Egyptian Cross Mystery (34 page)

He sent it roaring around the corner and along the route he recalled from his previous expedition with Isham and Constable Luden. There was no time to communicate with District Attorney Crumit of Hancock County or with Colonel Pickett of the county troopers. If what he feared had not yet occurred, he was certain he could handle any situation which might arise; in the pocket of the Duesenberg lay a loaded automatic. If it
had
occurred …

He left the car in the old clump of bushes—faint traces of his last visit were still impressed, despite the rain, in the densely brush-covered earth and grass—and, automatic in hand, began the hard ascent up the mountain along the dim trail Constable Luden had followed. He climbed rapidly, and yet with caution; he had no idea of what he might encounter, and he was grimly determined not to be caught unawares by anything or anybody. The lush, dense woods were quiet. He slipped along, praying that he might be in time, conscious through the faint warning bell ringing in his brain that it was too late.

He crouched behind a tree and peered out into the clearing. The fence was intact. Although the front door was shut, Ellery felt encouraged. At the same time he was taking no chances. He slipped the safety catch of the automatic back and emerged noiselessly from behind the tree. Was that the familiar beard-fringed face of Old Pete at the barbed-wired window? No; it had been his imagination. Clumsily he went over the fence, gripping the weapon still. And then he noticed the footprints.

He stood where he was for a full three minutes, studying the story as it was clearly told by the marks on the damp earth. Then, avoiding these tell-tale impressions, he circled widely, setting his own feet down with care until he reached the door.

The door, he now observed, was not entirely closed, as he had thought at first glance. A tiny crack was visible.

Automatic in his right hand, he stooped and placed his ear to the crack. No sound came from the interior of the shack. He straightened, and with his left hand struck the door a smashing blow, so that it swung back quickly, revealing the interior. …

For the space of several heartbeats he stood that way, left hand in mid-air, right hand leveling the weapon at the interior of the hut, eyes riveted on the horrible scene before him.

Then he sprang across the threshold and bolted the heavy door securely behind him.

At 12:50 the Duesenberg screeched to a stop before the Municipal Hall again, and deposited Ellery on the sidewalk. A strange young man, the janitor must have thought, for his hair was disheveled, in his eyes burned a maniacal light, and he pounced on the man as if he contemplated, nothing less than mayhem.

“H’lo,” said the man in denim uncertainly. He was still sweeping the walk under the hot sun. “So ye’re back, hey? Had somethin’ t’tell ye, mistuh, but ye wouldn’t let me ’fore. Y’r name ain’t—?”

“Stow it,” snapped Ellery. “You seem to be the sole gentleman of official responsibility left in this energetic bailiwick. You’ve got to do something for me, Messer Janitor. Some men from New York are going to be here—when, I don’t know. But if it takes hours, you’ve got to wait here, do you understand?”

“We-ell,” said the janitor, leaning on his broom, “I don’t rightly know. Listen, you ain’t a man by th’ name o’ Queen now, are ye?”

Ellery stared. “Yes. Why?”

The janitor fished in the depths of a roomy denim pocket, and paused to expectorate a stream of brown liquid. Then he brought out a folded scrap of paper. “Tried to tell ye ’fore, when you was here, Mr. Queen, but ye didn’t give me no chance. Feller left this here note fer ye—tall ugly sort o’ coot. Looked like of Abe Lincoln, by gee.”

“Yardley!” ejaculated Ellery, snatching the note. “Heavens, man, why the devil didn’t you tell me before?” He almost ripped the sheet in his haste to unfold it.

It was a hurried pencil scrawl signed by the Professor:

DEAR QUEEN:

Explanations in order. Modern magic enabled me to anticipate you. After you left I was worried, and tried vainly to get on the trail of Vaughn and Isham. I discovered enough to find that they had received word of a seemingly authentic trail to the Lynns, from Massachusetts. Left your message with Vaughn’s man. Didn’t fancy the idea of your trailing a bloodthirsty savage like Krosac alone. Nothing stirring in Bradwood—Dr. T. left for New York. Hester-bound, I’ll warrant. Romance?

Up all night during the storm—couldn’t sleep. Storm abated and at six
A.M.
I was in Mineola. Flying conditions better, and I persuaded a private flyer to take me southwest. Landed near Arroyo 10
A.M.
this morning. (Most of above written in plane.)

Later:
Can’t find hut or any one who knows how to get there. Luden gone, town’s dead. Your telegram, I suppose, unopened. Fear the worst, of course, especially since I have picked up the trail of
a limping man
[this was heavily underscored] in vicinity.

Limping man carrying a small bag (must be Krosac, for description is vague; man kept face muffled) hired private auto in Yellow Creek, just across Ohio R. from Arroyo, at 11:30 last night. Have talked with owner of car; he took Krosac to Steubenville, O., dropped him at hotel there. … Am going to follow K. myself, leaving this message for you with the superintelligent janitor at Arroyo Municipal Hall. Go to Steubenville at once; if I find another trail will leave note at Fort Steuben Hotel for you. Hurriedly,

YARDLEY

Ellery’s eyes were wild. “What time did your friend Abraham Lincoln write this note, janitor?”

“’Leven o’clock or there’bout,” drawled the janitor. “Not long ’fore ye came yerself.”

“Now I know,” groaned Ellery, “why men commit murder. …When did the rain stop last night?” he asked suddenly, struck by a thought.

“Hour or so ’fore midnight. Rain petered out hyah, though ’twas pourin’ like fury ’cross th’ river all night. Listen here, Mr. Queen, don’t ye think—”

“No,” said Ellery firmly. “Give this note to the men from New York when they arrive.” He scribbled an additional message on the blank side of the sheet and pressed the paper into the janitor’s hand. “Stay out here—sweep, chaw, do anything you like—but stick to this walk until they come. Isham, Vaughn. Police. Do you understand? Isham, Vaughn. Give ’em this note. Here’s something for your trouble.”

He tossed a bill toward the janitor, jumped into the Duesenberg, and was off down Arroyo’s main street in a cloud of dust.

I
NSPECTOR VAUGHN AND DISTRICT
Attorney Isham motored into Bradwood at eight o’clock Wednesday morning, tired but happy. With them was a man from the United States Attorney’s office. And seated in the tonneau, sullenly defiant, were Percy and Elizabeth Lynn.

The British thieves were packed off to Mineola under guard, and the Inspector was stretching his arms at luxurious ease when his lieutenant, Bill, ran up waving his arms and talking fast. The expression of triumph faded from Vaughn’s face, to be replaced by one of anxiety. Isham heard the full story left by Professor Yardley and swore fretfully.

“What the deuce shall we do?”

Vaughn snapped: “Follow, of course!” and climbed back into the police car. The District Attorney rubbed his bald spot and followed with the weariness of resignation.

In Mineola, at the flying field, they picked up news of Yardley. The Professor had hired an airplane at six that morning, headed for an unnamed destination southwest. Ten minutes later they were in the air, winging toward the same goal in the cabin of a powerful tri-motored machine.

It was 1:30
P.M.
when they trudged into Arroyo. The plane had set them down in a pasture a quarter-mile out of town. They headed for the Municipal Hall. A man in blue denim sat on the steps of the building, a ragged broom at his feet, snoring peacefully. He scrambled to his feet at the Inspector’s growl.

“You from N’Yawk?”

“Yes.”

“Name o’ Vaughn, er Ish’m, er somethin’?”

“Yes.”

“Got a note fer ye.” The janitor opened his huge palm; in it, crumpled and dirty and damp but intact, lay Professor Yardley’s note.

They read the Professor’s message in silence, and then turned the paper over. Ellery had scribbled the addendum:

Yardley’s note self-explanatory. I’ve been to the shack. Fearful mess there. Follow as soon as you can. Circling footprints before hut mine—other pair …

Figure it out for yourself. Be quick if you want to be in at the kill.

Q.

“It’s happened,” groaned Isham.

“What time did Mr. Queen leave here?” snarled Vaughn.

“’Bout one o’clock,” replied the janitor. “Say, whut’s goin’ on, Cap? Peck o’ traipsin’ ’bout, seems to me.”

“Come on, Isham,” muttered the Inspector. “Lead the way. We’ve got to see that hut first.”

They swung off round the corner, leaving the janitor staring and shaking his head.

The hut’s door was closed.

Isham and Vaughn with difficulty scaled the barbed-wire fence. “Don’t walk over those prints,” said the Inspector shortly. “Let’s see … These are Queen’s, I guess, the ones that make the detour. The other set—”

They stood still and followed with their eyes the line of footprints which Ellery had observed little more than an hour before. There were two complete sets made by the same pair of shoes; and, with the exception of Ellery’s, no others. The two sets were plainly defined: one going from the fence to the door of the shack; the other returning on a slightly deviating line. Beyond the wire fence the rocky nature of the ground precluded a visible trail. The prints which approached the cabin were more deeply impressed in the earth than those which left. In all the footprints the impression of the right foot was heavier than the corresponding impression of the left.

“The limping trail, all right,” mumbled Vaughn. “That first set—queer.” He advanced around the double track of footprints and opened the door, Isham following.

They stared in raw horror at what they saw.

On the wall opposite the door, nailed to the rough-hewn logs like a trophy, was the body of a man. It was headless. The legs had been nailed close together. From the bloody tatters in which it was clad—the tatters of the pseudo-hillman—it was the corpse of the unfortunate schoolmaster.

Blood had dripped to the stone floor. Blood had spattered over the walls. The shack, which had been so neat and cozy when Isham had visited it before, now looked like the inner shrine of an abattoir. The rush mats were mottled with thick red spots. The floor showed red streaks and smears. The top of the sturdy old table, swept clean of its usual objects, had been utilized as a slate; and on this slate, in a gigantic letter of blood, was the familiar symbol of Krosac’s vengeance—a capital T.

“Jeeze,” muttered Vaughn. “It turns your stomach. I think I’d choke that cannibal with my bare hands, justification or not, if I got hold of him.”

“I’m going outside,” said Isham hoarsely. “I feel—faint.” He staggered through the doorway and leaned against the wall outside, retching with nausea.

Inspector Vaughn blinked, squared his shoulders, and stepped across the room. He avoided the stiffened pools of blood. He touched the body; it was rigid. Little trickles of red emanated from the spike-heads in the palms and feet.

“Dead about fifteen hours,” thought Vaughn, clenching his fist. His face was white as he stared up at the crucified corpse. With a raw crimson hole where the head had been, with the arms stiffly outstretched, with the legs together, it was a grotesque and insane travesty on a devil’s humor … a monstrous and monster T formed of dead human flesh.

Vaughn shook the vertigo out of his head and stepped back. He reflected dully that there must have been something of a struggle; for on the floor near the table lay several objects which told a gruesome story. The first was a heavy ax, its haft and blade painted with dry blood; obviously the weapon which had decapitated Andreja Tvar. The second was a round coil of bandage, like a two-dimensional doughnut; its edges were frayed and dirty, and it was soaked through on one side with a brownish-red liquid, now dry. The Inspector stooped and gingerly picked up the coil; it came apart as he lifted it and, somewhat to his surprise, he saw that it had been sliced through by a sharp implement. A scissors, Vaughn conjectured; and looked about. Yes, a few feet away on the floor, as if it has been flung there in desperate haste, lay a heavy shears.

Vaughn went to the door; Isham, while pale and peaked-looking, had partially recovered. “What’s this look like to you?” asked Vaughn, holding up the severed coil of bandage. “Cripes, you picked out a nice place to be sick, Isham!”

The District Attorney crinkled his nose. He looked miserable. “Bandage around a wrist,” he faltered. “And a bad wound, too, to judge from the bloodstains and iodine on it.”

“You’re right,” said Vaughn grimly. “From the circumference of the coil it must be a wrist. There isn’t another part of the human body exactly that small around, not even the ankle. I’m afraid Mr. Krosac has a little wound stripe on his wrist!”

“Either there was a fight or he cut himself while he was—was butchering the body,” ventured Isham with a shiver. “But why did he leave the bandage for us to find?”

“Easy. See how bloody it is. Cut must have been made early in the fight, or whatever it was. So he cut off his first bandage and put on a fresh one. … As for why he left it—he was in one sweet hurry, Isham, to get out of the neighborhood of this shack. And he’s not really in danger, I suppose. The very fact that he left the bandage tends to show that the wound is in a place which can be kept covered. Cuff probably hides it. Let’s go back inside.”

Isham gulped and bravely followed the Inspector back into the hut. Vaughn pointed out the ax and shears; and then indicated a large opaque bottle lying on the floor near the spot where he had found the bandage, a bottle of dark blue glass without a label. It was almost empty; most of its contents stained the floor brown where it lay, and its cork had bounced a few feet away. Nearby lay a roll of bandage, partly unwound.