“Vampire bats?”
“This was suspected; but some of the victims ~ and they were not all coloured—had been found, in rooms to which a bat could not have gained access.”
“Was human agency at work?”
“No. Conditions, in certain cases, ruled it out.”
“But the Snapping Fingers?”
“This clue came later. It was first reported when the epidemic struck Haiti; that is, just before I arrived there. A young American, whose name escapes me—but he had been sent from Washington in connection with the reports of unknown submarines in the Caribbean—died in just the same way.”
“Significant!”
“Very! But there were singular features in this case. It occurred at a hotel in Port au Prince.One odd fact was that a heavy Service pistol, fully charged, was found beside him.”
“Where was—the body?”
“In bed. But the mosquito net was raised as though he had been on the point of getting up. Here occurred the first reference to Snapping Fingers. It seems that he opened the door at about eleven o’clock at night and asked another resident who happened to be passing if he had snapped his fingers.”
“Snapped his fingers?”
“Yes, it’s queer, isn’t it? However—he was found dead in the morning.”
“And no trace?”
“None. But I have a hazy suspicion that those in charge of the investigation didn’t know where to look. However, the next victim was a German—undoubtedly a German agent. He died in exactly that way.”
“At that same place?”
“The same hotel, but not in the same room. But the case of the German differed in one respect;
Inside the speeding car was a fog of tobacco smoke; outside, the lights of New York flashed by like a flaming ribbon.
“
“Kennard Wood! He occupied the next room. I had just reached Port au Prince at the time, although I was putting up elsewhere; so that I know more about the case of Schonberg—that was the German’s name. After Schonberg had retired that night, it appears that Kennard Wood became curious about what he was doing. From the end of one balcony to another was not a difficult climb; and with the exercise of a little ingenuity it is easy to peep through a slatted shutter. He crept along. The German’s room was in darkness. He was about to climb back, when he heard a sound like that of someone snapping his fingers!”
“From inside the room?”
“Yes. It was repeated several times, but no light was switched on. Kennard Wood returned. Schonberg was found dead in the morning. His door was locked; his shutters were still closed.”
‘‘What did you do when you heard of this?”
“I went along at once. I have a pretty strong stomach, but the sight of that heavy Teutonic frame quite drained of blood—ugh! Fortunately for the hotel a number of cases occurred elsewhere, not only in Port au Prince but as far north as Cap Haitien. A story got about amongst the coloured population that it was Voodoo, that someone they call the Queen Mamaloi (a fabulous woman supposed to live in the interior) was impatient for sacrifices. A perfect state of panic developed; no one dared to sleep. My God! to think that the fiend, Fu Manchu, has brought
“But what
“Just another agent of death, Kerrigan. Some unclean thing bred in a tropical swamp—”
CHAPTER XIII
WHAT HAPPENED IN SUTTON PLACE
“It is more than I can bear. Smith,” I whispered, and turned away, “Although I didn’t know Longton, it is more than I can bear.”
“Probably painless, Mr. Kerrigan,” said Inspector Hawk. “Cheer up, sir.”
But there was nothing cheerful in his manner, his appearance, or his voice. He was a tall, angular, gloomy person, depressingly taciturn; and he gave to each of his rare remarks the value of a biblical quotation. Under the harsh light of suspended lamps Longton lay on a stone slab. In life he had been slightly built; had had scanty fair hair and a small blond moustache. There was a sound of dripping water.
“What have you got to say, doctor?” asked Smith, addressing a stout, red-faced man who beamed amiably through green-rimmed spectacles.
“A very unusual case,” the police doctor replied breezily. ‘‘Very unusual. Observe the irregular rose-coloured spots, the evidences of pernicious, or aplastic, anaemia. A malarial subject, beyond doubt; but the actual cause of death remains obscure.”
“Quite,” snapped Smith; “most obscure. I am sorry to seem to check your diagnosis, doctor, but James Longton had not suffered from malaria; and a month ago he was freshly-coloured as yourself. Have you heard, by chance, of the minor epidemic which recently appeared in the Canal Zone and later in Haiti?”
“Some short account was published in the newspapers, but I don’t believe medical circles paid much attention to it. In any case, there can be no parallel here.”
“I fear I must disagree again: the parallel is exact. I suggest that anaemia, however advanced, could never produce this result. The body is drained like that of a fly after a spider has gorged its fill.” Smith turned abruptly to Inspector Hawk. “The man is nude. How was he found, and where?”
“Found just as you see,” the gloomy voice replied. “Brought in from West Channel, right below Queensborough Bridge. Kind of caught up on something; shone in the moonlight and a river patrol made contact. I was once detailed to take care of Mr. Longton: recognized him right away.”
“How long dead?” Smith asked the doctor.
“Well,” he replied—and I detected a note of resentment—”if my views are of any value, I should say no more than four hours. Hypnostasis had only just appeared and there is little rigidity.”
“I agree,” said Smith.
“Thank you.”
Some further formalities there were, and then once more we sped through the bright lights of New York. Smith was plunged in such a mood of dejection that I did not care to interrupt it. We were almost in sight of the Regal Athenian before he spoke.
“Where did Longton die?” he exclaimed. “Why was he in New York without my being notified? And where is Kennard Wood?”
“It’s all a dreadful mystery to me. Smith.”
There was a momentary pause; we were whirling, issuing warning blasts, past busy night traffic, when Smith suddenly leaned forward.
“Slow down,” he cried.
Our speed was checked; the police driver leaned back.
“Yes, sir?”
“Go to 39B Sutton Place—“
“Mrs. Mendel Hammett’s?”
“Yes. Move.”
We were off again.
“But what is this. Smith?”
“A theory—and a hope,” he replied. “Longton’s body was found below Queensborough Bridge. Making due allowances for its unusual condition, I assume that it was thrown in near that spot some time tonight. Now, how was a body transported and thrown into the river in that state; I suggested to myself that there must have been special conditions—and then I thought of Mrs. Mendel Hammett—”
“Who is Mrs. Mendel Hammett?”
“She is a relic of the past, Kerrigan, an institution; a patron of promising talent, and a distant relation of poor Longton. I suddenly remembered his telling me that he had an apartment in her home which he was at liberty to
