Heath obeyed with swiftness; and Vance placed the jack on the taboret, fitting its base over the scars in the wood. The lifting-head came within an inch of the under-side of the sarcophagus's lid where it extended a few inches over the end elevation between the two projecting lion-legged supports at the corners.
We had gathered about Vance in tense silence, not knowing what to expect but feeling that we were on the threshold of some appalling revelation.
Vance inserted the elevating lever, which Heath handed him, into the socket, and moved it carefully up and down. The jack worked perfectly. At each downward thrust of the lever there was a metallic click as the detent slipped into the groove of the rack. Inch by inch the end of the ponderous granite lid—which must have weighed over half a ton[30]—rose.
Heath suddenly stepped back in alarm.
"Ain't you afraid, Mr. Vance, that the lid'll slide off the other end of the coffin?"
"No, Sergeant," Vance assured him. "The friction alone of so heavy a mass would hold it at a much greater angle than this jack could tilt it."
The head of the cover was now eight inches in the clear, and Vance was using both hands on the lever. He had to work with great care lest the jack slip from the smooth under-surface of the granite. Nine inches . . . ten inches . . . eleven . . . twelve. . . . The rack had almost reached its limit of elevation. With one final thrust downward, Vance released the lever and tested the solidity of the extended jack.
"It's safe, I think. . . ."
Heath had already taken out his pocket-light and flashed it into the dark recesses of the sarcophagus.
"Mother o' God!" he gasped.
I was standing just behind him, leaning over his broad shoulders; and simultaneously with the flare of his light I saw the horrifying thing that had made him call out. In the end of the sarcophagus was a dark, huddled human body, the back hunched upward and the legs hideously cramped, as if some one had hastily shoved it through the aperture, head first.
Markham stood bending forward like a person paralyzed in the midst of an action.
Vance's quiet but insistent voice broke the tension of our horror.
"Hold your light steady, Sergeant. And you, Markham, lend me a hand. But be careful. Don't touch the jack. . . ."
With great caution they reached into the sarcophagus and turned the body until the head was toward the widest point of the opening. A chill ran up my spine as I watched them for I knew that the slightest jar, or the merest touch on the jack, would bring the massive granite lid down upon them. Heath, too, realized this—I could see the glistening beads of sweat on his forehead as he watched the dangerous operation with fearful eyes.
Slowly the body emerged through the small opening, and when the feet had passed over the edge of the sarcophagus and clattered to the floor, the flashlight went out, and Heath sprawled back on his haunches with a convulsive gasp.
"Hell! I musta stumbled, Mr. Vance," he muttered. (I liked the Sergeant even more after that episode.)
Markham stood looking down at the inert body in stupefaction.
"Scarlett!" he exclaimed in a voice of complete incredulity.
Vance merely nodded, and bent over the prostrate figure. Scarlett's face was cyanosed, due to insufficient oxygenation of the blood; his eyes were set in a fixed bulging stare; and there was a crust formation of blood at his nostrils. Vance put his ear on the man's chest and took his wrist in one hand to feel the pulse. Then he drew out his gold cigarette-case and held it before Scarlett's lips. After a glance at the case he turned excitedly to heath.
"The ambulance, Sergeant! Hurry! Scarlett's still alive. . . ."
Heath dashed up the stairs and disappeared into the front hall.
Markham regarded Vance intently.
"I don't understand this," he said huskily.
"Nor do I—entirely." Vance's eyes were on Scarlett. "I advised him to keep away from here. He, too, knew the danger, and yet. . . . You remember Rider Haggard's dedication of 'Allan Quartermain' to his son, wherein he spoke of the highest rank to which one can attain—the state and dignity of an English gentleman?[31]. . . Scarlett was an English gentleman. Knowing the peril, he came here to-night. He thought he might end the tragedy."
Markham was stunned and puzzled.
"We've got to take some sort of action—now."
"Yes. . . ." Vance was deeply concerned. "But the difficulties! There's no evidence. We're helpless. . . . Unless—" He stopped short. "That hieroglyphic letter! Maybe it's here somewhere. To-night was the time; but Scarlett came unexpectedly. I wonder if he knew about that, too. . . ." Vance's eyes drifted thoughtfully into space, and for several moments he stood rigid. Then he suddenly went to the sarcophagus and, striking a match, looked inside.
"Nothing." There was dire disappointment in his tone. "And yet, it should be here. . . ." He straightened up. "Perhaps . . . yes! That, too, would be logical."
He knelt down beside the unconscious man and began going through his pockets. Scarlett's coat was buttoned, and it was not until Vance had reached into the inner breast pocket that his search was rewarded. He drew out a crumpled sheet of yellow scratch paper of the kind on which Salveter's Egyptian exercise had been written, and after one glance at it thrust it into his own pocket.
Heath appeared at the door.
"O.K.," he called down, "I told 'em to rush it."
"How long will it take?" Vance asked.
"Not more'n ten minutes. I called Headquarters; and they'll relay it to the local station. They generally pick up the cop on the beat—but that don't delay things. I'll wait here at the door for 'em."
"Just a moment." Vance wrote something on the back of an envelope and handed it up to Heath. "Call Western Union and get this telegram off."
Heath took the message, read it, whistled softly, and went out into the hall.
"I'm wiring Salveter at New Haven to leave the train at New London and return to New York," Vance explained to Markham. "He'll be able to catch the Night Express at New London, and will get here early to-morrow morning."
Markham looked at him shrewdly.
"You think he'll come?"
"Oh, yes."
When the ambulance arrived, Heath escorted the interne, the blue-uniformed driver and the police officer into the museum. The interne, a pink-faced youth with a serious brow, bowed to Markham and knelt beside Scarlett. After a superficial examination, he beckoned to the driver.
"Go easy with his head."
The man, assisted by the officer, lifted Scarlett to the stretcher.
"How bad is he, doctor?" Markham asked anxiously.
"Pretty bad, sir." The interne shook his head pompously. "A messy fracture at the base of the skull. Cheyne-Stokes breathing. If he lives, he's luckier than I'll ever be." And with a shrug he followed the stretcher out of the house.
"I'll phone the hospital later," Markham said to Vance. "If Scarlett recovers, he can supply us with evidence."
"Don't count on it," Vance discouraged him. "To-night's episode was isolated." He went to the sarcophagus and reversed the jack. Slowly the lid descended to its original position. "A bit dangerous, don't y' know, to leave it up."
Markham stood by frowning.
"Vance, what paper was that you found in Scarlett's pocket?"
"I imagine it was an incriminatin' document written in Egyptian hieroglyphs. We'll see."
He spread the paper out smoothly on the top of the sarcophagus. It was almost exactly like the letter Vance had pieced together in Bliss's study. The color of the paper was the same, and it contained four rows of hieroglyphs in green ink.
Vance studied it while Markham and Heath, who had returned to the museum, and I looked on.
"Let me see how well I remember my Egyptian," he murmured. "It's been years since I did any transliterating. . . ."
He placed his monocle in his eye and bent forward.
"Meryt-Amûn, aha-y o er yu son maut-y en merya-y men seshem pen dya-y em yeb-y era-y en marwet mar-en yu
rekha-t khet nibet hir-sa hetpa-t na-y kheft shewa-n em debat nefra-n entot hena-y. . . . This is done very accurately, Markham. The nouns and adjectives agree as to gender, and the verb endings—"
"Never mind those matters," Markham interrupted impatiently. "What does that paper say?"
"I beg of you, Markham old dear!" Vance protested. "Middle-Kingdom Egyptian is a most difficult language. Coptic and Assyrian and Greek and Sanskrit are abecedarian beside it. However, I can give you a literal translation." He began reading slowly: "'Beloved of Amûn, I stop here until comes the brother of my mother. Not do I wish that should-endure this situation. I have-placed in my heart that I should-act for the sake of our well-being. Thou shalt-know every-thing later. Thou shalt-be-satisfied toward me when we are-free from what-blocks-the-way, happy-are we, thou together-with me. . . .' Not what you'd call Harvardian. But such were the verbal idiosyncrasies of the ancient Egyptians."
"Well, it don't make sense to me," Heath commented sourly.
"But properly paraphrased it makes fiendish sense, Sergeant. Put into everyday English, it says: 'Meryt-Amen: I am waiting here for my uncle. I cannot endure this situation any longer; and I have decided to take drastic action for the sake of our happiness. You will understand everything later, and you will forgive me when we are free from all obstacles and can be happy together.' . . . I say, Sergeant; does that make sense?"
"I'll tell the world!" Heath looked at Vance with an air of contemptuous criticism. "And you sent that bird Salveter to Boston!"
"He'll be back to-morrow," Vance assured him.
"But see here";—Markham's eyes were fixed on the incriminating paper—"what about that other letter you pieced together? And how did this letter get in Scarlett's pocket?"
Vance folded the paper carefully and placed it in his wallet.
"The time has come," he said slowly, "to tell you everything. It may be, when you have the facts in hand, you can figure out some course of procedure. I can see legal difficulties ahead; but I now have all the evidence we can ever hope for." He was uneasy and troubled. "Scarlett's intrusion in to-night's happenings changed the murderer's plans. Anyway, I can now convince you of the incredible and abominable truth."
Markham studied him for several moments, and a startled light came in his eyes.
"God Almighty!" he breathed. "I see what you mean." He clicked his teeth together. "But first I must phone the hospital. There's a chance that Scarlett can help us—if he lives."
He went to the rear of the museum and mounted the spiral stairs to the study. A few minutes later he reappeared, his face dark and hopeless.
"I spoke to the doctor," he said. "There's not one chance in a thousand for Scarlett. Concussion of the brain—and suffocation. They've got the pulmotor on him now. Even if he does pull through he'll be unconscious for a week or two."
"I was afraid of that." I had rarely seen Vance so distressed. "We were too late. But—dash it all!—I couldn't have foreseen his quixotism. And I warned him. . . ."
"Come, old man." Markham spoke with paternal kindliness. "It's not your fault. There was nothing you could have done. And you were right in keeping the truth to yourself—"
"Excuse me!" Heath was exasperated. "I myself ain't exactly an enemy of truth. Why can't I get in on this?"
"You can, Sergeant." Vance placed his hand on the other's shoulder. "Let's go to the drawing-room. 'And every mountain and hill shall be made low; and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain.'"
He moved toward the stairs; and we followed him.
21. THE MURDERER
(Saturday, July 14, 10:40 P.M.)
As we entered the drawing-room Brush rose. He was pale and palpably frightened.
"Why are you worried?" Vance asked.
"Suppose, sir, I should be blamed!" the man blurted. "It was I who left the front door open yesterday morning—I wanted to get some fresh air. And then you came and said something had happened to Mr. Kyle. I know I shouldn't have unlatched the door." (I realized then why he had acted in so terrified a manner.)
"You may cheer up," Vance told him. "We know who killed Mr. Kyle, and I can assure you, Brush, that the murderer didn't come in the front door."
"Thank you, sir." The words were like a sigh of relief.
"And now tell Hani to come here. Then you may go to your room."
Brush had scarcely left us when there was the sound of a key being inserted in the front door. A moment later Doctor Bliss appeared at the entrance to the drawing-room.
"Good-evening, doctor," Vance greeted him. "I hope we're not intrudin'. But there are several questions we wish to ask Hani during Mr. Salveter's absence."
"I understand," Bliss returned, with a sad nod. "You know, then, of Salveter's excursion to Boston."
"He phoned me and asked if he might go."
Bliss looked at Vance with heavy, inquisitive eyes.
"His wanting to go north at this time was most unusual," he said; "but I did not raise any objection. The atmosphere here is very depressing, and I sympathized with his desire to escape from it."
"What time did he leave the house?" Vance put the question carelessly.
"About nine. I offered to drive him to the station. . . ."
"At nine, what? And where was he between eight and nine?"
Bliss looked unhappy.
"He was with me in the study. We were going over details regarding the reproductions of Hotepheres' tomb furniture."
"Was he with you when Mr. Scarlett arrived?"
"Yes." Bliss frowned. "Very peculiar, Scarlett's visit. He evidently wanted to talk to Salveter alone. He acted most mysteriously—treated Salveter with a sort of resentful coldness. But I continued to discuss the object of Salveter's trip north—"
"Mr. Scarlett waited?"
"Yes. He watched Salveter like a hawk. Then, when Salveter went out, Scarlett went with him."
"Ah! And you, doctor?" Vance was apparently absorbed in selecting a cigarette from his case.
"I stayed in the study."
"And that's the last you saw of either Scarlett or Salveter?"
"Yes I went for a walk about half past nine. I looked in the museum on my way out, thinking possibly Scarlett had remained and would join me; but the room was dark. So I strolled down the avenue to Washington Square. . . ."
"Thank you, doctor." Vance had lighted his cigarette and was smoking moodily. "We sha'n't trouble you any more to-night."
Hani entered the room.
"You wish to see me?" His manner was detached and, I thought, a trifle bored.
"Yes." Vance indicated a chair facing the table. Then he turned quickly to Bliss who was on the point of going out.
"On second thought, doctor, it may be advisable for us to question you again regarding Mr. Salveter.—Would you mind waiting in the study?"
"Not at all." Bliss shot him a comprehending glance, and went down the hall. A few moments later we heard the study door close.
Vance gave Hani a curious look, which I did not understand.
"I have something I wish to tell Mr. Markham," he said. "Will you be good enough to stand in the hall and see that no one disturbs us?"
Hani rose.
"With pleasure, effendi." And he took his post outside.
Vance closed the folding doors, and coming back to the centre-table, settled himself comfortably.
"You, Markham—and you, Sergeant—were both right yesterday morning when you concluded that Doctor Bliss was guilty of murdering Kyle—"
"Say, listen!" Heath leapt to his feet. "What the hell—!"
"Oh, quite, Sergeant. Please sit down and control yourself."
"I said he killed him! And you said—"
"My word! Can't you be tranquil? You're so upsettin', Sergeant." Vance made an exasperated gesture. "I'm aware you remarked inelegantly that Bliss had 'croaked' Mr. Kyle. And I trust you have not forgotten that I said to you last night that we often arrive at the same destination at the same time—but from
opposite directions."
"That was what you meant, was it?" Heath resumed his seat surlily. "Then why didn't you let me arrest him?"
"Because that's what he wanted you to do."
"I'm floundering," Heath wailed. "The world has gone nuts."
"Just a moment, Sergeant." Markham spoke peremptorily. "I'm beginning to understand this affair. It's not insane in the least.—Let Mr. Vance continue."
Heath started to expostulate, but instead made a grimace of resignation, and began chewing on his cigar.
Vance regarded him sympathetically.
"I knew, Sergeant—or at least I strongly suspected—within five minutes after entering the museum yesterday morning, that Bliss was guilty. Scarlett's story about the appointment gave me the first clew. Bliss's telephone call in the presence of every one and his remarks about the new shipment struck me as fitting in perfectly with a preconceived plan. Then, when I saw the various clews, I felt positive they had been planted by Bliss himself. With him it was not only a matter of pointing suspicion to himself, but—on second view—of throwing suspicion on another. Fortunately he overstepped the grounds of plausibility; for had some one else committed the crime, the planted clews would have been less numerous and less obvious. Consequently, I leapt to the conclusion that Bliss had murdered Kyle and had, at the same time, striven to lead us to think that he was the victim of a plot—"
"But, Mr. Vance," interrupted Heath, "you said—"
"I did not say one word to give you the definite impression that I exonerated Bliss. Not once did I say he was innocent. . . . Think back. You'll remember I said only that the clews did not ring true—that things were not what they seemed. I knew the clews were traps, set by Bliss to deceive us. And I also knew—-as Mr. Markham knew—that if we arrested Bliss on the outward evidence, it would be impossible to convict him."
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