City of Brass (16 page)

“Yes, Mr. Summers.”

“What’s all the activity in the woods? There seems to be a lot of men back there. And spotlights.”

“That’s right. They’re digging.” Simon Ark followed him into the small book-lined study.

“Digging? For what?”

“They’re searching for the body of Mr. Mark Eagen, the man you murdered last night …”

“The evil that came to North Bradshire last night was of a very ancient type—lust for another man’s wife.” Simon Ark spoke quietly, his eyes never leaving the pale face of Roland Summers.

“And the devil was here last night, Mr. Summers. But he wasn’t out there making tracks in the snow. He was inside of you, when you killed Diana Hunt’s husband.”

“I … you’re crazy.”

“I don’t suppose it was premeditated. He came to your house to tell you to keep away from his wife. There was a fight, and you killed him. Then you were faced with the problem that always confronts murderers; you had to get rid of the body. It couldn’t be left in your house. You decided the best thing would be to bury it. But the ground was frozen; covered with snow, except in the woods where the trees protected the ground. So you decided to carry the body from your house to the woods and bury it.”

Roland Summers sat frozen in the chair. His cigarette had almost burned down to his fingers.

“But that immediately presented a problem. A fresh snow had fallen, making the area you had to cross a spotless white carpet. In the morning, someone would be sure to notice the footprints leading from your house to the woods and back again. And if Diana Hunt became alarmed at her husband’s absence, the police might have connected his disappearance with the footprints leading from your house to the woods. So you devised a way to make your tracks look like those of an animal.”

“Those didn’t look like any animal tracks.” Summers’ face had turned ashen now.

“No, but they might have passed an uninterested observer. They were better than footprints, anyway. Unfortunately for you, Mayor Beverson saw another opportunity to publicize his town; he called attention to the fact that they slightly resembled some mysterious tracks found in the area a hundred years ago. That was what really spoiled things for you; because sooner or later someone was sure to realize that the prints didn’t necessarily start and end in the woods. They could just as well have started and returned to your house.”

“And … and how do you suggest I was able to make almost round indentations like those in the snow?” He seemed almost afraid of the answer he knew would come.

Simon Ark said, “Very simple. They are the prints of the toes of ballet shoes or slippers. When you carried Mark Eagen into the woods, you walked on your toes …”

The cigarette fell from Roland Summers’ limp fingers.

“I know it sounds fantastic, even to carry a small man any distance while keeping on your toes, but a skilled ballet dancer like yourself must have much strength in his legs. And putting one foot directly ahead of the other when you walked would also be simple for you.”

Roland Summers was staring at him with glassy eyes.

“Of course, the howling dogs this afternoon suggested that there was something, possibly a body, buried in those woods. And Mark Eagen was the only person who had disappeared last night. The prints, which were the only ones between the town and the woods, came from your house, which made you the logical suspect.”

Simon Ark paused and listened to the renewed voice from the direction of the woods. Then he continued.

“And when I found you chopping up that old tree trunk in your basement, I was certain. It was obviously no good for firewood, and it had just as obviously been carried from the woods recently. Yet there were none of your footprints in the snow—only the odd cleverest part of your whole scheme. You carried a hundred-pound corpse into the woods, so you carried a hundred-pound tree stump out of the woods, thus making sure that the depth of the tracks in the snow was about the same, both coming and going. Otherwise, it would have been obvious that something had been carried into the woods.”

Roland Summers continued to sit stiffly in the chair …

Simon Ark was closing the door behind him when Inspector Ashly came up. “We dug up Eagen’s body, Mr. Ark. It was where you said, near the spot where the dogs started howling. Is Summers inside?”

“Yes, he is …”

“I suppose Eagen’s wife was the cause of it all.”

But Simon Ark did not reply. He was walking slowly through the snow to the road.

Inspector Ashly opened the door and went into Roland Summers’ house. He found Summers in the study, still staring at the wall with glassy eyes …

He was pulling a pair of handcuffs from his pocket when he suddenly realized that Roland Summers was dead …

A heavy fog was obscuring London the next day, as Inspector Ashly sat in the office of his superior.

The man behind the desk shuffled some papers and said, “Summers apparently died of heart failure, as a result of some great shock. It all seems very odd, especially since he died while he was alone with this man, Simon Ark, who now seems to have vanished completely.”

Ashly frowned and spoke very slowly. “It may sound fantastic, sir, but somehow I don’t believe that Simon Ark belonged to our world. He came to North Bradshire because he believed he might find the devil there; instead he found only a murderer.”

“What do you mean, he thought he would find the devil? Why should anyone go looking for the devil?”

Ashly rose and walked to the window, where he stood looking out at the gray mist that hung like a curtain over the city. “I don’t exactly know, sir, but I found this on the table next to Roland Summers’ body. Simon Ark must have left it there.”

And he took a small wooden object from his pocket and held it out for his superior to see. It was shaped like the letter T, with a small circle on top, and it appeared to be very old.

“What is it, Ashly?”

“At the museum they told me it was an ansated cross, an early symbol of Egyptian Christians …”

“Egyptian …”

“I know it seems fantastic, sir, but I believe Simon Ark is searching for Satan. I believe he has been searching for a long, long time. I wonder what will happen when they meet …”

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

City of Brass
© 1959
The Saint Mystery Library

The Hoofs of Satan
© 1956
Famous Detective

The Vicar of Hell
© 1956
Famous Detective

Copyright © 1971 by Edward D. Hoch

Cover design by Jason Gabbert

978-1-4804-5641-9

This 2013 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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