The Devil's Rosary by Seabury Quinn

Author:Seabury Quinn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Night Shade Books
Published: 2017-06-27T16:00:00+00:00

The Drums of Damballah

1

“AND SO, GOOD FRIENDS, I bid you Happy New Year.” Jules de Grandin replaced his demitasse on the Indian mahogany tabouret beside his easy chair and turned his quick, elfin smile from Detective Sergeant Costello to me.

“Thanks, old chap,” I returned, taking the humidor which Costello had been eyeing wistfully ever since we adjourned to the drawing-room for coffee and passing it toward him.

The big Irishman selected one of the long, red-and-gold belted Habanas and fondled it between his thick, capable fingers. “Sure, Dr. de Grandin, sor,” he muttered, “’tis meself that wishes th’ same to you, an’ many more of ’em, too.”

“Eh bien, my friend,” de Grandin bit a morsel of pink peppermint wafer and held it daintily between his teeth as he sipped a second draft of the strong black coffee, “you do not appear in harmony with the season. Tell me, are you not happy at the New Year?”

“Yeah,” Costello returned as he struck a match and set his cigar alight, “I got lots o’ cause to be happy right now, sor. Happy like it wuz me own wake I’m goin’ to. To tell ye th’ truth, sor,” he added, turning serious blue eyes on the little Frenchman, “’tis Jerry Costello that’ll be lucky if he ain’t back in uniform, poundin’ a beat before th’ New Year’s a month old.”

“Parbleu, do you tell me?” de Grandin demanded, his smile vanishing. “How comes it?”

Costello puffed moodily at his cigar. “There’s been hell poppin’ around the City Hall for th’ last couple o’ weeks,” he returned, “an’ they’ve got to make a example o’ someone, so I reckon old Jerry Costello’s elected.”

“Eh, you are in trouble? Tell me, my friend; I am clever, I can surely help you.”

The big detective gazed moodily at the fire. “I only wish ye could, sor,” he answered slowly, “but I’m afraid ye can’t. There’s been more devilment goin’ on in town th’ last two weeks than I ever seen in a year before, an’ there ain’t no reason for any of it. I just can’t make head nor tail of it, an’ th’ mayor an’ th’ newspapers is ravin’ their heads off about police inefficiency. Lookit this, for example: Here’s young Mr. Sherwood, just th’ slip of a lad he is, right out o’ divinity school. First thing he does when he gits ordained is to open a little chapel over in th’ East End, workin’ night an’ day amongst th’ poor folks. He gits th’ men to lay off th’ gin an’ razors, an’ even bulls some of ’em into going to work instead o’ layin’ around all day an’ lettin’ their women support ’em. That’s th’ kind o’ lad he wuz; fine an’ good enough to be a priest—God forgive me for sayin’ it! An’ what happens? Why, just last week they find him in th’ little two-by-four room he used for a study wid his head all bashed in an’ his Bible torn to shred an’ th’ pieces layin’ all around th’ place.

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