Chapter XIV: A Hieroglyphic Letter

(_Friday, July 13; 4.15 p.m._)

Markham got up irritably and walked the length of the room and back. As always in moments of perplexity his hands were clasped behind him, and his head was projected forward.

“Damn your various aunts!” he growled, as he came abreast of Vance. “You’re always calling on an aunt. Haven’t you any uncles?”

Vance opened his eyes and smiled blandly.

“I know how you feel.” Despite the lightness of his tone there was unmistakable sympathy in his words. “No one is acting as he should in this case. It’s as if every one were in a conspiracy to confuse and complicate matters for us.”

“That’s just it!” Markham fumed. “On the other hand, there’s something in what the Sergeant says. Why should Bliss----?”

“Too much theory, Markham old dear,” Vance interrupted. “Oh, much too much theory… too much speculation… too many futile questions. There’s a key coming, and it’ll explain everything. Our immediate task, it seems to me, is to find that key.”

“Sure!” Heath spoke with heavy sarcasm. “Suppose I begin punching the furniture with hat-pins and ripping up the carpets.…”

Markham snapped his fingers impatiently, and Heath subsided.

“Let’s get down to earth.” He regarded Vance with vindictive shrewdness. “You’ve got some pretty definite idea; and all your maunderings couldn’t convince me to the contrary.--What do you suggest we do next?--interview Salveter?”

“Precisely.” Vance nodded with unwonted seriousness. “That bigoted lad fits conspicuously into the picture; and his presence on the tapis now is, as the medicos say, indicated.”

Markham made a sign to Heath, who immediately rose and went to the drawing-room door and bellowed up the staircase.

“Hennessey!… Bring that guy down here. We got business with him.”

A few moments later Salveter was piloted into the room. His eyes were flashing, and he planted himself aggressively before Vance, cramming his hands violently into his trousers’ pockets.

“Well, here I am,” he announced with belligerence. “Got the handcuffs ready?”

Vance yawned elaborately and inspected the newcomer with a bored expression.

“Don’t be so virile, Mr. Salveter,” he drawled. “We’re all worn out with this depressin’ case, and simply can’t endure any more vim and vigor. Sit down and let the joints go free.… As for the manacles, Sergeant Heath has ’em beautifully polished. Would you like to try ’em on?”

“Maybe,” Salveter returned, watching Vance calculatingly. “What did you say to Meryt--to Mrs. Bliss?”

“I gave her one of my _Régies_,” Vance told him carelessly. “Most appreciative young woman.… Would you care for one yourself? I’ve two left.”

“Thanks--I smoke Deities.”

“Ever dip ’em in opium?” Vance asked dulcetly.

“Opium?”

“The concrete juice of the poppy, so to speak--obtained from slits in the cortex of the capsule of _Papaver somniferum_. Greek word: _opion_--to wit: omicron, pi, iota, omicron, nu.”

“No!” Salveter sat down suddenly and shifted his gaze. “What’s the idea?”

“There seems to be an abundance of opium in the house, don’t y’ know.”

“Oh, is there?” The man looked up warily.

“Didn’t you know?” Vance selected one of his two remaining cigarettes. “We thought you and Mr. Scarlett had charge of the medical supplies.”

Salveter started and remained silent for several moments.

“Did Meryt-Amen tell you that?” he asked finally.

“Is it true?” There was a new note in Vance’s voice.

“In a way,” the other admitted. “Doctor Bliss----”

“What about the opium?” Vance leaned forward.

“Oh, there has always been opium in the cabinet up-stairs--nearly a canful.”

“Have you had it in your room lately?”

“No… yes.… I----”

“Thanks awfully. We take our choice of answers, what?”

“Who said there was opium in my room?” Salveter squared his shoulders.

Vance leaned back in his chair.

“It really doesn’t matter. Anyway, there’s no opium there now.… I say, Mr. Salveter; did you return to the breakfast-room this morning after you and Mrs. Bliss had gone up-stairs?”

“I did not!… That is,” he amended, “I don’t remember.…”

Vance rose abruptly and stood menacingly before him.

“Don’t try to guess what Mrs. Bliss told us. If you don’t care to answer my questions, I’ll turn you over to the Homicide Bureau--and God help you!… We’re here to learn the truth, and we want straight answers.--Did you return to the breakfast-room?”

“No--I did not.”

“That’s much better--oh, much!” Vance sighed and resumed his seat. “And now, Mr. Salveter, we must ask you a very intimate question.--Are you in love with Mrs. Bliss?”

“I refuse to answer!”

“Good! But you would not be entirely broken-hearted if Doctor Bliss should be gathered to his fathers?”

Salveter clamped his jaws and said nothing.

Vance contemplated him ruminatingly.

“I understand,” he said amicably, “that Mr. Kyle has left you a considerable fortune in his will.… If Doctor Bliss should ask you to finance the continuation of his excavations in Egypt, would you do it?”

“I’d insist upon it, even if he did not ask me.” A fanatical light shone in Salveter’s eyes. “That is,” he added, as a reasoned afterthought, “if Meryt-Amen approved. I would not care to go against her wishes.”

“Ah!” Vance had lit his cigarette and was smoking dreamily. “And do you think she would disapprove?”

Salveter shook his head.

“No, I think she would do whatever the doctor wanted.”

“A dutiful wife--_quoi_?”

Salveter bristled and sat up.

“She’s the straightest, most loyal----”

“Yes, yes.” Vance exhaled a spiral of cigarette smoke. “Spare me your adjectives.… I take it, however, she’s not entirely ecstatic with her choice of a life mate.”

“If she wasn’t,” Salveter returned angrily, “she wouldn’t show it.”

Vance nodded uninterestedly.

“What do you think of Hani?” he asked.

“He’s a dumb beast--a good soul, though. Adores Mrs. Bliss.…” Salveter stiffened and his eyes opened wide. “Good God, Mr. Vance! You don’t think----” He broke off in horror; then he shook himself. “I see what you’re getting at. But… but.… Those degenerate modern Egyptians! They’re all alike--oriental dogs, every one of ’em. No sense of right and wrong--superstitious devils--but loyal as they make ’em. I wonder.…”

“Quite. We’re all wonderin’.” Vance was apparently unimpressed by Salveter’s outbreak. “But, as you say, he’s pretty close to Mrs. Bliss. He’d do a great deal for her--eh, what? Might even risk his neck, don’t y’ know, if he thought her happiness was at stake. Of course, he might need a bit of coaching.…”

A hard light shone in Salveter’s eyes.

“You’re on the wrong tack. Nobody coached Hani. He’s capable of acting for himself----”

“And throwing the suspicion on some one else?” Vance looked at the other. “I’d say the planting of that scarab pin was a bit too subtle for a mere fellah.”

“You think so?” Salveter was almost contemptuous. “You don’t know those people the way I do. The Egyptians were working out intricate plots when the Nordic race were arboreans.”

“Bad anthropology,” murmured Vance. “And you’re doubtless thinkin’ of Herodotus’s silly story of the treasure house of King Rhampsinitus. Personally, I think the priests were spoofing the papa of history.… By the by, Mr. Salveter; do you know any one round here, besides Doctor Bliss, who uses Koh-i-noor pencils?”

“Didn’t even know the doctor used ’em.” The man flicked his cigarette ashes on the carpet and brushed his foot over them.

“You didn’t by any chance see Doctor Bliss this morning?”

“No. When I came down to breakfast Brush told me he was working in the study.”

“Did you go into the museum this morning before you went on your errand to the Metropolitan?”

Salveter’s eyes blinked rapidly.

“Yes!” he blurted finally. “I generally go into the museum every morning after breakfast--a kind of habit. I like to see that everything is all right--that nothing has happened during the night. I’m the assistant curator; and, aside from my responsibility, I’m tremendously interested in the place. It’s my duty to keep an eye on things.”

Vance nodded understandingly.

“What time did you enter the museum this morning?”

Salveter hesitated. Then throwing his head back he looked challengingly at Vance.

“I left the house a little after nine. When I got to Fifth Avenue it suddenly occurred to me I hadn’t made an inspection of the museum; and for some reason I was worried. I couldn’t tell you why I felt that way--but I did. Maybe because of the new shipment that arrived yesterday. Anyway, I turned back, let myself in with my key, and went into the museum----”

“About half past nine?”

“That would be about right.”

“And no one saw you re-enter the house?”

“I hardly think so. In any event, I didn’t see any one.”

Vance gazed at him languidly.

“Suppose you finish the recital.… If you don’t care to, I’ll finish it for you.”

“You won’t have to.” Salveter tossed his cigarette into a cloisonné dish on the table and drew himself resolutely to the edge of his chair. “I’ll tell you all there is to tell. Then if you’re not satisfied, you can order my arrest--and the hell with you!”

Vance sighed and let his head fall back.

“Such energy!” he breathed. “But why be vulgar?… I take it you saw your uncle before you finally quitted the museum for the Great American Mausoleum on the Avenue.”

“Yes--I saw him!” Salveter’s eyes flashed and his chin shot forward. “Now, make something out of that.”

“Really, I can’t be bothered. Much too fatiguin’.” Vance did not even look at the man: his eyes, half closed, were resting on an old-fashioned crystal chandelier which hung low over the centre-table. “Since you saw your uncle,” he said, “you must have remained in the museum for at least half an hour.”

“Just about.” Salveter obviously could not understand Vance’s indifferent attitude. “The fact is I got interested in a papyrus we picked up last winter, and tried to work out a few of the words that stumped me. There were the words _ankhet_, _wash_, and _tema_ that I couldn’t translate.”

Vance frowned slightly; then his eyebrows lifted.

“_Ankhet_… _wash_… _tema_.…” He iterated the words slowly. “Was the _ankhet_ written with or without a determinative?”

Salveter did not answer at once.

“With the animal-skin determinative,” he said presently.

“And was the next word really _wash_ and not _was_?”

Again he hesitated, and looked uneasily at Vance.

“It was _wash_, I think.… And _tema_ was written with a double flail.”

“Not the sledge ideogram, eh?… Now, that’s most interestin’.--And during your linguistic throes your uncle walked in.”

“Yes. I was sitting at the little desk-table by the obelisk when Uncle Ben opened the door. I heard him say something to Brush, and I got up to greet him. It was rather dark, and he didn’t see me till he’d reached the floor of the museum.”

“And then?”

“I knew he wanted to inspect the new treasures; so I ran along. Went to the Metropolitan----”

“Your uncle seemed in normal good spirits when he came into the museum?”

“About as usual--a bit grouchy perhaps. He was never over-pleasant in the forenoons. But that didn’t mean anything.”

“You left the museum immediately after greeting him?”

“At once. I hadn’t realized I’d been so long fussing over the papyrus; and I hurried away. Another thing, I knew he’d come to see Doctor Bliss on a pretty important matter, and I didn’t want to be in the way.”

Vance nodded but gave no indication whether or not he unreservedly accepted the other’s statements. He sat smoking lazily, his eyes impassive and mild.

“And during the next twenty minutes,” he mused, “--that is between ten o’clock and ten-twenty, at which time Mr. Scarlett entered the museum--your uncle was killed.”

Salveter winced.

“So it seems,” he mumbled. “But”--he shot his jaw out--“I didn’t have anything to do with it! That’s straight,--take it or leave it.”

“There, now; don’t be indelicate,” Vance admonished him quietly. “I don’t have to take it and I don’t have to leave it, d’ ye see? I may choose merely to dally with it.”

“Dally and be damned!”

Vance got to his feet leisurely, and there was a chilly smile on his face--a smile more deadly than any contortion of anger could have been.

“I don’t like your language, Mr. Salveter,” he said slowly.

“Oh, don’t you!” The man sprang up, his fists clenched, and swung viciously. Vance, however, stepped back with the quickness of a cat, and caught the other by the wrist. Then he made a swift, pivotal movement to the right, and Salveter’s pinioned arm was twisted upward behind his shoulder-blades. With an involuntary cry of pain, the man fell to his knees. (I recalled the way in which Vance had saved Markham from an attack in the District Attorney’s office at the close of the Benson murder case.) Heath and Hennessey stepped forward, but Vance motioned them away with his free hand.

“I can manage this impetuous gentleman,” he said. Then he lifted Salveter to his feet and shoved him back into his chair. “A little lesson in manners,” he remarked pleasantly. “And now you will please be civil and answer my questions, or I’ll be compelled to have you--_and Mrs. Bliss_--arrested for conspiring to murder Mr. Kyle.”

Salveter was completely subdued. He looked at his antagonist in ludicrous amazement. Then suddenly Vance’s words seemed to seep into his astonished brain.

“_Mrs. Bliss?_… She had nothing to do with it, I tell you!” His tone, though highly animated, was respectful. “If it’ll save her from any suspicion, I’ll confess to the crime.…”

“No need for any such heroism.” Vance had resumed his seat and was again smoking calmly. “But you might tell us why, when you came into the museum this afternoon and learned of your uncle’s death, you didn’t mention the fact that you’d seen him at ten o’clock.”

“I--I was too upset--too shocked,” the man stammered. “And I was afraid. Self-protective instinct, maybe. I can’t explain--really I can’t. I should have told you, I suppose… but--but----”

Vance helped him out.

“But you didn’t care to involve yourself in a crime of which you were innocent. Yes… yes. Quite natural. Thought you’d wait and find out if any one had seen you.… I say, Mr. Salveter; don’t you know that, if you had admitted being with your uncle at ten o’clock, it would have been a point in your favor?”

Salveter had become sullen, and before he could answer Vance went on.

“Leavin’ these speculations to one side, could we prevail upon you to tell us exactly what you did in the museum between half past nine and ten o’clock?”

“I’ve already told you.” Salveter was troubled and _distrait_. “I was comparing an Eighteenth-Dynasty papyrus recently found by Doctor Bliss at Thebes with Luckenbill’s translation of the hexagonal prism of the Annals of Sennacherib[*19] in order to determine certain values for----”

“You’re romancing frightfully, Mr. Salveter,” Vance broke in quietly. “And you’re indulgin’ in an anachronism. The Sennacherib prism is in Babylonian cuneiform, and dates almost a thousand years later.” He lifted his eyes sternly. “What were you doing in the museum this morning?”

Salveter started forward in his chair, but at once sank back.

“I was writing a letter,” he answered weakly.

“To whom?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Naturally.” Vance smiled faintly. “In what language?”

An immediate change came over the man. His face went pale, and his hands, which were lying along his knees, convulsed.

“What language?” he repeated huskily. “Why do you ask that?… What language would I be likely to write a letter in--Bantu, Sanskrit, Walloon, Ido…?”

“No-o.” Vance’s gaze came slowly to rest on Salveter. “Nor did I have in mind Aramaic, or Agao, or Swahili, or Sumerian.… The fact is, it smote my brain a moment ago that you were composin’ an epistle in Egyptian hieroglyphics.”

The man’s eyes dilated.

“Why, in Heaven’s name,” he asked lamely, “should I do a thing like that?”

“Why? Ah, yes--why, indeed?” Vance sighed deeply. “But, really, y’ know, you were composin’ in Egyptian--weren’t you?”

“Was I? What makes you think so?”

“Must I explain?… It’s so deuced simple.” Vance put out his cigarette and made a slight deprecatory gesture. “I could even guess for whom the epistle was intended. Unless I’m hopelessly mistaken, Mrs. Bliss was to have been the recipient.” Again Vance smiled musingly. “Y’ see, you mentioned three words in the imagin’ry papyrus, which you have not yet satisfactorily translated--_ankhet_, _wash_, and _tema_. But since there are scores of Egyptian words that have thus far resisted accurate translation, I wondered why you should have mentioned these particular three. And I further wondered why you should have mentioned three words whose meaning you did not recall, which so closely approximate three very familiar words in Egyptian.… And then I bethought me as to the meaning of these three familiar words. _Ankh_--without a determinative--can mean the ‘living one.’ _Was_--which is close to _wash_--means ‘happiness’ or ‘good fortune’; though I realize there is some doubt about it,--Erman translates it, with a question-mark, as _Glück_. The _tema_ you mentioned with a double flail is unknown to me. But I of course am familiar with _tem_ spelt with a sledge ideograph. It means ‘to be ended’ or ‘finished.’… Do you follow me?”

Salveter stared like a man hypnotized.

“Good God!” he muttered.

“And so,” Vance continued, “I concluded that you had been dealin’ in the well-known forms of these three words, and had mentioned them because, in their other approximate forms, their transliterative meanings are unknown.… And the words fitted perfectly with the situation. Indeed, Mr. Salveter, it wouldn’t take a great deal of imagination to reconstruct your letter, being given the three verbal salients--to wit, _the living one_, _happiness_ or _good fortune_, and _to be ended_ or _finished_.”

Vance paused briefly, as if to arrange his words.

“You probably composed a communication in which you said that the ‘living one’ (_ankh_) was standing in the way of your ‘happiness’ or ‘good fortune’ (_was_), and expressed a desire for the situation ‘to be ended’ or ‘finished’ (_tem_).… I’m right, am I not?”

Salveter continued staring at Vance in a kind of admiring astonishment.

“I’m going to be truthful with you,” he said at length. “That’s exactly what I wrote. You see, Meryt-Amen, who knows the Middle Egyptian hieroglyphic language better than I’ll ever know it, suggested long ago that I write to her at least once a week in the language of her ancestors, as a kind of exercise. I’ve been doing it for years; and she always corrects me and advises me--she’s almost as well versed as any of the scribes who decorated the ancient tombs.… This morning, when I returned to the museum, I realized that the Metropolitan did not open until ten o’clock, and on some sudden impulse I sat down and began working on this letter.”

“Most unfortunate,” Vance sighed; “for your phraseology in that letter made it appear that you were contemplating taking drastic measures.”

“I know it!” Salveter caught his breath. “That’s why I lied to you. But the fact is, Mr. Vance, the letter was innocent enough.… I know it was foolish, but I didn’t take it very seriously. Honest, sir, it was really a lesson in Egyptian composition--not an actual communication.”

Vance nodded non-committally.

“And where is this letter now?” he asked.

“In the drawer of the table in the museum. I hadn’t finished it when Uncle Ben came in; and I put it away.”

“And you had already made use of the three words, _ankh_ and _was_ and _tem_?”

Salveter braced himself and took a deep breath.

“Yes! Those three familiar words were in it. And then, when you first asked me about what I’d been doing in the museum I made up the tale about the papyrus----”

“And mentioned three words which were suggested to you by the three words you had actually used--eh, what?”

“Yes, sir! That’s the truth.”

“We’re most grateful for your sudden burst of honesty.” Vance’s tone was frigid. “Will you be so good as to bring me the uncompleted epistle? I’d dearly love to see it; and perhaps I can decipher it.”

Salveter leapt to his feet and fairly ran out of the room. A few minutes later he returned, to all appearances dazed and crestfallen.

“It isn’t there!” he announced. “It’s gone!”

“Oh, is it, now?… Most unfortunate.”

Vance lay back pensively for several moments. Then suddenly he sprang to his feet.

“It’s not there!… It’s gone!” he murmured. “I don’t like this situation, Markham--I don’t at all like it.… Why should the letter have disappeared? Why… why?”

He swung about to Salveter.

“What kind of paper did you write that indiscreet letter on?” he asked, with suppressed excitement.

“On a yellow scratch-pad--the kind that’s generally kept on the table.…”

“And the ink--did you draw your characters with pen or pencil?”

“With a pen. Green ink. It’s always in the museum.…”

Vance raised his hand in an impatient gesture.

“That’s enough.… Go up-stairs--go to your room… and stay there.”

“But, Mr. Vance, I--I’m worried about that letter. Where do you think it is?”

“Why should I know where it is?--provided, of course, you ever wrote it. I’m no divining-rod.” Vance was deeply troubled, though he sought to hide the fact. “Didn’t you know better than to leave such a missive lying loosely about?”

“It never occurred to me----”

“Oh, didn’t it?… I wonder.” Vance looked at Salveter sharply. “This is no time to speculate.… Please go to your room. I’ll speak to you again.… Don’t ask any questions--do as I tell you!”

Salveter, without a word, turned and disappeared through the door. We could hear his heavy footsteps ascending the stairs.