TELLS HOW ASHTON-KIRK POINTED OUT CERTAIN MATTERS OF INTEREST
As Ashton-Kirk was about to reply to his friend’s question, the door
opened and Kretz came into the room. He saluted stiffly.
“Herr Campe,” said he, “told me to come to you. He said you would speak
to me.”
“Did he say anything more?”
“He told me to obey your orders.”
Ashton-Kirk nodded.
“Good!” said he. “Well, sergeant, I have a bit of work to do about the
castle, and Mr. Scanlon is to be my guide.”
With not a vestige of expression upon his granite-like face, the
sergeant-major again saluted.
“Now,” went on Ashton-Kirk, “I expect to be engaged for an hour or
more. Keep watch at the gate, if any one approaches--any one, mind
you--report to me before you admit him.”
Kretz nodded stiffly and departed; and then Ashton-Kirk turned to
Scanlon.
“Are your nails still in the door to the vaults?”
“They are,” replied Scanlon, proudly. “Up to their heads, and holding
like grim death.”
“Get a tool of some sort. We’ll have to draw them.”
With a claw hammer Scanlon pulled the nails without much difficulty.
Then the two descended into the regions below. Ashton-Kirk carried an
electric torch, which shot a small, searching column of light ahead
through the gloom.
“It beats a lamp or a lantern,” said Bat, his mind going back to the
morning upon which their visit to the cellars was greeted with a volley
of shots. “If there are any volatile parties hanging around, they can’t
get such a fair slam at us.”
The rays of the torch danced along the floor, the ceiling, the walls
and into corners. Satisfied that there were no prowlers in the vaults,
the light ceased its erratic flashing; it now became intent, and fixed
itself upon some small spaces for quite long periods of time.
“Again the floor seems to attract him,” thought the big man.
“Footprints and such.”
But the crime specialist seemed annoyed.
“There has been a great deal of tramping up and down by all of us,”
said he. “Quite a number of very definite impressions are to be found
in the dust, but----” he stopped suddenly, the beam of light held to a
place in the floor, fixedly, and his breath drew in with a sharpness
that told of a discovery.
“What is it?” asked Bat, anxiously.
“Look!”
The crime specialist pointed to what appeared to be a long streak
in the dust upon the vault floor. It was broken here and there by
footmarks, but seemed to continue for some distance outside the radius
of the light.
“I see it,” said Bat, mildly. “But what is it?”
“Here is another just like it,” spoke Ashton-Kirk, “and running the
same way. And there is still another, but not so heavy, between the
other two.”
Sure enough, as Bat looked, he saw two deeply marked streaks, with
a third not so pronounced between them; they held their relative
positions and ran away in the same direction as far as his eye could
follow.
“I get the three of them,” said Mr. Scanlon. “And once again I ask for
the answer.”
“It looks,” and the glow of the torch began to follow the course of the
lines, “as though our friend Alva, from the inn, had been here.”
“It’s got through,” said Bat, tapping his head dolefully. “It’s got
through at last. These marks were made by the wheels of his chair--two
big ones outside, and one small one in the middle.” There was a silence
as the eyes of the big man followed the spreading rays of the torch.
“Alva, you know, promised to drop in some time,” continued Bat. “And I
can see that he’s a man of his word.”
The detective followed the wheel marks; they led directly across the
vault to the east wall.
“Right slam into it,” spoke Mr. Scanlon from the darkness of a half
dozen yards away. “Looks like they had an accident on the line.”
But Ashton-Kirk did not hear; he was too intent upon what was before
him. Up the wall crept the shaft of light, and about four feet above
the floor it rested upon a heavy iron ring.
“Hello,” said Scanlon, approaching and staring at the ring with
interest. “Was it here that they chained the unhappy captive in the
days of old?”
Ashton-Kirk examined the ring keenly; then the rays of the torch
flashed over the wall, all about it. As it approached the floor once
more he suddenly exclaimed: “Ah!” And down he went on his knees in the
dust.
Scanlon, bending forward, saw a place at the edge of a great block of
stone where a thick, greenish fluid had apparently oozed through.
“From the river, I guess,” he said. “We’re pretty close to it, you
know.”
Ashton-Kirk touched the fluid with a finger tip; then he held out his
hand toward his friend.
“Is the odour at all familiar?” he asked.
Scanlon sniffed, gingerly.
“By George!” exclaimed he. “Crude oil.” He stared at the other. “What’s
it doing here?”
Ashton-Kirk arose to his feet.
“Take hold of the ring,” directed he. Bat did so. “Now pull.”
As Scanlon put his weight to the pull, he felt something give; to his
astonishment the whole mass of stone before him turned smoothly upon an
invisible pivot; before him was a dark opening bricked, and extending
apparently for a long distance underground. For a moment or two Bat was
too dumbfounded to speak, but at length he thrust his hands deep into
his pocket and said:
“Well, I’ve read about them, and I’ve heard about them, but this is the
first I ever saw.” The torch lighted up the passage for some distance,
and as the big man peered into it, he went on: “It’s all properly
mouldy, and it’s got the water trickling between the bricks, the damp
patches and the fungus, just as Sylvanus Cobb and the others used to
write about.”
But, underneath the astonishment, his mind had apparently been moving,
for he went on in another tone:
“The crude oil was put on the working parts by the fellows at the inn
when they found that the stone didn’t move smoothly. And now,” turning
upon Ashton-Kirk, “I am wise to all the interest that’s been taken in
the river bank of late. This passage opens somewhere on the bank, and I
was the only one that didn’t know it.”
But Ashton-Kirk shook his head.
“I didn’t _know_ it,” said he. “But I _did_ suspect. The fact that
certain persons gained entrance to the cellar whenever they felt
disposed to do so pointed very strongly to the existence of just such
a passage as this. That it did not appear in the plan of the castle of
which Kretz spoke meant nothing; such things are never shown in plans.
My attention was attracted toward the river bank as a possible place
for the passage’s outlet, because Schwartzberg is near the bank, and
it has always been a custom to have such secret ways lead down to the
brinks of rivers wherever possible. A river, I suppose, suggested a way
of escape.”
As the crime specialist ceased speaking, he entered the passage, and
Scanlon followed. It was almost circular in shape, and the big man
could walk without bending his head.
“Fortunately for the builder, the stone through which the cut was made
was soft, as I showed you the other day,” said Ashton-Kirk. “If it had
been good solid granite, I think Schwartzberg would have been left
without its secret way.”
At the far end of the tunnel daylight filtered in between some faded
tangled growth. A heap of stones, cement clinging to them, lay in the
way.
“The tunnel was sealed,” said Ashton-Kirk, “and when the criminals laid
siege to the castle they broke it open.”
Bat Scanlon protruded his head; in a few moments he drew it back.
“No wonder no one ever got wise to this,” said he. “It opens right
under that big rock that hangs over the water; and the water runs
directly underneath. They must have had some little time getting the
man of the chair in, unless they have a boat.”
After they had looked about interestedly for a while, they left the
tunnel, and closed the massive stone door. Ashton-Kirk then picked up
the wheel tracks with the torch rays, and this time he followed them in
the opposite direction.
“Trying to find out what the crippled party was up to,” Bat told
himself. “Well, it must have been something important, seeing as he
went to such a lot of trouble to get here.”
Here and there went the special detective, his keen eyes following the
wheel marks. Alva, so it seemed, had been rolled to all parts of the
vaults, and the track was, to Scanlon’s notion, hopelessly tangled. But
Ashton-Kirk seemed to see much that was interesting and of consequence;
at length, however, he straightened up, stretched the tightness which
the stooping posture had produced out of his back and shoulders, and
smiled at his companion in a way that spoke of much satisfaction.
“Our friends were here quite recently,” he said. “In fact, I will
venture to say that they were here last night, and, perhaps, upon
each of the preceding nights. All the indications speak of acute
interest--and failure.”
“Failure!” said Scanlon. “In what?”
Ashton-Kirk smiled once more.
“In what they came for,” said he. “And--having failed--they will come
again.”
His interest in the vaults seemed to have exhausted itself; and so he
ascended to the first floor with Bat at his heels. After making the
door fast, the big man asked:
“Well, where do we give the next look? In the room where the tapestries
are?”
“Ah! You have not forgotten the tapestries!” The crime specialist’s
eyes snapped. “I never saw finer. Campe has a prize in them, indeed.”
“The tapestries are fine--for those folks who are strong for them,”
admitted Bat. “But there are other things in that room that would get
me quicker than they would.”
“As your interest is so keen,” smiled Ashton-Kirk, “we may as well take
the tapestry room first. Who knows what interests we may uncover there?”
Scanlon led the way upstairs and pushed open the door of the room in
question. The sun shone in; the painting, the carvings, the tapestry,
the rare rugs and furniture showed to wonderful advantage.
“They’ve got it a step or two ahead of me,” admitted Mr. Scanlon, “but
for all that, I’ll say it’s some room. Class from every angle.”
The harp stood, muffled, near a window, and the big man was gratified
to see Ashton-Kirk go directly to it and strip off the cover.
“The harp,” said Bat, “is an emblem of Erin, and I have nothing against
it. But there is something about this particular one that I don’t like,
for every time I look at it I feel it’s got something on me.”
Ashton-Kirk examined the instrument with much attention; there was a
pleased look upon his face; his singular eyes shone with interest; and
now and then he uttered a low exclamation. His fingers ran over the
strings. Then, at length, he stepped back and stood nodding and smiling.
“That,” said he, “is exceedingly clever. As a matter of fact I don’t
know when I’ve encountered anything more ingenious.”
“Eh?” said Scanlon, blankly.
But the crime specialist did not seem to hear him, and then, before Bat
could ask a question, he had turned away and was glancing interestedly
about the room once more.
“There’s the sword,” said Bat, desirous that this important feature in
the doings about Schwartzberg should not be overlooked.
“Ah, yes.” The other nodded and glanced at the huge weapon with
appraising eyes. “A very powerful arm. The Hohenlo who carried it at
Milan was a person capable of giving good service, no doubt.”
But after one glance the speaker turned away; evidently it was not
the sword he was looking for. His keen eyes, wandering about, went
from object to object; then a small, beautifully fashioned desk caught
his glance, and he went to it. First one drawer and then another was
opened; they held stationery, letters apparently awaiting answers,
small bills and other matters. At length Bat, who was absorbed in
watching the turning out of the desk, gave an exclamation.
“Hello!” said he. “There we are.”
He pointed to some neatly tied packets in the bottom of a drawer.
“They are the things--the rolls of blank paper I saw Miss Knowles
looking at in the storage room,” said he.
Ashton-Kirk took up one of the packets and untied it. Very carelessly,
as Scanlon thought, he ran over the sheets; then he tossed them back
in the drawer.
“I think,” said the crime specialist, after a moment, “that we have
seen about all we want to see for a space. Inside, that is. But outside
there may be one or two little matters which it would be well to pick
up.” He was about to turn away from the desk; then pausing, he reopened
one of the drawers and took out a tangled mass of strings which lay in
the bottom of it. “Put these in your pocket,” said he, handing them to
Scanlon. “We may need them to tie something together.”
Reluctantly Bat left the house with him, and glumly passed through the
gate which Kretz held open.
“Of course,” said he, to himself, “it’s not for me to kick. But it does
seem to me that the place to get the good going over is the house. And
here we haven’t done any more than look at a few corners of it.”
It was now considerably past noon; the sun was warm and the brown
hills, with here and there a patch of vivid green, stretched away to
the south, the west and the north. To the east the river slipped by
smoothly, and toward the river Ashton-Kirk turned his steps. He paused
upon an overhanging mass of rock and looked over its edge.
“It’s under this, I think, that we found the opening to the secret way.”
“Yes,” replied Bat.
After studying the situation for a little, the special detective moved
on. He held to the river banks for the better part of a mile; then he
paused.
“Just a moment,” said he to Scanlon. He left the path and sprang down
the bank; plunging into a tangle of shrivelled vines and small trees
he disappeared for a few moments, and when he reappeared his face wore
a satisfied look.
“Now, then,” said he, cheerfully, “we’ll take a brisk little walk
across country. And at the end of it I may be able to show you
something that will surprise you.”
So away they went, up-hill and down-hill, and Scanlon noted that their
way was taking them in the general direction of the inn.
“Your life in the West,” said Ashton-Kirk, after a period of silence,
“must have made you acquainted with the various Indian tribes.”
“A good many. I’ve eaten with Pawnees, and hunted with Crows; I’ve
broke horses with the Cheyennes, when I was a youngster, and I’ve
fought the Sioux and the Apache. Another man and I once put in a season
with the Navajos; and one time again, I had a party of Blackfeet chase
me through about a hundred miles of mountain, with never a stop.”
“The Navajos are an interesting tribe,” said the crime specialist.
“Their fabrics and their pottery are picturesque and not without beauty
of design and form.” He was silent for another space, and then asked:
“You are not acquainted with any of the tribes further south?”
“None across the border,” said Bat.
“Mexico has some races of interesting savages. Her hill people are
hardy and independent, and they’ve never been subdued.”
“I’ve heard of them,” replied Bat.
“But ancient Mexico possessed still more noteworthy people. Humboldt,
Vater and others who have studied their remains have written very
interestingly of them. Auahuac was the ancient name of Mexico, and the
first known race to occupy the land was the Quinome.”
“Some time ago!” remarked Mr. Scanlon, as they strode along. “Before
even friend Columbus had a chance to hang up his name.”
“Yes,” replied Ashton-Kirk. “But just how long the Quinomes remained it
is not known, for a number of wandering tribes seemed to have entered
afterward, paused and then took up their way once more. Afterward the
Toltecs came from the west--later more tribes, to the number of seven,
one of whom was the Aztec.”
“I’ve heard of them,” said Scanlon. “Rather queer looking old scouts;
had heads flattened in front, and----” but he paused, his eyes going to
Ashton-Kirk in a curious look. Then he pursed up his mouth, and began
to whistle softly.
The crime specialist’s head was bent, and he stabbed at the stubble and
the brown weeds with his stick; there was an expression upon his face
that told of one deep in speculation.
“The Aztecs, as you suggest, were not a physically beautiful people.
And their civilisation was as deformed as their persons.” There was
a halt as they breasted a hill; then he proceeded: “It has come down
as a sort of tradition that Cortez, when he burned his ships, marched
against a people of mild nature and advanced culture. Nothing could
be more erroneous. They were a savage race who had conquered their
neighbours by superior brutality; their intelligence was inferior to
the North American Indian of the same time; it is true that they had a
written language, but their character was greatly inferior to that of
the Hindoos and other peoples.”
“A popular lecture,” was Mr. Scanlon’s mental observation. “But it
seems to me it’s going to land somewhere.”
“The Aztecs made no roads,” said Ashton-Kirk, lifting his head and
looking about as though searching for a given spot; “and they had no
domestic animals. Both these things speak strongly against them. But
the most fearsome thing about them was their religion.”
He paused in a place between two small hills; in the ground was a
bowl-shaped hollow. Scanlon looked at this and at the surroundings with
interest.
“Some days ago I had occasion to speak to you of the theory of Gall,
the Antwerp empiric, as to the skull and the brain and their effects,
one upon the other. It was the custom of the Aztecs to flatten the
heads of their children by continued pressure; this resulted, finally,
in the altering of their skulls as a people. And who knows what effect
this deformity had upon their inclinations. The horrors of their
religious observances may, perhaps, be traced to it altogether.”
“Like as not,” admitted Mr. Scanlon.
The crime specialist kicked away some brush which lay beside a log
near by, and in this way he disclosed a huge bundle of something like
parchment. With Scanlon’s help he unrolled it; it was made up of a
number of prepared sheepskins, and to the edges ropes were attached.
“Ha!” said Bat, as he looked at it.
“Suppose we were to throw this over the hollow which you see here; then
suppose we were to draw it taut with the ropes after having passed them
around stakes--taut and tauter still until the skins will stretch no
more.” Ashton-Kirk looked at the big man inquiringly. “What should we
have?”
“A drum!” cried Bat. “An immense drum!” He returned the look of the
other, adding, with wonder: “And it’s a drum we’ve heard roaring in the
night.”
“Right,” said Ashton-Kirk.
“You knew it was here,” said Scanlon.
“Yes. I came upon it after a little search one day while prowling
about in the guise of a man with a disobedient liver.” He regarded the
drumhead in silence for a while, and then went on:
“The Aztecs’ places of worship were shaped like pyramids, and were
composed of terraces, one above the other. Here their terrible war god,
Huitzilopochtli, was propitiated by human sacrifice. A great drum was
beaten, notifying all in the city that an offering was to be made. The
pinioned victim was thrown face upward across the sacrificial stone,
which was green in colour and with a humped up place which fitted into
the small of his back; with a blow of a great keen blade his body was
laid open.”
The breath caught in the big man’s throat.
“No!” said he, his wide open eyes upon the other’s face. “No!”
He continued to stare, and, slowly, what he had just heard began to
form in his mind.
“The stone,” said he, “green, and with a hump on it! The roaring of a
great drum! A cut down the front!” His hand closed upon Ashton-Kirk’s
arm. “I’ve seen and heard things like these, and I know a man with a
flattened skull. But what’s the answer?”
“The greater part of the Mexican population is mixed with Indian
blood,” said the crime specialist. “And one of the most curious studies
I know of is the atavistic tendency--that is, the tendency to recur
to an ancestral type or deformity. A thing may lie dormant in ten
generations of men or animals, and then suddenly assert itself in all
its fullness.”
“You think, then----” began Scanlon.
“That the man in the rolling chair, Alva, is a ‘throwback’; that his
deformed head is an assertation of the old Aztec strain; that if this
deformity had anything to do with the fiendish character of the Aztecs,
it might naturally be supposed that it has had some effect upon him.”
“I think I get you,” said Bat Scanlon, slowly. “Check me off, and see
if I’m right. This fellow, Alva, is the leader of the party at the
inn. He’s done for three of the Campe family already, and is reaching
for a fourth. The answer to this, so you tell me, is that his Indian
ancestors loved blood spilling, and that the thing’s broke out in him.”
“That’s a part of the answer. It was only after failing in something
else, remember, that the murder mania took possession of him. And
boasting of his Indian ancestry, as Fuller reports, it is not at all
strange that his murderous tendency should find vent in the ancient
form.”
Bat nodded.
“But why all the frills? Why this?” touching the drumhead with the toe
of his shoe. “Why the execution stone?”
“All part of a system for terrorizing Campe. And you’ve seen how it
succeeded. They knew he would understand; through fear of the death
which overtook his father, his uncle and his brother, they hoped to
bring him to some sort of terms.”
“I see,” said the big man. He stood in silence for a time, apparently
digesting what he’d heard; then he asked, curiously: “But how did you
drop to all this? How did you begin? How did you work it out?”
“My starting point,” said Ashton-Kirk, “was when you told me the
landlord had had the inn only a short time. I knew that if there was a
band working on the Campe affair they would have headquarters in the
neighbourhood; and what you said looked promising.”
“That’s why you wanted to go there before you tried anything else,”
said Mr. Scanlon.
The crime specialist nodded.
“As I told you, the atmosphere of the inn struck me unfavourably as
soon as I had a chance to feel it. I got the impression that there was
an understanding between the people we saw there; and then it occurred
to me that they were fakes; with the exception of Alva there wasn’t a
genuine invalid in the lot.”
“The man with the cough is a fairly lively person,” said Bat.
“The idea of this,” said Ashton-Kirk, “was that as invalids they would
escape attention; it would form a reason for their being at the inn;
and so far as Marlowe Furnace and the country round about is concerned,
they were successful.”
“Count me among the simpletons,” said Bat. “I didn’t fall until they
fell on me.”
“You recall that we heard the voice of Alva that night, off stage, so
to speak, and lifted very high. I at once felt that this was the voice
of authority, and I was curious to see him. The Indian who pushed his
chair first attracted my attention when they came in. I knew he was
not a North American; this, and the fact that the Campe trouble had its
beginning in Mexico, must have started my mind on its course. I had,
also, the rolling of the drum and the green stone stored in the back of
my memory; and when I saw the peculiar indications of Alva’s skull I
felt interested enough to get a less obstructed look.”
“Then your knocking those wrappings from off his head wasn’t an
accident after all.”
“A little subterfuge,” smiled Ashton-Kirk. “And a moment after seeing
it I had the skull, the rolling sound, the green stone and Mexico all
revolving in my mind. Before I slept that night I had them associated.
When I got you to leave the road next morning and cut across country
toward the castle, it was because I saw the wheel marks of Alva’s chair
leave it at the same place; and I was curious to see where he had gone
the night before.”
“And this thing which made you send Fuller to Mexico next day--how did
you get that?”
“It was a theory, built up around what I had already seen.”
Here the crime specialist looked at his watch.
“Do you know,” said he, surprised, “that it’s three o’clock, and I
shouldn’t wonder if the touring party had returned.”
They turned and slowly began the tramp over the hills toward
Schwartzberg.
The afternoon sun lay warm and red on the western slopes of the hills,
and where it fell upon the walls of the castle it had a peculiar effect.
“Even is broad day, Schwartzberg is no easy place for me,” said
Scanlon, his eyes upon the grey pile.
“How is that?” asked the special detective.
“It must be,” said the big man in reply, “that the things that have
happened in and about the castle have so coloured my feelings towards
it that I can see it only in one way.”
“And that is----”
“A place of peril,” answered Scanlon, soberly. “A place where danger is
always waiting to reach out its hand and give you something when you
are not expecting it. As you know, I’m not the kind of a fellow to pick
up impressions of this kind; but Schwartzberg’s put its mark on me deep
and strong, and I can’t shake it off.”