by Sax Rohmer
I walked into the study in a very thoughtful mood, and from the open window contemplated that prospect of tree-lined road, now for ever to be associated in my mind with the darkest places in the tragedy in which I had so strangely become involved.
Gatton, I knew, entertained a theory that the selection of the Red House for the dreadful purpose for which it had been employed, was not the result of any mere accident, but was ascribable to the fact that the place was conveniently situated from the point of view of the assassin. In short, he had an idea that the London headquarters of the wanted man, whom we had now definitely invested with the personality of Dr. Damar Greefe, was somewhere within my immediate neighborhood!
It was a startling conclusion and one which rested, as I thought, upon somewhat slender premises; but nevertheless I found it disquieting. And recognizing how the more sinister manifestations of that singular green-eyed creature (whom I could never think of as a woman, nor indeed regard as anything quite human) were associated with darkness—a significantly feline trait—I confess to a certain apprehension respecting the coming night. This apprehension was strengthened no doubt by my memories of Gatton's last words as I had been on the point of setting out from Upper Crossleys.
“With their Friar's Park base destroyed, Mr. Addison,” he had said, “they will be forced to fly to that other abode, at present unknown, from which I believe they conducted the elaborate assassination of Sir Marcus. The only alternative is flight from the country, and the mechanism of the C.I.D. having been put into motion, this we may regard as almost impossible—especially in view of the marked personality of Dr. Damar Greefe. Of course,” he had added, “they may have some other residence of which we know nothing but I incline to the idea that they will make for London.”
That the published paragraph relating to Eric Coverly's alleged evidence was in some way associated with this theory of Gatton's I knew, but of the soundness of his theory I had yet to learn.
Since (as Isobel had that day informed me) the document lodged with her was a profound secret from all, Carton's inspired paragraph could have been no more than a shot in the dark; and the fact that it had hit the mark one of those seeming coincidences which sometimes rest upon mere chance, but which rested, in this case upon a process of careful reasoning. The Inspector was certain, as I was certain, of Coverly's innocence, and he had credited him with an alibi because he knew that if he would but consent to break his inexplicable silence, he was in a position to establish one. Why he had forestalled Coverly I knew not.
I made a poor and hasty dinner, for I was too excited to eat, and returning to the study, I crossed to the bookcase and took down Maspero's “Egyptian Art.” I idly glanced again through those passages which Gatton had copied into his note-book—the passages relating to the attributes of Bast, the cat-goddess. My mind rested particularly, I remember, upon the line, “she plays with her victim as with a mouse.”
Stifling a somewhat weary sigh, I returned the book to its place and lingered looking out of the open window into the deepening dusk. Mentally my mood was a restless one, but it did not reflect itself physically; for I stood there leaning against the window whilst a procession of all the figures associated with the “Oritogamystery” raced through my mind.
And presently as I stood there contemplating a mental image of the Eurasian doctor, I heard the telephone bell ring. The sound aroused me in a moment, and walking out into the little ante-room in which the instrument was placed, I took it up—anticipating Coates, who had immediately come in from the garden where he was engaged at the time.
“Hello!” I said.
A voice with which I was unfamiliar, a man's voice speaking rather thickly, replied:
“Is that Mr. Addison?”
“Yes.”
“I have just arrived from Crossleys with Inspector Gatton. He requests me to ask you to meet him by the police-box at the corner of the high street immediately.”
“Very good,” I said. “I will come.”
“And,” continued the voice—“could you spare Coates with the car for an hour?”
“Certainly,” I replied. “For what do you want him?”
“If he will take the car to Denmark Hill Station and be there by a quarter past eight,” continued the voice, “Detective-Sergeant Blythe will meet him. There is a large box,” he added, “which Inspector Gatton wishes to have taken to your house.”
“Very well,” I said. “Coates will start in ten minutes' time, and I will come along immediately to meet Inspector Gatton.”
I replaced the telephone upon the little table and went out into the garden, whither my man had returned.
“Coates,” I said, “get out the Rover.”
Coates immediately ceased his gardening operations and stood upright in an attitude of attention.
“Very good, sir.”
“You will just have time to get ready at the garage and return here to admit Sir Eric Coverly at eight o'clock. I am going out, now, to meet Inspector Gatton. But inform Sir Eric that I shall be back in a few minutes. Show him into the study and make him comfortable. You will then proceed in the Rover to Denmark Hill Station. You will meet there a man with a box—a detective from Scotland Yard who will make himself known to you. His name is Blythe. You have to bring the box back here.”
“Very good, sir,” repeated Coates.
And as he entered the house he was already stripping off the old shooting jacket which he wore in the garden. For my part I slipped a light top-coat over my somewhat untidy house attire, and taking my hat and a stick, stepped quickly out along the road in the direction of the village street. A brisk walk brought me to the little sentry-box under the trees. But Gatton was not to be seen. Indeed, with the exception of several ordinary pedestrians who were obviously returning from the city to their homes (all of whom I scrutinized, thinking that Coverly might come this way) and the constable on duty at the point, there was no one about who looked in the least like either of my expected visitors.
Having waited for some ten minutes unavailingly, I spoke to the man in the box.
“Good evening, constable,” I said; “I expected to meet a friend here—Inspector Gatton, of Scotland Yard—you may know him?”
“I know of him quite well, sir,” answered the constable, “and should recognize him if I saw him. But he has not been here this evening.”
“You have seen no one hanging about who might have been sent by him?”
“No one, sir.”
“Strange,” I muttered; then: “My name is Addison, constable,” I said, “and if any one should ask for me will you direct him to proceed to my house?” And I gave the man instructions respecting its whereabouts.
“I will,” answered the constable; and wishing him “good night,” I retraced my steps, curious respecting the matter, but not apprehensive as I well might have been—and with no glimmering of the ghastly truth penetrating to my mind.
CHAPTER XXII. THE GRAY MIST
I was about half-way on my return journey when I heard a car racing along the road behind me, and as it came nearer I detected the fact that it was slowing down. Ere I could turn:
“Hi! Mr. Addison!” hailed a voice.
I stopped, turned round, and there was Gatton leaning out of the car and staring towards me through the deepening dusk.
“Why, Gatton!” I said, walking up to him—“I waited more than ten minutes for you, and then gave it up.”
“Waited for me?”
“Yes, by the police-box.”
He stared in evident wonder at me and then at the police chauffeur who drove the car.
“Whatever prompted you to do that?” he said. “Coates must have given you the wrong message. I said I would come to the house for you, not meet you in the street.”
Still I remained dense to the truth, and:
“I know you did,” I replied. “I refer to the second message.”
“I sent no second message.”
“What!”
“Get in,�
� cried Gatton shortly; “this wants explaining.”
I stepped into the car, and as it moved onward again I explained to the Inspector what had taken place. As I talked I saw his expression grow darker and darker, until finally:
“There's something wrong!” he muttered.
“Then you did not inspire the message?”
“I know nothing whatever about it. At the time you received it I was on my way from Crossleys. I have been traveling for the last hour and a half.”
I stared at him very blankly. The object of such a communication was difficult to imagine, and I knew of nothing incriminating in my possession, which might have tempted the assassin to lure me from the house whilst he obtained possession of it.
In ever-growing excitement I watched the houses slipping behind us as we swept along. Then we came to the tree-lined expanse of road immediately leading to the cottage. As the car stopped, I leaped out quickly, Gatton close upon my heels, and ran up the path to the door.
From certain indications with which I was familiar, I observed that Coates was out, whereby I concluded that he had set off to meet the mythical “man with a box.” Not without apprehension I inserted the key in the lock and opened the door.
As I did so, I beheld a most singular spectacle.
The careful Coates had closed all the windows as usual before quitting the house, so that there was comparatively little draught along the corridor. But As the door swung open I perceived a sort of gray fog-like vapor floating over the carpet about a foot in depth and moving in slightly sinuous spirals upward towards the opened door!
At this phenomenon I stared in speechless astonishment; for whilst it resembled steam or the early morning mist which one sometimes sees upon the grass in hot weather, I was wholly at a loss to account for its presence inside my cottage!
“Good heavens!” cried Gatton, and grasped me by the arm with so strong a grip that I almost cried out. “Look! Look!”
“What the devil is it?” I muttered; and turning, I stared into his face. “Whatcan it be?”
“Stand back,” he said strangely, and pulled me out into the porch. “Do you notice a peculiar smell?”
“I do—a most foul and abominable smell.”
Gatton nodded grimly.
“God knows what has happened here since you left,” he said; “but of one thing I am sure—you must certainly bear a charmed life, Mr. Addison. There has been a third attempt at your removal!”
This choking smell which now rose to my nostrils had in it something vaguely familiar, yet something which at that place and that time I found myself unable to identify; but:
“We shall have to open the windows!” rapped Gatton.
Suiting the action to the word, he took out his handkerchief, and holding it to his nostrils went running along the corridor, his feet oddly enveloped in that mysterious mist. A moment later I heard the bang of a swiftly raised window, then another, and:
“Stand clear of the door!” called a muffled voice.
A moment later Gatton came racing back again, coughing and choking because of the fumes which arose from that supernatural fog carpeting the passages.
The chauffeur now appeared upon the path leading from the gate to the porch, but:
“Stay by the car!” ordered Gatton. “Don't move without instructions.”
I scarcely noted his words. For I was watching the gray fog. In the dusk I could see it streaming out, that deathly mist, and creeping away across grass and flower-beds, right and left of the door.
“Give it a chance to clear,” said Gatton; “I fancy one good whiff would finish any man!”
Even as he spoke the words the nature of this vapor suddenly occurred to me, and:
“The Abbey Inn!” I whispered. “The Abbey Inn!”
“Ah!” said he—“you've solved the mystery, have you? But can you explain how this stuff comes to be floating about the floor of your house?”
“I cannot,” I confessed. “But at all costs we must go in. We must learn the worst!”
“Yes, we'll risk it now,” said the Inspector.
Close together we entered and made our way towards the study. As we passed the door-way of the ante-room in which the telephone was placed. I glanced, aside, and thereupon:
“My God, Gatton!” I groaned. “Look!”
He pulled up and the two of us stood, horror-stricken, rooted to the spot, looking into the little room.
I have said that Coates invariably closed the windows before leaving the house, but here the window was open. Prone upon the floor was stretched the figure of a man!
He wore a light overcoat, and his hat lay under the telephone table—where it had evidently rolled at the moment of his fall. The poisonous smell was more apparent here than elsewhere; and looking down at the prone figure, the face of which was indiscernible because of the man's position:
“Why, Gatton!” I said in an awed whisper—“look!... he was speaking to some one!”
“I'm looking!” replied Gatton grimly.
Grasped rigidly in his left hand the fallen man held the telephone!
“We want gas-masks for this job,” said the Inspector.
His words were true enough. I had already recognized the odor of the foul stuff. It was identical with that which, as we had come down from the upper floor of the Abbey Inn, had proceeded from the room wherein the mysterious shell had exploded. In a word my cottage was filled with some kind of poison-gas!
“We must risk it, anyway,” said Gatton, “and find out who it is.”
I nodded, sick with foreboding. Stooping swiftly, he succeeded in turning over the prone figure, whereupon I quite failed to restrain a hoarse cry of horror....
It was Eric Coverly !
The fume-laden room seemed to swim around me as I looked down at the dreadfully contorted features over which was creeping that greenish tint which had characterized the face of Sir Marcus as I had seen it on the morning of the body's recovery from the hold of theOritoga .
“Drag him out,” said Gatton huskily; “he may be alive.”
But even as we bent to the attempt, both my companion and I were seized with violent nausea; for the wisps of gray mist which still floated in the air were nevertheless sufficiently deadly. However, we succeeded at last in dragging Eric Coverly into the passage. Here it became necessary to detach the telephone from the death-grip in which he held it.
I turned my head aside whilst Gatton accomplished this task; then together we bore Coverly out into the porch. At this point we were both overcome again by the fumes. Gatton was the first to recover sufficiently to stoop and examine the victim of this fiendish outrage. I clutched dizzily at an upright of the porch, and:
“Don't tell me he's dead,” I whispered.
But Gatton stood up and nodded sternly.
“He was the last!” he said strangely. “They have triumphed after all.”
The man who had driven the car and who now stood in a state of evident stupefaction looking over the gate, where he had been warned to remain by the Inspector, came forward on seeing Gatton beckoning to him.
“Notify the local officer in charge and bring a doctor,” said Gatton. He turned to me. “Which is the nearest?”
Rapidly I gave the man the necessary instructions and he went running out to the car and soon was speeding away towards the house of a local physician.
I find it difficult to recapture the peculiar horror of the next few minutes, during which, half-fearful of entering the cottage, Gatton and I stood in the little sheltered garden adjoining the porch looking down at the body of this man who had met his end under my roof, in circumstances at once dreadful and incomprehensible.
Tragically, Eric Coverly was vindicated; by his death he was proved innocent. And by the manner of his death we realized that he had fallen a victim to the same malign agency as his cousin.
I have explained that my cottage stood in a strangely secluded spot, although so near to the sleepless life of London; and I reme
mber that throughout the period between the departure of the man with the car and his return with the doctor and two police officers whom he had brought from the local depot, only one pedestrian passed my door and he on the opposite side of the road.
How little that chance traveler suspected what a scene was concealed from his eyes by the tall hedges which divided the garden from the highroad! It was as the footsteps of this wayfarer became faint in the distance, that suddenly:
“Come along!” said Gatton. “We might chance it now. I want to get to the bottom of this telephone trick.”
We returned to the door of the ante-room, and side by side stood looking down at the telephone which had only been extracted from the grip of the dead man with so much difficulty. The Inspector stooped and took it up from the floor. The deadly gray mist was all but dissipated now, and together we stood staring stupidly at the telephone which Gatton held in his hand.
To all outward seeming it was an ordinary instrument, and my number was written upon it in the space provided for the purpose. Then, all at once, as we stepped into the room, I observed something out of the ordinary.
I could see a length of green cable proceeding from the wall-plugout through the open window. The cable attached to the instrument which Gatton held did not come from the proper connection at all, but came in through the window, and was evidently connected with something outside in the garden!
“What does this mean, Gatton?” I cried.
Evidently as deeply mystified as I, Gatton placed the telephone on the little table and fully opening the window, leaned out.
“Hullo!” he cried. “The cable leads up to the roof of the tool-shed!”
“To the roof of the tool-shed!” I echoed incredulously.
But Gatton did not heed my words, for:
“What the devil have we here?” he continued.
He was hauling something up from the flower-bed below the window, and now, turning to me, he held out ... a second telephone!
“Why, Gatton!” I cried, and took it from his hand, “thisis the authentic instrument! See! It is connected in the proper way!”
“I see quite clearly,” he replied. “It was simply placed outside, whilst a duplicate one was substituted for it. I observe a ladder against the shed. Let us trace the cable attached to the duplicate.”
