Strange Was the Death of the Antiquary
An Occurrence in an Antique Shop
By August W. Derleth
"Well, no, it's not that."
"Then what is it?"
"There seems to be something wrong with the thing, but I can't tell you what it is, nor why I feel that there's some difference about it."
Morrison handed the carving to Clavering, who took it and examined it carefully. It was an antique wood of a pirate in the act of plunging his c atlas into a hapless sailor. The pirate's left arm was extended straight out from his shoulder much in the attitude of a fencer; his right arm was crooked at the elbow, and in his hand he clutched a long knife which just touched the sailor's bared breast. The expression on the pirate's face was positively fiendish; the face of the kneeling sailor was a picture of abject terror. The two stood on a block of wood cut to resemble the flooring of a ship. There was dust on the carving.
"Humph!"
"Well?"
"What a peculiar obsession, Morrison! There isn't a thing different with this piece since I last saw it."
"It isn't an obsession, Clavering. Isn't the pirate's weapon nearer to the sailor's breast?"
"Not a fraction of an inch!"
"Clavering! You're not lying—just to case me?"
"Nonsense! You've been reading again—reading some of that"
"I have not!"
"But, my dear Morrison"
"I tell you I'm just the same as ever. It's just.—just—well, you know. Tell me, didn't you really notice any difference in the attitude of the figures?"
"No, I didn't."
"I'm still dubious."
"Oh, I say, Morrison! Don't let's discuss it."
"As you will, Clavering, but you have no idea how the thing affects me. It's so strangely suggestive."
"Suggestive? Of what?"
"Of—nothing. Won't you have a whisky and soda before you go?"
"No, I must go, Morrison."
Clavering stood up. He yawned, then reached for his hat and stick. The two men walked slowly through the shadowy antique shop to the street door. On the threshold they paused. Morrison sighed. Clavering struck a match and lit his cigarette.
"I wouldn't let that carving bother me any more, if I were you, Morrison. It's not exactly good for you, you know."
"It's not bothering me; I'm just wondering, that's all."
"You're trying fairly hard to conceal your nervousness, Morrison, but you can't deceive me. You'd better stop, old fellow, stop worrying."
"It's easy for you to say. By God! I know that carving is not the same as when I got it."
Morrison shuffled back through the aisles in his shop to his rooms beyond. His bedroom slippers made a curious flapping noise.
The next night Clavering found Morrison waiting for him, the image grasped tightly in his hand.
"No doubt about it, Clavering. The pirate's cutlas is plainly sticking in the sailor's breast."
"You're seeing things, Morrison."
"Well, look at it; see for yourself."
"There's absolutely nothing the matter with it!"
"Then what's the matter with me?"
"You're overworked; under a nervous strain, that's all."
"Absolute nonsense."
"Oh, well!"
"That weapon is going to keep on entering the sailor's body; when it's passed through, something will happen."
"To the wooden figure?"
"Perhaps; who knows?"
Morrison turned the image over in his hand, then placed it on the table within easy reach.
"Did you ever notice that their faces had changed?"
"Oh, come, Morrison! You're overdoing it."
"That's your view, Clavering; I've got mine."
"By the way, Morrison, where did you get the thing, if I may ask?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"No. It was here in the shop one day; I swear I'd never seen it before."
"Odd."
"Yes, it is odd—too odd to please me."
"Why don't you burn the thing?"
"I can't bring myself to do it. In some cursed way it reminds me of something."
Clavering shot a quick glance at the clock. "Is that 9 o'clock, Morrison?"
"Yes. Why?"
"I've got to go; I've an engagement at 9:30."
"Oh."
"If I were you I'd put that carving in storage."
Mr. Soames Clavering made a belated appearance at his club three nights later. He had no sooner made his entrance than a young antiquary, James Herrick, rose and made his way over to him.
"I say, Clavering, I hear Morrison's dead."
"Yes, he's dead."
"What happened to him? Why, just a week ago I bought a rare Japanese print from him."
"He had rather a peculiar end."
"You saw him die?"
"No. No one saw him die. He lay dead in his shop when I came there last night. In his hand he held this." Clavering pulled the wooden image from his pocket and extended it to his friend. "Examine the thing, will you, Herrick? See anything queer about it?"
"Well, it's an odd subject to carve, I should say, but beyond that there's nothing wrong. Had I the say, I should have had the cutlas in the body of the sailor; it would maintain a better proportion in the carving."
"True. It's being just touching the sailor makes it rather awkward."
"You say Morrison was holding this?"
"Yes. Odd, eh? But wait until you hear all the story. He found the image in his shop one day, hadn't the least idea where it came from, so he says, and was confident that he had never seen it before. At once he told me that he had an uncanny feeling of fright when he looked at the thing. The next night he insisted that the point of the cutlas had entered the body of the sailor, and that the expressions of the faces had changed. He hinted that the thing suggested something; I gathered that it brought to mind something in his past life that was very similar. And he dreaded the movement of the weapon into the sailor's body, going so far as to state that something would happen when the cutlas passed through the body."
"By the way, Clavering, have you ever noticed the peculiar resemblance that the face of the sailor has to Morrison?"
"I have, Herrick; I've wondered about it. I'm told that Morrison was once a seaman, perhaps even a pirate of some sort."
"Who knows?"
"No one. Nobody seems to know-much of Morrison."
"Go on with the story."
"Well, Morrison insisted that, night after night, the cutlas was being surely plunged into the sailor's body, and I was fully as insistent in my ridicule of his strange obsession. Last night when I came to see him I found him dead, with the image in his hand, as I told you. As far as I know, the cause of death is unknown, with heart trouble of an obscure sort plausible. But there was a queer burnt mark on Morrison's breast; I'll be damned if it didn't call to mind some queer stories I've heard about witchcraft. Imagine that, in this enlightened age! I took the image from him. It was just the way it is now, but in a moment I'll show you something."
"Perhaps Morrison was the victim of some subconscious obsession; perhaps at some time in his life he killed a sailor under similar conditions and his conscience conjured his past up before him?"
"It's just plausible. As I said, no one seems to know much about Morrison. At any rate, this morning I got to examining the figure. In the first place it isn't antique. It resembles a great deal of the work done by a group of old sailors down along the Thames, in Limehouse district.
"In the second place—bend closer, Herrick—four-fifths of this cutlas is entirely free of dust, from the point toward the hilt, and if you look closely at the point where the cutlas would naturally have entered the sailor's breast, you will see a faint oval line of compressed dust!"
