The Horror on the Links

by Seabury Quinn

  “What the deuce is that?”

  For answer he left the table and entered the library, returning with a small red-leather bound volume in his hand. “You have read the works of Monsieur Rossetti?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You recall his poem, Eden Bowers, perhaps?”

  “H’m; yes, I’ve read it, but I never could make anything of it.”

  “Quite likely,” he agreed, “its meaning is most obscure, but I shall enlighten you. Attendez-moi!”

  Thumbing through the thin pages he began reading at random:

  It was Lilith, the wife of Adam,

  Not a drop of her blood was human,

  But she was made like a soft, sweet woman …

  Lilith stood on the skirts of Eden.

  She was the first that thence was driven,

  With her was hell and with Eve was heaven

  What bright babes had Lilith and Adam,

  Shapes that coiled in the woods and waters,

  Glittering sons and radiant daughters …

  “You see, my friend?”

  “No, I’m hanged if I do.”

  “Very well, then, according to the rabbinical lore, before Eve was created, Adam, our first father, had a demon wife named Lilith. And by her he had many children, not human, nor yet wholly demon.

  “For her sins Lilith was expelled from Eden’s bowers, and Adam was given Eve to wife. With Lilith was driven out all her progeny by Adam, and Lilith and her half-man, half-demon brood declared war on Adam and Eve and their descendants forever. These descendants of Lilith and Adam have ever since roamed the earth and air, incorporeal, having no bodies like men, yet having always a hatred for flesh and blood. Because they were the first, or elder race, they are sometimes called Elementals in the ancient lore; sometimes they are called Neutrarians, because they are neither wholly men nor wholly devils. Me, I do not take odds in the controversy; I care not what they are called, but I know what I have seen. I think it is highly possible those ancient Hebrews, misinterpreting the manifestations they observed, accounted for them by their so fantastic legends. We are told these Neutrarians or Elementals are immaterial beings. Absurd? Not necessarily. What is matter—material. Electricity, perhaps—a great system of law and order throughout the universe and all the millions of worlds extending throughout infinity.

  “Very good, so far; but when we have said matter is electricity, what are we to say if asked, ‘What is electricity?’ Me, I think it a modification of the ether.

  “‘Very good,’ you say; ‘but what is ether?’

  “Parbleu, I do not know. The matter—or material—of the universe is little, if anything, more than electrons, flowing about in all directions. For here, now there, the electrons balance and form what we call solids—rocks and trees and men and women. But may they not coalesce at a different rate of speed, or vibration, to form beings which are real, with ambitions and loves and hates similar to ours, yet for the most part invisible to us, as is the air? Why not? No man can truthfully say, ‘I have seen the air,’ yet no one is so great a fool as to doubt its existence for that reason.”

  “Yes, but we can see the effects of air,” I objected. “Air in motion, for instance, becomes wind, and—”

  “Mort d’un crapaud!” he burst out. “And have we not observed the effects of these Elementals—these Neutrarians, or whatsoever their name may be? How of the six suicides; how of that which tempted the young Mademoiselle Weaver and the young Monsieur Spence to self-murder? How of the cat which entered your room? Did we see no effects there, hein?”

  “But the thing we saw with young Spence, and the cat, were visible,” I objected.

  “But of course. When you fancied you saw the cat, you were influenced from within, even as Mademoiselle Weaver was when she heard the voice of her dead friend. What we saw with the young Spence was the shadow of his desire—the intensified love and longing for his dead wife, plus the evil entity which urged him to unpardonable sin.”

  “Oh, all right,” I conceded. “Go on with your theory.”

  He stared thoughtfully at the glowing tip of his cigarette a moment, then: “It has been observed, my friend, that he who goes to a Spiritualistic seance may come away with some evil spirit attached to him—whether it be a spirit which once inhabited human form or an Elemental, it is no matter; the evil ones swarm about the lowered lights of the Spiritualistic meeting as flies congregate at the honey-pot in summer. It appears such a one fastened to Everard Maundy. His wife was its first victim, afterward those who heard him preach were attacked.

  “Consider the scene at the tabernacle when Monsieur Maundy preaches: Emotion, emotion—all is emotion; reason is lulled to sleep by the power of his words; and the minds of his hearer’s are not on their guard against the entrance of evil spirits; they are too intent on what he is saying. Their consciousness is absent. Pouf! The evil one fastens firmly on some unwary person, explores his innermost mind, finds out his weakest point of defense. With you, it was the kitten; with young Mademoiselle Weaver, her dead friend; with Monsieur Spence, his lost wife. Even love can be turned to evil purposes by such an one.

  “These things I did consider most carefully, and then I did enlist the services of young Monsieur Spence. You saw what you saw on the lonely road this night. Appearing to him in the form of his dead beloved, this wicked one had all but persuaded him to destroy himself when we intervened.

  “Très bien. We triumphed then; the night before I had prevented your death. The evil one was angry with me; also it was frightened. If I continued, I would rob it of much prey, so it sought to do me harm. Me, I am ever on guard, for knowledge is power. It could not lead me to my death, and, being spirit, it could not directly attack me. It had to recourse to its last resort. While the young undertaker’s assistant was about to deliver the body of the old Monsieur Gregory, the spirit seized the corpse and animated it, then pursued me.

  “Ha, almost I thought, it had done for me at one time, for I forgot it was no living thing I fought, and attacked it as if it could be killed. But when I found my sword could not kill that which was already dead, I did cut off its so abominable hand. I am very clever, my friend. The evil spirit reaped small profits from fighting with me.”

  He made the boastful admission in all seriousness, entirely unaware of its sound, for to him it was but a straightforward statement of undisputed fact. I grinned in spite of myself, then curiosity got the better of amusement. “What were those little pellets you threw at the spirit when it was luring young Spence to commit suicide, and later at the corpse of Silas Gregory?” I asked.

  “Ah”—his elfish smile flickered across his lips then disappeared as quickly as it came—“it is better you do not ask me that, mon cher. Let it suffice when I tell you I convinced the good Père O’Brien that he should let me have what no layman is supposed to touch, that I might use the ammunition of heaven against the forces of hell.”

  “But how do we know this Elemental, or whatever it was, won’t come back again?” I persisted.

  “Little fear,” he encouraged. “The resort to the dead man’s body was its last desperate chance. Having elected to fight me physically, it must stand or fall by the result of the fight. Once inside the body, it could not quickly extricate itself. Half an hour, at least, must elapse before it could withdraw, and before that time had passed I had fixed it there for all time. The stake through the heart and the severed head makes that body as harmless as any other, and the wicked spirit which animated it must remain with the flesh it sought to pervert to its own evil ends henceforth and forever.”

  “But—”

  “Ah bah!” He dropped his cigarette end into his empty coffee cup and yawned frankly. “We dally too much, my friend. This night’s work has made me heavy with sleep. Let us take a tiny sip of cognac so the pie may not give us unhappy dreams and then to bed. Tomorrow is another day, and who knows what new task lies before us?”

  Creeping Shadows

  “MON DIEU
! IS IT that we are arrest’?” Jules de Grandin half rose from the dinner table in mock consternation as the vigorous ringing of the front door bell was followed by a heavy tramp in the hall, and Nora, my household factotum, ushered Detective Sergeant Costello and two uniformed policemen into the dining room.

  “Not a bit of it,” Costello negatived with a grin as he seated himself on the extreme forward edge of the chair I indicated and motioned the two patrolmen to seats beside him. “Not a bit of it, Dr. de Grandin, sor; but we’re after askin’ a favor of you, if you don’t mind. This is Officer Callaghan”—he indicated the burly, red-headed policeman at his right—“an’ this is Officer Schippert. Both good boys, sor, an’ worthy to be believed, for I know ’em of old.”

  “I doubt it not,” de Grandin acknowledged the introduction with one of his quick smiles, “those whom you vouch for are surely not to be despised, mon vieux. But this favor you would have of me, what of it?”

  Detective Sergeant Costello, clasped his black derby hat in a viselike grip between his knees and stared into its interior as though he expected to find inspiration there. “We’re after wantin’ some information in th’ Craven case, if ye don’t mind, sor,” he replied.

  “Eh, the Craven case?” de Grandin echoed. “Parbleu, old friend, I fear you have come to the wrong bureau of information. I know nothing of the matter except such tags of gossip as I have heard, and that is little enough. Was it not that this Monsieur Craven, who lived alone by himself, was discovered dead in his front yard after having lain there in that condition for several days, and that there was evidence of neither struggle nor robbery? Am I right?”

  “M’m,” Costello mumbled. “They didn’t tell ye nothin’ about his head bein’ cut off, then?”

  An expression of almost tragic astonishment swept over the little Frenchman’s face. “What is it that you say—he was beheaded?” he exclaimed incredulously. “Mordieu, why was I not informed of this? I had been told there was no evidence of struggle! Is it then that lonely gentlemen in America suffer the loss of their heads without struggling? Tell on, my friend. I burn, I am consumed with curiosity. What more of this so remarkable case where a man dies by decapitation and there is no sign of foul play? Nom d’un raisin, I am very wise, cher sergent, but it seems I have yet much to learn!”

  “Well, sor,” Costello began half apologetically, “I don’t know why ye never heard about Craven’s head bein’ missin’, unless th’ coroner’s office hustled th’ body off too soon for th’ folks to git wise. But that ain’t th’ strangest part of th’ case; not by a dam’ sight—askin’ your pardon for th’ expression, sor. Ye see, these boys here”—he indicated the officers, who nodded solemn confirmation of his remark before he uttered it—“these boys here have th’ beat which goes past th’ Craven house, an’ they both of ’em swear they seen him in his front yard th’ mornin’ of th’ very day he was found dead, an’ supposed to have been dead for several days when found!

  “Now, Dr. de Grandin, I’m just a police officer, an’ Callaghan an’ Schippert’s just a pair o’ harness bulls. We ain’t had no eddycation, all th’ doctors at the coroner’s office ought to know what they’re talkin’ about when they say th’ putrefactive state of his body showed Craven had been dead several days; but just th’ same—” He paused, casting a glance at his two blue-uniformed confreres.

  “Nom d’un bouc, go on, man; go on!” de Grandin urged. “I starve for further details, and you withhold your story like a naughty little boy teasing a dog with a bit of meat! Proceed, I beseech you.”

  “Well, sor, as I was sayin’,” the detective resumed, “I ain’t settin’ up to be no medical doctor, nor nothin’ like that; but I’ll take me Bible oath, Mister Craven hadn’t been dead no several days when they found him layin’ in his garden. ’Twas early in th’ mornin’ of th’ very day they found ’im I was walkin’ past his house after bein’ out most all night on a case, an’ I seen him standin’ in his front yard with me own two eyes, as plain as I see you this minute, sor. Callaghan an’ Schippert, who was comin’ off night duty, come past th’ house not more ’n a’ hour afterward, an’ they seen ’im standin’ among th’ flowers, too.”

  “Eh, you are sure of this?” de Grandin demanded, his little blue eyes snapping with interest.

  “Positive,” Costello returned. “Meself, I might a’ seen a ghost, an’ Callaghan might a’ done th’ same, for we’re Irish, sor, an’ th’ hidden people show ’emselves to us when they don’t bid th’ time o’ day to th’ rest o’ yez; but Schippert here, if he seen a banshee settin’ on a murderer’s grave, combin’ her hair with th’ shin-bone of a dead gipsy, he’d neyer give th’ old gurrl a tumble unless her screechin’ annoyed th’ neighbors, an’ then he’d tell her to shut up an’ move on, or he’d run her in for disturbin’ th’ peace. So if Schippert says he seen Mr. Craven walkin’ in his front garden half an hour after sun-up, why, Mr. Craven it were, sor, an’ no ghost at all. I’ll swear to that.”

  “Morbleu, and did you not tell the coroner as much at the inquisition?” de Grandin asked, producing a cigarette from his waistcoat pocket like a prestidigitator exhuming a rabbit from his trick hat, but forgetting to light it in his excitement. “Did you not inform Monsieur le Coroneur of this?”

  “No, sor; we wasn’t invited to th’ inquest. I reported what I’d seen to headquarters when I heard they’d found Mr. Craven’s body, an’ Callaghan an’ Schippert done th’ same at their precinct, but all they said to us was, ‘Applesauce.’ An’ that was that, sor. Y’see, when we all three swore we’d seen th’ man himself th’ same mornin’, an’ th’ doctors all swore he must a’ been dead almost a week before he was found, they thought we was all cuckoo, an’ paid us no more mind.”

  “Nom d’un porc! Did they so?” de Grandin barked. “They did tell you, my friend, that you spoke the sauce of the apple; you, who have assisted Jules de Grandin in more cases than one? Mordieu, it is the insult! I shall go to these canaille; I shall tell them to their foolish faces that they possess not the brain of a guinea-pig! I, Jules de Grandin, shall inform them—”

  “Aisy, sor; go aisy, if ye please,” Costello besought. “‘Twould do us more harm than good should ye cause hard feelin’s agin us at th’ coroner’s office; but ye can be a big help to us in another way, if ye will.”

  “Morbleu, speak on, my friend, enlighten me,” de Grandin agreed. “If there be a mystery to this case, and a mystery there surely is, have no fear that Jules de Grandin will sleep or eat or drink till it shall be explained!” He poured himself another cup of coffee and imbibed it in two huge gulps. “Lead on, mon brave. What is it that you would have me do?”

  “Well, sor,” the Irishman grinned with delight at de Grandin’s enthusiastic acceptance of his suggestion, “we knew as how you’d had all sorts an’ kinds o’ experience with dead folks, an’ we’re wonderin’ if mebbe, you would go over to th’ Craven house with us an’ take a look round th’ premises, sorter. Mebbe you’d be able to find out sumpin’ that would make th’ goin’ aisier for us, for they’re razzin’ us sumpin’ awful about sayin’ we seen Mr. Craven several days after th’ doctor says he was kilt, so they are. All th’ same, no matter what they say at th’ coroner’s office,” he added stubbornly, “a man that’s well enough to be walkin’ around his own front yard at half-past four in th’ mornin’ ain’t goin’ to be dead several days when he’s found in th’ same yard a few minutes after four o’clock th’ same afternoon. That’s what I say, an’ Callaghan an’ Schippert here says th’ same.”

  “Sure do,” Officers Callaghan and Schippert nodded solemn agreement.

  “Parbleu, mes amis,” de Grandin agreed as he rose from the table. I consider your logic irrefutable.

  “Come, Trowbridge, my friend,” he beckoned to me, “let us go to this house where men who died several days before—with their heads off, parbleu!—promenade their front yards.” He held the door of my motor’s tonneau courteously for the three officers, then
vaulted nimbly to the front seat beside me. “Trowbridge, my old one,” he whispered as I set the car in motion, “I damn think we shall have the beautiful adventure this night. Hasten, I would that it begins at once, right away.”

  THE CRAVEN COTTAGE STOOD in the center of a quarter-acre tract, a low hedge cutting it off from the old military road on which it faced, an eight-foot brick wall surrounding its other three sides. Though the front grounds were planted in a run-down garden, there were no trees near the house, consequently we had an unobstructed view of the yard in the brilliant May moonlight.

  “It was right here they found him,” Officer Schippert volunteered, directing our attention to a bed of phlox which still bore the impression of some heavy weight. “He was standin’ almost alongside, this here flower bed when I seen him that mornin’, an’ he must a’ fallen where he stood. I can’t understand what—ouch! What th’ devil’s that?” He drew his hand suddenly back from the mass of flowering plants, grasping his fore-finger in pain.

  “Stick yerself, Schip,” Callaghan asked casually. “I didn’t know them things had thorns on ’em.”

  “I’ll say I stuck myself,” Officer Schippert replied, displaying a long, pointed sliver of wood adhering to the skin of his finger. “This thing was layin’ right amongst them flowers, an’—oh, my God! Callaghan, Costello, I’m goin’ blind; I’m dyin’!” With an exclamation which was half grunt, half choke, he slid forward to the earth, his stalwart body crushing the flowers which had bent beneath the weight of Craven’s headless corpse some forty-eight hours earlier.

  “Howly Mither!” Sergeant Costello exclaimed as he bent over the prostrate figure of the policeman. “Dr. de Grandin, he is dead! See here, sor; his heart’s stopped beatin’!”

  De Grandin and I leaned forward, making a hasty inspection. Costello’s diagnosis was all too true. The sturdy patrolman, vibrant with life two minutes before, was lifeless as the man whose body lay in the city morgue, “apparently dead for several days when found,” according to medical testimony.