Egyptian Cross Mystery (16 page)

“Montenegrin? You mean by birth? For there’s no such country as Montenegro today, you know,” said Yardley with interest. “It became one of the political divisions of present-day Yugoslavia—the Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes merged officially in 1922.”

“Hmm. Crumit’s investigation revealed that Krosac was one of the first emigrants from Montenegro after peace was declared in 1918. His passport on entry into the United States indicated that he was a Montenegrin by birth but nothing else of value. By the sarcophagus of Tut, the man emerges!”

“Did Crumit discover anything about his American career?”

“Sufficient, although in a sketchy way. He seems to have traveled from city to city, presumably getting acquainted with his adopted country and learning the language. For several years he engaged in a small peddler’s enterprise, apparently a legitimate business. He sold fancy needlework, small woven mats, and that sort of thing.”

“They all do,” remarked the Professor.

Ellery digested the next paragraph. “He met friend Harakht, or Stryker, four years ago in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and the two men joined forces. Stryker at the time was selling a ‘sun medicine’—cod-liver oil with a home-made label. Krosac became his business manager and, for the public’s benefit, ‘disciple,’ helping the poor old lunatic build up the sun cult and the health preaching during their nomadic existence on the road.”

“Anything on Krosac after the Arroyo murder?”

Ellery’s face fell. “No. He’s simply vanished. He managed it adroitly enough.”

“And Kling, Van’s servant?”

“Not a trace of him. It’s as if the earth swallowed up both of ’em. This Kling complication disturbs me. Where the deuce is he? If Krosac sped his soul across the Great Divide, what happened to his body—where did Krosac bury it? I tell you, Professor, until we know the actual fate of Kling we shan’t solve this case. … Crumit made exemplary efforts to find a connection between Kling and Krosac, probably on the assumption that they might have been confederates. But he’s found nothing.”

“Which doesn’t necessarily mean that no connection exists,” pointed out the Professor.

“Naturally not. And, of course, so far as Krosac is concerned, we have no way of determining whether he’s been in communication with Stryker or not.”

“Stryker … There’s an example of God’s wrath for you,” muttered Yardley. “Poor devil!”

Ellery grinned. “Stiffen your fibers, sir; this is murder. Incidentally, from this last report the West Virginia people have trailed Harakht to his lair. That is, they have discovered that he is one Alva Stryker, according to Crumit, well-known Egyptologist, who went insane from sunstroke, as you said, many years ago in the Valley of the Kings. He has no kin, as far as could be determined, and he has always seemed a perfectly harmless lunatic. Listen to this—Crumit’s note: ‘It is the belief of the District Attorney of Hancock County that the man Alva Stryker, who calls himself Harakht, or Ra-Harakht, is blameless in the murder of Andrew Van, but has been for years the prey of unscrupulous opportunists who have utilized his odd appearance, his mild lunacy, and his obsession with a garbled cult-worship in an unusual but nonetheless vicious kind of confidence game. It is our opinion also that a man of this type with undiscovered motive for the murder of Van was responsible for the victim’s death. All the facts point to Velja Krosac as this man.’ Neatly phrased, eh?”

“A somewhat circumstantial case against Krosac, isn’t it?” asked the Professor.

Ellery shook his head. “Circumstantial or not, in selecting Krosac as the probable murderer of Van, Crumit has hit on the essential.”

“What makes you think so?”

“The facts. But that Krosac killed Andrew Van isn’t the keystone of the case we’re attempting to build up. The quintessential problem is”—Ellery leaned forward—
“who is Krosac?”

“What do you mean?” demanded Professor Yardley.

“I mean that Velja Krosac is known in his true face and figure to only one person in the case,” replied Ellery earnestly. “That is Stryker, who cannot be depended upon for reliable testimony. So I say again: Who is Krosac? Who is Krosac
now?
He may be anyone about us!”

“Nonsense,” said the Professor uncomfortably. “A Montenegrin, probably with a Croatian accent, a man moreover with a limp in his left leg …”

“Not really nonsense, Professor. Nationalists merge fluidly in this country, and certainly when Krosac conversed with Croker, the Weirton garageman, he spoke colloquial, unaccented English. As for the fact that Krosac may be in our midst—I don’t believe you’ve completely analyzed the elements of the Brad crime.”

“Oh, haven’t I?” snapped Yardley. “Perhaps not. But let me tell you this, young man—you’re crossing the river prematurely.”

“I’ve done that before.” Ellery rose and dived into the pool again. When his head emerged dripping from the water, he was grinning quizzically at the Professor. “I won’t mention the fact,” he said, “that it was Krosac who arranged for the sun cult’s proximity to Bradwood! Before the Van murder, mind you. Significant? Then he might be about here somewhere. … Come on!” he said abruptly, climbing out of the pool and lying down with his hands behind his head. “Let’s get together on this. Let’s begin with Krosac. A Montenegrin. Who, let us say, kills a Central European with an apparently assumed Roumanian nationality, and a Central European with an apparently assumed Armenian nationality. Three Central Europeans, then, possibly all from the same country; for I’m convinced that, things being what they are, Van and Brad did not come from Armenia and Roumania.”

The Professor grunted and applied two matches to his pipe. Ellery, sprawled on the hot marble, lighted a cigarette and closed his eyes. “Now think about this situation in terms of motive. Central Europe? The Balkans? Heart of superstition and violence; almost a platitude. Does that suggest anything to you?”

“I’m uncommonly ignorant about the Balkans,” said the Professor indifferently. “The only association that comes to mind when you mention the word is the fact that for centuries that part of the world has been the source of weird and fantastic folklore. I presume it’s a result of the generally low level of intelligence and the desolate and mountainous terrain.”

“Ha! There’s an idea,” chuckled Ellery. “Vampirism! Do you recall
Dracula,
Bram Stoker’s immortal contribution to the nightmares of innocent burghers? The story of a human vampire, laid in Central Europe. And heads cut off, too!”

“Drivel,” said Yardley with an uneasy stare.

“Right,” said Ellery promptly. “Drivel if only for the fact that no stakes were hammered into the hearts of Van and Brad. No self-respecting vampirist omits that pleasant little ceremony. If we’d found stakes I’d almost be convinced that we are dealing with a superstition-crazed man doing away with what he considered were human vampires.”

“You aren’t serious,” protested Yardley.

Ellery smoked for a moment. “Hanged if I know whether I am or not. You know, Professor, we may in our divine enlightenment pooh-pooh such nursery horribilia as vampirism, but after all if Mr. Krosac believes in vampires and goes about cutting people’s heads off, you can’t very well shut your eyes to the reality of his belief. It’s almost a statement of the pragmatic philosophy. If it exists for him …”

“How about this Egyptian cross business of yours?” asked the Professor gravely; he sat up straighter, shifting about for a more comfortable position, as if he anticipated a long discussion.

Ellery sat up and hugged his brown knees. “Well, how about it? You’ve something up your sleeve; you hinted as much yesterday. Have I, in the language of the classics, pulled a boner?”

The Professor deliberately knocked out his pipe, placed it on the edge of the pool beside him, ruffled his black beard, and became professorish. “My son,” he said solemnly, “you made an ass of yourself.”

Ellery frowned. “You mean the
tau
cross is not an Egyptian cross?”

“I mean precisely that.”

Ellery rocked gently. “The voice of authority … Hmm. You wouldn’t want to place a small bet, now, would you, Professor?”

“I’m not a betting man; haven’t the income … Where did you get the idea that the
crux commissa
is called the Egyptian cross?”

“Encyclopaedia Britannica.
About a year ago I had occasion to do some research on the general subject of crosses; I was working on a novel at the time. As I recall it now, the
tau,
or T, cross was described as a common Egyptian device, often called the Egyptian cross, or words to that effect. At any rate, my recollection is that the article definitely linked the words
tau
and Egyptian in connection with the cross. Would you care to look it up?”

The Professor chuckled. “I’ll take your word for it. I don’t know who wrote that article—for all I know it may have been someone of overwhelming erudition. But the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
is as fallible as other man-made institutions, and it isn’t always the last authority. I’m not an authority on Egyptian art myself, please understand, but it’s one phase of my work, and I tell you without equivocation that I’ve never encountered the phrase ‘Egyptian cross’; I’m sure it’s a misnomer. Yes, there is something Egyptian shaped like a T. …”

Ellery looked puzzled. “Then why do you say the
tau
isn’t—”

“Because it isn’t.” Yardley smiled. “A certain sacred instrument used by the ancient Egyptians possessed a shape like the Greek T. It occurs frequently in hieroglyphic literature. But that doesn’t make it a
tau
cross, which is an old Christian religious symbol. There are many fortuities like that. St. Anthony’s Cross, for example, is a name also applied to the
tau
cross, merely because it resembles the crutch with which St. Anthony is generally depicted. It’s no more St. Anthony’s Cross, strictly speaking, than it is yours or mine.”

“Then the T isn’t properly an Egyptian cross at all,” muttered Ellery. “Damn it all, I would mess it up.”

“If you want to call it that,” said the Professor, “I can’t stop you. It’s true that the cross seems to have been a familiar enough symbol for ages—its use has been variegated and universal from the most primitive times. I could give you numerous examples of variations on the cruciform symbol—by the Indian of the Western Hemisphere before the coming of the Spaniards, for instance. But that’s irrelevant. The essential point is this.” The Professor screwed up his eyes. “If there is one cruciform symbol which you might by stretching a point call an Egyptian cross, it is the
ankh.”

“The
ankh?”
Ellery looked thoughtful. “Perhaps that was what I really was thinking of. Isn’t that the T cross with the circle at the top?”

Yardley shook his head. “Not a circle, my boy, but a drop-or pear-shaped little figure. The
ankh
in substance somewhat resembles a key. It is called the
crux ansata,
and appears with extreme frequency in Egyptian inscriptions. It connoted divinity, or royalty, and peculiarly enough characterized the holder as a generator of life.”

“Generator of life?” Something was brewing in Ellery’s eyes. “Good lord!” he cried. “That’s it! The Egyptian cross after all! Something tells me we’re on the right track now!”

“Elucidate, young man.”

“Don’t you see? Why, it’s as clear as Herodotus!” shouted Ellery. “The
ankh—
symbol of life. Crossbar of the T—the arms. Upright—the body. Pear-shaped dingus at the top—the head. And the head’s been cut off! That means something, I tell you—Krosac deliberately changed the symbol of life to the symbol of death!”

The Professor stared at him for a moment, and then broke into a long and derisive chuckle. “Ingenious, my boy, ingenious as the devil, but a million parasangs from the truth.”

Ellery’s excitement subsided. “What’s wrong now?”

“Your inspired interpretation of Mr. Krosac’s motive in cutting off his victims’ heads might be tenable if the
ankh,
or
crux ansata,
were symbolic of the human
figure.
But it isn’t, Queen. It has a much more prosaic origin.” The Professor sighed. “You remember the sandals Stryker wears? They’re imitations of the typical ancient Egyptian footgear. … Now, I shouldn’t like to be quoted on this—after all I’m no more an anthropologist than I am an Egyptologist—but the
ankh
is generally considered by experts to have represented a sandal strap like the one Stryker uses—the loop at the top being the part that passes around the ankle. The perpendicular below the loop was that part of the strap which went down over the instep and connected with the sole of the sandal between the great toe and the other toes. The shorter, horizontal pieces went down the sides of the foot to the sole of the sandal.”

Ellery was crestfallen. “But I still don’t see how that symbol, if its origin was a sandal, could possibly come to represent the creation of life, even in a figurative sense.”

The Professor shrugged. “Word- or idea-origins are sometimes incomprehensible to the modern mind. The whole thing’s unclear from the scientific standpoint. But since the
ankh
sign was frequently used in writing various words from the stem meaning ‘to live,’ it came eventually to stand for a symbol of living, or life. So much so that, despite the fact that the material of the true origin was flexible—the sandal generally being made of treated papyrus, of course—eventually the Egyptians employed the sign in rigid forms—amulets of wood, faïence, and so on. But certainly the symbol itself never meant a human figure.”

Ellery polished the damp lenses of his pince-nez, squinting thoughtfully meanwhile at the sunny water. “Very well,” he said with desperation. “We abandon the
ankh
theory. … Tell me, Professor. Did the ancient Egyptians practice crucifixion?”

The Professor smiled. “You refuse to surrender, eh? … No, not to my knowledge.”

Ellery set the glasses firmly on his nose. “Then we abandon the Egyptological theory altogether! At least
I
do. I went off half-cocked—an alarming symptom of late; I must be getting rusty.”

“A little learning, my boy,” remarked the Professor, “as Pope said, is a dangerous thing.”