The Crooked Cross
There fell a silence for a moment—a silence in which the housekeeper
moved nervously over to a near-by chair. Carter's air of boredom had
vanished, and a quick look passed between his English friend and
himself; a glance which held until the English police officer slowly
nodded his head. Then came Carter's cool voice, with the suggestion
that we might go to the summer house and see if Warren was there.
Carter must have known the way, for as we came out of the house to the
lawn, he turned to follow a graveled path which led away to the right.
It ran between two high box hedges, so high that we could not see over
them. Then it passed through an old-fashioned garden, only in the end
to run in a winding fashion up a small hill—a hill covered with many
trees, and which had upon it a stone building.
When the housekeeper had spoken of the summer house, I had pictured
the usual small wooden building; but the place we were approaching was
not of wood, nor for that matter was it small. Instead of being what I
had expected, it was one of those curious eight-sided buildings which
you find once in a while in central New York. And it was the size of
the usual small house.
It stood upon the very top of the hill, with a small but very well
kept lawn before it. Ivy climbed over its sides, and a small piazza
was directly in front of us. When we went upon the veranda, I saw that
it gave the best view that I had seen during the day. The lake lay
only a few hundred feet away, seemingly at our very feet. Far away the
mountains faded away in the growing darkness; but we gave but a glance
at the view, turning to the door before us.
It had been a rather warm day, and for that matter it was still warm;
but the great oak door in front of us was closed, and the near-by
window, which was set very high, was closed also. There was no bell,
though upon the door was the most curious knocker that I had ever
seen. I raised the copper devil's head which formed the knocker and
let it fall. Then we waited for some one to respond.
We knocked again and again, and even shouted. But no reply came from
within. Without a word Carter made a gesture, and we followed him
around the eight sides of the building. On each side was a large
window, but placed about eight feet above the ground; windows with
small panes of leaded glass, so high that one could not look within;
and windows which were shut. In the rear we found another door, also
locked, and though we knocked upon it, it was of no avail.
Back again at the veranda, we stood a moment in thought. After all,
there did not seem to be anything else we could do. That Warren was
not in his library was, of course, the only logical thing to believe.
If he had been, he would not have had the doors and the windows locked
upon such a warm evening. The odd thing was that we should be invited
to dinner and no host appeared to receive us.
I suggested to Carter that we had better return to the house, and then
go home. He listened a moment, gave one reflective glance at the lake,
and then turned to look at the closed door before us. Then, with a
slight frown on his face, he said:
“Perhaps you're right, Pelt. Yet it's very queer that Warren invited
us to dinner and left us in the lurch like this. He must have gone
away.”
“Carter,” came Ranville's voice, “is Warren the sort of man who would
invite a guest to dinner and then run off without a word?”
His friend shook his head. “Far from it; of course, Warren does just
about as he pleases. But he was very urgent about our coming. Still,
he was writing his account of his discoveries in China in his library,
and he might have forgotten the passing of time.”
“Maybe,” drawled Ranville, “but then when it began to grow dark he
would know it was late. And besides, that building is locked. The door
is closed, the windows down. He would not work in the dark without
lights, and it is dark now.”
“That is all true,” was Carter's retort. “But what would you do? We
cannot smash a man's door down simply because he did not turn up to
meet his dinner guests. We had better go back to the house.”
But when we reached the house, it was only to find the same situation
as when we left. Not only had the owner not returned, but the
housekeeper, who met us at the front door, was even more excited than
before. Her round face was flushed, and when she led us into the
living room, her fingers shook so much that it was a second or so
before she could turn on all the lights.
Carter told her that we had been to the summer house, but had seen or
heard nothing of Warren. He added that the doors and windows were
closed. Then he laughed and said there was no doubt Mr. Warren had
been called to town, and had forgotten all about the fact we were to
have been his guests. He no sooner stopped speaking, when the woman
started, and there was no question that she placed very little faith
in what Carter had said.
She told us that if Mr. Warren had gone to town, he would have come to
the house for his coat. He worked in a light summer suit, which he
never wore to town. And the coat of the suit was hanging on a rack in
the hall. Not only that, he never walked if he could ride. And his two
cars were in the garage. And then came the statement which surprised
us. She paused for a moment, only to suddenly cry:
“I am afraid of that Chinaman.”
There came a startled look from Ranville, and he asked in a surprised
voice: “What Chinaman?”
In a voice which showed all the distrust and fear that country women
have of foreigners she replied:
“There was a Chinaman who came to the door before six o'clock. He
asked for Mr. Warren, and I showed him how to get to the library. He
wore a white suit and spoke English pretty good. But I did not like
his face; and ever since he came here I have been afraid—”
She paused, her face twitching with emotion, then said:
“As Mr. Warren had not come back to the house, I went to the library
just before you came. I knocked and knocked on the door. But no one
answered. I had called up on the 'phone, but there was no reply. And
when I knocked, or just before I knocked the first time, I thought I
heard some one inside. But after I had pounded on the door there was
not a sound.”
Suddenly her voice broke and, giving us an appealing look, she asked
if we would not go back to the library and break open one of the
windows, so we could get within. There was no doubt she was afraid
something had happened to Warren. When she finished speaking, there
was just one response. It came from Ranville.
“I think we better do as she says, Carter,” was all he said.
At these words the woman ran from the room, returning in a moment with
two flashlights, which she gave us. She half started to follow us from
the piazza, and then, as if thinking better of her resolution, stopped
by the door. As we went down the steps to the ground, our last sight
was the housekeeper, standing in the open door with the light from the
hall streaming out into the night.
It was now dark. As we retraced our steps, the high hedges on each
side of the path caused the walk to appear like a black tunnel. Above
our heads we could catch a glimpse of the stars, and could hear the
faint rustle of the branches of the trees. For some reason no one
spoke, nor for that matter did we hurry.
Climbing the slight hill, we approached the building, which loomed a
dark mass before us. On the veranda we paused for a second, and then
the darkness was split by the sudden ray from Carter's flashlight. We
tried the door again, but it was still locked, and there came no
response to our knock. The window was six or seven feet above our
heads, and to reach it some one would have to do a little climbing.
As I was the lightest, they proposed to lift me from the floor to the
ledge of the window. If I found it was locked, I was to break the
glass, lift the window, and climb into the room. Ranville gave me his
hand, and I reached the sill. Balancing myself on the narrow ledge, I
tried to peer into the room, but it was a dense black shadow of gloom.
Nothing could be distinguished, and though I waited a second, the only
sound to come to my ears was the wind in the branches of the near-by
trees.
Trying the window, I found it locked. Then Carter reached up to me the
second flashlight, and without turning it on I broke the glass with
the heavy end. The glass fell with a tinkling sound to the floor, and
slipping my hand through the hole, I turned the catch and lifted the
window. As I did this, I dropped the flashlight, which fell with a
thud within the room. Hesitating a second, I dropped into the library
and fumbled on the floor for the flashlight.
I found it without any trouble and, putting on the catch, played the
light hastily around the room. Just what I expected to see I cannot
say; but the brief sweep which I made over the floor and the walls
revealed nothing. The room evidently took in the entire house, and the
walls showed only long lines of books, and a gallery which ran around
the eight sides. In the center was a large desk, the surface littered
with books and papers. But of Warren there was not a trace.
Turning the light to the door, I found the spring lock was on. It took
but a second to fling the door open, and Carter and Ranville slipped
within. The same question was on both faces, and I slowly shook my
head in reply. Carter's first words were for me to find the switch for
the lights. The button was near the door, and, pressing it, the room
in an instant was a blaze of light.
The room was octagonal in shape, with a window placed high on each of
the sides. The wall space was filled with bookcases, and there must
have been many thousand volumes. A gallery at a height of around
twelve feet ran completely around the room. Even this was filled with
books. The furniture was simple. Near the door stood a safe, and there
were a number of stands in various corners. But in the center of the
room was the largest desk I had ever seen—a huge affair made out of an
old-fashioned square piano—with its surface littered with books and
papers. Near it stood a typewriter stand, with the machine uncovered.
And then, suddenly, we saw something else—something which drove all
other thoughts from our minds. Peering from behind the desk was a
foot—a foot which did not move.
We must have seen it at the same moment, for Carter's hand gripped my
arm, and for a second we stood silent. Then without a word slowly we
went across the floor, knowing what we would find. Though we were sure
what was behind the desk, yet it came as a shock. For there, lying on
his back upon the floor—with both arms outstretched from the body—lay
a man. A man to whom the dinner waiting in the big house would never
matter; and it needed but a glance to know that death had come
suddenly—and violently.
As Ranville's eyes and mine met, they framed the same question. It was
Carter who spoke the two words:
“It's Warren.”
The scientist was a man of about fifty, and perhaps a little over that
age. The face was self-willed, and the lines around the distorted lips
were stern. Though past middle life, his hair was a dense black,
without a sign of gray, and there was not a white hair in the
close-cropped mustache. One could tell by his figure that he had been
a man of the strongest physique. He was dressed in a light summer
suit, without a coat, and upon the white shirt, just over the heart,
was a crimson stain.
Carter dropped on his knees and made a hasty examination. In a second
he turned and pointed with his finger at the dark stain upon the white
shirt. Then as he straightened up we saw something else—something we
had overlooked. It was a sheet of paper. Evidently it had fallen off
the body, though perhaps it had been placed by its side. A piece of
bond paper with but five letters—large letters, evidently written with
a hurried hand, the beginning of an incompleted word:
—ANANI—
There had been little conversation, for we were too upset by what we
had found. But the piece of paper puzzled us. That Warren had been
stabbed there was no doubt; but what the paper meant we could not
tell. The letters seemed to mean nothing, and we were not sure that
they had anything to do with the crime. For a moment we puzzled over
it, and then my eyes wandered again to the still figure upon the
floor. As I glanced at it, I gave a sudden start and dropped to my
knees for a closer look. And then—then, after one glance, I gave a
startled cry.
For there upon the forehead of the murdered man were two faint
lines—lines now swollen and red. Not very long lines, nor for that
matter very noticeable, but lines which I could not understand. There
upon the forehead of the famous scientist were two faint lines cut
into the skin. A cross—the lines of which had just been made. Cut
faintly, I judged, with a knife. A cross—the lines now red and
swollen, and a crooked cross at that.