The Devil's Rosary

by Seabury Quinn

  Near the piano, where the lamplight fell upon her, stood the high priestess of the cult, Raymond’s “Holy Child,” and despite my preconceived prejudices, I felt forced to admit the cub had good excuse for his infatuation.

  Her extremely décolleté gown of black velvet, entirely devoid of ornamentation, clung to her magnificent figure like the drapery to the Milo Venus and set off her white arms and shoulders in startling contrast. Above the pearl-white expanse of bosom and throat, the perfectly molded shoulders and beautifully turned neck, her face was set like an ivory ikon in the golden nimbus of her hair. She was tall, beautifully made and supple as a mountain lioness. A mediæval master-painter would have joyed in her physical perfection, but assuredly he would not have painted her with a child at her breast or an aureole surrounding her golden head. No, her beauty was typical of the world, the flesh, and the franker phases of love.

  Her upper lip was fluted at the corners as if used to being twisted in a petulant complaint against fate, and her long amber eyes slanting upward at the corners like an Asiatic’s, were cold and hard as polished topaz; they seemed to be constantly appraising whatever they beheld. She might have been lovely, as well as beautiful, but for her eyes, but the windows of her soul looked outward only; no one could gaze into them and say what lay behind.

  “Bout d’un rat mort,” whispered Jules de Grandin in my ear, “this one, she is altogether too good-looking to be entirely respectable, Friend Trowbridge!”

  The slow smile with which she greeted Raymond as he bowed almost double before her somehow maddened me. “You poor devil,” it seemed to say, “you poor, witless, worshipping Caliban; you don’t amount to much, but what there is of your body and soul that’s worth having is mine—utterly mine!” Such a smile, I thought, Circe might have given the poor, fascinated man-hogs wallowing and grunting in adoring impotence about her table. As for Raymond, plain, downright adulation brought the tears to his eyes as he all but groveled before her.

  As de Grandin and I were led forward for presentation I noted the figures flanking the priestess. They were a man and woman, and as unlovely a pair as one might meet in half a day’s walk. The man was like a caricature, bull-necked, bullet-headed, with beetling brows and scrubby, bristle-stiff hair growing low above a forehead of bestial shallowness. Though his face was hard-shaven as an actor’s or a priest’s, no overlay of barber’s powder could hide the wiry, beard which struggled through his skin. His evening clothes were well tailored and of the finest goods, but somehow they failed to fit properly, and I had a feeling that a suit of stripes would have been more in place on him.

  The woman was like a vicious-minded comic artist’s conception of a female politician, short, stocky, apparently heavy-muscled as a man and enormously strong, with a wide, hard mouth and pugnaciously protruding jaw. Her gown, an expensive creation, might have looked beautiful on a dressmaker’s lay figure, but on her it seemed as out of place as though draped upon a she-gorilla.

  These two, we were made to understand, were the priestess’ parents.

  Estrella herself spoke no word as de Grandin and I bowed before her, nor did she extend her hand. Serene, statue-still, she stood to receive our mumbled expressions of pleasure at the meeting with an aloofness which was almost contemptuous.

  Only for a fleeting instant did her expression change. Something, perhaps the gleam of mockery which lurked in de Grandin’s gaze, hardened her eyes for a moment, and I had a feeling that it would behoove the little Frenchman not to turn his back on her if a dagger were handy.

  Raymond hovered near his divinity while de Grandin and I proceeded to the next room, where a long sideboard was loaded with silver dishes containing dried fruits, nut-kernels and raisins. The Frenchman sampled the contents of a dish, then made a wry face. “Name of the Devil,” he swore, “such vileness should be prohibited by statute!”

  “Well?” I asked, nodding questioningly toward the farther room.

  “Parbleu, no; it is far from such!” he answered. “Of Mademoiselle la Prêtreuse I reserve decision till later, but her sire and dam—mordieu, were I a judge I should find them guilty of murder if they came before me on a charge of chicken-theft! Also, my friend, though their faith may preclude the use of cooked or animal food, unless Jules de Grandin’s nose is a great liar, there is nothing in their discipline which forbids the use of liquor, for both of them breathe the aroma of the gin-mill most vilely.”

  Somewhat later the meeting assumed a slightly more sociable aspect, and we were able to hold a moment’s conversation with the prophetess.

  “And do you see visions of the ineffable, Mademoiselle?” de Grandin asked earnestly. “Do you behold the splendor of heaven in your ecstasies?”

  “No,” she answered coldly, “my revelations come by symbols. Since I was a little girl I’ve told my dreams to Mother, and she interprets them for me. So, when I dreamed a little while ago that I stood upon a mountain and felt the wind blowing about me, Mother went into her silence and divined it portended we should journey East to save the people from their sins, for the mountain was the place where we then lived and the wind of my dream was the will of the Divine All, urging me to publish His message to His people.”

  “And you believe this?” de Grandin asked, but with no note of incredulity in his tone.

  “Of course,” she answered simply. “I am the latest avatar of the Divine All. Others have come before—Buddha, Mithra, Mohammed, Confucius—but I am the greatest. By woman sin came upon mankind; only by woman can the burden be lifted again. These others, these male hierophants, showed but a part of the way; through me the whole road to everlasting happiness shall be made plain.

  “Even when I was a tiny baby the beasts of the field—even the poison serpents of the desert—did reverence to the flame of divinity which burns in me!” She placed her hand proudly on her bosom as she spoke.

  “You remember these occasions of adoration?” de Grandin asked in a sort of awed whisper.

  “I have been told—my Mother remembers them,” she returned shortly, as she turned away.

  “Grand Dieu,” de Grandin murmured, “she believes it, Friend Trowbridge; she has been fed upon this silly pap till she thinks it truth!”

  All through the evening we had noticed that the guests not only treated Estrella with marked respect, but that they one and all were careful not to let themselves come in contact with her, or even with her clothes. Subconsciously I had noted this, but paid no particular attention to it till it was brought forcibly to my notice.

  Among the guests was a little, homely girl, an undersized, underfed morsel of humanity who had probably never in all her life attracted a second glance from anyone. Nervous, flutteringly attentive to the lightest syllable let fall by the glorious being who headed the cult, she had kept as close to Estrella as was possible without actually touching her, and as we were preparing to take our departure she came awkwardly between Timothy Hudgekins and his daughter.

  Casually, callously as he might have brushed an insect from his sleeve, the man flipped one of his great, gnarled hands outward, all but oversetting the frail girl and precipitating her violently against the prophetess.

  The result was amazing. Making no effort to recover her balance, the girl slid to the floor, where she crouched at Estrella’s feet in a perfect frenzy of abject terror. “Oh, your Sublimity,” she cried, and her words came through blenched lips on trembling breath, “your High Sublimity, have pity! I did not mean it; I know it is forbidden to so much as touch the hem of your garment without permission, but I didn’t mean it; truly, I didn’t! I was pushed, I—I—” her words trailed away to soundlessness, and only the rasping of her terrified breath issued from her lips.

  “Silence!” the priestess bade in a cold, toneless voice, and her great topaz eyes blazed with tigerish fury. “Silence, Sarah Couvert. Go—go and be forever accursed!”

  It was as though a death-sentence had been pronounced. Utter stillness reigned in the room, broken only by the h
eart-broken sobs of the girl who crouched upon the floor. Every member of the cult, as though actuated by a common impulse, turned his back upon her, and weeping and alone she left the room to find her wraps.

  Jules de Grandin would have held her costly evening cloak for her, but she gestured him away and left the apartment with her face buried in her handkerchief.

  “SANG DU DIABLE, MY friend, look at this, regardez-vous!” cried de Grandin next morning at breakfast as he thrust a copy of the morning paper across the table.

  COUVERT HEIRESS A SUICIDE

  I read in bold-faced type:

  The body of Miss Sarah Couvert, 28, heiress to the fortune of the late Herman Couvert, millionaire barrel manufacturer, who died in 1919, was found in the river near the Canal street bridge early this morning by Patrolman Aloysius P. Mahoney. The young woman was in evening dress, and it was said at her house when servants were questioned that she had attended a party last night at the apartment of Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Hudgekins in the Granada. When she failed to return from the merrymaking her housekeeper was not alarmed, she said, as Miss Couvert had been spending considerable time away from home lately.

  At the Hudgekins apartment it was said Miss Couvert left shortly before eleven o’clock, apparently in the best of spirits, and her hosts were greatly shocked at learning of her rash act. No reason for her suicide can be assigned. She was definitely known to be in good health.

  Then followed an extended account of the career of the genial old Alsatian cooper who had amassed a fortune in the days before national Prohibition decreased the demand for kegs and barrels. The news item ended:

  Miss Couvert was the last of her family, her parents having both predeceased her and her only brother, Paul, having been killed at Belleau Wood in 1918. Unless she left a will disposing of her property, it is said the entire Couvert fortune will escheat to the state.

  Reaching into his waistcoat pocket de Grandin removed one of the gold coins which, with the Frenchman’s love for “hard money,” he always carried.

  “This bets the Couvert fortunes are never claimed by the Commonwealth of New Jersey, Friend Trowbridge.” he announced, ringing the five-dollar piece on the hot-water dish cover.

  He was justified in his wager. Two weeks later, Sarah Couvert’s will was formally offered for probate. By it she left substantial amounts to all her servants, bequeathed the family mansion and a handsome endowment as a home for working-girls, and left the residuum of the estate, which totaled six figures, to her “dear friend, Estrella Hudgekins.”

  3

  AN UNDERSIZED INDIVIDUAL WITH ears which stood so far from his head that they must have proved a great embarrassment on a windy day perched on the extreme forward edge of his chair and gazed pensively at the top of the brown derby clutched between his knees. “Yes, sir,” he answered de Grandin’s staccato questions, “me buddy an’ me have had th’ subject under our eye every minute since you give th case to th’ chief. He wuz to his lawyer’s today an’ ordered a will drawn, makin’ Miss Hudgekins th’ sole legatee; he called her his feeancy.”

  “You’re sure of this?” de Grandin demanded.

  “Sure, I’m sure. Didn’t I give th’ office boy five bucks to let me look at a carbon copy o’ th’ rough draft o’ th’ will for five minutes? That sort o’ information comes high, sir, an’ it’ll have to go in on th’ expense account.”

  “But naturally,” the Frenchman conceded. “And what of the operative at the Hotel Granada, has she forwarded a report?”

  “Sure.” The other delved into his inner pocket, ruffled through a sheaf of soiled papers, finally segregated a double sheet fastened with a wire clip. “Here it is. Th’ Hudgekinses have been holdin’ some sort o’ powwow durin’ th’ last few days; sent th’ chicken away to th’ country somewhere, an’ been doin’ a lot o’ talkin’ an’ plannin’ behind locked doors. Number Thirty-Three couldn’t git th’ drift o’ much o’ th’ argument, but just before th’ young one wuz packed off she heard th’ old woman tell her that her latest dream meant Raymond—by which I take it she meant th’ young feller we’ve been shadderin’—has been elected—no, ‘selected’ wuz th’ word—selected to perform th’ act o’ supreme adoration, whatever that means.”

  “Morbleu, I damn think it means no good!” de Grandin ejaculated, rising and striding restlessly across the room. “Now, have you a report from the gentleman who was to investigate Miss Stiles’ case?”

  “Sure. She wuz buried by Undertaker Martin, th’ coroner, you know. Her maid found her dead in bed, an’ rang up Dr. Replier, who’d been attendin’ her for some time. He come runnin’ over, looked at th’ corpse, an’ made out a certif’cate statin’ she died o’”—he paused to consult his notebook—“o’ cardiac insufficiency, whatever that is. Coroner Martin wanted a autopsy on th’ case, but on account o’ th’ old lady’s social prominence they managed to talk him out o’ it.”

  “H’m,” de Grandin commented non-committally. “Very good, my excellent one, your work is deserving of highest commendation. Should new developments arise, you will advise me at once if you please.”

  “Sure,” the detective promised as he rose to leave.

  “For heaven’s sake, what’s it all about?” I demanded as the door closed behind the visitor. “What’s the idea of having Raymond Glendower and this girl trailed by detectives as if they were criminals?”

  “Ha,” he laughed shortly. “The young Glendower is a fool for want of judgment; of the young Mademoiselle, I do not care yet to say whether she be criminal or not. I hope the best but fear the worst, my friend.”

  “But why the investigation of Miss Stiles’ death? If Replier said she died of cardiac insufficiency, I’m willing to accept that vague diagnosis at face value; he’s able, and he’s honest as the day is long. If—”

  “And therefore he is as likely to be hoodwinked as your own trustful self, mon vieux,” the little Frenchman interjected. “Consider, if you please:

  “The young Glendower, anxious to impress us with the importance of the converts to this new religion of his, tells us what concerning the death of the old Mademoiselle Stiles? That she died in the very moment of performing ‘the act of supreme adoration.’

  “Very good. What says the evidence gathered by my men? That she died in her bed at home—at least she was found dead there by her maidservant. Somewhere there is a discrepancy, my friend, a most impressive one. What this act of adoration may be I do not know, nor do I at present very greatly care, but that the excellent deceased lady performed it in her death-bed I greatly doubt. No, my friend, I think she died elsewhere and was taken to her home that she might be found dead in her own bed, and her decease therefore considered natural. The fact that she had been ailing of a heart affection for some time, and under treatment by the good Dr. Replier, made the deception so much easier.”

  “But this is fantastic!” I objected. “We’ve not one shred of evidence on which to base this theory, and—”

  “We have a great sufficiency,” he contradicted, “and more will be forthcoming anon. Meantime, if only—”

  A vigorous ring at the front doorbell, seconded by a shrill whistle, interrupted him. “Special delivery for Dr. de Grandin,” the boy informed me as I answered the summons.

  “Quickly, Friend Trowbridge, let me see!” the Frenchman cried as I took the letter from the messenger.

  “Ah, parbleu,” he glanced quickly through the document, then turned to me triumphantly, “I have them on the hip, my friend! Regard this, if you please; it is the report of the Charred Detective Agency’s San Francisco branch. I entrusted them with the task of tracing our friend’s antecedents. Read it, if you please.”

  Taking the paper, I read:

  HUDGEKINS, TIMOTHY, alias Frank Hireland, alias William Faust, alias Pat Malone, alias Henry Palmer.

  Description: Height 5 feet 8 inches, weight 185 pounds, inclined to stoutness, but not fat, heavily muscled and very strong. Hair, black mixed with gray, very coarse a
nd stiff. Face broad, heavy jaw, arms exceptionally long for his height. Eyes gray.

  Was once quite well known locally as a prizefighter, later as strong-arm man and bouncer in waterfront saloons. Arrested and convicted numerous times for misdemeanors, chiefly assault and battery. Twice arrested for robbery, but discharged for lack of evidence. Tried on charge of murder (1900) but acquitted for insufficient evidence.

  Convicted, 1902, for badger game, in conspiracy with Susanna Hudgekins (see report below), served two years in San Quentin Prison.

  Apparently reformed upon release from prison and secured job with railroad as laborer. Industrious, hard worker, well thought of by superiors there. Left job voluntarily in 1910. Not known locally since.

  HUDGEKINS, SUSANNA, alias Frisco Sue, alias Annie Rooney, alias Sue Cheney, wife of above.

  Description: Short, inclined to stoutness, but very strong for female. Height 5 feet 4 inches, weight about 145 pounds. Hair brown, usually dyed red or bleached. Face broad, very prominent jaw. Eyes brown.

  This party was waitress and entertainer in number of music halls prior to marriage to Timothy Hudgekins (see above). Maiden name not definitely known, but believed to be Hopkins. Arrested numerous times for misdemeanors, chiefly drunkenness and disorderly conduct, several times for assault and battery. Was co-defendant in robbery and murder cases involving her husband, as noted above, Acquitted for lack of evidence.

  Convicted, 1902, with Timothy Hudgekins, on charge of operating a badger game. Served 1 year in State Reformatory.

  Apparently reformed upon discharge from prison. Accompanied husband on job with railroad. Disappeared with him in 1910. Not known locally since.