The Egyptian Cross Mystery

And so once more the launch cut across the waters of Ketcham’s Cove, this time achieving the little landing dock without incident. As they stepped to the dock, Hester grimly refusing assistance, they started at the appearance of what at first glance seemed to be a ghost.

It was a little old man, unkempt and brown-bearded, with fanatical eyes. He was swathed in a pure white robe. He wore curious sandals. In his right hand he held a crude and peculiar baton topped with a badly carved representation of a snake... He strode out of the bushes, stuck out his skinny chest, and stared haughtily at them.

Behind him towered the naked swimmer — except that he had in the interim donned white duck trousers and an undershirt. His brown feet were bare.

The two parties eyed each other for an instant, and then Ellery said, with warm appreciation: “Well, if it isn’t Harakht himself!” Professor Yardley smiled in his beard.

The little ghost started, his eyes rolling toward Ellery. But the shimmer in them did not reflect a glint of recognition. “That is my name,” he announced in a shrill clear voice. “Are you worshipers at the shrine?”

“I’ll worship at your shrine, you little peanut,” snarled Inspector Vaughn, striding forward and gripping Harakht’s arm. “You’re the boss grifter of this carnival, aren’t you? Where’s your shack? We want to talk to you.”

Harakht looked helpless, and turned to his companion. “Paul, you see? Paul!”

“He must have liked the name,” murmured Professor Yardley. “A rare disciple!”

Paul Romaine did not shift his gaze; he was glaring at Dr. Temple, who returned the glare with interest. Hester, Ellery noticed, had slipped off into the underbrush.

Harakht turned back. “Who are ye? What is your mission? We are peaceful folk here.”

Isham snorted, and Vaughn grumbled: “Old man Moses himself. Look here, grandpa. We’re the police, understand, and we’re looking for a murderer!”

The little old man shrank as if Vaughn had struck him; his slate lips trembled, and he gasped: “Again! Again! Again!”

Paul Romaine came to life. He brushed Harakht aside roughly and stepped forward to confront the Inspector. “You talk to me, whoever you are. The old man’s a little batty. You’re looking for a murderer? Go ahead and look. But what the hell has that got to do with us?”

Ellery admired him; the man was a splendid animal physically, handsome with a magnetic masculinity that made it easy to understand why women of repressed or sentimental natures would lose their hearts to him.

Isham said quietly: “Where were you and this lunatic last night?”

“Right here on the Island. Who’s been killed?”

“Don’t you know?”

“No! Who?”

“Thomas Brad.”

Romaine blinked. “Brad! Well, it was probably coming to him... What of it? We’re in the clear. We haven’t anything to do with those sniveling old women on the mainland. All we want is to be let alone!”

Inspector Vaughn pushed Isham gently aside; the Inspector himself was no weakling of a man, and his eyes were well on a level with Romaine’s as they locked glances. “Now you,” said Vaughn, digging his fingers into the man’s wrist, “keep a civil tongue in your head. You’re talking to the District Attorney of this county, and the boss cop of the roost. You answer questions like a good little boy, see?”

Romaine wrenched at his arm; but Vaughn’s fingers were iron, and they remained clamped about the thick wrist. “Oh, all right,” he mumbled, “if that’s the way you feel about it. It’s just that nobody lets us alone. What do you want to know?”

“When was the last time you and Chief Bilgewater behind you left the Island?”