Harry Dickson and the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange
Page 17
“I think that the bandits who kidnapped Lady Bailey will soon ask for a ransom,” said the Inspector.
Dickson said nothing, because the notion had just occurred to him that Professor Krausse might well be behind this disappearance; certainly, the description the driver had given of Lengorski could have fit the German doctor.
In any event, in the following days, Sir Morton received no ransom demands, and Lady Helen remained unfindable, despite all the manpower that Scotland Yard assigned to the case.
CHAPTER THREE
A Trap… And a Conversation
“We must start again from the beginning,” said Dickson, “and that means with the first element in this case, which is the man, Schwertfeger.
“What do we know about him? According to appearances, he is nothing but a vulgar criminal, a German sailor wandering aimlessly around the London wharves. He was discovered in a back alley of Limehouse bent over the still warm body of one of his compatriots. He was seen in company of the victim the day before the murder, doing the rounds of the local pubs, encouraging his companion to drink more than reasonable.
“The victim was a man in his 20s, strong and sturdy; Schwertfeger, on the other hand, is older and his face shows the ravages of vice. He didn’t put up any resistance when he was arrested, and didn’t put up any defense when he was tried and sentenced to hang…”
Dickson looked at the photographs before him, which he had obtained from Scotland Yard: they showed a tallish man with a blank, ordinary face, partially hidden behind an untrimmed, bushy beard.
The detective used all his influence to pressure the Kriminal Abteilung in Berlin to send him more information, and eventually received the visit of a Herr Doktor Mendel, sent especially from Berlin to talk to him.
Dickson became immediately aware that the German was trying to buy his silence about Schwertfeger and Professor Krausse, and convince him to drop the case. They were at an impasse.
But then the detective suddenly remembered his first encounter with the Professor in Berlin in 1919, and was inspired to pursue his inquiry in that direction.
“Wasn’t Herr Professor Krausse somehow involved in the sinister scandal of the human meat traffickers of Nachtrabengasse?” he abruptly asked Mendel.
“How could you know that?” replied the German, taken aback.
The detective hadn’t known it for certain, but was pleased to see his suspicions confirmed.
Eventually, the German reluctantly told him the full story.
“Well, yes, even though we never had any hard evidence. No one wanted to talk, even at the feet of the scaffold, and then, well, Professor Krausse was an important man… There would have been much embarrassment… So we suggested that he should leave Germany and never return.”
“Did he comply?”
“Well, mostly… I mean…”
“You mean that he returned occasionally to take care of various businesses, none of which were particularly honest?”
“Donnerwetter, Mein Herr! Please don’t go spreading such rumors. My superiors in Berlin would be very unhappy.”
“Have no fear, Mein Herr, I’m only interested in what the eminent Professor came to England to do. What connection is there between Krausse and Schwertfeger?”
“I confess we don’t know that ourselves,” admitted Mendel, “but Professor Krausse is known to frequent some very disreputable characters.”
“Is he attracted to money?”
“No.”
“Honors?”
“Even less! He has, in fact, always behaved very rudely towards the highest members of German society.”
“What, then, is his primary motivation?”
“Science, we believe.”
“Yes, but which branch of science?”
“Anatomy, perhaps. He is the author of some remarkable monographs in the field, even though they remained unpublished because of his rather extravagant theories about the human brain.”
“If Scotland Yard was to arrest Professor Krausse and extradite him to Germany, as you proposed, what would you do with him? Would you try him in a Court of Law.”
There was a brief flash in Herr Mendel’s icy blue eyes.
“We would certainly prevent him from causing any more harm,” he replied cautiously.
“Meaning that you wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of him?”
Herr Mendel said nothing, but the expression on his face spoke volumes.
“Very well,” said Dickson finally. “I suppose you must have your reasons, and that they must be good ones. As it turns out, I might be of some assistance…”
“Germany knows how to reward those who help her,” interrupted the envoy from Friedrichstrasse.
“Not so fast! We’re not there yet, Herr Mendel. You’ll have to trust me, which so far, you haven’t done. I’m going to ask you a very important question, and I want a truthful answer. Was Professor Krausse working alone?”
“What do you mean?” said Mendel weakly. “What do you know exactly?”
“I thought I was being clear. Professor Krausse had only disdain for money; he wasn’t rich, he lived modestly…”
“That is true.”
“…And yet, scientific experiments cost money, often a great deal of money. So did he have a patron, a benefactor? Someone who paid for his lab equipment?”
“He did,” admitted Mendel, lowering his voice. “An American. Someone who found his way to Berlin after the War and whom Krausse must have met right after the Armistice. His name—or the name he used—was Wentcroft. We were never able to get any information about him, or his past.”
“As regards the Affair of the Nachtrabengasse, you had the facts suppressed because of Krausse’s involvement, am I correct?”
“You are. The Professor still enjoyed some pretty powerful political connections.”
“But he did it again, didn’t he? I mean, you discovered other cases of human flesh trafficking in which he was involved, right?”
“Yes, you’re right, Mister Dickson. You clearly understand this appalling business.”
“And I suppose that Wentcroft’s dollars bought the impunity which the Professor appeared to enjoy, through bribes and other payments made under the table?”
Mendel lowered his head in shame.
“Please describe this Wentcroft character, Herr Mendel.”
The German made a gesture of impotence.
“He is a clever devil! Our agents were never able to get a good look at him. He is tall with long hair and a red beard—not at all looking like an American.”
“Hmm. He could have been wearing a wig and a false beard,” said Dickson.
“We thought of that as well.”
Harry Dickson then smiled in a mysterious fashion.
“Are you planning to stay in London for long, Herr Mendel?” he asked.
“Another week at least, Mister Dickson. I have other matters to discuss at Scotland Yard.”
“Excellent. A week should be more than enough time. Before you return to Berlin, will you please call on me again?”
The second person to visit Harry Dickson that day was the unfortunate Sir Morton Bailey. The loss of his wife had gravely affected him. He had aged prodigiously in a matter of days. He was now stooped, his eyes were lifeless, and he spoke in a slow and dull voice.
“Sir Morton,” started the detective, “I asked you to come here because I have a few questions to which I need answers. I hope you will have the strength to provide such answers, even though some of my questions might prove embarrassing, and possibly even painful?”
“It no longer matters, Mister Dickson. Now that my life is over, you can ask me anything you want. I doubt I will care about any potential embarrassment.”
“Very well. Let me begin by observing that there are a few years of difference in age between you and Lady Bailey…”
“You are being kind, Sir. Lady Helen was—is, I still hope—in her late 30s, and as beautiful as she was in her 20s, while I have
just passed 60. Nevertheless, our marriage is strong and a model of its kind.”
The detective didn’t have the heart to contradict the unfortunate husband, for it was known in the capital that Lady Helen had, in fact, had several affairs. But as is always the case, the husband was the only one unaware of that fact.
“Lady Bailey wasn’t British, I gather?”
“Correct. I met her in Germany. She belonged to a very respectable and distinguished family from Hanover, small-time aristocrats ruined by the War.”
“And you married her in Berlin?”
“Yes. At the time, I was working there for the British Commission on Reparations.”
“Have you ever heard of a Professor Krausse?”
“Krausse, you say?... No, I don’t think so. But Helen was a student at Berlin University when I first made her acquaintance.”
“Was she a medical student?”
“Perhaps. Or Natural Sciences… After our engagement, which was very short, she of course stopped all her studies.”
“You don’t recall her mentioning one of her professors by that name?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m not a scientist, Mister Dickson, and I have little knowledge about science. I’ve traveled much, but not learned a great deal in that respect. My conversations with Helen were rarely about abstract matters.”
“Did you travel a lot recently, and did you leave your wife alone in London?”
“Well, I had to go to America several times, on a particularly delicate matter concerning the trade relationship between our country and the United States. But is this all really relevant? Have you nothing new to tell me about my poor, unfortunate Helen?”
“Actually, I do,” said Dickson in such a strong, matter-of-fact tone that Sir Morton was taken aback. “I know where she is right now.”
“What? But how?... Please tell me, Mister Dickson?”
“Right now, she’s at home in Brockley.”
“At home? I don’t understand?”
“She’s about to leave in the company of an American gentleman named Wentcroft.”
Suddenly, Sir Morton let out a growl not unlike that of a wounded beast.
“Wentcroft?” he shouted. “Really? Wentcroft! What kind of game are you playing at, Dickson?”
“Don’t you think you’re the one who’s been playing games, Sir Morton?” said Dickson coolly. “And I’m afraid that you’ve lost.”
Sir Morton now looked like a wild beast at bay, desperately looking for any avenue of escape. He clenched his fists and stared at the detective, with murder in his eyes.
“Don’t make a foolish move, Sir Morton,” said Dickson, calmly unveiling a revolver, which he had carefully kept hidden in his sleeve. “Or I won’t be able to save you from the gallows a second time.”
This time, Sir Morton collapsed back into his chair. His eyes became strangely fixed, looking into the distance with a glassy stare.
Harry Dickson rang a bell and Tom Wills entered.
“Tom, please go down into the street. You’ll find a German gentleman in an overcoat and a floppy hat pacing back and forth on the opposite sidewalk. Ask him to come up.”
Soon, Tom returned with Herr Mendel in tow.
“Good day, Herr Mendel. I thought you might want to pursue your own investigation by spying on me. I don’t blame you for trying. In fact, it made it easier for me to find you. Please take a look at this gentleman, portray him wearing a red wig and a beard, and tell me if he reminds you of someone?”
“Herr im Himmel!” exclaimed the German policeman. “It’s Wentcroft!”
“Indeed. But more importantly, it’s also Sir Morton Bailey, who was forced to leave Her Majesty’s service in Malaysia because he was suspected of cannibalistic practices, which he had been indulging in after joining some kind of secret, local cult. Undoubtedly, a man of great worth, but also totally, incurably mad. No, don’t be concerned; he can’t hear what we’re saying. He’s quite catatonic.”
“What are you going to do now?” asked Mendel, stammering.
“I’m going to ask you to please inform your friends, Herr Professor Krausse and Lady Bailey, that they no longer have anything to fear from this monster, and that they should come here and talk to me in safety.”
EPILOGUE
Herr Mendel used the telephone and, barely an hour later, the doorbell rang.
“Herr Professor Krausse,” said Harry Dickson, offering his hand to the old man standing on the threshold. “I’m glad to see you without your carnavalesque disguise—and you too, Lady Bailey.”
“That accursed name!’ muttered the scientist. “As soon as we’re back in Berlin, she’ll return to using her maiden name…”
“Helen Krausse,” said Dickson, “since she is your daughter.”
“I’ll explain…”
“No need to, my dear Professor, In fact, please allow me to tell the story, and correct me if I’m wrong. It will be educational for Tom, my assistant.”
“Where’s Morton?” asked Krausse.
“Back in Bedlam, this time for the rest of his natural life. As you know, he truly is mad.”
“I knew it, of course. But what a genius too.”
“So here is the story… After the War, you, Professor, found yourself in Berlin with scant resources. You were too proud to ask for help. Then you met a very wealthy Englishman, Sir Morton Bailey, who seemed to share your interest in anatomy and was willing to finance your research. Sir Morton then met your daughter, Helen, who was also your assistant. He courted and married her; you didn’t object despite the difference in their ages, because he was rich and titled, and you wanted Helen to enjoy a secure position in life. It was only afterward, and by pure chance, that you discovered your new son-in-law’s ghastly secret: during his stay in Malaysia, he had become a cannibal! He liked the taste of human flesh! When I first met you at that tavern in the Nachtrabengasse, you were following Sir Morton, trying to protect your daughter and spare her the awful discovery. After the scandal broke, you forced him to return to England, but because it was easier to satisfy his vice in post-war Germany, he returned several times, using the alias of Wentcroft.
“In the underworld of Berlin, he created another alias for himself: that of the sailor Schwertferger, a real man who had been recently relesaed from prison, and whom Morton killed to take his place. Eventually, Germany became as dangerous a place for him as England, so he resigned himself to spending more time as Sir Morton Bailey in London, with his beautiful young wife, who still knew nothing about his awful double-life.
“But eventually, his luck changed. He was arrested in London for the murder of another sailor while he was using Schwertferger’s identity. You couldn’t stand the idea that the husband of your daughter was going to hang on the gallows, so you contacted me to have him committed instead, and later arranged for his escape. But there, you made a mistake: you told Morton you knew his secret and threatened to reveal everything to Helen if he didn’t mend his ways. Then she would surely leave him and detest him forever.
“You realized your mistake at once, of course. If Morton couldn’t keep Helen, he was prepared to kill her. So you assumed the identity of Doctor Lengorski and kept an eye on the couple. One night, Morton tried to kill his wife, crashing into her car with a lorry. Fortunately, a Good Samaritan intervened and carried Helen to Lengorski’s surgery. That kind soul who had been following the couple, ready to act as per your instructions, Professor, was of course you, Herr Mendel…”
Harry Dickson stopped and tipped his head to the German policeman.
“Berlin hadn’t forgotten that Professor Krausse had once been a good and loyal servitor of the State and had dispatched one of their best men to help him.”
Herr Mendel almost blushed.
“I deserve no praise, Mister Dickson,” he said, “because I never pierced the secret of Sir Morton’s other identities. In all fairness, however, my orders were strictly limited to helping the Professor and his daughter.”
“You, however, solved the case and exposed the monster.”
“I believe you would have done just as well, Herr Mendel, had our positions been reversed. I spoke an hour with you and I’m a good judge of character, and I could tell that you were a tireless policeman under your assumed bureaucratic façade. Then, when I talked to Sir Morton, it was not difficult to detect the madness that lurked just beneath the surface. It only took one word to expose him: Wentcroft. He thought for a minute that Professor Krausse had become Wentcroft to steal Helen, or perhaps that Wentcroft had somehow become real… Who can tell with madmen? The rest was child’s play. And I’m very pleased to conclude my tale by saying that, from the very beginning, I always felt that Professor Krausse was a good and decent man who could be trusted, despite all appearances and every accusation thrown at him. And I’m glad to see that I was right, and that is reward enough for my efforts!”
FRENCH HORROR COLLECTION
14 Cyprien Bérard. The Vampire Lord Ruthwen
Aloysius Bertrand. Gaspard de la Nuit
André Caroff. The Terror of Madame Atomos
André Caroff. Miss Atomos
André Caroff. The Return of Madame Atomos
André Caroff. The Mistake of Madame Atomos
André Caroff. The Monsters of Madame Atomos
André Caroff. The Revenge of Madame Atomos
26 Harry Dickson. The Heir of Dracula
13 Jules Dornay. Lord Ruthven Begins
23 Sâr Dubnotal vs. Jack the Ripper
12 Alexandre Dumas. The Return of Lord Ruthven
18 Renée Dunan. Baal
09 Paul Feval. Anne of the Isles
07 Paul Feval. Knightshade
08 Paul Feval. Revenants
05 Paul Feval. Vampire City
06 Paul Feval. The Vampire Countess
10 Paul Feval. The Wandering Jew’s Daughter
17 Paul Féval, fils. Felifax, the Tiger-Man
27 G.L. Gick. Harry Dickson and the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange