Egyptian Cross Mystery Read Free Page B

dark gray suit, black shoes, a shirt, socks, underclothes—all stiff with faded blood. Articles taken from the dead man’s clothing—a pencil, a fountain pen, a wallet, a bunch of keys, a crumpled packet of cigarettes, some coins, a cheap watch, an old letter—proved, as far as Ellery could see, utterly uninteresting. Except for the fact that several of the objects were initialed A V and the letter—from a Pittsburgh bookstore—was addressed to Andrew Van, Esq., there was nothing in them likely to be of importance to the inquest.
    Stapleton turned to introduce a tall, bitten old man who had just entered and was staring at Ellery suspiciously. “Mr. Queen—District Attorney Crumit.”
    “Who?” said Crumit sharply.
    Ellery smiled, nodded, and returned to the inquest room.
    Five minutes later Coroner Stapleton rapped with his gavel and the packed courtroom stilled. The customary preliminaries were hastily disposed of, and the Coroner summoned Michael Orkins to the witness stand.
    Orkins lumbered down the aisle followed by whispers and eyes. He was a gnarled, bent old farmer burnt mahogany by the sun. He sat down nervously and folded his big hands.
    “Mr. Orkins,” wheezed the Coroner, “tell us how you came to find the body of the deceased.”
    The farmer licked his lips. “Yes, sir. Was comin’ into Arroyo Frid’y mornin’ last in my Ford. Jest b’fore I got t’ th’ Arroyo pike I seen Ol’ Pete, from up th’ mountain, trampin’ in th’ road. Give’m a lift. We come to th’ turnin’ o’ the road, an’—an’ there was th’ body, hangin’ on th’ signpost. Nailed, it was, by th’ hands, an’ feet.” Orkins’s voice broke. “We—we beat it lickety-split fer town.”
    Someone tittered in the audience, and the Coroner rapped for silence. “Did you touch the body?”
    “No, sir! We didn’t even git out o’ th’ car.”
    “All right, Mr. Orkins.”
    The farmer sighed gustily and pottered back up the aisle, mopping his brow with a large red kerchief.
    “Er—Old Pete?”
    There was a stir, and in the rear of the courtroom a queer figure rose. It was that of an erect old man with a bushy gray beard and overhanging eyebrows. He was dressed in tatterdemalion garments—a conglomeration of ancient clothing, torn, dirty, and patched. He shambled down the aisle, hesitated, then wagged his head and sat down in the witness chair.
    The Coroner seemed nettled. “What’s your full name?”
    “Hey?” The old man stared sidewise out of bright unseeing eyes.
    “Your name! What is it—Peter what?”
    Old Pete shook his head. “Got no name,” he declared. “Old Pete, that’s me. I’m dead, I am. Been dead twenty years.”
    There was a horrified silence, and Stapleton looked about in bewilderment. A small alert-looking man of middle age, sitting near the Coroner’s dais, got to his feet “It’s all right, Mr. Coroner.”
    “Well, Mr. Hollis?”
    “It’s all right,” repeated the speaker in a loud voice. “He’s daffy, Old Pete is. Been that way for years—ever since he popped up in the hills. He’s got a shack somewhere above Arroyo, and comes in every couple of months or so. Does a little trappin’, I guess. Got pretty much the run of Arroyo. A regular character, Mr. Coroner.”
    “I see. Thanks, Mr. Hollis.”
    The Coroner swabbed his fat face, and the Mayor of Arroyo sat down in a murmur of approval. Old Pete beamed, and waved a dirty hand at Matt Hollis. … The Coroner continued brusquely. The man’s replies were vague, but enough was elicited to make formal confirmation of Michael Orkins’s story, and the hillman was excused. He shuffled back to his seat, blinking.
    Mayor Hollis and Constable Luden recited their stories—how they had been roused out of bed by Orkins and Old Pete, how they had gone to the crossroads, identified the corpse, removed the spikes, carted the body off, stopped in at Van’s house, viewed the shambles there and the bloody T on the door. …
    A fat,