by Sax Rohmer
It was all a hopeless tangle, and the more I thought about it the more discouraged did I become. I seemed to get further, too, from that link for which I sought — the link connecting the mystery with that other which I always associated with the Red House. The luminous eyes afforded the visible link; this I could not doubt. But what relation to the death of Sir Marcus did the disappearance of Lady Burnham Coverly bear? Secondly, what was Dr. Damar Greefe’s place in the scheme? And thirdly (the most appalling mystery of all) who or what was the woman with the cat’s eyes?
At this point in my meditations I discovered that I had arrived before the Abbey Inn, now plunged in darkness, and believing that I detected the sound of footsteps behind me I became eventually the victim of a sort of panic which perhaps will be forgiven me under the circumstances. For emerging from these unpleasant reflections and hearing or believing that I heard sounds of pursuit from the lonely moon-patched road behind, I know that I hurried forward to the side door and silently prayed that I should find it unfastened as Martin had assured me that it would be.
In this particular I was speedily reassured, for the door opened to my touch — and I became conscious of a wish that there might be some means of fastening it from within. However, I could find none, but hurrying upstairs, I determined to take a precaution which hitherto I had not adopted and that night to lock my bedroom door.
Entering the room, I fumbled for a box of matches in my pocket and presently discovering them struck one and looked about me for the candle which usually stood upon a little cabinet beside the bed. To-night, however, it had been moved for some reason, and put over by the window on the dressing-table. As I made this discovery the match smoldered out, and at the moment I was about to strike another the sound of footsteps which I had formerly detected grew louder and nearer, so that I could no longer doubt that some one was running along the road towards the Abbey Inn.
A great curiosity respecting this person seized me, and without striking a match as I had intended to do, I walked to the window and looked out into the road. Twenty yards away I saw the figure of a man who seemed to be come almost to the end of his resources; for I could hear him panting as he ran. Nor did my wonder decrease when, as he came nearer and stared up in my direction, I recognized him for the shabby-looking person whom I had observed that morning sitting on the bench before the inn door.
Wondering what his presence might portend — for clearly his business was with me — I leaned out of the window, and as he came up to the door of the inn I saw him stagger and clutch at the post which supported the sign-board, swaying dizzily. He was clearly almost exhausted, and his voice when he spoke was a husky whisper:
“Don’t light your candle!” he said.
Now, this remark, coming at such a time and in these circumstances, struck me as so ludicrous that at first I was tempted to laugh; but the man’s earnest sincerity, as evidenced by his exhausted condition and the urgency of his manner, did not fail to impress me, and:
“Why not?” I asked, still leaning out of the window and filled with a great wonderment.
“Never mind,” he panted. “Don’t! Can I come up?”
Something now in the breathless speech of the man below struck me as oddly familiar. But yet so dense was I that I failed to recognize the truth of the matter, and:
“Certainly,” I said. “I will bring a light down to show you the way, if you have business with me.”
“No light!” he cried hoarsely. “If you value your life, don’t strike a match!”
By this time so bewildered had I become that I scarce knew whether to descend to meet this apparent madman or to remain where I was.
“Don’t hesitate, Mr. Addison!” he cried, now beginning to recover his breath. “Do exactly as I tell you!”
“Good God!” I exclaimed.
I turned and ran to the door and on downstairs. For at last I had recognized the voice of this midnight runner. Throwing open the door, I held out my hand and the shabby-looking man extended his in return.
“Gatton!” I cried excitedly. “Gatton! What on earth does this mean? Why have you been masquerading in this fashion? I saw you here this morning and you never gave me the slightest sign of acknowledgment!”
“I never intended to!” panted the Inspector, staggering rather than walking up the stairs. “But I have performed one of the hardest tasks of my life to-night and have only succeeded by a few seconds!”
We were now at the door of my room, but:
“Don’t go in!” said Gatton shortly. “Let me think what we must do.”
“But I don’t understand at all!”
“You will understand in a moment!” was the grim reply. “You would have understood already if you had lighted your candle.”
Words failed me altogether. At that we stood in the passage for some moments in silence; then:
“We have got to risk it,” said Gatton, “if my theory is to be put to the test”
“Risk it?”
“Oh! I can assure you of the risk,” he declared. “It will be touch-and-go. Are you game?”
“Well,” I said, laughing in a very forced fashion, “this has been a night of such intense surprises that I think I can survive one more.”
“Very well,” replied the Inspector; and there was something strange in hearing the familiar voice and dimly discerning in the reflected moonlight, which shone in at a window further along the passage, the unfamiliar figure before me.
“What have we to do?”
“We have to take a chance of sudden death!” he answered, “but we will minimize it as much as possible.”
Seeing me about to give voice to one of the many questions which literally burned upon my tongue:
“Explanations can come later,” said he. “Where can I find a candle?”
“There is one on the dressing-table just to the left of the window. I will get it—”
But he grasped my arm roughly, and:
“This is my business! Wait here for me,” he rapped tersely.
He heard the rasp of the match upon the box, as I struck a light to guide him in his search. Whereupon:
“I thought I warned you!” he cried, and struck the match from my hand. “No light!”
With that he pushed open the door, and I saw his square figure outlined against the moon-bright open window as he crossed the room. Since he had referred to the peril which hung over us, it was with bated breath that I awaited his return, not in the least knowing what to expect. A few moments later he returned with the candlestick.
“Now,” said he, carefully reclosing the door, “light the candle.”
Awed by something in his voice and manner, I did as he directed without demur, noting with amazement, in the light thus created, how simple yet how effective was the disguise which my friend had adopted.
He gave me no time for comment, however, but:
“Listen,” said he. “I’m going to put this candle in your room and then you and I are going to run.”
“Run?” I cried.
“Exactly. Run for our lives! Preferably upstairs. Is there any vacant room above from which we can look out in the same direction as from your window?”
“The room above is vacant,” I replied, “and probably we shall find the door unlocked.”
“We’ll risk that, then,” said Gatton. “You might start and lead the way.”
“Can I use my electric torch?” I asked.
“On the stairs,” replied Gatton; “but you must extinguish it when we enter the room above.”
With that he thrust open the door of my bedroom, ran in and ran out again, banging the door behind him as though pursued by devils!
Then the pair of us were racing up the stairs madly for the room above, I vaguely wondering if my companion had taken leave of his senses. Yet of the verity of the peril which he dreaded came speedy confirmation.
At the very moment that my hand touched the knob of the door above, and ere I could open it, the whole fabric of the Abbey Inn wa
s convulsed — the floor rocked beneath my feet; and there ensued the sound of a deafening explosion from the room below! An echo, or what sounded like an echo, sharp and staccato, came from the distant hills!
CHAPTER XX GATTON’S STORY
“It’s no good going in now,” said Gatton, in a weary voice; “in fact it might be dangerous. We have to consider the possibility of fire, however,” he added.
Voices of sleepers awakened and cries of inquiry sounded now from all over the inn; for naturally the household had been aroused by the tremendous noise of the explosion. For my own part I was altogether too dazed to conjecture what had happened. But that Gatton had saved me from some deadly peril I was well convinced. Stirrings and the noise of footsteps came from an adjoining room, and presently in his night attire Martin appeared, very bemused.
“Mr. Addison,” he began, and stared from me to my companion.
“Let no one leave their rooms,” said Gatton decisively, “until I give them permission.”
“Eh,” began Martin heavily.
“I am a police officer,” added Gatton; “and you will all do as I direct. Does any one sleep on the same floor as Mr. Addison?”
“No, sir,” replied Martin, who was not yet more than half awake, but who nevertheless had been impressed by the Inspector’s authoritative manner.
Sounds of footsteps from the floor above now became audible, whereupon:
“Order every one to remain in their rooms!” repeated Gatton.
Martin, raising his voice, obeyed him.
“What are your arrangements in the case of fire?” continued the Inspector.
Several betousled heads were peeping down from the landing above but no one spoke until Martin collected his ideas sufficiently to reply:
“There’s buckets in the stables — and there’s the well. Wilkins sleeps over the stables—”
“Can you make him hear without going downstairs?”
“I can try,” was the answer.
Martin walked to a window which lighted the landing, and threw it widely open. Leaning out:
“Wilkins!” he roared— “Wilkins!”
“Aye, aye, boss!” came faintly from somewhere below.
“Tell him to stand by with fire-buckets, but not to leave the yard without orders from me,” directed Gatton.
Martin issued these instructions in a voice which must have been audible at Leeways, and then stood scratching his head stupidly.
But indeed of all the bewildered company who gathered that night beneath the roof of the Abbey Inn, I think I was the most nonplused of all, and turning to Gatton:
“For God’s sake tell me what it all means!” I said.
“It means,” he answered, and even through his disguise I recognized the old grim smile, “that only a match stood between you and eternity! Even now, we cannot afford to sit down, but I am not anxious to pass your door for a few minutes. As we both have much to say, let us find a room where we can talk.”
Accordingly we went up to a large empty room at the back of the inn. Through the open doorway I could hear the excited voices of the entire staff of the establishment, who had congregated in Martin’s room across the landing. Never in the history of the Abbey Inn had such doings taken place.
“Perhaps,” continued Gatton, “it will save time if you tell me exactly what you have done first.”
“Very well,” I said; “but before I begin — when did you arrive?”
“An hour and a half after receiving your code telegram! I came by car. The car is at Manton now.”
“Why this disguise?”
“I will explain in a moment. But meanwhile — your own story.”
At that, although consumed with impatience, I quickly outlined my movements from the time of my arrival at Upper Crossleys, the Inspector following me closely. The tale concluded:
“Now, Gatton!” I cried— “for heaven’s sake tell me what it all means!”
“I will tell you all I know,” he replied slowly, “In the first place I had two reasons for suggesting the visit to Friar’s Park. I had formed an opinion that the ‘cat-woman’ was interested in you. Whether because she regarded you as dangerous or from some other cause I could not determine. And I thought of a plan for finding out if she was by any chance associated with Friar’s Park. It was to send you down here (a) to make straightforward inquiries, and (b) to ‘draw the cat’!”
“Very good of you!” I murmured.
“I warned you it was dangerous!” said Gatton grimly. “But I am pleased to say the plan worked to perfection. Your own inquiries have been highly satisfactory and you have also ‘drawn the cat’! Now just to show you how dramatic your discoveries really were I will explain my second and more important reason and the one which primarily had prompted me to turn my attention to Friar’s Park. A few hours before you came to the Yard the other morning — to see the bag dropped in the water by Eric Coverly — I had been in touch with the solicitors who had acted for the late Sir Burnham.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed— “what had they to say?”
“I was seeking information of course respecting the entail; in short, trying to fathom the mystery of what Eric Coverly would have had to gain by getting his cousin out of the way. I learned that financially he gained nothing but a bundle of debts. Friar’s Park was mortgaged to the hilt. Furthermore, Lady Burnham Coverly had a life interest in the property under the will of her husband.
“Next, from the senior partner, a solicitor of the old school who still retained pleasant memories of Sir Burnham’s port, I learned a number of very significant details.”
He paused, staring at me oddly; and the familiar expression beneath the unfamiliar disguise was very curious. Then:
“About seven or eight years ago,” he resumed, “shortly after his return from Egypt, according to Mr. Hardacre, the solicitor, something occurred which made a changed man of his client, Sir Burnham. You will note, Mr. Addison, shortly after his return from Egypt. He realized upon quantities of securities, and raised a big sum of ready money, which he disposed of in some way which has always remained a mystery to Mr. Hardacre. In short, within a period of three years or less, from being a wealthy man, he became a poor one.
“Next, he sent Mr. Roger Coverly, his only child, then a mere lad, abroad in care of a tutor; Mr. Hardacre never knew for what reason as there was apparently nothing wrong with the boy’s health! He began to dismiss his servants. The greater part of Friar’s Park was shut up and allowed to fall into decay. Finally, to Mr. Hardacre’s surprise and grief, Sir Burnham mortgaged the property. But it was the terms of the mortgage — which I was privileged to inspect — which aroused my curiosity.
“In brief, the mortgagee agreed, in the event of Sir Burnham’s death, to allow the widow to retain possession of the property for life, whether payments fell in arrears or otherwise!”
“But this—” I exclaimed.
“Is, as a friend of yours once remarked, as mad as ‘Alice in Wonderland’! I agree. But to continue. At the time that this extraordinary agreement was drawn up, Mr. Hardacre went down to Friar’s Park, of course; and he was a witness of several most singular and significant occurrences. For instance, on the evening of his arrival, whilst he was dressing for dinner, Sir Burnham came running to his room and begged of him to lock his door and to remain in his room until his host gave him permission to come out! He was particularly warned against admitting any one who might knock in the interval!”
“Good heavens!” I cried— “and did any one knock?”
“No one; but about half an hour later Sir Burnham came and released him. Mr. Hardacre was unspeakably distressed to observe that Sir Burnham looked white and ill; in fact, in Mr. Hardacre’s own words, five years older! Again, quite by accident, on the same night, he came upon his host kneeling in the chapel — in those days it still boasted a roof — deep in prayer. An atmosphere of indescribable horror, he declared, had settled upon Friar’s Park, and although, as he confessed, he ha
d no evidence to prove the correctness of his theory, he nevertheless traced this to the person of the mortgagee. For it seemed to correspond roughly with the appearance in the neighborhood of this man — whom he now met for the first time.”
Again Gatton paused, taking out his pipe and pouch, and:
“Who was this person?” I asked.
“A certain Dr. Damar Greefe!”
“Good God!” I cried— “where is all this leading us, Gatton?”
“It is leading us slowly to the truth, Mr. Addison, and that truth, when we come to it, is going to be more horrible than we even suspect. Passing over much of Mr. Hardacre’s evidence, I come to the death, in Switzerland, of Mr. Roger Coverly, under circumstances so obscure that I fear we shall never know the particulars. Of one thing, however, I am assured: there was foul play.”
“You mean that Roger Coverly was — murdered?”
“I really don’t doubt it,” replied Gatton, who, having filled his pipe, now lighted it. “I believe he was the first victim.”
“The first victim?”
“Mr. Addison, I agree with the late Sir Burnham’s solicitor, that the spider at the heart of this web is Dr. Damar Greefe. The shock of his son’s premature death led to a collapse from which Sir Burnham never recovered, and Friar’s Park entered upon the final phase during which it was occupied by Lady Burnham who seems to have been wholly under the influence of this Eurasian doctor.”
“But, my dear Gatton!” I cried— “where is Lady Burnham?”
“In my opinion, dead!” he answered solemnly. “Oh, it sounds preposterous, but in the case of this lonely woman who had apparently no living relatives and who was estranged from Sir Marcus and the other members of her husband’s family, it was no very difficult matter to hush up the fact of her death.”
“But, Gatton, you don’t mean that she, too, met with foul play?”
“Most certainly I don’t! It is as clear as day that the whole object of this elaborate secrecy was to hide the fact of her death! She was infinitely more useful alive than dead, Mr. Addison; and they hoped to keep up the solemn farce until—”
