Zombies

by Otto Penzler

  “Ah! the assassin’s knife,” Brown exclaimed.

  “Precisely, and it’s probably the identical weapon with which those poor chaps’ bodies were so hacked about, so it’s an important link in our chain of evidence.”

  “And a deucedly significant one, too,” Brown added.

  There was the twinkle of a smile in Rhymer’s eyes as he inquired:

  “Are you still inclined to search for your escaped lunatic over the hedge, or shall we return to our quarters?”

  The detective stiffened as he replied:

  “It’s my duty as an officer of the law to let no chance slip by, my professional credit’s at stake, remember; but I am quite willing to be guided by you—especially as I asked for your assistance.”

  “And you are welcome to it, Brown, as well as all the official credit, if success crowns our efforts. But I must ask you to act upon the lines that I point out. Is that agreed?”

  “Quite, sir, and with your acumen you will be certain to find out something further that will help us to bottom this mystery after all.”

  “Hope I may, Brown, I’m sure; so let’s turn in for the night. I’m feeling a bit fagged after my wrestling-bout with that anaemic-looking blighter.”

  “HOPE YOU’RE FEELING no worse, sir, after last night’s experiences,” the detective inquired the following morning when he and Rhymer met at breakfast.

  “I’m as fit as a fiddle, thanks,” said he; “a good night’s rest works wonders. It takes a lot to keep me awake long, when once I’m between the sheets.”

  “How’s your neck?” the detective added, glancing at a neat strip of sticking-plaster covering the injured part.

  “Oh, just a trifle sore, that’s all. The incisions weren’t deep. I cauterised them last night, so don’t contemplate any trouble in that direction.”

  After breakfast they adjourned to the privacy of Rhymer’s bedroom in order to map out future plans. During their discussion he produced the incriminating knife, and, handing it to Brown, remarked:

  “Quite an antique, eh?”

  The latter examined it with keen interest.

  “Evidently,” said he, “but its age doesn’t lessen the cut-throat appearance of the engraven blade, set in its massive handle. A remarkable tool, I must admit, resembling, more than anything I’ve ever seen, a Kukri, the Gurka fighting weapon. One thing’s evident, though—”

  “What’s that?” Rhymer interrupted.

  “Why, that it belongs to the ugly brute we fell foul of last night.”

  “Sorry to disagree with you,” said Rhymer, “but we have yet to discover the real owner of this piece of cutlery, and until that’s accomplished we’re a long way off a solution of the mystery.”

  Brown, unconvinced, shook his head.

  “Well, it’s beyond me even to guess what you’re driving at. Anyhow, the weapon was owned by that individual temporarily—we can both swear to that—and possession is nine points of the law.”

  “I shouldn’t try and guess, if I were you,” Rhymer advised. “Guessing is always destructive to logic. Far better observe small facts upon which large impressions may depend.”

  “Then you haven’t any idea as to whom else this knife may belong?”

  “Not the vaguest.”

  “And yet you refuse to believe it belongs to the creature who dropped it?”

  “That’s my opinion.”

  “It’s all an insoluble mystery to me,” said Brown, “it gets thicker instead of clearer.”

  “On the contrary,” Rhymer contradicted, “it clears every instant.”

  “Then, hang it all, sir, can’t you help me out of the fog?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

  “How?”

  “By taking steps to discover the owner of the knife, of course. I wonder if our landlord has an up-to-date copy of the local directory? I’ll go and find out.”

  Subsequent inquiry produced a recent edition of this book, and for the next few minutes they were poring over its pages.

  It contained the customary list of private and commercial residents. Among the former, one name attracted Rhymer’s attention:

  “Ludwig Holtsner. The Gables.”

  “An enemy in our midst,” he exclaimed, pointing it out to Brown. “That fellow ought to have been interned.”

  “He’s bound to be naturalised,” the detective replied.

  “All the more suspicious and dangerous. If I had my way, all Boche-born individuals residing in this country—notwithstanding their naturalisation—should be interned. Boches will be Boches, and a mere scrap of paper, identifying them as naturalised British subjects, won’t wipe out the inherited taint of Kultur. I don’t trust the breed, and when I come across a male or female Boche my suspicions are instantly aroused.”

  “We keep a sharp enough eye upon any suspicious characters of that sort,” Brown affirmed a trifle aggressively—so Rhymer thought.

  “I’m not casting any slur upon the efficacy of the police in their dealings with aliens, but even they have been gulled by the Hun, over here, more than once.”

  “I didn’t suggest you were, sir, but we often get blame we don’t deserve, so we are bound to drop an occasional word of protest.”

  “I’m not contesting your rights in that direction, Brown.”

  “All right, sir, but I like to justify my assertions, so I’ll just slip round to the police station and hear what the local superintendent has to say about this Ludwig Holtsner. He won’t have failed to make full inquiries, I know.”

  “An excellent idea, Brown, only take care not to say a word about our adventure last night, since secrecy regarding our actions—for the present—will best promote our chance of ultimate success.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Half an hour later Brown returned, having achieved his visit to the police station.

  “Well, obtained any useful information?” Rhymer inquired.

  “Not much in support of your suspicion, anyhow, regarding this Mr. Holtsner,” he replied. “The superintendent told me that he took out naturalisation papers many years ago, and is quite all right. A man of local influence—he hastened to assure me—a wealthy bachelor and occupying a large house which he purchased.”

  “Any other particulars?”

  “Nothing of much importance, I imagine.”

  “Did the superintendent say how Holtsner occupied his time?”

  “Oh yes, he studied science a lot and was quite a keen Egyptologist.”

  Rhymer’s eyes sparkled as he heard this last piece of information. Instantly his faculties were on the alert.

  “They are all quite all-right until they’re caught red-handed. And then—well—there’s the very devil to pay. But, at all events, you’ve brought back one valuable piece of evidence in support of a theory I’ve already broached.”

  “Oh! What’s that?”

  “My dear Inspector, do try a little analysis yourself,” he enjoined with a touch of impatience. “I’ve already given you some broad hints as to my methods. Now it’s up to you to apply them.”

  Brown looked distinctly piqued.

  “Very well, sir, as you choose to put it in that fashion. I’ve nothing more to say—”

  “Which will afford you a better opportunity for mental analysis,” Rhymer chipped in with an apologetic smile. “And may I give you a golden rule which I was taught by a famous detective?” He paused for a reply.

  “Get on with it, then.”

  “Well, when you have worn out the possible, whatever is left, however impossible, comes mighty near the truth.”

  NO PLACE CAN be more productive of local information than the bar-parlour of a country town hotel. Brown was keenly alive to this fact, and that was why he got Rhymer to join him in the bar of the King’s Arms later on in the day.

  “We may pick up some useful information here, sir, if we keep our eyes and ears open.”

  “A suggestion full of possibilities, Brown, so let’s
pledge our success in a drop of dry ginger. Can’t make it anything stronger, if I’m to stand treat. It’s forbidden by D.O.R.A.—and you are one of her guardians.”

  They had been silently smoking for some little time, when two men entered the room, which was fairly full. They sat down at a vacant table next to that at which Rhymer and Brown were seated.

  Having called for some liquid refreshment, they opened a brisk conversation. Their general appearance plainly identified them as men-servants, who had dropped in at their favourite house of call for a friendly chat over the cup that cheers and loosens the tongue.

  “Well, Alf,” the taller of the two was heard by their neighbours to remark, “how’s your governor been treating you of late?”

  “Not ’alf, Jim,” was the reply. “’E’s balmy, ’e is. I tell yer it’s fair getting on my nerves.”

  “Why, wot’s ’e been a-doing of now, Alf—anything fresh?”

  “Fresh!” he reiterated disdainfully. “Not much—same old row, blaming me for things I ain’t done. That’s all.”

  “Wot ’aven’t yer done?”

  “Nothing. It’s ’im ’as done it. Gone and lost a bloomin’ old knife that belonged to some ’eathen wot lived ’undreds of years ago—says it’s worth pots of money, and because ’e can’t find it, swears I’ve pinched it. I like ’is cheek.”

  At this point their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a third man who joined them, and a few moments later, after draining their glasses, they left the bar together.

  Rhymer casually arose and, strolling across to the counter, addressed the barmaid behind:

  “Can you tell me, miss, who those two men were, sitting at the table next to ours? They’ve just left with a friend.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied with a glance of slight inquiry, “the short one was James Smith, a footman at Sir William Doone’s, and the other Alfred Ball, valet to Mr. Holtsner.”

  “Thanks,” said he, “then I’m mistaken. One of them reminded me of a servant that left me some years ago,” he mendaciously added, to ease her mind of any faint suspicion he might have aroused as to the real reason of his inquiry.

  A few minutes later, Rhymer and Brown were again closeted in the former’s bedroom.

  “We’re progressing like a house on fire,” the former affirmed, rubbing his hands. “You overheard what that fellow said about the knife? Well, the barmaid confirmed my suspicion that he was a servant of Holtsner’s, so now it’s pretty evident to whom the knife belongs.”

  “Quite clear,” said Brown, “and you were right after all. We may also take it that the knife was stolen from the Gables by that blooming chump we met in the lane, and without Holtsner’s knowledge, too.”

  “That’s more than probable, and I’ll go a step further in suggesting that Holtsner’s not entirely ignorant of this Creature’s presence in the locality, although he may not be actually aware it was the thief, since then he would scarcely have blamed Alfred Ball for his loss. Still, it must be remembered that a man, being acquainted with anything abnormal haunting his premises, usually wants to hush it up, since it gives the place a bad name.”

  “Quite so,” said Brown. “Yet there’s something more beneath than meets the eye; although I admit the fog’s clearing a bit.”

  “Suspicions are becoming certainties, you mean,” Rhymer added. “But, look here, we mustn’t lose another minute. It’s now six-thirty,” consulting his watch, “and we’ve got to visit this German fellow as soon as possible, under cover of some pretext or other. Our episode in finding the knife is a good enough excuse for calling, even at this hour, in order to restore it to him.”

  “That will also place him under an obligation,” said Brown, “which may help matters forward a bit.”

  “That’s quite probable.”

  “Do you know whereabouts his house is?” Brown inquired after a pause.

  “Yes, I asked the landlord when returning the directory. It’s not more than a quarter of an hour’s walk, so let’s get off.”

  “We shall need extra caution at this stage,” Rhymer remarked, as they were hurrying along the lane which they had traversed the previous night. “I’m positive it would be wiser for me to call on Holtsner alone, until I discover how the land lies; so I hope you won’t mind waiting for me outside. We must avoid exciting this man’s suspicion, and if we both arrive together he might suspect the real object of our visit.”

  He spoke with a seriousness which gave authority to his words.

  At first Brown seemed inclined to protest, but after a little consideration, fell in with the proposition.

  “I’m sure I am advising you for the best,” Rhymer remarked as he halted opposite a pair of massive, iron gates guarding a long and tortuous drive. “This is the Gables, I expect,” he added. “If I should fail to return within—say—half an hour, you’d better call for me.”

  With this parting injunction he entered the drive and soon disappeared round a curve in the shrub-lined avenue.

  Arriving at the house, he was admitted by a man-servant whom he recognised as Alfred Ball.

  “I’ve called to see Mr. Holtsner,” said he, presenting his card, “kindly inform him it’s a matter of business.”

  “I’m not sure if the master’s at home, sir,” was the non-committal reply, “but I’ll inquire if you’ll please step inside.”

  He then conducted him to a small room at the further end of the hall.

  A few minutes later the door opened, and a tall, middle-aged man entered, of fair complexion with closely-cropped hair and a bristly moustache.

  He was inclined to obesity and wore a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles fitted with powerful lenses, which accentuated the prominency of his protruding eyes.

  He bowed to his visitor, exclaiming in a deep, guttural voice—as he glanced at the visiting card held between his podgy thumb and forefinger:

  “Professor Rhymer, I presume?”

  “That is my name, Mr. Holtsner,” he replied as he mentally sized up the fat German. “I must apologise for this late call, but I’ve found an article which I believe you’ve had stolen,” handing him a brown-paper parcel.

  Holtsner took it with a look of blank inquiry, and proceeded to remove the paper, exclaiming:

  “Something I’ve had stolen—what can it be—er—where did you find it?”

  “In the lane outside your drive.”

  “In the lane—” Holtsner reiterated, pausing all of a sudden—arrested by the discovery of the knife which the parcel now disclosed.

  “Well—how on earth—” he continued with an apparent effort, but the remainder of his speech died away upon his lips as he glanced suspiciously at the professor.

  Rhymer met his look squarely with a well-feigned expression of innocent surprise, as though at a loss to account for his hesitation.

  “You were going to say, Mr. Holtsner, ‘How on earth did I guess that this interesting antique belonged to you?’ ” he suggested with a frank smile. “Well, I can soon satisfy you upon that score, for I chanced to overhear some one casually remark that you had lost a valuable knife, and as I had previously happened to stumble across one in the lane, whilst enjoying a stroll, I thought I’d call and inquire if it was yours. If it’s not, then I’d better leave it at the police station.”

  This assumption of candour seemed to reassure Holtsner.

  “Yes, this belongs to me; it was stolen from my museum,” he acknowledged somewhat reluctantly; “but who did you overhear say I’d lost it?”

  “Excuse me, sir, but it would hardly be fair for me to say, since the information was not intended for my ears. I only overheard it by chance.”

  Holtsner was on the verge of resenting Rhymer’s refusal to satisfy his inquiry, but he evidently thought better of it, apologetically exclaiming:

  “Quite so, I oughtn’t to have asked. I’m a keen collector of antiques, and was put out at losing this valuable relic of a lost Egyptian art. Its sudden recovery flustered me, s
o pray accept my apologies and thanks as well, for what you’ve done. By the way,” he added with assumed unconcern, “you don’t happen to have mentioned the matter to the police?”

  “No,” said Rhymer.

  “Ah! it’s just as well you didn’t,” said he, with an involuntary sigh of relief. “You see, I suspect one of my servants of the theft, and I’ve no wish to prosecute. The police are so officious in these matters—I’m sure you’ll understand?”

  “Perfectly,” was the response.

  It was evident to Rhymer’s keen sense of observation that Holtsner’s apparent agitation was not solely due to the cause he so lamely advanced. There was something he was anxious to hide. The man might be a collector, in fact, the local superintendent of police had informed Brown that such was the case; but the loss of a valuable antique and its subsequent restoration by a stranger, who had simply picked it up upon the road, would hardly account for its owner appearing as disturbed as Holtsner seemed to be.

  His very attitude invited suspicion, but Rhymer was cute enough to conceal any trace of his conviction that Holtsner was playing a deep game; so, assuming an attitude of nonchalance, he said:

  “I’m awfully glad I’ve found your knife, since it’s afforded me the privilege of making your acquaintance, and being a scientist and collector myself, it’s a pleasure to meet others with similar tastes.”

  Rhymer’s diplomatic reply seemed to set the German’s suspicions at rest, for he inquired:

  “Are you staying long in the neighbourhood?”

  “Only a few days. I’ve run down with a friend from town to make a geological survey.”

  Rhymer invented this excuse on the spur of the moment, since he judged it would avert further suspicion that might arise in Holtsner’s mind, should he come across him and Brown roaming about the vicinity.

  “An attractive branch of science,” said Holtsner, “and it may interest you to know that I have some geological specimens found in the neighbourhood, which I’d like to show you in my museum.”

  That was just what Rhymer desired. He didn’t care a rap about the specimens, but he did want to get into the museum. So, without displaying any sign of the satisfaction he felt, replied: