“So to that old and very wicked house we went and on the very night of our arrival comes Mademoiselle Marguerite the second praying shelter from the storm and those miscreants who have wounded her.
“Anon there comes that Monsieur Claude intent on frightening us away, but I am not deceived and shoot him dead as a herring. He dies, and in that same hour his son is born. Thus by accident or design the old doom falls on him.
“What I did not know at the time was that the lady we had rescued was a lineal descendant of that Marguerite DuPont whose body we have come to accord Christian burial. Remember how it is recorded that she bore a son to wicked old Monsieur Joshua. That son assumed his mother’s name, since craven cowardice had caused his father to disown him.
“At first the scandal of his birth hung on him like a dirty cloak, but those were stirring times, the freedom of a people trembled in the balance, and men were measured more by deeds than by paternity. From out the crucible of war came Joshua DuPont a hero, and later he became a leading citizen of Woolwich. His progeny retained his virtues, and the family which he founded now ranks with that from which he sprang. DuPont is now an honoured name in Woolwich.
“This much I learned by discreet inquiry; what I could not know, because my eyes were everywhere but where they should have been, was that the hatred of the ancestors offered no bar to the love of their descendants, Parbleu, that Monsieur Cupid, he shoots his arrows where he damn pleases, and none may say him nay!
“Today, when the last gasp of dying hatred would have overwhelmed Friend Edwin, Mademoiselle Marguerite does battle with her ancestress for the life of him she loves and—how is it the Latin poet sings?—Amor omnia vincit—love conquers all, including family curses. Yes. I am very happy, me.” He drew a handkerchief from his cuff and dabbed at his eyes.
HALF AN HOUR AGO de Grandin and I returned from the pretty home Edwin and Marguerite Phipps have built in Harrisonville. This afternoon their first-born son, Edwin de Grandin Phipps, aetatis six months and five days, was christened with all the ceremony ordained by the Book of Common Prayer, with Jules de Grandin and me for godfathers. There was much to eat and more to drink attendant on the function, and I regret to say my little friend returned in a condition far removed from that approved by the good ladies of the W.C.T.U.
Seated on the bed, one patent leather shoe removed, he gazed with mournful concentration at the mauve-silk sock thus exposed. “I wonder if she sometimes thinks of me,” he murmured. “Does she dream within the quiet of her cloister of the days we wandered hand in hand beside the River Loire?”
“Who?” I demanded, and he looked up like a man awakened from a dream.
“My friend,” he answered solemnly, “Je suis ivre comme un porc—me, I am drunk like a pig!”
The Drums of Damballah
1
“AND SO, GOOD FRIENDS, I bid you Happy New Year.” Jules de Grandin replaced his demitasse on the Indian mahogany tabouret beside his easy chair and turned his quick, elfin smile from Detective Sergeant Costello to me.
“Thanks, old chap,” I returned, taking the humidor which Costello had been eyeing wistfully ever since we adjourned to the drawing-room for coffee and passing it toward him.
The big Irishman selected one of the long, red-and-gold belted Habanas and fondled it between his thick, capable fingers. “Sure, Dr. de Grandin, sor,” he muttered, “’tis meself that wishes th’ same to you, an’ many more of ’em, too.”
“Eh bien, my friend,” de Grandin bit a morsel of pink peppermint wafer and held it daintily between his teeth as he sipped a second draft of the strong black coffee, “you do not appear in harmony with the season. Tell me, are you not happy at the New Year?”
“Yeah,” Costello returned as he struck a match and set his cigar alight, “I got lots o’ cause to be happy right now, sor. Happy like it wuz me own wake I’m goin’ to. To tell ye th’ truth, sor,” he added, turning serious blue eyes on the little Frenchman, “’tis Jerry Costello that’ll be lucky if he ain’t back in uniform, poundin’ a beat before th’ New Year’s a month old.”
“Parbleu, do you tell me?” de Grandin demanded, his smile vanishing. “How comes it?”
Costello puffed moodily at his cigar. “There’s been hell poppin’ around the City Hall for th’ last couple o’ weeks,” he returned, “an’ they’ve got to make a example o’ someone, so I reckon old Jerry Costello’s elected.”
“Eh, you are in trouble? Tell me, my friend; I am clever, I can surely help you.”
The big detective gazed moodily at the fire. “I only wish ye could, sor,” he answered slowly, “but I’m afraid ye can’t. There’s been more devilment goin’ on in town th’ last two weeks than I ever seen in a year before, an’ there ain’t no reason for any of it. I just can’t make head nor tail of it, an’ th’ mayor an’ th’ newspapers is ravin’ their heads off about police inefficiency. Lookit this, for example: Here’s young Mr. Sherwood, just th’ slip of a lad he is, right out o’ divinity school. First thing he does when he gits ordained is to open a little chapel over in th’ East End, workin’ night an’ day amongst th’ poor folks. He gits th’ men to lay off th’ gin an’ razors, an’ even bulls some of ’em into going to work instead o’ layin’ around all day an’ lettin’ their women support ’em. That’s th’ kind o’ lad he wuz; fine an’ good enough to be a priest—God forgive me for sayin’ it! An’ what happens? Why, just last week they find him in th’ little two-by-four room he used for a study wid his head all bashed in an’ his Bible torn to shred an’ th’ pieces layin’ all around th’ place.
“All right, sor, that’s th’ first, but it ain’t th’ last. That same night th’ little Boswell gur-rl—as pritty a bit o’ wee babyhood as ye ever seen—she disappears. Th’ nurse has her out in th’ park, ye understand, an’ is hurryin’ home, for it’s turnin’ dark, an’ right while she’s passin’ th’ soldiers’ monument, out pops someone an’ swipes her over th’ head so hard she’s laid up for three days wid concussion o’ the brain.
“We searched high an’ low for th’ little one; but never hide nor hair o’ her do we find. Rewards are posted, an’ th’ papers is full of it; but no one steps up to claim th’ money. ’Twarn’t no ordinary kidnapin’, either, for whoever stole her tried his level best to kill th’ nurse at th’ time, an’ would ’a done it, too, if she hadn’t been one o’ them old fashioned gur-rls wid long hair piled on top o’ her head, so’s th’ coil of it broke th’ force o’ the blackjack he hit her wid.
“An’ lissen here, sor: ’Twas on th’ same night some dirty bums breaks into St. Rose’s Church an’ steals a crucifix from one o’ th’ altars—bad cess to ’em!
“Now, crimes is like ’most everything else: they don’t happen just because, sor. There’s got to be some motive back of ’em. That’s what’s makin’ a monkey out o’ me in these cases. Nobody had anything agin th’ pore young preacher. He didn’t have a relative, much less an enemy in th’ world, as far as we could find out, an’ as for money, if he’d ’a’ had two nickels to jingle together, he’d ’a’ been out givin’ one of ’em to some worthless, no-account darky to buy food or coal oil, or sumpin’ like that. It couldn’t ’a’ been an enemy that kilt him, an’ it couldn’t ’a’ been robbery yet there he wuz, cold an’ still, wid his head mashed in like a busted punkin an’ his Bible all torn to scraps.”
“Ah?” de Grandin sat forward in his chair, his little, round eyes narrowed to slits as he gazed intently at the big policeman. “Say on, my friend; I think, perhaps, I see some sense to these so senseless crimes, after all.”
Costello gave him an astonished look as he continued: “We might set pore Mr. Sherwood’s murder down to some crazy man, sor, and we might think Baby Boswell was just kidnapt by someone who wuz holdin’ her for ransom, waitin’ till her parents gits even more discouraged before he puts in his bid for money; but who th’ divil would want to burglarize a church? An’ why didn’t they break open th’ pore box while they wuz about
it, ’stead o’ stealin’ just one little brass crucifix? I tell ye, sor, there ain’t no reason to none of it; an’ I can’t make head nor tail—”
“Yo’re wanted on th’ tellyphone, Dr. Trowbridge, sor,” announced Nora McGinnis, my household factotum, thrusting her head through the drawing-room door and casting a momentary glance of unqualified approval toward the towering bulk of Sergeant Costello.
“Dr. Trowbridge?” an agitated voice called in response to my curt “Hello?”
“Can you come over to Mrs. Sherbourne’s at once, please? One of the guests has fainted, and—”
“All right,” I cut in, hanging up the receiver, “I’ll be right over.
“Want to come?” I called to de Grandin and Costello. “There’s a fainting woman over at Sherbourne’s, and they seem to need a licensed practitioner to administer aromatic ammonia. Come along, Sergeant; a drive in the air may cheer you up.”
THE OLD YEAR WAS dying hard as we drove toward the Sherbourne mansion. A howling wind, straight from the bay, tore through the deserted streets, flinging sheets of razor-sharp sleet against the windshield and overlaying the pavement with a veneer of gleaming, glass-smooth ice. Though our destination was a scant quarter-mile away, we were upward of half an hour covering the course, and I swore softly as I descended from the car, feeling certain that the young woman had long since recovered from her swoon and we had had our freezing drive for nothing.
My apprehensions proved unfounded, however, for a frightened hostess met us in the hall and conducted us to the upper room where her unconscious guest lay upon the snowy counterpane, an eiderdown quilt thrown lightly over her and a badly demoralized maid struggling ineffectually to force a hastily-mixed dose of aromatic spirit between her blanched lips.
“We’ve tried everything,” Mrs. Sherbourne twittered nervously as de Grandin and I entered the room; “aromatic spirit and sal volatile don’t seem the least good, and—”
“When did the young mademoiselle swoon, and where, if you please?” de Grandin cut in softly, slipping out of his fur-lined greatcoat and taking the unconscious girl’s thin, lath-like wrist between his fingers.
“Just before we called you,” our hostess replied. “She seemed in the highest spirits all evening, singing, playing the old-fashioned games, dancing—oh, she was having an awfully good time. Just a little while ago, when Bobby Eldridge wanted someone to do the tango with him, she was the first to volunteer. The music had hardly started when she fell over in a heap, and we can’t bring her to. It wasn’t till all the home-made remedies had failed that I called you, Dr. Trowbridge,” she added apologetically.
“U’m,” de Grandin consulted his watch, comparing its ticks with the girl’s pulsation. “She has eaten unwisely this evening, perhaps?”
“No. She hasn’t eaten anything. That’s the queer part of it. Everyone was eating and—I’m sorry to say—drinking considerably, too. We have to serve liquor to keep the young people satisfied since prohibition, you know. But Adelaide didn’t touch a thing. I asked her if she were unwell, and she assured me she wasn’t, but—”
“Precisely, Madame,” de Grandin dropped the girl’s wrist and rose with a business-like gesture. “If you will be so good as to leave us alone a moment, I think we shall revive Mademoiselle Adelaide without great difficulty.” To me he whispered as our hostess withdrew:
“I think it is another case of foolish pursuit of the slender figure, Friend Trowbridge. This poor one seems half starved, to me, and—barbe d’un chat, what is this?” As he broke off he seized my hand and guided it to the unconscious girl’s solar plexus.
Beneath the flimsy chiffon of her party frock I felt the hard, unyielding stiffness of a—corset.
“Morbleu,” de Grandin chuckled. “Not content with starving herself to the thinness of an eel, the poor foolish one must needs encase herself in a corset so tight her breath can not find room to fill her lungs. Come, let us extricate her.”
Deftly as though he had served as lady’s maid all his life, he undid the fastenings of the girl’s frock, laid back the silken folds and leaned above her to unloose the corset-hooks which bound her torso; but:
“Sacré nom d’un poisson aveugle, what in damnation’s name have we here?” he demanded sharply. From hips to breast the girl was tightly bound in a corselet of some coarse, fibrous substance, irritant as the hair shirt of a Carmelite nun, and sewn upon the scarifying garment was a crazy patchwork of red, black and checkered cloth, not arranged in orderly or symmetrical design, but seemingly dropped at random, then fastened where it fell.
“S-o-o-o?” the little Frenchman let his breath out slowly between his teeth. “What connection has this one with this devilish business of the monkey which has so puzzled our good friend—
“Quick, my friend,” he ordered, turning sharply to me, “bring up the good Costello, at once, right away, immediately. Do not delay; it is important.”
Bewildered, I descended the stairs, hailed the sergeant from my waiting car and led him to the room where de Grandin waited.
“Très bon,” the little Frenchman nodded as we entered. “Do you stand by the door, cher sergent; display your badge prominently. Now, Friend Trowbridge, let us to work!”
Drawing a tiny gold-handled pocket-knife from his waistcoat, he slit the queer-looking corset lengthwise and drew it from the girl’s slim body, inviting my attention to the network of deep, angry scratches inflicted by the raw fiber on her tender white skin as he did so. “Now—” he put a wide-mouthed vial of smelling-salts to her nostrils, waited till her lids fluttered slightly, then seized the half filled glass of aromatic spirit and held it to her mouth.
The girl half choked as the restorative passed her lips, then put a thin, blue-veined hand up, pushing the glass from her. “I”—she stammered sleepily—“where am—oh, I must have fainted. Did anyone—you mustn’t undo my dress—you mustn’t, I tell you! I won’t have—”
“Mademoiselle,” de Grandin’s usually suave voice grated unpleasantly as he cut through her hysterical words, “your gown has already been unloosed. This gentleman”—he indicated Costello with a nod—“is of the police. I have summoned him, and here he remains until you have given satisfactory answers to my questions. Upon your replies depends whether he leaves this house alone or—” He paused significantly, and the girl’s dark hazel eyes widened in terror.
“Wha—what do you want?” she faltered.
“Await us in the hall, if you please, my sergeant,” de Grandin bade; then, as the door closed behind the big policeman: “First of all, you will please tell us how comes it that you wear this so odious thing.” He touched the patchwork-covered corset with the tip of his forefinger, gingerly, as though it had been a venomous reptile.
“It—it was a bet, a silly, foolish wager,” she returned. “I wore it tonight just to prove I could stand the irritation a whole evening.” She paused looking questioningly at the Frenchman’s stern-set face to note the effect of her explanation; then, with sudden vehemence: “You’ve got to believe me,” she almost screamed. “It’s the truth, the truth, the truth!”
“It is a lie, and a very clumsy one, in the bargain,” de Grandin shot back. “Come, Mademoiselle, the truth, if you please; we are not to be trifled with.”
The girl gazed back defiantly. She was thin as almost fleshless bones could make her, yet gracefully built, and her long, oval face had that tantalizing pale olive complexion which in certain types of woman proclaims abundant health as surely as florid coloring does in others. Her deep hazel eyes, tragic with terror, turned questioningly toward the window, then the door beyond which Costello waited, and finally came to rest on de Grandin’s glowing blue orbs. “I—won’t—tell—” she began with deliberate emphasis; then, “Oh!” The interruption was half cry, half gasp, and came simultaneously with the crashing clatter of broken glass.
Shattered to a dozen fragments, one of the small panes of the bedroom window fell inward on the margin of hardwood floor bordering
the Persian rug, and the girl wilted forward as though pushed from behind, then slid back with a slow, twisting motion, one hand fluttering upward toward her breast like a wounded white bird vainly trying to regain its nest.
Two inches below and slightly to the right of the gentle swell of her left bosom the hard, polished haft of a dagger protruded, and on the flimsy chiffon of her frock there spread with terrifying rapidity a ruddy, telltale stain. She was dead before we could ease her back upon the pillows.
“On guard, Sergent, close the doors, permit none to enter and none to leave!” de Grandin shouted, leaping to the window and tearing open the sash. “Call the station, have a cordon of police thrown round the house—another murder has been done, but by the beard of a bullfrog, the guilty one shall not escape!”
The big Irishman took charge with characteristic efficiency. Under his energetic guidance the guests and servants were gathered in the main drawing-room; within five minutes a siren shrieked its strident warning and a police car deposited a squad of uniformed men at the Sherbourne door. Assisted by powerful hand-searchlights brought from the station house, we scoured every inch of the grounds surrounding the mansion, and while a police stenographer stood by with pencil and notebook, Costello interrogated one after another of the horrified merrymakers. Half an hour’s work convinced us we were up a blind alley. Not a hint or track of footprint showed on the hard-frozen sleet covering the lawn and encasing the tall poplar tree which stood beside the window through which the deadly missile had been hurled; not a guest at the party, nor a servant in the house, had left the building for a moment since de Grandin’s shouted warning rang through the night; nowhere was there even the shadow of a clue at which the finger of suspicion could be pointed.
The Devil's Rosary Page 38