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Moris Klaw The Dream Detective by Sax Rohmer

Moris Klaw The Dream Detective by Sax Rohmer

Moris Klaw, antiques and curios dealer, and part-time detective, sleeps at the scenes of awful crimes so that he might receive a psychic impression of the victim’s (or the perpetrator’s) last thoughts.

Book Details

Book Details

Moris Klaw, antiques and curios dealer, and part-time detective, sleeps at the scenes of awful crimes so that he might receive a psychic impression of the victim’s (or the perpetrator’s) last thoughts.

Moris Klaw The Dream Detective
The Tragedies in the Greek Room
Case Of The Potsherd Of Anubis
Case Of The Crusader’s Axe
Case Of The Ivory Statue
Case Of The Blue Rajah
Case Of The Whispering Poplars
Case Of The Headless Mummies
Case Of The Haunting Of Grange
Case Of The Veil Of Isis

Arthur Henry “Sarsfield” Ward (1883-1959), better known as Sax Rohmer, was a prolific English novelist. He is best remembered for his series of novels featuring the master criminal Dr. Fu-Manchu.

Ward was born in Birmingham, England to a working class family. He got his start in writing as a poet, songwriter, and comedy sketch writer for music hall performers.

In 1912, as he began writing the Fu-Manchu stories, Ward began using the pseudonym Sax Rohmer.

The stories that came to make up The Dream Detective were written and published in 1913 and 1914. Just as with the Fu-Manchu stories, the Moris Klaw stories were serial stories that were collected into a book. The Dream Detective also known as The Methods of Moris Klaw was first published as a book in 1920.

Moris Klaw The Dream Detective has 9 illustrations.

DreamDetective Moris Klaw The Dream Detective by Sax Rohmer
The Dream Detective by Sax Rohmer 1920


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Excerpt: Moris Klaw The Dream Detective

First Episode

The Tragedies in the Greek Room

WHEN did Moris Klaw first appear in London? It is a question which I am asked sometimes and to which I reply: To the best of my knowledge, shortly before the commencement of the strange happenings at the Menzies Museum.

What I know of him I have gathered from various sources; and in these papers, which represent an attempt to justify the methods of one frequently accused of being an insane theorist, I propose to recount all the facts which have come to my knowledge. In some few of the cases I was personally though slightly concerned; but regard me merely as the historian and on no account as the principal or even minor character in the story. My friendship with Martin Coram led, then, to my first meeting with Moris Klaw—a meeting which resulted in my becoming his biographer, inadequate though my information unfortunately remains.

It was some three months after the appointment of Coram to the curatorship of the Menzies Museum that the first of a series of singular occurrences took place there.

This occurrence befell one night in August, and the matter was brought to my ears by Coram himself on the following morning. I had, in fact, just taken my seat at the breakfast table, when he walked in unexpectedly and sank into an armchair. His dark, cleanshaven face looked more gaunt than usual and I saw, as he lighted the cigarette which I proffered, that his hand shook nervously.

“There’s trouble at the Museum!” he said abruptly. “I want you to run around.”

I looked at him for a moment without replying, and, knowing the responsibility of his position, feared that he referred to a theft from the collection.

“Something gone?” I asked.

“No; worse!” was his reply.

“What do you mean, Coram?”

He threw the cigarette, unsmoked, into the hearth. “You know Conway?” he said; “Conway, the night attendant. Well—he’s dead!”

I stood up from the table, my breakfast forgotten, and stared incredulously. “Do you mean that he died in the night?” I inquired.

“Yes. Done for, poor devil!”

“What! Murdered?”

“Without a doubt, Searles! He’s had his neck broken!”

I waited for no further explanations, but, hastily dressing, accompanied Coram to the Museum. It consists, I should mention, of four long, rectangular rooms, the windows of two overlooking South Grafton Square, those of the third giving upon the court that leads to the curator’s private entrance, and the fourth adjoining an enclosed garden attached to the building. This fourth room is on the ground floor and is entered through the hall from the Square, the other three, containing the principal and more valuable exhibits, are upon the first floor and are reached by a flight of stairs from the hall. The remainder of the building is occupied by an office and the curator’s private apartments, and is completely shut off from that portion open to the public, the only communicating door—an iron one—being kept locked.

The room described in the catalogue as the ‘Greek Room’ proved to be the scene of the tragedy. This room is one of the two overlooking the Square and contains some of the finest items of the collection. The Museum is not open to the public until ten o’clock, and I found, upon arriving there, that the only occupants of the Greek Room were the commissionaire on duty, two constables, a plain-clothes officer and an inspector—that is, if I except the body of poor Conway.

He had not been touched, but lay as he was found by Beale, the commissionaire who took charge of the upper rooms during the day, and, indeed, it was patent that he was beyond medical aid. In fact, the position of his body was so extraordinary as almost to defy description.

There are three windows in the Greek Room, with wall-cases between, and, in the gap corresponding to the east window and just by the door opening into the next room, is a chair for the attendant. Conway lay downward on the polished floor with his limbs partly under this chair and his clenched fists thrust straight out before him. His head, turned partially to one side, was doubled underneath his breast in a most dreadful manner, indisputably pointing to a broken neck, and his commissionaire’s cap lay some distance away, under a table supporting a heavy case of vases.

So much was revealed at a glance, and I immediately turned blankly to Coram. “What do you make of it?” he said.

I shook my head in silence. I could scarce grasp the reality of the thing; indeed, I was still staring at the huddled figure when the doctor arrived. At his request we laid the dead man flat upon the floor, to facilitate an examination, and we then saw that he was greatly cut and bruised about the head and face, and that his features were distorted in a most extraordinary manner, almost as though he had been suffocated.

The doctor did not fail to notice this expression. “Made a hard fight of it!” he said. “He must have been in the last stages of exhaustion when his neck was broken!”

“My dear fellow!” cried Coram, somewhat irritably, “what do you mean when you say that he made a hard fight? There could not possibly have been any one else in these rooms last night!”

“Excuse me, sir!” said the inspector, “but there certainly was something going on here. Have you seen the glass case in the next room?”

“Glass case?” muttered Coram, running his hand distractedly through his thick black hair, “No; what of a glass case?”

“In here, sir,” explained the inspector, leading the way into the adjoining apartment.”

At his words, we all followed, and found that he referred to the glass front of a wall-case containing statuettes and images of Egyptian deities. The centre pane of this was smashed into fragments, the broken glass strewing the floor and the shelves inside the case.

“That looks like a struggle, sir, doesn’t it?” said the inspector.

“Heaven help us! What does it mean?” groaned poor Coram. “Who could possibly have gained access to the building in the night, or, having done so, have quitted it again, when all the doors remained locked?”

“That we must try and find out!” replied the inspector. “Meanwhile, here are his keys. They lay on the floor in a corner of the Greek Room.”

Coram took them, mechanically. “Beale,” he said to the commissionaire, “see if any of the cases are unlocked.”

The man proceeded to go around the rooms. He had progressed no further than the Greek Room when he made a discovery. “Here’s the top of this unfastened, sir!” he suddenly cried excitedly.

We hurriedly joined him, to find that he stood before a marble pedestal surmounted by a thick glass case containing what Coram had frequently assured me was the gem of the collection—the Athenean Harp.

Excerpt From: Sax Rohmer. “Moris Klaw The Dream Detective.”

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