The Seven of Calvary Read online

  He was silent for so long a time that Martin began to wonder if, for the first time, he was seeing Dr. Ashwin affected by whiskey. At last Ashwin moved to reach for his cigarettes. He lit the match with a gesture as though he hoped by its light to dispel the gloom that had descended. When he finally spoke, it was in a fresher tone of voice.

  “Let us now consider that symbol,” he said.

  Martin looked again at the curious device. “I can’t make any sense out of it,” he offered at last. “I’ve thought of all the words, printable and unprintable, for which the F could stand, and they’re not in the least helpful.”

  Ashwin contemplated the photograph for a moment. “And small wonder that they are not. Although I cannot offhand give a meaning to the symbol, I can at least offer one suggestion. I do not believe that it is an F.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “A seven.”

  Martin looked blank.1 “A seven? I can’t quite see …”

  “Surely, Mr. Lamb, you are acquainted with the continental habit of crossing a seven to distinguish it from a one? The head of the one in European calligraphy, to dignify it by a flattering name, is so far extended as to make it resemble our seven. The seven, therefore, is adorned with this crossbar as a distinguishing mark.” He drew several examples on a scrap of paper and passed it to Martin, who nodded after a moment’s study.

  “Yes,” he admitted, “I think you may be right. And I admit that a seven, with all its strange associations, is more apt to figure in such a symbol than an F. But we still don’t know what the symbol means.”

  “Let us disregard for the moment the meaning of the symbol, and see what conclusions we can draw merely from the fact that a symbol was left by the murderer. There are several possible reasons for such an act.”

  “We seem to be returning to early Doyle,” Martin commented. “One’s first thoughts are of dastardly secret societies and tremendously elaborate vengeances.”

  “There is of course that possibility, distasteful though it may be. The nature of the seven and the circumstances of Dr. Schaedel’s life both lead one to conclude that the society is a European one. And why then should they wait until he is in Berkeley to murder him? What else does the use of a symbol suggest to you, Mr. Lamb?”

  “The act, perhaps, of an inherently melodramatic person, who wishes to embellish his crime with a colourful touch of bright bravado.”

  “Plausible,” Ashwin smiled. “I can imagine you, for instance, feeling the need of some such theatrical device. And in that case the symbol might have no meaning whatsoever, but be a creation of the murderer’s. What else?”

  “Suppose …” Martin found this idea a little difficult to express. “Suppose that you wanted to kill several people for identical or similar reasons. You kill the first and leave a symbol beside the body which will mean nothing to the investigators, but will be too intelligible to the rest of your proposed victims. To them it will mean either, ‘Prepare to die!’ or, ‘Mend your ways, lest you too die!’”

  “Ingenious, although I fail to see how a seven mounted on a flight of steps could convey either of those meanings. But then, you specified that the symbol should be unintelligible to an investigator. According to that idea, Mr. Lamb, you expect more murders in Berkeley?”

  “Not necessarily. I was just suggesting—”

  “Perhaps you were right. Perhaps we should expect more murders—one more at least. But have you any further suggestions as to the use of the symbol?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Then allow me to offer one. The symbol might have been used as a blind, so that the police or any other investigating agency might attribute its use to one of the reasons which we have just discussed. That is, a murderer killing from strictly private reasons might use a symbol to suggest the work of a society. A quiet, unmelodramatic, efficient murderer might leave a symbol simply because he reasons that its use is, to use one of your theatrical terms, out of character for him, and therefore likely to create a false scent.”

  “Ingenious,” Martin smiled in mimicry of Ashwin. “But I somehow distrust these intricacies. Next I could reason that the murderer really was flamboyantly melodramatic, and left the symbol so that a detective might be deluded into thinking that a quiet person had left it in order to delude him (the detective) into thinking that he (the murderer)—”

  Dr. Ashwin held up his hand. “Mercy, Mr. Lamb, mercy! Forgive me my ingenuities and fill your glass in token of peace.”

  “This will be the last,” Martin said as he complied. “I got to bed terribly late last night, what with Kurt and the others.”

  “I understand now your intense desire to prove poor Herr Ross guilty. It is simply so that you may one day boast of how you caroused with a murderer whose hands still reeked of figurative blood.”

  It was now Martin’s turn to cry mercy. “I admit that I still think Kurt is a possible suspect, but I certainly can’t fit him in with any of our ideas of the symbol. He is neither flamboyant nor subtle, and he surely is not the emissary of that fatal secret society, the Stepping Seven—which sounds like a vaudeville team. But I can’t get away from the fact that he seems to have such a good motive—need of immediate money—sole heir to a moderately good sum—”

  Dr. Ashwin interrupted. “I think you will find before long, Mr. Lamb,” he said, “that no one had a possible motive for killing Dr. Schaedel.”

  ____________

  1 Literally:

  He is not a man who is struck by an inferior:

  He by whom an inferior is struck is no man, by the gods!

  He who is struck is not struck if his master is not struck.

  He is not sinless who strikes one struck again and again.

  1This is the reader’s opportunity to feel triumphant, since he will already have guessed as much from the title of the novel.—A. B.

  CHAPTER III

  The Seven of Calvary

  On his way to a reasonably early breakfast the following morning, Martin bought a Sunday newspaper. Despite his keen interest in the matter in hand, his loyalty to his lower tastes made him read first of all the comics. These lasted him well through the cereal and poached eggs; it was not until he had lighted the day’s first cigarette to accompany his second cup of coffee that he turned to the news section.

  But although a feature writer had spread the Ice Pick Murder over a long front page double column, there were no new facts of interest. Martin read carefully how Sergeant Cutting had deduced from the cash and jewelry present on the corpse that robbery had not been the motive for the crime, how the Swiss Consul in San Francisco was berating the laxity of American justice and insinuating that international complications might result, how the radio program of World Peaceways had resolved to make its next half-hour a memorial to Dr. Schaedel, and how an appeal to come forward with their information was being broadcast to all who might know the meaning of the cryptic symbol. There was no reference to the questioning of Kurt Ross by the police—in fact no mention of Kurt whatsoever.

  Through Martin’s mind kept coursing, like a striking musical theme, Dr. Ashwin’s words: “No one had a possible motive for killing Dr. Schaedel.” And again: “Perhaps we should expect more murders—one at least.” Could this mean that Ashwin believed in the existence of a homicidal maniac running loose in Berkeley? But why should such a maniac rest content with one more murder? And why the symbol?

  Martin finished his coffee, extinguished his cigarette, and left the paper for a later breakfaster to find. Then he set out on a leisurely stroll across the campus to Newman Hall. Many of Martin’s friends, and among them Dr. Ashwin, had never quite made up their minds as to the sincerity of Martin’s religious devotion; but none had been able to suggest any alternative motive for his constant attendance at Mass. Surely it was not for the sake of Father O’Moore’s oleaginous sermons, nor yet for the too hearty goodfellowship of the Newman Club.

  Quite aside from any question of religion, it was fortunate t
hat Martin went to Mass on that particular Sunday morning, for there he saw Cynthia Wood. It was after Mass, as he descended the stairs from the chapel, that he felt a light hand on his shoulder and looked up into Cynthia’s face.

  “Hello, Cyn,” he smiled. “I didn’t think you were up and around yet.”

  “Had to be,” she answered. “Going back to the House now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll walk over with you.”

  As they left the church, Martin caught a glimpse of the Morales entering Remigio’s car. Mona turned, saw him, and waved gaily. “Mañana a las dos,” she called, and smiled. Such a smile, Martin foresaw, would make the matter of questioning her extremely difficult.

  He turned as the car drove off to see Cynthia regarding him with amusement. “So you’re going in for Latins, Martin?” she queried with raised eyebrows. “Naughty-naughty!”

  “What did you mean by ‘had to be up and around’?” Martin asked, chiefly to change the subject. He had suddenly realized that such ribbing, which he would ordinarily have answered lightly in kind, was decidedly not to his taste when Mona Morales was concerned.

  “Dad again,” Cynthia replied shortly. “He and Father O’Moore are just like that— It was the darling Father, damn him, who converted Dad to the Church. And if Father doesn’t see me after Mass, he passes the word on to Dad—oh, ever so casually—and damned if he doesn’t cut my allowance. I even have to make little weekly reports on the sermon to prove I got in early.”

  “I must confess,” said Martin, “you’re in a devil of a fix if you have to tell every week what Father O’Moore’s sermons are about. I’m sure I never know even while they’re going on.”

  “So I had to come to church today. A mere thing like nerves wouldn’t be an excuse for Dad.” She was lighting a cigarette with jerky fingers.

  “It must have been an awful shock,” Martin faltered.

  “Shock? For once, darling, your fine vocabulary is pitifully weak. Shock? To have a nice sweet little old man drop in to ask his way, and then two minutes later to see him lying dead on the sidewalk … Shock?” Cynthia laughed jarringly. “And it all seems so damned impossible this morning. The campus is green and bright and lovely. The sun is warm, and there’s a nice breeze from the bay. It’s Spring, and everything’s wonderful. And somewhere that sweet old man is lying on a slab … maybe they’re putting things in him now to keep him from rotting … rotting away like a—”

  “Don’t be a damned fool, Cyn.” Martin was surprisingly abrupt. “You’re just talking yourself into a state of nerves. It’s not your fault you got mixed up in his death. And thinking about it won’t do you or him any good.”

  “All right.” Cynthia sighed. “It’s such a surprise to hear you talking like a sensible person, Martin, that I’ll have to try acting like one.” They walked on in silence a bit, and then she spoke again. “Be a sweet child, Martin, and drop in for tea this afternoon. There’s a lamb—sorry, didn’t mean the pun, but with a name like yours … Pop around and cheer me up. Bring anybody I know. I’ll ask Alex and Mary, and we’ll just sit around and talk. It’ll do me good.”

  “A swell idea, Cyn. About what time?”

  “Oh, around three. Shall I ask your Latin?”

  “She’s going to San Francisco this afternoon,” Martin began quickly, and stopped to see Cynthia smiling at him in a most annoying manner.

  “Well, bring anyone. And be prepared to talk and talk and talk and talk. I’ve got to listen to people or I’ll go mad—very literally.”

  Martin left her at International House and watched her light a fresh cigarette from the old one as she started up toward Panoramic Way. He was sorry for Cynthia, but not surprised to see how quickly her superficial brightness had faded at an unpleasant contact with reality. He looked after her for a moment, and then suddenly realized that he wanted lunch.

  A little before three Martin left his room, where he had been working industriously on his Borcke-Shakespeare-Theobald paper, and descended to the main hall, remembering Cynthia’s injunction to bring someone along with him. He dodged behind a pillar for a moment to escape Boritsin, and then stepped forward to survey the possibilities.

  He nodded to the serious young Chinese who had attended the reception dinner and who was now frowning over an economics text; he exchanged a few words with the tall girl at the reception desk; and he was rather abrupt to one of the leading æsthetes of the House.

  He had practically given up finding a possible tea-guest when he saw Paul Lennox reclining in a comfortable chair puffing unconcernedly at a curved pipe which had gone out some time before.

  “Hello,” said Martin, sitting down beside him. “The Hall’s almost deserted today.”

  “Everybody’s out in the hills reveling in the Spring. I suppose I should be too, but I found this new book on the Albigensians too interesting.” He paused to relight his pipe. “And where are you off to?”

  “Cynthia’s for tea. Like to come along?”

  Paul shrugged his shoulders. “I doubt if Cynthia would be exactly wild about seeing me.”

  “She told me to ask you,” Martin said, with courageous disregard for accuracy. After all, if there were some slight animosity between Cynthia and Paul, that very friction might serve to take her mind off the murder and the state of her nerves.

  “All right,” Paul agreed indifferently. “A cup of tea would be rather pleasant.” His pipe was satisfactorily alight now. Slipping the Albigensian volume under his arm, he started off with Martin.

  Martin paused on the steps to light a cigarette. “By the bye, Paul,” he said, annoyedly tossing away a match which had gone out too soon, “there’s one little thing—don’t say anything about Dr. Schaedel or ice picks or anything. Cyn’s nerves are in a hell of a state. Just keep up a running fire of stuff—you know, your present research—that Don Juan business—anything.”

  “Right.” Paul nodded sympathetically.

  At that moment, just as Martin finally lit his cigarette, Worthing bounded up the stairs. “Ah there, old man,” he chirped, “and where might you be headed?”

  “Going out to tea,” Martin admitted.

  “It’s so good to see anyone in the States who really appreciates that custom, what? I was just going to have a spot myself in here.”

  Martin was rash. He said, “Why don’t you come along with us?” Worthing’s inanities, he thought, might be a possible diversion. And poor Richard Worthing leaped at the invitation, little suspecting what strange mental anguish and physical fear he was later to reap in consequence of that eager acceptance.

  Throughout the short stroll to Cynthia’s house Worthing talked, while Paul cast reproachful glances at Martin. It was very blithe talk, liberally larded with I say’s and What?’s, with an occasional blasted just to show that Worthing was a Man among Men.

  As they reached the house, Worthing paused and looked at the sidewalk in fascinated horror. “The poor old chap,” he moaned. “Think of him lying there! And that spot … I say, old man, do you think that’s blood?”

  Martin remarked that he thought it was more likely canine excrement, but he couched his remark in solid Anglo-Saxon words which caused Worthing to wince slightly.

  “I say, really now, old man! I feel gooseflesh all over. Could you let me have a fag, what?”

  Martin took out his cigarette case. At the moment that he was offering it to Worthing, Cynthia appeared on the porch and called, “Aren’t you ever coming in?” Turning to look at her, he dropped the case and saw it fall under a bush by the sidewalk. “Go on in,” he said to the others. “I’ll get this damned thing.”

  It was several minutes later that Martin entered the living room. Mary Roberts was trying vainly to stem Worthing’s reminiscences of Rugby games in Canada, and his entrance was more than welcome. It was a good entrance. There was dirt on the knees of his otherwise spotless flannels, and bits of twigs and leaves stuck out of his hair. But his cigarette case was safe in his pocket, an
d even safer in another pocket was something which he had seen dangling from an inner branch of the bush, something easily enough overlooked in a police search concentrated on stilettos. Martin had discovered where Kurt Ross had lost his Phi Beta Kappa key.

  “Twenty minutes of,” Mary Roberts observed in the midst of a sudden silence. There followed the usual ritual comparison of watches and several comments on how strange it was that silences always came at twenty of or twenty after the hour. And then the silence descended again.

  “You know, Martin,” Alex began, in a brave effort to keep things going, “I’ve been wondering just what sort of a play of yours that Little Theatre’s doing.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say of mine. I just translated it. It’s a Spanish play by José María Fonseca. Last of the early nineteenth century romanticists. Very colorful, fairly bawdy. He called it Don Juan Redivivo. That’s a swell title, but I couldn’t translate it; so I called it Don Juan Returns, and let it go at that.”

  “And Paul’s your star?” Cynthia’s tone was sceptical.

  “Yes, but he’s still the scholarly historian. He’s started doing a paper on the Don Juan legend.”

  “Oh, do tell us about it, Paul.” Mary was not particularly interested in the Don Juan legend, but her pet superstition demanded that there should not be another dead pause until twenty after.

  Paul told them all about it, briefly and interestingly. As he finished and poured himself a fresh cup of tea, the thing happened that everyone had been waiting for.

  “I say, Paul old man, you’ve so much information and rot on strange things—perhaps you could tell us something about that symbol.” It was Worthing, of course. Martin remembered now, too late, that he had not warned him.

  “What symbol?” Paul’s carelessness was a little too studied.

  “What symbol! Why dash it all, you know—the blasted symbol that was beside Dr. Schaedel’s body.”

  That’s done it! thought Martin. Cynthia’s lips seemed to grow thin while she clenched her teacup as though she would crush it. Alex and Paul glared at Worthing with concentrated dislike. Silence took possession of the group with fine disregard of the fact that it was only five minutes after.