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.
“I am not!” replied Moris Klaw. “I am a student of the Science of
Cycles--not motor cycles; and a humble explorer of the etheric
borderland! You lay yourself open to grave charges, Doctor!”
The doctor began to fidget nervously.
“If indeed I am culpable,” he said, “my culpability only dates from
last night.”
“So!” rumbled Klaw. “He has been insensible?”
Doctor Madden started up.
“Mr. Klaw,” he replied, “I do not know who you may be, but your
penetration is uncanny. He had lost his memory!”
“What?--lost his memory! How is that?”
“He was thrown from his horse! Come; I see it is useless, now, to
waste time. I will take you to him.”
As we filed out to the waiting car, I glanced at Grimsby. His
stupefaction was almost laughable.
“What in heaven’s name is it all about, Mr. Searles?” he whispered to
me. “I feel like a man in a strange country. People talk, and it
doesn’t seem to mean anything!”
En route:
“Tell me, Doctor,” said Moris Klaw, “about your patient.”
The doctor, without hesitation, now explained that he had been called
to attend a Mr. Rogers, an artist, who was staying at Hinxman’s farm,
off the Uxley Road. On the evening of the tragedy Mr. Rogers went out
on Bess, a mare belonging to the farm, and, not having returned by
ten, some anxiety was felt concerning him, the mare possessing a very
bad reputation. At about a quarter-past ten the animal returned,
riderless, and Rogers was brought home later, in an insensible
condition, by two farm hands, having been found beside the road some
distance from the farm.
For some time Mr. Rogers lay in a critical condition, suffering from
concussion. Finally, a change for the better set in, but the patient
was found to have lost his memory.
“Last Saturday,” added the doctor, “a specialist whom I had invited to
come down from London performed a successful operation.”
“Ah,” rumbled Moris Klaw, “so we can see him?”
“Certainly. He is quite convalescent. His memory returned to him
completely last night.”
In a state of uncertainty which can well be imagined, we arrived at,
and entered, Hinxman’s farm. Seated in the shade of the veranda,
smoking his pipe, was a bronzed young man who wore a bandage about his
head. He was chatting to the farmer when we arrived.
Moris Klaw walked up the steps beside Doctor Madden.
“Good day, Mr. Farmer,” he said, amiably. A rosy-cheeked girl face was
thrust from an open window. “Good day, Miss Farmer!” He removed the
brown bowler. He turned to the bronzed young man. “Good day, _Sir
Roland Crespie!_”
V
When Grimsby and I had somewhat recovered from the shock of this
dramatic meeting, and Sir Roland, Madden, and Moris Klaw had talked
together for a few moments, said Moris Klaw:
“And now Sir Roland will tell us all about the death of Mr.
Heidelberger!”
Inspector Grimsby was all eyes when the young baronet began:
“You must know, then, that I, together with three others, have been
engaged, since my departure from England, in a mining venture in West
Africa. Up to the time when I left, and, for the sake of my health,
came to England, our efforts had been attended by only moderate
success. Thus, on arriving in Cresping and taking lodgings with
Hinxman as ‘Mr. Rogers’--for the circumstances under which I left home
made me desirous of remaining unknown in the village--I, on learning
that my father had just died and that the Hall had fallen into
Heidelberger’s hands, realized that my slender capital would not allow
of my buying him out. The facts of the case came as a great shock to
me, and, without revealing my identity--the beard which I had
cultivated in Africa, but which the doctors have removed, acting as an
effectual disguise--I made inquiries concerning Ryder. I had little
difficulty in finding him, and he alone, in Cresping, knew who I
really was.
“I now come to the events that immediately preceded Heidelberger’s
death. There was one object in the old place for which I determined to
negotiate, and which, owing to its associations, I particularly
desired to retain. This was my mother’s portrait. I may mention here
that, for certain reasons which I would prefer not to specify, I had
rather have burnt the picture than see it fall into the hands of the
Jew.
“With this object in view, then, I enlisted the services of Ryder,
though from none other than myself would he have accepted the task.
This brings me to the day prior to Heidelberger’s death, and, on that
morning, I received news from Africa which led me to hope that I
might, after all, be able to save my old home from an ignominious
fate. Herein my hopes have since been realized, for I learnt to-day
that the mine has made rich men of us all; and I assume that some
ill-advised remark upon the part of Ryder, regarding Heidelberger’s
possible expulsion, gave rise to the idea that the old man
contemplated a violent deed.
“It therefore came about that he made an appointment with
Heidelberger, an appointment which he duly kept; and it was solely due
to my anxiety on Ryder’s behalf, and lest he should meet with some
ill-treatment from the Jew--whom I knew for a man of most brutal
disposition--that I took certain steps which, indirectly, brought
about the tragedy.
“In common with most old mansions of the period, the Hall has its
hidden entrances and exits--though, in accordance with certain ancient
traditions, the secret of their existence is strictly preserved among
the family. With a view, therefore, to becoming an unseen witness of
the transactions between Ryder and Heidelberger, I made use of a
passage that opens into a shrubbery some fifty yards from the west
wing. Entering, and mounting the steps at whose foot the tunnel
terminates, I found myself at the back of an old painting in the
banqueting hall. The frame of this picture forms a door which opens
upon pressing a spring, but the apparatus, owing to its great age,
works very stiffly. From this position, then, I could hear all that
took place in the hall, where, I had anticipated, the negotiations
would be conducted, as my mother’s picture hangs there.
“This proved to be the case; for I had but just gained the top of the
steps when I heard the two enter the hall. Heidelberger spoke first.
“‘Think of _you_ wanting to buy Lady Crespie’s picture, you
sentimental old fool!’ he said. ‘If it had been another I could name
who wanted it, the case would have been different!’
“Then I heard Ryder’s voice. ‘What do you mean, Mr. Heidelberger?’ he
asked.
“I awaited the Jew’s reply with some curiosity. As I had anticipated,
it consisted of a foul and unfounded imputation against my poor
mother. It was, in fact, more than I could bear in silence, and the
tolerance of old Ryder, too, had reached its limit. For, at the moment
that I wrenched open the panel and sprang into the room to confront
this slanderer, I heard the sound of a blow, followed by an
animal-like roar of anger from Heidelberger.
“The next moment, he seized the old man by the throat. Before he had
time to proceed further I struck him heavily with my fist, so that he
released his grip and turned to face his new assailant.
“One tribute I must pay to Heidelberger. He was, seemingly, incapable
of fear; for this sudden attack by a person he had not known to be
present seemed only to arouse a new resentment. His face, as he turned
and looked me up and down, contained no trace of fear.
“‘So it’s you that wants the picture, is it?’ he sneered. ‘I suppose
you are----’
“‘Stop!’ I said. ‘I am Roland Crespie, and can listen to no more of
your foul slanders!’
“For a second he hesitated, looking from me to Ryder and then toward
the picture, dimly discernible in the light of the candle which he had
brought with him. Then, before I could divine his intention, he drew a
knife from his pocket, and, opening a blade, took a step in the
direction of the portrait. ‘You shall never have it!’ he said.
“He had actually inserted the blade in the canvas--as an examination
will show--when I came upon him, and we closed in a desperate
struggle.
“In what followed, one can almost trace the finger of destiny.
Heidelberger was a more powerful man than myself, but in his fury he
endeavoured to stab me with the knife which he held in his hand!
“I seized his wrist, but he wrenched it from my grasp. I leapt back
from him--as he struck down with the knife--and to the left of one of
the posts supporting the minstrels’ gallery.
“In the blindness of his anger, Heidelberger failed to perceive the
proximity of this post. Moreover, it was very dark under the gallery.
He threw himself forward savagely--and struck his shoulder against the
post. The impact was tremendous.
“Gentlemen! I tremble, now, to relate what happened! The ax of ‘Black
Geoffrey,’ which had hung for centuries before the rail above, was
shaken from its place by the shock and its time-worn fastenings were
torn bodily from their hold. At the instant that Heidelberger’s huge
body struck the post, the great ax, as though detached by invisible
hands, fell, blade downward, cleaving the head of the unfortunate man
and remaining, with quivering shaft, upright in the oaken floor!
“The suddenness of the tragedy almost dazed me, and I was awakened to
its awful reality by old Ryder’s cry--‘Oh, Master Roly!’ As Master
Roly I had always been known to the old butler, and this name it was
which someone stated to be ‘holy.’
“Our subsequent action was, perhaps, ill-advised. Removing the ax and
raising the head of the victim, examination showed him to be dead,
and, hearing hesitating footsteps upon the narrow stair beneath the
gallery, we seized the candle and retreated through the secret panel,
Ryder severely cutting his hand in endeavouring to force the rusty
bolt into place. It was not until we stood in a lane bordering the
grounds, where I had tethered the mare upon which I had ridden from
the farm, that the seemingly guilty nature of our action dawned upon
me. Now, however, was too late to atone for what I attribute to a
momentary panic; and requesting Ryder to keep silence until he
received instructions from me, I mounted the mare, intending to return
to my lodgings and think the matter quietly over.
“By an unlucky accident, the brute threw me, at some distance from the
farm, thereby all but bringing about a second tragedy; and what
followed is already known to you.
“Of Ryder I need only say that rather than incriminate me he was
prepared to pay the penalty for a deed which was in truth a visitation
of God. Doctor Madden recognized me, of course, and to him also I am
eternally indebted. I had proposed to make this statement before a
magistrate later to-day.”
“You see,” said Moris Klaw. “I have done nothing! It would all have
happened the same if I had been in Peru!”
Grimsby cleared his throat.
“Without casting any doubt upon Sir Roland’s word,” he began, “there’s
no evidence to go to a jury that he didn’t----”
“Pull down the ax himself?” suggested Klaw.
Grimsby looked uncomfortable.
“Well--_is_ there?”
“There is!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “I am he! This case most triumphantly
substantiates my theory of Cycles! Almost parallel it occurred
hundreds of years ago, at Dyke Manor! The ax has repeated itself!”
“H’um!” said Grimsby. “Your theory of Cycles wouldn’t hold water with
twelve good men and true, I’m afraid, Mr. Klaw!”
“Yes?” replied Moris Klaw. “No? You think not, eh? Well, then, there
is another little point. I am an old crank-fool, eh? So? But you? You
are sublimely mad, my Grimsby! You say he, or Mr. Ryder, may have
snatched down the black ax? Yes? Have you tried to reach the spot
where it hung before the rail?”
“No,” confessed Grimsby, with the light as of the dawning of an
unpleasant idea in his eyes.
“No,” said Klaw, placidly; “but _I_ have. Mr. Grimsby, it is
impossible to reach within three feet of the spot, from the stair or
from the gallery; and no live thing but a giraffe could reach it from
the floor!”
We were seated in the train, homeward bound.
“For this case,” grumbled Klaw, “I get no credit. It will be said that
it all came out without aid from you or from me. Never mind--I have my
fee!”
He patted the haft of the great ax, which ghastly relic in some way he
had arranged to appropriate. Grimsby was watching Isis Klaw out of the
corner of his eye. From a dainty gold case she offered him a
cigarette. Grimsby is no cigarette smoker but he accepted, with
alacrity.
The beautiful Isis took one also, and lay back puffing sinuous spirals
from between her perfect red lips.
FOURTH EPISODE.
CASE OF THE IVORY STATUE
I
Where a case did not touch his peculiar interests, appeals to Moris
Klaw fell upon deaf ears. However dastardly a crime, if its details
were of the sordid sort, he shrank within his Wapping curio shop as
closely as any tortoise within its shell.
“Of what use,” he said to me on one occasion, “are my acute psychic
sensibilities to detect who it is with a chopper that has brained some
unhappy washerwoman? Shall I bring to bear those delicate perceptions
which it has taken me so many years to acquire in order that some ugly
old fool shall learn what has become of his pretty young wife? I think
not--no!”
Sometimes, however, when Inspector Grimsby of Scotland Yard was at a
loss, he would induce me to intercede with the eccentric old dealer,
and sometimes Moris Klaw would throw out a hint.
Beyond doubt the cases that really interested him were those that
afforded scope for the exploiting of his pet theories: the Cycle of
Crime, the criminal history of all valuable relics, the
indestructibility of thought. Such a case came under my personal
notice on one occasion, and my friend Coram was instrumental in
enlisting the services of Moris Klaw. It was, I think, one of the most
mysterious affairs with which I ever came in contact, and the better
to understand it you must permit me to explain how Roger Paxton, the
sculptor, came to have such a valuable thing in his studio as that
which we all assumed had inspired the strange business.
It was Sir Melville Fennel, then, who commissioned Paxton to execute a
chryselephantine statue. Sir Melville’s museum of works of art,
ancient and modern, is admittedly the second finest private collection
of the kind in the world. The late Mr. Pierpont Morgan’s alone took
precedence.
The commission came as something of a surprise. The art of
chryselephantine sculpture, save for one attempt at revival, in
Belgium, has been dead for untold generations. By many modern critics,
indeed, it is condemned, as being not art but a parody of art.
Given carte blanche in the matter of cost, Paxton produced a piece of
work which induced the critics to talk about a modern Phidias. Based
upon designs furnished by the eccentric but wealthy baronet, the
statue represented a slim and graceful girl reclining as in exhaustion
upon an ebony throne. The ivory face, with its wearily closed eyes,
was a veritable triumph, and was surmounted by a headdress of gold
intertwined among a mass of dishevelled hair. One ivory arm hung down
so that the fingers almost touched the pedestal; the left hand was
pressed to the breast as though against a throbbing heart. Gold
bracelets and anklets, furnished by Sir Melville, were introduced into
the composition; and, despite the artist’s protest, a heavy girdle,
encrusted with gems and found in the tomb of some favourite of a
long-dead Pharaoh, encircled the waist. When complete, the thing was,
from a merely intrinsic point of view, worth several thousand pounds.
As the baronet had agreed to the exhibition of the statue prior to its
removal to Fennel Hall, Paxton’s star was seemingly in the ascendant,
when the singular event occurred that threatened to bring about his
ruin.
The sculptor gave one of the pleasant little dinners for which he had
gained a reputation. His task was practically completed, and his
friends had all been enjoined to come early, so that the statue could
be viewed before the light failed. We were quite a bachelor party, and
I shall always remember the circle of admiring faces surrounding the
figure of the reclining dancer--warmed in the soft light to an almost
uncanny semblance of fair flesh and blood.
“You see,” explained Paxton, “this composite work, although it has
latterly fallen into disrepute, affords magnificent scope for
decorative purposes; such a richness of colour can be obtained. The
ornaments are genuine antiques and of great value--a fad of my
patron’s.”
For some minutes we stood silently admiring the beautiful workmanship;
then Harman inquired, “Of what is the hair composed?”
Paxton smiled. “A little secret I borrowed from the Greeks!” he
replied, with condonable vanity. “Polyclitus and his contemporaries
excelled at the work.”
“That jewelled girdle looks detachable,” I said.
“It is firmly fastened to the waist of the figure,” answered the
sculptor. “I defy any one to detach it inside an hour.”
“From a modern point of view the thing is an innovation,” remarked one
of the others, thoughtfully.
Coram, curator of the Menzies Museum, who up to the present had stood
in silent contemplation of the figure, now spoke for the first time.
“The cost of materials is too great for this style of work ever to
become popular,” he averred. “That girdle, by the way, represents a
small fortune, and together with the anklets, armlets, and headdress,
might well tempt any burglar. What precautions do you take, Paxton?”
“Sleep out here every night,” was the reply; “and there is always
someone here in the daytime. Incidentally, a curious thing occurred
last week. I had just fixed the girdle, which, I may explain, was once
the property of Nicris, a favourite of Ramses III, and my model was
alone here for a few minutes. As I was returning from the house I
heard her cry out, and when I came to look for her she was crouching
in a corner trembling. What do you suppose had frightened her?”
“Give it up,” said Harman.
“She swore that Nicris--for the statue is supposed to represent
her--had moved!”
“Imagination,” replied Coram, “but easily to be understood. I could
believe it, myself, if I were here alone long enough.”
“I fancy,” continued Paxton, “that she must have heard some of the
tales that have been circulated concerning the girdle. The thing has a
rather peculiar history. It was discovered in the tomb of the dancer
by whom it had once been worn; and it is said that an inscription was
unearthed at the same time containing an account of Nicris’s death
under particularly horrible circumstances. Seton--you fellows know
Seton--who was present at the opening of the sarcophagus, tells me
that the Arabs, on catching sight of the girdle, all prostrated
themselves and then took to their heels. Sir Melville Fennel’s agent
sent it on to England, however, and Sir Melville conceived the idea of
this statue.”
“Luckily for you,” added Coram.
“Quite so,” laughed the sculptor, and, carefully locking the studio
door, he led the way up the short path to the house.
We were a very merry party, and the night was far advanced ere the
gathering broke up. Coram and I were the last to depart; and having
listened to the voices of Harman and the others dying away as they
neared the end of the street, we also prepared to take our leave.
“Just come with me as far as the studio,” said Paxton, “and having
seen that all’s well I’ll let you out by the garden door.”
Accordingly, we donned our coats and hats, and followed our host to
the end of the garden, where his studio was situated. The door
unlocked, we all three stepped inside the place and gazed upon the
figure of Nicris--the pallid face and arms seeming almost unearthly in
the cold moonlight, wherein each jewel of the girdle and headdress
glittered strangely.
“Of course,” muttered Coram, “the thing’s altogether irregular--a fact
which the critics will not fail to impress upon you; but it is
unquestionably very fine, Paxton. How uncannily human it is! I don’t
entirely envy you your bedchamber, old man!”
“Oh, I sleep well enough,” laughed Paxton. “No luxury, though; just
this corner curtained off and a camp bedstead.”
“A truly Spartan couch!” I said. “Well, good-night, Paxton. We shall
probably see you to-morrow--I mean later to-day!”
With that we parted, leaving the sculptor to his lonely vigil at the
shrine of Nicris, and as my rooms were no great distance away, some
half-hour later I was in bed and asleep.
I little suspected that I had actually witnessed the commencement of
one of the most amazing mysteries which ever cried out for the
presence of Moris Klaw.