Among all the bewildering questions which must have presented themselves to Bubber now, the greatest was surely, ‘What’s he burnin’?’ For a long time, perhaps half an hour, the spy remained where he was, afraid to move. Eventually, the compelling impulse to look into the furnace and trust to providence for escape, if necessary, moved him out of his refuge and toward the fire.
Every foot or two he stopped to make sure there was no sound. It was clear that Frimbo had some means of travelling about the house other than the stairs, and it was probable that he would not return to the cellar without switching on the light from whatever distant connection he had contrived. But Bubber had to reassure himself somewhat as to the mysterious avenue of approach before satisfying his major curiosity. He invaded the territory through which Frimbo had departed, and could discover no ordinary exit. There was no cellar door leading up to the back yard; the walls were solid cement. All that he could find was the base of the dumbwaiter shaft, and his little beam of light, directed up the channel, was sufficient to disclose, some feet above, the dangling gears and broken ropes which attested the uselessness of the device.
In a state of mind which the shifting shadows about him did nothing to relieve, he quickly returned to the furnace and flung open the door. Whatever Frimbo had used to accelerate combustion had already reduced his bundle to a fragile-looking char; its more susceptible parts had already stopped blazing, and the remainder lay crumbling like the embers of a frame house that has burned down. Pocketing his light and working by the illumination from the coals, Bubber took the shovel and, with as little noise as possible, gently retrieved a part of what had been consigned to the flames. He laid it, shovel and all, on the floor, shut the furnace, and examined it with his flash. So intent was he now that it would have been easy to approach and catch him unawares. But the contents of the shovel, from which the glow had already faded, presented nothing susceptible to Bubber’s knowledge; his puzzled stare disclosed to him only that he must get the find out of this place and subject it to more expert inspection.
It did not take him long to find a wooden box into which he could deposit what he had retrieved. Having done so, he replaced the shovel beside the furnace, and with the box under one arm, quietly mounted the stairs. The basement floor was dark. He did not stop to investigate that now, however, but, succeeding in making his exit by way of the basement front door, without a moment’s delay he ran across the street to Dr Archer’s house and, no less excitedly than twenty-four hours before, rang the front-door bell.
Again the doctor himself answered the summons.
‘Hello, Brown! What’s up?’
‘I done ’scovered sump’m!’
‘In that box? What?’
‘You’ll have to answer that, doc. Damn ’f I know.’
‘Come in.’
In the warmth and brightness of the physician’s consulting-room, Bubber related what he had seen and done. Meanwhile the doctor was examining the contents of the box on his desk, poking about in it with a long paper knife. He stopped poking suddenly, then, very gently resumed. Much of what he touched crumbled dryly apart. At last he looked up.
‘I should say you have discovered something.’
‘What is it, doc?’
‘How long did you say this burned?’
‘’Bout half an hour. Took me that long to make up my mind to get it out.’
‘Are you sure it didn’t burn longer?’
‘With me snoopin’ ’round ’spectin’ to be bumped off any second? No, suh! If it was half an hour that was half an hour too long.’
‘Did it blaze when he first put it in the furnace?’
‘’Deed it did. Looked like it was ’bout to explode.’
‘Let me see now. How could he have treated human flesh so as to make it so quickly destructible by fire?’ The doctor mused, apparently forgetting Bubber’s presence. ‘Alcohol would dehydrate it, if he could infiltrate the tissues pretty well. He could do that by injecting through the jugulars and carotids. But the alcohol would evaporate—that would explain the rapid oxidation. Greasy? Oh, I have it! He’s simply reinjected with an inflammable oil—kerosene, probably. Of course. Hm—what a man!’
‘Doc, would you mind tellin’ me what you talkin’ ’bout?’
‘Have you any idea what this stuff is?’
‘No, suh.’
‘It’s what’s left of a human head, neck and shoulder, a trifle over-cooked.’
‘Great day in the mornin’!’
‘Quite so. The extent of destruction has been sped up by treating the dead tissues with substances which quickly reduced the water content and heightened the imflammability. Maybe alcohol and kerosene—maybe chemicals even more efficient—it doesn’t matter.’
He stopped his poking and gently lifted from the box an irregular, stiff, fragile cinder. He placed it very carefully on a piece of white paper on his desk.
‘This is exhibit A. Notice anything? No, don’t handle it—it’s too crumbly and we can’t afford to lose it. What do you—’
‘Ain’t them teeth?’ Bubber pointed to three little lumps in the char.
‘Yes. And apparently the only ones that haven’t fallen loose. I believe we may be able to use them. Further, this cinder represents parts of two bones, the maxillary, in which the upper teeth are set, and the sphenoid which joins it at about this point.’
‘You don’t mean to tell me?’ gaped Bubber.
‘I do. I do indeed. And I mean to tell you this also: that the presence of the sphenoid, or most of it, in a relatively free state like this is proof that its owner has left this world. On this bone, in life, rests a considerable part of the brain.’
‘S’posin’ a guy’s brainless, like Jinx?’
‘Even Jinx couldn’t make it without his sphenoid. So you see that in that fragile bit of the fruit of the crematory, we have an extraordinary bit of evidence. We have proof of a death. You see that?’
‘Oh, sho’ I see that.’
‘And we may have a means of identifying the corpse. You see that?’
‘Well, that ain’t quite so clear.’
‘Never mind. It will be. And finally we have your testimony to the effect that Frimbo was destroying this material.’
‘Huh. Don’t look so good for Mr Frimbo, do it?’
‘Thanks to your discovery, it doesn’t.’
‘Will that help Jinx out?’
‘Possibly. Even probably. But the case against Frimbo is not quite complete, you see, even with this.’
‘’Tain’t? What mo’ you need?’
‘It might be important to know who was killed, don’t you think?’
‘Tha’s right. Who?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know. Maybe nobody. These may be the remains of an old stiff he was dissecting—who knows? That we must find out. And there is one more thing to learn—Frimbo’s motive. Not only whom did he kill—if anybody—but why?’
‘Why you reckon?’
‘That may be a hard point to convey to you, Mr Brown, so late in the evening. But this much I will tell you. You see, while you have been ruminating in the depths of Frimbo’s cellar, I have been ruminating in the depths of my mind.’
‘I hope ’tain’t as full of trash as that cellar was.’
‘It has its share of rubbish, I’m not ashamed to say. But what it holds just now is the growing conviction that Frimbo is a paranoiac.’
‘A—which?’
‘A paranoiac.’
‘The dirty son of a gun. Ought to be ashamed o’ hisself, huh?’
‘And so, my worthy collaborator, if you don’t mind leaving this precious clue in my hands, I’ll spend a little time and energy now freshening my mind on homicidal tendencies in paranoia—a most frequent symptom, if I recall correctly.’
‘Jes’ what I was thinkin’,’ agreed Bubber. ‘Well, I’ll come ’round again tomorrow, doc. I was on my way here tonight, but I got sorta side-tracked. I thought you might be able to tell me how to help Ji
nx out.’
‘If this is any indication,’ smiled the doctor, pointing to the evidence, ‘the best thing you can do for Jinx is to get side-tracked again.’
Bubber thought over the day’s episodes, grinned and shook his head.
‘Uh—uh,’ he demurred resolutely. ‘He ain’t wuth it, doc.’
CHAPTER XXI
‘IN this respect,’ Dr Archer confessed to Detective Dart, who sat facing him across his desk the next morning, ‘Frimbo would call me a mystic. I have implicit faith in something I really can’t prove.’
‘Is it a secret?’
‘Yes, but I’ll share it with you. I believe that the body, of which these humble remnants are ample evidence, is the same as the one I pronounced dead on Saturday night.’
‘Shouldn’t think there’d be any doubt about that.’
‘There isn’t. That’s the mysticism of it. There isn’t any doubt about it in my mind. But I haven’t proved it. I have only yielded to a strong suspicion: somebody is killed, the body disappears. Frimbo steps up claiming to be the body. He is lying as our little blood test proved, and later he is seen destroying vital parts of a body. This might be another body, but I am too confirmed a mystic to believe so. I am satisfied to assume it is the same.’
‘You know damn well it’s the same,’ said the practical Dart.
‘We won’t argue the point,’ smiled Dr Archer. ‘Assuming it is the same—there will be reasons why Frimbo destroys a murdered man.’
‘Protecting himself.’
‘An omnipresent possibility. The victim was sped into the beyond either by Frimbo himself or by someone in league with Frimbo, whom Frimbo is trying to protect. Yes. But do you recall that we drew the same conclusions about Jinx Jenkins?’
‘Well—bad as this looks for the conjure-man, it doesn’t remove the evidence against Jenkins. That handkerchief could be explained, but that club—and the way he tried to scram when the lights went out—’
‘Very well. Nor does it eliminate the actuality of a feud between the two policy kings, Spencer and Brandon, in which that runner was an unfortunate sacrifice yesterday. Personally, I pay no more attention to that than I do to the ravings of Doty Hicks.’
‘Me, personally,’ responded Dart, ‘I pay attention to both of ’em. I suspect ’em all till facts let ’em out. And I still think that the simplest thing may be so. Why make it hard? Hicks or Brandon, the one out of superstition, the other out of greed, either one may have hired Jenkins to do the job. Jenkins somehow didn’t get Frimbo but got—say! I know—he got Frimbo’s flunky! That’s your dead body! The flunky!’
The physician demurred.
‘Inspiration has its defects. Remember. The flunky ushered Jenkins to the entrance of the room. Jenkins went in. The victim was already in the chair waiting. Would the flunky have obligingly hurried around through the hall and got in place just so that Mr Jenkins could dispose of him? That would be simple indeed—too simple.’
‘Well, maybe I’m prejudiced. But—’
‘You are. Because that isn’t all you ignore. Why would Frimbo claim to be the victim if what you suggest were true? Why would he destroy the body of his servant? One would rather expect him to want to find and punish the murderer.’
‘All right, doc. You can out-talk me. You give us the answer.’
‘I’m only part way through the problem. But I had an interesting interview with the gentleman last night. And I’m reasonably sure he’s a full-fledged paranoiac.’
‘Too bad. If he was a Mason, now, or an Odd Fellow—’
‘A paranoiac is a very special kind of a nut.’
‘Well, now, that’s more like it. What’s so special about this kind of a nut?’
‘First, he has an extremely bright mind. Even flashes of brilliance.’
‘This bird is bright, all right.’
‘You don’t know the half of it. You should hear him tie you up in mental knots the way he did me. Next thing, he has some trouble—some unfortunate experience, some maladjustment, or something—that starts him to believing the world is against him. He develops a delusion of persecution. Frimbo concealed his pretty well, but it cropped out once or twice. He came to America to study and had some trouble getting into college. He took it personally, and attributed it to his colour.’
‘Where’s the delusion in that?’
‘The delusion in that is that plenty of students the same colour, but with more satisfactory formal preparation, have no such difficulty. Also that plenty the same colour with unsatisfactory preparation don’t draw the same conclusion. And also that plenty without his generous inheritance of pigment and with unsatisfactory preparation have the same difficulty and don’t draw the same conclusion.’
‘Call it a delusion if you want to—’
‘Thanks. Now your paranoiac couldn’t live if something didn’t offset that plaguing conviction. So he develops another delusion to balance it. He says, “Well, since I’m so persecuted, I must be a great guy.” He gets a delusion of grandeur.’
‘I know flocks of paranoiacs.’
‘Me too. But you don’t know any with the kind of delusion of grandeur that Frimbo has. It’s the most curious thing—and yet perfectly in case. You see, his first reaction to the persecution idea was flight into study. He got steeped in deterministic philosophy.’
‘What the hell is that?’
‘The doctrine that everything, physical and mental, is inevitably a result of some previous cause. Well, Frimbo evidently accepted the logic of that philosophy, and that moulded his particular delusion of grandeur. He said, “Yes, everything is determined—nature, the will of man, his decisions, his choices—all are the products of their antecedents. This is the order of our existence. But I—Frimbo—I am a creature of another order. I can step out of the order of this existence and become, with respect to it, a free agent, independent of it, yet able to act upon it, reading past and present and modifying the future. Persecution cannot touch me—I am above it.” Do you see, Dart? Does it mean anything to you?’
‘Not a damn thing. But it doesn’t have to. Go on from there.’
‘Well, there you are—still paranoia. But when it gets as bad as in Frimbo’s case, they get dangerous. They get homicidal. Either the first delusion moves them to eliminate their supposed persecutors, or the second generates such a contempt for their inferiors that they will remove them for any reason they choose.’
‘Gee! Nice people to ride in the subway with. Are you sure about this guy?’
‘Reasonably. I’m going back for more evidence today.’
‘So he can remove you?’
‘Not likely. I think he’s taken a fancy to me. That’s another symptom—they make quick decisions—accept certain people into their confidence as promptly as they repudiate others. I seem to be such a confidant. Something I said or did Saturday night appealed to him. That’s why he accepted me so quickly—invited me back—took me in—exchanged confidences with me. No normal mind under similar circumstances would have done so.’
‘Well—be careful. I don’t mind nuts when they’re nuts. But when they’re as fancy as that they may be poison.’
‘Don’t worry. I know antidotes.’
After a pause, Dart said:
‘But who the hell did he kill?’
‘You mean who’s dead? We only surmise that Frimbo—’
‘I mean who was the bird on the couch?’
‘Have you that removable bridge in your pocket?’
‘Sure. Here it is. What of it?’
‘I don’t dare hope anything. But let’s see.’ He took the small device. Its two teeth were set in a dental compound tinted to resemble gums and its tiny gold clamps reached out from either end to grasp the teeth nearest the gap it bridged.
‘Look.’ The doctor pointed to the three teeth in the bony char which still lay on the piece of white paper. ‘Upper left bicuspid, a two-space gap, and two molars. That means first bicuspid and second and third molars. No
w this bridge. Second bicuspid and first molar. See?’
‘Don’t you ever talk English?’
‘The gap, Dart, old swoop, corresponds to the bridge.’
‘Yea—but you yourself said that doesn’t prove anything. It’s got to fit. Fit perfect.’
‘Oh, thou of little faith. Well, here goes. Pray we don’t break up the evidence trying to get a perfect fit.’ With deft and gentle fingers, the physician brought the bridge clamps in contact with the abutments of the cinder and ever so cautiously edged them in place, a millimetre at a time. He heaved a sigh.
‘There you are, sceptic. The gums are gone of course. But the distance between the teeth has been maintained, thanks to the high fusion point of calcium salts. Am I plain?’
‘You are—but appearances are deceiving.’
‘Here’s one you can depend on. Find out who belongs to this bridge and you’ll know who, to put it quite literally, got it in the neck on Saturday night.’
Dart reached for the bridge.
‘Gently, kind friend,’ warned the doctor. ‘That’s your case—maybe. And leave it in place.’
‘There’s probably,’ observed the detective, ‘three thousand and three of these things made every day in this hamlet. All you want me to find out is whose this was.’
The Conjure-Man Dies Page 20