Black Moon

by Seabury Quinn

  “Ah, Mademoiselle, you waken?” he broke off as the girl’s lids fluttered. “That is good. Drink this.” He held the ammonia to her lips, and as she gulped it down regarded her with an unwinking stare. “You have not told us all, by any means,” he added as he handed her the sherry. “The young man lifts you—non, how do you say him—picks you up? Yes. When he has driven you into the parc he becomes forward. Yes. You leap from the moteur in outraged modesty and flee into the storm. Yes; certainly. So much you tell us; that much we know. But—” his eyes hardened and his voice grew cold—“you have not told us how your toilette became torn, nor how you suffered those wounds on your thorax. No, not at all. Our eyes and our experience say those wounds were inflicted by a cat—a very large, great cat, perhaps a panther or a wildcat. Our reason rejects the hypothesis. Yet,” he raised his narrow shoulders in a shrug, “les voilà—there we are!”

  The girl shrank back as from a blow. “You wouldn’t believe me!”

  “Tenez, Mademoiselle, you would be astonished at my credulity. Tell us just what happened, if you please, and omit nothing.”

  She sipped the sherry gratefully, seeming to be marshalling her thoughts. “All I told you was the truth, the absolutely honest truth,” she answered slowly, “only, I didn’t tell you everything. I was afraid you’d say that I was lying, drunk or crazy; maybe all three. As I said, I was standing on the corner waiting for a bus when the young man drove past and asked if I’d like a lift. He seemed so nice and pleasant, and I was so cold and wretched, that I accepted his offer. Even when he turned into the Park I wasn’t too much worried. I’ve been around and know how to take care of myself. But when he stopped the car and leaned toward me I became frightened. Terrified. Have you ever seen a human face become a beast’s—”

  “Mordieu, you say it—”

  “No, I don’t mean that his features actually changed form; it was their expression. His eyes seemed positively gleaming in the dark and his lips snarled back from his teeth like those of a dog or cat, and he made the most horrifying noises in his throat. Not quite a growl, and yet—oh, I can’t describe it, but it terrified me so—”

  “And then?” de Grandin prompted softly as she paused and swallowed nervously.

  “I hadn’t noticed, but he’d drawn the glove from his right hand, and when he stretched it toward me it had become a panther’s paw!”

  “Cordieu, how do you say, Mademoiselle—la patte d’une panthère?”

  “I mean just what I say, sir. Literally. It was black and furry, with great curving claws, and he swung it at me with a sort of dreadful playfulness—like a cat that torments a mouse with mock gentleness, you know. Each time he moved it, it came nearer, and suddenly I felt the claws rip through my dress, and in another moment I felt a quick pain in my chest. Then I seemed to come awake all of a sudden—I’d been positively paralyzed with fear—and jumped out of the car. Just like I told you in the Park, he didn’t try to chase me, just sat there laughing and told me I’d not get far in the storm. Then I met you, and when we went back he was—”

  Again she paused, and de Grandin supplied the ending. “Entirely dead, parbleu, with his neck most neatly broken.”

  “Yes, sir. You do believe me, don’t you?” Her voice was piteous, but the big dark eyes she raised to his were even more so.

  He tweaked the ends of his small wheat-blond mustache. “Perhaps I am a fool, Mademoiselle, but I believe you. However, it are more than barely possible the police would not share my naïveté. Accordingly, we shall say nothing to them of your part in this unfortunate affair. But since they must be apprised of the killing, I shall tend your hurts while Dr. Trowbridge calls them to impart the information.” He handed me a slip of paper with a number scribbled on it. “That is the number of the dead man’s car, Friend Trowbridge. Be kind enough to ask the good Costello to compare it with the license lists and tell us who the owner was and where he resided.”

  “Costello speakin’,” came the well-known heavy voice when I had put my call through to headquarters. “That you, Dr. Trowbridge, sor? I wuz jist about to ring your house. What’s cookin’?”

  “I’m not quite certain,” I replied. “Dr. de Grandin and I just ran across what seems to be a murder in Soldiers’ Park—”

  “Howly jumpin’ Jehoshaphat, another? It’s nuts I’m goin’, sor; completely nuts, as th’ felley says. That’s the fourth one tonight, an’ I’m gittin’ so I dassen’t pick th’ tellyphone up for fear they’ll tell me there’s another. How’d your man git bumped off?”

  “I’m not quite sure, but it looks like a broken neck—”

  “It looks like it?” he roared. “Bedad, ye know right well ’tis nothin’ else, sor! All their necks wuz broke. Everybody’s neck is broke. I wish to Howly Patrick that me own wuz broke so’s I didn’t need to hear about these blokes wid broken necks, so I do! What’d ye say his number wuz? Thank ye. I’ll be afther checkin’ it wid th’ files, an’ be wid ye in ten minutes, more or less. Meantime I’ll send a prowl car to pick up the auto an’ th’ body in th’ Park.”

  I heard the surgery door close softly as I put the telephone down, and in a moment Jules de Grandin came into the office. “I painted her injuries with mercurochrome,” he informed me. “They were superficial and showed no sign of sepsis, but I am puzzled. Yes, of course.”

  “Why ‘of course’?” I demanded.

  “Because they bore every evidence of large cat’s claw-marks. Their edges were irregular, owing to the fact the skin had been forced back as the claws ripped through it, but a microscopic examination failed to disclose any foreign particles. This should not be. As you know, claws of animals, especially those of the cat family, are markedly concave on their under sides, and since the beast does not retract them completely when he walks a certain amount of foreign matter collects in the grooves. That is why a scratch-wound from a lion or leopard, or even a domestic pussy-cat, is always more or less septic. Hers were not. My friend, it was a most peculiar cat that gave her those scratches.”

  “Peculiar? I should say it was,” I agreed. “I heard her tell you that his hand had changed into a panther’s paw. You don’t believe that gamine, do you? He probably made several passes at her with his bare hand, tore her dress and scratched her accidentally—”

  “Non, that he did not, my friend. I did not begin to practice medicine last week, or even week before. I am too familiar with the marks of human nails to he mistaken. I do not say his hand turned to a paw; it is too early yet to affirm anything, but this I know. Those scratches on her thorax were not made by human nails. Moreover—”

  “Where is she now?” I interrupted.

  “Upon her homeward way, one hopes. I let her from the surgery door and went with her to the curb, where I stopped a taxi and put her into it—”

  “But Costello will want to question her—”

  “You did not tell him she was here?”

  “No, but—”

  “Très bon. That is good; that is entirely excellent. We shall not have her involved in the scandal. If it should transpire that we need her I know where to find her. Yes. I made her give me her address and verified it in the ’phone book before I released her. Meanwhile, what the good Costello does not know will do no harm to either him or Mademoiselle Upchurch. And so—”

  The furious ringing of the front doorbell cut him short and in a minute Detective Lieutenant Costello stamped in, snow glinting on his overcoat and hat, and a most unhappy expression on his broad and usually good-natured face. “Good evenin’, sors,” he greeted as he hung his outside garments on the hall tree. “So it’s another one o’ those here broken neck murthers ye’d be afther tellin’ me about?”

  “It is, indeed, my old one,” answered Jules de Grandin with a grin. “You have the name and address of the one we found all killed to death in the Park?”

  “Here ’tis, sor. John Percy Singletary, 1652 Atwater Drive, an’—”

  “One moment, if you please,” de Grandin hurried
to the library and came back with a copy of Who’s Who. “Ah, here is his dossier: ‘Singletary, John Percy. Born Fairfield County, Massachusetts, July 16, 1917. Son George Angus and Martha Perry. Educated private schools and Harvard College; moved to Harrisonville, N.J., 1937; served in U. S. Army, CIB Theatre, 1943-44. Honorably discharged, CDD, 1945. Clubs, Lotus, Plumb Blossom, Explorers. Address, 1652 Atwater Drive, Harrisonville, N.J.’ One sees, but dimly.”

  “What is it one sees, sor, dim or clear? From what ye’ve read I’d say this felley wuz one o’ them rich willie-bhoys wid a lot more money than brains an’ nothin’ much to do but raise hell. His record shows he wuz run in a dozen times for speedin’. Why they didn’t take his license up is more’n I can understand. I’m not weepin’ any salty tears about his goin’. It’s a dam’ good riddance, if ye asks me, but—who kilt him? Who the’ hell kilt him, an’ why?”

  De Grandin motioned toward the siphon and decanter. “Pour yourself a drink, my old and rare. The world will look much brighter when you have absorbed it. Meanwhile give me the names of those other three young men who were so unfortunate as to have their necks broken. Thank you,” as Costello handed him the memorandum, “now, let us see—” He ruffled through the Who’s Who, and, “Dieu des porcs de Dieu des porcs de Dieu des cochons!” he swore as he closed the book. ’Pas possible?”

  “What’s that, sor?”

  “The dossiers of these so unfortunate young men, they are almost identical. The young Monsieur Singletary, whom we found defunct in the Park, Messieurs George William Cherry, Francis Agnew Marlow and Jonathan Smith Goforth were all about the same age and went to the same schools. Most likely they were classmates. Three of them served in the United States Army, one with the British, but all in the same theatre of operations, China-Burma-India, and at the same time. The manner of their several deaths was identical, the time almost the same. Très bon. What does it mean?”

  “O.K., sor. I’ll bite—hard. What does it mean?”

  The little Frenchman shrugged. “Hèlas, I do not know. But there is more—much more—than meets the casual glance in this identity. Me, I shall think upon the matter, I shall make appropriate investigations. Already there begins to be a seeming pattern in the case. Consider, if you please. What do we know of them?” He leveled a forefinger like a pistol at Costello: “Were they killed because they were wealthy? Possibly, but not probably. Because they went to Harvard College? I have seen alumni of that institution I could gladly slay, but in this instance I doubt their alma mater has much bearing on the time and manner of their deaths. It might be possible they were killed because of military service, but that, I think, is merely incidental. Très bon. It would appear that there is still another factor. What is it?”

  “I know th’ answer to that one, sor. It’s who kilt ’em, an’ why?”

  “It is, indeed, my friend. Tell me of their deaths if you will be so kind.”

  Costello checked the mortuary items off on thick fingers. “Young Cherry wuz found dead in th’ front yard o’ his house. He’d been out to a party an’ come home ’bout ten o’clock. Logan, th’ policeman on th’ beat, seen ’im layin’ in th’ yard an’ thought he wuz out cold until he took a closer look. Marlow lives at th’ Lotus Club, to which, as ye wuz afther sayin’, all of ’em belongs. He wuz found dead in bed when one o’ his friends called for him shortly afther eight o’clock tonight. Goforth wuz kilt—leastwise he wuz found dead—in th’ gents’ washroom o’ th’ Acme Theatre. All of ’em has broken necks, an’ there’s no marks on any of ’em. No finger bruises nor traces of a garrote. They hadn’t got no business to be dead accordin’ to th’ book, but they’re all dead as mutton, just th’ same.”

  The Frenchman nodded. “Who was the friend who found young Monsieur Marlow murdered in his bed?”

  “Felley be th’ name o’ Ambergrast. Lives on th’ same floor o’ th’ clubhouse. Went to call ’im to go out to some brawl in New York, an’ found him dead as yesterday’s newspaper.”

  “One sees. Let us go all quickly and consult this Monsieur Ambergrast. It may be he can tell us something. It may be he, too, is among the list of those elected to have broken necks. Yes. Certainly.”

  WILFRED BAILEY AMBERGRAST, JR., seemed typical of his class. A rather pallid young person, not necessarily a vicious sort, but obviously the much-pampered son of a rich father. He was, as Jules de Grandin later said, “one of those persons of whom a false impression may be produced if you attempt to describe him at all.”

  He was plainly unnerved by his friend’s death and not inclined to talk. “I can’t imagine who killed Tubby, or why,” he told us, staring moodily into his highball glass. “All I know I’ve told the police already. When I went to call him about eight o’clock this evening I found him lying half in, half out of bed.” He paused, took a long swallow from his glass and finished, “He was dead. His mouth was open and his eyes staring—God, it was awful!”

  “Monsieur,” de Grandin looked at him with his unwinking cat-stare, “there would not be a possible connection between your friends’ deaths and your military service—in India or Burma, by example?”

  “Eh?”

  “Précisément. One understands you were attached to the Air Corps, not as flyers, but as meteorologists. In such employment you had leisure to visit certain little-known and unfrequented places, to mingle with those better left alone—”

  Young Ambergrast looked up quickly. “How’d you guess it?” he demanded.

  “I do not guess, Monsieur. I am Jules de Grandin. My business is to know things, especially things which I am not supposed to know. Bien. Now, where was it you made the acquaintance of—” he paused with lifted brows, inviting the young man to complete the sentence.

  The boy nodded sulkily. “Since you know so much already you might as well get filled in on the rest. Tubby Goforth, Bill Cherry and Jack Singletary were stationed with me near Gontur. Frank Marlow was with the British—his father was a Canadian—but stationed near enough to us so we could get together when we had a few days’ leave. One day Jack told us there was something stirring at Stuartpuram. Sort o’ camp meetin’ of the Criminal Tribes who make their headquarters there. We took a garry over and got there after dark. The natives were marchin’ round and round a big mud-hut they called a temple, wavin’ torches and singin’ mantras to Bogiri, which is one of the avatars of Kali. While we were watchin’ the procession an old goof came siddlin’ up to us, and offered to sneak us into the temple for a rupee apiece. We took him up and he led us through a back way to a little room just back of a big mud image of the goddess.

  “I don’t know just what we’d expected to see, but what we saw was disappointing. We’d been certain there’d be women there—nautchnis and that sort o’ thing; maybe some such goin’s-on as are carved on the walls of the Black Pagoda at Kanarak. Instead they were all men, and a lousy lot of crow-bait, too. One of ’em who seemed to be some sort of priest got up and harangued the meetin’ in Hindustani, which we couldn’t understand, of course, and presently he passed out what looked like a lot o’ black fur mittens to the congregation. After that the meetin’ broke up and we were just about to leave when old Whiskers who had passed us into the temple showed up again. His English wasn’t any too good, but finally we understood he was offerin’ to sell us mittens like those we’d seen distributed. ‘What good are they?’ Jack wanted to know, and the old sinner laughed until we thought he’d have a spell of asthma. ‘You like make yum-yum love to brown gal?’ he asked, and when Jack nodded he laughed even more wheezily. ‘You wear theese glove an’ show heem to brown gal, you not have trouble makin’ yum-yum,’ he promised. ‘You geeve gal little scratch with heem and all is like you want.’ So each of us bought a mitten for three rupees.

  “When we examined ’em in the light we saw they were made of some sort of black fur and fitted with three claws made of bent horseshoe nails. How they’d operate as talismans in love-makin’ we could not imagine, but next evenin’ Tubby tried it, and i
t worked. He’d had a case on a Parsee girl for some time, but she’d stood him off. They’re the aristocrats of India, those Parsees. Stand-offish as the devil. Most of ’em are rich and you can’t buy or bribe ’em, and those who haven’t money have enough pride to make up for it. So Tubby’d got just nowhere with the lady till the evenin’ after we’d bought the mittens. He slipped the glove on his right hand and growled at her and scratched her lightly on the arm with it. It worked like magic, he told us. She was meek as Moses all evenin’, and didn’t seem to have a single ‘No’ in her vocabulary.”

  The little Frenchman nodded. “You have an explanation for this so strange phenomenon, Monsieur?”

  “Well, sort of. In a few days we heard rumors of people—all sorts, men, women and children—bein’ found in out of the way places and sometimes on the highway, all clawed up as if they’d been attacked by leopards. It had the police buffaloed, for nothing like it had been known before. The way we figured it was that the Crims had taken to these steel-clawed cat’s-paws in place of their usual stranglin’ towel, and had the population terrified, so when the girls saw our gloves and felt the scrape of the claws they figured we were members of the Criminal Tribes—you never know who is and who isn’t mixed up with them, you know. They’ve got more disguises than Lon Chaney ever had; so the girls played safe by not antagonizin’ us.”

  “One sees. And the estimable old scoundrel who sold you these cat’s-paws?”

  “Two days later he turned up strangled to death at the outskirts of his village. We assumed someone heard that he’d shown signs of sudden wealth—you know, he’d taken sixteen rupees from us, and that’s a fortune to the average Indian peasant—and he’d been killed for it. I never heard of those birds turnin’ on each other, though. Funny, ain’t it?”

  “Very funny. Very funny, indeed, Monsieur. But I doubt that the old gentleman or your four friends found much humor in the situation.”