'But I was telling you. I sat there on my horse, looking at those graves, and with a not very pleasant feeling. They looked wild enough, with the greenish - black landscape around and the white hills beyond. But it wasn't that. If they were prison graves, I wondered why they had been dug so far away. The next thing I knew my horse reared and nearly threw me. I slewed round against a tree; and, when I looked back, I saw what was wrong with the horse. The mound of one grave was upheaving and sliding. There was a cracking noise; something began to twist and wriggle; and a dark - coloured thing came groping up out of the mound. It was only a hand moving the fingers - but I don't think I have ever seen anything more horrible.'

'BY that time,' Drayman went on, ' there was something wrong with me as well. I didn't dare dismount, for fear the horse would bolt; and I was ashamed to bolt, myself. I thought of vampires and all the legends of h.e.l.l coming up out of the twilight. Frankly, the thing scared me silly. I remember battering round on that horse like a teetotum, trying to curb it with one hand while I got out my revolver. When I looked back again, the thing had climbed clear out of the grave and was coming towards me.

'That, gentlemen, was how I met one of my best friends. The man reached down and seized a spade, which somebody who dug the grave must have left there and forgotten. And still he came on. I yelled in English, "What do you want?" - because I was so fuddled that I couldn't remember a word in any other language. The man stopped. After a second he answered in English, but with an outlandish accent, "Help," he said, "help, milord; don't be afraid," or something of the sort, and threw down the spade. The horse was quieter, but I wasn't. The man was not tall, but very powerful; his face was dark and swollen, with little scaly spots which gave it a pinkish look in the twilight. And down came the rain while he was still standing there waving his arms.

'He stood in the rain, crying out to me. I won't try to reproduce it, but he said something like "Look, milord, I am not dead of plague like those two poor devils," and he pointed at the graves. "I am not infected at all. See how the rain washes it off. It is my own blood which I have p.r.i.c.ked out of my skin." He even stuck out his tongue to show how it was blackened with soot, and the rain made it clean. It was as mad a sight as the figure and the place. Then he went on to say that he was not a criminal, but a political offender, and was making his escape from the prison.'

Drayman's forehead wrinkled. He smiled again.

'Help him? Naturally I did. I was fired by the idea. He explained things to me while we laid plans. He was one of three brothers, students at the University of Klausenburg, who had been arrested in an insurrection for an independent Transylvania under the protection of Austria, as it was before 1860. The three of them were in the same cell, and two had died of the pestilence. With the help of the prison doctor, also a convict, he had faked the same symptoms - and died. It wasn't likely that anybody would go very close to test the doctor's judgement; the whole prison was mad with fear. Even the people who buried those three would keep their heads turned away when they threw the bodies into pine coffins and nailed on the lids. They would bury the bodies at some distance from the prison. Most of all, they would do a quick job of nailing the lids. The doctor had smuggled in a pair of nail - cutters, which he showed me. A powerful man, if he kept his nerve and didn't use up too much air after he had been buried, could force up the lid with his head enough to wedge the nail - cutters into the loose s.p.a.ce. Afterwards a powerful man could dig up through loose ground.

'Very well. When he found I was a student at Paris, conversation became easy. His mother had been French, and he spoke the language perfectly. We decided that he had better make for France, where he could set up a new ident.i.ty, without suspicion. He had a little money hidden away, and there was a girl in his native town who -'

Drayman stopped abruptly, like one who remembers that he has gone too far. Hadley merely nodded.

'I think we know who the girl was,' he said. 'For the moment we can leave "Madame Dumont" out of this. What then?'

'She could be trusted to bring the money and follow him to Paris. It wasn't likely that there would be a hue and cry - in fact, there wasn't any. He pa.s.sed as dead; even if Grimaud was frightened enough to tear away from that neighbourhood before he would even shave or put on a suit of my clothes. We excited no suspicion. There were no pa.s.sports in those days, and he posed on the way out of Hungary as the English friend of mine I had been expecting to meet at Tradj. Once into France - you know all the rest. Now, gentlemen!' Drayman drew a curiously shuddering breath, stiffened, and faced them with his hard blank eyes. 'You can verify everything I have said -'

'What about that cracking sound?' interjected Dr Fell in an argumentative tone.

The question was so quiet, and yet so startling, that Hadley whirled round. Even Drayman's gaze groped towards him. Dr Fell's red face was screwed up absently, and he wheezed as he poked at the carpet with his stick.

'I think it's very important,' he announced to the fire, as though somebody had contradicted him. 'Very important indeed. H'mf. Look here, Mr Drayman, I've got only two questions to ask you. You heard a cracking sound - of the lid wrenching on the coffin, hey? Yes. Then that would mean it was a fairly shallow grave Grimaud climbed out of?'

'Quite shallow, yes, or he might never have got out.'

'Second question. That prison, now - was it a well - or badly - managed place?'

Drayman was puzzled, but his jaw set grimly. 'I do not know, sir. But I do know it was under fire at that time from a number of officials. I think they were bitter against the prison authorities for letting the disease get started - it interfered with the usefulness of the workmen at the mines. By the way, the dead men's names were published; I saw them. And I ask you again, what's the good of raking up old scandals? It can't help you. You can see that it's not any particular discredit to Grimaud, but -'

'Yes, that's the point,' rumbled Dr Fell, peering at him curiously. 'That's the thing I want to emphasize. It's not discreditable at all. Is it anything to make a man bury all traces of his past life?'

'- but it might become a discredit to Ernestine Dumont,' said Drayman, raising his voice on a fiercer note.' Can't you see what I'm implying? What about Grimaud's daughter? And all this digging into the mess rests on some wild guess that one or both of his brothers might be alive. They're dead, and the dead don't get out of their graves. May I ask where you got such a notion as that one of Grimaud's brothers killed him?'

'From Grimaud himself,' said Hadley.

For a second Rampole thought Drayman had not understood. Then the man shakily got up from his chair, as though he could not breathe. He fumbled to open his coat, felt at his throat, and sat down again. Only the gla.s.sy look of his eyes did not alter.

'Are you lying to me?' he asked - and it was with a shaky, querulous, childish tone coming through his gravity. 'Why do you lie to me?'

'It happens to be the truth. Read this!'

Very quickly, he thrust out the note from Dr Peters. Drayman made a movement to take it then he drew back and shook his head.

'It would tell me nothing, sir. I - I - You mean he said something before he -?'

'He said that the murderer was his brother.'

'Did he say anything else?' asked Drayman, hesitating. Hadley let the man's imagination work, and did not reply. Presently Drayman went on: 'But I tell you it's fantastic! Are you implying that this mountebank who threatened him, this fellow he had never seen before in his life, was one of his brothers? I suppose you are. I still don't understand. From the first moment I learned he had been stabbed - '

'Stabbed?'

'Yes. As I say, I -'

'He was shot,' said Hadley. 'What gave you the idea that he had been stabbed?'

Drayman lifted his shoulders. A wry, sardonic, rather i despairing expression crept over his wrinkled face.

'I seem to be a very bad witness, gentlemen,' he said in an even tone. 'I persist with the best intentions in telling you things you don't believe. Possibly I jumped to conclusions. Mr Mangan said that Grimaud had been attacked and was dying; that the murderer had disappeared after slashing that painting to pieces. So I a.s.sumed -' He rubbed the bridge of his nose. 'Was there anything else you wished to ask me?'

'How did you spend the evening?'

'I was asleep. I - You see, there are pains. Here, behind the eyeb.a.l.l.s. I had them so badly at dinner that instead of going out (I was to go to a concert at the Albert Hall), I took a sleeping - tablet and lay down. Unfortunately, I don't remember anything from about half - past seven to the time Mr Mangan woke me.'

Hadley was studying his open overcoat, keeping himself very quiet, but with a dangerous expression like a man about to pounce.

'I see. Did you undress when you went to bed, Mr Drayman?'

'I beg your - Undress? No. I took off my shoes, that's all. Why?'

'Did you leave your room at any time?'

'No.'

'Then how did you get that blood on your jacket? ... Yes, that's it. Get up! Don't run away now. Stand where you are. Now take off your overcoat.'

Rampole saw it when Drayman, standing uncertainly beside his chair and pulling off the overcoat, moved his hand across his own chest with the motions of a man groping on a floor. He was wearing a light - grey suit, against which the stain splashed vividly. It was a darkish smear running from the side of the coat down across the right pocket. Drayman's fingers found it and stopped. The fingers rubbed it, then brushed together.

'It can't be blood,' he muttered with the same querulous noise rising in his voice.' I don't know what it is, but it can't be blood, I tell you!'

"We shall have to see about that. Take off your coat, please. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave it with us. Is there anything in the pockets you want to take out?'

'But -'

'Where did you get that stain?'

'I don't know. I swear to G.o.d I don't know, and I can't imagine. It isn't blood. What makes you think it is?'

'Give me the coat, please. Good!' He watched sharply while Drayman with unsteady fingers removed from the pockets a few coppers, a concert ticket, a handkerchief, a paper of Woodbine cigarettes, and a box of matches. Then Hadley took the coat and spread it across his knees. 'Do you have any objection to your room being searched? - It's only fair to tell you I have no authority to do it, if you refuse.'

'No objection at all,' said the other dully. He was rubbing his forehead. 'If you'd only tell me how it happened, Inspector! I don't know. I've tried to do the right thing - yes. The right thing ... I didn't have anything to do with this business.' He stopped and smiled with such sardonic bitterness that Rampole felt more puzzled than suspicious. 'Am I under arrest? I have no objection to that either, you know.'

Now there was something wrong here: and yet not wrong in the proper way. Rampole saw that Hadley shared his own irrational doubts. Here was a man who had made several erratic misstatements. He had told a lurid tale which might or might not be true, but which had a vaguely theatrical, paste - board flimsiness about it. Finally, there was blood on his coat. And yet, for a reason he could not determine, Rampole was inclined to believe his story - or at least the man's own belief in his story. It might have been his complete (apparent) lack of shrewdness; his utter simplicity. There he stood, looking taller, more shrunken and bony in his shirt sleeves, the blue shirt itself faded to a dingy white, the sleeves tucked up on corded arms, his tie askew, and the overcoat trailing from one hand. And he was smiling.

Hadley swore under his breath. 'Betts!' he called, 'Betts! Preston!' and tapped his heel impatiently on the floor until they answered. ' Betts, get this coat to the a.n.a.lyst and have this stain tested. See it? Report in the morning. That's all for to - night. Preston, go down with Mr Drayman and have a look round his room. You have a good idea what to look for; also keep an eye out for something in the mask line. I'll join you in a moment ... Think it over, Mr Drayman. I'm going to ask you to come down to the Yard in the morning. That's all.'

Drayman paid no attention. He blundered out in his bat - like way, shaking his head and trailing the overcoat behind him. He even plucked Preston by the sleeve. 'Where could I have got that blood?' he asked eagerly. 'It's a queer thing, you know, but where could I have got that blood?'

'Dunno, sir,' said Preston. 'Mind that door - post!'

Presently the bleak room was quiet. Hadley shook his head slowly.

'It's got me, Fell,' he admitted. 'I don't know whether I'm coming or going. What do you make of the fellow? He seems gentle and pliable and easy enough; but you can keep pounding him like a punching - bag, and at the end of it he's still swinging gently in the same old place. He doesn't seem to care a rap what you think of him. Or what you do to him, for that matter. Maybe that's why the young people don't like him.'

'H'm, yes. When I gather up those papers from the fireplace,' grunted Dr Fell, 'I'm going home to think. Because what I think now -'

'Yes?'

'Is plain horrible.'

With a gust of energy Dr Fell surged up out of the chair, jammed his shovel - hat down over his eyes, and flourished his stick.

'I don't want to go jumping at theories. You'll have to cable for the real truth. Ha! Yes. But it's the story about the three coffins I don't believe - although Drayman may believe it, G.o.d knows! Unless our whole theory is blown to blazes, we've got to a.s.sume that the two Horvath brothers aren't dead. Hey?'

'The question being -'

'What happened to them. Harrumph, yes. What I think might have happened is based on the a.s.sumption that Drayman believes he's telling the truth. First point! I don't believe for a second that those brothers were sent to prison for a political offence. Grimaud, with his "little money saved", escapes from prison. He lies low for five years or more, and then suddenly, "inherits" a substantial fortune, under an entirely different name, from somebody we haven't heard of. But he slides out of France to enjoy it without comment. Second point, supporting! Where's the dangerous secret in Grimaud's life, if all this is true? Most people would consider that Monte Cristo escape as merely exciting and romantic; and, as for his offence, it would sound to English ears about as hideous and blasting an infamy as pinching a Belisha beacon or pasting a policeman in the eye on boat - race night. Dammit, Hadley, it won't do!'

'You mean -?'

'I mean,' said Dr Fell, in a very quiet voice, 'Grimaud was alive when he was nailed up in his coffin. Suppose the other two were alive too? Suppose all three "deaths" were faked exactly as Grimaud's was faked? Suppose there were two living people in those other coffins when Grimaud climbed out of his? But they couldn't come out - because he had the nail - cutters and didn't choose to use 'em. It wasn't likely that there would be more than one pair of cutters. Grimaud had 'em, because he was the strongest. Once he got out, it would have been easy for him to let the others out, as they had arranged. But he prudently decided to let them lie buried, because then there would be n.o.body to share the money that all three had stolen. A brilliant crime, you see. A brilliant crime.'

n.o.body spoke. Hadley muttered something under his breath; his face was incredulous and rather wild as he got up.

'Oh, I know it's a black business!' rumbled Dr Fell; ' a black, unholy business that would turn a man's dreams sick if he's done it. But it's the only thing that will explain this unholy case, and why a man would be hounded if those brothers ever climbed out of their graves ... Why was Grimaud so desperately anxious to rush Drayman away from that spot without getting rid of his convict garb as soon as he could? Why would he run the risk of being seen from the road, when a hideaway near a plague grave would be the last place any native would venture? Well, those graves were very shallow. If, as time went on, the brothers found themselves choking to death - and still n.o.body had come to let them out - they might begin to shriek and batter and pound in their coffins. It was just possible Drayman might have seen the loose earth trembling or heard the last scream from inside.'

'Would any swine - ' he said in an incredulous voice, which trailed away. 'No. We're running off the rails, Fell. It's all imagination. It can't be! Besides, in that case they wouldn't have climbed up out of their graves. They'd be dead.'

'Would they?' said Dr Fell vacantly. 'You're forgetting the spade.'

'What spade?'

'The spade that some poor devil in his fear or hurry left behind when he'd dug the grave. Prisons, even the worst prisons, don't permit that sort of negligence. They would send back after it. Man, I can see that business in every detail, even if I haven't one shred of proof to support it! Think of every word that crazy Pierre Fley said to Grimaud at the Warwick Tavern and see if it doesn't fit... Back come n couple of armed, hard - headed warders looking for that discarded spade. They see or hear what Grimaud was afraid Drayman would see or hear. They either tumble to the trick or else they act in common humanity. The coffins are smashed open; the two brothers are rolled out, fainting, b.l.o.o.d.y, but alive.'

'And no hue and cry after Grimaud? Why, they'd have torn Hungary apart looking for the man who had escaped and -'

'H'mf, yes. I thought of that too, and asked about it. The prison authorities would have done just that - if they weren't being so bitterly attacked that their heads were in danger at the time. What do you think the attackers would have said if it became known that, through carelessness, they allowed a thing like that to happen? Much better to keep quiet about it, hey? Much better to shove those two brothers into close confinement and keep quiet about the third.'

'It's all theory,' said Hadley, after a pause. 'But, if it's true, I could come close to believing in evil spirits. G.o.d knows Grimaud got exactly what he deserved. And we've got to go on trying to find his murderer just the same. If that's the whole story - '

'Of course it's not the whole story!' said Dr Fell. 'It's not the whole story even it it's true, and that's the worst part. You talk of evil spirits. I tell you that in some way I can't fathom there's a worse evil spirit than Grimaud; and that's X, that's the hollow man, that's brother Henri.' He pointed out with his stick. 'Why? Why does Pierre Fley admit he fears him? It would be reasonable for Grimaud to fear his enemy; but why does Fley even fear his brother and his ally against the common antagonist? Why is a skilled illusionist afraid of illusion, unless this gentle brother Henri is as rattle - brained as a criminal lunatic and as clever as Satan?'

Hadley put his note - book in his pocket and b.u.t.toned up his coat.

'You go home if you like,' he said. 'We've finished here. But I'm going after Fley. Whoever the other brother is, Fley knows. And he's going to tell, I can promise you that. I'll have a look round Drayman's room, but I don't antic.i.p.ate much. Fley is the key to this cipher, and he's going to lead us to the murderer. Ready?'

They did not learn it until the next morning; but Fley, as a matter of fact, was already dead. He had been shot down by the same pistol that killed Grimaud. And the murderer was invisible before the eyes of witnesses, and still he had left no footprint in the snow.

CHAPTER 11.

THE MURDER BY MAGIC.

WHEN Dr Fell hammered on the door at nine o'clock next morning, both his guests were in a drowsy state. Rampole had got very little sleep the night before. When he and the doctor returned at half - past one, Dorothy had been hopping with eagerness to hear all the details, and her husband was not at all unwilling to tell them. They equipped themselves with cigarettes and beer, and retired to their room, where Dorothy piled a heap of sofa pillows on the floor like Sherlock Holmes, and sat there with a gla.s.s of beer and a sinister expression of wisdom while her husband stalked about the room, declaiming. Her views were vigorous but hazy. She rather liked the descriptions of Mme Dumont and Drayman, but took a violent dislike to Rosette Grimaud. Even when Rampole quoted Rosette's remarks to the debating society, a motto of which they both approved, she was not mollified.

'All the same, you mark my words,' said Dorothy, pointing her cigarette at him wisely, 'that funny - faced blonde is mixed up in it somehow. She's a wrong 'un, old boy. I mean she wants ber-lud. Bah! I'll bet she wouldn't even make a good - um - courtesan, to use her own terms. And if I had ever treated you the way she treats Boyd Mangan, and you hadn't landed me a sock under the jaw, I'd never have spoken to either of us again - if you see my meaning?'

'Let's omit the personal,' said Rampole. 'Besides, what's she done to Mangan? Nothing that I can see. And you don't seriously think she would kill her father, even if she hadn't been locked in the front room?'

'N - no, because I don't see how she could have put on that fancy costume and fooled Mrs Dumont,' said Dorothy, with an expression of great profundity in her bright dark eyes. ' But I'll tell you how it is. Mrs Dumont and Drayman are both innocent. As for Mills - well, Mills does sound rather a prig, but then your view is highly coloured because you don't like science or the Vision of the Future. And you'll admit he does sound as though he's telling the truth?'

'Yes.'

She smoked reflectively.' M. I'm getting tremendous ideas. The people I'm most suspicious of, and the ones against whom it'd be easiest to make out a case, are the two you haven't seen - Pettis and Burnaby.'

'What?'

'Like this. The objection to Pettis is that he's too small, isn't it? I should have thought Dr Fell's erudition would have got it like a shot. I was thinking of a story - I can't remember where I've read it, but it comes in one shape or another into several medieval tales. D'you remember? There's always an enormous figure in armour, with its visor down, who rides in a tournament and smacks everybody flat. Then along comes ye mightiest knight to joust against it. Down he rides with a bang, hits the tall champion's helmet squarely in the middle of the visor, and to everybody's horror knocks the head clean off. Then up pipes a voice from inside the sh.e.l.l and they discover it belongs to a handsome young lad who's not tall enough to fill up the suit of armour ...'

Rampole looked at her. 'Beloved,' said he with dignity, ' this is pure drivelling. This is beyond all question the looniest idea which - Look here, are you seriously trying to tell me Pettis might walk about with a dummy head and shoulders rigged up on him?'

'You're too conservative,' she said, wrinkling her nose. 'I think it's a jolly good idea. And do you want confirmation? Right! Didn't Mills himself comment on the shiny look about the back of the head, and say it looked as though the whole head were made of papier mache? What have you got to say to that?'

'I say it's a nightmare. Haven't you any more practical idea?'

'Yes!' said Dorothy. She had obviously just been struck with the inspiration, but she pa.s.sed it off as an old one. 'It's about the impossible situation. Why didn't the murderer want to leave any footprints? You're all going after the most horribly complicated reasons. And, anyway, they generally end in your thinking that the murderer just wants to have some fun with the police. Rats, darling! What's the only reason, the first reason anybody would think of outside a murder case, why a man mightn't want to leave any footprints? Why, because the footprints would be so distinctive that they'd lead straight to him! Because he had a deformity or something which would hang him if he left a footprint ...'

'And - '

'And you tell me,' she said, 'this chap Burnaby has a club - foot.'

When, towards daylight, Rampole at last fell asleep, he was haunted by images in which Burnaby's club - foot seemed even more sinister than the man who wore a dummy head. It was all nonsense; but it was a disturbing kind of nonsense to mingle in a dream with the puzzle of the three graves.

He struggled out of bed when Dr Fell knocked at the door towards nine o'clock on Sunday morning. He shaved and dressed hastily, and stumbled down through a silent house. It was an unearthly hour for Dr Fell (or anybody else) to be stirring, and Rampole knew some fresh devilry had broken overnight. The hallways were chilly; even the great library, where a roaring fire had been lighted, had that unreal look which all things a.s.sume when you get up at daybreak to catch a train. Breakfast - for three - was set out in the embrasure of the bay window overlooking llic terrace. It was a leaden day, the sky already moving with snow. Dr Fell, fully dressed, sat at the table with his head in his hands and stared at a newspaper.

'Brother Henri' - he rumbled, and struck the paper. 'Oh, yes. He's at it again. Hadley just phoned with more details, and he'll be here any minute. Look at this for a starter. If we thought we'd got a hard problem on our hands last night - oh, Bacchus, look at this one! I'm like Drayman - I can't believe it. It's crowded Grimaud's murder clean off the front page. Fortunately they haven't spotted the connexion between 'em, or else Hadley's given 'em the word to keep off. Here!'

Rampole, as coffee was poured out for him, saw the headlines: 'MAGICIAN MURDERED BY MAGIC!' said one, which must have given great pleasure to the writer. 'RIDDLE OF CAGLIOSTRO STREET.'

'THE SECOND BULLET IS FOR YOU!'.

'Cagliostro Street?' the American repeated. 'Where in the name of sanity is Cagliostro Street? I thought I'd heard of some funny street names, but this one - '