“Ah!” cried Moris Klaw, in a species of fanatic rapture, “look at the blood!”
We stood in the ancient banqueting hall of Crespie. By a distant door I could see a policeman on duty. A ghostly silence was the marked feature of the place. Klaw’s harsh, rumbling voice echoed eerily about that chamber sacred to the shades of departed Crespies.
Isis Klaw stood beside her father. They were a wildly incongruous couple. The girl looked down at the bloodstained flooring with the calm scrutiny of an experienced criminologist.
“This spot must be alive with odic impressions,” she said, softly.
A local officer, who formed one of the group, stared uncomprehendingly. Moris Klaw instinctively turned to him.
“You stare widely, my friend!” he said. “It is clear you know nothing of the psychology of crime! Let me, then, enlighten you. First: all crime”--he waved one long hand characteristically--“operates in cycles. Its history repeats itself, you understand. Second: thoughts are things. One who dies the violent death has, at the end, a strong mental emotion--an etheric storm. The air--the atmosphere--retains imprints of that storm.”
“Indeed!” said the officer.
“Yes, indeed! I shall not sleep in this place--as is my usual custom in such inquiries. Why? Because I am afraid of the shock of experiencing such an emotion as was this late Heidelberger’s! Ah! you are dense as a bull! Once, my bovine friend, I slept upon a spot in desolate Palestine where a poor woman had been stoned to death. In my dreams those merciless stones struck me! Upon the head and the face they crashed! And I was helpless--bound--as was the unhappy one who for her poor little sins had had her life crushed from her tender body!”
He ceased. No one spoke. In such moments, Moris Klaw became a magician; a weaver of spells. The most unimpressionable shuddered as though the strange things which this strangest of men told of, lived, moved, before their eyes. Then--
“Yonder is the ax, sir,” said the local man, with a sudden awed respect.
Klaw walked over to where the huge battle-ax stood against a post of the gallery.
“Try to lift it, Mr. Klaw,” said Grimsby. “It will give you some idea of what sort of man the murderer must have been! I can’t raise it upright by the haft with one hand.”
Moris Klaw seized the ax. Whilst Grimsby, the local man and myself stared amazedly, he swung it about his head as one swings an Indian club! He struck with it--to right--to left; he laid it down.
“My father has a wrist of steel!” came the soft voice of Isis. “Did you not know that he was once a famous swordsman?”
Klaw removed his hat, took out the scent spray and bathed his forehead with verbena.
“That is a man’s ax!” he said. “Isis, what do we know of such an ax? We, who have so complete a catalogue of such relics?”
Isis Klaw produced from her bag a bulky notebook.
“It is the third one,” she replied, calmly, passing the open book to her father; “the one we thought!”
“Ah,” rumbled Klaw, adjusting his pince-nez, “‘Black Geoffrey’s’ ax!” He turned again to Palmer, the local officer. “All such antiques,” he said, “have histories. I collect those histories, you understand. This ax was carried by ‘Black Geoffrey,’ a very early Crespie, in the first Crusade. It slew many Saracens, I doubt not. But this does not interest me. In the reign of Henry VIII we find it dwelt, this great ax, at Dyke Manor, which is in Norfolk. It was not until Charles II that it came to Crespie Hall. And what happened at Dyke Manor? One Sir Gilbert Myerly was slain by it! Who wielded it? Patience, my friends! All is clear to me! What a wonderful science is the Science of Cycles!”
Behind the pebbles his eyes gleamed with excitement. It seemed as though his notes (how obtained I was unable to conjecture) had furnished him with a clue; although to me they seemed to have not the slightest bearing upon the case.
“Now, Mr. Grimsby,” continued Moris Klaw: “In a few words, what is the evidence against Ryder, the butler?”
“Well,” was the reply, “you will note where the ax used to hang, up there before the rail of the minstrels’ gallery. The theory is that the murderer rushed up, wrenched the ax from its fastening----”
“Theories, my friend,” interrupted Moris Klaw, “are not evidence!”
Isis gazed at Mr. Grimsby with a smile. He looked embarrassed.
“Sorry!” he said, humbly. “Here are the facts, then. In the right hand of the dead man was an open pocket knife. It is assumed---- Sorry! Several spots of blood were found on the knife. Do you want to see it?”
Moris Klaw shook his head.
“It has been ascertained,” continued Grimsby, “that Ryder went out at eight o’clock on the night of the murder and didn’t return until after ten. He was interrogated. Listen to this, Mr. Klaw, and tell me why I haven’t arrested him! He admitted that he was the man who rang the bell; he admitted being closeted with Heidelberger in the library; and he admitted that he was in the hall when the Jew met his death!”
“Good!” said Moris Klaw. “And he is still at large?”
“He is! He’s made no attempt to run away. I had his room searched, and found a light coat with both sleeves bloodstained! He had a cut on his left hand such as might be caused by the slash of a pocket knife! He said he had caught his hand on a door-latch, but blankly declined to say what he was doing here on the night of the murder! Yet, I didn’t arrest him! Why?”
“Why?” said Moris Klaw. “Tell me.”
“Because I didn’t think it feasible that a man of his age could wield that ax--and I hoped to use Ryder as a trap to catch his accomplice!”
“Ah! clever!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “French, Mr. Grimsby! Subtle! But you have just seen what a poor old fool can do with that ax!”
I have never observed a man so suddenly lose faith in himself as did Grimsby at those words. He flushed, he paled; he seemed to become speechless.
“Tell me, Mr. Grimsby,” said Klaw, “what does the suspected man do that is suspicious? What letters does he write? What letters does he receive?”
“None!” replied the now angry Grimsby. “But he visits Doctor Madden, in Uxley, every day.”
“What for, eh?”
“The doctor says the interviews are of a purely professional nature, and I can’t very well suspect a man in his position!”
“You have done two silly things,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “You have wasted much time in the matter of Ryder, and you have accepted, unquestioned, the word of a doctor. Mr. Grimsby, I have known doctors who were most inspired liars!”
“Then you are of opinion----”
Klaw raised his hand.
“It is Doctor Madden we shall visit,” he said. “This Ryder cannot escape us. Isis, my child, I need not have troubled you. This is so simple a case that we need no ‘mental negatives’ to point out to us the culprit!”
“Mr. Klaw----” began Grimsby, excitedly.
“My friend,” he was answered, “I shall make a few examinations and then we shall be off to Uxley. The assassin returns to London with us by the 3:45 train!”
