Читать книгу The Crime in the Crypt - Carolyn Wells - Страница 7

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“GOOD!” CLEVEDON SAID heartily, as I gave consent. “I’d shake hands on it, but I won’t offer you a left-handed grip, it might bring us ill luck. Now, let’s understand our position. I want a secretary and librarian. You are qualified for both. You can do as much or as little work as you like, according to your conscience and your friendship for me. That sounds a little queer, I daresay, but I am queer. Moreover, I size up people pretty accurately and I’m not at all afraid of your scamping your work or wasting your time. For the rest we are to be on a general footing of comradeship, with no idea of employer and employed. Your salary will be fifty per cent more than you have been getting, whatever that may be. I am a rich man, though not among the richest.”

“You are too generous,” I told him, “but I accept all you offer, in the spirit of your plans. In return, I shall do my best to meet your wishes as to your library work, and also your secretarial affairs. And you must feel at liberty to direct me as you would any secretary. If I feel resentful, I shall kick over the traces and we’ll fight it out.”

“Let’s wait till this foolish finger is well before we have a real fight,” he said, smiling. “And, of course,

Oakley, that is the primary reason that I need a secretary just now. I have never had one, but I can’t write a letter or sign a check with this injured hand. You’ll have to do such things for me until I am able to use a pen again, or can learn a typewriter. I’ve never favored the things, but I suppose I’ll have to have one now.”

“You can learn to write with your left hand,” I suggested. “Lots of men have had to do that.”

“Yes, I daresay. You see, it is all new to me yet. I’ll get accustomed to it, of course, sooner or later. Well, one of your chores will be to keep up my diary. That is not as formidable as it sounds, for it is only a jotting down of a line or so each day, that I may remember where I was and what I saw.”

“That’s fun. I shall like to do that,” I returned enthusiastically, for such things were right in my line. “I have always loved to make records or lists and though I never had a sufficiently eventful life to keep a diary, I’ll be glad to help keep yours.”

We talked over some further details of our new arrangement, and the more I thought about it the better I liked it.

Clevedon was an unknown quantity as yet, for I hadn’t his gift of sizing up people on sight.

A good-looking chap he was; of medium height, but carrying himself so well that he seemed taller. Well dressed, in a quiet, unobtrusive fashion, and of a demeanor dignified, but now and then breaking loose in some gay speech or bit of American slang.

His deep-set gray eyes were keen at times and again they seemed to look out upon the world with an utter lack of interest.

I began to suspect he was a man of moods, and I have little patience with that sort of thing.

However, I was in for it now, and I determined to see the thing through.

The salary was tempting, when considered with the position, for the work in prospect was most congenial to me, and, granted that I was no man’s servant, I was willing to do all I could to fulfil my contract.

“I only wish,” I said, “that we could do detective work together.”

“All the time, or just on this one case?”

“I meant on this one case. Though if we were brilliantly successful we could adopt it as a business.”

“No,” he said, “that wouldn’t do for me. You see, while I enjoy delving into mysteries and crimes, I’m supposed to be a scholarly person whose mind is above detective work.”

“Fine detective work is as much an evidence of brain power as many other lines of scholarship,” I said, crisply.

“I quite agree with that, old man, but lots of people don’t. Anyway, my people and friends at home don’t. However, you and I can discuss such matters all we like, only we can’t do it professionally.”

“No, of course not, and I didn’t mean to. But I’d like to stay here a few days longer and look into this very attractive murder in the cathedral.”

“Why attractive?”

“Because it has such a novelty about it. A deed of blood in a church is dramatic in itself. A man shot in a coffin is bizarre and inexplicable.”

“They say the most bizarre crimes are the easiest to unravel,” said Clevedon interestedly.

“There you go!” I cried, “and I brought up the subject, after I promised your old medical schoolmarm I wouldn’t! Now, I think I’ll run away and settle up my own business affairs, so I can join you, when you want me. I’ll have to cancel the remainder of my time with the Tripp and Hastings people. But I’ve had more than three quarters of the journey, and I’m content.”

“Skip, then, and come back tonight and have dinner with me. I’m dining up here at present, do you mind?”

“Not at all. I’ll cut up your food for you—”

“No, not that. There are waiters and things. But I suppose I shall have to have a man. I’ve never kept a valet, but when I’m ready to mingle again, I’ll have to have somebody to curry me.”

“Seems so. Anything I can get or buy for you?”

“No, I think not. Oh, yes, get me some brilliantine, will you? I can’t make my hair behave with only one hand to brush it. And I’d like a new tooth brush, while you’re at the chemist’s. A left-handed one,” he smiled.

I went off, wondering a little why he didn’t get his toilet supplies from the barber who came in to shave him, but I had no real objection to doing his errands. Unless, the thought struck me, unless he was trying me out to see if I’d balk at such requests.

Well, I wouldn’t, so long as he was crippled, but when he was his own man again, I didn’t propose to fetch and carry for him.

I had his order sent from the chemist’s shop, and then turned toward the police station to learn any further news there might be concerning the murder.

Snelgrove was, for a wonder, willing to talk to me.

Whether he had revised his opinion of my acumen or whether he felt he was at the end of his own rope, I didn’t know. Nor did I care. The case was closed for me, if I went away with John Clevedon, as I had every intention of doing.

But I was interested in any new light on the matter and very much hoped the mystery would be cleared up before we took our departure.

“Just how well did you know Mr. Glynn?” Snelgrove asked me, quite as if I were in the witness box.

“I didn’t know him well at all,” I told him. “I saw him, of course, on the steamer, but I never spoke to him, that I remember. If I did, it was a mere good morning or that. You see, I’m travelling with a conducted party, and that is a sort of bar sinister in the sight of some exclusive natures.”

“Meaning Mr. Glynn?”

“Yes, I think so. Not that he ever showed it—at least, not to me—but I did have the feeling that he preferred his own type of travellers.”

“Do the other members of your conducted party have that same sensitiveness?”

“Some do, though perhaps not to the same extent. I own up I am supersensitive, but I can’t help it.”

“All right. Tell me, then, anything you noticed about Warren Glynn.”

“I noticed very little,” I returned, honestly trying to recall some data for him. “We had our own party, you see, and seldom chummed up with anyone outside it, and I am not of the observant sort who looks at other passengers with any degree of curiosity or even interest.”

“Well, did Mr. Glynn strike you as a belligerent man? A man who would be drawn into an altercation or even a fight?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Snelgrove, but I can’t tell you those things because I don’t know them. He was a stronglooking chap, who, I should think, might take care of himself if attacked. But whether he’d hunt trouble or not, I’ve no idea.”

“Nobody seems to know anything about him,” and Snelgrove’s voice distinctly told of his resentment at this state of things.

“But how should they? We crossed nearly three months ago. The passengers of the ship are scattered all over Europe. Our party chances to be here, but I doubt if many of them knew Mr. Glynn to speak to.”

“No, most of them did not. However, I don’t suppose it matters much. About knowing him, I mean. Of course, whoever killed him is miles away by this time and there’s no evidence of any real import. But we do feel sure that there was a fight before he was killed.”

“Now what in the world makes you think that?”

“Clues,” and it seemed to me that Mr. Snelgrove showed the true Jack Horner complex, so proudly selfpraising was his tone. I gathered at once that said clues had been the result of his own efforts and I felt instinctively that this was the hitherto unguessed reason of his urbane verbosity this morning.

“What clues could show a fight?” I asked, in a half scoffing tone, for I feared he wouldn’t tell me unless egged on through his pride.

“Well, they’re subtle, truly subtle, I must say. But there’s no doubt but that the body was all smoothed out and fixed up afterward.”

“How? Tell me about it.”

“In the first place, the dead man’s necktie was straightened and retied.”

“Retied?”

“Yes: looks like there was a scrap, not perhaps much of one, but his tie was all awry and had to be tied over.”

“How do you know?”

“Because,” and Snelgrove wagged an emphasizing forefinger at me, “because there was a spot of blood on the front of his shirt, under the tie.”

“Good work!” I cried, both because I really thought so, and because I wanted to give him his well-earned praise. “What else?”

“Then, his hair had been combed.”

“Been combed—after he was dead?”

“I’m sure of it. There were a few short hairs and a bit of dandruff on his coat collar that gave the appearance of it. And his hair, which must have been a little tumbled in the tussle, was smooth and tidy.”

“Well, those are fine points. I congratulate you. Any more?”

“Only that his glasses were missing, probably smashed in the row, or carried off by the murderer, as too evidential. And he had no handkerchief on him. That, too, was doubtless pouched by the criminal.”

“But, my goodness, man, there were dozens of indicative clues. Letters, wrist-watch, guide book, camera, clothing—all these things at once proved the man was Warren Glynn and no other.”

“Yes, I know. Well, I’m only telling you what we found that looked like rough work beforehand. Maybe the handkerchief bore a bloody fingerprint of the murderer or something like that.”

“Yes, and just why did the hair have to be brushed neatly? And how do you know he wore glasses?”

“We don’t know as he had them on at the time, but there is a crease over his nose that comes from the use of glasses. And there were none about. I think the murderer picked them up and then, fearing his own fingerprints were on them, didn’t dare leave them.”

“Same as the revolver or whatever he was shot with.”

“Yes.”

“Is his money all intact? Valuables?”

“Oh, yes. Of course, we don’t know how much money he had on him, but there’s quite a bit, and some traveller’s checks and his watch and cuff-links and a gold penknife with his name on it.”

“The murderer must have known of these things.”

“We think he was destroying or removing the evidential bits when he was frightened off by some sound or fancied sound.”

“Well, you seem to have it all doped out. What are you doing next?”

“Waiting to hear from his people in America.”

“What relatives has he?”

“Can’t find any, really. There’s a lot of letters and post cards from home in his portfolio, but they’re mostly signed with initials or Christian names. Several are from Newark, that’s his home address, and one from a club there. So we cabled the club, saying he had been killed and to wire instructions at once. No answer yet.”

“Well, it’s a strange case.”

“It’s a very strange case. The way I read it, some enemy, probably well known to Glynn, followed him here and trailed him till he got him into the crypt, after dark, or during the dusk. Then he knocked him senseless, put him in the coffin, shot him, fixed him up nice and neat, and walked off.”

“What did he put him in the coffin for?”

“That’s what gives the whole snap away. He was a paranoiac or possessed of a homicidal mania. He wasn’t a sane, normal man. And it may be, he didn’t know Glynn at all. Merely chanced to meet him and wreaked his horrid dementia on him.”

“Implausible; but the whole thing is implausible. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I could scarcely believe these details. Do you suppose he had some distorted idea of the dramatic or macabre effect and worked up to that?”

“Must have, I should say. Well, we’ve done all we can. The inquest’ll be a mere formality. You’ll be expected to tell your story once more. The people at his hotel will tell what they know of Mr. Glynn’s doings that day and a few of the Tripp and Hastings crowd may be called in. But there’s nothing for it but an open verdict, and then await instructions from New Jersey concerning the body and the effects of the unfortunate man.”

“What about the films in the camera?”

“They told nothing. We had them developed, but they were merely bits of scenery round about or snapshots of his fellow passengers.”

I went away full of conflicting thoughts.

I felt sure there must be clues in these camera pictures. How could the man take a lot of pictures unless they gave some hint as to his companions or neighbors?

I began to think the police were a bit bored with the insoluble problem and were anxious to shelve it. Had the victim been some prominent man or a townsman of their own, the case would be different.

But a mere American tourist, with, seemingly, no friends or acquaintances, why worry?

At any rate, it was to be laid over until word came from America, and action would follow on that.

Or inaction. Probably the latter.

I almost felt I would like to cancel my promise to John Clevedon, and stay there to puzzle out and avenge the death of one of my countrymen.

But it is one of my innate traits never to deceive myself, and on thinking the matter over, I had to confess to myself that the puzzling out attracted me far more than the avenging.

Had it been a shooting in commonplace or sordid surroundings, I acknowledged to myself that I should have felt far less righteous indignation.

It was the sinister touch of the crypt, the bizarre note of the open stone coffin that attracted me, and I owned right up to it.

Moreover, the dead man’s friends had been notified, or would be, through the medium of the club he belonged to, or his friends belonged to. They, without doubt, would take the affair in charge. It could all be attended to by cables, and it was not, really, my business.

Had a countryman of mine been ill, or destitute, I might have a responsibility to consider, but as this man was dead, I could do nothing for him, and I might easily make a bad matter worse.

So I went on home to luncheon, abiding by my resolve to throw my fortunes in with John Clevedon’s affairs, and deeply grateful that I had the opportunity.

I should have to see the conductor of our party and arrange to leave it, but I concluded not to tell the other tourists what I proposed to do.

Though not unduly conceited, I knew there were several who would regret my defection, and I preferred to be spared their protestations.

I had no idea, as yet, whether John Clevedon’s departure would antedate that of our crowd or not. Nor did I care. Once having made up my mind to a hazard of new fortunes, I threw myself heart and soul into my new life, and prepared to meet it with the best possible equipment.

Having noted Clevedon’s smart but quiet taste in dress, I bought me some new things that should be more in keeping with my position. Clothes I could not order until we reached some metropolis, but certain items of haberdashery and luggage could be greatly improved among my appointments.

These various matters kept me most of the afternoon, and it was about tea time when, finding myself in the vicinity of The Lanthorn, I went inside for refreshment.

To my surprise a crowd had gathered round the desk in the lobby, and the house porter was looking rather white and sick.

He held a paper in his hand, a letter, which seemed to be the cause of the commotion.

“Oh, Mr. Oakley,” he cried, evidently in relief at seeing me, “will you look at this!”

The Lanthorn people, knowing that I was the man who had found poor Glynn, persisted in acting as if I were in authority of some sort, and indeed treated me as if I were of the police.

But seeing the great excitement seething all about, I went to him and took the paper.

“It’s a letter from Mr. Glynn!” he said, in a faint, scared voice.

“Mr. Glynn in America?” I asked, my thoughts leaping to relatives.

“No, sir, Mr. Glynn himself—Mr. Warren Glynn.”

I couldn’t help a creepy feeling as I quickly turned to the signature and saw it was the truth.

Then, calming myself to read the thing, I found it was a letter written by Glynn the day he died, two days ago. It had been left with the house porter with strict injunctions to hold it for forty-eight hours and then, if Warren Glynn was unaccountably absent, to open and read it.

The letter ran thus:

Today is Wednesday. It is five o’clock. If, by any chance, I am not here by Friday at five o’clock, you may conclude I have met with foul play. In that case turn this letter over to the police.

But be it understood. Should I be dead,—murdered, even,—make no effort to apprehend the criminal. For first, it will be impossible and second, I forbid it. Therefore, I direct, that in the event of my decease between now and Friday afternoon, my body shall be duly decently interred, my just debts paid and the residue of such monies as may be found in my belongings given over to some worthy charity.

It is not necessary or advisable to ask directions from my people in America, for I have no near relatives, and a simple announcement sent to the Newark, New Jersey daily papers will be all-sufficient.

If this seems strange to anyone, let him rest assured it is all in accordance with my wishes and my requests. If I am removed from this earth, it is wiser and better so, and it will serve to right a wrong and to remedy a grave error.

Written in full health and sanity by me, WARREN GLYNN

The signature was unmistakable. I was familiar with his penmanship, his autograph especially.

It was all inexplicable, astonishing, but it was his writing.

The whole document was handwritten, not typed, and it was obviously, the work of a quiet, steady hand. There was no indication of haste or stress of emotion. The words were evenly spaced and correctly written. There was nothing that looked like coercion and no possibility of forgery.

How I regretted my enforced promise to the doctor not to discuss this matter with John Clevedon. I felt sure if I could lay this screed before him he could get at much that was hidden from me.

But I dared not break my word, and too, the matter had to be laid at once before the police.

I asked to be allowed to carry the letter to Snelgrove, and the head porter seemed relieved to have me do so.

So again I visited the police that day.

Snelgrove nearly fell off his chair when he read this bewildering letter.

“What—what’s it mean?” he asked, helplessly, forgetting for once his rôle of omniscient detective.

“I can’t get it at all,” I confessed. “But it seems Glynn looked for his death, it was not an unexpected blow, and he left this behind him when he started off on what he knew might be his last journey.”

“You mean, he kept tryst with his murderer in the cathedral! Let himself be put in the sarcophagus and then shot! Knew his death was imminent, or at least probable, and left this notice to be held forty-eight hours without opening!”

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” I said. “There’s no chance of forgery, that is Glynn’s own writing, several people swore to that. The head porter received it from Glynn Wednesday afternoon, and held it as requested. Of course, when Mr. Glynn gave him the note, Glynn being then alive and well, the porter thought little of it. Merely put it away for safe-keeping. It was when he opened it that the strangeness began.”

“Yes,” Snelgrove nodded, “but I don’t get it. If he expected to be killed that night, why hold up matters for forty-eight hours?”

“But he doesn’t want the matter pushed. He wants it held up—permanently. Don’t you see, he says so.”

“I can’t get head or tail to what he says,” poor Snelgrove wailed.

“You don’t have to,” I soothed him. “Just do as the letter directs. It’s the easiest and best way out.”

“Maybe,” Snelgrove said, not heeding me at all, “maybe it was a fight, and they didn’t know which one would win out. If Glynn had, he would have gone back and retrieved his letter—”

“Maybe that was the way of it,” I said.