There was no further possibility of a mistake. Marten's inability to
find the body could not be further attributed to a mere confusion as to
its correct location. In the few minutes we had been phoning and while
the remainder of the guests had been searching for the murderer, the
body of the murdered man had vanished from the shore of the lagoon. Nor
had any mysterious over-sweeping of the water carried it away. We found,
easily enough, the place where it had lain, and we knew it by the
crushed vegetation and an ominous stain on the earth.
For a moment we all stood speechless, almost motionless, gazing down on
the place where the body had been. The guest's faces all looked oddly
white in the moonlight. Then I heard Nealman and Nopp talking in a
subdued voice at my side.
"You see what it means," Nealman said. "The murderer came back to the
body--that's the only explanation! That means he's still on the
grounds--perhaps within a few hundred yards."
"But what did he do with the thing? I wish I did know what it meant. It
makes no sense. But there's nothing we can do----"
His words blurred in my consciousness, and I suddenly ceased to hear
him. The reason was simply that my own thoughts were now too busy to
admit external impressions. If there was one thing needed in this affair
it was careful investigation and research--the very key and basis of my
own life's work. I was a scientist--at least I had gone a distance into
scientific work--and scientific methods were needed now. Why shouldn't I
direct the same method that made me a successful naturalist into the
unraveling of this mystery?
Science has explored the lightless mysteries of the deep, has measured
the stars and traced the comets through the heavens: there was no cause
to believe it couldn't conquer now. I was of a branch of science that
mainly studied externals, my methods were simply accurate observation,
tireless investigation, and logical deduction--the methods of all
naturalists the world over; and they were just what was needed here.
Presently I forgot the shaken men about me and began really to observe.
First, I tried to fix in my mind the exact way the body had lain. It had
been curiously huddled, lying rather on the right side--and the torn,
stained shirt-front had been plainly visible. Its location was not far
above high-tide mark, at the edge of the lawns--and because the craggy
margin of the lagoon was rather precipitous at that place, not more than
twenty feet from the water's edge at low tide.
It was impossible even to hazard a guess what kind of a weapon had
inflicted the death wound. But it had not been a clean, stabbing wound
to the heart. The wound itself must have been a long gash downward along
the breast, for the shirt and waistcoat had been curiously ripped and
torn. And possibly the weapon might be found in the grass where the body
had lain.
I quietly moved back and forth among the group of men, searching for the
gleam of moonlight upon a knife blade. It didn't reveal itself, however,
and there seemed no course but to wait for daylight. But as I was about
to give up the search my eye caught the glimpse of something white,
half-hidden in the grass in the direction of the house.
I quietly picked it up, saw that it was a folded piece of heavy paper or
parchment, and slipped it into my pocket. Then I rejoined the little
crowd of guests.
"Good Lord, what can we do...?" Pescini was saying excitedly. "The lake
can't be dragged until to-morrow. There's no use to post guards around
this big house--the thickets are so heavy that any one could steal
through almost any place. We've got the road guarded--and the officers
won't come till to-morrow. It's true that a couple of us could stand
guard here----"
"I don't see what good it would do," Nopp replied. "The murderer would
have no cause to come back again. I suggest we go to the house and get
what rest we can. We may have to make some posses in the morning."
In the privacy of my own room I took from my pocket the paper I had
found. It proved to be of heavy parchment, whitened by time; and I felt
at once I was running on a true scent.
There could be little doubt as to the age of the document. The ink was
fading, the handwriting itself was in the style of long ago. The fact
that the script was scratchy and uncertain, indicated that a man of
meager education had written it. It was, however, perfectly legible. I
judged that the date of the missive was at least ten or twenty years
prior to the civil war.
Across the top of the page were written the words, referring evidently
to the script beneath, "Sworn by the Book." At the very bottom was the
cryptic phrase "int F. T." And the following, mysterious column lay
between:
aned
dqbo
aqcd
trkm
fipj
dqbo
scno
ohuy
wvyn
dljn
dtht
Of course no kind of an explanation presented itself at first. I took it
to a mirror, tried to read it backward, then sat down to give it a
careful analysis.
I copied the column carefully, then tried to rearrange the letters to
make sense. But no such simple treatment was availing. The fourth,
ninth, tenth, and last words, for instance, were made up entirely of
consonants, and no word of any language, known to me, entirely omits
vowels. Four of the remaining seven words contained but one vowel.
But I was in no mood to go further to-night. The events of the past few
hours had been a mighty strain on the entire nervous system, and my mind
could not cope with the problem. I spread the original parchment on the
little table in the center of the room, then quickly undressed, turned
out my lights, and went to bed.
Sleep came at once, heavy and dreamless. I barely remember the welcome
chill that the pre-dawn hours brought to the room. But it wasn't written
that there should be many hours of refreshing sleep for me that night.
In hardly a moment, it seemed to me, I came to myself with a start.
Wakefulness shot through me as if by an electric shock. It was that
fast-flying hour just before dawn: the cool caress of the wind against
my face and the pale-blue quality of the darkness on the window-pane
told that fact with entire plainness. It had been wakened by a hushed
sound from across the room.
It was useless to try to tell myself that the sound was a dream only, an
imagined voice that had no basis in reality. For all that it was
subdued, the sound was entirely sharp and clear, impossible to mistake.
And instantly I knew its source.
Some one had opened my door. There was no other possible explanation.
Nor had it been merely the harmless mistake of one of the guests,
confusing my room with his own. I heard the door open, but I did not
hear it close. Nor did I hear departing steps along the corridor.
My nightly visitor had come in stealth, and there was nothing to believe
but at that instant he was waiting in the darkness on the other side of
the room.
It isn't easy to decide what to do at a time like this. I was perfectly
willing to simulate slumber if by so doing I could increase my own
safety. Florey's affair was still fresh in my mind. A cruel and
cold-blooded murder had been committed at Kastle Krags earlier this
same night: this tip-toeing visitor in my room was in all likelihood a
desperate man, willing to repeat his crime if his own safety demanded
it. My possessions were few: it was better to let them go than take such
a risk.
Yet a wiser, saner self told me that this was no business of thievery.
The thing went deeper, further than I could see or guess. I lay
listening: from time to time I could hear the boards settle beneath his
feet. Evidently he was groping about the darkened room, in search of
something.... Then a faint jar told me that his hand was on the iron
railing of my bed.
It wasn't a reassuring thought that he had been groping about the room
solely to find my bed. My muscles set for a desperate leap in case I
felt him groping nearer.... There was a long, ominous instant of
silence. Then a little triangle of light danced out over my table-top.
It was a ray from a flashlight, and it came and went so soon that there
was no chance to make accurate observation. I did, however, see just the
edge of his hand as he reached for something on the flat surface of the
table. It was a white, strong hand--long, sensitive fingers--evidently
the hand of a well-bred, middle-aged man.
The light flashed out. Steps sounded softly on the floor. Then my door
closed with a slight shock.
There is no use trying to justify my inactivity during his presence in
the room. At such times a man is guided by instinct--and my instinct had
been to lie still and let him do his work. The action might condemn me
in some eyes, but I felt no shame for it. And as soon as the door closed
I sprang to the floor.
Groping, I found the light, and the white beams flooded the room.
Presently I opened the door and gazed down the gloomy hall.
It was still as a tomb. There were a dozen doors along it, and any one
of them might have closed behind the intruder. It was the hall of a
well-ordered country manor, rather commonplace in the subdued light of a
single globe that burned over the stairway. The opportunity to overtake
the intruder was irredeemably past.
It wasn't hard to tell what had been taken. The sheet of parchment, on
which was written the mysterious cryptogram, was gone from the table.
The only satisfaction I had was that the thief had failed to see and
procure the copy of the document I had made just before retiring.