The dream detective: being some account of the methods of Moris Klaw

by Sax Rohmer; Internet Archive

  "What I gather is this," he said.

  [I condense his statement and append it in my own words.]

  The Goblets was just closing its doors, and the villagers who nightly met there were standing in a group under the swinging sign, when a man came running down the street from the direction of the Hall, and, observing the gathering, ran up. It was Heimer, Isaac Heidelberger's secretary. He was hatless and his flabby face, in the dim light, was ghastly.

  "Quick!" he rasped, hoarsely. "Where does the doctor live?"

  "Last house but one," somebody said. "What's the matter?"

  "Murder!" cried Heimer, as he rushed ofF down the village street.

  Such was the dramatic manner in which the news of the subsequently notorious case was first carried to the outside world. The facts, as soon made known throughout the length and breadth of the land, were, briefly, as follows:

  Heidelberger and his secretary, who were engaged in making an inventory of the contents of the Hall and in arranging for such alterations of the rooms and laying out of the neglected grounds as they considered necessary, had practically reached the end of their task. In fact, had nothing intervened, Cresping

  CASE OF THE CRUSADER'S AX 75

  would, on the following day, have seen the old mansion in the hands of an army of London workmen.

  At about half-past seven in the evening, Heidel-berger had entered the room occupied by Heimer and had mentioned that he expected a visitor. The secretary, who had more work than he could well accomplish, did not pause to inquire concerning him, believing the other to allude either to the architect or to Heidelberger's man, who was coming down from London. Heidelberger had then gone up to the library, saying that he should not require Heimer again that night.

  Between eight and half-past—Heimer was not sure of the time—there was a ring at the bell (that of the tradesmen's entrance). Knowing that Heidelberger could admit the visitor directly to the library, Heimer, hearing nothing more, concluded that the two were closeted there.

  The first intimation that he received of anything amiss was a loud and angry cry, apparently proceeding from the old banqueting hall directly overhead, and unmistakably in the voice of Heidelberger. Springing from his chair, he took a step toward the door, and then paused in doubt. There was an angry murmur from above, the tones of the Jew being clearly distinguishable; then a sudden scuffle and an oscillation of the floor as though two heavy men were at hand grips; next, a crash that shook the room, and

  a high-pitched cry of which he only partially comprehended the last word. This he asserted to be " holy."

  That Heimer stood transfixed at the open door throughout all this, suffices to brand him a coward. It was, in fact, only his stories of shadowy figures in the picture gallery and his general disinclination to leave his room after dusk that had prompted Heidel-berger—a man of different mettle—to wire to London for the servant.

  At this juncture, however, moved as much by a fear of the sudden silence as by any higher motive, he took a revolver from the table drawer, and, holding it cocked in one hand and seizing the lamp in the other, he crept, trembling, up a narrow little stair that led to a door beneath the minstrel's gallery. To open it he had to place the lamp on the floor, and, at the moment of doing so, he heard a sound inside the hall like the grating of a badly oiled lock.

  Then, with the lamp held high above his head, he peered inside; and, considering the character of the man, it is worthy of note that he did not faint on the spot, for the feeble light, but serving, as it did, to intensify the gloom of the long and shadowy place, revealed a scene well calculated to shake the nerves of a stouter man than Heimer.

  Less than six feet from where he stood, and lying flat on his back with his head toward the light, was Heidelberger in a perfect pool of blood, his skull cleft almost to the chine! Beside him on the floor lay the

  fearful weapon that had wrought his end—an enormous battle-ax, a relic of the Crusades such as none but a man of Herculean strength could possibly wield.

  Sick with terror, and scarcely capable of keeping his feet, Heimer gave one glance around the gloomy place, which showed him that, save for the murdered man, it was empty; then he staggered down the narrow stairs and let himself out into the grounds. Slightly revived by the fresh night air, but fearful of pursuit by the unknown assassin, he ran, as fast as his condition would allow, into the village.

  "Here it is—Uxley!" jerked Moris Klaw.

  'Ah!" cried Moris Klaw, in a species of fanatic rapture, "look at the blood!"

  We stood in the ancient banqueting hall of Crespie. By a distant door I could see a policeman on duty. A ghostly silence was the marked feature of the place. Klaw's harsh, rumbling voice echoed eerily about that chamber sacred to the shades of departed Crespies.

  Isis Klaw stood beside her father. They were a wildly incongruous couple. The girl looked down at the bloodstained flooring with the calm scrutiny of an experienced criminologist.

  "This spot must be alive with odic impressions," she said, softly.

  A local officer, who formed one of the group, stared uncomprehendingly. Moris Klaw instinctively turned to him.

  "You stare widely, my friend!" he said. "It is clear you know nothing of the psychology of crime! Let me, then, enlighten you. First: all crime* 2 '—he waved one long hand characteristically—"operates in cycles. Its history repeats itself, you understand. Second: thoughts are things. One who dies the violent death has, at the end, a strong mental emotion —an etheric storm. The air—the atmosphere—• retains imprints of that storm."

  "Indeed!" said the officer.

  "Yes, indeed! I shall not sleep in this place—as is my usual custom in such inquiries. Why? Because I am afraid of the shock of experiencing such an emotion as was this late Heidelberger's! Ah! you are dense as a bull! Once, my bovine friend, I slept upon a spot in desolate Palestine where a poor woman had been stoned to death. In my dreams those merciless stones struck me! Upon the head and the face they crashed! And I was helpless—bound—as was the unhappy one who for her poor little sins had had her life crushed from her tender body!"

  He ceased. No one spoke. In such moments, Moris Klaw became a magician; a weaver of spells. The most unimpressionable shuddered as though the strange things which this strangest of men told of, lived, moved, before their eyes. Then—

  CASE OF THE CRUSADER'S AX 79

  "Yonder is the ax, sir," said the local man, with a sudden awed respect.

  Klaw walked over to where the huge battle-ax stood against a post of the gallery.

  "Try to lift it, Mr. Klaw," said Grimsby. "It will give you some idea of what sort of man the murderer must have been! I can't raise it upright by the haft with one hand."

  Moris Klaw seized the ax. Whilst Grimsby, the local man and myself stared amazedly, he swung it about his head as one swings an Indian club! He struck with it—to right—to left; he laid it down.

  "My father has a wrist of steel!" came the soft voice of Isis. " Did you not know that he was once a famous swordsman?"

  Klaw removed his hat, took out the scent spray and bathed his forehead with verbena.

  "That is a mans ax!" he said. "Isis, what do we know of such an ax? We, who have so complete a catalogue of such relics?"

  Isis Klaw produced from her bag a bulky notebook.

  "It is the third one," she replied, calmly, passing the open book to her father; "the one we thought!"

  "Ah," rumbled Klaw, adjusting his pince-nez, "'Black Geoffrey's' ax!" He turned again to Palmer, the local officer. "All such antiques," he said, "have histories. I collect those histories, you understand. This ax was carried by ' Black Geof-

  frey,' a very early Crespie, in the first Crusade. It slew many Saracens, I doubt not. But this does not interest me. In the reign of Henry VIII we find it dwelt, this great ax, at Dyke Manor, which is in Norfolk. It was not until Charles II that it came to Crespie Hall. And what happened at Dyke Manor? One Sir Gilbert Myerly was slain by it! Who wielded it?
Patience, my friends! All is clear to me! What a wonderful science is the Science of Cycles!"

  Behind the pebbles his eyes gleamed with excitement. It seemed as though his notes (how obtained I was unable to conjecture) had furnished him with a clue; although to me they seemed to have not the slightest bearing upon the case.

  "Now, Mr. Grimsby," continued Moris Klaw: "In a few words, what is the evidence against Ryder, the butler?"

  "Well," was the reply, "you will note where the ax used to hang, up there before the rail of the minstrels' gallery. The theory is that the murderer rushed up, wrenched the ax from its fastening "

  "Theories, my friend," interrupted Moris Klaw, "are not evidence!"

  Isis gazed at Mr. Grimsby with a smile. He looked embarrassed.

  "Sorry!" he said, humbly. "Here are the facts, then. In the right hand of the dead man was an open pocket knife. It is assumed Sorry! Several

  CASE OF THE CRUSADER'S AX 81

  spots of blood were found on the knife. Do you want to see it?"

  Moris Klaw shook his head.

  "It has been ascertained," continued Grimsby, "that Ryder went out at eight o'clock on the night of the murder and didn't return until after ten. He was interrogated. Listen to this, Mr. Klaw, and tell me why I haven't arrested him! He admitted that he was the man who rang the bell; he admitted being closeted with Heidelberger in the library; and he admitted that he was in the hall when the Jew met his death!"

  "Good!" said Moris Klaw. "And he is still at large?"

  "He is! He's made no attempt to run away. I had his room searched, and found a light coat with both sleeves bloodstained! He had a cut on his left hand such as might be caused by the slash of a pocket knife! He said he had caught his hand on a door-latch, but blankly declined to say what he was doing here on the night of the murder! Yet, I didn't arrest him! Why?"

  "Why?" said Moris Klaw. "Tell me."

  "Because I didn't think it feasible that a man of his age could wield that ax—and I hoped to use Ryder as a trap to catch his accomplice!"

  "Ah! clever!" rumbled Moris Klaw. "French, Mr. Grimsby! Subtle! But you have just seen what a poor old fool can do with that ax!"

  I have never observed a man so suddenly lose faith in himself as did Grimsby at those words. He flushed, he paled; he seemed to become speechless.

  "Tell me, Mr. Grimsby," said Klaw, "what does the suspected man do that is suspicious? What letters does he write ? What letters does he receive ?"

  "None!" replied the now angry Grimsby. "But he visits Doctor Madden, in Uxley, every day."

  "What for, eh?"

  "The doctor says the interviews are of a purely professional nature, and I can't very well suspect a man in his position!"

  "You have done two silly things," rumbled Moris Klaw. "You have wasted much time in the matter of Ryder, and you have accepted, unquestioned, the word of a doctor. Mr. Grimsby, I have known doctors who were most inspired liars!"

  "Then you are of opinion "

  Klaw raised his hand.

  "It is Doctor Madden we shall visit," he said. "This Ryder cannot escape us. Isis, my child, I need not have troubled you. This is so simple a case that we need no 'mental negatives' to point out to us the culprit!"

  "Mr. Klaw " began Grimsby, excitedly.

  "My friend," he was answered, "I shall make a few examinations and then we shall be off to Uxley. The assassin returns to London with us by the 3145 train!"

  CASE OF THE CRUSADER'S AX 83

  IV

  As we drove through the village street, in the car which Grimsby had hired, upon the gate of one of the last cottages a tall, white-haired old man was leaning. His clear-cut, handsome features wore an expression of haggard sorrow.

  "There he is!" rapped Grimsby. "Hadn't I better make the arrest at once?''

  "Ah, no, my friend!" protested Klaw. "But stop—I have something to say to him."

  The car stopping, Moris Klaw descended and approached the old man, who perceptibly paled at sight of us.

  "Good day, Mr. Ryder!" Klaw courteously saluted the ex-butler.

  "Good day to you, sir," replied the old man, civilly.

  Whereupon Moris Klaw said a simple thing, which had an astounding effect.

  "How is he to-day?" he inquired.

  Ryder's face became convulsed. His eyes started forth. He made a choking sound, staring, as one possessed, at his questioner.

  "What—what—do you mean?" he gasped.

  "Never mind, Mr. Ryder—never mind!" rumbled Klaw. "Isis, my child, remain with this gentleman and tell him all we know about the ax of 'Black Goeffrey.' He will be glad to hear it!"

  The beautiful Isis obeyed without question. As the rest of us drove on our way, I could see the flame-coloured figure passing up the garden path beside the tall form of the old butler. Grimsby, a man badly out of his depth, watched until both became lost to

  view.

  I've got evidence," he suddenly burst out, "that Ryder declared Heidelberger to be the direct cause of Sir Richard's downfall! And I've got witnesses who heard him say, 'Please God! the Jew won't be here much longer!'"

  "Good!" rumbled Moris Klaw. "Very good!"

  During the remainder of the journey, Grimsby talked on incessantly, smoking cheroots the whole time. But Moris Klaw was silent.

  Doctor Madden had but recently returned from his morning visits. He was a typical country practitioner, fresh-faced and clean-shaven, with iron-gray hair and a good head. He conveyed the impression, in some way, that he knew himself to be in a tight corner.

  "What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he said, briskly.

  "We have called, Doctor Madden," rumbled Moris Klaw, wagging his finger, impressively, "to tell you that Ryder is in imminent danger—imminent danger —of arrest!"

  The doctor started.

  CASE OF THE CRUSADER'S AX 85

  "And therefore we want a word with one of your patients!"

  " I do not understand you. Which of my patients ?"

  Moris Klaw shook his head.

  "Let us be intelligent," he said, "you and I, and not two old fools! You understand so perfectly which of your patients."

  Doctor Madden drummed his fingers on the table.

  "Are you a detective ?" he snapped.

  "I am not!" replied Moris Klaw. "I am a student of the Science of Cycles—not motor cycles; and a humble explorer of the etheric borderland! You lay yourself open to grave charges, Doctor!"

  The doctor began to fidget nervously.

  "If indeed I am culpable," he said, "my culpability only dates from last night."

  "So!" rumbled Klaw. "He has been insensible?"

  Doctor Madden started up.

  "Mr. Klaw," he replied, "I do not know who you may be, but your penetration is uncanny. He had lost his memory!"

  "What?—lost his memory! How is that?"

  "He was thrown from his horse! Come; I see it is useless, now, to waste time. I will take you to him."

  As we filed out to the waiting car, I glanced at Grimsby. His stupefaction was almost laughable.

  "What in heaven's name is it all about, Mr. Searles?" he whispered to me. "I feel like a man in

  a strange country. People talk, and it doesn't seem to mean anything!"

  En route:

  "Tell me, Doctor," said Moris Klaw, "about your patient."

  The doctor, without hesitation, now explained that he had been called to attend a Mr. Rogers, an artist, who was staying at Hinxman's farm, off the Uxley Road. On the evening of the tragedy Mr. Rogers went out on Bess, a mare belonging to the farm, and, not having returned by ten, some anxiety was felt concerning him, the mare possessing a very bad reputation. At about a quarter-past ten the animal returned, riderless, and Rogers was brought home later, in an insensible condition, by two farm hands, having been found beside the road some distance from the farm.

  For some time Mr. Rogers lay in a critical condition, suffering from concussion. Finally, a change for the better set in, but the patie
nt was found to have lost his memory.

  "Last Saturday," added the doctor, "a specialist whom I had invited to come down from London performed a successful operation."

  "Ah," rumbled Moris Klaw, "so we can see him?"

  "Certainly. He is quite convalescent. His memory returned to him completely last night."

  In a state of uncertainty which can well be imagined, we arrived at, and entered, Hinxman's farm.

  CASE OF THE CRUSADER'S AX 87

  Seated in the shade of the veranda, smoking his pipe, was a bronzed young man who wore a bandage about his head. He was chatting to the farmer when we arrived.

  Moris Klaw walked up the steps beside Doctor Madden.

  "Good day, Mr. Farmer," he said, amiably. A rosy-cheeked girl face was thrust from an open window. "Good day, Miss Farmer!" He removed the brown bowler. He turned to the bronzed young man. "Good day, Sir Roland Crespie!"

  When Grimsby and I had somewhat recovered from the shock of this dramatic meeting, and Sir Roland, Madden, and Moris Klaw had talked together for a few moments, said Moris Klaw:

  "And now Sir Roland will tell us all about the death of Mr. Heidelberger!"

  Inspector Grimsby was all eyes when the young baronet began:

  " You must know, then, that I, together with three others, have been engaged, since my departure from England, in a mining venture in West Africa. Up to the time when I left, and, for the sake of my health, came to England, our efforts had been attended by only moderate success. Thus, on arriving in Cresping and taking lodgings with Hinxman as 'Mr. Rogers'— for the circumstances under which I left home made

  me desirous of remaining unknown in the village—I, on learning that my father had just died and that the Hall had fallen into Heidelberger's hands, realized that my slender capital would not allow of my buying him out. The facts of the case came as a great shock to me, and, without revealing my identity—the beard which I had cultivated in Africa, but which the doctors have removed, acting as an effectual disguise—I made inquiries concerning Ryder. I had little difficulty in finding him, and he alone, in Cresping, knew who I really was.

  "I now come to the events that immediately preceded Heidelberger's death. There was one object in the old place for which I determined to negotiate, and which, owing to its associations, I particularly desired to retain. This was my mother's portrait. I may mention here that, for certain reasons which I would prefer not to specify, I had rather have burnt the picture than see it fall into the hands of the Jew.