The Seven of Calvary

by Anthony Boucher

  “There’s one consolation at least.…” Martin could see that Dr. Ashwin was not in the mood for a plunge into discussion; a brief period of light conversation seemed indicated. “Murder and Sanskrit make a unique combination.”

  “There, Mr. Lamb, you are guilty of a grievous error.” Ashwin seemed glad of an opportunity to deliver a few ex cathedra dicta. “Do you not remember Eugene Aram? One of the world’s most curiously solved murders, and surprisingly well celebrated by Thomas Hood.”

  “Curiously solved?” Martin repeated, “I remember that Aram was something of a philologist, but I thought his crime was revealed simply by someone’s finding the skeleton of his victim.”

  “The case, Mr. Lamb, is a curious reversal of the situation which we have to deal with here in Berkeley. In the Aram affair, the right man was killed, but the wrong body was found. That is, the body of Aram’s victim was discovered only after suspicion and a search had been provoked by the finding of a skeleton which was never identified and which had no connection with the crime. Ridiculously overestimated as a philologer simply because he happened to be also a murderer (even as your party-giving Mr. Morris, should he chance to commit a capital crime, would doubtless be ranked along with Aram and Edward Ruloff as a ‘learned’ man); still, Mr. Lamb, Aram invalidates your contention that murder and Sanskrit form a unique combination. And George Borrow, who knew at least a smattering of Sanskrit, whatever one may think of the uses to which he put it, describes in one of his books several meetings with John Thurtell.”

  “Thurtell?”

  “I cannot remember in which book. You must ask Dr. Griswold—he is far more of a Borrovian than I, if indeed there be such a word as Borrovian.”

  “Borrowgove,” Martin suggested.

  “Thurtell, the gigman, was a common enough murderer who would, today, be known principally from Borrow’s references had not he also inspired a poet by his crime. Less fortunate than Aram, Thurtell is not mentioned by name in the anonymous verse born of his action, but the stanza itself is to my mind of immortal succinctness.” And he recited:

  They cut his throat from ear to ear,

  His brains they batter’d in;

  His name was Mr. William Weare,

  He dwelt in Lyon’s Inn.

  Pleased by Martin’s amused reception of the great quatrain, Ashwin relaxed in the swivel-chair and finished his drink. Then, in deliberate silence, he opened a fresh pack of cigarettes, took one, offered another to Martin, lit both, and exhaled a large cloud of smoke.

  “I was worried,” he said at last, “when I left you at Dr. Griswold’s Saturday, and I am still no less worried. I have slept very little over the weekend. I have smoked far more than I should, and I have drunk near-Gargantuan quantities. And, as I have said, I am still worried. Have you anything new to tell me?”

  Martin briefly described the uneventful inquest and added Kurt’s not particularly helpful account of the dialogue between the Leshins.

  “Unless there is some peculiarly subtle point hidden in Mr. Ross’s story, Mr. Lamb, I fear that we are no further advanced than we were. You have suggested several interpretations of that episode—the most probable, of course, being that it means nothing. Another interpretation would be that Mr. Ross was lying.”

  “But why?”

  “I had expected that to be your first thought. After all, he was long your favored suspect.”

  “But we disproved that motive completely.—Oh …!” Martin paused abruptly.

  “Yes?”

  “You mean that Kurt might have another motive? That he is, of all the people involved, the one most likely to be a Vignard?”

  “I mean nothing of the sort, Mr. Lamb. I was just curious to see whether or not you would suggest the idea. As I said to you before, the notebook conclusively disposes of the Vignards—or rather, washes them up, to use the phrase for which you seem to have a preference. No, I give you Mr. Ross; but I think you have bothered that harmless young man enough.”

  “But who do you think—?”

  “Mr. Lamb, I am in a state where to me nothing seems obvious but the fact that things are wrong. Whether the Leshins, Miss Wood, or, as seems most likely, Mr. Bruce poisoned Paul Lennox, the killing of Dr. Schaedel is still a mystery. Why did Mr. Lennox establish so careful an alibi for the evening when he was scheduled to be a victim—an alibi, moreover, which could so easily have been faked? And why did he later tell an elaborate piece of unsubstantiated rigmarole about an obscure Swiss sect? There is no sense in it at all.

  “But one question above all others—why did the murderer change his weapons? To carry on and commit the desired elimination after a murderous failure argues a strong criminal mind. And yet your true criminal … Cream was fond of strychnine and faithful to it. Jack the Ripper used a knife well, and continued to use it, despite the absurd theories of those who insist that he later became Dr. Cream.

  “You will say, perhaps, that these are only deranged criminals following an idée fixe. But look on Brides-in-the-Bath Smith (more entitled, possibly, than the great Sidney to the appellation ‘the Smith of Smiths’), look on Dr. Pritchard, look on Lydia Sherman, Sarah Jane Robinson, ‘dear Aunt Jane’ Toppan, even Mr. Pearson’s beloved Lizzie Borden, whose only variance in method, according to the quatrain which ranks with Mr. William Weare’s epitaph, was the difference between forty and forty-one whacks. What would cause a murderer to switch from an ice pick in one instance to strychnine in another?”

  “Most of those people you mention,” Martin suggested, “were caught exactly because they used the same method over and over. That’s certainly true of Cream and Smith and Pritchard, even though Jack the Ripper got away with it. Perhaps our murderer wanted to avoid that danger.”

  “That won’t wash, Mr. Lamb. He varies his method to conceal his identity and so leaves exactly the same symbol beside both corpses?”

  Martin reflected. “If there were some particular reason why the murder had to take place at the rehearsal of my play, strychnine might have presented itself as the only possibility. You can’t use an ice pick on a stage in full view of an audience. Or the murderer might suddenly have got access to a poison which he couldn’t get hold of when he made his first attempt.”

  “Both suggestions are plausible enough, and yet … Will you bring me a copy of your play, Mr. Lamb? There might be something suggestive that we’ve overlooked.”

  “God knows there’s enough in it that’s suggestive, but in a somewhat different sense than you mean. But I’ll bring it anyway.”

  “Good. I wonder if it is true that murder goes to a murderer’s head?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Our X has committed one accidental murder and one (from his point of view) necessary one. So far he seems safe enough as regards both, unless Sergeant Cutting is concealing something exceptionally revealing (an oddly contradictory phrase). Now if this seeming security should tempt him into disposing neatly of anyone else who at all encumbers him …”

  “It seems hardly likely.”

  Dr. Ashwin smiled an almost macabre smile. “Delusions of absolute safety could lead our X into a very curious crime. Even though I disbelieve entirely in the Vignards, or at least in their supposed activities in Berkeley, I nonetheless think Mr. Worthing justified in requesting police protection. To murder him would seem to everyone the surest proof of the existence of the sect, since no one else could possibly wish to kill such a harmless ass.”

  “Though God knows I’ve wanted to often enough,” Martin murmured.

  “Well, Mr. Lamb, I make hypotheses for my own amusement and to conceal my worry. I think we can feel certain that the Seven of Calvary has killed its last victim.”

  In which dictum Dr. Ashwin was approximately half right.

  For four days after that Monday evening interview, nothing happened. Martin received one visit from Sergeant Cutting, liked him more than ever, and answered a great many questions, particularly concerning any possible connection betwe
en Paul Lennox and Dr. Hugo Schaedel; for evidently the Sergeant was beginning to take the Seven of Calvary a little more seriously. Twice Martin attended Sanskrit class and concluded with fair success the reading of the Nala episode; but his discussions with Ashwin at these sessions turned merely upon such subjects as the relative contributions of Rider Haggard and Andrew Lang to The World’s Desire, or anecdotes of the pleasantly precocious Elizabeth. “She has been telling her schoolmates about Sanskrit,” her mother had written. “I heard her say to one little girl, ‘It goes “nana nana nut,” and it’s a language!’”

  “I have been writing letters myself,” Dr. Ashwin remarked as he folded the note from which he had read this excerpt. “You may be extremely interested in the reply which I expect from the University of Chicago library.”

  After class on Wednesday afternoon, Martin approached Dr. Leshin. “Miss Griswold tells me that Mrs. Leshin is ill. I hope it is nothing serious.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Lamb, I thank you. Nervous strain—the shock of seeing Mr. Lennox poisoned—it understands itself, I think. She is now at a rest home in Marin County.”

  “Please offer her my condolence,” Martin said confusedly, and cursed himself the remainder of the afternoon for uttering such a stupid word.

  On Friday morning Lupe Sanchez received a message that her father the General was much worse, and made her plans to leave for Los Angeles on Saturday.

  Friday evening Martin and Mona went to the United Artists Theatre to see a film already being mentioned for the Academy award. It had three stars, ran a hundred and ten minutes, and bored them both to petrifaction. (In brief, the award was in the bag.)

  “No, thank you,” Mona replied to Martin’s offer of refreshment as they left the theatre. “I need much fresh air after that film. Let us walk in the hills.”

  They strolled quietly and pleasantly up Bancroft and past International House to Panoramic, while Martin praised Mexican films, so snootily scorned by American critics, in contrast to such arrant bosh as the super-production they had just seen. The lecture, which Mona received with admirable patience, was interrupted as they passed Cynthia’s house by the appearance of Alex Bruce.

  “Hello,” he said. “Going for a walk in the hills even without moonlight?”

  “It is not always necessary, the moonlight,” Mona whispered softly.

  “No, I suppose not. And sometimes it just wouldn’t do any good. I’ve been talking with Cynthia,” he added to Martin.

  “So?”

  “I guess that’s over with. We sort of called each other by our real names tonight. Had a couple of drinks—just enough to loosen up our repressions—and started in saying all the things we’ve always meant to say. So if you ever had any idea, Martin, of my playing Maecenas to struggling young authors after I married into the Wood fortune-well, that’s out.”

  “Too bad, Alex. But I guess it was just one of those things that don’t work out.”

  Alex shrugged his shoulders. “And at that it’s no reason for me to bother other people. ‘And all third parties who on spoiling tête-à-têtes insist …,’ you know. I need a walk in the hills to clear my brain, but I won’t inflict myself on you. Besides, I want to walk at a good stiff pace; I almost feel as though I were running away from something.…”

  “‘But at my back I always hear …’” Martin quoted.

  “Something like that. So long.” And Alex set off toward the hills at a nervous speed that brought to Martin’s mind yet another quotation, telling of

  … one that on a lonesome road

  Doth walk in fear and dread,

  And having once turn’d round, walks on,

  And turns no more his head;

  Because he knows a fearful fiend

  Doth close behind him tread.

  But just then Martin and Mona were passing along a stretch of road where the street-lamp did not shine, and in the embrace which logically ensued they let pass them unnoticed whatever might have been treading close behind Alex Bruce.

  In the absence of the moon, the hills were enfolded in dark quietude. It was in the same spot which had witnessed their discussion in Spanish on Sunday that Mona and Martin at last established themselves. They spoke now—when they spoke at all—in odd comminglings of English and Spanish, little fragments of whichever best suited the moment. And Martin, in disregarding what he had cited as the first rule of a fictional detective, was gloriously happy.

  It all happened at once and broke with its suddenness into the very middle of a kiss. First there was the sound of footsteps coming down the path, then the appearance of the quickly walking figure, then the shot, the figure falling to the ground, and the tall shape moving abruptly on the other side of the path. It happened too quickly, too confusedly, for Martin to make any sense of it; but a sudden impulse sent him across the path to seize the tall shape, despite Mona’s restraining hand.

  His reasoning mind, at the moment notably absent, should have been astounded and relieved that the shape neither fired nor fled. Instead it rushed at him and seized him with strong arms. Martin was neither an experienced fighter nor a strong one; the shape was both. Still Martin, with a fragmentary memory of jiu-jitsu and a dash of ingenuity, managed, after a long and heavy-breathed struggle, to make at least some impression on the shape—enough, indeed, to set it swearing in fluent German with a marked Swiss accent.

  “Kurt!” Martin exclaimed, and the amazed shape loosed its hold.

  “Martin! Du! Um Gottes willen …!”

  In the darkness they stared at each other. Suspicion … Disbelief … Fear … Kurt felt his aching thumb regretfully.

  “The shot came from farther down, on your side of the path,” Kurt said at last.

  “But who … what …?” With an unwarranted access of sense, Martin turned at last to the form lying on the path. Two girls knelt beside it.

  “I heard footsteps running down the path,” Mona said as Kurt and Martin approached. He now indistinctly recognized the other girl as Lupe Sanchez.

  “It’s no use trying to follow then,” Martin reflected. “Whoever it was could have vanished any place in these hills while Kurt and I were trying to catch each other.”

  “And the shot was not all,” Mona added. “He threw this at the body before he ran.” She handed Martin a stone around which was wrapped a piece of paper, secured by a rubber band.

  Martin did not need to be told what symbol he would find when he unwrapped the paper, nor did he need to light a match to know that the motionless body on the path was that of Alex Bruce.

  Interlude

  It is the vance method!” I exclaimed. “One by one you kill them off, and lo—!”

  “I’m afraid,” said Martin reflectively, “that I have just been guilty, for the first time in this narrative, of the undue sensationalism for which Holmes used to reproach Watson. You see, Alex Bruce was not dead.”

  “No?” I confess that I felt a trifle let down.

  “No.” Martin sipped his glass of liqueur Grand Marnier as the waiter cleared away the remains of dessert. “The bullet grazed his skull and laid him unconscious. But the fact that he was shot at is the important thing, not whether he lived or died. Important, of course, from the point of view of the mystery; I should have been very sorry to lose Alex as a friend.”

  “And what happened next?” I prompted.

  “Nothing.”

  “What on earth do you mean, nothing?”

  “Just that. Nothing more happened. Aside from two or three of what Ashwin might call corroborative minutiae, I have told you the whole case. When I was telling about the absurd novel on the boat-train murders, I mentioned the point in the story where the detective says to his stooge, ‘You are now in possession of all the facts. Let us see if you reach the same conclusions as I.’ Well, this is that point.”

  “For my part, Martin,” I mumbled through the process of lighting a cigarette, “I don’t reach any conclusions at all.”

  “You needn’t feel bad abo
ut it, Tony. Neither did I. And yet Ashwin knew no more than I have just told you when he evolved his complete solution of the case.”

  “You’ve been quite fair in telling it?”

  “Scrupulously. The facts were fortunately such that I was able to be fair; there were no startling last-minute disclosures. We knew everything; it just happened that Ashwin was the only man in Berkeley who could piece it together.”

  I finished my liqueur and sat disconsolate. Try as I might, the thing didn’t make sense; I was as mystified as I dare hope that my reader may be now. Even if one accepts Dr. Ashwin’s explanation of the Schaedel killing as accidental, who could desire the lives of both Paul Lennox and Alex Bruce? Who, for that matter, his rival Lennox being dead, could conceivably want Bruce’s life at all?

  Martin roused me from my meditations. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve talked enough about the Seven of Calvary for one night. Let’s wander down to the Chinese Theatre—it’s a pleasant short walk from here—and see an hour or so of their endless performance. I never like to visit San Francisco without seeing it; some day I may make sense of it.”

  “All right. But if you can puzzle out the plot of a Chinese play, you don’t need a Dr. Ashwin to solve murders.”

  “Then, Tony, you can spend the night in lonely cogitation, and I’ll drop around for breakfast and tell you all the fascinating facts. Right?”

  “Fine.”

  Martin was a punctual breakfast guest. At the appointed eight-thirty, he arrived, to find me with the grapefruit juice squeezed, the coffee made, the bacon frying, and the French toast ready to go in the pan. He sniffed the bacon aroma appreciatively, and nodded at the French toast. “Breakfast promises well,” he said. “And are you as good a deductionist as you are a cook, Tony?”

  “Three more minutes of silence, Martin, or you’ll have burned, French toast.”

  The threat silenced him, but he returned to the subject as soon as I had served the meal.

  “I didn’t do so well,” I replied. “Like M. P. Shiel’s nurse-detective, I dreamed a complete solution of the case, but unlike her, I haven’t remembered even a punning symbol of what that solution might be. Besides, I rather think it was all mixed up with Chinese robes and long white beards. Now be a good lad, Martin, and Tell All.”