready if you call,” he promised.

  “WOULD YOU GUYS LIKE a spot o’ proletarian whisky to take the taste of all that champagne out o’ your mouths?” asked Dr. Donovan as we joined him in his office at the hospital.

  “A thousand thanks,” de Grandin answered. “Champagne is good, but whisky, as your saying puts it so drolly, hits the spot. By all means, let us indulge.

  “You are not drinking?” he asked as Donovan poured a generous portion for him, and a like one for me.

  “Nope, not on duty. Might give some o’ my nuts bad ideas,” the other grinned. “However, bottoms up, you fellers, then let’s take a gander at my newest curio.

  “It was early this morning, half-past four or so, when a state constabulary patrol found her wandering around the woods west of Mooreston with nothing but a nightdress on. They questioned her, but could get nowhere. Most of the time she didn’t speak at all, and when she did it was only to slobber some sort o’ meaningless gibberish. According to Hoyle they should have taken her to the State Hospital for observation, but they’re pretty full over there, and prefer to handle only regularly committed cases, so the troopers brought her here and turned her over to the city police.

  “Frankly, the case has my goat. Familiar with dementia præcox, are you, Doctor?” he turned questioningly to de Grandin.

  “Quite,” the Frenchman answered. “I have seen many poor ones suffering from it. Usually it occurs between the ages of fifteen and thirty-five, though most cases I have observed were in the early thirties. Wherever I have seen it the disease was characterized by states of excitement accompanied by delusions of aural or visual type. Most patients believed they were persecuted, or had been through some harrowing experience—occasionally they posed, gesticulated and grimaced.”

  “Just so,” agreed Donovan. “Yo
u’ve got it down pat, Doctor. I thought I had, too, but I’m not so sure now. What would be your diagnosis if a patient displayed every sign of ataxic aphasia, couldn’t utter a single intelligent word, then fell into a stupor lasting eight hours or so and woke up with a case of the horrors? This girl’s about twenty-three, and absolutely perfect physically. What’s more, her reflexes are all right—knee-jerks normal, very sensitive to pain, and all that, but—” He looked inquiringly at de Grandin.

  “From your statement I should suggest dementia præcox. It is well known that such dements frequently fall into comatose sleeps in which they suffer nightmares, and on awaking are so mentally confused they cannot distinguish between the phantoms of their dreams and their waking surroundings.”

  “Precisely. Well, I had a talk with this child and heard her story, then gave her a big dose of codeine in milk. She slept three hours and woke up seemingly as normal as you or I, but I’m damned if she didn’t repeat the same story, chapter and verse, that she gave me when she first came out of her stupor. I’d say she’s sane as a judge if it weren’t for this delusion she persists in. Want to come up now and have a look at her?”

  Donovan’s patient lay on the neat white-iron hospital cot, staring with wide frightened eyes at the little observation-grille in the unlocked door of her cell. Even the conventional high-necked, long-sleeved muslin bed-gown furnished by the hospital could not hide her frail prettiness. With her pale smooth skin, light short hair and big violet eyes in which lay a look of perpetual terror, she was like a little frightened child, and a wave of sympathy swept over me as we entered her room. That de Grandin felt the same I could tell by the kindly smile he gave her as he drew a chair to her bedside and seated himself. He took her thin blue-veined hand in his and patted it gently before placing his fingers on her pulse.

  “I’ve brought a couple of gentlemen to see you, Annie,” Dr. Donovan announced as the little Frenchman gazed intently at the tiny gold watch strapped to the underside of his wrist, comparing its sweep second hand with the girl’s pulsation. “Dr. de Grandin is a famous French detective as well as a physician; he’ll be glad to hear your story; maybe he can do something about it.”

  A tortured look swept across the girl’s thin face as he finished. “You think I’m crazy,” she accused, half rising from her pillow. “I know you do, and you’ve brought these men here to examine me so you can put me in a madhouse for always. Oh, it’s dreadful—I’m not insane, I tell you; I’m as sane as you are, if you’d only listen—”

  “Now, Annie, don’t excite yourself,” Donovan soothed. “You know I wouldn’t do anything like that; I’m your friend—”

  “My name’s not Annie, and you’re not my friend. Nobody is. You think I’m crazy—all you doctors think everyone who gets into your clutches must be crazy, and you’ll send me to a madhouse, and I’ll really go crazy there!”

  “Now, Annie—”

  “My name’s not Annie, I tell you. Why do you keep calling me that?”

  Donovan cast a quick wink at me, then turned a serious face to the girl. “I thought your name was Annie. I must have been mistaken. What is it?”

  “I’ve told you it’s Trula, Trula Petersen. I used to live in Paterson, but lost my place there and couldn’t get anything to do, so I came to Harrisonville looking for work, and—”

  “Very good, Friend Donovan,” de Grandin announced, relinquishing the girl’s wrist, but retaining her fingers in his, “when first this young lady came here she could not tell her name. Now she can. Bon, we make the progress. Her heart action is strong and good. I think perhaps we shall make much more progress. Now, Mademoiselle,” he gave the girl one of his quick friendly smiles, “if you will be so good as to detail your adventures from the start we shall listen with the close attention. Believe me, we are friends, and nothing you say shall be taken as a proof of madness.”

  The girl’s smile was a pitiful, small echo of his own. “I do believe you, sir,” she returned, “and I’ll tell you everything, for I know I can trust you.

  “When the Clareborne Silk Mills closed down in Paterson I lost my place as timekeeper. Most of the other mills were laying off employees, and there wasn’t much chance of another situation there. I’m an orphan with no relatives, and I had to get some sort of work at once, for I didn’t have more than fifty dollars in the bank. After trying several places with no luck I came to Harrisonville where nobody knew me and registered at a domestic servants’ agency. It was better to be a housemaid than starve, I thought.

  “The very day I registered, a Mrs. d’Afrique came looking for a maid, and picked two other girls and me as possibilities. She looked us all over, asked a lot of questions about our families, where we were born, and that sort of thing, then chose me because she said she preferred a maid without relatives or friends, who wouldn’t be wanting to run out every evening. Her car was waiting outside, and I had no baggage except my suitcase, so I went along with her.”

  “U’m?” de Grandin murmured. “And she did take you where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hein? How do you say?”

  “I don’t know, sir. It was a big foreign car with a closed body, and she had me sit in the tonneau with her instead of up front with the chauffeur. When we’d started I noticed for the first time that the windows were of frosted glass, and I couldn’t see where we went. We must have gone a long way, though, for the car seemed traveling very fast, and there were no traffic stops. When we finally stopped we were under a porte-cochère, and we entered the house directly from the car, so I couldn’t get any idea of surroundings.”

  “Dites! Surely, in the days that followed you could look about?”

  A look of terror flared in the girl’s eyes and her pale lips writhed in a grimace of fear. “The days that followed!” she repeated in a thin scream; “it’s the days that followed that brought me here!”

  “Ah? Do you say so?”

  “Now we’re gettin’ it!” Donovan whispered in my ear with a low chuckle. “Go ahead and ask her, de Grandin; you tell him, Annie. This is goin’ to be good.”

  His voice was too low for de Grandin and the girl to catch his words, but his tone and laugh were obvious. “Oh!” the patient wailed, wrenching her hand from de Grandin’s and putting it to her eyes. “Oh, how cruel! You’re all making fun of me!”

  “Be silent, imbécile,” de Grandin turned on Donovan savagely. “Parbleu, cleaning the roadways would be more fitting work for you than treating the infirm of mind! Do not attend him, Mademoiselle.” He repossessed himself of the girl’s hand and smoothed it gently. “Proceed with your narrative. I shall listen, and perhaps believe.”

  For a moment the little patient shook as with an ague, and I could see her grip on his fingers tighten. “Please, please believe me, Doctor,” she begged. “It’s really the truth I’m telling. They wanted—they wanted to—”

  “Did they so, pardieu?” de Grandin replied. “Very good, Mademoiselle, you escaped them. No one shall hurt you now, nor shall you be persecuted. Jules de Grandin promises it. Now to proceed.”

  “I was frightened,” she confessed, “terribly frightened from the moment I got into the car with Mrs. d’Afrique and realized I couldn’t look out. I thought of screaming and trying to jump out, but I was out of work and hungry; besides, she was a big woman and could have overpowered me without trouble.

  “When we got to the house I was still more terrified, and Mrs. d’Afrique seemed to notice it, for she smiled and took me by the arm. Her hands were strong as a man’s—stronger!—and when I tried to draw away she held me tighter and sort of chuckled deep down in her throat—like a big cat purring when it’s caught a mouse. She half led, half shoved me down a long hall that was almost bare of furniture, through a door and down a flight of steps that led to the basement. Next thing I knew she’d pushed me bodily into a little room no bigger than this, and locked the door.

  “The door was solid planking, and the only window was a little barred
opening almost at the ceiling, which I couldn’t reach to look through, even when I pushed the bed over and stood on it.

  “I don’t know how long I was in that place. At first I thought the window let outdoors, but the light seemed the same strength all the time, so I suppose it really looked out into the main basement and what I thought weak sunlight was really reflected from an electric bulb somewhere. At any rate, I determined to fight for my freedom the first chance I had, for I’d read stories of white slavers who kidnaped girls, and I was sure I’d fallen into the hands of some such gang. If I only had!

  “How they timed it I don’t know, but they never opened that door except when I was sleeping. I’d lie awake for hours, pretending to be asleep, so that someone would open the door and give me a chance to die fighting; but nothing ever happened. Then the moment I grew so tired I really fell asleep the door would be opened, my soiled dishes taken out and a fresh supply of food brought in. They didn’t starve me, I’ll say that. There was always some sort of meat—veal or young pork, I thought—and bread and vegetables and a big vacuum bottle of coffee and another of chilled milk. If I hadn’t been so terribly frightened I might have enjoyed it, for I’d been hungry for a long time.

  “One night I woke up with a start. At least, I suppose it was night, though there was really no way of telling. There were voices outside my door, the first I’d heard since I came there. ‘Please, please let me go,’ a girl was pleading sobbingly. ‘I’ve never done anything to you, and I’ll do anything—anything you ask if you’ll only let me go!’

  “Whoever it was she spoke to answered in a soft, gentle, purring sort of voice, ‘Do not be afraid, we seek only to have a little sport with you; then you are free.’