Uncanny Tales

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  UNCANNY TALES

  LONDON C. ARTHUR PEARSON, LIMITED HENRIETTA STREET, W.C. 1916

  Transcriber's Note:

  Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Dialect spellings have been retained. The oe ligature has been transcribed as [oe].

  CONTENTS

  PAGE

  I. THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY 7

  II. THE ARMLESS MAN 19

  III. THE TOMTOM CLUE 33

  IV. THE CASE OF SIR ALISTER MOERAN 43

  V. THE KISS 63

  VI. THE GOTH 73

  VII. THE LAST ASCENT 88

  VIII. THE TERROR BY NIGHT 97

  IX. THE TRAGEDY AT THE "LOUP NOIR" 113

  UNCANNY STORIES

  I

  THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY

  Professor William James Maynard was in a singularly happy and contentedmood as he strolled down the High Street after a long and satisfactoryinterview with the solicitor to his late cousin, whose sole heir he was.

  It was exactly a month by the calendar since he had murdered thiscousin, and everything had gone most satisfactorily since. The fortunewas proving quite as large as he had expected, and not even an inquesthad been held upon the dead man. The coroner had decided that it was notnecessary, and the Professor had agreed with him.

  At the funeral the Professor had been the principal mourner, and thelocal paper had commented sympathetically on his evident emotion. Thishad been quite genuine, for the Professor had been fond of his relative,who had always been very good to him. But still, when an old man remainsobstinately healthy, when his doctor can say with confidence that he isgood for another twenty years at least, and when he stands between youand a large fortune which you need, and of which you can make muchbetter use in the cause of science and the pursuit of knowledge, whatalternative is there? It becomes necessary to take steps. Therefore, theProfessor had taken steps.

  Looking back to-day on that day a month ago, and the critical precedingweek, the Professor felt that the steps he had taken had been asjudicious as successful. He had set himself to solve a problem in highermathematics. He had found it easier to solve than many he was obliged tograpple with in the course of his studies.

  A policeman saluted as the Professor passed, and he acknowledged it withthe charming old world courtesy that made him so popular a figure in thetown. Across the way was the doctor who had certified the cause ofdeath. The Professor, passing benevolently on, was glad he had nowenough money to carry out his projects. He would be able to publish atonce his great work on "The Secondary Variation of the DifferentialCalculus," that hitherto had languished in manuscript. It would make asensation, he thought; there was more than one generally accepted theoryhe had challenged or contradicted in it. And he would put in hand atonce his great, his long projected work, "A History of the HigherMathematics." It would take twenty years to complete, it would costtwenty thousand pounds or more, and it would breathe into mathematicsthe new, vivid life that Bergson's works have breathed intometaphysics.

  The Professor thought very kindly of the dead cousin, whose money wouldprovide for this great work. He wished greatly the dead man could knowto what high use his fortune was designed.

  Coming towards him he saw the wife of the vicar of his parish. TheProfessor was a regular church-goer. The vicar's wife saw him, too, andbeamed. She and her husband were more than a little proud of having sowell known a man in their congregation. She held out her hand and theProfessor was about to take it when she drew it back with a startledmovement.

  "Oh, I beg your pardon!" she exclaimed, distressed, as she saw him raisehis eyebrows. "There is blood on it."

  Her eyes were fixed on his right hand, which he was still holding out.In fact, on the palm a small drop of blood showed distinctly against thefirm, pink flesh. Surprised, the Professor took out his handkerchief andwiped it away. He noticed that the vicar's wife was wearing white kidgloves.

  "Oh, I beg your pardon!" she said again. "It--it startled me somehow. Ithought you must have cut yourself. I hope it's not much?"

  "Some scratch, I suppose," he said. "It's nothing."

  The vicar's wife, still slightly discomposed, launched out into someparochial matter she had wished to mention to him. They chatted a fewmoments and then parted. The Professor took an opportunity to look athis hand. He could detect no sign of any cut or abrasion, the skinseemed whole everywhere. He looked at his handkerchief. There was stillvisible on it the stain where he had wiped his hand, and this stainseemed certainly blood.

  "Odd!" he muttered as he put the handkerchief back in his pocket. "Veryodd!"

  His thoughts turned again to his projected "A History of the HigherMathematics," and he forgot all about the incident till, as it happenedthat day month, the first of the month by the calendar, when he wassitting in his study with an eminent colleague to whom he was explaininghis great scheme.

  "If you are able to carry it out," the colleague said slowly, "your bookwill mark an epoch in human thought. But the cost will be tremendous."

  "I estimate it at twenty thousand pounds," answered the Professorcalmly. "I am fully prepared to spend twice as much. You know I haverecently inherited forty thousand pounds from a relative?"

  The eminent colleague nodded and looked very impressed.

  "It is magnificent," he said warmly, "magnificent." He added: "You'vecut yourself, do you know?"

  "Cut myself?" the Professor echoed, surprised.

  "Yes," answered the eminent colleague, "there is blood upon yourhand--your right hand."

  In fact a spot of blood, slightly larger than that which had appearedbefore, showed plainly upon the Professor's right hand. He wiped it awaywith his handkerchief, and went on talking eagerly, for he was deeplyinterested. He did not think of the matter again till just as he wasgetting into bed, when he noticed a red stain upon his handkerchief. Hefrowned and examined his hand carefully. There was no sign of any woundor cut from which the blood could have come, and he frowned again.

  "Very odd!" he muttered.

  A calendar hanging on the wall reminded him that it was the first of themonth.

  The days passed, the incident faded from his memory, and four weekslater he came down one morning to breakfast in an unusually good temper.There was a certain theory he had worked on the night before he meant towrite to a friend about. It seemed to him his demonstration had beenreally brilliant, and then, also, he was already planning out with greatsuccess the details of the scheme for his great work.

  He was making an excellent breakfast, for his appetite was always good,and, needing some more cream, he rang the bell. The maid appeared, heshowed her the empty jug, and as she took it she dropped it with asudden cry, smashing it to pieces on the floor. Very pale, she stammeredout:

  "Beg pardon, sir, your hand--there is blood upon your hand."

  In fact, on the Professor's right hand there showed a drop of blood,perceptibly larger this time than before. The Professor stared at itstupidly. He was sure it had not been there a moment before, and henoticed by the heading of the newspaper at the side of his plate thatthis was the first of the month.

  With a hasty movement of his napkin he wiped the drop of blood away. Themaid, still apologising, began to pick up the pieces of the jug she hadbroken; but the Professor had no further appetite for his breakfast. Hesilenced her
with a gesture, and, leaving a piece of toast half-eaten onhis plate, he got up and went into his study.

  All this was trivial, absurd even. Yet somehow it disturbed him. He gotout a magnifying glass and examined his hand under it. There was nothingto account for the presence of the drop of blood he and the maid hadseen. It occurred to him that he might have cut himself in shaving; butwhen he looked in the mirror he could find no trace of even theslightest wound.

  He decided that, though he had not been aware of it, his nerves must bea little out of order. That was disconcerting. He had not taken hisnerves into consideration for the simple reason that he had never knownthat he possessed any. He made up his mind to treat himself to a holidayin Switzerland. One or two difficult ascents might brace him up a bit.

  Three days later he was in Switzerland, and a few days later again hewas on the summit of a minor but still difficult peak. It had been anexhilarating climb, and he had enjoyed it. He said something laughinglyto the head guide to the effect that climbing was good sport and a finetest for the nerves. The head guide agreed, and added politely that ifthe nerves of monsieur the Professor had shown signs of failing on thelower glacier, for example, they might all have been in difficulties.The Professor thrilled with pleasure at the head guide's implied praise.He was glad to know on such good authority that his nerves were allright, and the incidents that had driven him there began to fade in hismemory.

  Nevertheless, he found himself watching the calendar with a certaininterest, and when he woke on the morning of the first day of the nextmonth he glanced quickly at his right hand. There was nothing there.

  He dressed and spent, as he had planned, a quiet day, busy with hiscorrespondence. His spirits rose as the day passed. He was stillwatchful, but more confident; and, after dinner, though he had meant togo straight to his room, he agreed to join in a suggested game ofbridge. They were cutting for partners when one of the ladies who was totake part in the game dropped with a little cry the card she had justlifted.

  "Oh, there is blood upon your hand," she cried, "on your right hand,Professor!"

  Upon the Professor's right hand there showed now a drop of blood, largerstill then those other three had been. Yet the very moment before it hadnot been there. The Professor put down his cards without a word, andleft the room, going straight upstairs.

  The drop of blood was still standing on his hand. He soaked it upcarefully with some cotton-wool he had, and was not surprised to findbeneath no sign or trace of any cut or wound. The cotton-wool he made upcarefully into a parcel and addressed it to an analytical chemist heknew, inclosing with it a short note.

  He rang the bell, sent the parcel to the post, and then he got out penand paper and set himself to solve this problem, as in his life he hadsolved so many others.

  Only this time it seemed somehow as though the data were insufficient.

  Idly his pen traced upon the paper in front of him a large _X_, the signof the unknown quantity.

  But how, in this case, to find out what was the unknown quantity? Hishand, his firm and steady hand, shook so that he could no longer holdhis pen. He rang the bell again and ordered a stiff whisky-and-soda. Hewas a man of almost ascetic habits, but to-night he felt that he neededsome stimulant.

  Neither did he sleep very well.

  The next day he returned to England. Almost at once he went to see hisfriend, the analytical chemist, to whom he had sent the parcel fromSwitzerland.

  "Mammalian blood," pronounced the chemist, "probably human--rather acurious thing about it, too."

  "What's that?" asked the Professor.

  "Why," his friend answered, "I was able to identify the distinctivebacillus----" He named the rare bacillus of an unusual and obscuredisease. And this disease was that from which the Professor's cousin haddied.

  The professor was a man interested in all phenomena. In othercircumstances he would have observed keenly that which now occurred,when the hair of his head underwent a curious involuntary stiffening andbristling process that in popular but sufficiently accurate terms, mightbe described as "standing on end." But at the moment he was in no statefor scientific observations.

  He got out of the house somehow. He said he did not feel well, and hisfriend, the chemist, agreed that his holiday in Switzerland did not seemto have done him much good.

  The Professor went straight home and shut himself up in his study. Itwas a fine room, ranged all round with books. On the shelves nearest tohis hand stood volumes on mathematics, the theory of mathematics, thestudy of mathematics, pure mathematics, applied mathematics. But therewas not any one of these books that told him anything about such a thingas this. Though, it is true, there were many references in them, hereand there, to _X_, the unknown quantity.

  The Professor took his pen and wrote a large _X_ upon the sheet of paperin front of him.

  "An unknown quantity!" he muttered. "An unknown--quantity!"

  The days passed peacefully. Nothing was out of the ordinary except thatthe Professor developed an odd trick of continually glancing at hisright hand. He washed it a good deal, too. But the first of the monthwas not yet.

  On the last day of the month he told his housekeeper that he was feelinga little unwell. She was not surprised, for she had thought him lookingill for some time past. He told her he would probably spend the next dayin bed for a thorough rest, and she agreed that that would be a verygood idea. When he was in his own room and had undressed, he bandagedhis right hand with care, tying it up carefully and thoroughly withthree or four of his large linen handkerchiefs.

  "Whatever comes, shall now show," he said to himself.

  He stayed in bed accordingly the next day. His housekeeper was a littleuneasy about him. He ate nothing and his eyes were strangely bright andfeverish. She overheard him once muttering something to himself about"the unknown quantity," and that made her think that he had been workingtoo hard.

  She decided he must see the doctor. The Professor refused peremptorily.He declared he would be quite well again in the morning. Thehousekeeper, an old servant, agreed, but sent for the doctor all thesame; and when he had come the Professor felt he could not refuse to seehim without appearing peculiar. And he did not wish to appear peculiar.So he saw the doctor, but declared there was nothing much the matter, hemerely felt a little unwell and out of sorts and tired.

  "You have hurt your hand?" the doctor asked, noticing how it wasbandaged.

  "I cut it slightly--a trifle," the Professor answered.

  "Yes," the doctor answered, "I see there is blood on it."

  "What?" the Professor stammered.

  "There is blood upon your hand," the doctor repeated.

  The Professor looked. In fact, a deep, wide stain showed crimson uponthe bandages in which he had swathed his hand. Yet he knew that themoment before the linen had been fair and white and clean.

  "It is nothing," he said quickly, hiding his hand beneath the bedclothes.

  The doctor, a little puzzled, took his leave, but had not gone tenyards when the housekeeper flew screaming after him. It seemed she hadheard a fall, and when she had gone into the Professor's bedroom she hadfound him lying there dead upon the hearthrug. There was a razor in hishand, and there was a ghastly gash across his throat.

  The doctor went back at a run, but there was nothing he or any man coulddo. One thing he noticed, with curiosity, was that the bandage had beentorn away from the dead man's hand and that oddly enough there seemed tobe on the hand no sign of any cut or wound. There was a large solitarydrop of blood on the palm, at the root of the thumb; but, of course,that was no great wonder, for the wound the dead man had dealt himselfhad bled freely.

  Apparently death had not been quite instantaneous, for with a lasteffort the Professor seemed to have traced an _X_ upon the floor in hisown blood with his forefinger. The doctor mentioned this at theinquest--the coroner had decided at once that in this case an inquestwas certainly necessary--and he suggested that it showed the Professorhad worked too hard and was suffering f
rom overwork which had disturbedhis mental balance.

  The coroner took the same view, and in his short address to the juryadduced the incident as proof of a passing mental disturbance.

  "Very probably," said the coroner, "there was some problem that hadworried him, and that he was still endeavouring to work out. As you areaware, gentlemen, the sign _X_ is used to symbolise the unknownquantity."

  An appropriate verdict was accordingly returned, and the Professor wasduly interred in the same family vault as that in which so short a timepreviously his cousin had been laid to rest.