by Otto Penzler
As they drove down through the night they talked little. Philip drowsed and Bellamy’s mind was busy. His preliminary conclusion was that Philip was neither mad nor going mad, but that he was not normal. He had always been very sensitive and highly strung, reacting too quickly and deeply to emotional stresses—and this living alone and eating nothing—the worst thing for him.
And this Clinton. He had the reputation of being an evil man of power, and such persons’ hypnotic influence was absurdly underrated. He’d get on his track.
“When does Clinton get back to England?” he asked.
“If he kept to his plans he’ll be back about now,” said Philip sleepily.
“What are his haunts?”
“He lives near the British Museum in rooms, but he’s usually to be found at the Chorazin Club after six o’clock. It’s in Larn Street, just off Shaftesbury Avenue. A funny place with some funny members.”
Bellamy made a note of this.
“Does he know you know me?”
“No, I think not, there’s no reason why he should.”
“So much the better,” said Bellamy.
“Why?” asked Philip.
“Because I’m going to cultivate his acquaintance.”
“Well, do look out, Teddie, he has a marvellous power of hiding the fact, but he’s dangerous, and I don’t want you to get into any trouble like mine.”
“I’ll be careful,” said Bellamy.
Ten minutes later they passed the gates of the drive of Franton Manor, and Philip began glancing uneasily about him and peering sharply where the elms flung shadows. It was a perfectly still and cloudless night, with a quarter moon. It was just a quarter to eleven as they entered the house. They went up to the library on the first floor which looked out over the Dutch Garden to the Park. Franton is a typical Georgian house, with charming gardens and Park, but too big and lonely for one nervous person to inhabit, thought Bellamy.
The butler brought up sandwiches and drinks, and Bellamy thought he seemed relieved at their arrival. Philip began to eat ravenously, and gulped down two stiff whiskies. He kept looking at his watch, and his eyes were always searching the walls.
“It comes, Teddie, even when it ought to be too light for shadows.”
“Now then,” replied the latter, “I’m with you, and we’re going to keep quite steady. It may come, but I shall not leave you until it goes and for ever.” And he managed to lure Philip on to another subject, and for a time he seemed quieter, but suddenly he stiffened, and his eyes became rigid and staring. “It’s there,” he cried, “I know it!”
“Steady, Philip!” said Bellamy sharply. “Where?”
“Down below,” he whispered, and began creeping towards the window.
Bellamy reached it first and looked down. He saw it at once, knew what it was, and set his teeth.
He heard Philip shaking and breathing heavily at his side.
“It’s there,” he said, “and it’s complete at last!”
“Now, Philip,” said Bellamy, “we’re going down, and I’m going out first, and we’ll settle the thing once and for all.”
They went down the stairs and into the drawing-room. Bellamy turned the light on and walked quickly to the French window and began to try to open the catch. He fumbled with it for a moment.
“Let me do it,” said Philip, and put his hand to the catch, and then the window opened and he stepped out.
“Come back, Philip!” cried Bellamy. As he said it the lights went dim, a fierce blast of burning air filled the room, the window came crashing back. Then through the glass Bellamy saw Philip suddenly throw up his hands, and something huge and dark lean from the wall and envelop him. He seemed to writhe for a moment in its folds. Bellamy strove madly to thrust the window open, while his soul strove to withstand the mighty and evil power he felt was crushing him, and then he saw Philip flung down with awful force, and he could hear the foul, crushing thud as his head struck the stone.
And then the window opened and Bellamy dashed out into a quiet and scented night.
At the inquest the doctor stated he was satisfied that Mr. Franton’s death was due to a severe heart attack—he had never recovered from the gas, he said, and such a seizure was always possible.
“Then there are no peculiar circumstances about the case?” asked the Coroner.
The doctor hesitated. “Well, there is one thing,” he said slowly. “The pupils of Mr. Franton’s eyes were—well, to put it simply to the jury—instead of being round, they were drawn up so that they resembled half-moons—in a sense they were like the pupils in the eyes of a cat.”
“Can you explain that?” asked the Coroner.
“No, I have never seen a similar case,” replied the doctor. “But I am satisfied the cause of death was as I have stated.”
Bellamy was, of course, called as a witness, but he had little to say.
About eleven o’clock on the morning after these events Bellamy rang up the Chorazin Club from his chambers and learned from the manager that Mr. Clinton had returned from abroad. A little later he got a Sloane number and arranged to lunch with Mr. Solan at the United Universities Club. And then he made a conscientious effort to estimate the chances in Rex v. Tipwinkle.
But soon he was restless and pacing the room. He could not exorcise the jeering demon which told him sniggeringly that he had failed Philip. It wasn’t true, but it pricked and penetrated. But the game was not yet played out. If he had failed to save he might still avenge. He would see what Mr. Solan had to say.
The personage was awaiting him in the smoking room. Mr. Solan was an original and looked it. Just five feet and two inches—a tiny body, a mighty head with a dominating forehead studded with a pair of thrusting frontal lobes. All this covered with a thick, greying thatch. Veiled, restless little eyes, a perky, tilted, little nose and a very thin-lipped, fighting mouth from which issued the most curious, resonant, high, and piercing voice. This is a rough and ready sketch of one who is universally accepted to be the greatest living Oriental Scholar—a mystic—once upon a time a Senior Wrangler, a philosopher of European repute, a great and fascinating personality, who lived alone, save for a brace of tortoiseshell cats and a housekeeper, in Chester Terrace, Sloane Square. About every six years he published a masterly treatise on one of his special subjects; otherwise he kept to himself with the remorseless determination he brought to bear upon any subject which he considered worth serious consideration, such as the Chess Game, the works of Bach, the paintings of Van Gogh, the poems of Housman, and the short stories of P. G. Wodehouse and Austin Freeman.
He entirely approved of Bellamy, who had once secured him substantial damages in a copyright case. The damages had gone to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
“And what can I do for you, my dear Bellamy?” he piped, when they were seated.
“First of all, have you ever heard of a person called Oscar Clinton? Secondly, do you know anything of the practice of sending an enemy a painted paper pattern?”
Mr. Solan smiled slightly at the first question, and ceased to smile when he heard the second.
“Yes,” he said, “I have heard of both, and I advise you to have nothing whatsoever to do with either.”
“Unfortunately,” replied Bellamy, “I have already had to do with both. Two nights ago my best friend died—rather suddenly. Presently I will tell you how he died. But first of all, tell me something about Clinton.”
“It is characteristic of him that you know so little about him,” replied Mr. Solan, “for although he is one of the most dangerous and intellectually powerful men in the world he gets very little publicity nowadays. Most of the much-advertised Naughty Boys of the Nineties harmed no one but themselves—they merely canonised their own and each other’s dirty linen, but Clinton was in a class by himself. He was—and no doubt still is—an accomplished corrupter, and he took, and no doubt still takes, a jocund delight in his hobby. Eventually he left England—by request—and wen
t out East. He spent some years in a Tibetan Monastery, and then some other years in less reputable places—his career is detailed very fully in a file in my study—and then he applied his truly mighty mind to what I may loosely call magic—for what I loosely call magic, my dear Bellamy, most certainly exists. Clinton is highly psychic, with great natural hypnotic power. He then joined an esoteric and little-known sect—Satanists—of which he eventually became High Priest. And then he returned to what we call civilisation, and has since been ‘moved on’ by the Civil Powers of many countries, for his forte is the extraction of money from credulous and timid individuals—usually female—by methods highly ingenious and peculiarly his own. It is a boast of his that he has never yet missed his revenge. He ought to be stamped out with the brusque ruthlessness meted out to a spreading fire in a Californian forest.
“Well, there is a short inadequate sketch of Oscar Clinton, and now about these paper patterns.”
Two hours later Bellamy got up to leave. “I can lend you a good many of his books,” said Mr. Solan, “and you can get the rest at Lilley’s. Come to me from four till six on Wednesdays and Fridays, and I’ll teach you all I think essential. Meanwhile, I will have a watch kept upon him, but I want you, my dear Bellamy, to do nothing decisive till you are qualified. It would be a pity if the Bar were to be deprived of your great gifts prematurely.”
“Many thanks,” said Bellamy. “I have now placed myself in your hands, and I’m in this thing till the end—some end or other.”
Mr. Plank, Bellamy’s clerk, had no superior in his profession, one which is the most searching test of character and adaptability. Not one of the devious and manifold tricks of his trade was unpracticed by him, and his income was twelve hundred and fifty pounds per annum, a fact which the Inland Revenue Authorities strongly suspected but were quite unable to establish. He liked Mr. Bellamy, personally well enough, financially very much indeed. It was not surprising, therefore, that many seismic recording instruments registered sharp shocks at 4 p.m. on June 12, 192—, a disturbance caused by the precipitous descent of Mr. Plank’s jaw when Mr.Bellamy instructed him to accept no more briefs for him for the next three months. “But,” continued that gentleman, “here is a cheque which will, I trust, reconcile you to the fact.”
Mr. Plank scrutinised the numerals and was reconciled.
“Taking a holiday, sir?” he asked.
“I rather doubt it,” replied Bellamy. “But you might suggest to any inquisitive enquirers that that is the explanation.”
“I understand, sir.”
From then till midnight, with one short pause, Bellamy was occupied with a pile of exotically bound volumes. Occasionally he made a note on his writing pad. When his clock struck twelve he went to bed and read The Wallet of Kai-Lung till he felt sleepy enough to turn out the light.
At eight o’clock the next morning he was busy once more with an exotically bound book, and making an occasional note on his writing pad.
Three weeks later he was bidding a temporary farewell to Mr. Solan, who remarked, “I think you’ll do now. You are an apt pupil; pleading has given you a command of convincing bluff, and you have sufficient psychic insight to make it possible for you to succeed. Go forth and prosper! At all times I shall be fighting for you. He will be there at nine tonight.”
At a quarter past that hour Bellamy was asking the door-keeper of the Chorazin Club to tell Mr. Clinton that a Mr. Bellamy wished to see him.
Two minutes later the official reappeared and led him downstairs into an ornate and gaudy cellar decorated with violence and indiscretion—the work, he discovered later, of a neglected genius who had died of neglected cirrhosis of the liver. He was led up to a table in the corner, where someone was sitting alone.
Bellamy’s first impression of Oscar Clinton remained vividly with him till his death. As he got up to greet him he could see that he was physically gigantic—six foot five at least, with a massive torso—the build of a champion wrestler. Topping it was a huge, square, domed head. He had a white yet mottled face, thick, tense lips, the lower one protruding fantastically. His hair was clipped close, save for one twisted and oiled lock which curved down to meet his eyebrows. But what impressed Bellamy most was a pair of the hardest, most penetrating and merciless eyes—one of which seemed soaking wet and dripping slowly.
Bellamy “braced his belt about him”—he was in the presence of a power.
“Well, sir,” said Clinton in a beautifully musical voice with a slight drawl, “I presume you are connected with Scotland Yard. What can I do for you?”
“No,” replied Bellamy, forcing a smile, “I’m in no way connected with that valuable institution.”
“Forgive the suggestion,” said Clinton, “but during a somewhat adventurous career I have received so many unheralded visits from more or less polite police officials. What then, is your business?”
“I haven’t any, really,” said Bellamy. “It’s simply that I have long been a devoted admirer of your work, the greatest imaginative work of our time in my opinion. A friend of mine mentioned casually that he had seen you going into this club, and I could not resist taking the liberty of forcing, just for a moment, my company upon you.”
Clinton stared at him, and seemed not quite at his ease.
“You interest me,” he said at length. “I’ll tell you why. Usually I know decisively by certain methods of my own whether a person I meet comes as an enemy or a friend. These tests have failed in your case, and this, as I say, interests me. It suggests things to me. Have you been in the East?”
“No,” said Bellamy.
“And made no study of its mysteries?”
“None whatever, but I can assure you I come merely as a most humble admirer. Of course, I realise you have enemies—all great men have; it is the privilege and penalty of their preeminence, and I know you to be a great man.”
“I fancy,” said Clinton, “that you are perplexed by the obstinate humidity of my left eye. It is caused by the rather heavy injection of heroin I took this afternoon. I may as well tell you I use all drugs, but am the slave of none. I take heroin when I desire to contemplate. But tell me—since you profess such an admiration for my books—which of them most meets with your approval?”
“That’s a hard question,” replied Bellamy, “but A Damsel with a Dulcimer seems to me exquisite.”
Clinton smiled patronisingly.
“It has merits,” he said, “but is immature. I wrote it when I was living with a Bedouin woman aged fourteen in Tunis. Bedouin women have certain natural gifts”—and here he became remarkably obscene, before returning to the subject of his works—“my own opinion is that I reached my zenith in The Songs of Hamdonna. Hamdonna was a delightful companion, the fruit of the raptures of an Italian gentleman and a Persian lady. She had the most naturally—the most brilliantly vicious mind of any woman I ever met. She required hardly any training. But she was unfaithful to me, and died soon after.”
“The Songs are marvellous,” said Bellamy, and he began quoting from them fluently.
Clinton listened intently. “You have a considerable gift for reciting poetry,” he said. “May I offer you a drink? I was about to order one for myself.”
“I’ll join you on one condition—that I may be allowed to pay for both of them—to celebrate the occasion.”
“Just as you like,” said Clinton, tapping the table with his thumb, which was adorned with a massive jade ring curiously carved. “I always drink brandy after heroin, but you order what you please.”
It may have been the whisky, it may have been the pressing nervous strain or a combination of both, which caused Bellamy now to regard the mural decorations with a much modified sangfroid. Those distorted and tortured patches of flat colour, how subtly suggestive they were of something sniggeringly evil!
“I gave Valin the subject for those panels,” said Clinton. “They are meant to represent an impression of the stages in the Black Mass, but he drank away his original inspir
ation, and they fail to do that majestic ceremony justice.”
Bellamy flinched at having his thoughts so easily read.
“I was thinking the same thing,” he replied; “that unfortunate cat they’re slaughtering deserved a less ludicrous memorial to its fate.”
Clinton looked at him sharply and sponged his oozing eye.
“I have made these rather flamboyant references to my habits purposely. Not to impress you, but to see how they impressed you. Had you appeared disgusted, I should have known it was useless to pursue our acquaintanceship. All my life I have been a law unto myself, and that is probably why the Law has always shown so much interest in me. I know myself to be a being apart, one to whom the codes and conventions of the herd can never be applied. I have sampled every so-called ‘vice,’ including every known drug. Always, however, with an object in view. Mere purposeless debauchery is not in my character. My art, to which you have so kindly referred, must always come first. Sometimes it demands that I sleep with a negress, that I take opium or hashish; sometimes it dictates rigid asceticism, and I tell you, my friend, that if such an instruction came again to-morrow, as it has often come in the past, I could, without the slightest effort, lead a life of complete abstinence from drink, drugs, and women for an indefinite period. In other words, I have gained absolute control over my senses after the most exhaustive experiments with them. How many can say the same? Yet one does not know what life can teach till that control is established. The man of superior power—there are no such women—should not flinch from such experiments, he should seek to learn every lesson evil as well as good has to teach. So will he be able to extend and multiply his personality, but always he must remain absolute master of himself. And then he will have many strange rewards, and many secrets will be revealed to him. Some day, perhaps, I will show you some which have been revealed to me.”
“Have you absolutely no regard for what is called ‘morality’?” asked Bellamy.
“None whatever. If I wanted money I should pick your pocket. If I desired your wife—if you have one—I should seduce her. If someone obstructs me—something happens to him. You must understand this clearly—for I am not bragging—I do nothing purposelessly nor from what I consider a bad motive. To me ‘bad’ is synonymous with ‘unnecessary.’ I do nothing unnecessary.”
