Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 86, No. 6. Whole No. 511, December 1985

The bridge of traded dreams by James Powell[9]

Europe will long remember the dream mania of 1869. The year opened with the publication of Charcot’s brilliant Dream Baedecker, which guided an entire generation through the terra incognita of the Land of Nod. And it closed with the final curtain descending on Scalamandre’s much unappreciated ballet “The Haunted Bird of Sleep.” In between, in every household or boulevard café, the day’s first order of business was the telling of one’s adventures in the valley of slumber the night before. When Europe finally did get around to unfolding its morning newspapers, it was to read of the dreams of the famous.

In Paris, plush perfumed dreameries sprang up, sumptuous rentable alcoves for afternoon naps. In Milan, the dictators of fashion plundered the bed chamber to send the well dressed into the streets like sleepwalkers in pajamalike suits and nightgownlike gowns. In Stockholm, a political party called the Night Caps sprang to the fore, while London’s Harley Street spun out a whole new school of premonitory medicine using dream interpretation based on one brief sentence in Hobbes’ Leviathan. (“And seeing dreams are caused by the distemper of the inward parts of the Body, divers distempers must needs cause different Dreams.”)

In San Sebastiano. the great detective Ambrose Ganelon threw his famous jaundiced eye on the craze only long enough to determine that his nemesis, the evil genius Dr. Ludwig Fong, was not behind it. He did not consider the dream mania again until June when Felicien de Prattmann arrived back in the Principality.

Prattmann (the “de” was affectation) had begun the year as a ghost dreamer, inventing imaginative dreams for the dull to recount as their own. But he quickly won a reputation throughout Europe as a dream dowser, one who uses people’s night phantasms to help them discover lost articles or hidden treasure. Nor was he reluctant to demand his rightful share of recovered valuables. Once, the story goes, he urged a client who dreamed of an egg buried beneath a certain tree to dig there. The man discovered a lost trove of silver and gold. But when he brought some of the silver to Prattmann as a reward, the dream dowser was not above remarking that he’d like a bit of the yolk as well.

A descendant of Marc-Antoine Prattmann, the greatest of all makers of woodwind instruments, the dream dowser inherited a masterwork of an oboe known to the musical world as the Black Emperor. Ganelon desired above all else to possess this instrument, which as a family heirloom was not for sale. But young Prattmann had a weakness. He was an avid collector of baroque eggcups of the Wurtemburger school. Ganelon was sure Prattmann would trade the oboe for the two remaining eggcups of the famous Ravenburg set, which had been scattered across Europe during the Napoleonic Wars. Using his staff of operatives, Ganelon found and purchased one of the cups and picked up a trail that led to its mate. But his people arrived at the small Marseilles antique shop a day after the second cup was purchased by an Englishman, a professor of mathematics, on a vacation walking tour. “Damnable eaters of soft-boiled eggs, the English!” Ganelon had raged. But on reflection, he decided one eggcup might be sufficient if he played his man well.

Now Madame, as everyone called Madame Ganelon, was constantly urging him to invite people to share their table. For his part, Ganelon held that if one was going to fill one’s dining room with strangers one might as well eat out. And he seldom cared to eat out. But in this case he decided he needed the help of Madame’s excellent cooking. He opened his Prattmann campaign by inviting the young man to dinner.

Unfortunately, Prattmann interpreted this to mean Ganelon was interested in dreams. He rattled on about his work, much too full of himself to realize that Ganelon preferred to dominate the talk at his own table. By the end of the meal, the host’s pasted smile had gone awry and Madame was happy to flee the table to leave them to brandy and cigars.

As Prattmann ended a long description of Egyptian dream lore and a particular belief under the pharoahs that a dream could be transmitted into a sleeper’s mind by writing it out and feeding the papyrus to a cat, Ganelon began to savor the immediate pleasure of throwing the young man down the stairs. But then Prattmann said, “Personally, I believe some dreams are clews leading back to deep, forgotten, or perhaps even repressed memories. Whatever it is I help a client find, whether treasure, deed, or will, he already knows where it is. But he doesn’t know he knows. As a very young child, he may have heard a parent or a grandparent speak of buried valuables. Or seen someone hide something behind a sliding panel. Or slip something into a book to mark a place. I believe a dream is memory trying to force its way to the surface again.”

Ganelon grunted. Surely that was the most intelligent thing the young man had said all night.

“But my theory has been shaken by a recent client,” said Prattmann. “May I tell you about his dream?”

Ganelon scowled through his cigar smoke, suspecting he was being led into a trap, but he signaled permission.

“On a recent trip to London, I had among my clients a straightforward-looking fellow in his fifties named Swaffham, who told me quite an extraordinary dream,” said Prattmann. “The man found himself standing at one end of a stone bridge of the Gothic style thrown across a river that divided a crowded city. The bridge was lined on either side with a jumble of small two- or three-story shops of the same material which overhung a narrow passageway busy with people in costumes of another time. He suspected they were not English. As he stood watching this scene, a voice said, ‘Return here at high noon until you learn something to your profit.’ So compelling was this dream that he would have obeyed it on waking, but neither he nor his friends knew where such a bridge existed.” Prattmann laughed.

“And of course you told him he was describing our own Bridge Saint Eloi,” said Ganelon. For centuries the shops on the bridge sheltered the Principality’s sword- and knife-making guilds and related crafts. In recent years the trade was mostly in souvenir letter-openers and novelty pocket knives.

“But here’s the amazing thing,” said Prattmann. “He’d never in his life visited San Sebastiano.”

Ganelon shrugged. “I wager his dream was in black and white, and he saw the bridge from the vantage of the southwest corner through Traitor’s Gate.” This was the ancient bridge gate where once were displayed the severed heads of those executed for treason.

When the bewildered Prattmann acknowledged this, Ganelon said. “Then perhaps your original explanation will serve, after all. I suggest that without realizing it. your man was remembering that etching Banville did for Babelon’s novel The Master Scabbard-Maker s Daughter.” In the first quarter of the Nineteenth Century, Joseph-Marie Babelon (1775–1833) had placed the Principality in the forefront of the romantic movement with an output of novels that included The Black Abbot, The Lord of the Sewer Gondoliers, The Spectre Brother-in-Law, and The Man in the Iron Boot. The Master Scabbard-Maker’s Daughter was set on and about the Bridge St. Eloi and involved a prince of San Sebastiano in disguise and a master craftsman’s beautiful, chaste daughter.

“Ah, but there’s more.” insisted Prattmann quickly. “I urged Mr. Swaffham to come here as soon as his affairs would permit. And he promised me my share should his visit prove profitable. I thought no more about it until a week ago when he appeared at my hotel in Paris in a state of great excitement. He told me he had just come back from San Sebastiano where he’d stood on the bridge at high noon as instructed by his dream. At last a man whom he’d noticed watching him curiously for several days from a shop doorway approached to ask in labored English why Swaffham came to stand there every day. When the Englishman explained his reason for traveling all the way from England, the man began to laugh.

“ ‘Dreams are all the rage, my dear sir,’ he smiled. ‘But how can a man make a living chasing across Europe after chimeras? I dream, too. In fact, last night I dreamed I found myself on a knoll where there were six tall stones erected in a circle. At the bottom of the knoll was a seventh stone as tall as the others, standing on the bank of a small river. And somehow I knew that if I dug at the foot of that seventh stone I would find a treasure.’ The man chuckled. ‘But even if I knew where those stones were, I assure you I would not close up shop on the say-so of a dream.’ Here the man gave Swaffham a look that was half pity and half amusement and, turning on his heels, went back into his shop.

“Now Mr. Swaffham stood there dumbfounded, for just outside of his own village of Briggston was a knoll with a circle of six stones called the Whispering Knights because they were canted toward the center like conspirators. And there was a seventh stone called the Dry Knight because it looked like he’d come down to the river Wye for a drink. Mr. Swaffham was on his way back home to dig for treasure when he stopped to give me the good news.”

Prattmann paused to add weight to what he was about to say. “My theory of buried memory cannot account for this meeting of two men — of two dreams, if you wish. I was hoping you might be able to provide a down-to-earth explanation for this extraordinary incident.” Prattmann waited for a moment as though expecting the detective to speak. But Ganelon had no explanation to give. His face clouded over, his ears began to redden, and his fingers drummed on the table like the ominous tattoo of an approaching army.

Prattmann gave a self-satisfied little smile. “Well, then, perhaps there is more to dreams than meets the eye,” he said at last. “What, for example, of the story of the Chinese philosopher Chuang Tzu, who, dreaming himself a butterfly, woke to wonder: was he dreaming himself the butterfly or was the butterfly dreaming himself to be Chuang Tzu?”

Ganelon came around the table with the dark look that had earned him the nickname the Ghengis Khan of detection. Without a word, he plucked the cigar from his startled guest’s lips and the brandy glass from his fingers and threw them into the fireplace. “Claptrap, sir. Utter, utter claptrap,” he growled. Then he indicated the direction to the front door with a toss of his head. “I bid you good evening.”

That night Ganelon sat up late in bed, eating a nightcap wedge of deliquescent cheese and mourning the loss of the cherished oboe. Still, a civilized man can only put up with a certain amount of drivel without bursting out. Butterflies and Chinamen, Chinamen and butterflies, and one man’s dream that fits neatly into another. Ganelon snorted sourly. Then he looked over quickly to see if he had disturbed Madame, the large shape asleep beneath the covers at his side. It was not an unfriendly glance. They had married for reasons other than love — she afraid of becoming an old maid, he because Prince Faustus was pressing for an heir to carry on the work of the detective agency. But a kind of affection had grown up between them.

Ganelon turned back to his cheese for a moment. Then, with a final sigh for the lost Black Emperor, he slipped the plate and its remains into the drawer of the bedside table, blew out the candle, and went to sleep.

And he dreamed. He found himself in total darkness on enemy ground, for he sensed danger all around him. Even the darkness was the enemy’s. He could not pierce it, yet he felt visible. Suddenly, two small pale-blue globes set close together appeared ahead of him. When Ganelon moved toward them, the blue globes winked out — to reappear again farther off in the black night. Ganelon allowed himself to be led in this fashion, his reluctance to go on increasing with each step. Then ahead of him stood a circle of tree trunks lit red by the flames of a fire he could not yet see and somehow feared to see. When he tried to stop his progress, he could not — the two blue lights pulled him irresistibly. Finally he cried out — and woke with a start, sitting up in his bed and his own darkness.

For the next several nights, the dream returned. And each time the dream ended with Ganelon closer to the fire than the time before.

But if the dream returned, so did Prattmann.

One afternoon about ten days after the disastrous dinner, old Simon, Ganelon’s clerk, ushered Prattmann into the inner office. The young dream dowser was accompanied by a nondescript little Englishman with a short moustache on a long upper lip all atremble with indignation. “You wanted your part of the treasure, sir,” Prattmann’s companion was saying. “Then come along and share the gallows with me.”

“Mr. Ganelon, allow me to introduce Mr. Swaffham,” said Prattmann. “I spoke of his case at our recent dinner from which I was so abruptly, ah, called away.”

Ganelon gave what was for him a cordial bow. “Please be seated, gentlemen,” said the detective, who always took a particular pleasure in shaping his mouth to speak the English tongue, the only language in which he had uttered words of love. “You are a railroad station master, Mr. Swaffham,” he observed, sitting back down behind his heavy black desk — whose legs were gilt replicas of the Place Vendome column topped at desk level by miniature Napoleons.

“As Mr. Prattmann no doubt told you, sir.”

“He neglected to do so,” said the detective. “But the leather-edged watch pocket in your vest and the sturdy steel chain suggests a professional preoccupation with time. The scorched patch on the underside of your shirtcuff announces that you carry a kerosene lantern in your work. A railroad man is not too great a leap. And your white shirt leads me to station master.”

The Englishman was visibly impressed.

Prattmann said, “A complication’s arisen in the matter of Mr. Swaffham’s dream. I have advised him to place the matter in your capable hands.” An impatient noise from the Englishman prompted him to add, “I, of course, will pay your fee myself.”

Ganelon almost smiled. “I’m sure we can work out a satisfactory price,” he said smoothly. Then he turned to the station master. “Now, sir, what’s all this talk about the gallows?”

Without any more prompting, the station master told how he had arrived back at Briggston by a late-afternoon train and curbed his curiosity about the treasure under the Dry Knight until nightfall. Then, with a small shovel and a lantern concealed in a sack, he set out for the Wye as if on an innocent evening stroll. (“Some who saw me said I skulked,” said Swaffham. “But they lie. I strolled. I whistled.”)

By the time he reached the river, the air had taken on the water’s coolness and the fireflies were haunting the grass. Beneath the tall rock, the ground was sunbaked and weedy. He lit the lantern and set about his task. Two feet down, the shovel struck something. But what he hoped to be a moneybag turned out to be a jacket. He had uncovered the remains of a man long dead.

Suddenly, a basset voice said, “Evening, Mr. Swaffham. And what might you be up to?” Twigg, the village constable, stepped out of the bushes along the shore with two twitching fish on a string. “Here, now,” he growled, peering down into the hole at the corpse of Captain Amos Pendry of Pendry Hall, who had vanished from the district three years before. The next thing Swaffham knew, he was being led away with talk of murder in the air.

“I am pleased you are not one of those with limp powers of recollection, Mr. Swaffham,” said Ganelon. “Please tell me about this Captain Pendry and his disappearance.”

Swaffham explained that three years before, the well-to-do landowner and sportsman had set out on horseback on a business trip to a neighboring county. Later that same morning, a reputable witness saw him on a country road about seven miles away, dismounted in the shade and deep in brooding thought. As the witness passed, Pendry consulted his watch as though waiting for someone. No one ever set eyes on him alive again.

“Some said amnesia.” explained Swaffham. “Others spoke of foul play, for there was talk of ruffians in the area. Later, when the Captain s strongbox was discovered to be empty of all money and valuables, many concluded he’d run off to make a new life for himself. Perhaps with another woman. But I never held with that.”

“Why not?” demanded Ganelon.

“No more than a year before his death. Captain Pendry had courted and won the hand of Miss Venetia Bland, the new governess of the Earl of Eskdale’s daughters,” explained Swaffham. “In doing so, he had also triumphed over another suitor for the young woman’s affection — a personal rival. Sir Blundell Crabbet, the Earl’s younger brother. Sir Blundell is a world traveler of some reputation, the first infidel to ever smuggle himself into the Forbidden Mosque of the Sacred City of Ohm — perhaps you’ve read his book.

“Anyway, to answer your question, it was clear to me that Captain Pendry was totally captivated by his new bride, a yellow-haired, black-eyed-susan of a woman. She had come to the castle highly recommended and I have no doubt left many a broken heart behind her in the neighborhood of Khyber Cottage, Blackheath, her previous position. The new Mrs. Pendry sprang from very handsome stock. Her brother, Mr. Reginald Bland, who came frequently to visit, was good-looking enough to be an actor with a company that toured the provinces. No, I don’t think Captain Pendry was about to run off with another woman.”

“Tell me about this rivalry between Captain Pendry and Sir Blundell Crabbet,” Ganelon said.

Swaffham explained that previous to Miss Bland’s arrival. Sir Blundell had squandered his small inheritance gambling, and then further harmed himself in the eyes of the Earl, on whom he was now dependent, by betting on sporting events with Captain Pendry on credit, using the Eskdale cameo as collateral. This famous green-and-black cameo, depicting the profiles of the first Earl Eskdale and his wife, Lady Honoria, was a gift from King James the First. Captain Pendry did not dispose of the cameo, though he had every right to do. But he refused to return it until he was repaid with interest. When the Captain’s solicitor broke into the strongbox, the cameo had not been there.

Ganelon heard all this and sat in thought for a moment. Then he said, “Let us turn back a bit to your own situation, Mr. Swaffham. What do the authorities believe would prompt you to dig up the body of the man you had murdered three years before?”

“A year ago, while Sir Blundell was with Admiral Denison’s expedition up the Amazon, his brother the Earl perished in the sinking of the Calpurnia in the Gulf of Lyons,” said Swaffham. “Since he died without male issue, the title and the estate passed to Sir Blundell. When Sir Blundell returned to Briggston, it was clear his feelings toward Mrs. Pendry had not changed. The first thing he did was offer a substantial reward for information leading to Captain Pendry’s whereabouts, dead or alive. Clearly, if Captain Pendry was dead he intended to offer Venetia Pendry his hand in marriage.”

“And just when was this reward offered?”

“The middle of April,” said Swaffham.

“And when did you have this dream of yours?”

“The beginning of May,” said Swaffham. “I’ve had many a pint retelling it at the Chalk and Cheese since then. And many another telling how I learned of the whereabouts of my dream bridge. I never thought it would make me the principal suspect in a murder investigation. I arrived back here this morning intent on finding that fellow I’d spoken to and having him make a statement on my behalf.”

“But you couldn’t find him,” said Ganelon.

“Correct,” admitted Swaffham. “The real shopkeeper, who must spend all his time river-fishing out a back window with a long line, did vaguely recall a customer fitting his description who came to browse among the wares up front. Of average height and build, my man had a swarthy complexion, a full beard, and a large mole under the left eye.”

“By taking off his jacket and standing in the doorway, a browser becomes an inquisitive shopkeeper with a dream to trade,” said Ganelon. “So much for the supernatural, my dear Prattmann. However, we now know Captain Pendry wasn’t murdered during a robbery. A random killer would have nothing to gain by leading someone else to the discovery of the body.”

Prattmann spoke up. “What about Sir Blundell? Suppose he lured Pendry to a meeting on the pretext of redeeming the cameo, killed him, and recovered the family treasure. Now he needs to have the body found so he can marry Pendry’s widow.”

Ganelon turned a quizzical eye on the station master.

“The murdered man was last seen at eight-ten,” said Swaffham. “Sir Blundell left that same morning on the nine-twenty train. He arrived with his horse in a great lather and asked me to return it to the castle, saying he’d just received a letter inviting him to take the place of a member of Admiral Denison’s expedition who’d fallen ill on the eve of departure. The same train that carried Sir Blundell away brought Mrs. Pendry’s brother, Mr. Bland. Pendry Hall’s situation was isolated and Mrs. Pendry was uneasy about being there alone. When he traveled on business, the Captain often arranged to have her brother stay at the hall. Mr. Bland and Sir Blundell exchanged frosty bows on the platform, for in the contest for the young lady’s heart Mr. Bland had been a strong partisan of Captain Pendry.

“But wouldn’t Sir Blundell have had enough time to do the dirty deed and catch his train?” insisted Prattmann.

“But why bring the body back seven miles and bury it at the Dry Knight?” demanded Ganelon. “Why wouldn’t the killer bury him where he struck him down?”

“Then it’s this Bland fellow,” said Prattmann. “Riding like the devil, he could have caught up with Captain Pendry on the road. An actor would certainly know how to disguise himself to deceive Mr. Swaffham on the bridge.”

“Again, why bring the body back seven miles?” Ganelon asked him.

“When it comes to that, the man on the bridge could have been Mr. Bland or Sir Blundell.” said the station master. “Anyone who could smuggle himself into the Forbidden Mosque of the Sacred City of Ohm would have to be something of a master of disguise, too.”

Ganelon reached for the bell-cord. In a moment, old Simon was standing in front of his desk. “Do we have a man in England at the moment?” the great detective wondered.

“Colbert, sir,” replied the ancient clerk. “Regarding the matter of the Rothstein Lavalliere.”

“Colbert?” said Ganelon vaguely, scribbling something on a piece of paper.

Old Simon pulled at his nose with a clutch of fingers as if to elongate it and made his ears big by putting the palms of his hands behind them.

“Ah, yes,” remembered Ganelon. He handed over the paper he had been writing on. “Send Colbert this telegraphic communication. We will get a letter off to him tonight with fuller instructions.” When Simon left the inner office, Ganelon said, “Gentlemen, I know who killed Captain Pendry. But to prove it to the authorities is another matter. For that, Mr. Swaffham here must return home and have another dream.”

Within the week Ganelon had received a letter from Mr. Swaffham describing the events that took place on his return to Briggston. He had gone at once to Eskdale Castle, where Sir Blundell received him coolly. “I hope this isn’t about the reward, Swaffham,” he declared. “I’ve no intention of acting in that direction until the court has exonerated you of any part in damned Pendry’s murder. Being led to the body by a dream is a bit much, after all.”

“I do expect considerable legal expenses in the matter, my lord,” said the station master. “That set me wondering if there might not be another reward for the whereabouts of the Eskdale cameo. One payable on recovery.”

“Not another dream, Swaffham?” demanded the master of Eskdale Castle skeptically.

“It told me where to dig, my lord.”

Sir Blundell’s eyes took on a calculating cast. “Two hundred pounds,” he declared.

“Guineas,” insisted Swaffham. “And I’ll take you to the spot tomorrow at dawn.”

“Guineas, then,” said Sir Blundell stiffly. “But the police-inspector fellow from London must be along.”

“As a matter of fact, I just saw Inspector Blossom going into the Chalk and Cheese with Mr. Bland,” said the station master. “If you like, I’ll drive you there and we can make the arrangements.”

They found the Inspector and Reginald Bland drinking brandy and water in the gentlemen’s saloon before the blue flames of a coal fire burning behind the grate. They were deep in a discussion of modem thespians, for Blossom admitted himself to be an addict of the labors of former days, of Edmund Kean and Charles Kemble.

When Sir Blundell explained why they had come, Reginald Bland said with weary amusement, “Surely we’ve had enough of Mr. Swaffham’s dreams.”

With a quick wink, Sir Blundell said, “A word with you, my dear fellow. And with you, too. Inspector. You’ll excuse us, won’t you, Swaffham?” He led Bland and Inspector Blossom into a corner, where they held an animated discussion in whispers, with many glances back over their shoulders at the station master.

When they returned. Inspector Blossom eyed Swaffham severely. “This dream of yours if you please, Mr. Swaffham.”

“All right,” said Swaffham. “I dreamed I was standing at night on a hill when six men in full armor stepped out of the darkness and closed in on me from all sides. Joints clashing, six arms pointed down to where I was standing and six ghostly whispers urged, ‘Dig there and you will discover the first Earl and his lady.’ ”

At dawn the next morning, the four men gathered together inside the ancient ring of stones called the Whispering Knights on the knoll above the Wye. The blade of Swaffham’s spade grated against the earth beneath his instep. The morning was clear and bright, his companions quiet and expectant. After five minutes’ digging, there came the sound of metal against metal. The station master drew a cheap tin cigarette-case from the dirt and passed it to Inspector Blossom. The policeman pried open the lid. Inside, wrapped in a square of chamois leather, lay the celebrated green-and-black cameo.

Dark with outrage. Sir Blundell said, In his greed, the murderer has convicted himself! One dream relating to Pendry’s murder might be a coincidence. But we agreed last night that two would point an indelible finger of guilt in any court of law. Inspector, do your sworn duty.”

Inspector Blossom nodded. “Mr. Reginald Bland,” he intoned, “I arrest you for the murder of Captain Amos Pendry.”

“Good God. man!” shouted Sir Blundell. “Not Bland! Swaffham here! He robbed and killed Pendry. When I offered the reward, he dug him up again. Now he’s done the same for the cameo. Can’t you get that through your head?”

“I beg to differ, my lord.” said Inspector Blossom. “Mr. Bland buried the cameo last night with Constable Twigg and myself watching from the shadows. Mr. Bland, you must come with me, sir. You have fallen into a trap prepared for you by Mr. Ambrose Ganelon himself.”

“Who the devil’s that?” demanded the mystified Sir Blundell.

“Only the idol of every detective in the civilized world,” said Inspector Blossom. “The most famous, the most—”

When Prattmann leaned forward as if to try to read this part of the letter himself, Ganelon quickly folded the page and stuffed it back into its envelope.

“No need to continue with Mr. Swaffham’s description of events. Sufficient to say that Bland hoped to fix Pendry s murder on Swaffham once and for all by burying the cameo where our little concocted dream said it would be. Yes, it had to be Bland. Captain Pendry was last seen seven miles from Briggston. But his body was found just outside of town. Neither suspect had any earthly reason to bring the body back. So Captain Pendry came back himself. In fact, he hadn’t been waiting for anyone by the side of the road. He had been waiting for Bland’s train.”

“But why did Bland kill his brother-in-law?”

Ganelon took up two foolscap sheets pinned together. “It’s all here in this report from my man.” The detective consulted the bottom of the second page, frowned, and said, “Colbert?” When Prattmann mimicked old Simon’s gestures indicating a long nose and big ears, Ganelon said, “Ah, yes.” Spreading out the long sheets of paper he began to read aloud.

On receiving Ganelon’s instructions, Colbert had made inquiries and discovered that Khyber Cottage, Blackheath, was the address of a Mrs. Marston Woodward. He then proceeded to that suburb by boat to Greenwich and then by cab to the street in question. The residence was substantial and the neighborhood a prosperous one. But the house appeared to have been closed up for some time.

As Colbert stood at the front door wondering what to do next, he was approached by a maid from the house across the street, who asked respectfully if he was with the police. “Not with the British police,” answered Colbert. The maid conveyed this canny reply to her mistress and returned with an invitation for him to step across the street.

Colbert was ushered into an elegant parlor, where a white-haired little ramrod of a woman in mauve taffeta was waiting to receive him. “Am I to understand, then, that Mrs. Woodward has carried her activities abroad?” she asked without ado and in some agitation.

This intriguing question prompted Colbert to tell the woman the entire story. As he spoke, she turned pale, and when he told of the death of Captain Pendry she was visibly staggered. When he had finished, she raised a hand to ask for a moment to compose herself. Then she said,

“Several years ago, I brought into this house a well recommended young woman as governess to my orphaned grandchildren. She was clearly intelligent and seemed of good character and dedication. Her brother, a young man of the cloth, was a frequent visitor here, for they were very close — a fact made all the more poignant because he was preparing himself for the Indian missions and soon would not see her again for years, if ever.

“Now coincidentally, or so I thought, my neighbor across the street had just returned from a twenty-year stay in Calcutta. Marston Woodward was a childless widower in comfortable circumstances. Several times I invited him to my house so that brother and sister could hear at first hand of the distant vineyard to which the young man had chosen to devote his life. This acquaintanceship between my neighbor and my governess blossomed, and within the year she had left me to become Mrs. Marston Woodward, mistress of Khyber Cottage.

“For the next year and a half, our relationship remained cordial. But then Mr. Woodward seemed to have a return of the illness which had obliged him to retire from the Indian service. In spite of his wife’s devoted ministrations, he passed from the human scene. Abruptly, Mrs. Woodward s attitude toward me changed. The cordiality was replaced by a vague politeness. It was as if — how shall I put it? — as if I was no longer a piece on her game-board.”

Here the maid arrived with tea. The lady of the house poured Colbert’s cup with trembling hands. When they had both tasted their tea, the woman continued her story.

“Not long after this mystifying change in Mrs.Woodward’s attitude, I left on a tour of the Lake District, during which I made the acquaintance of an officer from my late husband’s regiment and his wife, who lived in Clampton Regis, which, as it happened, was where Mrs. Woodward had worked as governess before she came to me. I asked them if they knew Mrs. Briscoe, her employer, with whom I had had correspondence on the matter of recommendations. They seemed mystified, for, though Mrs. Briscoe had moved from the district, they knew the young widow in question and she had no children.

“Then they told me how she had originally come to the neighborhood as governess to a local family and married Captain Briscoe, a retired naval officer. She had met him through her brother, a student of naval history who was preparing a chronicle of the blockade of Sevastapol in which the Captain had participated. Not long after the wedding, the Captain had perished in a tragic sailing accident, knocked overboard by a swinging boom before the eyes of his horrified bride and brother-in-law. Need I tell you my growing suspicions as I returned homeward, or my apprehension when I discovered Mrs. Woodward had put the house up for sale and moved away?

“Now my man John had helped the cab man load a trunk to take to the railroad station, and being something of a pry he had noted the name and destination — ‘Miss Venetia Bland, Eskdale Castle, Briggston.’ Were the fatal governess and her chameleon brother stalking their next victim? Or was the whole thing my imagination? After all, as my solicitor had been quick to point out, what proof could I bring to the authorities? A boating accident? The death of a man already in poor health? And he strongly suggested that, under our country’s libel laws, any action I took that failed might threaten my grandchildren’s inheritance. In short, he told a coward everything she wanted to hear.

“To salve my conscience, I subscribed to the Briggston Bugle-Register, telling myself that I was monitoring Mrs. Woodward’s activities from afar. It was in those pages that I read of her marriage to Captain Amos Pendry. This should have driven me to action, but I was still helpless with doubt and the possible consequences. All I did was cancel my subscription to the newspaper and try to put the whole business out of my mind. But I could not. It was a year before I conceived of writing Captain Pendry anonymously, outlining my suspicions and putting him on his guard” She shook her head. “An anonymous letter,” she said distastefully. “Heaven help me, I could do no more than that.”

Ganelon read ahead under his breath for a bit. Then he set the foolscap aside. “There’s nothing more there for us. His suspicions aroused by the woman’s letter, Captain Pendry decides to set a trap with his little business trip. He drives several miles out of town and waits for Bland’s train. Then he returns home by side roads. Who knows what shape the confrontation took? Captain Pendry is struck down and killed. His murderers decide to make it look like Captain Pendry has run off. Using his key, they clean out his strongbox and bury the body by night. After seven years they will go through the process of having him declared legally dead and Venetia Pendry will inherit his estate. It isn’t as long as it sounds. They have each other, after all. And I think investigation will prove them something more than brother and sister.

“But suddenly Sir Blundell returns from the Amazon as the new Earl Eskdale, among the richest noblemen of the realm. And they discover he is still under Mrs. Pendry’s spell, quite prepared to marry her were she free to do so. But he is not the kind of man who will wait forever. Unfortunately, they cannot risk leading the police to the body by some anonymous tip, especially after a reward had been offered. Mr. Swaffham’s dream must have seemed a gift from heaven. And if one gift, why not two? Oh, I’m sure our second dream made them suspicious. But if the risks of burying the cameo were high, so were the rewards. With Swaffham the murderer, the matter of Captain Pendry’s death would be settled once and for all and a very desirable marriage could proceed.”

Ganelon set Swaffham’s letter and Colbert’s report aside. “And now to the question of my fee,” he said. “In your case, the burden that some call excessive will be a light one, a simple trade. A certain Wurtemburger eggcup in my possession for your glorious ancestor’s masterpiece called the Black Emperor.”

“What an extraordinary coincidence!” exclaimed the young dream dowser. “A mathematics professor made me exactly the same offer during my recent trip to London. Of course, I jumped at the chance.” Ganelon’s indoor pallor turned as grey as death. Averting his eyes, he said hoarsely, “Then I will trade you the damned eggcup for that man’s name.”

Ganelon lay in the moonlight shadow cast by the shape of Madame beneath the covers beside him. He had been staring up grimly at the ceiling for several hours. But he knew a man cannot live his life dreading a third part of every day. At last, as determinedly as he had fought off sleep, Ganelon relaxed, closed his eyes, and surrendered himself to the dream. It did not keep him waiting.

Ganelon found himself in darkness within the grove of rosy-trunked trees. He was alone. The pair of pale-blue lights that led him there had vanished. He knew now they were the eyes of Fong’s Siamese cat Jasmeen, to whom his arch enemy had fed this bitter dream in the Egyptian style. Now the time had come to look down into the fire which cracked at his feet. Yes, there it was. The wood burned as red as raw beef. Something dark and trimmed with silver lay smoldering across the flames. The Black Emperor.

How Fong’s laughter rang in the darkness!

When dawn came, Ganelon stuffed his feet into the waiting carpet slippers and wearily made his way downstairs, where he took a ledger bound in green buckram from the secret drawer in his desk. To the list of Dr. Ludwig Fong’s English minions, Ganelon added a new name — Professor Moriarty.