“But the telephone call,” I insisted; “you haven’t explained that yet.”
“No,” he agreed, “we must overcome that; but it does not destroy my theory, even though it might break down a prosecution in court.
“Consider this: After leaving the hotel, we returned to see Monsieur Martin, and I voiced my suspicions that Mademoiselle Stiles’ death needed further explanation. Monsieur Martin agreed.
“Thereupon the good Costello and I resorted to a ruse de guerre. We told all we knew concerning Monsieur Marschaulk’s death, but suppressed all mention of that sacré telephone call.
“My friend, we were successful. Entirely so. At our most earnest request Monsieur Martin forthwith ordered exhumation of Mademoiselle Stiles’s body. In the dead of night we disentombed her and took her to his mortuary. It was hard to get Parnell, the coroner’s physician, from his bed, for he is a lazy swine, but at last we succeeded in knocking him up and forced him to perform a postmortem examination. My friend, Matilda Stiles was done to death; she was murdered!”
“You’re crazy!” I told him. “Dr. Replier’s certificate stated—”
“Ah bah, that certificate, it is fit only to light the fire!” he cut in. “Listen: In Mademoiselle Stiles’s mouth, and in her stomach, too, we did find minute, but clearly recognizable traces of Hg(CN)—mercuric cyanide! I repeat, Friend Trowbridge, she was murdered, and Jules de Grandin will surely lay her slayers by the heels. Yes.”
“But—”
The shrill, insistent summons of the ’phone bell interrupted my protest.
The call was for de Grandin, and after a moment’s low conversation he hung up, returning to the breakfast room with grimly set mouth. “L’heure zéro strikes tonight, Friend Trowbridge,” he announced gravely. “That was the excellent detective I have had on young Glendower’s trail. He reports they have just intercepted a conversation the young man had by telephone with Mademoiselle Estrella. He is to make the ‘act of supreme adoration’ this night.”
“But what can we do?” I asked, filled with vague forebodings despite my better judgment “If—”
“Eh bien, first of all we can sleep; at least, I can,” he answered with a yawn. I feel as though I could slumber round the clock—but I will thank you to have me called in time for dinner, if you please.”
5
“ALLO?” DE GRANDIN SNATCHED the telephone from its hook as the bell’s first warning tinkle sounded. “You say so? It is well; we come forthwith, instantly, at once!”
Turning to Costello and me he announced: “The time is come, my friends; my watcher has reported the young Glendower but now left his house en route for the Hudgekins’ dwelling. Come, let us go.”
Hastening into our outdoor clothes we set out for the Granada and were hailed by the undersized man with the oversized ears as we neared the hotel. “He went in ten minutes ago,” the sleuth informed us, “an’ unless he’s got wings, he’s still there.”
“Eh bien, then we remain here,” de Grandin returned, nestling deeper into the folds of the steamer rug he had wrapped about him.
Half an hour passed, an hour, two; still Raymond Glendower lingered. “I’m for going home,” I suggested as a particularly sharp gust of the unseasonably cold spring wind swept down the street. “The chances are Raymond’s only paying a social call anyway, and—”
“Tiens, if that be true, his sociability is ended,” de Grandin interrupted. “Behold, he comes.”
Sure enough, young Glendower emerged from the hotel, a look of such rapt inattention on his face as might be worn by a bridegroom setting out for the church.
I leaned forward to start the motor, but the Frenchman restrained me. “Wait a moment, my friend,” he urged. “The young Monsieur’s movements will be watched by sharper eyes than ours, and it is of the movements of Monsieur and Madame Hudgekins I would take note at this time.”
Again we entered on a period of waiting, but this time our vigil was not so long. Less than half an hour after Raymond left the hotel a light delivery truck drove up to the Granada’s service entrance and two men in overalls and jumper alighted. Within a few minutes they returned bearing between them a long wooden box upholstered in coarse denim. Apparently the thing was the base of a combination couch and clothes-chest, but from the slow care with which its bearers carried it, it might have been filled with something fragile as glass and heavy as lead.
“U’m,” de Grandin twisted viciously at the tips of his tightly waxed wheat-blond mustache, “my friends, I damn think I shall try an experiment: Trowbridge, mon ami, do you remain here. Sergeant, will you come with me?”
They crossed the street, entered, the corner drug-store and waited something like five minutes. The Frenchman was elated, the Irishman thoughtful as they rejoined me. “Three times we did attempt to get the Hudgekins apartment by telephone,” de Grandin explained with a satisfied chuckle, “and three times Mademoiselle the Central Operator informed us the line did not answer and returned our coin. Now, Friend Trowbridge, do you care to hazard a guess what the contents of that box we saw depart might have been?”
“You mean—”
“Perfectly; no less. Our friends the Hudgekins lay snugly inside that coffin-like box, undoubtlessly grinning like cats fed on cheese and thumbing their noses at the attendants in the hotel lobby. Tomorrow those innocent ones will swear upon a pile of Bibles ten meters high that neither the amiable Monsieur Hudgekins nor his equally amiable wife left the place. More, I will wager they will solemnly affirm Monsieur or Madame Hudgekins called the office by ’phone and demanded more steam in the radiators!”
“But they can’t do that,” I protested. “There’s an inside ’phone in the house, and a call made from an instrument outside would not be taken over one of the house ’phones. They couldn’t—”
My argument was cut short by the approach of a nondescript individual who touched his hat to de Grandin. “He’s gone to 487 Luxor Road,” this person announced, “an’ Shipley just ’phoned a furniture wagon drove up an’ two birds lugged a hell of a heavy box up th’ stairs to th’ hall.
“Oh, sure,” he nodded in response to the Frenchman’s admonition. “We’ll call their apartment every fifteen minutes from now till you tell us to lay-off.”
“Très bien,” de Grandin snapped “Now, Friend Trowbridge, to 487 Luxor Road, if you please. Sergeant, you will come as soon as possible?”
“You betcha,” Costello responded as he swung from the car and set off toward the nearest police station.
IT WAS AN UNSAVORY neighborhood through which Luxor Road ran, and the tumble-down building which was number 487 was the least respectable-appearing to be found in a thoroughly disreputable block. In days before the war the ground floor had housed a saloon, and its proprietors or their successors had evidently nourished an ambition to continue business against the form of the statute in such case made and provided, for pasted to the grimy glass of the window was a large white placard announcing that the place was closed by order of the United States District Court, and a padlock and hasp of impressive proportions decorated the principal entrance. Another sign, more difficult to decipher, hung above the doorway to the upper story, announcing that the hall above was for rent for weddings, lodges and select parties.
Up the rickety stairs leading to this dubious apartment de Grandin led the way.
The landing at the stairhead was dark as Erebus; no gleam of light seeped under the door which barred the way, but the Frenchman tiptoed across the dusty floor and tapped timidly on the panels. Silence answered his summons, but as he repeated the hail the door swung inward a few inches and a hooded figure peered through the crack. “Who comes,” the porter whispered, “and why have ye not the mystic knock?”
“Morbleu, perhaps this knock will be more greatly to your liking?” the Frenchman answered in a low, hard whisper, as his blackjack thudded sickeningly on the warder’s hooded head.
“Assist me, my friend,” he ordered in a low breath, catching
the man as he toppled forward and easing him to the floor. “So. Off with his robe while I make sure of his good behavior with these.” The snap of handcuffs sounded, and in a moment de Grandin rose, donned the hooded mantle he had stripped from the unconscious man, and tiptoed through the door.
We felt our way across the dimly lighted anteroom beyond and parted a pair of muffling curtains to peer into a lodge hall some twenty feet wide by fifty long. Flickering candles burning in globes of red and blue glass gave the place illumination which was just one degree less than darkness. Near us was a raised platform or altar approached by three high steps carpeted with a drugget on which were worked designs of a triangle surrounding an opened eye, one of the emblems appearing on the lift of each step. Upon the altar itself stood two square columns painted a dull red and surmounted by blue candles at least two inches thick, which burned smokily, diluting, rather than dispelling, the surrounding darkness. Each column was decorated with a crudely daubed picture of a cockerel equipped with three human legs, and behind the platform was a reredos bearing the device of two interlaced triangles enclosing an opened eye and surrounded by two circles, the outer red, the inner blue. Brazen pots of incense stood upon each step, and from their perforated conical caps poured forth dense clouds of sweet, almost sickeningly perfumed smoke.
Facing the altar on two rows of backless benches sat the congregation, each so enveloped in a hooded robe that it was impossible to distinguish the face, or even the sex of various individuals.
Almost as de Grandin parted the curtains a mellow-toned gong sounded three deep, admonitory notes, and, preceded by a blue-robed figure and followed by another in robes of scarlet, Estrella Hudgekins entered the room, from the farther end. She was draped in some sort of garment of white linen embroidered in blue, red and yellow, the costume seeming to consist of a split tunic with long, wide-mouthed sleeves which reached to the wrists. The skirt, if such it could be called, depended forward from her shoulders like a clergyman’s stole, and while it screened the fore part of her body, it revealed her nether limbs from hip to ankle at every shuffling step. Behind, it hung down like a loose cloak, completely veiling her from neck to heels. Upon her head was a tall cap of starched white linen shaped something like a bishop’s miter and surmounted by a golden representation of the triangle enclosing the opened, all-seeing eye. Beneath the cap her golden hair had been smoothly brushed and parted, and plaited with strings of rubies and of pearls, the braids falling forward over her shoulders and reaching almost to her knees.
As she advanced into the spot of luminance cast by the altar candles we saw the reason for her sliding, shuffling walk. Her nude, white feet were shod with sandals of solid gold consisting of soles with exaggeratedly upturned toes and a single metallic instep strap, making it impossible for her to retain the rigid, metallic footgear and lift her feet even an inch from the floor.
Just before the altar her escort halted, ranging themselves on each side of her, and like a trio of mechanically controlled automata, they sank to their knees, crossed their hands upon their breasts and lowered their foreheads to the floor. At this the congregation followed suit and for a moment utter quiet reigned in the hall, as priestess and votaries lay prostrate in silent adoration.
Then up she leaped, cast off her golden shoes, and advancing to the altar’s lowest step, began a stamping, whirling dance, accompanied only by the rhythmic clapping of the congregation’s hands. And as she danced I saw a cloud of fine, white powder dust upward from the rug and fall, like snow on marble upon the whiteness of her feet.
“Ah?” breathed Jules de Grandin in my ear, and from his tone I knew he found the answer to something which had puzzled him.
The dance endured for possibly five minutes, then ended sharply as it had commenced, and like a queen ascending to her throne, Estrella mounted the three steps of the altar, her powder-sprinkled feet leaving a trail of whitened prints on the purple carpet as she passed.
“Come forth, O chosen of the Highest; advance, O happiest of the servants of the One,” chanted one of the cowled figures who had escorted the priestess. “You who have been chosen from among the flock to make the Act of Supreme Adoration; if you have searched your soul and found no guile therein, advance and make obeisance to the Godhead’s Incarnation!”
There was a fluttering of robes and a craning of hooded heads toward the rear of the hall as a new figure advanced from the shadows. He was all in spotless linen like the priestess, but as he strode resolutely forward we saw the smock-like garment which enveloped him was drawn over his everyday attire.
“Morbleu,” de Grandin murmured, “I have it; it is easier that way! Dressing a corpse is awkward business, while stripping the robe from off a body is but an instant’s work. Yes.”
“Forasmuch as our brother Raymond has purified and cleansed his body by fasting and his mind and soul by meditation, and has made petition to the All-Highest for permission to perform the Act of Supreme Adoration, know ye all here assembled that it is the will of the Divine All, as manifested in a vision vouchsafed His priestess and Incarnation, that His servant be allowed to make the trial,” the hooded master of ceremonies announced in a deep, sepulchral voice.
Turning to Raymond, he cautioned: “Know ye, my brother, that there is but one in all the earth deemed fitting to pass this test. The world is large, its people many; dost thou dare? Bethink you, if there be but one small taint of worldliness in your most secret thoughts, your presumption in offering yourself as life-mate to the priestess is punishable by death of body and everlasting annihilation of soul, for it has been revealed that many shall apply and only one be chosen.”
To the congregation he announced: “If the candidate be a woman and pass the test, then shall the priestess cleave unto her so long as she shall live, and be forever her companion. If he be a man, he may ask her hand in marriage, and she may not refuse him. But if he fail, death shall be his portion. Is it the law?”
“It is the law!” chanted the assembly in one voice.
“And dost thou still persist in thy trial?” the hooded one demanded, turning once more to Raymond. “Remember, already two have tried and been found wanting, and the wrath of the Divine All smote and withered them even as they performed the act of adoration. Dost thou dare?”
“I do!” said Raymond Glendower as his eyes sought the lovely, smiling eyes of the white-robed priestess.
“It is well. Proceed, my son. Make thou the Act of Supremest Adoration, and may the favor of the Divine All accompany thee!”
IT WAS DEATHLY SILENT in the room as Raymond Glendower dropped upon his knees and crept toward the altar steps. Only the sigh of quickly indrawn breath betrayed the keyed emotion of the congregation as they leaned forward to see a man gamble with his life as forfeit.
Arms outstretched to right and left, head thrown back, body erect, the priestess stood, a lovely, cruciform figure between the flickering candles as her lover crept slowly up the altar steps.
At the topmost step he paused, kneeled erect a moment, then placed his hands palm downward each side the priestess’ feet.
“Salute!” the hooded acolyte cried. “Salute with lips and tongue the feet of her who is the living shrine and temple of the Most High, the Divine All. Salute the Ivory-footed Incarnation of our God!”
Lips pursed as though to kiss a holy thing; Raymond Glendower bent his head above Estrella’s ivory insteps, but:
“My hands beloved, not my feet!” she cried, dropping her arms before her and holding out her hands, palm forward, to his lips.
“Mordieu,” de Grandin whispered in delight, “Love conquers all, my friend, even her mistaught belief that she is God’s own personal representative!”
“Sacrilege!” roared the hooded man. “It is not so written in the law! ’Tis death and worse than death for one who has not passed the test to touch the priestess’ hands!”
A shaft of blinding light, gleaming as the sunlight, revealing as the glow of day, shot through the gloom and
lighted up the hate-distorted features of Timothy Hudgekins beneath the monk’s-hood of the robe he wore. “Sacrilege it is, parbleu, but it is you who make it!” de Grandin cried as he focused his flashlight upon the master of ceremonies and advanced with a slow, menacing stride across the temple’s floor.
“You?” Hudgekins cried. “You rat, you nasty little sneak, I’ll break every bone—”
He launched himself on Jules de Grandin with a bellow like an infuriated bull.
The slender Frenchman crumpled like a broken reed beneath the other’s charge, then straightened like a loosed steel spring, flinging Hudgekins sprawling face downward upon the carpet where the priestess had performed her dance.
“À moi, Sergent; à moi, les gendarmes; I have them!” he cried, and the stamping of thick-soled boots, the impact of fist and nightstick on hooded heads, mingled with the cries, curses and lamentations of the congregation of the Church of the Heavenly Gnosis as Costello led his platoon of policemen in the raid.
“Susanna Hudgekins, alias Frisco Sue, alias Annie Rooney, alias Sue Cheney, alias only the good God alone knows what else, I charge you with conspiracy to kill and murder Raymond Glendower, and with having murdered by conspiracy Matilda Stiles and Lawson Marschaulk—look to her, Sergeant,” de Grandin cried, pointing a level finger at the second hooded form which had accompanied the priestess to the altar.
“What’ll we do wid th’ he one an’ th’ gur-rl, sor?” Costello asked as he clasped a pair of handcuffs on Susanna Hudgekins’ wrists.
“The man—” de Grandin began, then:
“Grand-Dieu, behold him!”
Timothy Hudgekins lay where he had fallen; his face buried in the deep-piled, powder-saturated carpet on which the priestess had danced. A single glance told us he was dead.
“I damn think the city mortuary would be his last abiding-place—till he fills a felon’s grave,” de Grandin announced callously. “He is caught in his own pitfall.”
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