by Sax Rohmer
“Not that he has confided to me,” I said, watching her intently. “But tell me, does Madame de Stämer know yet?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean has she been told the truth?”
The girl shook her head.
“No,” she replied; “I am positive that no one has told her. I was with her all the time, up to the very moment that she fell asleep. Yet—”
She hesitated.
“Yes?”
“She knows! Oh, Mr. Knox! to me that is the most horrible thing of all: that she knows, that she must have known all along — that the mere sound of the shot told her everything!”
“You realize, now,” I said, quietly, “that she had anticipated the end?”
“Yes, yes. This was the meaning of the sorrow which I had seen so often in her eyes, the meaning of so much that puzzled me in her words, the explanation of lots of little things which have made me wonder in the past.”
I was silent for a while, then:
“If she was so certain that no one could save him,” I said, “she must have had information which neither he nor she ever imparted to us.”
“I am sure she had,” declared Val Beverley.
“But can you think of any reason why she should not have confided in Paul Harley?”
“I cannot, I cannot — unless—”
“Yes?”
“Unless, Mr. Knox,” she looked at me strangely, “they were both under some vow of silence. Oh! it sounds ridiculous, wildly ridiculous, but what other explanation can there be?”
“What other, indeed? And now, Miss Beverley, I know one of the questions Inspector Aylesbury will ask you.”
“What is it?”
“He has learned, from one of the servants I presume, as he did not see you, that you had not retired last night at the time of the tragedy.”
“I had not,” said Val Beverley, quietly. “Is that so singular?”
“To me it is no more than natural.”
“I have never been so frightened in all my life as I was last night. Sleep was utterly out of the question. There was mystery in the very air. I knew, oh, Mr. Knox, in some way I knew that a tragedy was going to happen.”
“I believe I knew, too,” I said. “Good God, to think that we might have saved him!”
“Do you think—” began Val Beverley, and then paused.
“Yes?” I prompted.
“Oh, I was going to say a strange thing that suddenly occurred to me, but it is utterly foolish, I suppose. Inspector Aylesbury is coming back at nine o’clock, is he not?”
“At half-past eight, so I understand.”
“I am afraid I have very little to tell him. I was sitting in my room in an appalling state of nerves when the shot was fired. I was not even reading; I was just waiting, waiting, for something to happen.”
“I understand. My own experience was nearly identical.”
“Then,” continued the girl, “as I unlocked my door and peeped out, feeling too frightened to venture farther in the darkness, I heard Madame’s voice in the hall below.”
“Crying for help?”
“No,” replied the girl, a puzzled frown appearing between her brows. “She cried out something in French. The intonation told me that it was French, although I could not detect a single word. Then I thought I heard a moan.”
“And you ran down?”
“Yes. I summoned up enough courage to turn on the light in the corridor and to run down to the hall. And there she was lying just outside the door of her room.”
“Was her room in darkness?”
“Yes. I turned on the light and succeeded in partly raising her, but she was too heavy for me to lift. I was still trying to revive her when Pedro opened the door of the servants’ quarters. Oh,” she closed her eyes wearily, “I shall never forget it.”
I took her hand and pressed it reassuringly.
“Your courage has been wonderful throughout,” I declared, “and I hope it will remain so to the end.”
She smiled, and flushed slightly, as I released her hand again.
“I must go and take a peep at Madame now,” she said, “but of course I shall not disturb her if she is still sleeping.”
We turned and walked slowly back to the hall, and there just entering from the courtyard was Inspector Aylesbury.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “good morning, Mr. Knox. This is Miss Beverley, I presume?”
“Yes, Inspector,” replied the girl. “I understand that you wish to speak to me?”
“I do, Miss, but I shall not detain you for many minutes.”
“Very well,” she said, and as she turned and retraced her steps, he followed her back into the library.
I walked out to the courtyard, and avoiding the Tudor garden and the billiard room, turned in the other direction, passing the stables where Jim, the negro groom, saluted me very sadly, and proceeded round to the south side of the house.
Inspector Aylesbury, I perceived, had wasted no time. I counted no fewer than four men, two of them in uniform, searching the lawns and the slopes beyond, although what they were looking for I could not imagine.
Giving the library a wide berth, I walked along the second terrace, and presently came in sight of the east wing and the tower. There, apparently engaged in studying the rhododendrons, I saw Paul Harley.
He signalled to me, and, crossing the lawn, I joined him where he stood.
Without any word of greeting:
“You see, Knox,” he said, speaking in the eager manner which betokened a rapidly working brain, “this is the path which the Colonel must have followed last night. Yonder is the door by which, according to his own account, he came out on a previous occasion, walking in his sleep. Do you remember?”
“I remember,” I replied.
“Well, Pedro found it unlocked this morning. You see it faces practically due south, and the Colonel’s bedroom is immediately above us where we stand.” He stared at me queerly. “I must have passed this door last night only a few moments before the Colonel came out, for I was just crossing the courtyard and could see you at my window at the moment when you saw poor Menendez enter the Tudor garden. He must have actually been walking around the east wing at the same time that I was walking around the west. Now, I am going to show you something, Knox, something which I have just discovered.”
From his waistcoat pocket he took out a half-smoked cigarette. I stared at it uncomprehendingly.
“Of course,” he continued, “the weather has been bone dry for more than a week now, and it may have lain there for a long time, but to me, Knox, to me it looks suspiciously fresh.”
“What is the point?” I asked, perplexedly.
“The point is that it is a hand-made cigarette, one of the Colonel’s. Don’t you recognize it?”
“Good heavens!” I said; “yes, of course it is.”
He returned it to his pocket without another word.
“It may mean nothing,” he murmured, “or it may mean everything. And now, Knox, we are going to escape.”
“To escape?” I cried.
“Precisely. We are going to anticipate the probable movements of our blundering Aylesbury. In short, I wish you to present me to Mr. Colin Camber.”
“What?” I exclaimed, staring at him incredulously.
“I am going to ask you,” he began, and then, breaking off: “Quick, Knox, run!” he said.
And thereupon, to my amazement, he set off through the rhododendron bushes in the direction of the tower!
Utterly unable to grasp the meaning of his behaviour, I followed, nevertheless, and as we rounded the corner of the tower Harley pulled up short, and:
“I am not mad,” he explained rather breathlessly, “but I wanted to avoid being seen by that constable who is prowling about at the bottom of the lawn making signals in the direction of the library. Presumably he is replying to Inspector Aylesbury who wants to talk to us. I am determined to interview Camber before submitting to further of
ficial interrogation. It must be a cross-country journey, Knox. I am afraid we shall be a very muddy pair, but great issues may hang upon the success of our expedition.”
He set off briskly toward a belt of shrubbery which marked the edge of the little stream. Appreciating something of his intentions, I followed his lead unquestioningly; and, scrambling through the bushes:
“This was the point at which I descended last night,” he said. “You will have to wade, Knox, but the water is hardly above one’s ankles.”
He dropped into the brook, waded across, and began to climb up the opposite bank. I imitated his movements, and presently, having scrambled up on the farther side, we found ourselves standing on a narrow bank immediately under that summer house which Colin Camber had told me he had formerly used as a study.
“We can scarcely present ourselves at the kitchen door,” murmured Harley; “therefore we must try to find a way round to the front. There is barbed wire here. Be careful.”
I had now entered with zest into the business, and so the pair of us waded through rank grass which in places was waist high, and on through a perfect wilderness of weeds in which nettles dominated. Presently we came to a dry ditch, which we negotiated successfully, to find ourselves upon the high road some hundred yards to the west of the Guest House.
“I predict an unfriendly reception,” I said, panting from my exertions, and surveying my friend, who was a mockery of his ordinarily spruce self.
“We must face it,” he replied, grimly. “He has everything to gain by being civil to us.”
We proceeded along the dusty high road, almost overarched by trees.
“Harley,” I said, “this is going to be a highly unpleasant ordeal for me.”
Harley stopped short, staring at me sternly.
“I know, Knox,” he replied; “but I suppose you realize that a man’s life is at stake.”
“You mean — ?”
“I mean that when we are both compelled to tell all we know, I doubt if there is a counsel in the land who would undertake the defence of Mr. Colin Camber.”
“Good God! then you think he is guilty?”
“Did I say so?” asked Harley, continuing on his way. “I don’t recollect saying so, Knox; but I do say that it will be a giant’s task to prove him innocent.”
“Then you believe him to be innocent?” I cried, eagerly.
“My dear fellow,” he replied, somewhat irritably, “I have not yet met Mr. Colin Camber. I will answer your question at the conclusion of the interview.”
CHAPTER XXI. THE WING OF A BAT
For a long time our knocking and ringing elicited no response. The brilliant state of the door-brass afforded evidence of the fact that Ah Tsong had arisen, even if the other members of the household were still sleeping, and Harley, growing irritable, executed a loud tattoo upon the knocker. This had its effect. The door opened and Ah Tsong looked out.
“Tell your master that Mr. Paul Harley has called to see him upon urgent business.”
“Master no got,” replied Ah Tsong, and proceeded to close the door.
Paul Harley thrust his hand against it and addressed the man rapidly in Chinese. I could not have supposed the face of Ah Tsong capable of expressing so much animation. At the sound of his native tongue his eyes lighted up, and:
“Tchée, tchée,” he said, turned, and disappeared.
Although he had studiously avoided looking at me, that Ah Tsong would inform his master of the identity of his second visitor I did not doubt. If I had doubted I should promptly have been disillusioned, for:
“Tell them to go away!” came a muffled cry from somewhere within. “No spy of Devil Menendez shall ever pass my doors again!”
The Chinaman, on retiring, had left the door wide open, and I could see right to the end of the gloomy hall. Ah Tsong presently re-appeared, shuffling along in our direction. Unemotionally:
“Master no got,” he repeated.
Paul Harley stamped his foot irritably.
“Good God, Knox,” he said, “this unreasonable fool almost exhausts my patience.”
Again he addressed Ah Tsong in Chinese, and although the man’s wrinkled ivory face exhibited no trace of emotion, a deep understanding was to be read in those oblique eyes; and a second time Ah Tsong turned and trotted back to the study. I could hear a muttered colloquy in progress, and suddenly the gaunt figure of Colin Camber burst into view.
He was shaved this morning, but arrayed as I had last seen him. Whilst he was not in that state of incoherent anger which I remembered and still resented, he was nevertheless in an evil temper.
He strode along the hallway, his large eyes widely opened, and fixing a cold stare upon the face of Harley.
“I learn that your name is Mr. Paul Harley,” he said, entirely ignoring my presence, “and you send me a very strange message. I am used to the ways of Señor Menendez, therefore your message does not deceive me. The gateway, sir, is directly behind you.”
Harley clenched his teeth, then:
“The scaffold, Mr. Camber,” he replied, “is directly in front of you.”
“What do you mean, sir?” demanded the other, and despite my resentment of the treatment which I had received at his hands, I could only admire the lofty disdain of his manner.
“I mean, Mr. Camber, that the police are close upon my heels.”
“The police? Of what interest can this be to me?”
Harley’s keen eyes were searching the pale face of the man before him.
“Mr. Camber,” he said, “the shot was a good one.”
Not a muscle of Colin Camber’s face moved, but slowly he looked Paul Harley up and down, then:
“I have been called a hasty man,” he replied, coldly, “but I can scarcely be accused of leaping to a conclusion when I say that I believe you to be mad. You have interrupted me, sir. Good morning.”
He stepped back, and would have closed the door, but:
“Mr. Camber,” said Paul Harley, and the tone of his voice was arresting.
Colin Camber paused.
“My name is evidently unfamiliar to you,” Harley continued. “You regard myself and Mr. Knox as friends of the late Colonel Menendez—”
At that Colin Camber started forward.
“The late Colonel Menendez?” he echoed, speaking almost in a whisper.
But as if he had not heard him Harley continued:
“As a matter of fact, I am a criminal investigator, and Mr. Knox is assisting me in my present case.”
Colin Camber clenched his hands and seemed to be fighting with some emotion which possessed him, then:
“Do you mean,” he said, hoarsely— “do you mean that Menendez is — dead?”
“I do,” replied Harley. “May I request the privilege of ten minutes’ private conversation with you?”
Colin Camber stood aside, holding the door open, and inclining his head in that grave salutation which I knew, but on this occasion, I think, principally with intent to hide his emotion.
Not another word did he speak until the three of us stood in the strange study where East grimaced at West, and emblems of remote devil-worship jostled the cross of the Holy Rose. The place was laden with tobacco smoke, and scattered on the carpet about the feet of the writing table lay twenty or more pages of closely written manuscript. Although this was a brilliant summer’s morning, an old-fashioned reading lamp, called, I believe, a Victoria, having a nickel receptacle for oil at one side of the standard and a burner with a green glass shade upon the other, still shed its light upon the desk. It was only reasonable to suppose that Colin Camber had been at work all night.
He placed chairs for us, clearing them of the open volumes which they bore, and, seating himself at the desk:
“Mr. Knox,” he began, slowly, paused, and then stood up, “I accused you of something when you last visited my house, something of which I would not lightly accuse any man. If I was wrong, I wish to apologize.”
“Only a matter of the
utmost urgency could have induced me to cross your threshold again,” I replied, coldly. “Your behaviour, sir, was inexcusable.”
He rested his long white hands upon the desk, looking across at me.
“Whatever I did and whatever I said,” he continued, “one insult I laid upon you more deadly than the rest: I accused you of friendship with Juan Menendez. Was I unjust?”
He paused for a moment.
“I had been retained professionally by Colonel Menendez,” replied Harley without hesitation, “and Mr. Knox kindly consented to accompany me.”
Colin Camber looked very hard at the speaker, and then equally hard at me.
“Was it at behest of Colonel Menendez that you called upon me, Mr. Knox?”
“It was not,” said Harley, tersely; “it was at mine. And he is here now at my request. Come, sir, we are wasting time. At any moment—”
Colin Camber held up his hand, interrupting him.
“By your leave, Mr. Harley,” he said, and there was something compelling in voice and gesture, “I must first perform my duty as a gentleman.”
He stepped forward in my direction.
“Mr. Knox, I have grossly insulted you. Yet if you knew what had inspired my behaviour I believe you could find it in your heart to forgive me. I do not ask you to do so, however; I accept the humiliation of knowing that I have mortally offended a guest.”
He bowed to me formally, and would have returned to his seat, but:
“Pray say no more,” I said, standing up and extending my hand. Indeed, so impressive was the man’s strange personality that I felt rather as one receiving a royal pardon than as an offended party being offered an apology. “It was a misunderstanding. Let us forget it.”
His eyes gleamed, and he seized my hand in a warm grip.
“You are generous, Mr. Knox, you are generous. And now, sir,” he inclined his head in Paul Harley’s direction, and resumed his seat.
Harley had suffered this odd little interlude in silence but now:
“Mr. Camber,” he said, rapidly, “I sent you a message by your Chinese servant to the effect that the police would be here within ten minutes to arrest you.”
