The Green Mummy

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"How the devil should I know?" fumed the Professor. "I never
unpacked the mummy; I never even saw it. Any jewelry buried with
Inca Caxas would be bound up in the bandages. So far as I know
those bandages were never unwound."

"You can throw no light on the subject?"

"No, I can't. Bolton went to get the mummy and brought it home.
I understood that he would personally bring his precious charge
to my house; but he didn't. Why, I don't know."

When the Professor stepped down, still fuming at what he
considered were the unnecessary questions of the Coroner, the
young doctor who had examined the corpse was called. Robinson
deposed that deceased had been strangled by means of a red window
cord, and that, from the condition of the body, he would judge
death had taken place some twelve hours more or less before the
opening of the packing case by Braddock. That was at three
o'clock on Thursday afternoon, so in witness's opinion the crime
was committed between two and three on the previous morning.

"But I can't be absolutely certain as to the precise hour," added
witness; "at any rate poor Bolton was strangled after midnight
and before three o'clock."

"That is a wide margin," grumbled the Coroner, jealous of his
brother-practitioner. "Were there any, other wounds on the
body?"

"No. You can see for yourself, if you have inspected the
corpse."

The Coroner, thus reproved, glared, and Widow Anne appeared after
Robinson retired. She stated, with many sobs, that her son had
no enemies and was a good, kind young man. She also related her
dream, but this was flouted by the Coroner, who did not believe
in the occult. However, the narration of her premonition was
listened to with deep interest by those in the court. Widow Anne
concluded her evidence by asking how she was to live now that her
boy Sid was dead. The Coroner professed himself unable to answer
this question, and dismissed her.

Samuel Quass, the landlord of the Sailor's Rest, was next called.
He proved to be a big, burly, red-haired, red-whiskered man, who
looked like a sailor. And indeed a few questions elicited the
information that he was a retired sea-captain. He gave his
evidence gruffly but honestly, and although he kept so shady a
public-house, seemed straightforward enough. He told much the
same tale as had appeared in the newspapers. In the hotel on
that night there was only himself, his wife and two children, and
the staff of servants. Bolton retired to bed saying that he
might start early for Gartley, and paid one pound to get the case
taken across to river and placed on a lorry. As Bolton had
vanished next morning, Quass obeyed instructions, with the result
which everyone knew. He also stated that he did not know the
case contained a mummy.

"What did you think it contained?" asked the Coroner quickly.

"Clothes and curios from foreign parts," said the witness coolly.

"Did Mr. Bolton tell you so?"

"He told me nothing about the case," growled the witness, "but he
chatted a lot about Malta, which I know well, having put into
that port frequent when a sailor."

"Did he hint at any rows taking place at Malta?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he say that he had enemies?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he strike you as a man who was in fear of death?"

"No, he didn't," said the witness for the third time. "He seemed
happy enough. I never thought for one moment that he was dead
until I heard how his body had been found in the packing case."

The Coroner asked all manner of questions, and so did Inspector
Date; but all attempts to incriminate Quass were vain. He was
bluff and straightforward, and told--so far as could be judged--
everything he knew. There was nothing for it but to dismiss him,
and Eliza Flight was called as the last witness.

She also proved to be the most important, as she knew several
things which she had not told to her master, or to the reporters,
or even to the police. On being asked why she had kept silence,
she said that her desire was to obtain any reward that might be
offered; but as she had heard that there would be no reward, she
was willing to tell what she knew. It was an important piece of
evidence.

The girl stated that Bolton had retired to bed at eight on the
ground floor, and the bedroom had a window--as marked in the
plan--which looked on to the river a stone-throw distant. At
nine or a trifle later witness went out to have a few words with
her lover. In the darkness she saw that the window was open and
that Bolton was talking to an old woman muffled in a shawl. She
could not see the woman's face, nor judge of her stature, as she
was stooping down to listen to Bolton. Witness did not take much
notice, as she was in a hurry to see her lover. When she
returned past the window at ten o'clock it was closed and the
light was extinguished, so she thought that Mr. Bolton was
asleep.

"But, to tell the truth," said Eliza Flight, "I never thought
anything of the matter at all. It was only after the murder that
I saw how important it was I should remember everything."

"And you have?"

"Yes, sir," said the girl, honestly enough. "I have told you
everything that happened on that night. Next morning--" She
hesitated.

"Well, what about next morning?"

"Mr. Bolton had locked his door. I know that, because a few
minutes after eight on the night before, not knowing he had
retired. I tried to enter the room and make ready the bed for
the night. He sang out through the door--which was locked, for
I tried it--that he was in bed. That was a lie also, as after
nine I saw him talking to the woman at the window."

"You previously said an old woman," said the Coroner, referring
to his notes. "How do you know she was old?"

"I can't say if she was old or young," said the witness candidly;
"it's only a manner of speaking. She had a dark shawl over her
head and a dark dress. I couldn't say if she was old or young,
fair or dark, stout or lean, tall or short. The night was dark."

The Coroner referred to the plan.

"There is a gas-lamp near the window of the bedroom. Did you not
see her in that light?"

"Oh, yes, sir; but just for a moment. I took very little notice.
Had I known that the gentleman was to be murdered, I should have
taken a great deal of notice."

"Well, about this locked door?"

"It was locked over-night, sir, but when I went next morning, it
was not locked. I knocked and knocked, but could get no answer.
As it was eleven, I thought the gentleman was sleeping very long,
so I tried to open the door. It was not locked, as I say--but,"
added witness with emphasis, "the window was snibbed and the
blind was down."

"That is natural enough," said the Coroner. "Mr. Bolton, after
his interview with the woman, would of course snib the window,
and pull down the blind. When he went away next morning he would
unlock the door."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but, as we know, he didn't go away
next morning, being in the packing case, nailed down."

The Coroner could have kicked himself for the very natural
mistake he had made, for he saw a derisive grin on the faces
around him, and particularly on that of Inspector Date.

"Then the assassin must have gone out by the door," he said
weakly.

"Then I don't know how he got out," cried Eliza Flight, "for I
was up at six and the front and back doors of the hotel were
locked. And after six I was about in passages and rooms doing my
work, and master and missus and others were all over the place.
How could the murderer walk out, sir, without some of us seeing
him?"

"Perhaps you did, and took no notice?"

"Oh, sir, if a stranger was around we should all have taken
notice."

This concluded the evidence, which was meagre enough. Widow Anne
was indeed recalled to see if Miss Flight could identify her as
the woman who, had been talking to Bolton, but witness failed to
recognize her, and the widow herself proved, by means of three
friends, that she had been imbibing gin at home on the night and
at the hour in question. Also, there was no evidence to connect
this unknown woman with the murder, and no sound--according to
the unanimous testimony of the inmates of the Sailor's Rest--had
been heard in the bedroom of Bolton. Yet, as the Coroner
observed, there must have been some knocking and hammering and
ripping going on. But of this nothing could be proved, and
although several witnesses were examined again, not one could
throw light on the mystery. Under these circumstances the jury
could only bring in a verdict of wilful murder against some
person or persons unknown, which was done. And it may be
mentioned that the cord with which Bolton had been strangled was
identified by the landlord and the chamber-maid as belonging to
the blind of the bedroom window.

"Well," said Hope, when the inquest was over, "so nothing can be
proved against anyone. What is to be done next?"

"I'll tell you after I have seen Random," said the Professor
curtly.

CHAPTER VII

THE CAPTAIN OF THE DIVER

The day after the inquest, Sidney Bolton's body was buried in
Gartley churchyard. Owing to the nature of the death, and the
publicity given to the murder by the press, a great concourse of
people assembled to witness the interment, and there was an
impressive silence when the corpse was committed to the grave.
Afterwards, as was natural, much discussion followed on the
verdict at the inquest. It was the common opinion that the jury
could have brought in no other verdict, considering the nature of
the evidence supplied; but many people declared that Captain
Hervey of The Diver should have been called. If the deceased had
enemies, said these wiseacres, it was probable that he would have
talked about them to the skipper. But they forgot that the
witnesses called at the inquest, including the mother of the dead
man, had insisted that Bolton had no enemies, so it is difficult
to see what they expected Captain Hervey to say.

After the funeral, the journals made but few remarks about the
mystery. Every now and then it was hinted that a clue had been
found, and that the police would sooner or later track down the
criminal. But all this loose chatter came to nothing, and as the
days went by, the public--in London, at all events--lost
interest in the case. The enterprising weekly paper that had
offered the furnished house and the life income to the person who
found the assassin received an intimation from the Government
that such a lottery could not be allowed. The paper, therefore,
returned to Limericks, and the amateur detectives, like so many
Othellos, found their occupation gone. Then a political crisis
took place in the far East, and the fickle public relegated the
murder of Bolton to the list of undiscovered crimes. Even the
Scotland Yard detectives, failing to find a clue, lost interest
in the matter, and it seemed as though the mystery of Bolton's
death would not be solved until the Day of Judgment.

In the village, however, people still continued to be keenly
interested, since Bolton was one of themselves, and, moreover,
Widow Anne kept up a perpetual outcry about her murdered boy.
She had lost the small weekly sum which Sidney had allowed her
out of his wages, so the neighbors, the gentry of the surrounding
country, and the officers at the Fort sent her ample washing to
do. Widow Anne in a few weeks had quite a large business,
considering the size of the village, and philosophically observed
to a neighbor that "It was an ill wind which blew no one any
good," adding also that Sidney was more good to her dead than
alive. But even in Gartley the villagers grew weary of
discussing a mystery which could never be solved, and so the case
became rarely talked about. In these days of bustle and worry
and competition, it is wonderful how people forget even important
events. If a blue sun arose to lighten the world instead of a
yellow one, after nine days of wonder, man would settle down
quite comfortably to a cerulean existence. Such is the wonderful
adaptability of humanity.

Professor Braddock was less forgetful, as he always bore in mind
the loss of his mummy, and constantly thought of schemes whereby
he could trap the assassin of his late secretary. Not that he
cared for the dead in any way, save from a strictly business
point of view, but the capture of the criminal meant the
restitution of the mummy, and--as Braddock told everyone with
whom he came in contact--he was determined to regain possession
of his treasure. He went himself to the Sailor's Rest, and drove
the landlord and his servants wild by asking tart questions and
storming when a satisfactory answer could not be supplied. Quass
was glad when he saw the plump back of the cross little man, who
so pertinaciously followed what everyone else had abandoned.

"Life was too short," grumbled Quass, "to be bothered in that
way."

The wooing of Archie and Lucy went on smoothly, and the Professor
showed no sign of wishing to break the engagement. But Hope, as
he confided to Lucy, was somewhat worried, as his pauper uncle,
on an insufficient borrowed capital, had begun to speculate in
South African mines, and it was probable that he would lose all
his money. In that case Hope fancied he would be once more
called upon to make good the avuncular loss, and so the marriage
would have to be postponed. But it so happened that the pauper
uncle made some lucky speculative shots and acquired money, which
he promptly reinvested in new mines of the wildcat description.
Still, for the moment all was well, and the lovers had a few
halcyon days of peace and happiness.

Then came a bolt from the blue in the person of Captain Hervey,
who called a fortnight after the funeral to see the Professor.
The skipper was a tall, slim man, lean as a fasting friar, and
hard as nails, with closely clipped red hair, mustache of the
same aggressive hue, and an American goatee. He spoke with a
Yankee accent, and in a truculent manner, sufficiently annoying
to the fiery Professor. When he met Braddock in the museum, the
two became enemies at the first glance, and because both were
bad-tempered and obstinate, took an instant dislike to one
another. Like did not draw to like in this instance.

"What do you want to see me about?" asked Braddock crossly. He
had been summoned by Cockatoo from the perusal of a new papyrus
to see his visitor, and consequently was not in the best of
tempers.

"I've jes' blew in fur a trifle of chin-music," replied Hervey
with an emphatic U.S.A. accent.

"I'm busy: get out," was the uncomplimentary reply.

Hervey took a chair and, stretching his lengthy legs, produced a
black cheroot, as long and lean as himself.

"If you were in the States, Professor, I'd draw a bead on you for
that style of lingo. I'm not taking any. See!" and he lighted
up.

"You're the captain of 'The Diver'?"

"That's so; I was, that is. Now, I've shifted to a dandy
wind-jammer of sorts that can run rings round the old barky. I
surmise I'm off for the South Seas, pearl-fishing, in three
months. I'll take that Kanaka along with me, if y'like,
Professor," and he cast a side glance at Cockatoo, who was
squatting on his hams as usual, polishing a blue enameled jar
from a Theban tomb.

"I require the services of the man," said Braddock stiffly. "As
to you, sir: you've been paid for your business in connection
with Bolton's passage and the shipment of my mummy, so there is
no more to be said."

"Heaps more! heaps, you bet," remarked the man of the sea
placidly, and controlling a temper which in less civilized parts
would have led him to wipe the floor with the plump scientist.
"My owners were paid fur that racket: not me. No, sir. So I've
paddled into this port to see if I can rake in a few dollars on
my own."

"I've no dollars to give you--in charity, that is."

"Huh! An' who asked charity, you bald-headed jelly-bag?"

Braddock grew scarlet with fury. "If you speak to me like that,
you ruffian, I'll throw you out."

"What?--you?"

"Yes, me," and the Professor stood on tip-toe, like the bantam he
was.

"You make me smile, and likewise tired," murmured Hervey,
admiring the little man's pluck. "See here, Professor, touching
that mummy?"

"My mummy: my green mummy. What about it?" Braddock rose to the
fly thrown by this skilful angler.

"That's so. What will you shell out if I pass along that
corpse?"

"Ah!" The Professor again stood on tip-toe, gasping and purple
in the face. He almost squeaked in the extremity of his anger.
"I knew it."

"Knew what?" demanded the skipper, genuinely surprised.

"I knew that you had stolen my mummy. Yes, you needn't deny it.
Bolton, like the silly fool he was, told you how valuable the
mummy was, and you strangled the poor devil to get my property."

"Go slow," said the captain, in no wise perturbed by this
accusation. "I would have you remember that at the inquest it
was stated that the window was locked and the door was open. How
then could I waltz into that blamed hotel and arrange for a
funeral? 'Sides, I guess shooting is mor'n my line than
garrotting. I leave that to the East Coast Yellow-Stomachs."

Braddock sat down and wiped his face. He saw plainly enough that
he had not a leg to stand on, as Hervey was plainly innocent.

"'Sides," went on the skipper, chewing his cheroot, "I guess if
I'd wanted that old corpse of yours, I'd have yanked Bolton
overside, and set down the accident to bad weather. Better fur
me to loot the case aboard than to make a fool of myself ashore.
No, sir, H.H. don't run 'is own perticler private circus in that
blamed way."

"H.H. Who the devil is H.H.?"

"Me, you bet. Hiram Hervey, citizen of the U.S.A. Nantucket
neighborhood for home life. And see, don't you get m'hair riz,
or I'll scalp."

"You can't scalp me," chuckled Braddock, passing his hand over a
very bald head. "See here, what do you want?"

"Name a price and I'll float round to get back your verdant
corpse."

"I thought you were going to the South Seas?"

"In three months, pearl-fishing. Lots of time, I reckon, to run
this old circus I want you to finance."

"Have you any suspicions?"

"No, 'sept I don't believe in that window business."

"What do you mean?" Braddock sat upright.

"Well," drawled the Yankee, "y'see, I interviewed the gal as told
that perticler lie in court."

"Eliza Flight. Was it a lie she told?"

"Well, not exactly. The window was snibbed, but that was done
after the chap who sent your pal to Kingdom Come had got out."

"Do you mean to say that the window was locked from the outside?"
asked Braddock, and then, when Hervey nodded, he exclaimed
"Impossible!"

"Narry an impossibility, you bet. The chap who engineered the
circus was all-fired smart. The snib was an old one, and he
yanked a piece of string round it, and passed the string through
the crack between the upper and lower sash of the window. When
outside he pulled, and the snib slid into place. But he left the
string on the ground outside. I picked it up nex' day and
guessed the racket he'd been on. I tried the same business and
brought off the deal."

"It sounds wonderful and yet impossible," cried Braddock, rubbing
his bald head and walking excitedly to and fro. "See here, I'll
come along with you and see how it's done."

"You bet you won't, unless you shell out. See here"--Hervey
leaned forward--"from that window business it's plain that no
one inside the shanty corpsed your pal. The chap as did it
entered and left by the window, and made tracks with that old
corp you want. Now you pass along five hundred pounds--that's
English currency, I reckon--and I'll smell round for the
robber."

"And where do you think I can obtain five hundred pounds?" asked
the Professor very dryly.

"Well, I guess if that blamed corpse is worth it, you'll be
willing to trade. Y'don't live in this shanty for nothing."

"My good friend, I have enough to live on, and obtain this house
at a small rent on account of its isolation. But I can no more
find the sum of five hundred pounds than fly."

Hervey rose and straightened his legs.

"Then I guess I'd best be getting back to Pierside."

"One moment, sir. Did anything happen on the voyage?--did
Bolton say anything likely to lead you to suppose that he was in
danger of being robbed and murdered?"

"No," said the skipper musingly, and pulling his goatee. "He
told me that he had secured the old corpse, and was bringing it
home to you. I didn't talk much to Bolton; he wasn't my style."

"Have you any idea who killed him?"

"No, I ain't."

"Then how do you propose to find the criminal who has the mummy?"

"You give me five hundred pounds and see," said Hervey coolly.

"I haven't got the money."

"Then I reckon you don't get the corpse. So long," and the
skipper strolled towards the door. Braddock followed him.

"You have a clue?"

"No, I've got nothing; not even that five hundred pounds you make
such a fuss over. It's a wasted day with H.H., I surmise.
Wait!" He scribbled on a card and flung it across the room.
"That's my Pierside address if you should change your blamed
mind."

The Professor picked up the card. "The Sailor's Rest! What, are
you stopping there?" Then, when Hervey nodded, he cried
violently, "Why, I believe you have a clue, and stop at the hotel
to follow it up."

"Maybe I do and maybe I don't," retorted the captain, opening the
door with a jerk; "anyhow, I don't hunt for that corpse without
the dollars."

When Hiram Hervey departed, the Professor raged up and down the
room so violently that Cockatoo was cowed by his anger.
Apparently this American skipper knew of something which might
lead to the discovery of the assassin and incidentally to the
restoration of the green mummy to its rightful owner. But he
would not make a move unless he was paid five hundred pounds, and
Braddock did not know where to procure that amount. Having long
since made himself acquainted with Hope's financial condition, he
knew well that there was no chance of getting a second check in
that quarter. Of course there was Random, whom he had heard
casually had returned from his yachting cruise, and was now back
again at the Fort. But Random was in love with Lucy, and would
probably only give or lend the money on condition that the
Professor helped him with his wooing. In that case, since Lucy
was engaged to Hope, there would be some difficulty in altering
present conditions. But having arrived at this point of his
somewhat angry meditations, Braddock sent Cockatoo with a message
to his step-daughter, saying that he wished to see her.

"I'll see if she really loves Hope," thought the Professor,
rubbing his plump hands. "If she doesn't, there may be a chance
of her throwing him over to become Lady Random. Then I can get
the money. And indeed," soliloquized the Professor virtuously,
"I must point out to her that it is wrong of her to make a poor
marriage, when she can gain a wealthy husband. I will only be
doing my duty by my dear dead wife, by preventing her wedding
poverty. But girls are so obstinate, and Lucy is a thorough
girl."

His amiable anxiety on behalf of Miss Kendal was only cut short
by the entrance of the young lady herself. Professor Braddock
then showed his hand too plainly by evincing a strong wish to
conciliate her in every way. He procured her a seat: he asked
after her health: he told her that she was growing prettier every
day, and in all ways behaved so unlike his usual self, that Lucy
became alarmed and thought that he had been

"Why have you sent for me?" she asked, anxious to come to the
point.

"Aha!" Braddock put his venerable head on one side like a roguish
bird and smiled in an infantine manner. "I have good news for
you."

"About the mummy?" she demanded innocently.

"No, about flesh and blood, which you prefer. Sir Frank Random
has arrived back at the Fort. There!"

"I know that," was Miss Kendal's unexpected reply. "His yacht
came to Pierside on the same afternoon as The Diver arrived."

"Oh, indeed!" said the Professor, struck by the coincidence, and
with a stare. "How do you know?"

"Archie met Sir Frank the other day, and learned as much."

"What?" Braddock struck a tragic attitude. "Do you mean to say
that those two young men speak to one another?"

"Yes. Why not? They are friends."

"Oh!" Braddock became roguish again. "I fancied they were
lovers of a certain young lady who is in this room."

By this time Lucy was beginning to guess what her step-father was
aiming at, and grew correspondingly angry.

"Archie is my sole lover now," she remarked stiffly. "Sir Frank
knows that we are engaged and is quite ready to be the friend of
us both."

"And he calls that love. Idiot!" cried the Professor, much
disgusted. "But I would point out to you, Lucy--and I do so
because of my deep affection for you, dear child--that Sir Frank
is wealthy."

"So is Archie--in my love."

"Nonsense! nonsense! That is mere foolish romance, He has no
money."

"You should not say that. Archie had money to the extent of one
thousand pounds, which he gave you."

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