The Case Is Ended
Several hours later found us gathered in Carter's living room. It had
been a very active two hours. Our first attention had been given to
the secretary, for it needed but a glance to tell that the minister
was beyond any aid of ours. We carried her to Carter's house, where
his housekeeper placed her in bed, while we called the doctor. We had
reached both the coroner and the chief of police, and when their
duties had been completed, they had all gathered in Carter's house.
We were a somber-looking group of men. The horror and nervous tension
of the last few hours was still with us. No one felt very much at
ease, and my eyes still saw the amazing scene in the boat house. The
heavy face of the chief wore the most bewildered look I have ever
seen, and it seemed as if he still found it impossible to believe all
that had taken place. Only Ranville and Bartley appeared to be
unmoved, and the Englishman's face wore an admiring look whenever he
glanced at Bartley.
It was the chief who voiced the thought which was in all our minds. He
turned to Bartley, and his heavy voice asked the question we all
wished answered.
“Mr. Bartley,” he asked, “for God's sake, tell us how you doped out
this thing. I can't believe yet the minister killed those two men. To
save my life I can't see it.”
Bartley started to speak, only to be interrupted by Carter's rising
from his chair. Telling us he thought the chief would pardon us if we
took a little drink, he left the room, returning in a moment. Under
his arm was a three-sided bottle, and glasses clinked in his pockets.
No one spoke while he poured out the Scotch, and very soberly we each
took our drink. Then Carter turned to his friend.
“Now, John,” was all he said.
Fumbling in his pocket, Bartley found his cigar case and slowly
lighted one of the long thin cigars he loved so well. Then, leaning
far back in his chair, he turned to the chief.
“As you know, Chief,” were his words, “the solving of any crime is
oftentimes a matter of luck. It is not often we find clews scattered
about which lead us directly to the criminal. Most murders are solved
by very careful detail work by the police. Others are solved by sheer
good fortune, and a few by what we might call a bit of psychology.”
I saw Ranville nod his head in agreement, but the chief's face was a
study. He started to say something, only to check himself as Bartley
continued:
“When I first read in the papers regarding the murder of Warren, my
first thought was, the whole thing seemed incredible. Then I began to
wonder what the motive might be. There must always be some kind of a
motive for a murder. The crime is committed, of course, for many
reasons. In the main, there are but three—robbery, revenge or sudden,
frenzied passion. When I read the accounts of Warren's death, every
one of these reasons seemed to be eliminated. In fact, the more I
thought it over the less there seemed to be of any kind of motive.”
He paused to relight his cigar; then went on:
“Of course, the murder of a man of Warren's prominence was startling
enough in itself. As a rule, men of his type are not murdered. Then I
began to wonder. There seemed on the face of it but one logical
explanation. Could he have been killed because of something he might
have done in China, by some enemies he might have made while there?
When Carter told me of the visit made by the Chinaman, I began to
wonder if he might be the killer. In the end I decided that he could
not have been.”
“I don't see how you have decided that,” broke in the chief.
“Two things formed my opinion. The cross upon the forehead was the
first one. A Chinaman might have killed him, but if he did, he would
not have marked the body after death with a cross. Then came the story
of the box. We found there was a box of opium in the library. Patton's
information regarding the boxes given Warren in China checked up with
the story the Chinaman told. But one box of opium was not enough for a
crime of that type. The Chinaman could have secured the box at the
time he was first in the library; that is, if he had not been forced
to leave.”
“To leave?” questioned Carter.
Bartley turned to his friend. “Carter, did you not think it rather
queer that the Chinaman left the library as quickly as he did? He had
discovered Warren was dead. To him that was of little account. But it
seems that either he must have seen some one returning to the building
or else heard some one near the room. One thing he could not afford to
have happen: that was take any chance he would be accused of the
murder. That's why he left.”
I saw Ranville nod, and Bartley continued:
“Patton told us that Mr. Warren never had the time to examine the gift
of three boxes which had been given him at the last moment. The
Chinaman told the truth. He was but an odd coincident in the case, but
it was sufficient for a short while to throw us all away from the real
motive. Then when I heard your stories, I began to have a faint
suspicion—”
“You did,” interrupted Carter. “Of what?”
Bartley laughed. “A faint suspicion that perhaps you had not told me
every single detail. As the affair stood, we were up against a stone
wall. Warren had been killed—but there was no motive for the crime. Of
course, that was absurd. I began to wonder if you had overlooked
anything. And then I decided there was but one way I could see any
light in this crime. It was to apply some modern psychology—try and
discover the type of a man who would commit such an absurd murder.
That is—it was to us, but to the murderer it was not. And then, all at
once, you told me very clearly what type of a man I must look for.”
“We did not,” was Carter's quick comment.
“Do you remember that bit of paper you found near the body? That paper
with the letters ‘Anani’?”
We nodded.
“For some reason none of you tried to figure out what those letters
might mean. They did mean something, though the word was not
completed. Did you ever hear of ‘Ananias’?”
As the chief wrinkled up his brow in thought, Ranville brought his
hand down on his knee and laughed. It was Carter who spoke, his voice
impatient as he said:
“Of course I did. He is in the Bible. Some sort of a liar who was
struck dead.”
“He is in the Bible, Carter,” was Bartley's smiling reply. “But I am a
little surprised you knew it. The gentleman, as you remember, was
struck dead—by God—for telling a lie. You carry those letters to their
logical conclusion, and the word would have spelled out ‘Ananias.’ Our
psychology will tell us the murderer used that name instead of writing
out another word, ‘Liar.’”
“But, Mr. Bartley,” broke in the chief, “of all damned foolishness
that's the worst. No one could call Mr. Warren that sort of a name. He
was one of the big men of the country. You are all wrong there.”
“Wait a moment, Chief,” was the calm reply. “You have made the reply
the average man would make. And even if an ordinary man killed Mr.
Warren and thought he lied, he would not have used the word ‘Ananias’
to express that fact. It gave me my first clew to the type of man I
wished to find. And there is something else you must remember—”
As we bent forward in our chairs, his eyes swept slowly over us. His
voice was very grave when he spoke.
“Mr. Warren was one of the great men of our land—one of our greatest
men of science. But you must remember that there are many millions of
people in this country who would say that he was a ‘liar.’ Remember
his statement when he came out of China? I have found the solution of
the origin of man. The last proof of evolution has been discovered.”
His eyes swept over us, and as no one spoke, he went on:
“In every college in this world evolution is taught as the only
logical explanation of the origin of man. Every intelligent person
accepts it. You know, however, that in America to-day there is a great
campaign against the subject. In fact, there is a campaign against
science as being ‘ungodly.’ Take a rabid, bigoted man who is
uneducated—one who sees in science an attack upon religion and the
Bible—and you will find a man who would say Warren was what that word
implied—a ‘liar.’”
Ranville's face was very grave as his eyes rested upon Bartley.
Without waiting for a reply, Bartley said very gravely:
“I have often wondered just how far you could carry on a campaign of
hatred and untruths without reaping a fearful penalty. We have been
breeding intolerance in America for years. All over our country, in
the south and in the west, men are at the present time carrying on a
campaign against the teaching of science. They are inflaming the minds
of simple people in what they call a great crusade. In the end you
cannot breed intolerance and hatred without some time having to reap
the full penalty. Warren paid the price of that campaign of
misrepresentation. It has happened before. Intolerance—breeding
hatred—and then in an unbalanced mind flaming out in violence.
“I began to wonder if perhaps I had not found the type who would
commit such a crime, and also the motive. When you told me of the
faint cross cut into the head of the dead man, I knew that we were
dealing with an unbalanced mind.”
He paused and lighted a fresh cigar; then added:
“And the night the minister came here I began to wonder if he might be
the man. This afternoon I was sure of it.”
At our questioning glances he informed us as to what had made him
suspicious. He reminded us that the minister had broken out in a
rather wild attack upon what he said was the fact that evolution was
responsible for people not going to church. Then he added that when
the clergyman had expressed his opinion that Warren's discoveries
could not be given to the world, he had been corrected by Carter's
statement that Mr. Warren's assistant was coming to finish the book.
He remarked that only the fact he was suspicious of the man, perhaps
caused him to notice the look which passed over his face when he made
his statement regarding Patton. It was a look of consternation and of
hatred. From that moment he had begun to have his suspicions regarding
the minister. One other thing convinced him they were true.
The chief had been following Bartley's story with the closest
attention. In part, I believed that he was not sure Bartley's
reasoning was correct. I could see the puzzled look sweep across his
face, and once or twice he shook his head as if he did not agree. It
was his voice which asked:
“What was the other thing?”
“Pelt and I were in the minister's study this afternoon. I made my
call at a time I knew he was out. I had seen him go down the lake in
his boat. There was nothing very much out of the way in his study—that
is, on first glance. His books were mostly controversial theological
works, and a good many of them were attacks upon evolution. But in a
bookcase which had a glass door covered by cloth I found something
else. To start with, the books in the case were a weird mixture. There
were a great many books upon flagellation—the worst sort of books.
Then there were a number dealing with the celebrated Girard case. That
was a famous case of sadism under the guise of religion. Also there
were the five pamphlets which covered the Lepworth school matter.”
There came a short expression from Ranville. As the rest of us looked
blankly at the two men, Bartley enlightened us.
“The Lepworth school affair is a very celebrated case in the realm of
sexual psychology. The schoolmaster, a young man named Woods, aroused
England over sixty years ago by the brutal and cruel punishments he
inflicted upon his pupils. He managed to escape to America. There is
no doubt the man was sexually unbalanced. To-day we would call it a
pathological condition. But standing on that shelf was a genealogy of
the Woods family—that branch of it. And that schoolmaster, who had to
flee England, was the grandfather of the minister.
“Now I do not know much about Woods. He was forced out of England and
came to this country. He made money, we do know. But the fact he built
this church tells a good deal. It was, no doubt, his gesture to the
Almighty—his attempt to win forgiveness for the sins of the flesh.
To-day we know another thing. Any textbook upon heredity will tell you
that children inherit their qualities more from their grandparents
than their parents. And here was the minister, and in his blood was
that unbalanced make-up of the English schoolmaster. In his case it
made him a bigot without friends and also whipped him into queer
reform movements. It also explains the horrible books I found in his
case. And I might add that I found the missing volumes of the De Sade.
“The genealogy told more. The minister's father married a woman named
Wright. After the minister was born she was placed in an insane
asylum, where she died. You can see from the standpoint of heredity
what took place. The sadistic strain in the blood of the grandfather
mixed in the unbalanced blood of the woman—and the minister was the
result. From such a type you look for your odd reforms—your fantastic
crimes.”
In the silence which followed there came the plaintive voice of the
chief:
“But still I don't understand why he killed Warren.”
“Well,” came Bartley's voice, “let us start at the beginning. Here you
have the minister. His heredity is very bad. His entire life, that is,
the things he did, showed that he was a sad neurotic. He hated
pleasure; he hated all things which normal people enjoy. In fact most
of the wild, rabid fanatics are the same type. But with him there was
a double danger.
“We know to-day that there is not much difference between the person
who reacts violently in a sexual manner and the one who goes to a wild
extreme in religious matters. Our psychology has proven they are
alike, from hundreds of cases. You had here an unbalanced man. The
anti-evolution group, of which he was a member, had read Warren's
statement—the last proof of evolution had been found. Now to him that
would be absurd; and, at the same time, he would look upon Warren as
an enemy of God.
“Let us suppose he brooded over the matter day after day. He might
have even prayed that Warren would be found wrong. Then to add flame
to his unbalanced thoughts came the news that Warren was to write his
book in the very place where the minister lived. That did not improve
matters. So one day he went to see Warren. I think I can picture what
happened.”
“What?” came the chief's eager voice.
“I think the minister went into Warren's library with the purpose of
begging that he would not publish his book. In his unbalanced mind he
would see nothing out of the way in such a request. You can picture
what Warren must have said. It was like oil to a flame. As the
minister looked at the scientist he would see him as the very enemy of
society. Then, without a doubt, something snapped in his brain. He
rose to say ‘good-by’ and suddenly stabbed him. In his first wild
frenzy he thought of himself as doing the work of God. The cross was a
symbol of that. And when he wrote the word ‘Ananias,’ the same thought
was in his mind.
“Just what happened after that we do not know. His frenzy would not
last long. Remember he was not technically insane—only unbalanced upon
several things, with a warped mind. It is my opinion he went away and
then returned later. Perhaps he remembered the door was open. Perhaps
when he came to his right mind, he realized what he had done and went
back to see if he left a clew. And then it was he who must have broken
the bookcase to take those books—books he must have often heard of,
but was unable to secure.”
At that moment there came a voice from the doorway:
“May I come in?”
We turned to see the secretary. She was wearing a gay-colored dressing
gown which must have belonged to Carter. Her face was rather pale, but
otherwise she showed little signs of the experience she had been
through. We rose to our feet, and Ranville found her a chair. She
dropped into it and smiled faintly as she turned to Carter:
“Did you telephone my aunt?” she asked anxiously.
Carter rose with a jump and said sheepishly that he had never thought
of it. As he started for the door the girl stopped him, saying that no
doubt the chief would be willing to take her home in a few moments.
The chief agreed to this, but said he wanted to hear what had happened
to her.
Her story was a very brief one. She had gone home to her supper and,
when it was over, returned to the library. As she came up the steps of
the building, to her great surprise, she heard a shot within. She
rushed to the door and went a few feet within the room. To her
consternation, the minister was near the desk and in his hand was a
gun. He turned at her cry.
She gave a shudder at the recollection. His face was a vivid red, and
his eyes blazed as he looked at her. She said that she thought he was
crazy. With a weird cry, as she turned to run from the room, he made a
dash after her. Just as his hand was about to fall upon her, she must
have fainted, for she remembered no more until she came to in the boat
house—alone.
Though she tried to open the two doors of the room, she discovered
they were locked on the outside. She yelled as loud as she could, but
the approaching storm and the high wind drowned her voice. And then
when she thought it would be useless to cry out again, she heard the
door open. A moment later the door leading into the room was swung
aside, and the lights flashed on. Just what happened after that she
did not know. There was a short moment when, to her horror, she again
saw the minister—saw him creep over the floor in her direction—and
then she said she must have fainted again.
We said nothing, and then with an appealing look, which took us all
in, the girl asked:
“I have just one faint recollection. As I fainted the last time, the
minister was saying something about a sacrifice. What did he mean?”
It was Bartley who spoke, and his words were, of course, untrue:
“I think you must have been mistaken,” was his short reply.
The girl shook her head as if in doubt, but settled back in her chair.
In the silence there came the voice of the chief:
“How about the murder of the gardener?”
“That's more simple,” was the answer. “You must, of course,
understand, Chief, that when the minister realized what he had done,
he was torn between two conflicting emotions. First, of course, was
the thought that he had done a good deed—he had saved his God from
blasphemy. That idea grew upon him. It did not, however, do away with
the other feeling. After all, he had committed a murder, and he knew
it. In the few days after the crime he must have been fast approaching
actual insanity.
“Then there came a startling fact. He was told that Patton would
complete the book—the book which would give the world Warren's
discovery. He had killed a man to prevent that book being written, and
his crime was in vain. The world collapsed for him at the moment he
realized that his crime had been useless.”
“But he did not know Patton,” barked out the chief.
“Yes, he did,” replied Carter. “I introduced them this morning.”
Bartley took up the thought. “Yes, he had met him. That's why he made
his mistake. He knew the suit Patton was wearing. When he saw the back
of the gardener as he turned to escape from the room, he thought it
was Patton and shot him. In build, height and general appearance they
were about the same.”
“No doubt it's all so,” retorted the chief, “but what I can't
understand is this: What did the gardener see, what was it made him
turn, as you say, to leave the library?”
“He must have seen the minister destroying the manuscript on the desk.
He tried to get out of the room without being heard in order to tell
Patton. And he was shot. As Miss Harlan screamed, the minister rushed
at her. Her fainting no doubt saved her life. He took her down to the
boat, then to the boat house. The rest you know. In that startled
moment when the eyes of the murderer fell upon Patton, and he saw his
victim standing before him, he realized he had killed the wrong man.
His heart could not stand the strain.”
“That was lucky for him,” was the chief's dry comment. “But, at that,
he was crazy.”
“Yes—and—no,” was Bartley's reply. “In the beginning he simply was a
neurotic—unbalanced, not insane. In the end the conflict between his
two selves drove him insane. If you mean he was insane the last few
hours of his life, I agree with you.”
Silence fell, which the chief broke to say that he thought he better
return to town. The secretary went up to her room to dress, returning
in a few moments. At the door she turned to thank us, and then said
good night. We stood for a moment in the open door and watched the car
leave the drive; then went back into the house. As we moved rather
nervously about the room, Carter paused and asked:
“John, what would that man have done to that girl if we had not
reached the boat house?”
“Killed her. You remember his repeated cry—a sacrifice—a sacrifice.
His mind was gone then. Upon his conscience, if he had any, were two
murders. Dimly he wished to make his peace with God, and he remembered
the idea which runs through so much theology—the sacrifice of blood.
He would have killed her as an offering—the offering which his
unbalanced mind thought was demanded.”
The thought was a horrible one, and I gave a little shiver. As the men
sank down into their chairs, there came a silence which no one broke.
In it again I heard the weird tones of the organ as my mind went back
to the moments I had spent in the church balcony. I shuddered as I
thought of the frenzied voice of the minister with his wild cry for a
sacrifice. And then my eyes fell upon Ranville.
He was sitting in a chair by the table. His face was very thoughtful,
and once or twice I saw him knit his brows. As he lifted his head, our
eyes met for a second. Then his glance strayed over to the table. On
its surface was the bottle of Scotch. His hand went forth, and he
poured out a small drink. Holding the glass in his hand, he turned to
Bartley:
“Well, Mr. Bartley, you pulled it off. But there is one thing I wish
to tell you.”
We turned to look at the Englishman's face. There was a little twinkle
in his eyes, and a smile played over his face. He raised his glass to
his lips after a gesture in Bartley's direction. Then, as he drained
it, he said, and there was a laughing note in his voice:
“You pulled it off. But do you know I think the Yard could have done
the same thing?”
The End
Transcriber's Note
This transcription follows the text of the book as it was published in
1926 by Dodd, Mead and Company. However, the following changes have
been made to passages in Chapter XVII, to correct what are believed to
be unambiguous errors in the printing:
* “world would have spelled” to “word would have spelled”;
* “man named Wood” to “man named Woods”.
Additionally, incorrectly matched quotation marks were corrected in
four places. All other seeming errors have been left as they appear in
the original.