The Devil's Rosary

by Seabury Quinn

  “‘You have right,’ I compliment me, ‘but whom shall we call on for aid?’

  “Thereupon I remember that my old friend, Dr. Feng Yuin-han, whom I have known at the Sorbonne, is at present residing in New York, and it is to him I send my message for assistance. Parbleu, when he comes he is as full of wisdom as a college professor attempts to appear! He tells me much in our nighttime interview before you arrive from your work of increasing the population. I learn from him, for instance, that when these old magicians of the mountains practise their devil’s art, they automatically limit their powers. Invisible they may become, yes; but while invisible, they may not overstep a pool, puddle or drop of chicken blood. For some strange reason, such blood makes a barrier which they can not pass and across which they can not hurl a missile nor send their destroying winds or devastating lightning-flashes. Further, if chicken blood be cast upon them their invisibility at once melts away, and while they are in the process of becoming visible in such circumstances their physical strength is greatly reduced. One man of normal lustiness would be a match for fifty of them half visible, half unseen because of fresh fowl’s blood splashed on them.

  “Voilà I have my grand strategy of defense already mapped out for me. From the excellent Pierre Grasso I buy much fresh chicken blood, and from Dr. Feng I obtain the ashes of the mystic camphor tree. The blood I spread around in an almost-circle, that our enemy may attack us from one side only, and inside the outer stockade of gore I scatter camphor wood ashes that his footprints may become visible and betray his position to us. Then, inside our outer ramparts, I draw a second complete circle of blood which the enemy can not penetrate at all, so that Monsieur Arkright, but most of all his so charming daughter, may be safe. Then I wait.

  “Presently comes the foe. He circles our first line of defense, finds the break I have purposely left, and walks into our trap. In the camphor wood ashes his all-invisible feet leave visible footprints to warn of his approach.

  “With your aid, then, I do spray him with the blood as soon as his footprints betray him, and make him visible so that I may slay him at my good convenience. But he are no match for me. Non, Jules de Grandin would not call it the sport to kill such as he; it would not be fair. Besides, is there not much to be said on his side? I think so.

  “It was the cupidity of Monsieur Arkright and no other thing which brought death upon his wife and children. We have no way of telling that the identical man whom I have overthrown murdered those unfortunate ones, and it is not just to take his life for his fellows’ crimes. As for legal justice, what court would listen believingly to our story? Cordieu, to relate what we have seen these last few days to the ordinary lawyer would be little better than confessing ourselves mad or infatuated with too much of the so execrable liquor which your prosperous bootleggers supply. Me, I have no wish to be thought a fool.

  “Therefore, I say to me, ‘It is best that we call this battle a draw. Let us give back to the men of the mountains that which is theirs and take their promise that they will no longer pursue Monsieur Arkright and Mademoiselle Haroldine. Let there be no more beads from the Devil’s rosary scattered across their path.’

  “Very good. I make the equal bargain with the Tibetan; his property is returned to him and—

  “My friend, I suffer!”

  “Eh?” I exclaimed, shocked at the tragic face he turned to me.

  “Nom d’un canon, yes; my glass is empty again!”

  The House of Golden Masks

  “AN’ SO, DR. DE Grandin, sor,” Detective Sergeant Costello concluded with a pitying sidelong glance at his companion, “if there’s annything ye can do for th’ pore lad,—’tis meself that’ll be grateful to ye for doin’ it. Faith, if sumpin like this had happened to me whilst I was a-courtin’ Maggie, I’d ’a’ been a dead corpse from worry in less time than this pore felley’s been sufferin’.

  “Th’ chief won’t raise his hand in th’ matter wid th’ coroner’s verdict starin’ us in th’ face, an’ much as I’d like to do sumpin for th’ boy, me hands is tied tighter’n th’ neck of a sack. But with you, now, ’tis a different matter entirely. Meself, I’m inclined to agree with th’ chief an’ think th’ pore gur-rl’s dead as a herring, but if there’s sumpin in th’ case th’ rest of us can’t see, sure, ’tis Dr. Jools de Grandin can spot it quicker than a hungry tom-cat smells a rat!”

  Jules de Grandin turned his quick, birdlike glance from the big, red-headed Irishman to the slender, white-faced young man seated beside him. “What makes you assume your beloved survives, Monsieur?” he asked. “If the jury of the coroner returned a verdict of suicide—”

  “But, I tell you, sir, the jury didn’t know what they were talking about!”

  Young Everett Wilberding rose from his chair and faced the little Frenchman, his knuckles showing white with the intensity of his grip on the table edge. “My Ewell didn’t commit suicide. She didn’t kill herself, neither did Mazie. You must believe that, sir!”

  Resuming his seat, he fought back to comparative calm as he laced his fingers together nervously. “Last Thursday night Ewell and I were going to a dance out at the country club. My friend, Bill Stimpson, was to take Mazie, Ewell’s twin sister. The girls had been out visiting an aunt and uncle at Reynoldstown, and were to meet us at Monmouth Junction, then drive out to the club in Ewell’s flivver.

  “The girls took their party clothes out to Reynoldstown with them, and were to dress before leaving to meet us. They were due at the Junction at nine o’clock, but Ewell was hardly ever on time, so I thought nothing of it when they failed to show up at half-past. But when ten o’clock came, with no sign of the girls, we began to think they must have had a blow-out or engine trouble. At half-past ten I went to the drug store and ‘phoned the girls’ uncle at Reynoldstown, only to be told they had left at a quarter past eight—in plenty of time to reach the junction by nine, even if they had bad going. When I heard that I began to worry sure enough. By eleven o’clock I was fit to be tied.

  “Bill was getting worried, too, but thought that one of ‘em might have been taken ill and that they’d rushed right to Harrisonville without coming through the Junction, so we ‘phoned their house here. Their folks didn’t know any more than we did.

  “We caught the next bus to Harrisonville, and went right up to the Eatons’. When nothing was heard of the girls by four the next morning, Mr. Eaton notified the police.”

  “U’m?” de Grandin nodded, slowly. “Proceed, if you please, young Monsieur.”

  “The searching parties didn’t find a trace of the girls till next day about noon,” young Wilberding answered; “then a State Trooper came on Ewell’s Ford smashed almost out of shape against a tree half a mile or more from the river, but no sign of blood anywhere around. A little later a couple of hunters found Ewell’s party dress, stockings and slippers on the rocks above Shaminee Falls. Mazie—”

  “They found th’ pore child’s body up agin th’ grilles leadin’ to th’ turbine intakes o’ Pierce’s Mills next day sor,” Costello put in softly.

  “Yes, they did,” Wilberding agreed, “and Mazie was wearing her dance frock—what was left of it. Why didn’t Ewell jump in the falls with hers on, too, if Mazie did? But Mazie didn’t!”

  Sergeant Costello shook his head sadly. “Th’ coroner’s jury—” he began, as though reasoning with a stubborn child, but the boy interrupted angrily:

  “Oh, damn the coroners jury! See here, sir”—he turned to de Grandin as if for confirmation—“you’re a physician and know all about such things. What d’y say to this? Mazie’s body was washed through the rapids above Shaminee Falls and was terribly mauled against the rocks as it came down, so badly disfigured that only the remnants of her clothes made identification possible. No one could say definitely whether she’d been wounded before she went into the water or not; but she wasn’t drowned!”

  “Eh, what is it you say?” de Grandin straightened in his chair, his level, unwinking stare boring into the yo
ung man’s troubled eyes. “Continue, if you please, Monsieur; I am interested.”

  “I mean just what I say,” the other returned. “They didn’t find a half-teacupful of water in her lungs at the autopsy; besides, this is March, and the water’s almost ice-cold—yet they found her floating next morning; if—”

  “Barbe d’un chauve canard, yes!” de Grandin exclaimed. “Tu parles, mon garçon! In temperature such as this it would be days—weeks, perhaps—before putrefaction had advanced enough to form sufficient gas to force the body to the surface. But of course, it was the air in her lungs which buoyed her up. Morbleu, I think you have right, my friend; undoubtlessly the poor one was dead before she touched the water!”

  “Aw, Doc, ye don’t mean to say you’re fallin’ for that theory?” Costello protested. “It’s true she mightn’t ’a’ been drowned, but th’ coroner said death was due to shock induced by—”

  De Grandin waved him aside impatiently, keeping his gaze fixed intently on Everett. “Do you know any reason she might have had for self-destruction, mon vieux?” he demanded.

  “No, sir—none whatever. She and Bill were secretly married at Hacketstown last Christmas Eve. They’d been keeping it dark till Bill got his promotion—it came through last week, and they were going to tell the world last Sunday. You see, they couldn’t have concealed it much longer.”

  “Ah?” de Grandin’s narrow brows elevated slightly. “And they were happy together?”

  “Yes, sir! You never saw a spoonier couple in your life. Can you imagine—”

  “Tiens, my friend,” the Frenchman interrupted with one of his quick, elflsh grins, “you would be surprised at that which I can imagine. Howeverly, let us consider facts, not imaginings.” Rising, he began pacing the floor, ticking off his data on his fingers as he marched. “Let us make a précis:

  “Here we have two young women, one in love, though married—the other in love and affianced. They fail to keep an appointment; it is not till the day following that their car is discovered, and it is found in such position as to indicate a wreck, yet nowhere near it is sign of injury to its passengers. Alors, what do we find? The frock of one of the young ladies, neatly folded beside her shoes, and stockings upon a rock near the Shaminee Falls. In the river, some miles below, next day is found the floating corpse of the other girl—and the circumstances point conclusively that she did not drown. What now? The mishap to the car occurred a half-mile from the river, yet the young women were able to walk to the stream where one of them cast herself in fully clothed; the other is supposed to have disrobed before immersing herself.

  “Non, non, my friends, the facts, they do not make sense. Women kill themselves for good reasons, for bad reasons, and for no reasons at all, but they do it characteristically. Me, I have seen ropes wherewith despondent females have strangled themselves, and they have wrapped silken scarves about the rough hemp that it might not bruise their tender necks. Tiens, would a delicately nurtured girl strip herself to the rude March winds before plunging into the water? I think not.”

  “So do I,” rumbled Costello’s heavy voice in agreement. “Th’ way you put it, Dr. de Grandin, sor, makes th’ case crazier than ever. Faith, there’s no sense to it from beginnin’ to end. I think we’d better be callin’ it a day an’ acceptin’ th’ coroner’s decision.”

  “Zut!” de Grandin returned with a smile. “Are you then so poor a poker player, mon sergent? Have you not learned the game is never over until the play is done? Me, I shall give this matter my personal attention. I am interested, I am fascinated, I am intrigued.

  “To your home, Monsieur Wilberding,” he ordered. “When I have some word for you, you will hear from me. Meantime do not despair.”

  “TROWBRIDGE, MON VIEUX,” DE Grandin greeted next morning when I joined him in the dining-groom, “I am perplexed; but yes, I am greatly puzzled; I am mystified. Something has occurred since last night which may put a different face upon all. Consider, if you please: Half an hour ago I received a telephone call from the good Costello. He tells me three more young women have disappeared in a manner so similar to that of Monsieur Wilberding’s sweetheart as to make it more than mere coincidence. At the residence of one Monsieur Mason, who resides in West Fells, there was held a meeting of the sorority to which his daughter belongs. Many young women attended. Three, Mesdemoiselles Weaver, Damroche and Hornbury, drove out in the car of Mademoiselle Weaver. They left the Mason house sometime after midnight. At six o’clock this morning they had not returned home. Their alarmed parents notified the police, and”—he paused in his restless pacing, halting directly before me as he continued—“a state dragoon discovered the motor in which they rode lying on its side, mired in the swamps beside the Albemarle Road, but of the young women no trace could be found. Figure to yourself, my friend. What do you make of it?”

  “Why—” I began, but the shrill stutter of the office ’phone cut my reply in two.

  “Allo?” de Grandin called into the transmitter. “Yes, Sergeant, it is I—grand Diable! Another? You do not tell me so!”

  To me be almost shouted as be slammed the receiver back into its hook: “Do you hear, my friend? It is another! Sarah Thompford, an employee of Braunstein frères’ department store, left her work at half-past five last evening, and has been seen no more. But her hat and cloak were found upon the piers at the waterfront ten little minutes ago. Nom d’un choufleur, I am vexed! These disappearances are becoming epidemic. Either the young women of this city have developed a sudden mania for doing away with themselves or some evil person attempts to make a monkey of Jules de Grandin. In either case, my friend, I am aroused. Mordieu, we shall see who shall laugh in whose face before this business of the fool is concluded!”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked, striving to keep a straight face.

  “Do?” he echoed. “Do? Parbleu, I shall investigate, I shall examine every clue, I shall leave no stone unturned, but”—he sobered into sudden practicality as Nora McGinnis, my household factotum, entered the dining-room with a tray of golden-brown waffles—“first I shall eat breakfast. One can accomplish little on an empty stomach.”

  A WIDESPREAD, THOUGH FORTUNATELY MILD, epidemic of influenza kept me busy in office and on my rounds all day. Rainy, fog-bound darkness was approaching as I turned toward home and dinner with a profound sigh of thankfulness that the day’s work was done, only to encounter fresh disappointment.

  “Trowbridge, Trowbridge, mon vieux,” an excited voice hailed as I was waiting for the crosstown traffic lights to change and let me pursue my homeward way, “draw to the curb; come with me—I have important matters to communicate!” Swathed from knees to neck in a waterproof leather jacket, his Homburg hat pulled rakishly down over his right eye and a cigarette glowing between his lips, Jules de Grandin stood at the curb, his little blue eyes dancing with excited elation.

  “Name of a little blue man!” he swore delightedly as I parked my motor and joined him on the sidewalk; “it is a fortunate chance, this meeting; I was about to telephone the office in hopes you had returned. Attend me, my friend, I have twisted my hand in the tail of something of importance!”

  Seizing my elbow with a proprietary grip, he guided me toward the illuminated entrance of a café noted for the excellence of its food and its contempt of the XVIIIth Amendment, chuckling with suppressed delight at every step.

  “The young Monsieur Wilberding was undoubtlessly right in his surmises,” he confided as we found places at one of the small tables and he gave an order to the waiter. “Parbleu, what he lacked in opportunity of observation he made up by the prescience of affection,” he continued, “for there can be no doubt that Madame Mazie was the victim of murder. Regardez-vous: At the police laboratories, kindly placed at my disposal through the offices of the excellent Sergeant Costello, I examined the tattered remnants of the frock they took from the poor girl’s body when they fished her from the river, and I did discover what the coroner, cocksure of his suicide theory, had
completely overlooked—a small, so tiny stain. Hardly darker than the original pink of the fabric it was, but sufficient to rouse my suspicions. Alors, I proceeded to shred the chiffon and make the benzidine test. You know it? No?

  “Very good. A few threads from the stained area of the dress I placed upon a piece of white filter paper; thereafter I compounded a ten percent solution of benzidine in glacial acetic acid and mixed one part of this with ten parts of hydrogen peroxide. Next, with a pipette I proceeded to apply one little, so tiny drop of the solution to the threads of silk, and behold! a faint blue color manifested itself in the stained silken threads and spread out on the white filter paper. Voilà, that the stain of my suspicion had been caused by blood was no longer to be doubted!”

  “But mightn’t this bloodstain have been caused by an injury to Mazie’s body as it washed over the falls?” I objected.

  “Ah bah,” he returned. “You ask that, Friend Trowbridge? Pardieu, I had looked for better sense in your head. Consider the facts: Should you cut your finger, then immediately submerge it in a basin of water, would any trace of blood adhere to it? But no. Conversely, should you incise the skin and permit even one little drop of blood to gather at the wound and to dry there to any extent, the subsequent immersion of the finger in water would not suffice to remove the partly clotted blood altogether. Is it not so?

  “Très bon. Had a sharp stone cut poor Madame Mazie, it would undoubtlessly have done so after she was dead, in which case there would have been no resultant hemorrhage; but even if a wound had been inflicted while she lived, bethink you of her position—in the rushing water, whirled round and round and over and over, any blood which flowed would instantly have been washed away, leaving no slightest stain on her dress. Non, my friend there is but one explanation, and I have found it. Her gown was stained by blood before she was cast into the river. Recall: Did not poor young Monsieur Wilberding inform us the car in which she rode was found a half-mile or more from the river? But certainly. Suppose, then, these girls were waylaid at or near the spot where their car was found, and one or both were done to death. Suppose, again, Madame Mazie’s life-blood flowed from her wound and stained her dress while she was in transit toward the river. In that case her dress would have been so stained that even though the foul miscreants who slew her cast her poor, broken body into the water, there would remain stains for Jules de Grandin to find today. Yes, it is so.