Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  CHAPTER XXVIII. MY THEORY OF THE CRIME

  The afternoon was well advanced before Paul Harley returned.

  So deep was my conviction that I had hit upon the truth, and so well did my theory stand every test which I could apply to it, that I felt disinclined for conversation with any one concerned in the tragedy until I should have submitted the matter to the keen analysis of Harley. Upon the sorrow of Madame de Stämer I naturally did not intrude, nor did I seek to learn if she had carried out her project of looking upon the dead man.

  About mid-day the body was removed, after which an oppressive and awesome stillness seemed to descend upon Cray’s Folly.

  Inspector Aylesbury had not returned from his investigations at the Guest House, and learning that Miss Beverley was remaining with Madame de Stämer, I declined to face the ordeal of a solitary luncheon in the dining room, and merely ate a few sandwiches, walking over to the Lavender Arms for a glass of Mrs. Wootton’s excellent ale.

  Here I found the bar-parlour full of local customers, and although a heated discussion was in progress as I opened the door, silence fell upon my appearance. Mrs. Wootton greeted me sadly.

  “Ah, sir,” she said, as she placed a mug before me; “of course you’ve heard?”

  “I have, madam,” I replied, perceiving that she did not know me to be a guest at Cray’s Folly.

  “Well, well!” She shook her head. “It had to come, with all these foreign folk about.”

  She retired to some sanctum at the rear of the bar, and I drank my beer amid one of those silences which sometimes descend upon such a gathering when a stranger appears in its midst. Not until I moved to depart was this silence broken, then:

  “Ah, well,” said an old fellow, evidently a farm-hand, “we know now why he was priming of hisself with the drink, we do.”

  “Aye!” came a growling chorus.

  I came out of the Lavender Arms full of a knowledge that so far as Mid-Hatton was concerned, Colin Camber was already found guilty.

  I had hoped to see something of Val Beverley on my return, but she remained closeted with Madame de Stämer, and I was left in loneliness to pursue my own reflections, and to perfect that theory which had presented itself to my mind.

  In Harley’s absence I had taken it upon myself to give an order to Pedro to the effect that no reporters were to be admitted; and in this I had done well. So quickly does evil news fly that, between mid-day and the hour of Harley’s return, no fewer than five reporters, I believe, presented themselves at Cray’s Folly. Some of the more persistent continued to haunt the neighbourhood, and I had withdrawn to the deserted library, in order to avoid observation, when I heard a car draw up in the courtyard, and a moment later heard Harley asking for me.

  I hurried out to meet him, and as I appeared at the door of the library:

  “Hullo, Knox,” he called, running up the steps. “Any developments?”

  “No actual development?” I replied, “except that several members of the Press have been here.”

  “You told them nothing?” he asked, eagerly.

  “No; they were not admitted.”

  “Good, good,” he muttered.

  “I had expected you long before this, Harley.”

  “Naturally,” he said, with a sort of irritation. “I have been all the way to Whitehall and back.”

  “To Whitehall! What, you have been to London?”

  “I had half anticipated it, Knox. The Chief Constable, although quite a decent fellow, is a stickler for routine. On the strength of those facts which I thought fit to place before him he could see no reason for superseding Aylesbury. Accordingly, without further waste of time, I headed straight for Whitehall. You may remember a somewhat elaborate report which I completed upon the eve of our departure from Chancery Lane?”

  I nodded.

  “A very thankless job for the Home Office, Knox. But I received my reward to-day. Inspector Wessex has been placed in charge of the case and I hope he will be down here within the hour. Pending his arrival I am tied hand and foot.”

  We had walked into the library, and, stopping, suddenly, Harley stared me very hard in the face.

  “You are bottling something up, Knox,” he declared. “Out with it. Has Aylesbury distinguished himself again?”

  “No,” I replied; “on the contrary. He interviewed Madame de Stämer, and came out with a flea in his ear.”

  “Good,” said Harley, smiling. “A clever woman, and a woman of spirit, Knox.”

  “You are right,” I replied, “and you are also right in supposing that I have a communication to make to you.”

  “Ah, I thought so. What is it?”

  “It is a theory, Harley, which appears to me to cover the facts of the case.”

  “Indeed?” said he, continuing to stare at me. “And what inspired it?”

  “I was staring up at the window of the smoke-room to-day, and I remembered the shadow which you had seen upon the blind.”

  “Yes?” he cried, eagerly; “and does your theory explain that, too?”

  “It does, Harley.”

  “Then I am all anxiety to hear it.”

  “Very well, then, I will endeavour to be brief. Do you recollect Miss Beverley’s story of the unfamiliar footsteps which passed her door on several occasions?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “You recollect that you, yourself, heard someone crossing the hall, and that both of us heard a door close?”

  “We did.”

  “And finally you saw the shadow of a woman upon the blind of the Colonel’s private study. Very well. Excluding the preposterous theory of Inspector Aylesbury, there is no woman in Cray’s Folly whose footsteps could possibly have been heard in that corridor, and whose shadow could possibly have been seen upon the blind of Colonel Menendez’s room.”

  “I agree,” said Harley, quietly. “I have definitely eliminated all the servants from the case. Therefore, proceed, Knox, I am all attention.”

  “I will do so. There is a door on the south side of the house, close to the tower and opening into the rhododendron shrubbery. This was the door used by Colonel Menendez in his somnambulistic rambles, according to his own account. Now, assuming his statement to have been untrue in one particular, that is, assuming he was not walking in his sleep, but was fully awake—”

  “Eh?” exclaimed Harley, his expression undergoing a subtle change. “Do you think his statement was untrue?”

  “According to my theory, Harley, his statement was untrue, in this particular, at least. But to proceed: Might he not have employed this door to admit a nocturnal visitor?”

  “It is feasible,” muttered Harley, watching me closely.

  “For the Colonel to descend to this side door when the household was sleeping,” I continued, “and to admit a woman secretly to Cray’s Folly, would have been a simple matter. Indeed, on the occasions of these visits he might even have unbolted the door himself after Pedro had bolted it, in order to enable her to enter without his descending for the purpose of admitting her.”

  “By heavens! Knox,” said Harley, “I believe you have it!”

  His eyes were gleaming excitedly, and I proceeded:

  “Hence the footsteps which passed Miss Beverley’s door, hence the shadow which you saw upon the blind; and the sounds which you detected in the hall were caused, of course, by this woman retiring. It was the door leading into the shrubbery which we heard being closed!”

  “Continue,” said Harley; “although I can plainly see to what this is leading.”

  “You can see, Harley?” I cried; “of course you can see! The enmity between Camber and Menendez is understandable at last.”

  “You mean that Menendez was Mrs. Camber’s lover?”

  “Don’t you agree with me?”

  “It is feasible, Knox, dreadfully feasible. But go on.”

  “My theory also explains Colin Camber’s lapse from sobriety. It is legitimate to suppose that his wife, who was a Cuban, had been intim
ate with Menendez before her meeting with Camber. Perhaps she had broken the tie at the time of her marriage, but this is mere supposition. Then, her old lover, his infatuation by no means abated, leases the property adjoining that of his successful rival.”

  “Knox!” exclaimed Paul Harley, “this is brilliant. I am all impatience for the dénouement.”

  “It is coming,” I said, triumphantly. “Relations are reëstablished, clandestinely. Colin Camber learns of these. A passionate quarrel ensues, resulting in a long drinking bout designed to drown his sorrows. His love for his wife is so great that he has forgiven her this infidelity. Accordingly, she has promised to see her lover no more. Hers was the figure which you saw outlined upon the blind on the night before the tragedy, Harley! The gestures, which you described as those of despair, furnish evidence to confirm my theory. It was a final meeting!”

  “Hm,” muttered Harley. “It would be taking big chances, because we have to suppose, Knox, that these visits to Cray’s Folly were made whilst her husband was at work in the study. If he had suddenly decided to turn in, all would have been discovered.”

  “True,” I agreed, “but is it impossible?”

  “No, not a bit. Women are dreadful gamblers. But continue, Knox.”

  “Very well. Colonel Menendez has refused to accept his dismissal, and Mrs. Camber had been compelled to promise, without necessarily intending to carry out the promise, that she would see him again on the following night. She failed to come; whereupon he, growing impatient, walked out into the grounds of Cray’s Folly to look for her. She may even have intended to come and have been intercepted by her husband. But in any event, the latter, seeing the man who had wronged him, standing out there in the moonlight, found temptation to be too strong. On the whole, I favour the idea that he had intercepted his wife, and snatching up a rifle, had actually gone out into the garden with the intention of shooting Menendez.”

  “I see,” murmured Harley in a low voice. “This hypothesis, Knox, does not embrace the Bat Wing episodes.”

  “If Menendez has lied upon one point,” I returned, “it is permissible to suppose that his entire story was merely a tissue of falsehood.”

  “I see. But why did he bring me to Cray’s Folly?”

  “Don’t you understand, Harley?” I cried, excitedly. “He really feared for his life, since he knew that Camber had discovered the intrigue.”

  Paul Harley heaved a long sigh.

  “I must congratulate you, Knox,” he said, gravely, “upon a really splendid contribution to my case. In several particulars I find myself nearer to the truth. But the definite establishment or shattering of your theory rests upon one thing.”

  “What’s that?” I asked. “You are surely not thinking of the bat wing nailed upon the door?”

  “Not at all,” he replied. “I am thinking of the seventh yew tree from the northeast corner of the Tudor garden.”

  CHAPTER XXIX. A LEE-ENFIELD RIFLE

  What reply I should have offered to this astonishing remark I cannot say, but at that moment the library door burst open unceremoniously, and outlined against the warmly illuminated hall, where sunlight poured down through the dome, I beheld the figure of Inspector Aylesbury.

  “Ah!” he cried, loudly, “so you have come back, Mr. Harley? I thought you had thrown up the case.”

  “Did you?” said Harley, smilingly. “No, I am still persevering in my ineffectual way.”

  “Oh, I see. And have you quite convinced yourself that Colin Camber is innocent?”

  “In one or two particulars my evidence remains incomplete.”

  “Oh, in one or two particulars, eh? But generally speaking you don’t doubt his innocence?”

  “I don’t doubt it for a moment.”

  Harley’s words surprised me. I recognized, of course, that he might merely be bluffing the Inspector, but it was totally alien to his character to score a rhetorical success at the expense of what he knew to be the truth; and so sure was I of the accuracy of my deductions that I no longer doubted Colin Camber to be the guilty man.

  “At any rate,” continued the Inspector, “he is in detention, and likely to remain there. If you are going to defend him at the Assizes, I don’t envy you your job, Mr. Harley.”

  He was blatantly triumphant, so that the fact was evident enough that he had obtained some further piece of evidence which he regarded as conclusive.

  “I have detained the man Ah Tsong as well,” he went on. “He was an accomplice of your innocent friend, Mr. Harley.”

  “Was he really?” murmured Harley.

  “Finally,” continued the Inspector, “I have only to satisfy myself regarding the person who lured Colonel Menendez out into the grounds last night, to have my case complete.”

  I turned aside, unable to trust myself, but Harley remarked quite coolly:

  “Your industry is admirable, Inspector Aylesbury, but I seem to perceive that you have made a very important discovery of some kind.”

  “Ah, you have got wind of it, have you?”

  “I have no information on the point,” replied Harley, “but your manner urges me to suggest that perhaps success has crowned your efforts?”

  “It has,” replied the Inspector. “I am a man that doesn’t do things by halves. I didn’t content myself with just staring out of the window of that little hut in the grounds of the Guest House, like you did, Mr. Harley, and saying ‘twice one are two’ — I looked at every book on the shelves, and at every page of those books.”

  “You must have materially added to your information?”

  “Ah, very likely, but my enquiries didn’t stop there. I had the floor up.”

  “The floor of the hut?”

  “The floor of the hut, sir. The planks were quite loose. I had satisfied myself that it was a likely hiding place.”

  “What did you find there, a dead rat?”

  Inspector Aylesbury turned, and:

  “Sergeant Butler,” he called.

  The sergeant came forward from the hall, carrying a cricket bag. This Inspector Aylesbury took from him, placing it upon the floor of the library at his feet.

  “New, sir,” said he, “I borrowed this bag in which to bring the evidence away — the hanging evidence which I discovered beneath the floor of the hut.”

  I had turned again, when the man had referred to his discovery; and now, glancing at Harley, I saw that his face had grown suddenly very stern.

  “Show me your evidence, Inspector?” he asked, shortly.

  “There can be no objection,” returned the Inspector.

  Opening the bag, he took out a rifle!

  Paul Harley’s hands were thrust in his coat pockets, By the movement of the cloth I could see that he had clenched his fists. Here was confirmation of my theory!

  “A Service rifle,” said the Inspector, triumphantly, holding up the weapon. “A Lee-Enfield charger-loader. It contains four cartridges, three undischarged, and one discharged. He had not even troubled to eject it.”

  The Inspector dropped the weapon into the bag with a dramatic movement.

  “Fancy theories about bat wings and Voodoos,” he said, scornfully, “may satisfy you, Mr. Harley, but I think this rifle will prove more satisfactory to the Coroner.”

  He picked up the bag and walked out of the library.

  Harley stood posed in a curiously rigid way, looking after him. Even when the door had closed he did not change his position at once. Then, turning slowly, he walked to an armchair and sat down.

  “Harley,” I said, hesitatingly, “has this discovery surprised you?”

  “Surprised me?” he returned in a low voice. “It has appalled me.”

  “Then, although you seemed to regard my theory as sound,” I continued rather resentfully, “all the time you continued to believe Colin Camber to be innocent?”

  “I believe so still.”

  “What?”

  “I thought we had determined, Knox,” he said, wearily, “that a man of Ca
mber’s genius, having decided upon murder, must have arranged for an unassailable alibi. Very well. Are we now to leap to the other end of the scale, and to credit him with such utter stupidity as to place hanging evidence where it could not fail to be discovered by the most idiotic policeman? Preserve your balance, Knox. Theories are wild horses. They run away with us. I know that of old, for which very reason I always avoid speculation until I have a solid foundation of fact upon which to erect it.”

  “But, my dear fellow,” I cried, “was Camber to foresee that the floor of the hut would be taken up?”

  Harley sighed, and leaned back in his chair.

  “Do you recollect your first meeting with this man, Knox?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “What occurred?”

  “He was slightly drunk.”

  “Yes, but what was the nature of his conversation?”

  “He suggested that I had recognized his resemblance to Edgar Allan Poe.”

  “Quite. What had led him to make this suggestion?”

  “The manner in which I had looked at him, I suppose.”

  “Exactly. Although not quite sober, from a mere glance he was able to detect what you were thinking. Do you wish me to believe, Knox, that this same man had not foreseen what the police would think when Colonel Menendez was found shot within a hundred yards of the garden of the Guest House?”

  I was somewhat taken aback, for Harley’s argument was strictly logical, and:

  “It is certainly very puzzling,” I admitted.

  “Puzzling!” he exclaimed; “it is maddening. This case is like a Syrian village-mound. Stratum lies under stratum, and in each we meet with evidence of more refined activity than in the last. It seems we have yet to go deeper.”

  He took out his pipe and began to fill it.

  “Tell me about the interview with Madame de Stämer,” he directed.

  I took a seat facing him, and he did not once interrupt me throughout my account of Inspector Aylesbury’s examination of Madame.

  “Good,” he commented, when I had told how the Inspector was dismissed. “But at least, Knox, he has a working theory, to which he sticks like an express to the main line, whereas I find myself constantly called upon to readjust my perspective. Directly I can enjoy freedom of movement, however, I shall know whether my hypothesis is a house of cards or a serviceable structure.”