For some weeks after this mysterious affair, all went well at the
Menzies Museum. The new night watchman, a big Scot, by name John
Macalister, seemed to have fallen thoroughly into his duties, and
everything was proceeding smoothly. No clue concerning the previous
outrage had come to light, the police being clearly at a loss. From
Moris Klaw we heard not a word. But Macalister did not appear to
suffer from nervousness, saying that he was quite big enough to look
after himself.
Poor Macalister! His bulk did not save him from a dreadful fate. He
was found, one fine morning, lying flat on his back in the Greek
Room--_dead!_
As in the case of Conway, the place showed unmistakable signs of a
furious struggle. The attendant’s chair had been dashed upon the floor
with such violence as to break three of the legs; a bust of Pallas,
that had occupied a corner position upon a marble pedestal, was found
to be hurled down; and the top of the case which usually contained the
Athenean Harp had been unlocked, and the priceless antique lay close
by, upon the floor!
The cause of death, in Macalister’s case, was heart failure, an
unsuspected weakness of that organ being brought to light at the
inquest; but, according to the medical testimony, deceased must have
undergone unnaturally violent exertions to bring about death. In other
respects, the circumstances of the two cases were almost identical.
The door of the Greek Room was locked upon the inside and the keys
were found on the floor. From the detector watches in the other rooms
it was evident that his death must have taken place about three
o’clock. Nothing was missing, and the jewels in the harp had not been
tampered with.
But, most amazing circumstance of all, imprinted upon the dry plaster
of Paris which, in accordance with the instructions of the
mysteriously absent Moris Klaw, had nightly been placed around the
case containing the harp, _were the marks of little bare feet!_
A message sent, through the willing agency of Inspector Grimsby, to
the Wapping abode of the old curio dealer, resulted in the discovery
that Moris Klaw was abroad. His daughter, however, reported having
received a letter from her father which contained the words--
“Let Mr. Coram keep the key of the case containing the Athenean Harp
under his pillow at night.”
“What does she mean?” asked Coram. “That I am to detach that
particular key from the bunch or place them all beneath my pillow?”
Grimsby shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m simply telling you what she told me, sir.”
“I should suspect the man to be an impostor,” said Coram, “if it were
not for the extraordinary confirmation of his theory furnished by the
footprints. They certainly looked like those of a woman!”
Remembering how Moris Klaw had acted, I sought out the constable who
had been on duty at the corner of South Grafton Square on the night of
the second tragedy. From him I elicited a fact which, though
insignificant in itself, was, when associated with another
circumstance, certainly singular.
A Pickford traction engine, drawing two heavy wagons, had been driven
round the Square at 3 A.M., the driver thinking that he could get out
on the other side.
That was practically all I learned from the constable, but it served
to set me thinking. Was it merely a coincidence that, at almost the
exact hour of the previous tragedy, a heavy pantechnicon had passed
the Museum?
“It’s not once in six months,” the man assured me, “that any vehicle
but a tradesman’s cart goes round the Square. You see, it doesn’t lead
anywhere, but this Pickford chap he was rattling by before I could
stop him, and though I shouted he couldn’t hear me, the engine making
such a noise, so I just let him drive round and find out for himself.”
I now come to the event which concluded this extraordinary case, and,
that it may be clearly understood, I must explain the positions which
we took up during the nights of the following week; for Coram had
asked me to take a night watch, with himself, Grimsby, and Beale, in
the Museum.
Beale, the commissionaire, remained in the hall and lower room--it was
catalogued as the “Bronze Room”--Coram patrolled the room at the top
of the stairs, Grimsby the next, or Greek, Room, and I the Egyptian
Room. None of the doors was locked, and Grimsby, by his own special
request, held the keys of the cases in the Greek Room.
We commenced our vigil on the Saturday, and I, for one, found it a
lugubrious business. One electric lamp was usually left burning in
each apartment throughout the night, and I sat as near to that in the
Egyptian Room as possible and endeavoured to distract my thoughts with
a bundle of papers with which I had provided myself.
In the next room I could hear Grimsby walking about incessantly, and,
at regular intervals, the scratching of a match as he lighted a cigar.
He was an inveterate cheroot smoker.
Our first night’s watching, then, was productive of no result, and the
five that followed were equally monotonous.
Upon Grimsby’s suggestion we observed great secrecy in the matter of
these dispositions. Even Coram’s small household was kept in ignorance
of this midnight watching. Grimsby, following out some theory of his
own, now determined to dispense altogether with light in the Greek
Room. Friday was intensely hot, and occasional fitful breezes brought
with them banks of black thundercloud, which, however, did not break;
and, up to the time that we assumed our posts at the Museum, no rain
had fallen. At about twelve o’clock I looked out into South Grafton
Square and saw that the sky was entirely obscured by a heavy mass of
inky cloud, ominous of a gathering storm.
Returning to my chair beneath the electric lamp, I took up a work of
Mark Twain’s, which I had brought as a likely antidote to melancholy
or nervousness. As I commenced to read, for the twentieth time, “The
Jumping Frog,” I heard the scratch of Grimsby’s match in the next room
and knew that he had lighted his fifth cigar.
It must have been about one o’clock when the rain came. I heard the
big drops on the glass roof, followed by the steady pouring of the
deluge. For perhaps five minutes it rained steadily, and then ceased
as abruptly as it had begun. Above the noise of the water rushing down
the metal gutters, I distinctly detected the sound of Grimsby striking
another match. Then, with a mighty crash, came the thunder.
Directly above the Museum it seemed as though the very heavens had
burst, and the glass roof rattled as if a shower of stones had fallen,
the thunderous report echoing and reverberating hollowly through the
building.
As the lightning flashed with dazzling brilliance, I started from my
chair and stood, breathless, with every sense on the alert; for,
strangely intermingling with the patter of the rain that now commenced
to fall again, came a low wailing, like nothing so much as the voice
of a patient succumbing to an anæsthetic. There was something
indefinably sweet, but indescribably weird, in the low and mysterious
music.
Not knowing from whence it proceeded, I stood undetermined what to do;
but, just as the thunder boomed again, I heard a wild cry--undoubtedly
proceeding from the Greek Room! Springing to the door, I threw it
open.
All was in darkness, but, as I entered, a vivid flash of lightning
illuminated the place.
I saw a sight which I can never forget. Grimsby lay flat upon the
floor by the farther door. But, dreadful as that spectacle was, it
scarce engaged my attention; nor did I waste a second glance upon the
Athenean Harp, which lay close beside its empty case.
For the figure of a woman, draped in flimsy white, was passing across
the Greek Room!
Grim fear took me by the throat, since I could not doubt that what I
saw was a supernatural manifestation. Darkness followed. I heard a
loud wailing cry and a sound as of a fall.
Then Coram came running through the Greek Room.
Trembling violently, I joined him; and together we stood looking down
at Grimsby.
“Good God!” whispered Coram; “this is awful. It cannot be the work of
mortal hands! Poor Grimsby is dead!”
“Did you--see--the woman?” I muttered. I will confess it: my courage
had completely deserted me.
He shook his head; but, as Beale came running to join us, glanced
fearfully into the shadows of the Greek Room. The storm seemed to have
passed, and, as we three frightened men stood around Grimsby’s
recumbent body, we could almost hear the beating of each other’s
hearts.
Suddenly, giving a great start, Coram clutched my arm. “Listen!” he
said. “What’s that?”
I held my breath and listened. “It’s the thunder in the distance,”
said Beale.
“You are wrong,” I answered. “It is someone knocking at the hall
entrance! There goes the bell, now!”
Coram gave a sigh of relief. “Heavens!” he said; “I’ve no nerves left!
Come on and see who it is.”
The three of us, keeping very close together, passed quickly through
the Greek Room and down into the hall. As the ringing continued, Coram
unbolted the door--and there, on the steps, stood Moris Klaw!
Some vague idea of his mission flashed through my mind. “You are too
late!” I cried. “Grimsby has gone!”
I saw a look of something like anger pass over his large pale
features, and then he had darted past us and vanished up the stairs.
V
Having rebolted the door, we rejoined Moris Klaw in the Greek Room. He
was kneeling beside Grimsby in the dim light--and Grimsby, his face
ghastly pale, was sitting up and drinking from a flask!
“I am in time!” said Moris Klaw. “He has only fainted!”
“It was the ghost!” whispered the Scotland Yard man. “My God! I’m
prepared for anything human--but when the lightning came and I saw
that white thing--playing the harp----”
Coram turned aside and was about to pick up the harp, which lay upon
the floor near, when--
“Ah!” cried Moris Klaw, “do not touch it! It is death!”
Coram started back as though he had been stung as Grimsby very
unsteadily got upon his feet.
“Turn up lights,” directed Moris Klaw, “and I will show you!”
The curator went out to the switchboard and the Greek Room became
brightly illuminated. The ramshackle figure of Moris Klaw seemed to be
invested with triumphant majesty. Behind the pebbles his eyes gleamed.
“Observe,” he said, “I raise the harp from the floor.” He did so. “And
I live. For why? Because I do not take hold upon it in a natural
manner--_by the top!_ I take it by the side! Conway and Macalister
took hold upon it at the top; and where are they--Conway and
Macalister?”
“Mr. Klaw,” said Coram, “I cannot doubt that this black business is
all clear to your very unusual intelligence; but to me it is a
profound mystery. I have, myself, in the past, taken up the harp in
the way you describe as fatal, and without injury----”
“But not immediately after it had been played upon!” interrupted Moris
Klaw.
“Played upon! I have never attempted to play upon it!”
“Even had you done so you might yet have escaped, provided you _set it
down_ before touching the top part! Note, please!”
He ran his long white fingers over the golden strings. Instantly there
stole upon my ears that weird, wailing music which had heralded the
strange happenings of the night!
“And now,” continued our mentor, “whilst I who am cunning hold it
where the ladies’ gold feet join, observe the top--where the hand
would in ordinary rest in holding it.”
We gathered around him.
“A _needle-point_,” he rumbled, impressively, “protruding! The player
touches it not! But who takes it from the hand of the player _dies!_
By placing the harp again upon its base the point again retires! Shall
I say what is upon that point, to drive a man mad like a dog with
rabies, to stay potent for generations? I cannot. It is a secret
buried with the ugly body of Cæsar Borgia!”
“Cæsar Borgia!” we cried in chorus.
“Ah!” rumbled Moris Klaw, “your Athenean Harp was indeed made by
Paduano Zelloni, the Florentine! It is a clever forge! I have been in
Rome until yesterday. You are surprised? I am sorry, for the poor
Macalister died. Having perfected, with the aid of Isis, my mind
photograph of the lady who plays the harp, I go to Rome to perfect the
story of the harp. For why? At my house I have records, but
incomplete, useless. In Rome I have a friend, of so old a family, and
once so wicked, I shall not name it!
“He has recourse to the great Vatican Library--to the annals of his
race. There he finds me an account of such a harp. In those priceless
parchments it is called ‘a Greek lyre of gold.’ It is described. I am
convinced. I am sure!
“Once the beautiful Lucrece Borgia play upon this harp. To one who is
distasteful to her she says: ‘Replace for me my harp.’ He does so. He
is a dead man! God! what cleverness!
“Where has it lain for generations before your Sir Menzies find it? No
man knows. But it has still its virtues! How did the poor Menzies die?
Throw himself from his room window, I recently learn. This harp
certainly was in his room. Conway, after dashing, mad, about the
place, springs head downward from the attendant’s chair. Macalister
dies in exhaustion and convulsions!”