The hut’s door was closed.
Isham and Vaughn with difficulty scaled the barbed-wire fence. “Don’t walk over those prints,” said the Inspector shortly. “Let’s see... These are Queen’s, I guess, the ones that make the detour. The other set—”
They stood still and followed with their eyes the line of footprints which Ellery had observed little more than an hour before. There were two complete sets made by the same pair of shoes; and, with the exception of Ellery’s, no others. The two sets were plainly defined: one going from the fence to the door of the shack; the other returning on a slightly deviating line. Beyond the wire fence the rocky nature of the ground precluded a visible trail. The prints which approached the cabin were more deeply impressed in the earth than those which left. In all the footprints the impression of the right foot was heavier than the corresponding impression of the left.
“The limping trail, all right,” mumbled Vaughn. “That first set — queer.” He advanced around the double track of footprints and opened the door, Isham following.
They stared in raw horror at what they saw.
On the wall opposite the door, nailed to the rough-hewn logs like a trophy, was the body of a man. It was headless. The legs had been nailed close together. From the bloody tatters in which it was clad — the tatters of the pseudo-hillman — it was the corpse of the unfortunate schoolmaster.
Blood had dripped to the stone floor. Blood had spattered over the walls. The shack, which had been so neat and cozy when Isham had visited it before, now looked like the inner shrine of an abattoir. The rush mats were mottled with thick red spots. The floor showed red streaks and smears. The top of the sturdy old table, swept clean of its usual objects, had been utilized as a slate; and on this slate, in a gigantic letter of blood, was the familiar symbol of Krosac’s vengeance — a capital T.
“Jeeze,” muttered Vaughn. “It turns your stomach. I think I’d choke that cannibal with my bare hands, justification or not, if I got hold of him.”
“I’m going outside,” said Isham hoarsely. “I feel — faint.” He staggered through the doorway and leaned against the wall outside, retching with nausea.
Inspector Vaughn blinked, squared his shoulders, and stepped across the room. He avoided the stiffened pools of blood. He touched the body; it was rigid. Little trickles of red emanated from the spike-heads in the palms and feet.
“Dead about fifteen hours,” thought Vaughn, clenching his fist. His face was white as he stared up at the crucified corpse. With a raw crimson hole where the head had been, with the arms stiffly outstretched, with the legs together, it was a grotesque and insane travesty on a devil’s humor... a monstrous and monster T formed of dead human flesh.
Vaughn shook the vertigo out of his head and stepped back. He reflected dully that there must have been something of a struggle; for on the floor near the table lay several objects which told a gruesome story. The first was a heavy ax, its haft and blade painted with dry blood; obviously the weapon which had decapitated Andreja Tvar. The second was a round coil of bandage, like a two-dimensional doughnut; its edges were frayed and dirty, and it was soaked through on one side with a brownish-red liquid, now dry. The Inspector stooped and gingerly picked up the coil; it came apart as he lifted it and, somewhat to his surprise, he saw that it had been sliced through by a sharp implement. A scissors, Vaughn conjectured; and looked about. Yes, a few feet away on the floor, as if it has been flung there in desperate haste, lay a heavy shears.
Vaughn went to the door; Isham, while pale and peaked-looking, had partially recovered. “What’s this look like to you?” asked Vaughn, holding up the severed coil of bandage. “Cripes, you picked out a nice place to be sick, Isham!”
The District Attorney crinkled his nose. He looked miserable. “Bandage around a wrist,” he faltered. “And a bad wound, too, to judge from the bloodstains and iodine on it.”
“You’re right,” said Vaughn grimly. “From the circumference of the coil it must be a wrist. There isn’t another part of the human body exactly that small around, not even the ankle. I’m afraid Mr. Krosac has a little wound stripe on his wrist!”
“Either there was a fight or he cut himself while he was — was butchering the body,” ventured Isham with a shiver. “But why did he leave the bandage for us to find?”
“Easy. See how bloody it is. Cut must have been made early in the fight, or whatever it was. So he cut off his first bandage and put on a fresh one... As for why he left it — he was in one sweet hurry, Isham, to get out of the neighborhood of this shack. And he’s not really in danger, I suppose. The very fact that he left the bandage tends to show that the wound is in a place which can be kept covered. Cuff probably hides it. Let’s go back inside.”
Isham gulped and bravely followed the Inspector back into the hut. Vaughn pointed out the ax and shears; and then indicated a large opaque bottle lying on the floor near the spot where he had found the bandage, a bottle of dark blue glass without a label. It was almost empty; most of its contents stained the floor brown where it lay, and its cork had bounced a few feet away. Nearby lay a roll of bandage, partly unwound.
“Iodine,” said Vaughn. “That tells the whole story. He got it from that medicine shelf over there when he cut himself. Left the bottle on the table and later upset it by accident, or just threw it on the floor — he should give a damn. It’s thick glass, and didn’t break.”
