Эллери Куин - The Egyptian Cross Mystery

Constable Luden’s office was unoccupied.

“Where’s the Constable?” demanded Ellery.

“Whut I been tryin’ t’tell ye,” said the man doggedly. “He ain’t here.”

“Ah!” said Ellery with a sagacious nod. Luden, then, had gone on to the hills. “When did the Constable leave?”

“Mond’y mornin’.”

“What!” Ellery’s voice overflowed with astonishment, woe, and a surging realization of catastrophe. “Good heavens, then he didn’t get my—” He darted forward to Luden’s desk. It was a mess of untidy papers. The man in blue put out his hand in blank protest as Ellery began to toss the Constable’s official correspondence — if it was official correspondence — about. And, as he had with dread expected, there it lay. A yellow-enveloped message.

He tore it open, and read:

CONSTABLE LUDEN ARROYO WEST VIRGINIA FORM POSSE IMMEDIATELY AND GO TO HUT OF OLD PETE PROTECT OLD PETE UNTIL MY ARRIVAL NOTIFY CRUMIT KROSAC RETURNING IF ANYTHING HAS HAPPENED BY TIME YOU REACH HUT PICK UP KROSAC TRAIL BUT LEAVE SCENE OF CRIME INTACT

A panoramic picture flashed before Ellery’s eyes. Through a hideous and mischievous blunder, a turn of the fateful wheel, his telegram to Luden might never have been sent at all for the good it had accomplished. The man in denim patiently explained that the Constable and Mayor Matt Hollis had left two mornings before on their annual fishing trip; they were customarily gone a week, camping out, angling on the Ohio and its tributaries. They would not be back until Sunday. The telegram had arrived a few minutes past three the day before; the man in denim — who announced himself as janitor, caretaker, and man-of-all-work — had received it, signed for it, and in the absence of Luden and Hollis placed it on the Constable’s desk, where it might have lain a week but for Ellery’s fortuitous visit. The janitor seemed to have something pressing in mind, and began a rambling dissertation, but Ellery brushed him aside and, dim horror in his eyes, scrambled back to Arroyo’s main street and leaped into the Duesenberg.

He sent it roaring around the corner and along the route he recalled from his previous expedition with Isham and Constable Luden. There was no time to communicate with District Attorney Crumit of Hancock County or with Colonel Pickett of the county troopers. If what he feared had not yet occurred, he was certain he could handle any situation which might arise; in the pocket of the Duesenberg lay a loaded automatic. If it had occurred...

He left the car in the old clump of bushes — faint traces of his last visit were still impressed, despite the rain, in the densely brush-covered earth and grass — and, automatic in hand, began the hard ascent up the mountain along the dim trail Constable Luden had followed. He climbed rapidly, and yet with caution; he had no idea of what he might encounter, and he was grimly determined not to be caught unawares by anything or anybody. The lush, dense woods were quiet. He slipped along, praying that he might be in time, conscious through the faint warning bell ringing in his brain that it was too late.

He crouched behind a tree and peered out into the clearing. The fence was intact. Although the front door was shut, Ellery felt encouraged. At the same time he was taking no chances. He slipped the safety catch of the automatic back and emerged noiselessly from behind the tree. Was that the familiar beard-fringed face of Old Pete at the barbed-wired window? No; it had been his imagination. Clumsily he went over the fence, gripping the weapon still. And then he noticed the footprints.

He stood where he was for a full three minutes, studying the story as it was clearly told by the marks on the damp earth. Then, avoiding these tell-tale impressions, he circled widely, setting his own feet down with care until he reached the door.

The door, he now observed, was not entirely closed, as he had thought at first glance. A tiny crack was visible.

Automatic in his right hand, he stooped and placed his ear to the crack. No sound came from the interior of the shack. He straightened, and with his left hand struck the door a smashing blow, so that it swung back quickly, revealing the interior...

For the space of several heartbeats he stood that way, left hand in mid-air, right hand leveling the weapon at the interior of the hut, eyes riveted on the horrible scene before him.

Then he sprang across the threshold and bolted the heavy door securely behind him.

At 12:50 the Duesenberg screeched to a stop before the Municipal Hall again, and deposited Ellery on the sidewalk. A strange young man, the janitor must have thought, for his hair was disheveled, in his eyes burned a maniacal light, and he pounced on the man as if he contemplated, nothing less than mayhem.

“H’lo,” said the man in denim uncertainly. He was still sweeping the walk under the hot sun. “So ye’re back, hey? Had somethin’ t’tell ye, mistuh, but ye wouldn’t let me ’fore. Y’r name ain’t—?”

“Stow it,” snapped Ellery. “You seem to be the sole gentleman of official responsibility left in this energetic bailiwick. You’ve got to do something for me, Messer Janitor. Some men from New York are going to be here — when, I don’t know. But if it takes hours, you’ve got to wait here, do you understand?”

“We-ell,” said the janitor, leaning on his broom, “I don’t rightly know. Listen, you ain’t a man by th’ name o’ Queen now, are ye?”

Ellery stared. “Yes. Why?”

The janitor fished in the depths of a roomy denim pocket, and paused to expectorate a stream of brown liquid. Then he brought out a folded scrap of paper. “Tried to tell ye ’fore, when you was here, Mr. Queen, but ye didn’t give me no chance. Feller left this here note fer ye — tall ugly sort o’ coot. Looked like of Abe Lincoln, by gee.”

“Yardley!” ejaculated Ellery, snatching the note. “Heavens, man, why the devil didn’t you tell me before?” He almost ripped the sheet in his haste to unfold it.

It was a hurried pencil scrawl signed by the Professor:

DEAR QUEEN:

Explanations in order. Modern magic enabled me to anticipate you. After you left I was worried, and tried vainly to get on the trail of Vaughn and Isham. I discovered enough to find that they had received word of a seemingly authentic trail to the Lynns, from Massachusetts. Left your message with Vaughn’s man. Didn’t fancy the idea of your trailing a bloodthirsty savage like Krosac alone. Nothing stirring in Bradwood — Dr. T. left for New York. Hester-bound, I’ll warrant. Romance?

Up all night during the storm — couldn’t sleep. Storm abated and at six A.M. I was in Mineola. Flying conditions better, and I persuaded a private flyer to take me southwest. Landed near Arroyo 10 A.M. this morning. (Most of above written in plane.)

Later: Can’t find hut or any one who knows how to get there. Luden gone, town’s dead. Your telegram, I suppose, unopened. Fear the worst, of course, especially since I have picked up the trail of a limping man [this was heavily underscored] in vicinity.

Limping man carrying a small bag (must be Krosac, for description is vague; man kept face muffled) hired private auto in Yellow Creek, just across Ohio R. from Arroyo, at 11:30 last night. Have talked with owner of car; he took Krosac to Steubenville, O., dropped him at hotel there... Am going to follow K. myself, leaving this message for you with the superintelligent janitor at Arroyo Municipal Hall. Go to Steubenville at once; if I find another trail will leave note at Fort Steuben Hotel for you. Hurriedly,

Ellery’s eyes were wild. “What time did your friend Abraham Lincoln write this note, janitor?”

“’Leven o’clock or there’bout,” drawled the janitor. “Not long ’fore ye came yerself.”