Эллери Куин: The Egyptian Cross Mystery

So he devoted the remaining three days to ferreting out what he could about Andrew Van, the victim. It was incredible how little was known about the man. Few had seen him in the flesh; he had been a retiring gentleman of solitary habits and had rarely visited Weirton. It was rumored that the villagers of Arroyo had considered him an exemplary teacher: he had been kind, although not lenient, to his pupils; he had rendered satisfactory service, in the opinion of the Arroyo Town Board. Moreover, although he had not been a churchgoer, he had been a teetotaler; and this, it seemed, had cemented his position in a God-fearing and sober community.

On Thursday the editor of Weirton’s leading newspaper turned literary. The morrow was New Year’s Day, and it was too fecund an opportunity to let lie barren. The six reverend gentlemen who ministered to Weirton’s spiritual heeds preached their sermons on the front page. Andrew Van, they said, had been an ungodly man. He who lives in ungodliness shall die in ungodliness. Yet deeds born of violence... The editor did not stop there. There was an editorial in ten-point bold face. It was fruitily dotted with references to the French Bluebeard, Landru; to the Maniac of Dusseldorf; to the American bogey, Jack-the-Ripper; and to many other monsters of fact and fiction — a dainty tidbit served to the good people of Weirton as dessert for their New Year’s dinners.

The County Court House, where the Coroner’s inquest was to be held on Saturday morning, was crowded to the doors long before the appointed hour. Ellery sagely had been one of the earliest comers, and his seat was in the first row, behind the railing. When, at a few moments before nine o’clock, Coroner Stapleton himself appeared, Ellery sought him out, exhibited a telegram signed by the Police Commissioner of New York City, and with this sesame secured entrance to the anteroom in which Andrew Van’s body was laid out.

“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.