Egyptian Cross Mystery Read Free Page A

was Tuesday. He had until Saturday, the day after New Year’s Day, to wheedle what information he could from the District Attorney of Hancock County. District Attorney Crumit was a dour old man with shrewd ambitions and an exaggerated opinion of his own importance. Ellery reached the door of his anteroom; and no amount of pleading or cajolery could get him farther. The District Attorney can see no one. The District Attorney is busy. Come back tomorrow. The District Attorney cannot see any one. From New York—Inspector Queen’s son? I’m sorry. …
    Ellery bit his lip, wandered the streets, and listened with tireless ears to the conversation of Weirton’s citizenry. Weirton, in the midst of its holly, tinsel, and glittering Christmas trees, was indulging in an orgy of vicarious horror. There were remarkably few women abroad, and no children. Men met hurriedly, stiff-lipped, and discussed ways and means. There was talk of lynching—a worthy purpose which failed because there was no one to lynch. Weirton’s police force prowled the streets uneasily. State police dashed in and out of town. Occasionally the peaked face of District Attorney Crumit flashed in steely vindictiveness as his automobile darted by.
    In all the hubbub that churned about him, Ellery maintained his peace and an inquiring air. On Wednesday he made an attempt to see Stapleton, the County Coroner. Stapleton was a fat young man in a constant state of perspiration; but he was canny, too, and Ellery learned nothing from him that he did not already know.
    So he devoted the remaining three days to ferreting out what he could about Andrew Van, the victim. It was incredible how little was known about the man. Few had seen him in the flesh; he had been a retiring gentleman of solitary habits and had rarely visited Weirton. It was rumored that the villagers of Arroyo had considered him an exemplary teacher: he had been kind, although not lenient, to his pupils; he had rendered satisfactory service, in the opinion of the Arroyo Town Board. Moreover, although he had not been a churchgoer, he had been a teetotaler; and this, it seemed, had cemented his position in a God-fearing and sober community.
    On Thursday the editor of Weirton’s leading newspaper turned literary. The morrow was New Year’s Day, and it was too fecund an opportunity to let lie barren. The six reverend gentlemen who ministered to Weirton’s spiritual heeds preached their sermons on the front page. Andrew Van, they said, had been an ungodly man. He who lives in ungodliness shall die in ungodliness. Yet deeds born of violence. … The editor did not stop there. There was an editorial in ten-point bold face. It was fruitily dotted with references to the French Bluebeard, Landru; to the Maniac of Dusseldorf; to the American bogey, Jack-the-Ripper; and to many other monsters of fact and fiction—a dainty tidbit served to the good people of Weirton as dessert for their New Year’s dinners.
    The County Court House, where the Coroner’s inquest was to be held on Saturday morning, was crowded to the doors long before the appointed hour. Ellery sagely had been one of the earliest comers, and his seat was in the first row, behind the railing. When, at a few moments before nine o’clock, Coroner Stapleton himself appeared, Ellery sought him out, exhibited a telegram signed by the Police Commissioner of New York City, and with this sesame secured entrance to the anteroom in which Andrew Van’s body was laid out.
    “Corpse is in something of a mess,” wheezed the Coroner. “After all, we couldn’t hold the inquest during Christmas Week, and it’s a good eight days. … Body’s been kept in our local undertaker’s parlor.”
    Ellery steeled himself and removed the cloth which covered the corpse. It was a sickening sight, and he replaced the cloth quickly. The corpse was that of a large man. Where the head had been was nothing … a gaping hole.
    On a table nearby lay a man’s garments: a sober