CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH ASHTON-KIRK INDICATES MUCH BUT SAYS LITTLE

“A light!” cried Campe. “Strike a light, Kretz.”

“No light,” said Bat Scanlon, softly. “It is no time for such things when an unknown gentleman is about with a gun! And keep still.”

The sergeant-major grunted something in German, apparently in approval of this advice. At any rate, Campe subsided. There was a space of silence. Then a footstep sounded; and Bat arose.

“That you, Kirk?” asked he.

“Yes,” came the quiet voice of the crime specialist. “I think it’s all right now. Is there any way of getting a light?”

A match crackled, then Kretz produced a candle stump from a niche in the wall. This he ignited. Ashton-Kirk came into the dim circle of radiance.

“I’ll not ask whether you saw anybody,” said Scanlon. “But,” anxiously, “did you feel anything of him?”

“It’s rather wild firing in the dark,” returned the crime specialist. “And, perhaps,” here there was a dryness in his tone, “that’s what kept us from being more or less shot up.”

“Let’s go over the place,” suggested Scanlon. “Whoever it was must be still here. Get some more light, sergeant.”

In a few minutes Kretz had a brace of stable lanterns; and with these throwing their rays about, and revolvers held ready, the four men made their way slowly through the cellars. There was no rubbish, nor lumber; everything was open to the lamp-light. And no one was to be found.

“Hello!” said Scanlon, amazed at this. “Here’s a state of affairs. A while ago I wondered how they got in; now I wonder how they got out.”

Ashton-Kirk had gone over the place keenly; nothing, even the smallest, seemed to escape him. Two small openings, heavily barred, allowed the daylight to drift in, and with his eyes on these, he asked:

“Are these the only means of ventilation?”

“Yes,” answered Kretz.

The crime specialist tested the bars; as he wiped his fingers upon a handkerchief, he asked: “How many ways are there of entering the vaults--from inside?”

“One,” replied Kretz. “The way we came down.”

“This sort of thing happened once before,” said young Campe. His manner was quiet, but his voice was cold with dread. “The only difference was that it was in the night, and----”

The grim-faced Kretz, looking more granite-faced than ever in the flickering light of the lanterns, growled something in a low tone; and the young man stopped instantly.

“It’s the tramps,” he added hastily. “We are greatly troubled by them. Scanlon,” with a glance at the big man, “has seen something of their work.”

Taking one of the lights, Ashton-Kirk went over the place once more. This time he gave much attention to the floor, and showed considerable curiosity as to the walls.

“You see,” said he, laughingly, but not once relaxing his attention, “it is possible that the Count in his building of this place might have contrived the secret passage which legend tells us went with such buildings.”

“No,” said Kretz. “There is a plan of the house. All is marked there. Nothing is secret.”

Much to Scanlon’s surprise, the crime specialist seemed to take this as final.

“It is a thing which should be brought to the attention of the police,” suggested Ashton-Kirk. “Prowlers who have secret means of entering cellars can’t be comfortable neighbours.”

“It might come to that in the end,” said Campe as they climbed the stone steps. He had a smile upon his lips, a wan hopeless sort of thing, and in the lantern light his eyes looked sunken. “But the police are sometimes very troublesome themselves.”

They reached the upper hall, and Ashton-Kirk looked at his watch and a time-table.

“I have thirty minutes to reach the station,” said he.

“I had hoped,” said Campe, “to have you for luncheon.”

“Some other time I shall be delighted. But to-day there are some small matters which must have my attention. Good-bye, and thank you.”

Kretz swung open the outer door; they crossed the courtyard, and he shot back the great bolts of the gate. The detective shook hands with Campe; to Scanlon he said:

“If it is at all possible, call upon me at ten o’clock to-morrow. I think I shall then have something to tell you in regard to the affair you spoke to me of yesterday.”

“I’ll be on hand,” said Bat, with a nod of assurance. “Count on me.”

From a window the beautiful, smiling face of Miss Knowles looked down upon them. Ashton-Kirk took off his cap, and with a nod and a little flourish he was off down the road, swinging with a long stride, and twirling his hickory stick gaily.

Next day the bell in the tower of the church next door was striking ten when the punctual Bat Scanlon presented himself at the crime specialist’s door.

“Come in,” said that gentleman. “You are as sharp as time itself.”

As usual, he had a pile of books about him; and the meerschaum pipe was sending its pale vapours into the room. But these were a different kind of books. Those which had been heaped about on the occasion of Mr. Scanlon’s last visit were things of dreams and fanciful speculation; but these, this morning, were keen and practical looking. The sheep binding seemed to warn off triflers; the type seemed sharply cut and decisive. And the very pipe itself seemed to wear a purposeful air; instead of the leisurely drawing at it that had marked the other visit, the puffs were now curt and contained a promise of other things.

Bat Scanlon seated himself in the chair he had occupied before; and while he lighted the cigar which was presented to him, his eyes went to the print of the brown sailors peering away into the heart of the sea’s mystery. And now, somehow, their attitude was changed. The mystery ahead was as complete as before; indeed, it was, perhaps, more so; but the brown men now seemed at ease; to-day they did not fear the unknown; and, as he looked closely, it even seemed that they were pleased with the unusualness of their situation.

“Just the way I feel,” Bat told himself. “Kirk’s on the job and he’ll fix it up as it should be. So why worry?”

Ashton-Kirk opened a drawer and took out a folded paper.

“When you called me on the telephone the other day,” said he, “I at once set about looking up the Campe family history. My records had the facts up to a few years ago. But I wanted complete information, so I sent one of my men out to look them up. This is his report, brought in to me this morning.”

He seated himself upon a corner of the table and unfolded the paper. Then he read:

“_Report of Later Proceedings of the Campes._

“The family of Campe, as shown by such information as it is possible to secure from banks doing business with them, contracting firms who undertook their various enterprises and importing houses who have come into financial contact with them, have been very clever and able. They slipped naturally from the wreckage of one government into the favour of the next without loss of any sort. Their interests grew; and they seemed in a fair way to become to Central America what the Rothschilds are to Europe, when suddenly about three years ago, things took a change. Frederic Campe, Sr., head of the house, at about that time, met his death while on board his yacht _Conquistador_, at Vera Cruz. Something went wrong--just what it was will never be known, for no one on board escaped--and the vessel was blown to atoms. Less than six months later, William Campe, brother to the one lately dead, also met a sudden and violent end. He was attending the ceremonies held at the opening of a great concrete bridge which the family had provided the money to build, when he in some unaccountable manner fell from it and was killed.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Scanlon, and knocked the ash from his cigar.

“Henry, eldest son of Frederic, was the next to go,” read the crime specialist. “One morning, not a great while after the affair at the bridge, he was found stabbed to death in his own hall-way. The nature of the wound which let out his life showed that the attack was a particularly vicious one. Some very keen and very heavy weapon must have been used, as the young man was cut open from his chest to his waist line.”

Bat Scanlon sat suddenly erect in his chair.

“Hello!” said he, in surprise. “Hello! What’s this!”

“The nature of the wound has a rather familiar sound, I think,” said Ashton-Kirk.

“A slash down the front with some very heavy and very sharp weapon,” said the big man, slowly. “That’s what young Campe got a few nights ago. Not deep,” and Bat shook his head, “but it was just such a slash as put this other one out of the running.”

Ashton-Kirk resumed his reading.

“At the death of Henry, Mexico had run out of male Campes. There only remained a younger son who was then attending a university in the United States. There were several daughters, but these have resided for some years in Berlin. The greater part of the family interests in Mexico and Central America have been disposed of, and what’s left is being offered for sale. From this, it seems that what remains of the family have no intention of returning south of the Rio Grande.”

Here the crime specialist folded up the paper, and threw it upon the table.

“Is that all?” asked the big man.

“Yes.”

“Well,” declared Bat, “to my way of looking at it, it’s plenty. In view of the way that man met his death in the hall-way, can you figure the matters of the yacht and the bridge as accidents?”

Ashton-Kirk shook his head.

“At this distance we can’t say,” said he. “But the deaths of the three have a stamp upon them which suggest----”

“They were murdered,” said Bat. And then, with his eyes upon the other, he added: “But why?”

The crime specialist slipped from the table. With the big pipe laid aside, he began to pace up and down the study.

“This matter has some very curious and interesting aspects,” said he. “It is more than likely as you suggest, that the three Campes of whom you have just heard met their deaths at the hands of assassins. But, as you also suggest, why?”

He threw up the curtains and allowed the sun to fill the room; the opening of the windows themselves permitted the air to rush in and pursue the smoke clouds furiously about the place. The drone of the crowds in the street, the roll of wheels, the cries of drivers to their horses and to each other lifted to them in a confused movement of sound.

“Murder,” said Ashton-Kirk, “is seldom undertaken without cause.” He resumed his pacing, his hands deep in his trousers pockets. “Even the lowest type of thug, waylaying his victim in a lonely place, has the desire for money as his motive. The drunken loafer of the slums beats his wife to death because she refuses him food which he has not earned, or the price of more liquor which dulls his mind to the barest requirements of life. The masked burglar does not take life wantonly, but only when hard pressed and with the jail staring him in the face. The poisoner is actuated by jealousy, or by the desire to remove some one who bars his way to happiness or wealth. If the Campes were murdered, there was a reason for it. And the fact that three of them have so died, and a systematic effort seems to be proceeding to bring about the death of a fourth, shows that the reason is not an individual one.”

“No,” agreed Bat Scanlon. “It’s a family matter. It’s something that has to do with them as a bunch.”

“The attention of the murderer,” said Ashton-Kirk, “was apparently first fixed upon the head of the house, the elder Frederic. He was blown up with his yacht. His brother William was the succeeding head. He died in a fall from a bridge. Next, the eldest son of Frederic came into control of the family finances. He was stabbed to death. The last of them all, and the present head of the house, is your friend at Schwartzberg. Beyond a doubt the eyes of the monster are now fixed upon him.”

“Well?”

“It is possible,” said the crime specialist, “that some sort of demand was made upon the elder Frederic. This was refused and murder followed. Again the demand was made--again upon the head of the house--and again was refused. Once more death made its grisly appearance. For the third time the request was repeated to the person in control of the family’s affairs; for the third time it was denied; and again death followed swiftly.”

“A request,” said Bat Scanlon. “For what?”

Ashton-Kirk shook his head.

“I don’t know,” said he. “And I merely mention this as a thing which might be true, understand me. I do not know that it is. But, supposing it is, perhaps your question can be answered. The business of the Campes, as a family, was money. And as the family seems to have been struck at, and not any individual, is it carrying the thing too far to think that money may form the basis of the request?”

“Not to me,” replied Mr. Scanlon, promptly. “In fact, it seems very likely, indeed.”

Ashton-Kirk continued his pacing up and down. For the most part he was silent and intent, apparently thinking hard. Now and then, however, his thoughts took form in muttered words, altogether unintelligible to Scanlon, although that gentleman listened eagerly. After a time the crime specialist pressed one of the series of bell calls, and Fuller made his appearance.

“Begin at once,” said Ashton-Kirk, “and put Burgess and O’Neil on the job if you need help. Get together any facts as to the dealings of the house of Campe during the time Frederic Campe--the one who your report says died aboard his yacht--was at the head of the concern. Go into this to the limit--don’t spare trouble, as it is important. Also try and get some data as to this same Frederic Campe personally. Who were his friends? what were his habits?--what interests, financial or otherwise, did he oppose?”

“It looks like a large order,” said Fuller. “I’ll have to get on the ground.”

“Take the next train south,” directed the crime specialist. “As soon as you get anything, wire it in our private code.”

“Right,” said the assistant. “Anything more?”

“No.”

Fuller left the room with hasty step; and Bat Scanlon nodded his admiration.

“You go after things with both hands in this shop,” said he. “And, as I’ve always claimed, that’s the only way to get them done.”

“Our little run out of town,” said Ashton-Kirk, “brought several things to my notice which singly would, perhaps, have suggested nothing; but collectively they indicated a possible condition, both picturesque and dangerous.”

“We ran into a small herd of things,” said Mr. Scanlon. “Just which of them do you mean?”

But Ashton-Kirk shook his head.

“The indications may prove erroneous,” said he. “The hour we spent among the hills around Schwartzberg was of the sort in which the imagination operates vividly; and in such work as we are now on, care must be taken as to what is fact and what fancy. Under such influences as were then abroad, the mind strings thoughts much as a child strings beads.”

He paused in his pacing and stood by the window, looking down into the shabby street. There was a tight look about the corners of his mouth; the eyes glittered a bit feverishly.

Up and down swarmed the alien horde in the street. The children seemed countless; the sounds and smells were thick, and of the near East.

The stands at the curbs, and at the walls of buildings were piled with wares of strange make, and with food that was questionable. Merchants in long coats, and with the inevitable cigarette between their fingers, pleaded eloquently with hedging customers.

Women in bright shawls, which were pulled up about their heads and faces, huddled upon steps and peered out at the turmoil about them; the dull red walls of the buildings and their dirty windows were unpleasantly prominent in the morning sun.

Suddenly Ashton-Kirk turned upon Scanlon.

“What do you think of the Campe household?” he asked. “Take them one at a time, beginning with the lowest in importance--how do they stand in the light of your two weeks’ acquaintance with them?”

“The lowest in importance,” said the big man, “would be Kretz’s daughter. She’s got a head that was made to forget with, and about as much character as a kitten. I’ve seen things duller than she is, but they were not human things. As for her mother, I’ve heard her speak twice--possibly three times. Each observation was pointed at her daughter, was in German, and was, from the general sound, meant to tell her exactly where she was wrong. But, though she might be economical as a conversationalist, she does not stint her talent as a cook. For she can and does cook with an abandon and fancy that would take the creases out of the most crumpled appetite. Mrs. Kretz is the sort of a woman who would greet a broken dish and the falling in of the roof with about the same display of emotion.

“Kretz himself is almost as eloquent as his wife. But though he talks little, he sees everything. Campe tells me he’s been in the family for ten years or more, and he has a lot of confidence in him. As far as I can see--Kretz--I don’t know. There are some things about him and his doings that I don’t understand; but then I can say the same for most of the folks at the castle, if it comes to that.”

“And the next?” asked Ashton-Kirk.

“Well, I suppose it’s a matter of taste just who is next,” proceeded Scanlon. “But to save any lengthy argument, suppose we say it’s Campe’s aunt, Miss Hohenlo. I don’t see much of either of the ladies of the castle, but Miss Hohenlo is the closest in that respect. As her name shows, Miss Hohenlo is a maiden; and after one look at her face and another at her figure I don’t wonder at it. Nature seems to have jumped in between her and any chance she ever had of changing her condition; for she’s got the finest little lot of spinster manners and ideas I ever saw in one collection. In character she’s about as colourless as water; and she counts about as much as a grain of rice powder on a chorus girl’s nose.

“But the other lady is different; you’ve seen her, and so I’ll say nothing about her looks except what I said once before, and that is, she’s a pippin! However,” and the big man bent his brows at the crime specialist, “she has a way with her. As a matter of fact, she has several ways, and I don’t understand any of them. Why did she drop the dish when she first heard your name? and look as if she’d got the shock of her life? What’s the idea of her wandering out among the hills at night? The searchlight caught her standing over Campe’s senseless body the night he was cut. And only the other night you and I saw the light pick her up once more.”

“I did not give much attention to the woman on that occasion,” said Ashton-Kirk. “And so you think it was Miss Grace Knowles, do you?”

“Who else could it have been?” demanded Bat. “And who else screamed on the night Kretz met me on the stairs? And that’s not all.” Here the speaker leaned toward the special detective, and his voice sank lower, as though he feared to be overheard. “Last night I got a fresh slant at her. Eh? With a candle, and hesitating along the hall-way. When she got to the door of the room where you saw Miss Hohenlo, she stopped and listened at the edges of it, as if she was making sure that no one was there. I guess there wasn’t, for she opened the door and went in.

“I was at the end of the hall when I saw this and I waited; for somehow the thing didn’t look good. Then I heard footsteps coming along the lower corridor and some one started up the lower flight of steps. Like a flash the door of the room into which Miss Knowles had gone opened; I didn’t see it--I heard it; for the young lady had blown out her candle. It was Campe coming up, and he had a light. She was standing by the door with as sweet a smile on her face as you ever saw anywhere, and she gave him a lot of little nods. He was surprised to see her, but she said:

“‘I’ve just come to see if your aunt is awake. I did _so_ want some one to talk to.’

“And so,” said Bat, “she knocked on the door, very gently, just as if she wasn’t already sure that no one was there. And she seemed greatly disappointed when no one answered.

“‘Talk to me,’ says Campe. You see he fell for the bunk just as easy as that. ‘Talk to me,’ says he. For when a man’s in love with a woman,” continued Mr. Scanlon, sagely, “she can put anything across on him.”

“And so you think Campe is in love with Miss Knowles?”

“Up to his eyes.”

The big man laid the end of his cigar in an ash tray, and put a hand upon each knee.

“I don’t know whether you noticed it,” resumed he, “but this same Miss Knowles was peddling around a queer little line of samples yesterday while you were there. What was she hinting about? Eh? What was she saying one thing for, and meaning something else? She’s jollying Campe, that’s plain to me; but what’s this thing she’s trying to shoulder on to the little old maid?”

“It’s a peculiar household,” said Ashton-Kirk. He went to the table and began turning the leaves of one of the books carelessly. Scanlon, glancing at it, saw an array of skulls of differing formations, all down one of the pages. “And,” resumed the crime specialist, “it will probably take some weighing and judging before we get them properly placed.”

Leaving the book open, he once more thrust his hands into his pockets and resumed the pacing.

“Music,” said he, “is a delightful thing. Its powers to quiet and to uplift are tremendous.” There was a short pause, and then he added: “What’s your opinion of the harp as an instrument?”

Mr. Scanlon was very frank.

“Now you’ve got me bad,” said he. “All I know about it is what I heard a Sicilian do to it one season in Tucson. He was the orchestra in ‘File’ Brady’s saloon, and picked melody out of it to accompany the ballad singers. And,” here he looked shrewdly at Ashton-Kirk, “I know less about swords that you operate with both hands. As a weapon, this style of thing had gone out before I came into the desire to mix it with my fellow man.”

Ashton-Kirk smiled and nodded.

“I repeat,” said he, “that some of the things we heard and saw held a great deal of interest. But how are we to associate them? What possible connection has a delicate gilt harp with a mysterious noise in the night? What has a green stone in common with a sword that was carried in the siege of Milan? And what can there be between a beautiful woman, radiant with life, and a creature three-quarters dead, who is wheeled about in a chair?”

The big, candid face of Scanlon grew stiff with amazement.

“Why, look here!” said he. “Just where does that fellow----”

But at a gesture from the crime specialist he stopped. And once more Ashton-Kirk paused at the table; and again he began turning the leaves of the book.

“The studies of that ingenious old empiric of Antwerp, Gall, are most amusing,” said he, as his eyes began to run from one pictured skull to another. “The system he worked out and which he called ‘Zoonomy’ is rich in suggestion, and,” nodding his head, “may contain more truths than is generally supposed.”

“He had something to do with skulls, I take it,” said Mr. Scanlon.

“He had all to do with them in this particular regard, though his system was afterward much amplified by Spurzheim, and the Englishmen, George and Andrew Combe. His idea was that the skull’s development followed that of the brain; that certain parts of the brain stood for certain faculties; if the brain were large in this faculty the skull would show it. And in that way we were to have a very convenient method of judging the character of any particular person.”

“I’ve heard of it,” said Mr. Scanlon. “A fellow I roomed with once used to turn that trick at a bob a time. It was a fairly easy way of getting money, but I couldn’t see very much more to it.”

“You saw it practised by a fakir,” said the special detective, his eyes still upon the turning pages. “And such things offer many opportunities for crooked practitioners. But, after all, I don’t think it would be at all difficult to prove that it has its basis in truth. It is a well-known fact that nations, for example, have one general type of head; and it is equally well known that the individuals of a nation have the same general tendencies.”

Here he pushed the book aside and his hand went to a brace of volumes at the end of the table.

“I put in some little time last night,” said he, “dipping into Humboldt and Vater. There is a vast difference between their keen, uncompromising intellects and the credulous minds of Gall and his followers. And yet it is a bit startling to trace a line between them which runs----”

But here he looked up and met the inquiring look of the big man with a smile.

“You’re having a peep behind the scenes,” he said. “You’re seeing me deep in a mass of preliminary speculations, and not at all sure as to where they are to lead.”

“But,” said Mr. Scanlon, with confidence, “you see something.”

“Not very clearly,” and the keen eyes glittered with interest, “but I think I see the mist breaking away at some points, and before to-day is done I may be able to get my ranges. Perhaps by the time I get Fuller’s second report I’ll have enough data to finish the case at a blow.”

“Good,” said Mr. Scanlon. He got up and shook the crime specialist by the hand. “That cheers me up. You see,” earnestly, “I’m as keen on this thing as if it were my own--maybe more so. This boy is hard pressed, and has called on me for help. I don’t want to fail him. I don’t want it proved that he’s made a mistake.”

“We’ll do our best,” said Ashton-Kirk, “to pull him through.”

The big man’s face wore an anxious look.

“But just where do I come in?” he asked. “While you are deep in the struggle to put this thing right, what am I to do?”

“That,” said Ashton-Kirk, “is exactly what I wanted to speak of. Your part in this affair is to be important. Watch! Sleep--as some of the naturalists say the wild things do--with your eyes open. Things are apt to happen inside Schwartzberg.”

“Inside,” said Scanlon. “But what about outside?”

The other smiled.

“Why, as to that,” said he, “suppose you leave the outside to me.”