They fight against every conceivable type of villain, whether human or bestial, both dead or alive, sometimes all at once, and although Quinn created his own rule book for de Grandin, it was only as extensive as he wished—sharp, pointed knives are a key element in keeping evil at bay. Otherwise, Quinn ignored all the old rules, recognising he was in the twentieth century, not the Middle Ages, and that guns, electricity, and other advances in science were every bit as useful in combatting the horrors de Grandin faced.
Even apart from such usual menaces as werewolves, animated mummies, vampires, and Satanists, Quinn would frequently astonish the reader with his daring. This volume contains some of the most challenging stories, especially considering they were published in the mid-1930s. One of the best, and certainly one guaranteed to raise eyebrows, is “The Jest of Warburg Tantavul,” which includes both child abuse and incest, as well as a very original way of disposing of a particularly nasty ghost. That sheer zest and audacity kept readers yearning for more and sustained the character through three decades. And that meant that the occult detective was back with renewed vitality, so that whilst its popularity waned in Britain, it grew rapidly in the States, chiefly in the pulp magazines.
De Grandin soon had his rivals: Pierre d’Artois, a highly Grandinesque character, by E. Hoffmann Price; Dr. Muncing, Exorcist, by Gordon MacCreagh; Cranshawe, “the greatest American authority on poltergeists,” by Gordon Malherbe Hillman, Steve Harrison, by Robert E. Howard; Judge Pursuivant and John Thunstone, both by Manly Wade Wellman; Ascot Keane, who fought his deadly nemesis Dr. Satan in a series by Paul Ernst; Hugh Docre Purcell, created by W. Adolphe Roberts; and so many more. And this list doesn’t cover the hero pulps, where, leaving aside certain adventures of The Shadow, The Spider, Doc Savage, and The Avenger, there was James Holm, a criminologist who pitted his wits against mad scientist and black magician Dr. Death; Don Diavolo, a stage magician who helped police expose apparent supernatural events; and Val Kildare, who fought the diabolical oriental villain Wu Fang.
The 1920s and 1930s were an exciting time for phantom fighters and psychic sleuths, and, alongside all these characters, Quinn kept de Grandin and Trowbridge alive and kicking—and seemingly ageless—for twenty-six years.
By the time the 1950s and 1960s came around, then, it was not surprising that readers paused for breath and wondered whether all might be calm and collected as, at long last, the traditional occult detective returned with Joseph Payne Brennan’s Lucius Leffing.
There is no doubt that during the years between the decline of the traditional British supernatural sleuth at the end of the 1920s and its re-emergence in the 1960s, Jules de Grandin and Seabury Quinn not only helped keep the occult-detective genre alive, but gave it a verve and vitality that revived it for a new generation.
1 A further remarkable coincidence was that Sydney Horler had also only just introduced his character Sebastian Quin in “The Clean Wineglass” (Detective Magazine, 27 February 1925), and although the story is related as the first of many cases, no further stories appeared until “Black Magic” in 1930, suggesting that Quin had to rest the stories while Christie’s Harley Quin had centre stage.
2 Even Klaw was not that original, as, in 1904, Harold Begbie had written a series for The London Magazine about Andrew Latter, who enters a timeless dreamland where he can witness events leading to crimes.
The Chosen of Vishnu
“CORDIEU, FRIEND TROWBRIDGE, I am miserable as an eel with the stomach-ache; let us seek the air,” pleaded Jules de Grandin. “One little minute more of this and my grandsire’s only grandson will perish miserably by asphyxia.”
I nodded sympathetically and began shouldering my way toward the conservatory. Once a year all Harrisonville which claimed the faintest right to see itself in the society columns of the local papers attended the junior League’s parade at the Bellevue-Standish, and this season’s orgy had been even worse than usual. As special added attractions there had been several foreign consuls-general and an Indian princeling, round whom the women fluttered like flies around a freshly spilled sirup-pot, and the scent of flowers, of conglomerate perfumes and faintly perspiring humanity was almost overpowering. I was heartily glad when we finally succeeded in forcing our way to the cool semi-darkness of the deserted conservatory, where we could find sufficient elbow room to light a cigarette, and take a dozen steps without imperiling our feet beneath a wild stampede of high-heeled slippers.
“Eh bien,” de Grandin drew a gulp of smoke gratefully into his lungs, “me I think I shall remain here till the ceremonies are concluded; sooner would I spend the night right here than face that crowd to seek my hat and—ah, my friend, is she not the chic, belle créature?” He drove his elbow into my ribs and nodded toward the girlish form emerging from behind the great illuminated fishbowl at the entrance of the corridor.
He had not over-emphasized the facts. “Belle” she surely was, and “chic” as well. Not very tall, but very slim, her figure was accentuated by a black gown of transparent velvet which reached the floor and swirled about her insteps as she walked. Her eyes were large and wide and far apart, lustrous as purple pansy petals. Her hair, rich blue-black and glistening with brilliantine and careful brushing, was stretched without a ripple to the back of her neck. Her lips were full and darkly made up. Her teeth were very white and very even. Her skin, untouched by color, was faintly tan in shade, and shone as though it were a little moist. As she stepped we saw her heels were extremely high and her stockings sheer and dark. There was something sober, thoughtful, slightly frightened, I thought, in her expression as she faced the flower-and-fern lined corridor and paused a moment beside a lily-studded fountain, then half turned to retrace her steps.
Abruptly she halted, one slender, red-nailed hand half raised to her breast, as though to still the beating of a suddenly tumultuous heart, and stood at gaze, like a living creature frozen into marble at sight of Medusa’s head.
Instinctively I followed the direction of her fascinated gaze and wondered at the terror which was limned upon her face. The man who had just stepped into the corridor was not particularly impressive. Undersized, extremely dark, slender, black hair, pomaded till it lay upon his scalp like a skullcap of black satin, he looked as though he would have been much more at home in Harlem than in our fashionable suburban hotel. Shirt studs and waistcoat buttons gleamed with brilliants, and against the lower edge of his evening coat was pinned a gem-encrusted decoration which glittered with a greenish glint in the conservatory’s subdued illumination. Rather like a figure from a fancy-dress party I thought him till I saw his eyes. They made a difference; all the difference in the world, for the whole appearance of the man seemed altered instantly when one gazed into them. In odd contrast to his swarthy face, they were light in shade, cold, haughty, ophidian—like frozen agates—and though they were almost expressionless, they seemed to take in everything in the room—to see without beholding, and make a careful note of all they saw.
Apparently oblivious to the half-distracted girl, the man advanced, and, almost abreast of her, turned his freezing, haughty glance in her direction.
The result was devastating. Slowly, like something in a slow-motion picture, the girl bent forward, dropped gently to her knees, raised her arms above her head and bent her wrists till her right palm faced left, and the left palm right, then pressed her hands together and bowed her head demurely.
For a moment she knelt thus; then, still with that slow, deliberate, melting motion, she bent forward to the floor and touched her forehead to the tiles, stretched out her body slowly till she lay in utter prostration, feet straight out, ankles close together, hands extended to fullest reach before her, palms upward, as though inviting him to step upon them.
“Grand Dieu!” I heard de Grandin murmur, and caught my breath with a gasp of utter stupefaction as the dark-skinned man paused a moment in his step, glanced down upon the groveling girl with a look of loathing and disgust and spat upon her.
We
saw her slender body quiver, as from a blow, as his spittle struck her on the neck, and:
“Monsieur, your face offends me and your manners are deplorable,” said Jules de Grandin softly, emerging from behind the stand of potted palms where he had stood and driving a small, hard fist into the other’s arrogant face.
The man staggered backward, for he was lightly made, and though de Grandin was of slender stature, his strength was out of all proportion to his size, and when cold fury lay behind his blows they were little less than deadly.
“Mais oui,” the little Frenchman continued, advancing with a quick light spring, “your features are detestable, Monsieur, and spitting serpents are anathema to me. Thus I do to them, and thus—and thus—” With a speed and force and sureness which any bantamweight fighter might well have envied, he drove successive vicious punches to the other’s face, striking savagely till blood spurted from the beaten man’s cut lips and battered nose, and the cold, insolent eyes grew puffy underneath his stabbing blows. At last:
“A bath may cool your ardor and teach you better manners, one may hope!” the Frenchman finished, driving a final swift uppercut to the other’s chin and sending him toppling into the placid waters of the goldfish pool.
“Wha—what’s going on here?” a voice demanded and a tall young man rushed into the conservatory. “What—”
“Only a slight lesson in the niceties of etiquette, Monsieur,” de Grandin answered casually, but stepped quickly back to take advantage of the intervening space if the other should attack him.
“But—” the man began, then ceased abruptly as a sobbing, pleading cry came from the girl upon the floor:
“Edward—Karowli Singh!”
“Karowli Singh? Here? Why that’s impossible! Where?”
“Here, in this hotel; this room—”
“Yes, by blue, in the fish-pond!” interjected Jules de Grandin, who had been turning his quick, quizzical glance from one of them to the other during their disjointed colloquy. “But do not be disturbed. He will remain in place until I give him leave to move, unless by any chance you would converse with him—”
“Oh, no, no; no!” the girl broke in. “Take me away, please.”
“Perfectly,” the Frenchman agreed with a quick, elfin smile. “Take her away, Monsieur. Me, I shall remain behind to see he raises no disturbance.”
The man and girl turned to leave, but at the second step she faltered, leaned heavily against her escort, and would have fallen had he not caught her in his arms.
“She’s fainted!” cried the young man. “Here, help me get her through the crowd. The house physician—”
“Ah bah!” de Grandin interrupted. “The house physician? Pouf! I am Doctor Jules de Grandin and this is my good friend and colleague, Doctor Samuel Trowbridge, both at your instant service. If we can be of help—”
“Can you get us out of here?” the young man asked.
“But naturally, Monsieur. We have but to follow our noses. Our coats and hats may stay here for a time. Doctor Trowbridge’s car waits without and we can drive all quickly to his office; then, when Mademoiselle is restored, I shall return and ransom them from the estimable young female bandit who presides at the check room. Voilà tout.”
THE GIRL WAS CONSCIOUS, but strangely passive, lethargic as a fever convalescent, when we readied my house. She walked with trembling, halting steps, supported by her escort’s arm, and more than once she stumbled and would have fallen had he not held her up.
“What this one needs is conversation,” de Grandin whispered to me as we went down the hill. “Take them into the study, and I shall administer a stimulant, then encourage her to talk. She is beset by fear, and a discussion of her trouble will assist her to regain her mental poise. You agree?”
“I hardly know quite what to say,” I returned. “It was the most outlandish thing—”
“Outlandish? You have right, my friend,” he agreed with a smile. “It was—how do your so estimably patriotic Congressmen call it?—un-American, that reverence which she made that ape-faced one at the hotel. There is indubitably the funny business here, my old one. Oh, yes.”
THE GIRL, THE BOY and I gazed at each other with mutual embarrassment. The incident I had witnessed at the hotel was so utterly bizarre, so degradingly humiliating to the woman, that instinctively I shrank from looking at her, as I might have done had I unwittingly surprised her in the act of bathing. The only one in full possession of his wits seemed Jules de Grandin, who was not only master of himself, but of the situation. Wholly at his ease, he administered a dose of Hoffman’s anodyne to the girl, then give her a cigarette, extending his silver pocket lighter to her with the same gay courtesy he would have shown to any usual visitor. At length, when she had set her cigarette alight and her escort’s cigar was also properly ignited, he dropped into a chair, crossed his knees, and turned a frank, engaging smile upon the strangers.
“Mademoiselle, Monsieur,” he began in an easy conversational tone, “as I have told you, I am Doctor Jules de Grandin. But medicine is but an incident with me. In the course of my career it has fallen to my lot to serve my country with sword or wits in every quarter of the globe.” He paused a moment, smiling lightly at the visitors, both of whom regarded him with somber, questioning glances. Plainly, they were in no mood for conversation, but more than unresponsiveness was needed to check the loquacious little Frenchman’s flow of talk.
“During the great war, of which you have unquestionably heard, though you were only children when it happened, I had occasion to visit India,” he pursued, and this time he drew fire, for the girl shuddered, as if with a chill, and the big young man set his lips with sudden grimness, yet neither of them spoke.
“But yes, of course,” de Grandin rattled on, gazing with every sign of approval at the polished tip of his patent leather evening pump, “there was a time when our then allies, the British, had good reason to doubt the loyalty of one of their vassal native princes. He was more than half suspected of carrying on an intrigue with the boches; certainly he was known to be employing German drillmasters for the tatterdemalion disorganization he liked to call his army, and at any moment he might have loosed his tribesmen on the Indian frontier, causing much annoyance to the British. Oh, yes.
“British spies could not get to him, but his activities must be known, and so, ‘Jules de Grandin,’ said the French Intelligence, ‘you will please dye your hair and mustache and raise a beard, which you will also dye, then you will go to Dhittapur’”—consternation, blank surprise, showed on the faces of his hearers, but de Grandin kept on evenly, still admiring the toe of his pump—“‘you will go to Dhittapur, posing as a French renegade, and seek service in the army of his Highness, the Maharajah.’
“Tiens, when one is ordered, one obeys, my friends. I went to that benighted country, I served the squint-eyed son of Satan who ruled over it; more, I met and came to know his charming little son and heir—as diabolical a young imp as ever plucked the plumage from a screaming parrot or tortured a caged and helpless leopard with hot irons. His name, unless I am mistaken, was Karowli Singh.”
“Karowli Singh!” echoed the girl in a thin, frightened whisper.
“Précisément, Mademoiselle, and the opportunity I had tonight to drive my fist into his most unpleasant face was grateful as a drink of water in the desert, I assure you.” He paused a moment, then:
“Now that we have established rapport by identifying mutual friendships, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me how and when it was you first became acquainted with the so charming gentleman, Mademoiselle?”
There was a long moment’s silence; then, in a voice so low that we could barely hear it: “I belonged to him,” the girl replied.
“Ah?” de Grandin brushed the trimly waxed ends of his little blond mustache. “You were—”
“I was a bayadère, or woman of the inner temple,” she broke in. “At the age of five I was affianced to Vishnu, Preserver of the Universe; at seven I was
married to him. I was a ‘chosen one of the Sacred Bulls of Yama.’ I and six other little girls were stripped and tied between the horns of the temple’s sacred bulls, and the animals were then goaded into fighting each other. When they drove their heads together, their sharp, brass-tipped horns cut through the bodies of the children tied to them as though they had been bayonets. Of the seven ‘choices’ I was the only one alive when the cattle had done fighting; so my candidacy for marriage to the god was divinely ordained.
“For another seven years, until I was a full-grown woman according to Hindoo reckoning, I was schooled in the learning of the temple women; for hours each day I practised the devotional dances, working till my muscles ached as though with rheumatism and the skin was braised from my soft, bare feet. Then I learned the gesture dance, which requires years of practise before the performer learns to assume the nine hundred and forty-three symbolic postures and hold them with the rigidity of a statue; last of all I learned the Dance of the Seven Enticements, which is a combination of the Arabian danse du ventre and contortionism, the dancer being required not only to swing shoulders, hips, breasts and abdomen in time to the rhythm of the music, but to bend her head backward or forward to the floor without lifting either heels or toes or assisting herself with her hands. I also learned to play upon the sitar and tambourine and to sing the adorations, or love songs, which only women of the inner temple are taught, for they are experts in the arts of love and supply the most exclusive clientele in India.
“Nautchis—women of the outer temple—are merely deva-dasis, or slaves of the gods, and are plentiful in India, every tourist sees them; but naikin bayadères are never seen by the public. They keep strict purdah, for they are wives of the gods whose shrines they serve, and on the rare occasions when they appear outside the temple are as closely veiled and carefully watched as ranis of the mightiest maharajahs. For a low-caste man to touch one of them, or even to look upon her unveiled face, is a capital offense. Not even every Brahmin may approach them; only the higher orders of the priesthood and those of royal blood may speak to them without being first spoken to.”
A Rival from the Grave Page 3