The Devil's Rosary

by Seabury Quinn

  “Lucky thing for me old Ludendorff was with me. The son-of-a-gun could make a monkey out o’ me, flingin’ his contact bomb past me an’ drawin’ me out in th’ open with me back turned to ’im, so’s he could fling his knife into me, but he couldn’t fool th’ dawg. No, sir! He smelt th’ feller forty feet away an’ made a bee-line for him, draggin’ ’im down before you could say Jack Robinson.”

  The Frenchman nodded. “You were indeed most fortunate,” he agreed. “In a few minutes the ambulance will come, and you may go. Meantime—you will?”

  “I’m tellin’ th’ cock-eyed world I will!” Officer Clancy responded as de Grandin moved the brandy bottle and a glass toward him. “Say, Doc, they can cut me up every night o’ th’ week, if I git this kind o’ medicine afterward!”

  “Mon vieux, your comrade waits in the next room,” de Grandin told the other officer. “He is wounded but happy, and I suspect you would like to join him—” he glanced invitingly through the opened door, and as the officer beheld the treatment Clancy was taking for his hurt, he nearly overset the furniture in hasty exit.

  “Now, my friends—to business,” the Frenchman cried as he closed the surgery door on the policemen and turned to eye our prisoner.

  I held a bottle of sal volatile under the man’s nose, and in a moment a twitching of the nostrils and fluttering of lids told us he was coming round. He clutched both chair-arms and half heaved himself upright, but:

  “Slowly my friend; when your time comes to depart, you will not go alone,” de Grandin ordered, digging the muzzle of his pistol into the captive’s ribs. “Be seated, rest yourself, and give us information which we much desire, if you please.”

  “Yes, an’ remember annything ye say may be used agin ye at yer trial,” Costello added officially.

  “Pains of a dyspeptic Billy-goat! Must you always spoil things?” de Grandin snapped, but:

  “It’s quite all right sir, the game seems played, and I appear to have lost,” the prisoner interrupted. “What is it you would like to know?”

  He was a queer figure, one of the queerest I had ever seen. A greatcoat of plum-colored cloth, collared and cuffed with kolinsky, covered him from throat to knees, and beneath the garment his massive legs, arrayed in light gray trousers, stuck forward woodenly, as though his joints were stiff. He was big, huge; wide of shoulder, deep of chest and almost obscenely gross of abdomen. His head was oversized, even for his great body, and nearly round, with out-jutting, sail-like ears. Somehow, his face reminded me of one of those old Japanese terror-masks, mahogany-colored, mustached with badger hair, and snarling malignantly. A stubble of short, gray hair covered his scalp, the fierce gray mustache above his month was stiff as bristles from a scrubbing-brush, and the smile he turned on Jules de Grandin was frozen cruelty warmed by no slightest touch of human pity, while terrible, malignant keenness lurked in his narrow, onyx-black eyes. A single glance at him convinced me that the ruthless murderer of four innocent people was before us, and that his trail of murder would be ended only with his further inability to kill. He waved a hand, loosely, wagging it from the wrist as though it were attached to his forearm by a well-oiled hinge, and I caught the gleam of a magnificent octagonal emerald—a gem worth an emperor’s ransom—on his right forefinger. “What was it you wished to know?” he repeated. Then: “May I smoke?”

  The Frenchman nodded assent, but kept the prisoner covered with his weapon until sure he meant to draw nothing more deadly than a silver cigarette case from his pocket.

  “Begin at the beginning, if you please, Monsieur,” he bade. “We know how you did slay Monsieur Pancoast and his poor son, and how you murdered his defenseless widow, also the poor Monsieur Dalky, but why, we ask to know. For why should four people you had never seen be victims of your lust for killing? Speak quickly; we have not long to wait.”

  The prisoner smiled, and once again I felt the chills run down my back at sight of the grimace.

  “East is East and West is West,

  And never the twain shall meet.”

  he quoted ironically. “I suppose it’s no use attempting to make you share my point of view?”

  “That depends on what your viewpoint is,” de Grandin answered. “You killed them—why?”

  “Because they deserved it richly,” the other returned calmly. “Listen to this charming little story, if you can spare the time:

  “I was born in Mangadone. My father was a chetty—they call them bania in India. A money-lender—usurer—in fine. You know the breed; unsavory lot they are, extracting thirty and forty per cent on loans and keeping whole generations in their debt. Yes, my father was one of them.

  “He was Indian by birth, but took up trade in Burma, and flourished at it like the proverbial green bay tree. His ideas for me, though, were different from the usual Indian’s. He wanted me to be a burra sahib—a ‘somebody,’ as you say. So when the time came he packed me off to England and college to study Shakespeare and the musical classes, but particularly law and finance. I came back a licensed barrister and with a master’s degree in economics.

  “But”—again his evil smile moved across his features—“I came back to a desolated home, as well. My father had a daughter by a second wife, a lovely little thing called Mumtaj, meaning moonflower. He cherished her, was rather more fond of her than the average benighted Indian is of his girl-children; and because of the wealth he had amassed, looked forward to a brilliant match for her.

  “‘Man proposes but God disposes,’ it has been said, you know. In this case it was the White Man’s God, through one of his accredited ministers, who disposed. In the local American mission was an earnest young sahib known as the Reverend Carlin Pancoast, a personable young man who wrestled mightily with Satan, and made astonishing progress at it. My father was liberal-minded; he saw much good in the ways of the sahiblog, believing that our ancient customs were outmoded; so it was not difficult to induce him to send my little sister Moonflower to the mission school.

  “But though he was progressive, my father still adhered to some of the old ways. For instance, he kept the bulk of his wealth in precious metals and jewels, and much of it in gold and silver currency—this last was necessary in order to have ready cash for borrowers, you see. So it was not very difficult for Pancoast Thakin and my sister to lay hands on gold and jewels amounting to three lakhs of rupees—about a hundred thousand dollars—quite a respectable little sum, and virtually every farthing my father had.

  “They fled to China, ‘cross the bay,’ where no one was too inquisitive and British extradition would not reach, except in the larger cities. Then they went inland and to the sea by boat. At Shanghai they parted. It was impossible for a sahib, especially an American preacher-sahib, to take a black girl home with him as wife. But it was not at all embarrassing for him to take home her father’s money, which she had stolen for him, plus my sister’s purchase price.

  “What? Oh, dear me, yes. He sold her. She was ‘damaged goods,’ of course, but proprietors of the floating brothels that ply the China coasts and rivers aren’t over-particular concerning the kind of woman-flesh they buy, provided the price is low enough. So the Reverend Pancoast Sahib was rid of an embarrassing incumbrance, and in a little cash to boot by the deal. Shrewd businessmen, these Yankees.

  “My father was all for prosecuting in the sahibs’ way, but I had other plans. A few odd bits of precious metals were dug up here and there—literally dug up, gentlemen, for Mother Earth is Mother India’s most common safe deposit vault—and with these we began our business life all over again. I profited by what I’d learned in England, and we prospered from the start. In fifteen years we were far wealthier than when the Reverend Carlin Pancoast eloped with my father’s daughter and fortune.

  “But as the Chinese say, ‘we had lost face’—the memory of the insult put on us by the missionary still rankled, and I began to train myself to wipe it out. From fakirs I learned the arts of hypnotism and jugglery, and from Dakaits whom I hired at fa
bulous prices I acquired perfect skill at handling the throwing-knife. Indeed, there was hardly a budmash in all lower Burma more expert in the murderer’s trade than I when I had completed my training.

  “Then I came here. Before the bloody altar of Durga—you know her as Kali, goddess of the thags—I took an oath that Pancoast and all his tribe should perish at my hands, and that everyone who had profited by what he stole from my father should also die.

  “And—I can’t expect you to appreciate this subtlety—I brought along a very useful tool in addition to my knives. I called her Allura. Not bad, eh? She certainly possesses allure, if nothing else.

  “I found her in a London slum, a miserable, undernourished brat without known father and with a gin-soaked female swine for mother. I bought her for thirty shillings, and could have had her for half that, except it pleased me to make sure her dam would drink herself to death, and so I gave her more cash than she had ever seen at one time for the child.

  “I almost repented of my bargain at first, for the child, though beautiful according to Western standards, was very meagerly endowed with brains, almost a half-wit, in fact. But afterward I thanked whatever gods may be that it was so.

  “Her simplicity adapted her ideally to my plan, and I began to practise systematically to kill what little mind she had, substituting my own will for it. The scheme worked perfectly. Before she had reached her twelfth year she was nothing but a living robot—a mechanism with no mind at all, but perfectly responsive to my lightest wish. With only animal instinct to guide her to the simplest vital acts, she would perform any task I set her to, provided I explained in detail just what she was to do. I’ve sent her on a five-hundred-mile journey, had her buy a particular article in a particular shop, and return with it, as if she were an intelligent being; then, when the task was done, she lapsed once more into idiocy, for she has become a mere idiot whenever the support of my will is withdrawn.

  “It was rare sport to send her to be made love to by Pancoast’s cub. The silly moon-calf fell heels over head in love with her at sight, and every day I made her rehearse everything he said—she did it with the fidelity of a gramophone—and told her what to say and do at their next meeting. When I had disposed of his father I had Allura bring the son to a secluded part of the campus and—how is it you say in French, Doctor de Grandin? Ah, yes, there I administered the coup de grâce. It was really droll. She didn’t even notice when I cut him down, just stood there, looking at the spot where he had stood, and saying, ‘Poor Harold; dear Harold; I’m so sorry, dear!’

  “She was useful in getting Pancoast’s widow out of the house and into my reach, too.

  “Dalky I handled on my own, using the telephone in approved American fashion to ‘put him on the spot,’ as your gangsters so quaintly phrase it.

  “Your activities were becoming annoying, though, Doctor de Grandin, so I reluctantly decided to eliminate you. Tell me, how did you suspect my trap? Did Allura fail? She never did before.”

  “I fear you underestimated my ability to grasp the Oriental viewpoint, my friend.” de Grandin answered dryly. “Besides, although it had been burned, I rescued Mademoiselle Allura’s card from Madame Pancoast’s fire, and read the message on it. That, and the warning we found in Monsieur Dalky’s waistcoat pocket—I saw it thrown through the window to him at the Pancoast funeral—these gave me the necessary clues. Now, if you have no more to say, let us be going. The Harrisonville gendamerie will be delighted to provide you entertainment, I assure you.”

  “A final cigarette?” the prisoner asked, selecting one of the long, ivory-tipped paper tubes from his case with nice precision.

  “Mais oui, of course,” de Grandin agreed, and held his flaming lighter forward.

  “I fear you do underestimate the Oriental mind, after all, de Grandin,” the prisoner laughed, and thrust half the cigarette into his mouth, then bit it viciously.

  “Mille diables, he has tricked us!” the Frenchman cried as a strong odor of peach kernels flooded the atmosphere and the captive lurched forward spasmodically, then fell back in his chair with gaping month and staring, death-glazed eyes. “He was clever, that one. All camouflaged within his cigarette he had a sac of hydrocyanic acid. Less than one grain produces almost instant death; he had a least ten times that amount ready for emergency.

  “Eh bien, my friend,” he turned to Costello with a philosophical shrug, “it will save the state the expense of a trial and of electric current to put him to death. Perhaps it is better so. Who knows?”

  “What about the girl, Allura?” I asked.

  He pondered a moment, then: “I hope he was mistaken,” he returned. “If she could be made intelligent by hypnotism, as he said, there is a chance her seeming idiocy may be entirely cured by psychotherapy. It is worth the trial, at all events. Tomorrow we shall begin experiments.

  “Meantime, I go.”

  “Where?” Costello and I asked together.

  “Where?” he echoed, as though surprised at our stupidity. “Where but to see if those so thirsty gentlemen of the police have left one drink of brandy in the bottle for Jules de Grandin, pardieu!”

  The Wolf of Saint Bonnot

  THE HOUSE PARTY WITH which Norval Fleetwood was celebrating the completion of Twelvetrees, his new country home, was drawing to an inauspicious close. Friday and Saturday had been successful, and more than one luckless bunny had found his way into the game-bags and thence to the pot-pie, but with Sunday morning came a let-down that set the guests longing for the city, the theatre, the night clubs and the comfortable crowded associations of the workaday world. The day opened with a cold rain, by evening autumn had capitulated and winter took possession of the world like a rowdy barbarian sacking a captured city. The guests were weary of each other as shipwrecked mariners might tire of their companions, and to make bad matters worse the line that fed electric current to the house went dead. At the same instant that the radio stopped blaring swing music every light in the house winked out.

  Little spurts of flame here and there proclaimed lighted matches, a few candles were found and set alight, and by their feeble glow the host and his guests settled down to wait a reasonable excuse to say good night to each other.

  “Oh, I know what let’s do!” Mazie Noyer, plump, forty and unbecomingly flirtatious, cried in the high, thin voice which seems the special property of short, fat women, “Let’s have a séance! This is just the night for it; cold, dark and spooky. Come on, everybody; I’ll be the medium. I can make a dining-table take a joke any time!”

  “Morbleu, she states the simple truth,” commented Jules de Grandin caustically. “Does she not make the table the butt of her joking three times every day, to make no mention of her goûters between meals? Do not join them, Friend Trowbridge; he who puts his hands upon the table to evoke the spirits often rises with burned fingers. Let them have their foolishness alone.”

  Accordingly, while Fleetwood, his young wife and seven of their guests trailed into the dining room in the wake of Mazie’s provocatively swishing skirts, we remained before the hall fire where we could watch the dim shapes circled round the table, yet be ourselves unobserved.

  The ring was quickly formed. Each member of the party placed his hands flat on the table, thumbs touching, his extended little fingers in light contact with those of his neighbors to right and left.

  “I think we ought to sing,” suggested Mazie. “Madame Northrop always begins her séances with a hymn. What shall it be?” For a moment there was silence, then in a quavering tremolo she began:

  “Behold the innumerable host

  Of angels clothed in light,

  Behold the spins of the just

  Whose faith is changed to sight …”

  She ended with a drooping, pleading note, then spoke in a hushed whisper, as though she half believed her own mummery:

  “Spirits of the departed, you from before whose eyes the separating veil has been lifted, we are assembled to commune with you, if any of you be
present.” A short pause, then, “Are there any spirits with us? If so, signify your presence by rapping once upon the table.”

  Another pause in which the crackling of a burning knot came almost thunderously, then: “Oh, how nice! Is it fine or superfine—I mean man or woman. Rap once for a man, twice for a woman, please.”

  Jules de Grandin’s sleek blond head shot forward, every line of his face showing alert attention. Through the dim candlelit dusk we caught the echo of a single sharp incisive knock.

  “A man! Who are—I mean who were you?” Mazie’s thin voice shook with eagerness. “Where and when did you live? Strike once for A, twice for B, three times for C, and so on.”

  Another pause, and then a distinct rapping like a knuckle struck against the table. Seven strokes, then nine, then twelve, another twelve, then five, continuing until “G-i-l-l-e-s G-a-r-n-i-e-r—St. Bonnot—in the reign of King Charles,” had been laboriously spelled on the resounding wood.

  “Mon Dieu, ‘Gilles Garnier of St. Bonnot,’ it says!” de Grandin exclaimed in a rasping whisper. “This is no longer a matter to amuse fools, Friend Trowbridge. We must intervene at once, immediately; right away.” He took a step toward the dining room, but paused in midstep, his head thrown back like a dog scenting danger. I, too, felt a chill of nervous excitement—almost terror—run through me, for even as the little Frenchman paused there came from far away a long-drawn ululant howl, rising in a hopelessly prolonged crescendo, sinking to a moan, then rising once again in quavering, disconsolate despair. And as the distant howl died out amid the whistling chorus of the wind, there came an answering call from the darkened dining-room.