Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  “Has any medical man attended him?”

  “Not that I know of. Oh, there is something uncanny about it all. Whatever should I do if you were not here?”

  She had spoken on impulse, and seeing her swift embarrassment:

  “Miss Beverley,” I said, “I am delighted to know that my company cheers you.”

  Truth to tell my heart was beating rapidly, and, so selfish is the nature of man, I was more glad to learn that my company was acceptable to Val Beverley than I should have been to have had the riddle of Cray’s Folly laid bare before me.

  Those sweetly indiscreet words, however, had raised a momentary barrier between us, and we walked on silently to the house, and entered the brightly lighted hall.

  The silver peal of a Chinese tubular gong rang out just when we reached the veranda, and as Val Beverley and I walked in from the garden, Madame de Stämer came wheeling through the doorway, closely followed by Paul Harley. In her the art of the toilette amounted almost to genius, and she had so successfully concealed all traces of her recent grief that I wondered if this could have been real.

  “My dear Mr. Knox,” she cried, “I seem to be fated always to apologize for other people. The Colonel is truly desolate, but he cannot join us for dinner. I have already explained to Mr. Harley.”

  Harley inclined his head sympathetically, and assisted to arrange Madame in her place.

  “The Colonel requests us to smoke a cigar with him after dinner, Knox,” he said, glancing across to me. “It would seem that troubles never come singly.”

  “Ah,” Madame shrugged her shoulders, which her low gown left daringly bare, “they come in flocks, or not at all. But I suppose we should feel lonely in the world without a few little sorrows, eh, Mr. Harley?”

  I loved her unquenchable spirit, and I have wondered often enough what I should have thought of her if I had known the truth. France has bred some wonderful women, both good and bad, but none I think more wonderful than Marie de Stämer.

  If such a thing were possible, we dined more extravagantly than on the previous night. Madame’s wit was at its keenest; she was truly brilliant. Pedro, from the big bouffet at the end of the room, supervised this feast of Lucullus, and except for odd moments of silence in which Madame seemed to be listening for some distant sound, there was nothing, I think, which could have told a casual observer that a black cloud rested upon the house.

  Once, interrupting a tête-à-tête between Val Beverley and Paul Harley:

  “Do not encourage her, Mr. Harley,” said Madame, “she is a desperate flirt.”

  “Oh, Madame,” cried Val Beverley and blushed deeply.

  “You know you are, my dear, and you are very wise. Flirt all your life, but never fall in love. It is fatal, don’t you think so, Mr. Knox?” — turning to me in her rapid manner.

  I looked into her still eyes, which concealed so much.

  “Say, rather, that it is Fate,” I murmured.

  “Yes, that is more pretty, but not so true. If I could live my life again, M. Knox,” she said, for she sometimes used the French and sometimes the English mode of address, “I should build a stone wall around my heart. It could peep over, but no one could ever reach it.”

  Oddly enough, then, as it seems to me now, the spirit of unrest seemed almost to depart for awhile, and in the company of the vivacious Frenchwoman time passed very quickly up to the moment when Harley and I walked slowly upstairs to join the Colonel.

  During the latter part of dinner an idea had presented itself to me which I was anxious to mention to Harley, and:

  “Harley,” I said, “an explanation of the Colonel’s absence has occurred to me.”

  “Really!” he replied; “possibly the same one that has occurred to me.”

  “What is that?”

  Paul Harley paused on the stairs, turning to me.

  “You are thinking that he has taken cover from the danger which he believes particularly to threaten him to-night?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You may be right,” he murmured, proceeding upstairs.

  He led the way to a little smoke-room which hitherto I had never visited, and in response to his knock:

  “Come in,” cried the high voice of Colonel Menendez.

  We entered to find ourselves in a small and very cosy room. There was a handsome oak bureau against one wall, which was littered with papers of various kinds, and there was also a large bookcase occupied almost exclusively by French novels. It occurred to me that the Colonel spent a greater part of his time in this little snuggery than in the more formal study below. At the moment of our arrival he was stretched upon a settee near which stood a little table; and on this table I observed the remains of what appeared to me to have been a fairly substantial repast. For some reason which I did not pause to analyze at the moment I noted with disfavour the presence of a bowl of roses upon the silver tray.

  Colonel Menendez was smoking a cigarette, and Manoel was in the act of removing the tray.

  “Gentlemen,” said the Colonel, “I have no words in which to express my sorrow. Manoel, pull up those armchairs. Help yourself to port, Mr. Harley, and fill Mr. Knox’s glass. I can recommend the cigars in the long box.”

  As we seated ourselves:

  “I am extremely sorry to find you indisposed, sir,” said Harley.

  He was watching the dark face keenly, and probably thinking, as I was thinking, that it exhibited no trace of illness.

  Colonel Menendez waved his cigarette gracefully, settling himself amid the cushions.

  “An old trouble, Mr. Harley,” he replied, lightly; “a legacy from ancestors who drank too deep of the wine of life.”

  “You are surely taking medical advice?”

  Colonel Menendez shrugged slightly.

  “There is no doctor in England who would understand the case,” he replied. “Besides, there is nothing for it but rest and avoidance of excitement.”

  “In that event, Colonel,” said Harley, “we will not disturb you for long. Indeed, I should not have consented to disturb you at all, if I had not thought that you might have some request to make upon this important night.”

  “Ah!” Colonel Menendez shot a swift glance in his direction. “You have remembered about to-night?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Your interest comforts me very greatly, gentlemen, and I am only sorry that my uncertain health has made me so poor a host. Nothing has occurred since your arrival to help you, I am aware. Not that I am anxious for any new activity on the part of my enemies. But almost anything which should end this deathly suspense would be welcome.”

  He spoke the final words with a peculiar intonation. I saw Harley watching him closely.

  “However,” he continued, “everything is in the hands of Fate, and if your visit should prove futile, I can only apologize for having interrupted your original plans. Respecting to-night” — he shrugged— “what can I say?”

  “Nothing has occurred,” asked Harley, slowly, “nothing fresh, I mean, to indicate that the danger which you apprehend may really culminate to-night?”

  “Nothing fresh, Mr. Harley, unless you yourself have observed anything.”

  “Ah,” murmured Paul Harley, “let us hope that the threat will never be fulfilled.”

  Colonel Menendez inclined his head gravely.

  “Let us hope so,” he said.

  On the whole, he was curiously subdued. He was most solicitous for our comfort and his exquisite courtesy had never been more marked. I often think of him now — his big but graceful figure reclining upon the settee, whilst he skilfully rolled his eternal cigarettes and chatted in that peculiar, light voice. Before the memory of Colonel Don Juan Sarmiento Menendez I sometimes stand appalled. If his Maker had but endowed him with other qualities of mind and heart equal to his magnificent courage, then truly he had been a great man.

  CHAPTER XVII. NIGHT OF THE FULL MOON

  I stood at Harley’s open window — looking down in th
e Tudor garden. The moon, like a silver mirror, hung in a cloudless sky. Over an hour had elapsed since I had heard Pedro making his nightly rounds. Nothing whatever of an unusual nature had occurred, and although Harley and I had listened for any sound of nocturnal footsteps, our vigilance had passed unrewarded. Harley, unrolling the Chinese ladder, had set out upon a secret tour of the grounds, warning me that it must be a long business, since the brilliance of the moonlight rendered it necessary that he should make a wide detour, in order to avoid possible observation from the windows. I had wished to join him, but:

  “I count it most important that one of us should remain in the house,” he had replied.

  As a result, here was I at the open window, questioning the shadows to right and left of me, and every moment expecting to see Harley reappear. I wondered what discoveries he would make. It would not have surprised me to learn that there were lights in many windows of Cray’s Folly to-night.

  Although, when we had rejoined the ladies for half an hour, after leaving Colonel Menendez’s room, there had been no overt reference to the menace overhanging the house, yet, as we separated for the night, I had detected again in Val Beverley’s eyes that look of repressed fear. Indeed, she was palpably disinclined to retire, but was carried off by the masterful Madame, who declared that she looked tired.

  I wondered now, as I gazed down into the moon-bathed gardens, if Harley and I were the only wakeful members of the household at that hour. I should have been prepared to wager that there were others. I thought of the strange footsteps which so often passed Miss Beverley’s room, and I discovered this thought to be an uncomfortable one.

  Normally, I was sceptical enough, but on this night of the full moon as I stood there at the window, the horrors which Colonel Menendez had related to us grew very real in my eyes, and I thought that the mysteries of Voodoo might conceal strange and ghastly truths, “The scientific employment of darkness against light.” Colin Camber’s words leapt unbidden to my mind; and, such is the magic of moonlight, they became invested with a new and a deeper significance. Strange, that theories which one rejects whilst the sun is shining should assume a spectral shape in the light of the moon.

  Such were my musings, when suddenly I heard a faint sound as of footsteps crunching upon gravel. I leaned farther out of the window, listening intently. I could not believe that Harley would be guilty of such an indiscretion as this, yet who else could be walking upon the path below?

  As I watched, craning from the window, a tall figure appeared, and, slowly crossing the gravel path, descended the moss-grown steps to the Tudor garden.

  It was Colonel Menendez!

  He was bare-headed, but fully dressed as I had seen him in the smoking-room; and not yet grasping the portent of his appearance at that hour, but merely wondering why he had not yet retired, I continued to watch him. As I did so, something in his gait, something unnatural in his movements, caught hold of my mind with a sudden great conviction. He had reached the path which led to the sun-dial, and with short, queer, ataxic steps was proceeding in its direction, a striking figure in the brilliant moonlight which touched his gray hair with a silvery sheen.

  His unnatural, automatic movements told their own story. He was walking in his sleep! Could it be in obedience to the call of M’kombo?

  My throat grew dry and I knew not how to act. Unwillingly it seemed, with ever-halting steps, the figure moved onward. I could see that his fists were tightly clenched and that he held his head rigidly upright. All horrors, real and imaginary, which I had ever experienced, culminated in the moment when I saw this man of inflexible character, I could have sworn of indomitable will, moving like a puppet under the influence of some unnameable force.

  He was almost come to the sun-dial when I determined to cry out. Then, remembering the shock experienced by a suddenly awakened somnambulist, and remembering that the Chinese ladder hung from the window at my feet, I changed my mind. Checking the cry upon my lips, I got astride of the window ledge, and began to grope for the bamboo rungs beneath me. I had found the first of these, and, turning, had begun to descend, when:

  “Knox! Knox!” came softly from the opening in the box hedge, “what the devil are you about?”

  It was Paul Harley returned from his tour of the building.

  “Harley!” I whispered, descending, “quick! the Colonel has just gone into the Tudor garden!”

  “What!” There was a note of absolute horror in the exclamation. “You should have stopped him, Knox, you should have stopped him!” cried Harley, and with that he ran off in the same direction.

  Disentangling my foot from the rungs of the ladder which lay upon the ground, I was about to follow, when it happened — that strange and ghastly thing toward which, secretly, darkly, events had been tending.

  The crack of a rifle sounded sharply in the stillness, echoing and re-echoing from wing to wing of Cray’s Folly and then, more dimly, up the wooded slopes beyond! Somewhere ahead of me I heard Harley cry out:

  “My God, I am too late! They have got him!”

  Then, hotfoot, I was making for the entrance to the garden. Just as I came to it and raced down the steps I heard another sound the memory of which haunts me to this day.

  Where it came from I had no idea. Perhaps I was too confused to judge accurately. It might have come from the house, or from the slopes beyond the house, But it was a sort of shrill, choking laugh, and it set the ultimate touch of horror upon a scène macabre which, even as I write of it, seems unreal to me.

  I ran up the path to where Harley was kneeling beside the sun-dial. Analysis of my emotions at this moment were futile; I can only say that I had come to a state of stupefaction. Face downward on the grass, arms outstretched and fists clenched, lay Colonel Menendez. I think I saw him move convulsively, but as I gained his side Harley looked up at me, and beneath the tan which he never lost his face had grown pale. He spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Merciful God,” he said, “he is shot through the head.”

  One glance I gave at the ghastly wound in the base of the Colonel’s skull, and then swayed backward in a sort of nausea. To see a man die in the heat of battle, a man one has known and called friend, is strange and terrible. Here in this moon-bathed Tudor garden it was a horror almost beyond my powers to endure.

  Paul Harley, without touching the prone figure, stood up. Indeed no examination of the victim was necessary. A rifle bullet had pierced his brain, and he lay there dead with his head toward the hills.

  I clutched at Harley’s shoulder, but he stood rigidly, staring up the slope past the angle of the tower, to where a gable of the Guest House jutted out from the trees.

  “Did you hear — that cry?” I whispered, “immediately after the shot?”

  “I heard it.”

  A moment longer he stood fixedly watching, and then:

  “Not a wisp of smoke,” he said. “You note the direction in which he was facing when he fell?”

  He spoke in a stern and unnatural voice.

  “I do. He must have turned half right when he came to the sun-dial.”

  “Where were you when the shot was fired?”

  “Running in this direction.”

  “You saw no flash?”

  “None.”

  “Neither did I,” groaned Harley; “neither did I. And short of throwing a cordon round the hills what can be done? How can I move?”

  He had somewhat relaxed, but now as I continued to clutch his arm, I felt the muscles grow rigid again.

  “Look, Knox!” he whispered— “look!”

  I followed the direction of his fixed stare, and through the trees on the hillside a dim light shone out. Someone had lighted a lamp in the Guest House.

  A faint, sibilant sound drew my glance upward, and there overhead a bat circled — circled — dipped — and flew off toward the distant woods. So still was the night that I could distinguish the babble of the little stream which ran down into the lake. Then, suddenly, came a loud flap
ping of wings. The swans had been awakened by the sound of the shot. Others had been awakened, too, for now distant voices became audible, and then a muffled scream from somewhere within Cray’s Folly.

  “Back to the house, Knox,” said Harley, hoarsely. “For God’s sake keep the women away. Get Pedro, and send Manoel for the nearest doctor. It’s useless but usual. Let no one deface his footprints. My worst anticipations have come true. The local police must be informed.”

  Throughout the time that he spoke he continued to search the moon-bathed landscape with feverish eagerness, but except for a faint movement of birds in the trees, for they, like the swans on the lake, had been alarmed by the shot, nothing stirred.

  “It came from the hillside,” he muttered. “Off you go, Knox.”

  And even as I started on my unpleasant errand, he had set out running toward the gate in the southern corner of the garden.

  For my part I scrambled unceremoniously up the bank, and emerged where the yews stood sentinel beside the path. I ran through the gap in the box hedge just as the main doors were thrown open by Pedro.

  He started back as he saw me.

  “Pedro! Pedro!” I cried, “have the ladies been awakened?”

  “Yes, yes! there is terrible trouble, sir. What has happened? What has happened?”

  “A tragedy,” I said, shortly. “Pull yourself together. Where is Madame de Stämer?”

  Pedro uttered some exclamation in Spanish and stood, pale-faced, swaying before me, a dishevelled figure in a dressing gown. And now in the background Mrs. Fisher appeared. One frightened glance she cast in my direction, and would have hurried across the hall but I intercepted her.

  “Where are you going, Mrs. Fisher?” I demanded. “What has happened here?”

  “To Madame, to Madame,” she sobbed, pointing toward the corridor which communicated with Madame de Stämer’s bedchamber.

  I heard a frightened cry proceeding from that direction, and recognized the voice of Nita, the girl who acted as Madame’s maid. Then I heard Val Beverley.

  “Go and fetch Mrs. Fisher, Nita, at once — and try to behave yourself. I have trouble enough.”