The dream detective
oscillation of the floor as though two heavy men were at hand grips;
next, a crash that shook the room, and a high-pitched cry of which he
only partially comprehended the last word. This he asserted to be
“holy.”
That Heimer stood transfixed at the open door throughout all this,
suffices to brand him a coward. It was, in fact, only his stories of
shadowy figures in the picture gallery and his general disinclination
to leave his room after dusk that had prompted Heidelberger--a man of
different mettle--to wire to London for the servant.
At this juncture, however, moved as much by a fear of the sudden
silence as by any higher motive, he took a revolver from the table
drawer, and, holding it cocked in one hand and seizing the lamp in the
other, he crept, trembling, up a narrow little stair that led to a
door beneath the minstrel’s gallery. To open it he had to place the
lamp on the floor, and, at the moment of doing so, he heard a sound
inside the hall like the grating of a badly oiled lock.
Then, with the lamp held high above his head, he peered inside; and,
considering the character of the man, it is worthy of note that he did
not faint on the spot, for the feeble light, but serving, as it did,
to intensify the gloom of the long and shadowy place, revealed a scene
well calculated to shake the nerves of a stouter man than Heimer.
Less than six feet from where he stood, and lying flat on his back
with his head toward the light, was Heidelberger in a perfect pool of
blood, his skull cleft almost to the chine! Beside him on the floor
lay the fearful weapon that had wrought his end--an enormous
battle-ax, a relic of the Crusades such as none but a man of Herculean
strength could possibly wield.
Sick with terror, and scarcely capable of keeping his feet, Heimer
gave one glance around the gloomy place, which showed him that, save
for the murdered man, it was empty; then he staggered down the narrow
stairs and let himself out into the grounds. Slightly revived by the
fresh night air, but fearful of pursuit by the unknown assassin, he
ran, as fast as his condition would allow, into the village.
“Here it is--Uxley!” jerked Moris Klaw.
III
“Ah!” cried Moris Klaw, in a species of fanatic rapture, “look at the
blood!”
We stood in the ancient banqueting hall of Crespie. By a distant door
I could see a policeman on duty. A ghostly silence was the marked
feature of the place. Klaw’s harsh, rumbling voice echoed eerily about
that chamber sacred to the shades of departed Crespies.
Isis Klaw stood beside her father. They were a wildly incongruous
couple. The girl looked down at the bloodstained flooring with the
calm scrutiny of an experienced criminologist.
“This spot must be alive with odic impressions,” she said, softly.
A local officer, who formed one of the group, stared
uncomprehendingly. Moris Klaw instinctively turned to him.
“You stare widely, my friend!” he said. “It is clear you know nothing
of the psychology of crime! Let me, then, enlighten you. First: all
crime”--he waved one long hand characteristically--“operates in
cycles. Its history repeats itself, you understand. Second: thoughts
are _things_. One who dies the violent death has, at the end, a strong
mental emotion--an etheric storm. The air--the atmosphere--retains
imprints of that storm.”
“Indeed!” said the officer.
“Yes, indeed! I shall not sleep in this place--as is my usual custom
in such inquiries. Why? Because I am afraid of the _shock_ of
experiencing such an emotion as was this late Heidelberger’s! Ah! you
are dense as a bull! Once, my bovine friend, I slept upon a spot in
desolate Palestine where a poor woman had been stoned to death. In my
dreams those merciless stones struck me! Upon the head and the face
they crashed! And I was helpless--bound--as was the unhappy one who
for her poor little sins had had her life crushed from her tender
body!”
He ceased. No one spoke. In such moments, Moris Klaw became a
magician; a weaver of spells. The most unimpressionable shuddered as
though the strange things which this strangest of men told of, lived,
moved, before their eyes. Then--
“Yonder is the ax, sir,” said the local man, with a sudden awed
respect.
Klaw walked over to where the huge battle-ax stood against a post of
the gallery.
“Try to lift it, Mr. Klaw,” said Grimsby. “It will give you some idea
of what sort of man the murderer must have been! I can’t raise it
upright by the haft with one hand.”
Moris Klaw seized the ax. Whilst Grimsby, the local man and myself
stared amazedly, he swung it about his head as one swings an Indian
club! He struck with it--to right--to left; he laid it down.
“My father has a wrist of steel!” came the soft voice of Isis. “Did
you not know that he was once a famous swordsman?”
Klaw removed his hat, took out the scent spray and bathed his forehead
with verbena.
“That is a _man’s_ ax!” he said. “Isis, what do we know of such an ax?
We, who have so complete a catalogue of such relics?”
Isis Klaw produced from her bag a bulky notebook.
“It is the third one,” she replied, calmly, passing the open book to
her father; “the one we thought!”
“Ah,” rumbled Klaw, adjusting his pince-nez, “‘Black Geoffrey’s’ ax!”
He turned again to Palmer, the local officer. “All such antiques,” he
said, “have histories. I collect those histories, you understand. This
ax was carried by ‘Black Geoffrey,’ a very early Crespie, in the first
Crusade. It slew many Saracens, I doubt not. But this does not
interest me. In the reign of Henry VIII we find it dwelt, this great
ax, at Dyke Manor, which is in Norfolk. It was not until Charles II
that it came to Crespie Hall. And what happened at Dyke Manor? One Sir
Gilbert Myerly was slain by it! Who wielded it? Patience, my friends!
All is clear to me! What a wonderful science is the Science of
Cycles!”
Behind the pebbles his eyes gleamed with excitement. It seemed as
though his notes (how obtained I was unable to conjecture) had
furnished him with a clue; although to me they seemed to have not the
slightest bearing upon the case.
“Now, Mr. Grimsby,” continued Moris Klaw: “In a few words, what is the
evidence against Ryder, the butler?”
“Well,” was the reply, “you will note where the ax used to hang, up
there before the rail of the minstrels’ gallery. The theory is that
the murderer rushed up, wrenched the ax from its fastening----”
“Theories, my friend,” interrupted Moris Klaw, “are not evidence!”
Isis gazed at Mr. Grimsby with a smile. He looked embarrassed.
“Sorry!” he said, humbly. “Here are the facts, then. In the right hand
of the dead man was an open pocket knife. It is assumed---- Sorry!
Several spots of blood were found on the knife. Do you want to see
it?”
Moris Klaw shook his head.
“It has been ascertained,” continued Grimsby, “that Ryder went out at
eight o’clock on the night of the murder and didn’t return until after
ten. He was interrogated. Listen to this, Mr. Klaw, and tell me why I
haven’t arrested him! He admitted that he was the man who rang the
bell; he admitted being closeted with Heidelberger in the library; and
he admitted that he was in the hall when the Jew met his death!”
“Good!” said Moris Klaw. “And he is still at large?”
“He is! He’s made no attempt to run away. I had his room searched, and
found a light coat with both sleeves bloodstained! He had a cut on his
left hand such as might be caused by the slash of a pocket knife! He
said he had caught his hand on a door-latch, but blankly declined to
say what he was doing here on the night of the murder! Yet, I didn’t
arrest him! Why?”
“Why?” said Moris Klaw. “Tell me.”
“Because I didn’t think it feasible that a man of his age could wield
that ax--and I hoped to use Ryder as a trap to catch his accomplice!”
“Ah! clever!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “French, Mr. Grimsby! Subtle! But
you have just seen what a poor old fool can do with that ax!”
I have never observed a man so suddenly lose faith in himself as did
Grimsby at those words. He flushed, he paled; he seemed to become
speechless.
“Tell me, Mr. Grimsby,” said Klaw, “what does the suspected man do
that is suspicious? What letters does he write? What letters does he
receive?”
“None!” replied the now angry Grimsby. “But he visits Doctor Madden,
in Uxley, every day.”
“What for, eh?”
“The doctor says the interviews are of a purely professional nature,
and I can’t very well suspect a man in his position!”
“You have done two silly things,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “You have wasted
much time in the matter of Ryder, and you have accepted, unquestioned,
the word of a doctor. Mr. Grimsby, I have known doctors who were most
inspired liars!”
“Then you are of opinion----”
Klaw raised his hand.
“It is Doctor Madden we shall visit,” he said. “This Ryder cannot
escape us. Isis, my child, I need not have troubled you. This is so
simple a case that we need no ‘mental negatives’ to point out to us
the culprit!”
“Mr. Klaw----” began Grimsby, excitedly.
“My friend,” he was answered, “I shall make a few examinations and
then we shall be off to Uxley. The assassin returns to London with us
by the 3:45 train!”
IV
As we drove through the village street, in the car which Grimsby had
hired, upon the gate of one of the last cottages a tall, white-haired
old man was leaning. His clear-cut, handsome features wore an
expression of haggard sorrow.
“There he is!” rapped Grimsby. “Hadn’t I better make the arrest at
once?”
“Ah, no, my friend!” protested Klaw. “But stop--I have something to
say to him.”
The car stopping, Moris Klaw descended and approached the old man, who
perceptibly paled at sight of us.
“Good day, Mr. Ryder!” Klaw courteously saluted the ex-butler.
“Good day to you, sir,” replied the old man, civilly.
Whereupon Moris Klaw said a simple thing, which had an astounding
effect.
“How is he to-day?” he inquired.
Ryder’s face became convulsed. His eyes started forth. He made a
choking sound, staring, as one possessed, at his questioner.
“What--what--do you mean?” he gasped.
“Never mind, Mr. Ryder--never mind!” rumbled Klaw. “Isis, my child,
remain with this gentleman and tell him all we know about the ax of
‘Black Geoffrey.’ He will be glad to hear it!”
The beautiful Isis obeyed without question. As the rest of us drove on
our way, I could see the flame-coloured figure passing up the garden
path beside the tall form of the old butler. Grimsby, a man badly out
of his depth, watched until both became lost to view.
“I’ve got evidence,” he suddenly burst out, “that Ryder declared
Heidelberger to be the direct cause of Sir Richard’s downfall! And
I’ve got witnesses who heard him say, ‘Please God! the Jew won’t be
here much longer!’”
“Good!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “Very good!”
During the remainder of the journey, Grimsby talked on incessantly,
smoking cheroots the whole time. But Moris Klaw was silent.
Doctor Madden had but recently returned from his morning visits. He
was a typical country practitioner, fresh-faced and clean-shaven, with
iron-gray hair and a good head. He conveyed the impression, in some
way, that he knew himself to be in a tight corner.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he said, briskly.
“We have called, Doctor Madden,” rumbled Moris Klaw, wagging his
finger, impressively, “to tell you that Ryder is in imminent
danger--imminent danger--of arrest!”
The doctor started.
“And therefore we want a word with one of your patients!”
“I do not understand you. Which of my patients?”
Moris Klaw shook his head.
“Let us be intelligent,” he said, “you and I, and not two old fools!
You understand so perfectly which of your patients.”
Doctor Madden drummed his fingers on the table.
“Are you a detective?” he snapped.