“As you say, on the fortieth. Having made sure of this, patrol every room in the suite, including the bathrooms, at intervals of fifteen minutes. If you find anything alive—except, of course, the monkey in a cage in Sir Lionel’s room—kill it. This applies to a fly or a cockroach.Do I make myself clear?”
“Sure, it’s clear enough, chief—”
“Do it. If in doubt call Headquarters. I count upon you, Sergeant Rorke.”
Throwing the door open, he ran to the elevator and I followed.
* * *
“Smith!” I said, as we were whirled in a police car through kaleidoscopic streets, “what has happened to Longton—and what did you mean by the Snapping Fingers?”
“I meant a signal of death, Kerrigan. Poor Longton—whom you don’t know and will never know, now— may have heard it.”
“I saw how the news affected you.Is it—something very horrible?”
Propped in a comer of the racing car, he began to load his pipe. “Very horrible, Kerrigan. Some foul things have come out of the East, but this thing belongs to the West Indies. Of course, it may have a Negro origin. But at one time it assumed the size of an epidemic.”
“In what way? I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I. It remains a mystery to me scientists. But it began, as far back as I can make out, in the Canal Zone. A young coloured man, employed on one of the locks, was found in his quarters one morning, bled white.”
“Bled white?”
“Almost literally.” He lighted the charred briar. “He was dead, apparently from exhaustion. There were queerly discoloured areas on his skin; but there was practically no blood in his body—“
“No blood?” I cried over the noise of the motor and the Broadway traffic. “What do you mean?”
“He had been reduced to a sort of human veal,, Something had drained all the blood from his veins.”
“Good heavens! But were there no traces—no bloodstains?”
“Nothing. He was the first of many. Then, unaccountably, the terror of the Zone disappeared.”
“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; someone else heard the Snapping Fingers!”
Inside the speeding car was a fog of tobacco smoke; outside, the lights of New York flashed by like a flaming ribbon.
“Who heard it?”
“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 that horror to New York!”
“But what is it. Smith? What can it be?”
“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.”