Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  MAN WITH THE SHAVEN SKULL

  I

  A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE

  “Pull that light lower,” ordered Inspector Wessex. “There you are, Mr. Harley; what do you make of it?”

  Paul Harley and I bent gingerly over the ghastly exhibit to which the C.I.D. official had drawn our attention, and to view which we had journeyed from Chancery Lane to Wapping.

  This was the body of a man dressed solely in ragged shirt and trousers. But the remarkable feature of his appearance lay in the fact that every scrap of hair from chin, lip, eyebrows and skull had been shaved off!

  There was another facial disfigurement, peculiarly and horribly Eastern, which my pen may not describe.

  “Impossible to identify!” murmured Harley. “Yes, you were right, Inspector; this is a victim of Oriental deviltry. Look here, too!”

  He indicated three small wounds, one situated on the left shoulder and the others on the forearm of the dead man.

  “The divisional surgeon cannot account for them,” replied Wessex. “They are quite superficial, and he thinks they may be due to the fact that the body got entangled with something in the river.”

  “They are due to the fact that the man had a birthmark on his shoulder and something — probably a name or some device — tattooed on his arm,” said Harley quietly. “Some few years ago, I met with a similar case in the neighbourhood of Stambul. A woman,” he added, significantly.

  Detective-Inspector Wessex listened to my companion with respect, for apart from his established reputation as a private inquiry-agent which had made his name familiar in nearly every capital of the civilized world, Paul Harley’s work in Constantinople during the six months preceding war with Turkey had merited higher reward than it had ever received. Had his recommendations been adopted the course of history must have been materially changed.

  “You think it’s a Chinatown case, then, Mr. Harley?”

  “Possibly,” was the guarded answer.

  Paul Harley nodded to the constable in charge, and the ghastly figure was promptly covered up again. My friend stood staring vacantly at Wessex, and presently:

  “The chief actor, I think, will prove to be not Chinese,” he said, turned, and walked out.

  “If there’s any development,” remarked Wessex as the three of us entered Harley’s car, which stood at the door, “I will, of course, report to you, Mr. Harley. But in the absence of any clue or mark of identification, I fear the verdict will be, ‘Body of a man unknown,’ etc., which has marked the finish of a good many in this cheerful quarter of London.”

  “Quite so,” said Harley, absently. “It presents extraordinary features, though, and may not end as you suppose. However — where do you want me to drop you, Wessex, at the Yard?”

  “Oh no,” answered Wessex. “I made a special visit to Wapping just to get your opinion on the shaven man. I’m really going down to Deepbrow to look into that new disappearance case; the daughter of the gamekeeper. You’ll have read of it?”

  “I have,” said Harley shortly.

  Indeed, readers of the daily press were growing tired of seeing on the contents bills: “Another girl missing.” The circumstance (which might have been no more than coincidence) that three girls had disappeared within the last eight weeks leaving no trace behind, had stimulated the professional scribes to link the cases, although no visible link had been found, and to enliven a somewhat dull journalistic season with theories about “a new Mormon menace.”

  The vanishing of this fourth girl had inspired them to some startling headlines, and the case had interested me personally for the reason that I was acquainted with Sir Howard Hepwell, one of whose gamekeepers was the stepfather of the missing Molly Clayton. Moreover, it was hinted that she had gone away in the company of Captain Ronald Vane, at that time a guest of Sir Howard’s at the Manor.

  In fact, Sir Howard had ‘phoned to ask me if I could induce Harley to run down, but my friend had expressed himself as disinterested in a common case of elopement. Now, as Wessex spoke, I glanced aside at Harley, wondering if the fact that so celebrated a member of the C.I.D. as Detective-Inspector Wessex had been put in charge would induce him to change his mind.

  We were traversing a particularly noisy and unsavoury section of the Commercial Road, and although I could see that Wessex was anxious to impart particulars of the case to Harley, so loud was the din that I recognized the impossibility of conversing, and therefore:

  “Have you time to call at my rooms, Wessex?” I asked.

  “Well,” he replied, “I have three-quarters of an hour.”

  “You can do it in the car,” said Harley suddenly. “I have been asked to look into this case myself, and before I definitely decline I should like to hear your version of the matter.”

  Accordingly, we three presently gathered in my chambers, and Wessex, with one eye on the clock, outlined the few facts at that time in his possession respecting the missing girl.

  Two days before the news of the disappearance had been published broadcast under such headings as I have already indicated, a significant scene had been enacted in the gamekeeper’s cottage.

  Molly Clayton, a girl whose remarkable beauty had made her a central figure in numerous scandalous stories, for such is the charity of rural neighbours, was detected by her stepfather, about eight in the evening, slipping out of the cottage.

  “Where be ye goin’, hussy?” he demanded, grasping her promptly by the arm.

  “For a walk!” she replied defiantly.

  “A walk wi’ that fine soger from t’ Manor!” roared Bramber furiously. “You’ll be sorry yet, you barefaced gadabout! Must I tell you again that t’ man’s a villain?”

  The girl wrenched her arm from Bramber’s grasp, and blazed defiance from her beautiful eyes.

  “He knows how to respect a woman — what you don’t!” she retorted hotly.

  “So I don’t respect you, my angel?” shouted her stepfather. “Then you know what you can do! The door’s open and there’s few’ll miss you!”

  Snatching her hat, the girl, very white, made to go out. Whereat the gamekeeper, a brutal man with small love for Molly, and maddened by her taking him at his word, seized her suddenly by her abundant fair hair and hauled her back into the room.

  A violent scene followed, at the end of which Molly fainted and Bramber came out and locked the door.

  When he came back about half-past nine the girl was missing. She did not reappear that night, and the police were advised in the morning. Their most significant discovery was this:

  Captain Ronald Vane, on the night of Molly’s disappearance, had left the Manor House, after dining alone with his host, Sir Howard Hepwell, saying that he proposed to take a stroll as far as the Deep Wood.

  He never returned!

  From the moment that Gamekeeper Bramber left his cottage, and the moment when Sir Howard Hepwell parted from his guest after dinner, the world to which these two people, Molly Clayton and Captain Vane, were known, knew them no more!

  I was about to say that they were never seen again. But to me has fallen the task of relating how and where Paul Harley and I met with Captain Vane and Molly Clayton.

  At the end of the Inspector’s account:

  “H’m,” said Harley, glancing under his thick brows in my direction, “could you spare the time, Knox?”

  “To go to Deepbrow?” I asked with interest.

  “Yes; we have ten minutes to catch the train.”

  “I’ll come,” said I. “Sir Howard will be delighted to see you, Harley.”

  II

  THE CLUE OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS

  “What do you make of it, Inspector?” asked my friend. Detective-Inspector Wessex smiled, and scratched his chin.

  “There was no need for me to come down!” he replied. “And certainly no need for you, Mr. Harley!”

  Harley bowed, smiling, at the implied compliment.

  “It’s a common or garden elopement!” continued the detective.
“Vane’s reputation is absolutely rotten, and the girl was clearly infatuated. He must have cared a good bit, too. He’ll be cashiered, as sure as a gun!”

  Leaving Sir Howard at the Manor, we had joined Inspector Wessex at a spot where the baronet’s preserves bordered a narrow lane. Here the ground was soft, and the detective drew Harley’s attention to a number of footprints by a stile.

  “I’ve got evidence that he was seen here with the girl on other occasions. Now, Mr. Harley, I’ll ask you to look over these footprints.”

  Harley dropped to his knees and made a brief but close examination of the ground round about. One particularly clear imprint of a pointed toe he noticed especially; and Wessex, diving into the pocket of his light overcoat, produced a patent-leather shoe, such as is used for evening wear.

  “He had a spare pair in his bag,” he explained nonchalantly, “and his man did not prove incorruptible!”

  Harley took the shoe and placed it in the impression. It fitted perfectly!

  “This is Molly Clayton, I take it?” he said, indicating the prints of a woman’s foot.

  “Yes,” assented Wessex. “You’ll notice that they stood for some little time and then walked off, very close together.”

  Harley nodded absently.

  “We lose them along here,” continued Wessex, leading up the lane; “but at the corner by the big haystack they join up with the tracks of a motor-car! I ask for nothing clearer! There was rain that afternoon, but there’s been none since.”

  “What does the Captain’s man think?”

  “The same as I do! He’s not surprised at any madness on Vane’s part, with a pretty woman in the case!”

  “The girl left nothing behind — no note?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Traced the car?”

  “No. It must have been hired or borrowed from a long distance off.”

  Where the tracks of the tires were visible we stopped, and Harley made a careful examination of the marks.

  “Seems to have had a struggle with her,” he said, dryly.

  “Very likely!” agreed Wessex, without interest.

  Harley crawled about on the ground for some time, to the great detriment of his Harris tweeds, but finally arose, a curious expression on his face — which, however, the detective evidently failed to observe.

  We returned to the Manor House where Sir Howard was awaiting us, his good-humoured red face more red than usual; and in the library, with its sporting prints and its works for the most part dealing with riding, hunting, racing, and golf (except for a sprinkling of Nat Gould’s novels and some examples of the older workmanship of Whyte-Melville), we were presently comfortably ensconced. On a side table were placed a generous supply of liquid refreshments, cigars and cigarettes; so that we made ourselves quite comfortable, and Sir Howard restrained his indignation, until each had a glass before him and all were smoking.

  “Now,” he began, “what have you got to report, gentlemen? You, Inspector,” he pointed with his cigar toward Wessex, “have seen Vane’s man and all of you have been down to look at these damned tracks. I only want to hear one thing; that you expect to trace the disgraceful couple. I’ll see to it” — his voice rose almost to a shout— “that Vane is kicked out of the service, and as to that shameless brat of Bramber’s, I wish her no worse than the blackguard’s company!”

  “One moment, Sir Howard, one moment,” said Harley quietly; “there are always two sides to a case.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Harley? There’s only one side that interests me — the outrage inflicted upon my hospitality by this dirty guest of mine. For the girl I don’t give twopence; she was bound to come to a bad end.”

  “Well,” said Harley, “before we pronounce the final verdict upon either of them I should like to interview Bramber. Perhaps,” he added, turning to Wessex, “it would be as well if Mr. Knox and I went alone. The presence of an official detective sometimes awes this class of witness.”

  “Quite right, quite right!” agreed Sir Howard, waving his cigar vigorously. “Go and see Bramber, Mr. Harley; tell him that no blame attaches to himself whatever; also, tell him with my compliments that his stepdaughter is —— —”

  “Quite so, quite so,” interrupted Harley, endeavouring to hide a smile. “I understand your feelings, Sir Howard, but again I ask you to reserve your verdict until all the facts are before us.”

  As a result, Harley and I presently set out for the gamekeeper’s cottage, and as the man had been warned that we should visit him, he was on the porch smoking his pipe. A big, dark, ugly fellow he proved to be, of a very forbidding cast of countenance. Having introduced ourselves:

  “I always knowed she’d come to a bad end!” declared Gamekeeper Bramber, almost echoing Sir Howard’s words. “One o’ these gentlemen o’ hers was sure to be the finish of her!”

  “She had other admirers — before Captain Vane?”

  “Aye! the hussy! There was a black-faced villain not six months since! He got t’ vain cat to go to London an’ have her photograph done in a dress any decent woman would ‘a’ blushed to look at! Like one o’ these Venuses up at t’ Manor! Good riddance! She took after her mother!”

  The violent old ruffian was awkward to examine, but Harley persevered.

  “This previous admirer caused her to be photographed in that way, did he? Have you a copy?”

  “No!” blazed Bramber. “What I found I burnt! He ran off, like I told her he would — an’ her cryin’ her eyes out! But the pretty soger dried her tears quick enough!”

  “Do you know this man’s name?”

  “No. A foreigner, he was.”

  “Where were the photographs done — in London, you say?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you know by what photographer?”

  “I don’t! An’ I don’t care! Piccadilly they had on ’em, which was good enough for me.”

  “Have you her picture?”

  “No!”

  “Did she receive a letter on the day of her disappearance?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Good day!” said Harley. “And let me add that the atmosphere of her home was hardly conducive to ideal conduct!”

  Leaving Bramber to digest this rebuke, we came out of the cottage. Dusk was falling now, and by the time that we regained the Manor the place was lighted up. Inspector Wessex was waiting for us in the library, and:

  “Well?” he said, smiling slightly as we entered.

  “Nothing much,” replied Harley dryly, “except that I don’t wonder at the girl’s leaving such a home.”

  “What’s that! What!” roared a big voice, and Sir Howard came into the room. “I tell you, Bramber only had one fault as a stepfather; he wasn’t heavy-handed enough. A bad lot, sir, a bad lot!”

  “Well, sir,” said Inspector Wessex, looking from one to another, “personally, beyond the usual inquiries at railway stations, etc., I cannot see that we can do much here. Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Harley?”

  Harley nodded.

  “Quite,” he replied. “There is a late train to town which I think we could catch if we started at once.”

  “Eh?” roared Sir Howard; “you’re not going back to-night? Your rooms are ready for you, damn it!”

  “I quite appreciate the kindness, Sir Howard,” replied Harley; “but I have urgent business to attend to in London. Believe me, my departure is unavoidable.”

  The blue eyes of the baronet gleamed with the simple cunning of his kind.

  “You’ve got something up your sleeve,” he roared. “I know you have, I know you have!”

  Inspector Wessex looked at me significantly, but I could only shrug my shoulders in reply; for in these moods Harley was as inscrutable as the Sphinx.

  However, he had his way, and Sir Howard hurriedly putting a car in commission, we raced for the local station and just succeeded in picking up the express at Claybury.

  Wessex was rather silent throughout the journey, often glancing in m
y friend’s direction, but Harley made no further reference to the case beyond outlining the interview with Bramber, until, as we were parting at the London terminus, Wessex to report to Scotland Yard and I to go to Harley’s rooms:

  “How long do you think it will take you to find that photographer, Wessex?” he asked. “Piccadilly is a sufficient clue.”

  “Well,” replied the Inspector, “nothing can be done to-night, of course, but I should think by mid-day tomorrow the matter should be settled.”

  “Right,” said Harley shortly. “May I ask you to report the result to me, Wessex?”

  “I will report without fail.”

  III

  ALI OF CAIRO

  It was not until the evening of the following day that Harley rang me up, and:

  “I want you to come round at once,” he said urgently. “The Deepbrow case is developing along lines which I confess I had anticipated, but which are dramatic nevertheless.”

  Knowing that Harley did not lightly make such an assertion, I put aside the work upon which I was engaged and hurried around to Chancery Lane. I found my friend, pipe in mouth, walking up and down his smoke-laden study in a state which I knew to betoken suppressed excitement, and:

  “Did Wessex find your photographer?” I asked on entering.

  “Yes,” he replied. “A first-class man, as I had anticipated. As I had further anticipated he did a number of copies of the picture for the foreign gentleman — about fifty, in fact!”

  “Fifty!”

  “Yes! Does the significance of that fact strike you?” asked Harley, a queer smile stealing across his tanned, clean-shaven face.

  “It is an extraordinary thing for even an ardent admirer to have so many reproductions done of the same picture!”

  “It is! I will show you now what I found trodden into one of the footprints where the struggle took place beside the car.”

  Harley produced a piece of thick silk twine.

  “What is it?”

  “It is a link, Knox — a link to seek which I really went down to Deepbrow.” He stared at me quizzically, but my answering look must have been a blank one. “It is part of the tassel of one of those red cloth caps commonly called in England, a fez!”