Chapter II.The Crooked CrossThere fell a silence for a moment—a silence in which the housekeeper moved nervously over to a near-by chair. Carter's air of boredom had vanished, and a quick look passed between his English friend and himself; a glance which held until the English police officer slowly nodded his head. Then came Carter's cool voice, with the suggestion that we might go to the summer house and see if Warren was there.Carter must have known the way, for as we came out of the house to the lawn, he turned to follow a graveled path which led away to the right. It ran between two high box hedges, so high that we could not see over them. Then it passed through an old-fashioned garden, only in the end to run in a winding fashion up a small hill—a hill covered with many trees, and which had upon it a stone building.When the housekeeper had spoken of the summer house, I had pictured the usual small wooden building; but the place we were approaching was not of wood, nor for that matter was it small. Instead of being what I had expected, it was one of those curious eight-sided buildings which you find once in a while in central New York. And it was the size of the usual small house.It stood upon the very top of the hill, with a small but very well kept lawn before it. Ivy climbed over its sides, and a small piazza was directly in front of us. When we went upon the veranda, I saw that it gave the best view that I had seen during the day. The lake lay only a few hundred feet away, seemingly at our very feet. Far away the mountains faded away in the growing darkness; but we gave but a glance at the view, turning to the door before us.It had been a rather warm day, and for that matter it was still warm; but the great oak door in front of us was closed, and the near-by window, which was set very high, was closed also. There was no bell, though upon the door was the most curious knocker that I had ever seen. I raised the copper devil's head which formed the knocker and let it fall. Then we waited for some one to respond.We knocked again and again, and even shouted. But no reply came from within. Without a word Carter made a gesture, and we followed him around the eight sides of the building. On each side was a large window, but placed about eight feet above the ground; windows with small panes of leaded glass, so high that one could not look within; and windows which were shut. In the rear we found another door, also locked, and though we knocked upon it, it was of no avail.Back again at the veranda, we stood a moment in thought. After all, there did not seem to be anything else we could do. That Warren was not in his library was, of course, the only logical thing to believe. If he had been, he would not have had the doors and the windows locked upon such a warm evening. The odd thing was that we should be invited to dinner and no host appeared to receive us.I suggested to Carter that we had better return to the house, and then go home. He listened a moment, gave one reflective glance at the lake, and then turned to look at the closed door before us. Then, with a slight frown on his face, he said:“Perhaps you're right, Pelt. Yet it's very queer that Warren invited us to dinner and left us in the lurch like this. He must have gone away.”“Carter,” came Ranville's voice, “is Warren the sort of man who would invite a guest to dinner and then run off without a word?”His friend shook his head. “Far from it; of course, Warren does just about as he pleases. But he was very urgent about our coming. Still, he was writing his account of his discoveries in China in his library, and he might have forgotten the passing of time.”“Maybe,” drawled Ranville, “but then when it began to grow dark he would know it was late. And besides, that building is locked. The door is closed, the windows down. He would not work in the dark without lights, and it is dark now.”“That is all true,” was Carter's retort. “But what would you do? We cannot smash a man's door down simply because he did not turn up to meet his dinner guests. We had better go back to the house.”But when we reached the house, it was only to find the same situation as when we left. Not only had the owner not returned, but the housekeeper, who met us at the front door, was even more excited than before. Her round face was flushed, and when she led us into the living room, her fingers shook so much that it was a second or so before she could turn on all the lights.Carter told her that we had been to the summer house, but had seen or heard nothing of Warren. He added that the doors and windows were closed. Then he laughed and said there was no doubt Mr. Warren had been called to town, and had forgotten all about the fact we were to have been his guests. He no sooner stopped speaking, when the woman started, and there was no question that she placed very little faith in what Carter had said.She told us that if Mr. Warren had gone to town, he would have come to the house for his coat. He worked in a light summer suit, which he never wore to town. And the coat of the suit was hanging on a rack in the hall. Not only that, he never walked if he could ride. And his two cars were in the garage. And then came the statement which surprised us. She paused for a moment, only to suddenly cry:“I am afraid of that Chinaman.”There came a startled look from Ranville, and he asked in a surprised voice: “What Chinaman?”In a voice which showed all the distrust and fear that country women have of foreigners she replied:“There was a Chinaman who came to the door before six o'clock. He asked for Mr. Warren, and I showed him how to get to the library. He wore a white suit and spoke English pretty good. But I did not like his face; and ever since he came here I have been afraid—”She paused, her face twitching with emotion, then said:“As Mr. Warren had not come back to the house, I went to the library just before you came. I knocked and knocked on the door. But no one answered. I had called up on the 'phone, but there was no reply. And when I knocked, or just before I knocked the first time, I thought I heard some one inside. But after I had pounded on the door there was not a sound.”Suddenly her voice broke and, giving us an appealing look, she asked if we would not go back to the library and break open one of the windows, so we could get within. There was no doubt she was afraid something had happened to Warren. When she finished speaking, there was just one response. It came from Ranville.“I think we better do as she says, Carter,” was all he said.At these words the woman ran from the room, returning in a moment with two flashlights, which she gave us. She half started to follow us from the piazza, and then, as if thinking better of her resolution, stopped by the door. As we went down the steps to the ground, our last sight was the housekeeper, standing in the open door with the light from the hall streaming out into the night.It was now dark. As we retraced our steps, the high hedges on each side of the path caused the walk to appear like a black tunnel. Above our heads we could catch a glimpse of the stars, and could hear the faint rustle of the branches of the trees. For some reason no one spoke, nor for that matter did we hurry.Climbing the slight hill, we approached the building, which loomed a dark mass before us. On the veranda we paused for a second, and then the darkness was split by the sudden ray from Carter's flashlight. We tried the door again, but it was still locked, and there came no response to our knock. The window was six or seven feet above our heads, and to reach it some one would have to do a little climbing.As I was the lightest, they proposed to lift me from the floor to the ledge of the window. If I found it was locked, I was to break the glass, lift the window, and climb into the room. Ranville gave me his hand, and I reached the sill. Balancing myself on the narrow ledge, I tried to peer into the room, but it was a dense black shadow of gloom. Nothing could be distinguished, and though I waited a second, the only sound to come to my ears was the wind in the branches of the near-by trees.Trying the window, I found it locked. Then Carter reached up to me the second flashlight, and without turning it on I broke the glass with the heavy end. The glass fell with a tinkling sound to the floor, and slipping my hand through the hole, I turned the catch and lifted the window. As I did this, I dropped the flashlight, which fell with a thud within the room. Hesitating a second, I dropped into the library and fumbled on the floor for the flashlight.I found it without any trouble and, putting on the catch, played the light hastily around the room. Just what I expected to see I cannot say; but the brief sweep which I made over the floor and the walls revealed nothing. The room evidently took in the entire house, and the walls showed only long lines of books, and a gallery which ran around the eight sides. In the center was a large desk, the surface littered with books and papers. But of Warren there was not a trace.Turning the light to the door, I found the spring lock was on. It took but a second to fling the door open, and Carter and Ranville slipped within. The same question was on both faces, and I slowly shook my head in reply. Carter's first words were for me to find the switch for the lights. The button was near the door, and, pressing it, the room in an instant was a blaze of light.The room was octagonal in shape, with a window placed high on each of the sides. The wall space was filled with bookcases, and there must have been many thousand volumes. A gallery at a height of around twelve feet ran completely around the room. Even this was filled with books. The furniture was simple. Near the door stood a safe, and there were a number of stands in various corners. But in the center of the room was the largest desk I had ever seen—a huge affair made out of an old-fashioned square piano—with its surface littered with books and papers. Near it stood a typewriter stand, with the machine uncovered. And then, suddenly, we saw something else—something which drove all other thoughts from our minds. Peering from behind the desk was a foot—a foot which did not move.We must have seen it at the same moment, for Carter's hand gripped my arm, and for a second we stood silent. Then without a word slowly we went across the floor, knowing what we would find. Though we were sure what was behind the desk, yet it came as a shock. For there, lying on his back upon the floor—with both arms outstretched from the body—lay a man. A man to whom the dinner waiting in the big house would never matter; and it needed but a glance to know that death had come suddenly—and violently.As Ranville's eyes and mine met, they framed the same question. It was Carter who spoke the two words:“It's Warren.”The scientist was a man of about fifty, and perhaps a little over that age. The face was self-willed, and the lines around the distorted lips were stern. Though past middle life, his hair was a dense black, without a sign of gray, and there was not a white hair in the close-cropped mustache. One could tell by his figure that he had been a man of the strongest physique. He was dressed in a light summer suit, without a coat, and upon the white shirt, just over the heart, was a crimson stain.Carter dropped on his knees and made a hasty examination. In a second he turned and pointed with his finger at the dark stain upon the white shirt. Then as he straightened up we saw something else—something we had overlooked. It was a sheet of paper. Evidently it had fallen off the body, though perhaps it had been placed by its side. A piece of bond paper with but five letters—large letters, evidently written with a hurried hand, the beginning of an incompleted word:—ANANI—There had been little conversation, for we were too upset by what we had found. But the piece of paper puzzled us. That Warren had been stabbed there was no doubt; but what the paper meant we could not tell. The letters seemed to mean nothing, and we were not sure that they had anything to do with the crime. For a moment we puzzled over it, and then my eyes wandered again to the still figure upon the floor. As I glanced at it, I gave a sudden start and dropped to my knees for a closer look. And then—then, after one glance, I gave a startled cry.For there upon the forehead of the murdered man were two faint lines—lines now swollen and red. Not very long lines, nor for that matter very noticeable, but lines which I could not understand. There upon the forehead of the famous scientist were two faint lines cut into the skin. A cross—the lines of which had just been made. Cut faintly, I judged, with a knife. A cross—the lines now red and swollen, and a crooked cross at that.
There fell a silence for a moment—a silence in which the housekeeper moved nervously over to a near-by chair. Carter's air of boredom had vanished, and a quick look passed between his English friend and himself; a glance which held until the English police officer slowly nodded his head. Then came Carter's cool voice, with the suggestion that we might go to the summer house and see if Warren was there.
Carter must have known the way, for as we came out of the house to the lawn, he turned to follow a graveled path which led away to the right. It ran between two high box hedges, so high that we could not see over them. Then it passed through an old-fashioned garden, only in the end to run in a winding fashion up a small hill—a hill covered with many trees, and which had upon it a stone building.
When the housekeeper had spoken of the summer house, I had pictured the usual small wooden building; but the place we were approaching was not of wood, nor for that matter was it small. Instead of being what I had expected, it was one of those curious eight-sided buildings which you find once in a while in central New York. And it was the size of the usual small house.
It stood upon the very top of the hill, with a small but very well kept lawn before it. Ivy climbed over its sides, and a small piazza was directly in front of us. When we went upon the veranda, I saw that it gave the best view that I had seen during the day. The lake lay only a few hundred feet away, seemingly at our very feet. Far away the mountains faded away in the growing darkness; but we gave but a glance at the view, turning to the door before us.
It had been a rather warm day, and for that matter it was still warm; but the great oak door in front of us was closed, and the near-by window, which was set very high, was closed also. There was no bell, though upon the door was the most curious knocker that I had ever seen. I raised the copper devil's head which formed the knocker and let it fall. Then we waited for some one to respond.
We knocked again and again, and even shouted. But no reply came from within. Without a word Carter made a gesture, and we followed him around the eight sides of the building. On each side was a large window, but placed about eight feet above the ground; windows with small panes of leaded glass, so high that one could not look within; and windows which were shut. In the rear we found another door, also locked, and though we knocked upon it, it was of no avail.
Back again at the veranda, we stood a moment in thought. After all, there did not seem to be anything else we could do. That Warren was not in his library was, of course, the only logical thing to believe. If he had been, he would not have had the doors and the windows locked upon such a warm evening. The odd thing was that we should be invited to dinner and no host appeared to receive us.
I suggested to Carter that we had better return to the house, and then go home. He listened a moment, gave one reflective glance at the lake, and then turned to look at the closed door before us. Then, with a slight frown on his face, he said:
“Perhaps you're right, Pelt. Yet it's very queer that Warren invited us to dinner and left us in the lurch like this. He must have gone away.”
“Carter,” came Ranville's voice, “is Warren the sort of man who would invite a guest to dinner and then run off without a word?”
His friend shook his head. “Far from it; of course, Warren does just about as he pleases. But he was very urgent about our coming. Still, he was writing his account of his discoveries in China in his library, and he might have forgotten the passing of time.”
“Maybe,” drawled Ranville, “but then when it began to grow dark he would know it was late. And besides, that building is locked. The door is closed, the windows down. He would not work in the dark without lights, and it is dark now.”
“That is all true,” was Carter's retort. “But what would you do? We cannot smash a man's door down simply because he did not turn up to meet his dinner guests. We had better go back to the house.”
But when we reached the house, it was only to find the same situation as when we left. Not only had the owner not returned, but the housekeeper, who met us at the front door, was even more excited than before. Her round face was flushed, and when she led us into the living room, her fingers shook so much that it was a second or so before she could turn on all the lights.
Carter told her that we had been to the summer house, but had seen or heard nothing of Warren. He added that the doors and windows were closed. Then he laughed and said there was no doubt Mr. Warren had been called to town, and had forgotten all about the fact we were to have been his guests. He no sooner stopped speaking, when the woman started, and there was no question that she placed very little faith in what Carter had said.
She told us that if Mr. Warren had gone to town, he would have come to the house for his coat. He worked in a light summer suit, which he never wore to town. And the coat of the suit was hanging on a rack in the hall. Not only that, he never walked if he could ride. And his two cars were in the garage. And then came the statement which surprised us. She paused for a moment, only to suddenly cry:
“I am afraid of that Chinaman.”
There came a startled look from Ranville, and he asked in a surprised voice: “What Chinaman?”
In a voice which showed all the distrust and fear that country women have of foreigners she replied:
“There was a Chinaman who came to the door before six o'clock. He asked for Mr. Warren, and I showed him how to get to the library. He wore a white suit and spoke English pretty good. But I did not like his face; and ever since he came here I have been afraid—”
She paused, her face twitching with emotion, then said:
“As Mr. Warren had not come back to the house, I went to the library just before you came. I knocked and knocked on the door. But no one answered. I had called up on the 'phone, but there was no reply. And when I knocked, or just before I knocked the first time, I thought I heard some one inside. But after I had pounded on the door there was not a sound.”
Suddenly her voice broke and, giving us an appealing look, she asked if we would not go back to the library and break open one of the windows, so we could get within. There was no doubt she was afraid something had happened to Warren. When she finished speaking, there was just one response. It came from Ranville.
“I think we better do as she says, Carter,” was all he said.
At these words the woman ran from the room, returning in a moment with two flashlights, which she gave us. She half started to follow us from the piazza, and then, as if thinking better of her resolution, stopped by the door. As we went down the steps to the ground, our last sight was the housekeeper, standing in the open door with the light from the hall streaming out into the night.
It was now dark. As we retraced our steps, the high hedges on each side of the path caused the walk to appear like a black tunnel. Above our heads we could catch a glimpse of the stars, and could hear the faint rustle of the branches of the trees. For some reason no one spoke, nor for that matter did we hurry.
Climbing the slight hill, we approached the building, which loomed a dark mass before us. On the veranda we paused for a second, and then the darkness was split by the sudden ray from Carter's flashlight. We tried the door again, but it was still locked, and there came no response to our knock. The window was six or seven feet above our heads, and to reach it some one would have to do a little climbing.
As I was the lightest, they proposed to lift me from the floor to the ledge of the window. If I found it was locked, I was to break the glass, lift the window, and climb into the room. Ranville gave me his hand, and I reached the sill. Balancing myself on the narrow ledge, I tried to peer into the room, but it was a dense black shadow of gloom. Nothing could be distinguished, and though I waited a second, the only sound to come to my ears was the wind in the branches of the near-by trees.
Trying the window, I found it locked. Then Carter reached up to me the second flashlight, and without turning it on I broke the glass with the heavy end. The glass fell with a tinkling sound to the floor, and slipping my hand through the hole, I turned the catch and lifted the window. As I did this, I dropped the flashlight, which fell with a thud within the room. Hesitating a second, I dropped into the library and fumbled on the floor for the flashlight.
I found it without any trouble and, putting on the catch, played the light hastily around the room. Just what I expected to see I cannot say; but the brief sweep which I made over the floor and the walls revealed nothing. The room evidently took in the entire house, and the walls showed only long lines of books, and a gallery which ran around the eight sides. In the center was a large desk, the surface littered with books and papers. But of Warren there was not a trace.
Turning the light to the door, I found the spring lock was on. It took but a second to fling the door open, and Carter and Ranville slipped within. The same question was on both faces, and I slowly shook my head in reply. Carter's first words were for me to find the switch for the lights. The button was near the door, and, pressing it, the room in an instant was a blaze of light.
The room was octagonal in shape, with a window placed high on each of the sides. The wall space was filled with bookcases, and there must have been many thousand volumes. A gallery at a height of around twelve feet ran completely around the room. Even this was filled with books. The furniture was simple. Near the door stood a safe, and there were a number of stands in various corners. But in the center of the room was the largest desk I had ever seen—a huge affair made out of an old-fashioned square piano—with its surface littered with books and papers. Near it stood a typewriter stand, with the machine uncovered. And then, suddenly, we saw something else—something which drove all other thoughts from our minds. Peering from behind the desk was a foot—a foot which did not move.
We must have seen it at the same moment, for Carter's hand gripped my arm, and for a second we stood silent. Then without a word slowly we went across the floor, knowing what we would find. Though we were sure what was behind the desk, yet it came as a shock. For there, lying on his back upon the floor—with both arms outstretched from the body—lay a man. A man to whom the dinner waiting in the big house would never matter; and it needed but a glance to know that death had come suddenly—and violently.
As Ranville's eyes and mine met, they framed the same question. It was Carter who spoke the two words:
“It's Warren.”
The scientist was a man of about fifty, and perhaps a little over that age. The face was self-willed, and the lines around the distorted lips were stern. Though past middle life, his hair was a dense black, without a sign of gray, and there was not a white hair in the close-cropped mustache. One could tell by his figure that he had been a man of the strongest physique. He was dressed in a light summer suit, without a coat, and upon the white shirt, just over the heart, was a crimson stain.
Carter dropped on his knees and made a hasty examination. In a second he turned and pointed with his finger at the dark stain upon the white shirt. Then as he straightened up we saw something else—something we had overlooked. It was a sheet of paper. Evidently it had fallen off the body, though perhaps it had been placed by its side. A piece of bond paper with but five letters—large letters, evidently written with a hurried hand, the beginning of an incompleted word:
—ANANI—
—ANANI—
There had been little conversation, for we were too upset by what we had found. But the piece of paper puzzled us. That Warren had been stabbed there was no doubt; but what the paper meant we could not tell. The letters seemed to mean nothing, and we were not sure that they had anything to do with the crime. For a moment we puzzled over it, and then my eyes wandered again to the still figure upon the floor. As I glanced at it, I gave a sudden start and dropped to my knees for a closer look. And then—then, after one glance, I gave a startled cry.
For there upon the forehead of the murdered man were two faint lines—lines now swollen and red. Not very long lines, nor for that matter very noticeable, but lines which I could not understand. There upon the forehead of the famous scientist were two faint lines cut into the skin. A cross—the lines of which had just been made. Cut faintly, I judged, with a knife. A cross—the lines now red and swollen, and a crooked cross at that.