Egyptian Cross Mystery (3 page)

“Corpse is in something of a mess,” wheezed the Coroner. “After all, we couldn’t hold the inquest during Christmas Week, and it’s a good eight days. … Body’s been kept in our local undertaker’s parlor.”

Ellery steeled himself and removed the cloth which covered the corpse. It was a sickening sight, and he replaced the cloth quickly. The corpse was that of a large man. Where the head had been was nothing … a gaping hole.

On a table nearby lay a man’s garments: a sober dark gray suit, black shoes, a shirt, socks, underclothes—all stiff with faded blood. Articles taken from the dead man’s clothing—a pencil, a fountain pen, a wallet, a bunch of keys, a crumpled packet of cigarettes, some coins, a cheap watch, an old letter—proved, as far as Ellery could see, utterly uninteresting. Except for the fact that several of the objects were initialed
A V
and the letter—from a Pittsburgh bookstore—was addressed to
Andrew Van, Esq.,
there was nothing in them likely to be of importance to the inquest.

Stapleton turned to introduce a tall, bitten old man who had just entered and was staring at Ellery suspiciously. “Mr. Queen—District Attorney Crumit.”

“Who?” said Crumit sharply.

Ellery smiled, nodded, and returned to the inquest room.

Five minutes later Coroner Stapleton rapped with his gavel and the packed courtroom stilled. The customary preliminaries were hastily disposed of, and the Coroner summoned Michael Orkins to the witness stand.

Orkins lumbered down the aisle followed by whispers and eyes. He was a gnarled, bent old farmer burnt mahogany by the sun. He sat down nervously and folded his big hands.

“Mr. Orkins,” wheezed the Coroner, “tell us how you came to find the body of the deceased.”

The farmer licked his lips. “Yes, sir. Was comin’ into Arroyo Frid’y mornin’ last in my Ford. Jest b’fore I got t’ th’ Arroyo pike I seen Ol’ Pete, from up th’ mountain, trampin’ in th’ road. Give’m a lift. We come to th’ turnin’ o’ the road, an’—an’ there was th’ body, hangin’ on th’ signpost. Nailed, it was, by th’ hands, an’ feet.” Orkins’s voice broke. “We—we beat it lickety-split fer town.”

Someone tittered in the audience, and the Coroner rapped for silence. “Did you touch the body?”

“No, sir! We didn’t even git out o’ th’ car.”

“All right, Mr. Orkins.”

The farmer sighed gustily and pottered back up the aisle, mopping his brow with a large red kerchief.

“Er—Old Pete?”

There was a stir, and in the rear of the courtroom a queer figure rose. It was that of an erect old man with a bushy gray beard and overhanging eyebrows. He was dressed in tatterdemalion garments—a conglomeration of ancient clothing, torn, dirty, and patched. He shambled down the aisle, hesitated, then wagged his head and sat down in the witness chair.

The Coroner seemed nettled. “What’s your full name?”

“Hey?” The old man stared sidewise out of bright unseeing eyes.

“Your name! What is it—Peter what?”

Old Pete shook his head. “Got no name,” he declared. “Old Pete, that’s me. I’m dead, I am. Been dead twenty years.”

There was a horrified silence, and Stapleton looked about in bewilderment. A small alert-looking man of middle age, sitting near the Coroner’s dais, got to his feet “It’s all right, Mr. Coroner.”

“Well, Mr. Hollis?”

“It’s all right,” repeated the speaker in a loud voice. “He’s daffy, Old Pete is. Been that way for years—ever since he popped up in the hills. He’s got a shack somewhere above Arroyo, and comes in every couple of months or so. Does a little trappin’, I guess. Got pretty much the run of Arroyo. A regular character, Mr. Coroner.”

“I see. Thanks, Mr. Hollis.”

The Coroner swabbed his fat face, and the Mayor of Arroyo sat down in a murmur of approval. Old Pete beamed, and waved a dirty hand at Matt Hollis. … The Coroner continued brusquely. The man’s replies were vague, but enough was elicited to make formal confirmation of Michael Orkins’s story, and the hillman was excused. He shuffled back to his seat, blinking.

Mayor Hollis and Constable Luden recited their stories—how they had been roused out of bed by Orkins and Old Pete, how they had gone to the crossroads, identified the corpse, removed the spikes, carted the body off, stopped in at Van’s house, viewed the shambles there and the bloody T on the door. …

A fat, ruddy old German was called. “Luther Bernheim.”

He smiled, showed gold teeth, shook his belly, and sat down.

“You own the general store in Arroyo?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you know Andrew Van?”

“Yes, sir. He bought in my store.”

“How long were you acquainted with him?”

“Ach!
Many years. He was a good customer. He always paid in cash.”

“Did he purchase his groceries himself?”

“Sometimes. Mostly it was that Kling, his helper. But always he came himself to pay bills.”

“Was he friendly?”

Bernheim screwed up his eyes. “Well … yes, and no.”

“You mean he never got personal, was just pleasant?”

“Ja, ja.”

“Would you say Van was a peculiar man?”

“Hah? Oh, yes, yes. F’rinstance, always he ordered caviar.”

“Caviar?”

“Ja.
He was my only customer for it. I used to order special for him. All kinds—Beluga, red, but mostly the black, the best kind.”

“Mr. Bernheim, will you, Mayor Hollis, and Constable Luden step into the next room for a formal identification of the body.”

The Coroner left the stand, followed by the three Arroyo citizens, and there was a buzzing interlude until they returned. The good storekeeper’s red face was tinged with gray, and there was horror in his eyes.

Ellery Queen sighed. A schoolmaster in a village of two hundred souls ordering caviar! Perhaps Constable Luden was shrewder than he appeared; Van had evidently had a more lustrous past than his employment and environment indicated.

The tall spare figure of District Attorney Crumit strutted up to the stand. A little thrill ran through the audience. What had gone before was trifling; this was the beginning of revelations.

“Mr. District Attorney,” said Coroner Stapleton, leaning forward tensely, “have you investigated the background of the deceased?”

“Yes!”

Ellery slumped lower in his seat; he disliked the District Attorney with vigor, but there were bodings in Crumit’s frosty eye.

“Please relate what you have discovered.”

The District Attorney of Hancock County gripped the arm of the witness chair. “Andrew Van appeared in Arroyo nine years ago in answer to an advertisement for a village schoolteacher. His references and preparation were satisfactory, and he was hired by the Town Board. He came with the man Kling, his servant, and rented the house on Arroyo Road in which he lived until the time of his death. He performed his teaching duties satisfactorily. His conduct during his residence in Arroyo was above reproach.” Crumit paused impressively. “My investigators attempted to trace the man before his appearance in Arroyo. We have discovered that he had been a public-school teacher in Pittsburgh before coming to Arroyo.”

“And before that?”

“No trace. But he was a naturalized citizen of the United States, having been admitted to citizenship in Pittsburgh thirteen years ago. His papers, on file in Pittsburgh, give his nationality before naturalization as Armenian, born in 1885.”

Armenian! thought Ellery, nursing his chin behind the railing. Not far from Galilee … Peculiar thoughts raced through his head, and he dismissed them impatiently.

“You also investigated Kling, Van’s servant, Mr. District Attorney?”

“Yes. He had been a foundling, cared for by the St. Vincent’s Orphanage of Pittsburgh, and on reaching maturity he was employed by the orphanage in a man-of-all-work capacity. He lived there all his life. When Andrew Van resigned from the Pittsburgh public-school system and accepted the Arroyo appointment, he visited the orphanage and signified his desire to employ a man. Kling had been agreeable, it seems, Van investigated him scrupulously, expressed himself as satisfied, and the two men went to Arroyo, where they remained until the time of Van’s death.”

Ellery wondered lazily what motives might impel a man to resign a berth in a metropolis like Pittsburgh to accept one in a hamlet like Arroyo. A criminal record, desire to hide from the police? Improbable; concealment came in large cities, not in hamlets. No, it was something deeper and more obscure, he felt certain; perhaps rooted in the brain of the dead man irremovably. Some men sought solitude after thwarted lives; this might very well have been the case with Andrew Van, caviar-eating schoolmaster of the Arroyoites.

“What sort of man was Kling?” asked Stapleton.

The District Attorney looked bored. “The orphanage reports him as rather a simple-minded man—psychologically a moron, I believe they rated him. A harmless fellow.”

“Did he ever show homicidal tendencies, Mr. Crumit?”

“No. He is considered at St. Vincent’s to have been a mild-tempered, rather stolid and stupid man. He was kind to the children of the orphanage. He was humble, content, and respectful to his superiors at the Home.”

The District Attorney moistened his lips afresh and appeared about to launch into the promised revelations; but Coroner Stapleton hastily excused him and recalled the Arroyo storekeeper.

“You knew Kling, Mr. Bernheim?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What sort of man was he?”

“Quiet. Of good nature. Dumb, like an ox.” Someone laughed, and Stapleton looked annoyed. He leaned forward.

“Is it true, Mr. Bernheim, that this Kling was well-known in Arroyo for his
physical strength?”

Ellery chuckled to himself. The Coroner was a simple soul.

Bernheim clucked.
“Ach,
yes. Very strong, that Kling. He could lift a barrel of sugar! But he wouldn’t hurt a fly, Mr. Coroner. I remember once—”

“That’s all,” said Stapleton irritably. “Mayor Hollis, please take the stand again.”

Matt Hollis beamed. He was an oily little man, Ellery decided.

“You are head of the Town Board, Mayor Hollis?”

“Yep!”

“Tell the jury what you know about Andrew Van.”

“Always gave satisfaction. Had nothin’ to do with anyone. Sort of studious feller. He kept to the fine house I rented him outside of school hours, off by himself. Some thought him stuck up, and others a furriner, but not me.” The Mayor looked sententious. “Just quiet, that’s all. Not neighborly? Well, that was his business. If he didn’t want to join me and Constable Luden on a fishin’ trip, that was his business, too.” Hollis smiled and nodded. “And he spoke perfect English, like you or me, Mr. Coroner.”

“Did he ever have visitors, as far as you know?”

“No. But of course I can’t say for sure. Funny feller, though,” continued the Mayor thoughtfully. “Couple of times when I was goin’ to Pittsburgh on business he asked me to buy books for him—queer books, they were, highfalutin’ stuff. Philosophy, hist’ry, about the stars and such.”

“Yes, yes, very interesting, Mr. Hollis. Now, you’re the Arroyo banker, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am that.” Mayor Hollis blushed, and looked modestly down at his small feet. Ellery gathered, from the Mayor’s expression, that he was just about everything in the town of Arroyo.

“Did Andrew Van have an account in your bank?”

“He did not. He used to collect his salary regular, in cash, but I don’t think he ever banked it anywhere because I asked him a couple of times—you know how it is; business is business—and he said he kept his money in the house.” Hollis shrugged. “Didn’t trust banks, he said. Well, every man to his taste. I’m not one to argue—”

“Was this generally known in Arroyo?”

Hollis hesitated. “We-ell maybe I did mention it around some. I guess most everybody in town knew of this queer kink of the schoolteacher’s.”

The Mayor was waved off the stand, and Constable Luden was recalled. The Constable came up stiffly, as one who has his own ideas about how such things should be conducted.

“You searched Andrew Van’s house, Constable, the morning of Friday, December the twenty-fifth?”

“Right.”

“Did you find any money?”

“Nope.”

Gasps broke out through the room. Robbery! Ellery frowned. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it. First a crime with all the earmarks of religious mania, and then a theft of money. The two did not blend. He leaned forward. … A man was carrying something to the dais. It was a cheap battered green tin box. Its hasp was badly twisted, and the puny lock hung limply. The Coroner took it from the attendant, opened it, held it upside down. It was empty.

“Constable, do you recognize this green tin box?”

Luden sniffed. “I’ll say,” he said in his rusty bass. “Found it jest like that in Van’s house. It’s his money box, all right.”

The Coroner held it up to the jury of countrymen who were craning at it. “The Coroner’s jury will please observe this article of evidence. … All right, Constable. Will the Postmaster of Arroyo please take the stand?”

A wizened little old man hopped up to the witness chair.

“Did Andrew Van receive much mail?”

“Nope,” shrilled the Postmaster. “’Ceptin’ advertisin’ lit’rachoor, hardly ever.”

“Was there any letter or package during the week preceding his death?”

“Nope!”

“Did he send letters often?”

“Nope. Jest a couple onct in a while. None fer three-four months now.”

Dr. Strang, the Coroner’s physician, was summoned. At mention of his name the spectators whispered frantically. He was a seedy man with a mournful look, and he slouched down the aisle as if he had all the time in the world.

When he was seated, the Coroner asked: “Dr. Strang, when did you first examine the body of the deceased?”

“Two hours after its discovery.”

“Can you fix for the jury the approximate time of death?”

“Yes. I should say the man had been dead between six and eight hours when he was found at the crossroads.”

“That would set the murder at some time around midnight of Christmas Eve?”

“That’s right.”

“Can you give the jury further details about the condition of the corpse which might be pertinent to this inquiry?”