by Sax Rohmer
“I am much indebted,” I said.
Having so spoken, I ceased and was aware of a kind of embarrassment. For whilst I was naturally anxious to avoid unpleasant suspicions regarding a lady who apparently had gone out of her way to perform an act of courtesy, yet I could not place this elegant figure in the household of Friar’s Park as that household had been depicted by my old gossip of “The Threshers.”
I mentally determined there and then to question Martin, and if possible Hawkins, upon the point, directly an opportunity arose, and the former immediately my visitor had departed. But she seemed to be in no hurry to depart.
“You have never visited this neighborhood before?” she continued, in the soft, caressing voice which persistently awakened memories of that evening in my cottage.
She re-seated herself upon the sofa, leaving me no alternative but to sit down in the only chair which the coffee-room boasted. I could not fail to notice, however, that although she addressed me as Mr. Addison, she did not volunteer her own name. Furthermore, she remained throughout with her back to the window.
“Never,” I replied; “it is very interesting in many ways, I believe.”
“You will find Friar’s Park most fascinating,” she assured me. “It stands upon the site of one of the oldest and largest monasteries in the south of England. Indeed, some parts of the house, notably the chapel and the west tower, which is visible from here, I think, are remains of the original building.”
She was palpably trying to interest me; and conscious that my somewhat frigid attitude was churlish, if she was really what she professed to be — namely, a friend of Lady Coverly’s — I endeavored in turn to display an intelligent interest in the history of the old monastic house.
I do not regret that I did so. I think that I have never heard the dry bones of history clothed so fascinatingly. The knowledge displayed by my unknown visitor of the history of that old monkish corner of England was truly amazing. The Coverlys, it appeared, had played their part in that history right back to the misty times of Saxon England. The scenes conjured up by my first sight of the curiously wild country which lay between the village and the distant parkland were presented now with all the color and truth of real life. This woman seemingly was acquainted with almost every act of importance of every Coverly since the days of Canute and with the doings of all the abbots who had ever ruled over Croix-de-Lis.
Finally, while I listened in ever growing wonder, fascinated by the extent of this strange woman’s knowledge and in part, too, by the husky music of her voice, she seemed to become conscious of the passage of time and, rising suddenly, she laughed; and her laughter again awakened a memory.
“How perfectly absurd of me, Mr. Addison!” she said. “You will certainly think I am more than eccentric to sit here fulfilling the part of a local guide.”
Even as she spoke the words, a sound intruded from the road outside. A heavy footstep came first, the footstep of one who approached the door of the inn; then:
“Martin!” I heard; “a moment, please.”
It was Dr. Damar Greefe!
If the sound of his voice had startled me, its effect upon my visitor was truly singular. Taking a swift step towards me, she grasped my arm with her strangely slender gloved hand. Now that she stood so close to me, I realized that she was even taller than I had supposed, nearly as tall as myself, in fact. Her swift, lithe movements possessed an indescribable grace which, as I thought, and experienced a sudden revulsion, were oddly uncanny — cat-like.
“Oh, Mr. Addison,” she said, and drew even nearer, so that I could feel her breath upon my cheek, “I fear that man as one fears a snake. I am going to ask a favor of you. I see that there is another door to this room, and I have a particular reason for wishing to avoid him. I don’t know where that doorway leads to, but I can doubtless find my way out.”
Her grasp upon my arm tightened.
“Dare I ask you,” she added pleadingly, “to conceal from him if necessary the fact that I have been here?”
“But Martin knows that you have been here,” I protested, my mind in a whirl at this sudden turn of affairs; “and the man sitting on the bench outside must have seen you come in also.”
“He did not,” she replied rapidly, “and Martin does not know who I am.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “Neither do I,” but:
“Please,” she pleaded; “it is not much to ask, but it means so much to me.”
Thereupon, without waiting for my answer, she turned and ran out through the little doorway, which opened as a matter of fact into the larder of the inn, from which there was an exit into a kitchen-garden.
I could hear Martin, the landlord, talking to the Eurasian doctor in the passage outside the coffee-room, and before I had time to open the door, there came a peremptory rap, the door was opened from the outside and Dr. Damar Greefe entered.
In spite of the already great heat of the morning he wore a heavy black overcoat, and his white hair showed in startling relief beneath a wide-brimmed black felt hat. If I had been surprised at the tallness of the woman who had so suddenly departed, the stature of the Eurasian was curiously illustrated by the fact that he had to lower his head in order to enter the little doorway.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, peering towards me where I stood in the badly lighted room— “Mr. Addison, I believe?”
“At your service, Dr. Greefe,” I replied.
“I understood that my niece was here?”
“Your niece!” I exclaimed, and my astonishment was quite unfeigned.
“Precisely.”
That peremptory manner which I had previously resented in him evinced itself now; and even had I lacked reasons other than personal for foiling him I should certainly have returned a reply far from pacific.
“I was not aware,” he continued, his voice high-pitched and harsh, “that you were acquainted. Inform me.”
All the time he was peering about the room suspiciously, and:
“I inform you that we are not!” I said. “But if we were, I cannot conceive that our acquaintance would concern you in any way.”
“You are rude, sir!” he cried, and bent towards me so that I could see the fierce hawk face set in a vicious scowl.
“I should be sorry to think so,” I said indifferently; for the Eurasian’s behavior transcended the merely annoying and was that of a lunatic. “I would not willingly provoke a sick man, and the tone and manner of your address forcibly suggest to me that your temperature is not normal.”
A moment he stood bending towards me, his pose that of one about to spring, then:
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “yes, you are right, Mr. Addison. I live much alone and I fear my manner grows brusk. Overlook it. She has gone, then?”
“If you refer to a lady who called upon me half an hour ago — yes, she is gone.”
He drew himself upright again and stood there, gigantic in the little room — a great, gaunt figure.
“Ah! And she was not my niece?”
“I lack the pleasure of your niece’s acquaintance, Dr. Greefe.”
“Yes. You said so. Good day, Mr. Addison.”
He turned, lowered his head, and walked out of the room. When I, in turn, emerged into the passage, I saw him striding out of the inn. Martin was standing by the door of the bar-parlor looking very confused; and as I joined him, intent upon a chat, I observed that the shabby-looking stranger had departed.
“Hullo, Martin!” I exclaimed. “I thought I saw a customer here.”
“When you came in there was. He went off with Cassim and Hawkins. They was goin’ to show him the road to Manton.”
“Cassim?”
“Aye.”
Martin growled and walked behind the bar-counter.
“You have some curious residents in this neighborhood.”
“Too curious by half.”
“Cassim, for instance, is not an English name.”
Martin indulged in that rumbling sound which w
as his only form of laughter.
“English!” he said. “He’s as black as your hat!”
My hat chanced to be gray, but I followed the idea nevertheless, and:
“What!” I exclaimed, “a negro?”
“A blackamoor. That’s all I know or care; and dumb!”
“Dumb! and a friend of Hawkins?”
“God knows. Things ain’t right.”
“Do you know if — a lady — resides with Dr. Greefe?”
“Maybe — maybe not. There is tales told.”
Substantially this was all I learned from mine host; but, having lighted my pipe, I sat down on the bench before the door and set my mind to work in an endeavor to marshal all the facts into some sort of order.
The reputation locally enjoyed by Dr. Damar Greefe I could afford to ignore, I thought, but from my personal observation of the man I had come to the conclusion that there was much about him which I did not and could not understand. In the first place, for any man to choose to live, solitary, in such an abode as the Bell House was remarkable. Why had the masterful Eurasian retired to that retreat in company with his black servitor? I thought of my own case, but it did not seem to afford a strict analogy.
Then, who was the “niece” so closely guarded by Dr. Greefe? And if she was none other than my late elegant visitor why had she sought the interview? Not even my natural modesty, which in such matters I have sometimes thought to be excessive, could conceal from me the fact that she had found my society pleasing. But, since I had never seen her before, did this theory account for her visit? Recalling again that huskily caressing voice, I asked myself the question: Had I seen her before?
Perhaps the apparition of green eyes looking up to my window from the lane below, which on the night of my arrival I had relegated to the limbo of dreamland, had been verity and not phantasm. If that were so, then the uncanny visitant to my cottage had pursued me to Upper Crossleys!
Or could it be the fact that she had preceded me? Perhaps Gatton had not confided the whole of his ideas to me — perhaps, as I had already suspected, the heart of “the Oritoga mystery” lay here and not in London.
The result of my meditations was that I determined, in pursuit of my original plan, first to call upon Mr. Edward Hines; and having inquired of Martin the way to Leeways Farm, I took my stick and set out.
CHAPTER XVI THE GOLDEN CAT
It was a perfect morning and although the sun had not yet attained to its full power it had dispersed the early mist and I knew that in another hour or less the heat would once more have become tropical. During the first part of my walk, and whilst I remained in the neighborhood of Upper Crossleys, I met never a wayfarer, and memories of the green eyes followed me step by step so that I was often tempted to look back over my shoulder by the idea that I should detect, as I had detected once before, the presence of some follower. I resented this impulse, however. I felt that my imagination was adding horrors to those which already actually existed, so that I should presently find myself unable to distinguish the real from the imaginary.
At the end of half an hour’s steady tramping I saw before me a place where a wood dipped down to the wayside so that its trees cast a broad shadow across the path. I knew that the entrance to the farm lay just beyond; and, pressing on past the trees, I saw many outbuildings having none of that deserted appearance which characterized the neighboring homesteads of Upper Crossleys. Twenty yards beyond the farm itself appeared in view.
There was some sign of activity about the yard, and, walking briskly forward, I presently found myself looking into a stone-paved place containing numbers of milk-cans. Here a woman was engaged in sweeping the floor, and:
“I have called to see Mr. Edward Hines,” I said. “Can you tell me where I shall find him?”
The woman stared at me in a strange and almost stupefied manner.
“Is he a friend of yours?” she inquired.
“He is not exactly a friend of mine,” I continued; “but I have very particular business with him.”
She continued to stare in that curious way and remained silent for so long that I began to think she was not going to reply, when:
“If Mr. Edward is not expecting you,” she said, “I don’t know that I should advise you to go in. He is not very well just now — and he is sometimes rather strange.”
“I know,” I said. “I quite understand; but he will be willing to see me when he knows what I have come about. Shall I find him yonder?”
I pointed towards an open door leading to which was a neat, graveled path lined by well-kept flower-beds, and which I took to be the main entrance to the farm.
“Well, sir,” said the woman doubtfully, “they’ll tell you there if Mr. Edward is to be seen; but I don’t advise it”
“That’s all right!” I cried, and proceeded in the direction of the doorway.
I presently obtained a view of a cozily furnished room, where a white-haired old lady was bustling about engaged in some domestic duties. I paused at the threshold.
“My name is Addison,” I said. “Would it be possible for me to have a few minutes’ conversation with Mr. Edward Hines?”
The old lady (whom I suspected to be the mother of the youth whom I was seeking) paused in the midst of her task and looked at me in a troubled way. It was evident enough that the reputation of Mr. Edward was the same in his home as elsewhere, and it occurred to me that his upbringing must have been a very bad one.
“Well,” she replied, after this eloquent pause, “he’s up in his room certainly, but he doesn’t like to see visitors, I know.”
“He will be perfectly willing to see me,” I said, confidently. “I have news of importance for him” — and as she continued to look at me in that troubled way: “I know of his present disfigurement,” I explained. “You need not be afraid of any unpleasant scenes.”
“If I were sure of that,” she said hesitatingly, and looked me over with a critical eye. “Does he know you, sir?”
“Oh, yes,” I answered; “we have met before. I assure you it will be quite all right if you will just let me walk up and announce myself to him, Mrs. Hines.”
If I had had any doubt upon the point I was soon to learn that she was indeed the mother of the notorious Mr. Edwards; for, ere she had time to reply, a high-pitched, querulous voice which I had heard before cried out from somewhere above:
“If that’s any one for me, mother, tell him to go away! You know perfectly well I won’t see any one.”
“There you are, sir,” said Mrs. Hines, unable to hide her embarrassment; “I told you he wouldn’t see you.”
“Please give me permission to go up,” I said; “he will change his mind when he hears what I have to say.”
“You hear, mother!” came the irritable voice; “I’ll break his neck if he comes up here!”
Judging from the sound of the voice, I concluded that the excited young man was located in a room immediately above that at the door of which I stood.
“Don’t be alarmed, madam,” I said, and, stepping into the room, I placed my hand reassuringly upon the old lady’s shoulder.
Without waiting for any further protest I advanced to an open staircase which I had already marked as leading to the apartment above and confidently mounted. The copy-hunting pressman is not readily excluded, and a few moments later I found myself in an extremely untidy bedroom, the walls of which were decorated with sporting prints, Kirchner drawings and photographs of many damsels.
The scarred young man, his face still a mass of sticking-plaster, stood with clenched fists facing me, and:
“Get out!” was his greeting— “before I throw you out.”
“My dear sir,” I said, “unless you particularly want to figure in a very undignified light as a witness in a trial for murder, sit down and listen to me.”
Edward Hines hesitated, opening and closing his hands and glaring at me in a preposterous fury.
“What’s the game?” he demanded. “What are you t
alking about?”
“I am talking of ‘the Oritoga mystery,’” I replied.
“The Oritoga mystery?”
His expression changed, and he dropped down into an armchair from which he had evidently arisen upon hearing my voice below. I observed a copy of a daily paper lying upon the carpet, and the conspicuous headline was sufficient to show me that he had actually been reading the latest reports concerning the case at the time of my arrival. I had judged my man pretty accurately by this time, and drawing up another chair which stood near me I sat down facing him, holding out my open cigar-case.
“I quite understand your sensitiveness in the circumstances,” I said soothingly; “but there is no occasion to suppose that I have come to remind you of your misfortune. Have a cigar. I want a chat with you.”
He continued to watch me in a lowering way, but I was gradually getting him in hand. With very poor grace he accepted a cigar, lighted it, and threw the match away without offering to light mine. I did not appear to notice his churlishness, but immediately approached the matter about which I had come.
“Although I am not a member of the Criminal Investigation Department,” I continued, “I am nevertheless in a sense an agent of Scotland Yard, and I must ask you to listen very seriously to what I have to say. You have in your possession a certain gold amulet—”
He was on his feet in a moment, the patches of skin visible between the strapping assuming a purple color. A more choleric young man I had never met.
“Damn you!” he cried. “What has it to do with you?”
“Sit down!” I said sternly. “I have given you one warning; I shall not give you another. You will either answer my questions civilly here and now or answer them in court, whichever you please. I shall not give you another opportunity of choosing. I will repeat my remark: you have in your possession a certain gold amulet in the form, I believe, of a cat.”
He was choking and muttering and glaring at me as I spoke, but I stared at him coolly, and finally he resumed his seat and reached out one hand towards a chest-of-drawers which stood beside his chair. Pulling one of the drawers open, he took out a little gold figure of Bâst, and holding it towards me:
