A HIEROGLYPHIC LETTER
(_Friday, July 13; 4.15 p.m._)
Markham got up irritably and walked the length of the room and back.
As always in moments of perplexity his hands were clasped behind him,
and his head was projected forward.
“Damn your various aunts!” he growled, as he came abreast of Vance.
“You’re always calling on an aunt. Haven’t you any uncles?”
Vance opened his eyes and smiled blandly.
“I know how you feel.” Despite the lightness of his tone there was
unmistakable sympathy in his words. “No one is acting as he should in
this case. It’s as if every one were in a conspiracy to confuse and
complicate matters for us.”
“That’s just it!” Markham fumed. “On the other hand, there’s something
in what the Sergeant says. Why should Bliss----?”
“Too much theory, Markham old dear,” Vance interrupted. “Oh, much too
much theory… too much speculation… too many futile questions. There’s
a key coming, and it’ll explain everything. Our immediate task, it
seems to me, is to find that key.”
“Sure!” Heath spoke with heavy sarcasm. “Suppose I begin punching the
furniture with hat-pins and ripping up the carpets.…”
Markham snapped his fingers impatiently, and Heath subsided.
“Let’s get down to earth.” He regarded Vance with vindictive
shrewdness. “You’ve got some pretty definite idea; and all your
maunderings couldn’t convince me to the contrary.--What do you suggest
we do next?--interview Salveter?”
“Precisely.” Vance nodded with unwonted seriousness. “That bigoted lad
fits conspicuously into the picture; and his presence on the tapis now
is, as the medicos say, indicated.”
Markham made a sign to Heath, who immediately rose and went to the
drawing-room door and bellowed up the staircase.
“Hennessey!… Bring that guy down here. We got business with him.”
A few moments later Salveter was piloted into the room. His eyes were
flashing, and he planted himself aggressively before Vance, cramming
his hands violently into his trousers’ pockets.
“Well, here I am,” he announced with belligerence. “Got the handcuffs
ready?”
Vance yawned elaborately and inspected the newcomer with a bored
expression.
“Don’t be so virile, Mr. Salveter,” he drawled. “We’re all worn out
with this depressin’ case, and simply can’t endure any more vim and
vigor. Sit down and let the joints go free.… As for the manacles,
Sergeant Heath has ’em beautifully polished. Would you like to try ’em
on?”
“Maybe,” Salveter returned, watching Vance calculatingly. “What did
you say to Meryt--to Mrs. Bliss?”
“I gave her one of my _Régies_,” Vance told him carelessly. “Most
appreciative young woman.… Would you care for one yourself? I’ve two
left.”
“Thanks--I smoke Deities.”
“Ever dip ’em in opium?” Vance asked dulcetly.
“Opium?”
“The concrete juice of the poppy, so to speak--obtained from slits in
the cortex of the capsule of _Papaver somniferum_. Greek word:
_opion_--to wit: omicron, pi, iota, omicron, nu.”
“No!” Salveter sat down suddenly and shifted his gaze. “What’s the
idea?”
“There seems to be an abundance of opium in the house, don’t y’ know.”
“Oh, is there?” The man looked up warily.
“Didn’t you know?” Vance selected one of his two remaining cigarettes.
“We thought you and Mr. Scarlett had charge of the medical supplies.”
Salveter started and remained silent for several moments.
“Did Meryt-Amen tell you that?” he asked finally.
“Is it true?” There was a new note in Vance’s voice.
“In a way,” the other admitted. “Doctor Bliss----”
“What about the opium?” Vance leaned forward.
“Oh, there has always been opium in the cabinet up-stairs--nearly a
canful.”
“Have you had it in your room lately?”
“No… yes.… I----”
“Thanks awfully. We take our choice of answers, what?”
“Who said there was opium in my room?” Salveter squared his shoulders.
Vance leaned back in his chair.
“It really doesn’t matter. Anyway, there’s no opium there now.… I say,
Mr. Salveter; did you return to the breakfast-room this morning after
you and Mrs. Bliss had gone up-stairs?”
“I did not!… That is,” he amended, “I don’t remember.…”
Vance rose abruptly and stood menacingly before him.
“Don’t try to guess what Mrs. Bliss told us. If you don’t care to
answer my questions, I’ll turn you over to the Homicide Bureau--and
God help you!… We’re here to learn the truth, and we want straight
answers.--Did you return to the breakfast-room?”
“No--I did not.”
“That’s much better--oh, much!” Vance sighed and resumed his seat.
“And now, Mr. Salveter, we must ask you a very intimate question.--Are
you in love with Mrs. Bliss?”
“I refuse to answer!”
“Good! But you would not be entirely broken-hearted if Doctor Bliss
should be gathered to his fathers?”
Salveter clamped his jaws and said nothing.
Vance contemplated him ruminatingly.
“I understand,” he said amicably, “that Mr. Kyle has left you a
considerable fortune in his will.… If Doctor Bliss should ask you to
finance the continuation of his excavations in Egypt, would you do
it?”
“I’d insist upon it, even if he did not ask me.” A fanatical light
shone in Salveter’s eyes. “That is,” he added, as a reasoned
afterthought, “if Meryt-Amen approved. I would not care to go against
her wishes.”
“Ah!” Vance had lit his cigarette and was smoking dreamily. “And do
you think she would disapprove?”
Salveter shook his head.
“No, I think she would do whatever the doctor wanted.”
“A dutiful wife--_quoi_?”
Salveter bristled and sat up.
“She’s the straightest, most loyal----”
“Yes, yes.” Vance exhaled a spiral of cigarette smoke. “Spare me your
adjectives.… I take it, however, she’s not entirely ecstatic with her
choice of a life mate.”
“If she wasn’t,” Salveter returned angrily, “she wouldn’t show it.”
Vance nodded uninterestedly.
“What do you think of Hani?” he asked.
“He’s a dumb beast--a good soul, though. Adores Mrs. Bliss.…” Salveter
stiffened and his eyes opened wide. “Good God, Mr. Vance! You don’t
think----” He broke off in horror; then he shook himself. “I see what
you’re getting at. But… but.… Those degenerate modern Egyptians!
They’re all alike--oriental dogs, every one of ’em. No sense of right
and wrong--superstitious devils--but loyal as they make ’em. I
wonder.…”
“Quite. We’re all wonderin’.” Vance was apparently unimpressed by
Salveter’s outbreak. “But, as you say, he’s pretty close to Mrs.
Bliss. He’d do a great deal for her--eh, what? Might even risk his
neck, don’t y’ know, if he thought her happiness was at stake. Of
course, he might need a bit of coaching.…”
A hard light shone in Salveter’s eyes.
“You’re on the wrong tack. Nobody coached Hani. He’s capable of acting
for himself----”
“And throwing the suspicion on some one else?” Vance looked at the
other. “I’d say the planting of that scarab pin was a bit too subtle
for a mere fellah.”
“You think so?” Salveter was almost contemptuous. “You don’t know
those people the way I do. The Egyptians were working out intricate
plots when the Nordic race were arboreans.”
“Bad anthropology,” murmured Vance. “And you’re doubtless thinkin’ of
Herodotus’s silly story of the treasure house of King Rhampsinitus.
Personally, I think the priests were spoofing the papa of history.… By
the by, Mr. Salveter; do you know any one round here, besides Doctor
Bliss, who uses Koh-i-noor pencils?”
“Didn’t even know the doctor used ’em.” The man flicked his cigarette
ashes on the carpet and brushed his foot over them.
“You didn’t by any chance see Doctor Bliss this morning?”
“No. When I came down to breakfast Brush told me he was working in the
study.”
“Did you go into the museum this morning before you went on your
errand to the Metropolitan?”
Salveter’s eyes blinked rapidly.
“Yes!” he blurted finally. “I generally go into the museum every
morning after breakfast--a kind of habit. I like to see that
everything is all right--that nothing has happened during the night.
I’m the assistant curator; and, aside from my responsibility, I’m
tremendously interested in the place. It’s my duty to keep an eye on
things.”
Vance nodded understandingly.
“What time did you enter the museum this morning?”
Salveter hesitated. Then throwing his head back he looked
challengingly at Vance.
“I left the house a little after nine. When I got to Fifth Avenue it
suddenly occurred to me I hadn’t made an inspection of the museum; and
for some reason I was worried. I couldn’t tell you why I felt that
way--but I did. Maybe because of the new shipment that arrived
yesterday. Anyway, I turned back, let myself in with my key, and went
into the museum----”
“About half past nine?”
“That would be about right.”
“And no one saw you re-enter the house?”
“I hardly think so. In any event, I didn’t see any one.”
Vance gazed at him languidly.
“Suppose you finish the recital.… If you don’t care to, I’ll finish it
for you.”
“You won’t have to.” Salveter tossed his cigarette into a cloisonné
dish on the table and drew himself resolutely to the edge of his
chair. “I’ll tell you all there is to tell. Then if you’re not
satisfied, you can order my arrest--and the hell with you!”
Vance sighed and let his head fall back.
“Such energy!” he breathed. “But why be vulgar?… I take it you saw
your uncle before you finally quitted the museum for the Great
American Mausoleum on the Avenue.”
“Yes--I saw him!” Salveter’s eyes flashed and his chin shot forward.
“Now, make something out of that.”
“Really, I can’t be bothered. Much too fatiguin’.” Vance did not even
look at the man: his eyes, half closed, were resting on an
old-fashioned crystal chandelier which hung low over the centre-table.
“Since you saw your uncle,” he said, “you must have remained in the
museum for at least half an hour.”
“Just about.” Salveter obviously could not understand Vance’s
indifferent attitude. “The fact is I got interested in a papyrus we
picked up last winter, and tried to work out a few of the words that
stumped me. There were the words _ankhet_, _wash_, and _tema_ that I
couldn’t translate.”
Vance frowned slightly; then his eyebrows lifted.
“_Ankhet_… _wash_… _tema_.…” He iterated the words slowly. “Was the
_ankhet_ written with or without a determinative?”
Salveter did not answer at once.
“With the animal-skin determinative,” he said presently.
“And was the next word really _wash_ and not _was_?”
Again he hesitated, and looked uneasily at Vance.
“It was _wash_, I think.… And _tema_ was written with a double flail.”
“Not the sledge ideogram, eh?… Now, that’s most interestin’.--And
during your linguistic throes your uncle walked in.”
“Yes. I was sitting at the little desk-table by the obelisk when Uncle
Ben opened the door. I heard him say something to Brush, and I got up
to greet him. It was rather dark, and he didn’t see me till he’d
reached the floor of the museum.”
“And then?”
“I knew he wanted to inspect the new treasures; so I ran along. Went
to the Metropolitan----”
“Your uncle seemed in normal good spirits when he came into the
museum?”
“About as usual--a bit grouchy perhaps. He was never over-pleasant in
the forenoons. But that didn’t mean anything.”
“You left the museum immediately after greeting him?”
“At once. I hadn’t realized I’d been so long fussing over the papyrus;
and I hurried away. Another thing, I knew he’d come to see Doctor
Bliss on a pretty important matter, and I didn’t want to be in the
way.”
Vance nodded but gave no indication whether or not he unreservedly
accepted the other’s statements. He sat smoking lazily, his eyes
impassive and mild.
“And during the next twenty minutes,” he mused, “--that is between ten
o’clock and ten-twenty, at which time Mr. Scarlett entered the
museum--your uncle was killed.”
Salveter winced.
“So it seems,” he mumbled. “But”--he shot his jaw out--“I didn’t have
anything to do with it! That’s straight,--take it or leave it.”
“There, now; don’t be indelicate,” Vance admonished him quietly. “I
don’t have to take it and I don’t have to leave it, d’ ye see? I may
choose merely to dally with it.”
“Dally and be damned!”
Vance got to his feet leisurely, and there was a chilly smile on his
face--a smile more deadly than any contortion of anger could have
been.
“I don’t like your language, Mr. Salveter,” he said slowly.
“Oh, don’t you!” The man sprang up, his fists clenched, and swung
viciously. Vance, however, stepped back with the quickness of a cat,
and caught the other by the wrist. Then he made a swift, pivotal
movement to the right, and Salveter’s pinioned arm was twisted upward
behind his shoulder-blades. With an involuntary cry of pain, the man
fell to his knees. (I recalled the way in which Vance had saved
Markham from an attack in the District Attorney’s office at the close
of the Benson murder case.) Heath and Hennessey stepped forward, but
Vance motioned them away with his free hand.
“I can manage this impetuous gentleman,” he said. Then he lifted
Salveter to his feet and shoved him back into his chair. “A little
lesson in manners,” he remarked pleasantly. “And now you will please
be civil and answer my questions, or I’ll be compelled to have
you--_and Mrs. Bliss_--arrested for conspiring to murder Mr. Kyle.”
Salveter was completely subdued. He looked at his antagonist in
ludicrous amazement. Then suddenly Vance’s words seemed to seep into
his astonished brain.
“_Mrs. Bliss?_… She had nothing to do with it, I tell you!” His tone,
though highly animated, was respectful. “If it’ll save her from any
suspicion, I’ll confess to the crime.…”
“No need for any such heroism.” Vance had resumed his seat and was
again smoking calmly. “But you might tell us why, when you came into
the museum this afternoon and learned of your uncle’s death, you
didn’t mention the fact that you’d seen him at ten o’clock.”
“I--I was too upset--too shocked,” the man stammered. “And I was
afraid. Self-protective instinct, maybe. I can’t explain--really I
can’t. I should have told you, I suppose… but--but----”
Vance helped him out.
“But you didn’t care to involve yourself in a crime of which you were
innocent. Yes… yes. Quite natural. Thought you’d wait and find out if
any one had seen you.… I say, Mr. Salveter; don’t you know that, if
you had admitted being with your uncle at ten o’clock, it would have
been a point in your favor?”
Salveter had become sullen, and before he could answer Vance went on.
“Leavin’ these speculations to one side, could we prevail upon you to
tell us exactly what you did in the museum between half past nine and
ten o’clock?”
“I’ve already told you.” Salveter was troubled and _distrait_. “I was
comparing an Eighteenth-Dynasty papyrus recently found by Doctor Bliss
at Thebes with Luckenbill’s translation of the hexagonal prism of the
Annals of Sennacherib[*19] in order to determine certain values
for----”
“You’re romancing frightfully, Mr. Salveter,” Vance broke in quietly.
“And you’re indulgin’ in an anachronism. The Sennacherib prism is in
Babylonian cuneiform, and dates almost a thousand years later.” He
lifted his eyes sternly. “What were you doing in the museum this
morning?”
Salveter started forward in his chair, but at once sank back.
“I was writing a letter,” he answered weakly.
“To whom?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Naturally.” Vance smiled faintly. “In what language?”
An immediate change came over the man. His face went pale, and his
hands, which were lying along his knees, convulsed.
“What language?” he repeated huskily. “Why do you ask that?… What
language would I be likely to write a letter in--Bantu, Sanskrit,
Walloon, Ido…?”
“No-o.” Vance’s gaze came slowly to rest on Salveter. “Nor did I have
in mind Aramaic, or Agao, or Swahili, or Sumerian.… The fact is, it
smote my brain a moment ago that you were composin’ an epistle in
Egyptian hieroglyphics.”
The man’s eyes dilated.
“Why, in Heaven’s name,” he asked lamely, “should I do a thing like
that?”
“Why? Ah, yes--why, indeed?” Vance sighed deeply. “But, really, y’
know, you were composin’ in Egyptian--weren’t you?”
“Was I? What makes you think so?”
“Must I explain?… It’s so deuced simple.” Vance put out his cigarette
and made a slight deprecatory gesture. “I could even guess for whom
the epistle was intended. Unless I’m hopelessly mistaken, Mrs. Bliss
was to have been the recipient.” Again Vance smiled musingly. “Y’ see,
you mentioned three words in the imagin’ry papyrus, which you have not
yet satisfactorily translated--_ankhet_, _wash_, and _tema_. But since
there are scores of Egyptian words that have thus far resisted
accurate translation, I wondered why you should have mentioned these
particular three. And I further wondered why you should have mentioned
three words whose meaning you did not recall, which so closely
approximate three very familiar words in Egyptian.… And then I
bethought me as to the meaning of these three familiar words.
_Ankh_--without a determinative--can mean the ‘living one.’
_Was_--which is close to _wash_--means ‘happiness’ or ‘good fortune’;
though I realize there is some doubt about it,--Erman translates it,
with a question-mark, as _Glück_. The _tema_ you mentioned with a
double flail is unknown to me. But I of course am familiar with _tem_
spelt with a sledge ideograph. It means ‘to be ended’ or ‘finished.’…
Do you follow me?”
Salveter stared like a man hypnotized.
“Good God!” he muttered.
“And so,” Vance continued, “I concluded that you had been dealin’ in
the well-known forms of these three words, and had mentioned them
because, in their other approximate forms, their transliterative
meanings are unknown.… And the words fitted perfectly with the
situation. Indeed, Mr. Salveter, it wouldn’t take a great deal of
imagination to reconstruct your letter, being given the three verbal
salients--to wit, _the living one_, _happiness_ or _good fortune_, and
_to be ended_ or _finished_.”
Vance paused briefly, as if to arrange his words.
“You probably composed a communication in which you said that the
‘living one’ (_ankh_) was standing in the way of your ‘happiness’ or
‘good fortune’ (_was_), and expressed a desire for the situation ‘to
be ended’ or ‘finished’ (_tem_).… I’m right, am I not?”
Salveter continued staring at Vance in a kind of admiring
astonishment.
“I’m going to be truthful with you,” he said at length. “That’s
exactly what I wrote. You see, Meryt-Amen, who knows the Middle
Egyptian hieroglyphic language better than I’ll ever know it,
suggested long ago that I write to her at least once a week in the
language of her ancestors, as a kind of exercise. I’ve been doing it
for years; and she always corrects me and advises me--she’s almost as
well versed as any of the scribes who decorated the ancient tombs.…
This morning, when I returned to the museum, I realized that the
Metropolitan did not open until ten o’clock, and on some sudden
impulse I sat down and began working on this letter.”
“Most unfortunate,” Vance sighed; “for your phraseology in that letter
made it appear that you were contemplating taking drastic measures.”
“I know it!” Salveter caught his breath. “That’s why I lied to you.
But the fact is, Mr. Vance, the letter was innocent enough.… I know it
was foolish, but I didn’t take it very seriously. Honest, sir, it was
really a lesson in Egyptian composition--not an actual communication.”
Vance nodded non-committally.
“And where is this letter now?” he asked.
“In the drawer of the table in the museum. I hadn’t finished it when
Uncle Ben came in; and I put it away.”
“And you had already made use of the three words, _ankh_ and _was_ and
_tem_?”
Salveter braced himself and took a deep breath.
“Yes! Those three familiar words were in it. And then, when you first
asked me about what I’d been doing in the museum I made up the tale
about the papyrus----”
“And mentioned three words which were suggested to you by the three
words you had actually used--eh, what?”
“Yes, sir! That’s the truth.”
“We’re most grateful for your sudden burst of honesty.” Vance’s tone
was frigid. “Will you be so good as to bring me the uncompleted
epistle? I’d dearly love to see it; and perhaps I can decipher it.”
Salveter leapt to his feet and fairly ran out of the room. A few
minutes later he returned, to all appearances dazed and crestfallen.
“It isn’t there!” he announced. “It’s gone!”
“Oh, is it, now?… Most unfortunate.”
Vance lay back pensively for several moments. Then suddenly he sprang
to his feet.
“It’s not there!… It’s gone!” he murmured. “I don’t like this
situation, Markham--I don’t at all like it.… Why should the letter
have disappeared? Why… why?”
He swung about to Salveter.
“What kind of paper did you write that indiscreet letter on?” he
asked, with suppressed excitement.
“On a yellow scratch-pad--the kind that’s generally kept on the
table.…”
“And the ink--did you draw your characters with pen or pencil?”
“With a pen. Green ink. It’s always in the museum.…”
Vance raised his hand in an impatient gesture.
“That’s enough.… Go up-stairs--go to your room… and stay there.”
“But, Mr. Vance, I--I’m worried about that letter. Where do you think
it is?”
“Why should I know where it is?--provided, of course, you ever wrote
it. I’m no divining-rod.” Vance was deeply troubled, though he sought
to hide the fact. “Didn’t you know better than to leave such a missive
lying loosely about?”
“It never occurred to me----”
“Oh, didn’t it?… I wonder.” Vance looked at Salveter sharply. “This is
no time to speculate.… Please go to your room. I’ll speak to you
again.… Don’t ask any questions--do as I tell you!”
Salveter, without a word, turned and disappeared through the door. We
could hear his heavy footsteps ascending the stairs.