MYSTERIES.
A moment of indecision, of awe even, elapsed before Mr. Gryce recovered
himself. The dim light, the awesome silence, the unexpected surroundings
recalling a romantic age, the motionless figure of him who so lately had
been the master of the house, lying outstretched as for the tomb, with
the sacred symbol on his breast offering such violent contradiction to
the earthly passion which had driven the dagger home, were enough to
move even the tried spirit of this old officer of the law and confuse a
mind which, in the years of his long connection with the force, had had
many serious problems to work upon, but never one just like this.
It was only for a moment, though. Before the man behind him had given
utterance to his own bewilderment and surprise, Mr. Gryce had passed in
and taken his stand by the prostrate figure.
That it was that of a man who had long since ceased to breathe he could
not for a moment doubt; yet his first act was to make sure of the fact
by laying his hand on the pulse and examining the eyes, whose expression
of reproach was such that he had to call up all his professional
sangfroid to meet them.
He found the body still warm, but dead beyond all question, and, once
convinced of this, he forbore to draw the dagger from the wound, though
he did not fail to give it the most careful attention before turning his
eyes elsewhere. It was no ordinary weapon. It was a curio from some
oriental shop. This in itself seemed to point to suicide, but the
direction in which the blade had entered the body and the position of
the wound were not such as would be looked for in a case of self-murder.
The other clews were few. Though the scene had been one of bloodshed and
death, the undoubted result of a sudden and fierce attack, there were no
signs of struggle to be found in the well-ordered apartment. Beyond a
few rose leaves scattered on the floor, the room was a scene of peace
and quiet luxury. Even the large table which occupied the centre of the
room and near which the master of the house had been standing when
struck gave no token of the tragedy which had been enacted at its side.
That is, not at first glance; for though its large top was covered with
articles of use and ornament, they all stood undisturbed and presumably
in place, as if the shock which had laid their owner low had failed to
be communicated to his belongings.
The contents of the table were various. Only a man of complex tastes and
attainments could have collected and arranged in one small compass
pipes, pens, portraits, weights, measures, Roman lamps, Venetian glass,
rare porcelains, medals, rough metal work, manuscript, a scroll of
music, a pot of growing flowers, and--and--(this seemed oddest of all) a
row of electric buttons, which Mr. Gryce no sooner touched than the
light which had been burning redly in the cage of fretted ironwork
overhead changed in a twinkling to a greenish glare, filling the room
with such ghastly tints that Mr. Gryce sought in haste another button,
and, pressing it, was glad to see a mild white radiance take the place
of the sickly hue which had added its own horror to the already solemn
terrors of the spot.
"Childish tricks for a man of his age and position," ruminated Mr.
Gryce; but after catching another glimpse of the face lying upturned at
his feet he was conscious of a doubt as to whether the owner of that
countenance could have possessed an instinct which was in any wise
childish, so strong and purposeful were his sharply cut features.
Indeed, the face was one to make an impression under any circumstances.
In the present instance, and with such an expression stamped upon it, it
exerted a fascination which disturbed the current of the detective's
thoughts whenever by any chance he allowed it to get between him and his
duty. To attribute folly to a man with such a mouth and such a chin was
to own one's self a poor judge of human nature. Therefore, the lamp
overhead, with its electric connection and changing slides, had a
meaning which at present could be sought for only in the evidences of
scientific research observable in the books and apparatus everywhere
surrounding him.
Letting the white light burn on, Mr. Gryce, by a characteristic effort,
shifted his attention to the walls, covered, as I have said, with
tapestries and curios. There was nothing on them calculated to aid him
in his research into the secret of this crime, unless--yes, there _was_
something, a bent-down nail, wrenched from its place, the nail on which
the cross had hung which now lay upon the dead man's heart. The cord by
which it had been suspended still clung to the cross and mingled its red
threads with that other scarlet thread which had gone to meet it from
the victim's wounded breast. Who had torn down that cross? Not the
victim himself. With such a wound, any such movement would have been
impossible. Besides, the nail and the empty place on the wall were as
far removed from where he lay as was possible in the somewhat
circumscribed area of this circular apartment. Another's hand, then, had
pulled down this symbol of peace and pardon, and placed it where the
dying man's fleeting breath would play across it, a peculiar exhibition
of religious hope or mad remorse, to the significance of which Mr. Gryce
could not devote more than a passing thought, so golden were the moments
in which he found himself alone upon this scene of crime.
Behind the table and half-way up the wall was a picture, the only large
picture in the room. It was the portrait of a young girl of an extremely
interesting and pathetic beauty. From her garb and the arrangement of
her hair, it had evidently been painted about the end of our civil war.
In it was to be observed the same haunting quality of intellectual charm
visible in the man lying prone upon the floor, and though she was fair
and he dark, there was sufficient likeness between the two to argue some
sort of relationship between them. Below this picture were fastened a
sword, a pair of epaulettes, and a medal such as was awarded for valor
in the civil war.
"Mementoes which may help us in our task," mused the detective.
Passing on, he came unexpectedly upon a narrow curtain, so dark of hue
and so akin in pattern to the draperies on the adjoining walls that it
had up to this time escaped his attention. It was not that of a window,
for such windows as were to be seen in this unique apartment were high
upon the wall, indeed, almost under the ceiling. It must, therefore,
drape the opening into still another communicating room. And such he
found to be the case. Pushing this curtain aside, he entered a narrow
closet containing a bed, a dresser, and a small table. The bed was the
narrow cot of a bachelor, and the dresser that of a man of luxurious
tastes and the utmost nicety of habit. Both the bed and dresser were in
perfect order, save for a silver-backed comb, which had been taken from
the latter, and which he presently found lying on the floor at the other
end of the room. This and the presence of a pearl-handled parasol on a
small stand near the door proclaimed that a woman had been there within
a short space of time. The identity of this woman was soon established
in his eyes by a small but unmistakable token connecting her with the
one who had been the means of sending in the alarm to the police. The
token of which I speak was a little black spangle, called by milliners
and mantua-makers a sequin, which lay on the threshold separating this
room from the study; and as Mr. Gryce, attracted by its sparkle, stooped
to examine it, his eye caught sight of a similar one on the floor
beyond, and of still another a few steps farther on. The last one lay
close to the large centre-table before which he had just been standing.
The dainty trail formed by these bright sparkling drops seemed to affect
him oddly. He knew, minute observer that he was, that in the manufacture
of this garniture the spangles are strung on a thread which, if once
broken, allows them to drop away one by one, till you can almost follow
a woman so arrayed by the sequins that fall from her. Perhaps it was the
delicate nature of the clew thus offered that pleased him, perhaps it
was a recognition of the irony of fate in thus making a trap for unwary
mortals out of their vanities. Whatever it was, the smile with which he
turned his eye upon the table toward which he had thus been led was very
eloquent. But before examining this article of furniture more closely,
he attempted to find out where the thread had become loosened which had
let the spangles fall. Had it caught on any projection in doorway or
furniture? He saw none. All the chairs were cushioned and--But wait!
there was the cross! That had a fretwork of gold at its base. Might not
this filagree have caught in her dress as she was tearing down the cross
from the wall and so have started the thread which had given him this
exquisite clew?
Hastening to the spot where the cross had hung, he searched the floor at
his feet, but found nothing to confirm his conjecture until he had
reached the rug on which the prostrate man lay. There, amid the long
hairs of the bearskin, he came upon one other spangle, and knew that the
woman in the shiny clothes had stooped there before him.
Satisfied on this point, he returned to the table, and this time
subjected it to a thorough and minute examination. That the result was
not entirely unsatisfactory was evident from the smile with which he
eyed his finger after having drawn it across a certain spot near the
inkstand, and also from the care with which he lifted that inkstand and
replaced it in precisely the same spot from which he had taken it up.
Had he expected to find something concealed under it? Who can tell? A
detective's face seldom yields up its secrets.
He was musing quite intently before this table when a quick step behind
him made him turn. Styles, the officer, having now been over the house,
had returned, and was standing before him in the attitude of one who has
something to say.
"What is it?" asked Mr. Gryce, with a quick movement in his direction.
For answer the officer pointed to the staircase visible through the
antechamber door.
"Go up!" was indicated by his gesture.
Mr. Gryce demurred, casting a glance around the room, which at that
moment interested him so deeply. At this the man showed some excitement,
and, breaking silence, said:
"Come! I have lighted on the guilty party. He is in a room upstairs."
"He?" Mr. Gryce was evidently surprised at the pronoun.
"Yes; there can be no doubt about it. When you see him--but what is
that? Is he coming down? I'm sure there's nobody else in the house.
Don't you hear footsteps, sir?"
Mr. Gryce nodded. Some one was certainly descending the stairs.
"Let us retreat," suggested Styles. "Not because the man is dangerous,
but because it is very necessary you should see him before he sees you.
He's a very strange-acting man, sir; and if he comes in here, will be
sure to do something to incriminate himself. Where can we hide?"
Mr. Gryce remembered the little room he had just left, and drew the
officer toward it. Once installed inside, he let the curtain drop till
only a small loophole remained. The steps, which had been gradually
growing louder, kept advancing; and presently they could hear the
intruder's breathing, which was both quick and labored.
"Does he know that any one has entered the house? Did he see you when
you came upon him upstairs?" whispered Mr. Gryce into the ear of the man
beside him.
Styles shook his head, and pointed eagerly toward the opposite door. The
man for whose appearance they waited had just lifted the portière and in
another moment stood in full view just inside the threshold.
Mr. Gryce and his attendant colleague both stared. Was this the
murderer? This pale, lean servitor, with a tray in his hand on which
rested a single glass of water?
Mr. Gryce was so astonished that he looked at Styles for explanation.
But that officer, hiding his own surprise, for he had not expected this
peaceful figure, urged him in a whisper to have patience, and both,
turning toward the man again, beheld him advance, stop, cast one look at
the figure lying on the floor and then let slip the glass with a low cry
that at once changed to something like a howl.
"Look at him! Look at him!" urged Styles, in a hurried whisper. "Watch
what he will do now. You will see a murderer at work."
And sure enough, in another instant this strange being, losing all
semblance to his former self, entered upon a series of pantomimic
actions which to the two men who watched him seemed both to explain and
illustrate the crime which had just been enacted there.
With every appearance of passion, he stood contemplating the empty air
before him, and then, with one hand held stretched out behind him in a
peculiarly cramped position, he plunged with the other toward a table
from which he made a feint of snatching something which he no sooner
closed his hand upon than he gave a quick side-thrust, still at the
empty air, which seemed to quiver in return, so vigorous was his action
and so evident his intent.
The reaction following this thrust; the slow unclosing of his hand from
an imaginary dagger; the tottering of his body backward; then the moment
when with wide open eyes he seemed to contemplate in horror the result
of his own deed;--these needed no explanation beyond what was given by
his writhing features and trembling body. Gradually succumbing to the
remorse or terror of his own crime, he sank lower and lower, until,
though with that one arm still stretched out, he lay in an inert heap on
the floor.
"It is what I saw him do upstairs," murmured Styles into the ear of the
amazed detective. "He has evidently been driven insane by his own act."
Mr. Gryce made no answer. Here was a problem for the solution of which
he found no precedent in all his past experience.