Egyptian Cross Mystery (13 page)

Harakht went directly to his altar, as if safety lay there, and disregarding his visitors he raised knotted fleshless arms to the sky and began to mumble in a strange tongue.

Ellery looked inquiringly at Professor Yardley, who stood, tall and ugly, listening intently a foot away. “Extraordinary,” muttered the Professor. “The man is an anachronism. To hear a twentieth-century human being speak in ancient Egyptian …”

Ellery was astonished. “Do you mean to say that this man actually knows what he’s talking about?”

Yardley smiled sadly, and whispered: “The man is insane. But he had good reason to go insane, and as for the genuineness of his speech … He calls himself Ra-Harakht. Actually he is—or was—one of the world’s great Egyptologists!”

The sonorous words rolled on. Ellery shook his head.

“I meant to tell you,” whispered the Professor, “but I really haven’t had a moment with you alone. I recognized him the instant I saw him—which was a few weeks ago, when I rowed out to the Island on a purely curiosity-satisfying exploration. … Curious story. His name is Stryker. He suffered a horrible sunstroke while excavating in the Valley of the Kings years ago, and never recovered. Poor chap.”

“But—speaking ancient Egyptian!” protested Ellery.

“He’s intoning a priestly prayer to Horus—in the hieratic language. This man,” said Yardley soberly, “was the real thing, please understand. Naturally, he’s addled now, and his memory isn’t what it should be. His lunacy has garbled everything he ever knew. There’s nothing like this room, for example, in an Egyptological sense. Conglomerate—the sistrum and cows’ horns are sacred to Isis, the uraeus is the symbol of the godhead, and there’s Horus floating about. As for the fixtures, the wooden slabs where, I suppose, the worshipers recline during services, his own Biblical turn of speech …” The Professor shrugged. “It’s all been thrown together out of his imagination and the wreckage of his brain.”

Harakht lowered his arms, took an odd censer from a recess of the altar, sprinkled his eyelids, and then descended from the rostrum quietly. He was even smiling, and he seemed more rational.

Ellery regarded him with newborn vision. Insane or not, the man as an authentic figure became a totally different problem. The name Stryker, now that he masticated it in his memory, raised a faint flavor of recollection. Years ago, when he had been in preparatory school … Yes, it was the same man he had read about. Stryker the Egyptologist! Mumbling a language dead for centuries …

Ellery turned to find Hester Lincoln, attired in a brief skirt and sweater, facing them from a low doorway on the opposite side of the altar room. Her plain face, white though it was, showed a steely determination. She did not look at Dr. Temple, but walked across the room to stand openly by Paul Romaine’s side. Her hand took his. Surprisingly, he turned beet red and edged a step away.

Dr. Temple smiled.

Inspector Vaughn was not to be sheered off by trifles. He strode up to Stryker, who was standing quietly regarding his inquisitors, and said: “Can you answer a few simple questions?”

The madman inclined his head. “Ask.”

“When did you leave Weirton, West Virginia?”

The eyes flickered. “After the rite of
kuphi
five moons ago.”

“When?”
shrieked Vaughn.

Professor Yardley coughed. “I think I can tell you what he’s trying to say, Inspector. The rite of
kuphi,
as he calls it, was practiced by the ancient Egyptian priests at sunset. It consisted of an elaborate ceremony in which
kuphi,
a confection made of some sixteen ingredients—honey, wine, resin, myrrh and so on—was mixed in a bronze censer while the holy writings were read. Naturally, he’s referring to a similar ceremony held five moons ago at sunset—January, of course.”

It was as Inspector Vaughn nodded and Stryker smiled gravely at the Professor that Ellery let loose a resonant bellow that made them all jump.

“Krosac!”

His eyes were bright as he watched the sun god and his business manager.

Stryker’s smile vanished, and the muscles about his mouth began to twitch. He cringed toward his altar. Romaine was unmoved; rather astonished, from his expression.

“I’m sorry,” drawled Ellery. “I get that way sometimes. Proceed, Inspector.”

“Not so dumb,” grinned Vaughn. “Harakht, where is Velja Krosac?”

Stryker wet his lips. “Krosac … No, no! I do not know. He has deserted the shrine. He has run away.”

“When did
you
tie up with this goof?” demanded Isham, leveling his forefinger at Romaine.

“What’s all this Krosac business?” growled Romaine. “All I know is I met up with the old man in February. Seemed as if he had a good idea.”

“Where was this?”

“Pittsburgh. Looked like a swell opportunity to me,” continued Romaine with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Of course, all this”—he lowered his voice—“this bunk about sun gods … It’s good stuff for the yokels but the only thing I’m interested in is getting people to take their stinking clothes off and get into the sun. Look at me!” He inhaled deeply and his magnificent chest rose like a balloon. “I’m not sick, am I? That’s because I let the beneficial rays of the sun get at my skin and under my skin. …”

“Oh can it,” said the Inspector. “I know the line, the usual sales talk. I’ve been wearing clothes since I jumped out of my cradle, and I could twist you around my little finger. How’s it happen that you came here, to Oyster Island?”

“You could, could you?” Romaine’s back swelled. “Well, cop or no cop, suppose you try it some time! I’d—”

“It was arranged,” shrilled Stryker anxiously.

“Arranged?” Isham frowned. “By whom?”

Stryker retreated. “It was arranged.”

“Ah, don’t listen to him!” snarled Romaine. “When he gets stubborn, you can’t get a sensible word out of him. When I joined up with him, he said the same thing. It was arranged—to come to Oyster Island.”

“Before you became his—er—fellow-divinity, eh?” asked Ellery.

“That’s right.”

They seemed to have arrived at a dead end. It was evident that, mad or not, the sunstruck Egyptologist could not be prevailed upon to divulge another coherent thought. Romaine knew, or professed to know, nothing about the events of six months before.

Inquiry revealed the information that there were twenty-three nudists living on the Island, most of them from New York City, who had been attracted to this doubtful Arcadia by adroit newspaper advertisements and Romaine’s personal missionary work. Their transportation was provided from the local railroad station; taxicabs brought them to a public landing on the farther boundary of Dr. Temple’s estate; and Ketcham, the owner of the Island, ferried them across in an ancient dory for a small consideration.

Old Man Ketcham, it appeared, lived with his wife on the eastern tip of the oyster.

Inspector Vaughn rounded up the sun god’s twenty-three shrinking neophytes of sun worship and nudism, and a badly frightened lot they were. Most of them, now that their excursion into the forbidden delights of nakedness was held up to the light of public investigation, seemed heartily ashamed of themselves; and several appeared in full regalia dragging hand luggage. But the Inspector grimly shook his head; no one was to leave the Island until he granted permission. He took their names and city addresses, smiling sardonically at the array of Smiths, Joneses, and Browns the pages of his notebook began to display.

“Any of you leave the Island yesterday?” demanded Isham.

A quick shaking of heads; no one, it seemed, had set foot on the mainland for several days.

The investigating party turned to go. Hester Lincoln still stood by Romaine’s side. Dr. Temple, who had patiently waited without once uttering a word, now said: “Hester, come along.”

She shook her head.

“You’re just being stubborn,” said Temple. “I know you, Hester. Be sensible—don’t stay here with this bunch of fakers, grafters, and inhibited morons.”

Romaine leaped forward. “What did you say?” he growled. “What did you call me?”

“You heard me, you fourflushing thickhead!” All the venom and baffled anger in the good doctor’s soul bubbled over; his right arm lashed out, and his fist struck Romaine’s jaw with a dull snick.

Hester stood frozen to the floor for a moment, and then her lips quivered. She turned and ran into the woods, sobbing convulsively.

Inspector Vaughn sprang; but Romaine, after a single instant of stupefaction, threw back his shoulders and laughed. “If that’s the best you can do, you little weasel …” His ears were fiery red. “I warn you, Temple; you stay away from here. If I catch you on this Island again, I’ll break every bone in your damned nosy body! Now get out.”

Ellery sighed.

D
ENSE AND DENSER FOG
. The “important” visit was over.

They left the Island in gloomy spirits. A maniac with the usual complement of cunning and incoherence; a dead trail to a vanished man … the mystery was deeper than ever. They all felt that in some way the presence in the vicinity of Bradwood of the man who called himself Harakht was significant. It could not be coincidence. Yet what possible connection could there be between the murder of a country schoolteacher and the murder of a millionaire hundreds of miles away?

The police launch sputtered out from the landing dock and headed east along the shore of Oyster Island, skirting the green-walled ribbon of beach. At the extreme eastern tip of the Island they saw a similar structure in the water.

“That must be Ketcham’s private slip,” said Vaughn. “Head in.”

The Island at this point was even more desolate than on the western side. From where they stood on the wooden platform they had an unobstructed view of the Sound and the New York shoreline to the north. It was windy, a salty spot.

Dr. Temple, much subdued, and Professor Yardley remained in the launch. District Attorney Isham, Vaughn, and Ellery rattled off the ramshackle landing and followed a crooked path through the woods. It was cool here, and except for the path—which looked as if it had been last trodden by Indian feet—they might have been in virgin forest. Within a hundred and fifty yards, however they came upon a rude evidence of civilization, a cabin constructed of years-tempered, roughly hewn logs. Seated on the doorstep, placidly smoking, a corncob, was a big sunbitten old man. He rose quickly as he saw his visitors, and his white-tufted eyebrows bunched over remarkably clear eyes.

“What might ye be doin’ here?” he demanded in an unfriendly drawl. “Don’t ye know this is private prop’ty, this whole Island?”

“Police,” said Inspector Vaughn succinctly. “You Mr. Ketcham?”

The old man nodded. “P’lice, hey? After them noodists, I’ll warrant. Well, y’ain’t got nothin’ on Mrs. Ketcham and me, gentlem’n. I jest own this here scoop o’ dirt. Ef my tenants been cuttin’ up, that’s their hard luck. I ain’t respon—”

“Nobody’s taking you to task,” snapped Isham. “Don’t you know there’s been a crime committed on the mainland—at Bradwood?”

“Ye don’t tell me!” Ketcham’s jaw dropped, and his pipe seesawed between two brown teeth. “Hear that, Maw?” He turned his head toward the interior of the cabin, and they could discern an old crone’s wrinkled face between his outstretched arm and the jamb of the door. “Been a crime over to Bradwood. … Well, well, ain’t that too bad. What’s it got to do with us?”

“Nothing—I hope,” said Isham darkly. “Thomas Brad’s been murdered.”

“Not Mr. Brad!” screamed an old feminine voice from the cabin; and Mrs. Ketcham popped her head out. “Ain’t that
awful!
Well, I allus said—”

“You git back in there, Maw,” said old Ketcham; his eyes were frosty. The old woman’s head vanished. “Well, gentlem’n, I ain’t what you might say s’prised t’ hear it.”

“Good!” said Vaughn. “Why?”

“Well, there’s been goin’s-on.”

“What do you mean? What kind of goings-on?”

Old Ketcham winked one eye. “Well, Mr. Brad an’ the loonatic”—he jerked a dirt-crusted thumb over his shoulder—“they been havin’ ruckuses ever since them people rented Oyst’r Island from me fer th’ summer season. I own this here Island, ye know. Fam’ly been here over four gen’rations. Since Injun days, I reckon.”

“Yes, we know that,” said Vaughn impatiently. “So Mr. Brad didn’t like the idea of Harakht and his bunch so close to him, eh? Did you—?”

“One moment, Inspector,” said Ellery; his eyes were bright. “Mr. Ketcham, who leased the Island from you?”

Ketcham’s corncob vomited yellow smoke. “Not th’ nutty feller. A man with a durned funny name. Foreign sort o’ name. Kro-sac.” He pronounced it with difficulty.

The three men exchanged glances. Krosac—a trail at last. The mysterious limping man of the Arroyo murder. …

“Did he limp?” asked Ellery eagerly.

“Seein’,” drawled Ketcham, “as I never seen him, I can’t say. Wait a minute; I got somethin’ ye might be int’rested in.” He turned and disappeared in the darkness of the cabin.

“Well, Mr. Queen,” said the District Attorney thoughtfully, “it looks as if you called the turn. Krosac … With Van an Armenian, and Brad a Roumanian—well, maybe not, but anyway certainly Central Europeans—and Krosac floating around somewhere after last being seen at the scene of the first crime … It’s hot, Vaughn.”

“Looks that way,” muttered the Inspector. “We’ll have to do something about that right away. … Here he comes.”

Old Ketcham reappeared, his face red with perspiration, triumphantly waving a dirty, much-fingermarked sheet of paper.

“This here letter now,” he said, “it come from this Krosac. Y’can see fer y’rselves.”

Vaughn snatched it from him, and Ellery and Isham examined it over his shoulder. It was a typewritten communication on a sheet of undistinguished stationery, dated October thirtieth of the previous year. It was answering, it said, an advertisement in a New York newspaper offering Oyster Island for summer rental. The writer was enclosing, the letter said, a money order for one hundred dollars as a binder until occupancy should be taken, which would be on March first following. The letter was signed—in type—Velja Krosac.

“The money order was enclosed, Mr. Ketcham?” said Vaughn quickly.