‘I thought so!’ said the plain-clothes man. ‘A clever museum thief!’
Coram sighed wearily. ‘My good fellow,’ he replied, ‘can you explain, by any earthly hypothesis, how a man could get into these apartments and leave them again, during the night?’
‘Regarding that, sir,’ remarked the detective, ‘there are a few questions I should like to ask you. In the first place, at what time does the Museum close?’
‘At six o’clock in the summer.’
‘What do you do when the last visitor has gone?’
‘Having locked the outside door, Beale, here, thoroughly examines every room to make certain that no one remains concealed. He next locks the communicating doors and comes down into the hall. It was then his custom to hand me the keys. I gave them into poor Conway’s keeping when he came on duty at half-past six, and every hour he went through the Museum, relocking all the doors behind him.’
‘I understand that there is a tell-tale watch in each room?’
‘Yes. That in the Greek Room registers four a.m., so that it was about then that he met his death. He had evidently opened the door communicating with the next room—that containing the broken glass-case; but he did not touch the detector and the door was found open this morning.’
‘Some one must have lain concealed there and sprung upon him as he entered.’
‘Impossible! There is no other means of entrance or exit. The three windows are iron-barred and they have not been tampered with. Moreover, the watch shows that he was there at three o’clock, and nothing larger than a mouse could find shelter in the place; there is nowhere a man could hide.’
‘Then the murderer followed him into the Greek Room.’
‘Might I venture to point out that, had he done so, he would have been there this morning when Beale arrived? The door of the Greek Room was locked and the keys were found inside upon the floor!’
‘The thief might have had a duplicate set.’
‘Quite impossible; but, granting the impossible, how did he get in, since the hall door was bolted and barred?’
‘We must assume that he succeeded in concealing himself before the Museum was closed.’
‘The assumption is not permissible, in view of the fact that Beale and I both examined the rooms last night prior to handing the keys to Conway. However, again granting the impossible, how did he get out?’
The Scotland Yard man removed his hat and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. ‘I must say, sir, it is a very strange thing,’ he said; ‘but how about the iron door here?’
‘It leads to my own apartments. I, alone, hold a key. It was locked.’
A brief examination served to show that exit from any of the barred windows was impossible.
‘Well, sir,’ said the detective, ‘if the man had keys he could have come down into the hall and the lower room.’
‘Step down and look,’ was Coram’s invitation.
The windows of the room on the ground floor were also heavily protected, and it was easy to see that none of them had been opened.
‘Upon my word,’ exclaimed the inspector, ‘it’s uncanny! He couldn’t have gone out by the hall door, because you say it was bolted and barred on the inside.’
‘It was,’ replied Coram.
‘One moment, sir,’ interrupted the plain-clothes man. ‘If that was so, how did you get in this morning?’
‘It was Beale’s custom,’ said Coram, ‘to come around by the private entrance to my apartments. We then entered the Museum together by the iron door into the Greek Room and relieved Conway of the keys. There are several little matters to be attended to in the morning before admitting the public, and the other door is never unlocked before ten o’clock.’
‘Did you lock the door behind you when you came through this morning?’
‘Immediately on finding poor Conway.’
‘Could any one have come through this door in the night, provided he had a duplicate key?’
‘No. There is a bolt on the private side.’
‘And you were in your rooms all last night?’
‘From twelve o’clock, yes.’
The police looked at one another silently; then the inspector gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Frankly, sir,’ he said, ‘I’m completely puzzled!’
We passed upstairs again and Coram turned to the doctor. ‘Anything else to report about poor Conway?’ he asked.
‘His face is all cut by the broken glass and he seems to have had a desperate struggle, although, curiously enough, his body bears no other marks of violence. The direct cause of death was, of course, a broken neck.’
‘And how should you think he came by it?’
‘I should say that he was hurled upon the floor by an opponent possessing more than ordinary strength!’
Thus the physician, and was about to depart when there came a knocking upon the iron door.
‘It is Hilda,’ said Coram, slipping the key in the lock—‘my daughter,’ he added, turning to the detective.
II
The heavy door swinging open, there entered Hilda Coram, a slim, classical figure, with the regular features of her father and the pale gold hair of her dead mother. She looked unwell, and stared about her apprehensively.
‘Good-morning, Mr. Searles,’ she greeted me. ‘Is it not dreadful about poor Conway!’—and then glanced at Coram. I saw that she held a card in her hand. ‘Father, there is such a singular old man asking to see you.’
She handed the card to Coram, who in turn passed it to me. It was that of Douglas Glade of the Daily Cable, and had written upon it in Glade’s hand the words—
‘To introduce Mr. Moris Klaw.’
‘I suppose it is all right if Mr. Glade vouches for him,’ said Coram. ‘But does anybody here know Moris Klaw?’
‘I do,’ replied the Scotland Yard man, smiling shortly. ‘He’s an antique dealer or something of the kind; got a ramshackle old place by Wapping Old Stairs—sort of a cross between Jamrach’s and a rag shop. He’s lately been hanging about the Central Criminal Court a lot. Seems to fancy his luck as an amateur investigator. He’s certainly smart,’ he added grudgingly; ‘but cranky.’
‘Ask Mr. Klaw to come through, Hilda,’ said Coram.
Shortly afterwards entered a strange figure. It was that of a tall man, who stooped; so that his apparent height was diminished. A very old man who carried his many years lightly, or a younger man prematurely aged. None could say which. His skin had the hue of dirty vellum, and his hair, his shaggy brows, his scanty beard were so toneless as to defy classification in terms of colour. He wore an archaic brown bowler, smart, gold-rimmed pince-nez and a black silk muffler. A long, caped black cloak completely enveloped the stooping figure; from beneath its mud-spattered edge peeped long-toed continental boots.
He removed his hat.
‘Good-morning, Mr. Coram,’ he said. His voice reminded me of the distant rumbling of empty casks; his accent was wholly indescribable. ‘Good-morning’ (to the detective), ‘Mr. Grimsby. Good-morning, Mr. Searles. Your friend, Mr. Glade, tells me I shall find you here. Good-morning, Inspector. To Miss Coram I already have said good-morning.’
From the lining of the flat-topped hat he took out one of those small cylindrical scent-sprays and played its contents upon his high, bald brow. An odour of verbena filled the air. He replaced the spray in the hat, the hat upon his scantily thatched crown.
‘There is here a smell of dead men!’ he explained.
I turned aside to hide my smiles, so grotesque was my first impression of the amazing individual known as Moris Klaw.
‘Mr. Coram,’ he continued, ‘I am an old fool who sometimes has wise dreams. Crime has been the hobby of a busy life. I have seen crime upon the Gold Coast, where the black fever it danced in the air above the murdered one like a lingering soul, and I have seen
blood flow in Arctic Lapland, where it was frozen up into red ice almost before it left the veins. Have I your permit to see if I can help?’
All of us, the police included, were strangely impressed now.
‘Certainly,’ said Coram; ‘will you step this way?’
Moris Klaw bent over the dead man.
‘You have moved him!’ he said sharply.
It was explained that this had been for the purpose of a medical examination. He nodded absently. With the aid of a large magnifying-glass he was scrutinising poor Conway. He examined his hair, his eyes, his hands, his finger-nails. He rubbed long, flexible fingers upon the floor beside the body—and sniffed at the dust.
‘Some one so kindly will tell me all about it,’ he said, turning out the dead man’s pockets.
Coram briefly recounted much of the foregoing, and replied to the oddly chosen questions which from time to time Moris Klaw put to him. Throughout the duologue, the singular old man conducted a detailed search of every square inch, I think, of the Greek Room. Before the case containing the harp he stood, peering.
‘It is here that the trouble centres,’ he muttered. ‘What do I know of such a Grecian instrument? Let me think.’
He threw back his head, closing his eyes.
‘Such valuable curios,’ he rumbled, ‘have histories—and the crimes they occasion operate in cycles.’ He waved his hand in a slow circle. ‘If I but knew the history of this harp! Mr. Coram!’
He glanced towards my friend.
‘Thoughts are things, Mr. Coram. If I might spend a night here—upon the very spot of floor where the poor Conway fell—I could from the surrounding atmosphere (it is a sensitive plate) recover a picture of the thing in his mind’—indicating Conway—‘at the last!’
The Scotland Yard man blew down his nose.
‘You snort, my friend,’ said Moris Klaw, turning upon him. ‘You would snort less if you had waked screaming, out in the desert; screaming out with fear of the dripping beaks of the vultures—the last, dreadful fear which the mind had known of him who had died of thirst upon that haunted spot!’
The words and the manner of their delivery thrilled us all.
‘What is it,’ continued the weird old man, ‘but the odic force, the ether—say it how you please—which carries the wireless message, the lightning? It is a huge, subtile, sensitive plate. Inspiration, what you call bad luck and good luck—all are but reflections from it. The supreme thought preceding death is imprinted on the surrounding atmosphere like a photograph. I have trained this’—he tapped his brow—‘to reproduce those photographs! May I sleep here to-night, Mr. Coram?’
Somewhere beneath the ramshackle exterior we had caught a glimpse of a man of power. From behind the thick pebbles momentarily had shone out the light of a tremendous and original mind.
‘I should be most glad of your assistance,’ answered my friend.
‘No police must be here to-night,’ rumbled Moris Klaw. ‘No heavy-footed constables, filling the room with thoughts of large cooks and small Basses, must fog my negative!’
‘Can that be arranged?’ asked Coram of the inspector.
‘The men on duty can remain in the hall, if you wish it, sir.’
‘Good!’ rumbled Moris Klaw.
He moistened his brow with verbena, bowed uncouthly, and shuffled from the Greek Room.
III
Moris Klaw reappeared in the evening, accompanied by a strikingly beautiful brunette.
The change of face upon the part of Mr. Grimsby of New Scotland Yard was singular.
‘My daughter—Isis,’ explained Moris Klaw. ‘She assists to develop my negatives.’
Grimsby became all attention. Leaving two men on duty in the hall, Moris Klaw, his daughter, Grimsby, Coram and I went up to the Greek Room. Its darkness was relieved by a single lamp.
‘I’ve had the stones in the Athenean Harp examined by a lapidary,’ said Coram. ‘It occurred to me that they might have been removed and paste substituted. It was not so, however.’
‘No,’ rumbled Klaw. ‘I thought of that, too. No visitors have been admitted here during the day?’
‘The Greek Room has been closed.’
‘It is well, Mr. Coram. Let no one disturb me until my daughter comes in the morning.’
Isis Klaw placed a red silk cushion upon the spot where the dead man had lain.
‘Some pillows and a blanket, Mr. Klaw?’ suggested the suddenly attentive Mr. Grimsby.
‘I thank you, no,’ was the reply. ‘They would be saturated with alien impressions. My cushion it is odically sterilised! The “etheric storm” created by Conway’s last mental emotion reaches my brain unpolluted. Good-night, gentlemen. Good-night, Isis!’
We withdrew, leaving Moris Klaw to his ghostly vigil.
‘I suppose Mr. Klaw is quite trustworthy?’ whispered Coram to the detective.
‘Oh, undoubtedly!’ was the reply. ‘In any case, he can do no harm. My men will be on duty downstairs here all night.’
‘Do you speak of my father, Mr. Grimsby?’ came a soft, thrilling voice.
Grimsby turned—and met the flashing black eyes of Isis Klaw.
‘I was assuring Mr. Coram,’ he answered readily, ‘that Mr. Klaw’s methods have several times proved successful!’
‘Several times!’ she cried scornfully. ‘What! Has he ever failed?’
Her accent was certainly French, I determined; her voice, her entire person, as certainly charming—to which the detective’s manner bore witness.
‘I’m afraid I’m not familiar with all his cases, miss,’ he said. ‘Can I call you a cab?’
‘I thank you, no.’ She rewarded him with a dazzling smile. ‘Good-night.’
Coram opened the doors of the Museum, and she passed out. Leaving the men on duty in the hall, Coram and I shortly afterwards also quitted the Museum by the main entrance, in order to avoid disturbing Moris Klaw by using the curator’s private door.
To my friend’s study, Hilda Coram brought us coffee. She was unnaturally pale, and her eyes were feverishly bright. I concluded that the tragedy was responsible.
‘Perhaps, to an extent,’ said Coram; ‘but she is studying music, and I fear overworking in order to pass a stiff exam.’
Coram and I surveyed the Greek Room problem from every conceivable standpoint; but were unable to surmise how the thief had entered, how left, and why he had fled without his booty.
‘I don’t mind confessing,’ said Coram, ‘that I am very ill at ease. We haven’t the remotest idea how the murderer got into the Greek Room nor how he got out again. Bolts and bars, it is evident, do not prevail against him, so that we may expect a repetition of the dreadful business at any time!’
‘What precautions do you propose to take?’
‘Well, there will be a couple of police on duty in the Museum for the next week or so, but, after that, we shall have to rely upon a night watchman. The funds only allow of the appointment of four attendants: three for day and one for night duty.’
‘Do you think you’ll find any difficulty in getting a man?’
‘No,’ replied Coram. ‘I know of a steady man who will come as soon as we are ready for him.’
I slept but little that night, and was early afoot and around to the Museum. Isis Klaw was there before me, carrying the red cushion, and her father was deep in conversation with Coram.
Detective-Inspector Grimsby approached me.
‘I see you’re looking at the cushion, sir!’ he said, smilingly. ‘But it’s not a “plant.” He’s not an up-to-date cracksman. Nothing’s missing!’
‘You need not assure me of that,’ I replied. ‘I do not doubt Mr. Klaw’s honesty of purpose.’
‘Wait till you hear his mad theory, though!’ he said, with a glance aside at the girl.
‘Mr. Coram,’
Moris Klaw was saying, in his odd, rumbling tones, ‘my psychic photograph is of a woman! A woman dressed all in white!’
Grimsby coughed—then flushed as he caught the eye of Isis.
‘Poor Conway’s mind,’ continued Klaw, ‘is filled with such a picture when he breathes his last—great wonder he has for the white woman and great fear for the Athenean Harp, which she carries!’
‘Which she carries!’ cried Coram.
‘Some woman took the harp from its case a few minutes before Conway died!’ affirmed Moris Klaw. ‘I have much research to make now, and with aid from Isis shall develop my negative! Yesterday I learnt from the constable who was on night duty at the corner of the Square that a heavy pantechnicon van went driving round at four o’clock. It was shortly after four o’clock that the tragedy occurred. The driver was unaware that there was no way out, you understand. Is it important? I cannot say. It often is such points that matter. We must, however, waste no time. Until you hear from me again you will lay dry plaster-of-Paris all around the stand of the Athenean Harp each night. Good-morning, gentlemen!’
His arm linked in his daughter’s, he left the Museum.
IV
For some weeks after this mysterious affair, all went well at the Menzies Museum. The new night watchman, a big Scot, by name John Macalister, seemed to have fallen thoroughly into his duties, and everything was proceeding smoothly. No clue concerning the previous outrage had come to light, the police being clearly at a loss. From Moris Klaw we heard not a word. But Macalister did not appear to suffer from nervousness, saying that he was quite big enough to look after himself.
Poor Macalister! His bulk did not save him from a dreadful fate. He was found, one fine morning, lying flat on his back in the Greek Room—dead!
As in the case of Conway, the place showed unmistakable signs of a furious struggle. The attendant’s chair had been dashed upon the floor with such violence as to break three of the legs; a bust of Pallas, that had occupied a corner position upon a marble pedestal, was found to be hurled down; and the top of the case which usually contained the Athenean Harp had been unlocked, and the priceless antique lay close by, upon the floor!
The cause of death, in Macalister’s case, was heart-failure, an unsuspected weakness of that organ being brought to light at the inquest; but, according to the medical testimony, deceased must have undergone unnaturally violent exertions to bring death about. In other respects, the circumstances of the two cases were almost identical. The door of the Greek Room was locked upon the inside and the keys were found on the floor. From the detector watches in the other rooms it was evident that his death must have taken place about three o’clock. Nothing was missing, and the jewels in the harp had not been tampered with.
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