The Beard of the Prophet Read online

  Mr. Budd grunted and wiped his damp face. The heat was stifling, a humid, airless heat which induced a feeling of limpness. There was a haze in the sky and a tinge of copper, which he surveyed critically.

  “Shouldn’t be surprised if we were in for a storm,” he murmured. “I should think that’s what it was working up for.”

  “I ’ope not,” said Leek anxiously. “Storms always make me feel queer.”

  “You’re always queer!” growled Mr. Budd. “You was born queer. You must have been the queerest baby in the world!”

  “I was considered a fine child—” began the sergeant.

  “By the Zoological Society, I suppose,” broke in the superintendent rudely, and Leek tried vainly to think of a suitable retort for this insulting remark. “Pity to let a fine place like this go to rack and ruin,” went on the big man. “This must have been a garden worth seein’ at one time.”

  They had come to the end of a bramble-lined path which led to a ramshackle summerhouse, and, turning, he eyed the old, ivy-covered building, with its quaint gables and leaded windows, a little sorrowfully, wondering why old Reuben Hayles had allowed his property to fall into such a dilapidated state.

  Close to the house grew an ancient oak tree of gigantic stature, its gnarled branches almost touching the walls in some places—a majestic tree, in keeping with its surroundings.

  The rest of the day passed slowly. Tea was served in an old-fashioned drawing room, but Mr. Hayles was not present. He was working, the secretary announced, and did not wish to be disturbed.

  After dinner, at which the old man looked even more nervous than he had done in the morning, he had a brief interview with Mr. Budd in the hall.

  “You will make your own arrangements, Superintendent,” he said, glancing quickly about him. “I shall probably be working until fairly late with my secretary.”

  “I’m proposin’,” said the stout man, “to put Sergeant Leek on guard outside the house, and look after the inside meself.”

  “I sincerely hope,” muttered the archaeologist, passing the tip of his tongue across his lips, “that the precautions will be unnecessary.”

  “I hope so too, sir,” said Mr. Budd, and watched him curiously as he made his way uncertainly up the big staircase.

  The sun had set in an angry bank of purple and red cloud, and when it disappeared a strange stillness settled over the countryside. Not a single leaf stirred, and there was a deep hush, as though every living thing had suddenly held its breath.

  Mr. Budd got hold of Murley, and from that unprepossessing man obtained a very good idea of the layout of the house. He drew a rough plan on a page of his notebook, so that he could find his way about easily, scribbling the names of the people who occupied the various bedrooms in their appropriate places.

  Reuben Hayles slept in a room adjoining his study, and on the same floor were Professor Glibber and his wife, and Kathleen Travers. On the floor above were five bedrooms occupied respectively by Leek, Mr. Budd himself, Geoffrey Dinwater, Mahmoud Bey, and the secretary. The servants’ quarters were shut off from the rest of the house by a door to which Murley alone had a key. This door was locked at night and opened in the morning, together with another door on the ground floor, which cut off the kitchen and the entire back premises.

  Having primed himself with these details, Mr. Budd made a slow and ponderous round of the rooms on the ground floor, examining the window fastenings. In contrast to the rest of the house, they were new and recently fitted. It would be a clever person who could force those patent catches.

  When he had completed his survey, he went in search of Leek. He found the sergeant in his room reading an evening paper, which he had borrowed from one of the servants.

  “It’s time you began to earn your salary,” he said, glancing at his watch. “You know what you’ve got to do? Patrol the side of the house under Mr. Hayles’ study. That’ll ensure that no one can come any funny tricks that way. You understand?”

  The sergeant nodded.

  “What are you goin’ to do?” he asked.

  “I’m goin’ to sit in a comfortable chair,” said his superior, “in the corridor on which the study and the bedroom doors open, so that nobody can get at the old man from that direction.”

  Leek sighed.

  “You always choose the best jobs,” he grumbled. “Why can’t I do that—?”

  “Because I’ve told you to do somethin’ else!” retorted Mr. Budd. “What’s the use of reachin’ the rank of superintendent if you can’t pick the cushy jobs!”

  As this was unanswerable, Leek said nothing

  “Now you get along,” said the big man. “If there’s any disturbance, blow your whistle.”

  The melancholy sergeant rose gloomily to his feet. “I expect it’ll all be a waste of time,” he muttered. “So far as I can see, we might just as well be comfortable in our beds.”

  “We’ve come here to guard the old man,” declared Mr. Budd, “and whether anythin’ happens or not, we’re goin’ to do it! Now get along and don’t argue!”

  The sergeant ‘got along,’ and the superintendent, tucking the newspaper under his arm, went to seek the chair that he had ordered Murley to place into position for him. He found it set against the wall in the corridor, and within sight of the study door. The light that hung from the ceiling was dim, but it was sufficient to enable him to see, and he settled himself comfortably.

  The drone of a voice reached his ears from behind the closed door of the room in which Mr. Hayles was working, and he concluded that the archaeologist was dictating to his secretary.

  At eleven o’clock the other members of the household began to retire for the night. Professor Glibber and his wife were the first to seek their rooms. They came along the corridor, stared curiously at the watchful Mr. Budd, muttered a curt ‘good night’, and disappeared through a door at the other end of the passage. After an interval, Mahmoud Bey came slowly up the stairs. He stopped at the end of the corridor, glanced along it, and continued up the second flight to the floor above. At a quarter to twelve Kathleen Travers and Geoffrey Dinwater came up the stairs together. They paused on the landing, stood talking for a moment or two, and then the girl said ‘good night’, and came rapidly along the passage. She gave a startled gasp as she saw Mr. Budd, and stopped.

  “Oh!” she stammered. “You—you frightened me for a moment. Are you stopping here all night?”

  “Most of it, I expect, miss,” he answered.

  “I—I hope nothing happens,” she said, and he smiled.

  “I don’t think ít will,” he replied reassuringly. “I don’t see very well how it can.”

  She wished him ‘good night’, and went into her room.

  The voice behind the study door was still murmuring monotonously. Presently Mr. Budd heard the sound of Murley locking up, and shortly after the butler appeared.

  “I’ve locked and bolted all the doors and fastened the windows, sir,” he said. “Is there anything further you require?”

  The stout man shook his head.

  “No, thank you,” he answered.

  “Then I’ll wish you ‘good night’, sir,” answered the butler, and went down the big staircase.

  The light in the hall went out, followed by the sound of the closing and looking of the communicating door to the back premises. Mr. Budd settled himself more comfortably, took out one of his thin black cigars, and eyed it regretfully. He would have liked to smoke, but the odour would percolate to the bedrooms and possibly annoy the occupants. He put it away with a sigh, and as he did so a low rumble of thunder came to his ears. A flicker of lightning lit up the landing eerily. The storm he had predicted earlier had burst.

  CHAPTER THREE

  NIGHT OF THE FULL MOON

  For many months afterwards Mr. Budd referred to that night at the old manor house as the first time he had ever seriously believed in the supernatural. For what eventually happened, was, by all the laws of nature, impossible.

/>   It was one o’clock when the door of the study opened and the secretary appeared on the threshold.

  “Good night, sir,” he called softly as he came out, closing the door behind him.

  “Mr. Hayles all right?” murmured Mr. Budd as the man came level with him.

  Washington Brown nodded.

  “Perfectly all right, sir,” he answered, with a great display of teeth. “He’s just going to bed.” He wished the stout superintendent “good night” and passed on his way.

  The rumble of thunder was almost continuous and getting louder. The storm was drawing nearer. Mr. Budd thought of Leek keeping his vigil in the open, and hoped he had had the forethought to provide himself with a coat. He would need it before the night was through.

  A quarter of an hour went by after the passing of the secretary, and then once again the study door opened and the old man came out into the corridor. He peered in the direction of Mr. Budd, switched out the light, shut the door, and came over to him.

  “I’m going to bed now, Superintendent,” he said wearily. “I trust there will be no disturbance.”

  “I don’t think you need worry, sir,” said Mr. Budd. “You can sleep quite happily. I shall be here for the rest of the night, and Sergeant Leek is outside your window. It’s impossible for anyone to get near you without passin’ one or other of us.”

  “The arrangement seems very satisfactory.” The archaeologist nodded. “Good night—er—Superintendent. If there’s anything you require, don’t hesitate to wake Murley.”

  He nodded again, went over to the door adjoining that of the study, opened it, and disappeared within.

  Mr. Budd yawned. He was not tired, but his vigil was a little boring. It was unlikely that anything would happen. His premonition had been the outcome of the house and its surroundings. Possibly the gathering storm, too, had played its part in producing that vague uneasiness that had grown on him throughout the day. Nothing could happen to old Hayles. The letters were just a lot of nonsense, the crazy threat of some weak-minded, religious fanatic! It was queer, though—

  He was on his feet instantly as the sound reached him; a smothered exclamation, a thin scream, and the thud of a falling body. It came from the door of the room through which a moment before the archaeologist had disappeared.

  In two strides Mr. Budd had reached the portal.

  “Is anythin’ the matter, sir?” he called, but there was no reply.

  Twisting the handle, he flung open the door and entered. A deafening crash of thunder came rolling in through the open windows simultaneously with a vivid blue-white glare. It lit the room weirdly, putting to shame the shaded lamp, and revealing with startling clearness the sprawling figure that lay on the floor. It was Reuben Hayles!

  There was blood on his face and spattered on the floor around him. The front of his head was crushed in, the result of a terrible blow that must have killed him instantly. He lay in the centre of the apartment on an ancient rug.

  Mr. Budd stared at him íncredulously. Apart from himself and the crumpled figure, the room was empty.

  Swiftly he closed the door, turned the key, and went over to the window. Another flash of violent white light split the sky and a rolling boom of thunder went reverberating over the house as he leaned out and called to Leek. The thin sergeant appeared instantly.

  “Did anyone come out of this wíndow?” snapped Mr. Budd.

  “Come out of this window?” repeated the bewildered Leek. “No. Nobody ain’t come out nor gone in. Why? What’s ’appened?”

  “Hayles has been murdered!” snarled the superintendent, but his words were drowned in another peal of thunder. “Stay where you are!” He withdrew his head as big drops of rain began to fall rapidly, went over to the body and, kneeling down, felt for the heart. There was no movement.

  The old man was dead. There was no doubt of that. But how he had met his death was a mystery of mysteries,

  The big man made a rapid search of the room. There was nobody concealed under the bed or in the large wardrobe, nor any sign of the weapon that must have been used to inflict such a terrible wound.

  Mr. Budd rubbed his massive chin and stared about him blankly. The blow had been struck with tremendous force, and even if someone had concealed himself in the room earlier in the evening and waited for the old man to enter, it was impossible for him to have escaped. He himself had been within sight of the door all the time, and Leek was below the window. No one could have got out of that room.

  He felt a little chill in the region of his spine. There was no natural explanation. What was it that had come out of the stormy night, killed, and vanished again, leaving no trace of its passage?

  He shook off the superstitious fear that had momentarily taken possession of him. This was murder, and there was plenty to do. This was no time for fancies and imaginings. He made another search of the room, the vague possibility of some secret entrance crossing his mind. It was an old house, and such things were not unknown.

  But he found nothing of the kind. The floor was solid, the walls, too. There was no place for a dog to have lain concealed, let alone a human being. Yet there on the floor at his feet lay the shattered body of a man who had been killed by a savage blow; a blow that had been dealt by a powerful hand.

  He went over to the window once more.

  “You there, Leek?” he called. “I want you up here right away. Can you get in?”

  Leek looked up pathetically through the drenching rain.

  “Not unless someone lets me in,” he answered.

  “Well, ring the bell,” said Mr. Budd. “And keep ringing till you wake the servants.”

  The lightning came again as the sergeant slouched away, and a thunderous detonation shook the house. Mr. Budd stared at the oak tree silhouetted against the glare, and wondered if it was possible for anyone to have swung from the window into the branches. He shook his head. It was too far away, and, anyhow, the accompanying noise would have been heard by Leek, unless—a thought occurred to him—unless the thunder had drowned it!

  He wondered if he had discovered the explanation, but after a moment’s consideration he saw that it was practically impossible. No man could have carried out such a feat in the time.

  The muffled pealing of the bell reached his ears as he turned back to the room. How long would Leek be before he was successful in rousing the house? Nobody as yet appeared to be aware that anything out of the ordinary had happened, or if they were, they had given no sign,

  He looked down at the dead man, and his face was stern. He felt, to a certain extent, responsible. The old man had asked him for protection, and he had failed him. Yet he could have done no more than he had. He had taken what he considered were adequate precautions. They should have been adequate. A guard on the window, a guard on the door. It was impossible for anyone to have reached the man. And yet here was proof positive that somebody had.

  He took out his handkerchief and wiped his perspiring face, and his usual sleepy expression had vanished completely.

  The peeling of the bell went on monotonously. Somebody must hear it sooner or later. The local police would have to be notified, a doctor sent for, and then he saw something he had not noticed before.

  The old man had fallen on his back, arms flung wide. And in one of his hands was something dark. He bent down and peered at the object, gently moved the body to get a better view, and stared in open-mouthed astonishment, for the thing which Reuben Hayles held clenched in his dead fingers was a beard of dark grey hair. And it was a false beard! The wire frame to which the hair was attached was plainly visible.

  Mr. Budd straightened up, went over to the bed, and sat down. His thoughts were chaotic, and he found it difficult to think clearly. A phrase that he had heard kept repeating itself over and over again: “The beard of the prophet. The beard of the prophet. The beard of the prophet.” He had read it in books, heard it on the films. It was a commonplace oath of the East. “By the beard of the prophet.” And it was the
Prophet who had sent the threatening letters; the Prophet who had carried out his threat and left, leaving his beard behind.

  It was insane! A nightmare! But it was true!

  Mr. Budd passed a hand over his eyes wearily, almost as though he expected to find that he was dreaming. But it was no dream. There was old Reuben Hayles—dead. There in his hand was a grey beard. And here was Mr. Budd prepared to swear before any jury that nobody could have entered or left the room in which he had been killed.

  The pealing of the bell stopped abruptly, and he heard voices. Presently there was a step in the corridor outside, and getting up, he walked to the door, turned the key, and opened it. Murley, a grotesque figure in a tattered dressing gown, his eyes heavy with sleep, was standing on the threshold with Leek by his side.

  “What’s happened?” he whispered. “What’s happened?”

  “Your master’s been killed!” said Mr. Budd shortly. “Is there a telephone in the house?”

  “Yes, sir, in the study,” answered the butler, trying to catch a glimpse of the bedroom beyond the figure of the stout man. “But—but how did—?”

  “I’ve no time to answer questions!” snapped Mr. Budd brusquely. “Telephone the nearest police station. Ask for the divisional inspector. Say that murder has been committed, and will he come here as soon as possible.”

  “Murder!” Murley gasped the word. “Mr. Hayles—Mr. Hayles has been murdered?”

  “Yes!” snarled Mr. Budd. “Go and do as I tell you!”

  The butler opened his mouth, closed it again, and hurried away. Leek, with dropped jaw and wide eyes, was staring at his superior.

  “You don’t mean—the old man’s been killed?” he whispered incredulously.

  “Didn’t you hear what I told you from the window, or don’t I speak plainly enough?” said Mr. Budd irritably, “If I said he was murdered, he must have been killed!”

  “But—how—when?” stammered the sergeant in. coherently.

  “He was killed in this room less than a quarter of an hour ago,” said Mr. Budd impressively. “He was killed while you were under the window and I was outside the door! And the murderer’s escaped. Now work that out!”