Harry Dickson and the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange

by G. L. Gick

  “The man came running, almost trampling his customers in his rush to obey, sat respectfully at the Professor’s table, exchanged a few words, then came to our table and said:

  “ ‘Herr Professor Krausse requests the two gentlemen’s company.’

  “I normally don’t like being summoned in such a way, and was about to reject the offer, when I caught my companion’s anxiety.

  “ ‘From someone like him, such an invitation is an order,’ he said, begging me. ‘We can’t refuse, or there may be trouble for me.’

  “So I decided to go along and accept the Professor’s invitation; besides, I was curious to meet such a character.

  “After sitting at his table, the Professor had two glasses brought and poured some wine into them. Then, he turned towards my companion and said:

  “ ‘Lieutenant Schwalbe, how many times has your gossipy tongue gotten you in trouble and hurt your career?’

  “The Guardsman became flushed, then pale, and apologized immediately:

  “ ‘I’m sorry, Herr Professor. I didn’t say anything bad about you, as the gentleman will attest. I could only repeat what everyone knows, that you are the greatest doctor in all of Germany…’

  “ ‘And you, Herr Lieutenant, are the greatest ass in all of Germany.’ He then ignored the poor officer and fixed his gaze on me. ‘You’re a foreigner… That’s easy to see… An American, but naturalized British… Not difficult to tell, either. You’re skilled at deduction, but uncomfortable with relying on your intuition. It’s a fault, but it shouldn’t prove to be too much of a handicap in your future. I don’t know why you’re here today, but before the War, I would have recommended to our authorities that someone as dangerous as you be escorted back to the border in haste.’

  “I was stunned by his clairvoyance, as well as by his rudeness. I was about to respond when he stopped me with a simple gesture:

  “ ‘No need. I wasn’t trying to offend you. Only imbeciles are offended by the truth, and you’re no such thing, despite the superficiality of your education.’

  “I couldn’t help but laugh, but Professor Krausse replied at once:

  “ ‘Your laughter is meaningless; it only masks your lack of a response. I am, in fact, greatly honoring you by declaring you an enemy of Germany. Fortunately, you won’t be staying in our country long.’

  “ ‘Why do you persist in seeing me as your enemy?’ I asked.

  “ ‘Because you do not truly understand Germany, her spirit, her essence, her potential, her future… Your judgment is impaired on all those points. At any other time in our history, it wouldn’t matter at all, but after our defeat, we must learn to take into account the opinions of foreigners like you—for our greatest misery.’

  “As I now reflect upon what the Professor told me that night, I realize that he had indeed shared some very perceptive insights with me, but at the time, I only saw it as an amusing conversation.

  “We emptied our glasses; the wine was excellent and I found out later that a bottle of it cost 12,000 marks. As I politely took my leave, the Professor said:

  “ ‘Remember the name of this tavern and its proprietor; you’ll soon hear more about them. Good night.’

  “Several months later, the ghastly truth about the tavern of Nachtrabengasse was exposed. Herr Froschmeier was arrested and accused of having served human meat to his customers. A veritable charnel was discovered in his cellars. Froschmeier and several of his accomplices—including Lieutenant Schwalbe, who had helped procure victims by befriending strangers—had their heads cut off.”

  “What about Professor Krausse?” asked Tom Wills, the detective’s new assistant.

  “Be patient, Tom. My story is only beginning. I saw him again yesterday.”

  “You did! Where?”

  “Here, in London, in this very Baker Street flat.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Second Meeting

  Mrs. Crown, Harry Dickson’s landlady, let the visitor in. The man, without waiting for an invitation, went to sit in an in armchair in front of the Great Detective.

  “I suppose you recognize me, Mr. Dickson?” he said.

  Harry Dickson did indeed. Professor Krausse hadn’t aged much, despite the fact that ten years had passed since their first meeting. His hair was a little thinner and his shoulders more stooped, a fact which Dickson remarked upon.

  “Yes, time is the great enemy of all men,” replied the Professor. “Especially for those who don’t understand its power, like you, Mr. Dickson. I see a few lines on your forehead now, four gold fillings in your mouth, and you appear to smoke with much less calm than you used to.”

  “I’ll be happy to repay your previous hospitality with a glass of wine,” said the detective. “It is the only thing that improves with age.”

  “Among material things, yes; but no, I would prefer some of your national drink: whiskey. Wine is generally terrible in England.”

  Harry Dickson offered the Professor a bottle of Black & White and seltzer. The German served himself a small drink.

  “I have come to ask you to secure the pardon of a man sentenced to hang,” he then said, matter-of-factly.

  Dickson was taken aback.

  “But I have no power in such matters!”

  “Tut, tut!” said the old man. “You have rendered too many services to the Crown of England not to be entitled to ask for such a small favor, especially since we’re talking about a vulgar crime and a no less vulgar criminal, with very little importance.”

  “If so, why are you interested in him?”

  “He is one of my mental patients.”

  “Heavens! That’s a rather strange reason.”

  “Not at all. His cure—which I effected—was the result of a long and difficult series of experiments. But once cured, the man stupidly chose to leave Germany and go and commit a murder in England.”

  “Who are we talking about?” inquired Dickson.

  “His name is Schwertfeger. He’s a German sailor. He recently robbed and killed another sailor.”

  “Ah yes, I recall the case. This Schwertfeger had some nasty antecedents. I believe he’d been sentenced to life in prison in Germany for a double murder, if I recall correctly.”

  “That’s right. I was the one who had that sentence commuted.”

  “I see. And why do you seek clemency for this villain again?”

  “Because if you hang him, he’ll die too early.”

  “I confess I don’t, understand, Professor. What do you mean by ‘too early?’”

  “What I just said: too early—before his time, if you prefer.”

  “I’m afraid I must ask…”

  “…for an explanation? Of course. But there’s really very little to tell. After six years inside the Moabit Prison, Schwertfeger’s mind had regressed to the point of idiocy. As it happened, I was visiting the infirmary of the prison when I came across his case. I thought it was interesting and asked for permission to experiment on him, which was granted. My experiment was a success and the patient regained all his mental faculties. I then asked that he be remanded in my care for some further tests, which was also granted. Unfortunately, the ingrate escaped, managed to stowaway on a cargo ship en route to England, where he started his new life by murdering a fellow sailor, as you well know.

  “I’m here to ask this service of you as a man of science, Mr. Dickson. My experiments might ultimately benefit far worthier men than Schwertfeger, but in order to ascertain that, they must be allowed to run their course.”

  Harry Dickson considered the Professor’s request. His undeniable intelligence and probity naturally pleaded in his favor.

  “The most I can secure for your subject,” he finally told the Professor, “is his transfer to a lunatic asylum. There, you will be able to observe him at your leisure.”

  “I can ask for nothing more.”

  “In that case, I will start working on it at once,” said the detective

  “I am very grateful. And since
one good turn deserves another, I see that you suffer from one of the molars on your upper left jaw. You’re planning to have it pulled, no doubt on advice from your dentist. That would be a mistake. You only have a mild case of sinusitis, undetected by your doctor. If you get that taken care of, you will no longer have any problems with your tooth.”

  Professor Krausse then left without further ado. Curious about his parting diagnosis, Dickson went to visit his doctor the next day. The man scoffed a little at the Professor’s recommendation, but agreed that a sinus drainage could do no harm and performed the task at once. The following night, Dickson noticed that the pain was gone. Professor Krausse had been right!

  Harry Dickson had no trouble requesting a new psychiatric evaluation of Schwertfeger. That resulted in the subject’s death sentence being commuted and he was speedily transferred to a padded cell at Bedlam.

  Two days later, however, Schwertfeger’s cell was found empty. The bird had flown the coop. He had miraculously escaped.

  That same day, Dickson received a telephone call from Professor Krausse.

  “I am very grateful to you, Mister Dickson,” said the German doctor.

  “I understand, but Schwertfeger’s escape has caused me great embarrassment, as you might well guess,” replied the detective in a dark mood.

  “Indeed, and I apologize for it, but it was easier to engineer his evasion from Bedlam than from Newgate.”

  “What do you mean—engineer his evasion?”

  “Come, Mister Dickson, I won’t lie to you. That’s why I came here. I need Schwertfeger not inside a cell, but in my laboratory. Good-bye now. I doubt we shall meet again.”

  The Professor hung up. The detective couldn’t find more information about him or his subject, but he wasn’t the type of man to back down from a challenge. Many telephone calls were exchanged between Baker Street and Friedrichstrasse, the headquarters of the German police. Soon, Dickson was in possession of some information that left him even more puzzled and aggravated.

  Schwertfeger, according to the German police, was never mentally retarded, nor was he found in prison and cured by Professor Krausse. He was, in fact, released as the result of a general amnesty. As for the Professor, he had left Germany several years ago and was now wanted for various crimes, in which, however, his involvement had never been formally proved.

  The German police requested that Dickson ask the British authorities to detain him, pending extradition proceedings that would be forthcoming swiftly.

  “I confess that I was seduced by the man’s vast intelligence,” confessed Dickson later to Tom Wills. “He seemed to be such an outstanding scientist… But I made a mistake and was misled. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone!”

  However, Dickson’s mind was firmly made up: he intended to find Professor Krausse at all cost.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Disappearance of Lady Bailey

  Harry Dickson was convinced that Professor Krausse was still in London, and the information he had received from the German police only supported that notion.

  When he asked the Germans for more information about the Professor’s past, however, they weren’t as forthcoming and became quite reticent. Krausse had been accused of conducting various human experiments, but without details; he was also accused of fraud, but without specifics as to his victims.

  A man like him, thought the detective, is bound to gravitate towards the medical establishments. I’ll keep an eye on hospitals, clinics and morgues…

  Dickson managed to convince Scotland Yard to assist him in the matter, and was able to set up a surveillance network of such places, but the reports he received remained resolutely negative. Professor Krausse and his murdering protégé seemed to have vanished in the legendary fog of London…

  As it sometimes happened, luck suddenly stepped into the void, offering the detective a tiny clue that was the beginning of a trail.

  That clue was a car accident involving Lady Helen Bailey, a notorious London beauty who had attended the performance of a popular play at a theater in Drury Lane, and was returning home to her Brickley estate in her Rolls Royce when, suddenly, near Peckham Rye Commons, her car was hit by a lorry.

  The lorry fled the site of the accident, but the Rolls, seriously damaged, was immobilized. Worse, Lady Helen had been severely shocked during the collision.

  Her driver, panicking, asked the few passers-by for the address of the closest doctor. He was informed by a Good Samaritan that there was one in a nearby street, just across from Scylla Road. It was indeed very close and, with the help of the man, the driver was able to take Lady Helen to that address.

  It was a sad little house, newly built but already looking somewhat dilapidated. There was a brass plate next to the door that advertised that it was the surgery of a Doctor Lengorski.

  The driver had to ring several times before someone answered. Doctor Lengorski was a thickly-built man who spoke with a marked Eastern European accent.

  He didn’t seem very pleased at being disturbed at such a late hour, but yielded to the driver’s loud pleas for help, supported by those of the indignant Good Samaritan. So he invited them in, still grumbling, and took them into a poorly-equipped consultation room.

  There, the doctor examined Lady Helen, stopped the bleeding which had started, then, in light of her weakened state, declared that she shouldn’t be transported. He said that Lady Helen could stay in his surgery until the morning, at which time decisions about further care could be made.

  The driver asked to call her husband, but Doctor Lengorski didn’t have a telephone, so the man had to return home to Brockley on foot to tell his employer what had happened. Unfortunately, that evening, Sir Morton had been urgently summoned to the side of one of his aunts, who had been taken ill. He had left a note for his wife to tell her not to expect him back until the next day.

  The driver, exhausted, decided that there was nothing mire he could do, and went to bed.

  He was still asleep the following morning when a taxi stopped before the mansion and let Sir Morton out. He was in a very foul mood, for it turned out that the telegram he had received was fake, and that his aunt was in excellent health. He thought that he had been the butt of some kind of practical joke.

  When the driver told him about the accident of the previous night, and his wife’s condition, Sir Morton was understandably alarmed and he and his man immediately returned to Peckham Rye Commons. They reached Scylla Road, then the house of Doctor Lengorski, and rang the bell.

  No one answered.

  Sir Morton then made such a ruckus, banging on the door and shouting, that he woke up the neighbors. They said they barely knew Lengorski, who had moved in only a couple of weeks earlier. Sir Morton asked them to call the police, who sent a constable with the authorization to enter Lengorski’s house by force if necessary.

  The policeman broke down the door, but they didn’t find anyone inside. The bloodied rags used to staunch Lady Helen’s bleeding the night before were still in the surgery, but there were no traces of her, or of Lengorski.

  They searched the house, which turned out to be totally empty, with curtains to make it look as if someone lived there, but no items of furniture. In front of the house, the police found a spot of motor oil, indicating that a car had parked there recently.

  The next day, the story of the elusive and mysterious Doctor Lengorski made the rounds at Scotland Yard and was in the morning papers. The inspector in charge of the case asked Harry Dickson for his help.

  When the detective arrived, he first asked to take a look at the Baileys’ Rolls Royce, which was still parked where it had been left after the accident.

  “Hmm… A tank could hardly have done a better job,” said Dickson, after he had finished examining the car. “Look at the damage: no traces of paint or metal scrapings from the other vehicle; this was not a sideswipe, but a front end collision. This car was rammed on purpose.”

  “So you don’t think it was an accident?
” asked the Inspector, flabbergasted.

  “Not in the least,” replied Dickson sharply.

  “But… If that’s so… My wife being taken to that strange doctor…” stammered Sir Morton who had been attending the investigation.

  “All part of an ingenious set-up, I’m afraid,” said the detective. “Your wife wounded, a helpful Good Samaritan, a neighboring doctor…” Dickson turned towards the driver. “Please describe to me in detail what these two men looked like: the Good Samaritan and Doctor Lengorski.”

  “Well, the man who offered his help was big and strong; he was able to lift and carry Lady Morton effortlessly. I don’t remember his face very well; besides, he wore a broad-rimmed hat. He spoke with a posh accent, but he wasn’t particularly well dressed. As for the doctor, he was a smaller man, with an awkward step. He had a rather unkempt large beard. He seemed rather strong too, although he stooped a little. His surgery was badly lit, with only a small bulb powered by a battery. I don’t think the house had electricity; I only saw a candle in the entry hall.”

  They then moved to Lengorski’s house. Dickson examined the surgery, furnished with a few, second-hand supplies.

  “Pah! The whole lot isn’t worth ten pounds,” he remarked.

  In the courtyard behind the house, the detective noticed a sewer grate which had recently been opened, because its coating of rust and crud had been scratched away. He removed it and, with a cane, started fishing through the foul-smelling mud at the bottom. Quickly, he found what he was looking for and pulled up a slimy mass of hair trickling with dirty water.

  “Doctor Lengorski couldn’t have found a better place to get rid of his fake beard,” he snickered.

  The search of the remaining floors of the house turned up nothing except for some ashes in one of the fireplaces.

  “Old newspapers…” muttered Dickson. “That’s more like it…” Kneeling down, the detective began to scrutinize the charred fragments with a magnifying glass. “Gothic typeface… German newspapers… The ashes alone prove it…”