to get away. The chain is necessary.’
“With a swift glance I examined his face, asking myself:
“ ‘Is the man mad, or has he merely a poor taste in jokes?’
“But his face remained impenetrable, placid and kindly. I began to speak of other matters, and expressed my admiration for his guns.
“I noticed, however, that three loaded revolvers were lying about on various pieces of furniture, as though the man lived in constant fear of an attack.
“I revisited him on several occasions. Then I went there no more. People had grown accustomed to his presence. They were all completely indifferent to him.
“A whole year went by. Then one morning near the end of November my servant woke me and announced that Sir John Rowell had been murdered during the night.
“Half an hour later I entered the Englishman’s house with the commissioner-general and the chief of police. The valet, quite desperate and at his wit’s end, was weeping in front of the door. At first I suspected this man, but he was innocent.
“The criminal was never discovered.
“As I entered Sir John’s drawing room, I saw at the first glance the body, lying on its back, in the centre of the room.
“The waistcoat was torn, and a rent sleeve hung down; everything pointed to the fact that a terrible struggle had taken place.
“The Englishman had died of strangulation. His face, black and swollen, a terrifying sight, wore an expression of the most appalling terror; he held something between his clenched teeth; and his neck, pierced with five holes which might have been made with iron spikes, was covered with blood.
“A doctor joined us. He made a long examination of the fingerprints in the flesh and uttered these strange words:
“ ‘It’s just as if he had been strangled by a skeleton.’
“A shiver ran down my spine, and I turned my eyes to the wall, to the spot where I had formerly seen the horrible flayed hand. It was no longer there. The chain, broken, hung down.
“I stooped over the dead man, and I found in his distorted mouth one of the fingers of the vanished hand, cut, or rather sawn, in two by his teeth just at the second joint.
“We proceeded with the formal investigations. Nothing was discovered. No door had been forced, no window, no article of furniture. The two watchdogs had not awakened.
“Here, in a few words, is the servant’s deposition:
“For the past month his master had seemed to be very agitated. He had received many letters, which he burnt as soon as they arrived.
“Often he would take up a horsewhip, in a rage which savoured of madness, and beat furiously the dried hand sealed to the wall and removed, no one knew how, at the very hour of the crime.
“He had a habit of going to bed very late, and carefully locked all the doors and windows. He always had weapons within the reach of his arm. Often, at night, he would speak in a loud voice, as though quarrelling with someone.
“That night it happened that he had made no noise, and it was only when he came to open the windows that the servant had found Sir John murdered. He suspected no one.
“I communicated what I knew of the death to the magistrates and public officials, and a detailed inquiry was made over the entire island. Nothing was discovered.
“Then, one night, three months after the crime, I had a fearful nightmare. It seemed to me that I saw the hand, the horrible hand, run like a scorpion or a spider along my curtains and my walls. Three times I awoke, three times I fell asleep again, three times I saw the hideous relic career round my room, moving its fingers like paws.
“Next day the hand was brought to me; it had been found in the cemetery, on the tomb in which Sir John Rowell was buried, for we had been unable to discover his family.
“The index finger was missing.
“There, ladies, that is my story. I know nothing more.”
The ladies, horror-stricken, were pale and trembling.
“But that is not a dénouement, nor an explanation!” exclaimed one of them. “We shall not sleep if you do not tell us what really happened, in your opinion.”
The magistrate smiled austerely.
“Oh, as for me, ladies,” he said, “I shall certainly spoil your bad dreams! I simply think that the lawful owner of the hand was not dead, and that he came to fetch it with the one that remained to him. But I certainly don’t know how he did it. It was a kind of vendetta.”
“No,” murmured one of the ladies, “that should not be the explanation.”
And the judge, still smiling, concluded:
“I warned you that my theory would not appeal to you.”
Waiter, a Bock
Why did I go into that beer hall on that particular evening? I do not know. It was cold; a fine rain, a flying mist, veiled the gas lamps with a transparent fog, made the sidewalks reflect the light that streamed from the shop windows, lighting up the soft slush and the muddy feet of the passersby.
I was going nowhere in particular; was simply having a short walk after dinner. I had passed the Crédit Lyonnais, the Rue Vivienne, and several other streets. I suddenly perceived a large beer hall which was more than half full. I walked inside, with no object in view. I was not the least thirsty.
I glanced round to find a place that was not too crowded, and went and sat down by the side of a man who seemed to me to be old, and who was smoking a cheap clay pipe, which was as black as coal. From six to eight saucers piled up on the table in front of him indicated the number of bocks he had already absorbed. At a glance I recognized a bock-drinker, one of those frequenters of beer houses who come in the morning when the place opens, and do not leave till evening when it is about to close.
