The Scarab Murder Case

It happened on the morning of Friday, July 13th. Vance had just finished a late breakfast in the roof-garden of his apartment in East Thirty-eighth Street, and had returned to the library to continue his translation of the Menander fragments found in the Egyptian papyri during the early years of the present century, when Currie—his valet and majordomo—shuffled into the room and announced with an air of discreet apology:

“Mr. Donald Scarlett has just arrived, sir, in a state of distressing excitement, and asks that you hasten to receive him.”

Vance looked up from his work with an expression of boredom.

“Scarlett, eh? Very annoyin’.… And why should he call on me when excited? I infinitely prefer calm people.… Did you offer him a brandy-and-soda—or some triple bromides?”

“I took the liberty of placing a service of Courvoisier brandy before him,” explained Currie. “I recall that Mr. Scarlett has a weakness for Napoleon’s cognac.”

“Ah, yes—so he has.… Quite right, Currie.” Vance leisurely lit one of his Régie cigarettes and puffed a moment in silence. “Suppose you show him in when you deem his nerves sufficiently calm.”

“Right you are, Vance,” he said after a brief pause, with a more or less successful effort at calmness. “As you know, I came to New York with Doctor Bliss in May as a member of his staff; and I’ve been doing all the technical work for him. I have my diggings round the corner from the museum, in Irving Place. This morning I had a batch of photographs to classify, and reached the museum shortly before half past ten.…”

“Your usual hour?” Vance put the question negligently.

“Oh, no. I was a bit latish this morning. We’d been working last night on a financial report of the last expedition.”

“And then?”

“Funny thing,” continued Scarlett. “The front door was slightly ajar—I generally have to ring. But I saw no reason to disturb Brush——”

“Brush?”

“The Bliss butler.… So I merely pushed the door open and entered the hallway. The steel entrance door to the museum, which is on the right of the hallway, is rarely locked, and I opened it. Just as I started to descend the stairs into the museum I saw some one lying in the opposite corner of the room. At first I thought it might be one of the mummy cases we’d unpacked yesterday—the light wasn’t very good—and then, as my eyes got adjusted, I realized it was Kyle. He was crumpled up, with his arms extended over his head.…

As soon as Vance had opened the heavy curtains of the front windows he and Markham moved toward the rear of the room. Scarlett and I descended the stairs and followed them. Kyle was lying on his face, his legs slightly drawn up under him, and his arms reaching out and encircling the feet of a life-sized statue in the corner. I had seen reproductions of this statue many times, but I did not know its name.

It was Vance who enlightened me. He stood contemplating the huddled body of the dead man, and slowly his eyes shifted to the serene sculpture—a brown limestone carving of a man with a jackal’s head, holding a sceptre.

“Anûbis,” he murmured, his face set tensely. “The Egyptian god of the underworld. Y’ know, Markham, Anûbis was the god who prowled about the tombs of the dead. He guided the dead through Amentet—the shadowy abode of Osiris. He plays an important part in the Book of the Dead—he symbolized the grave; and he weighed the souls of men, and assigned each to its abode. Without Anûbis’s help the soul would never have found the Realm of Shades. He was the only friend of the dying and the dead.… And here is Kyle, in an attitude of final and pious entreaty before him.”

Vance’s eyes rested for a moment on the benignant features of Anûbis.

Then the little metal door at the head of the iron spiral stairs swung open, and Heath appeared at the entrance to Doctor Bliss’s study. One hand was behind him, out of sight, as he descended to the floor of the museum. He walked directly to Bliss and stood for a moment glowering grimly at the man whose guilt he believed in. Suddenly his hand shot forward—it was holding a white canvas tennis shoe.

“That yours, doctor?” he barked.

Bliss gazed at the shoe with perplexed astonishment.

“Why… yes. Certainly it’s mine.…”

“You bet your sweet life it’s yours!” The Sergeant strode to Markham and held up the sole of the shoe for inspection. I was standing at the District Attorney’s side, and I saw that the rubber sole was criss-crossed with ridges and that there was a pattern of small hollow circles on the heel. But that which sent an icy breath of horror through me was the fact that the entire sole was red with dried blood.

“I found that shoe in the study, Mr. Markham,” Heath was saying. “It was wrapped in a newspaper at the bottom of the waste-basket, covered up with all kinds of trash… hidden!”

Vance, without knocking, pushed the door inward and stepped into the room. Bliss was sitting rigidly in a straight chair in the far corner, leaning slightly forward, his eyes riveted on the door. In his hand was a brutal-looking army revolver. At our entrance he leapt to his feet, and brought the gun up simultaneously.

“Tut, tut, doctor!” Vance smiled whimsically. “Put the firearms away and chant us the distressin’ rune.”

Bliss drew an audible sigh of relief, and placed the weapon on a small table at his side.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Vance,” he said in a strained tone. “And you, Mr. Markham.” He acknowledged Heath’s and my presence with a slight, jerky bow. “The thing you predicted has happened.… There’s a murderer in this house!”

“Well, well! That would hardly come under the head of news.” (I could not understand Vance’s attitude.) “We’ve known that fact since eleven this morning.”

Bliss, too, was perplexed and, I imagine, somewhat piqued by Vance’s negligent manner, for he stepped stiffly to the bed and, pointing at the headboard, remarked irritably:

“And there’s the proof!”

The bed was an old Colonial piece, of polished mahogany, with a great curving headboard rising at least four feet above the mattress. It stood against the left-hand wall at a right angle to the door.

The object at which Bliss pointed with a quivering finger was an antique Egyptian dagger, about eleven inches long, whose blade was driven into the headboard just above the pillow. The direction of penetration was on a line with the door.