The Green Eyes of Bast

by Sax Rohmer

  The ladder was one used by Coates about the garden; and now, climbing out of the window, Gatton mounted it and surveyed the roof of the lean-to which I used as a tool-shed.

  “Ha!” he exclaimed. “A gas cylinder!”

  “What!”

  He fingered the green cable.

  “This is not cable at all,” he cried; “it'scovered tubing ! Do you see?”

  He descended and rejoined me.

  “You see?” he continued. “A call from the exchange would ring the bell in the ante-room here. This devilish contrivance”—he pointed to the false telephone—“is really hollow. The weight of the receiver hermetically closes the end of the tube, no doubt. But any one answering the call and taking up the duplicate instrument would receive the full benefit of the contents of the cylinder which lies up there on the roof!”

  “My God, Gatton!” I muttered. “The fiends! But why was the contrivance not removed?”

  “They hadn't time,” he said grimly. “They had not counted on the death-grip of the victim!”

  I heard a car come racing up to the gate, followed by the sound of many excited voices.

  “At last we know where the gray mist came from,” I said, as Gatton and I walked through the cottage to meet the new arrivals.

  “We know more than that,” he retorted. “We know howSir Marcus died!”

  “Gatton!” I cried excitedly, as we approached a group waiting in the porch—“do you mean—”

  He looked at me grimly.

  “I mean,” he said slowly, “that I have not forgotten thegas-plug in the wall of that recess in the supper-room at the Red House! The only thing I was doubtful about (the means by which the victim was induced to admit the gas into the room) is now as clear as daylight.”

  “You are right, Gatton,” I agreed. “The same trick has succeeded twice.”

  “The same trick, as you say, Mr. Addison; with one trifling variation, a device which would only suggest itself to such a brain as that of—”

  “Dr. Damar Greefe!” I cried.

  “I believe you are right.”

  And now fell an awesome silence; for whilst Gatton and I stood bare-headed, the unfortunate Eric Coverly was being carried out to the waiting car; and even as I turned my eyes away in horror from that spectacle, I was endeavoring to frame the words in which I should acquaint Isobel with this second ghastly tragedy.

  Here, indeed, was a new development of “theOritoga mystery”; and so queerly does the mind depart from the actualities at such a moment that I found myself thinking, even whilst Gatton was talking to me, of the bold head-lines which would greet readers of the press in the morning—and of the renewed excitement which would sweep throughout the length and breadth of the land when this dreadful alibi was proven.

  Over the details of that gruesome tragedy I feel myself compelled to pass lightly, for even now the horror of it remains with me. The fumes of the poisonous gray mist lingered for hours in the house; and there were official visitations, testimonies and attestations, and the hundred and one formalities which invariably accompany such a tragedy but which I need not deal with in detail here.

  Coates returned with the Rover, just as the body of the victim was being removed, and his account of what had occurred was simple enough, and followed the lines which we had anticipated. He had locked up and then gone to the garage for the car as I had directed him to do, returning to the cottage in time to admit Eric Coverly, whom he showed into the study, having informed him that I should be back in less than ten minutes. He had then proceeded to Denmark Hill railway station only to find, as I had found, that the appointment was a hoax and “the man with a box” a myth.

  “You see,” said Gatton, “the scheme of the plotter was simply this: to get Coates out of the way for a long enough time to allow the substitution of the telephone to be accomplished. The fact that Coates had closed the windows before leaving the house didn't interfere very much with the scheme. It's an old-fashioned catch on the ante-room window, and I have seen the marks upon the brass-work where it was forced from the outside with the blade of a knife. For the person who opened the window to take out the real telephone and put the other in its place was easy; and all that remained was to lift the gas-cylinder on to the shed and partly reclose the window as we found it. Coates, even if he had troubled to look, would not have noticed any difference in the dusk. It is the next move, however, whichI find most interesting.”

  Gatton spoke with repressed excitement, and:

  “What do you mean by 'the next move'?” I asked.

  “Well,” he replied, “we have good evidence to show that the assassin possesses an almost Napoleonic capacity for working by the time-table. Witness the employment of Constable Bolton in the Red House affair—which showed that our man was perfectly acquainted with the movements of the officer on that beat and timed his scheme accordingly. Very well ... having laid the telephone trap in your ante-room—did our man hurry away and make the callin person , which brought Coverly to the 'phone?—or did he remain watching the house and give the signal tosome one else to do it?”

  “I cannot imagine, Gatton. Nor does the point strike me as important.”

  “No?” said Gatton, smiling triumphantly. “Then I must explain. Whereas, in the Red House, the scheme workedautomatically —for the time of Sir Marcus's arrival wasfixed —in the present instance, some one had to watch foryour return from the mythical appointment!”

  “Formy return?”

  “Unquestionably! This scheme was arranged for your benefit, Mr. Addison. Unknowingly, poor Coverly saved you from a dreadful fate at the price of his own life! You see, they did not know that Coverly was coming here! Now, it will not have escaped your attention that he wore a soft felt hat, a light overcoat, and carried a black cane. So didyou when you went out to keep the appointment made by the assassin!”

  He paused, staring at me hard, and:

  “Whoever was watching for your return,” he said solemnly, “mistook Coverly for you! The moment that Coates drove away, the signal was given. Itmust have been. We were back here a few minutes later, Now do you see?”

  “I do not, Gatton! What are you driving at?”

  “At this: The telephone callmust have been made from somewhere in the immediate neighborhood! There wasn't time to do it otherwise. And there is no public call office within a mile which is open after seven o'clock!”

  “Good heavens!” I cried. “At last I understand!”

  Gatton looked at me, smiling in grim triumph; and:

  “Dr. Damar Greefe has a residence somewhere within a quarter-mile radius of this house!” he declared. “He has betrayed himself! Then—look here.”

  Unscrewing the front of the mouthpiece of the false telephone, he took out the strip of cardboard upon which my number was written, turned it over ... and there upon the back was another number!

  “Just look up Dr. Brown-Edwards,” he said. “He was the last occupant of the Red House, and may still be in the book.”

  Grasping the purpose of his inquiry, excitedly I did as he directed; and there sure enough the number appeared!

  “The identical instrument that was used at the Red House!” cried Gatton. “Note the artistic finish with which even thecorrect exchange numbers are looked up!”

  I sank back in my chair, silent, appalled at the perverted genius of this fiend whom we were pitted against in a life-or-death struggle. But presently:

  “What was the object of the opening and closing of the garage doors at the Red House?” I asked, almost mechanically.

  “Simple enough,” Gatton replied. “Whereas here the telephone was installed, so that the bell could be rung by some one merely calling up your number—and the ringing stopped by the caller telling the exchange he had made a mistake—in the Red House, as I have discovered, the 'phone had been disconnected shortly after Dr. Brown-Edwards left the place.”

  “Then the opening and closing of the doors was merely a device for ringing the bell?�
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  “Yes. The opening of the first door set it ringing and the opening of the second probably stopped it. Mr. Addison,” he stood up, resting his hands upon the table and regarding me fixedly—“we enter upon the final battle of wits: New Scotland Yardversus Dr. Damar Greefe and the green-eyed lady of Bast. Regarding the latter—there is a very significant point.”

  “What is that?”

  “The 'voice' on this last occasion was that, not of a woman, but of a man.”

  CHAPTER XXIII. THE INEVITABLE

  “I very much regret having to trouble you, Miss Merlin, at such a time,” said Inspector Gatton, “but as the paper lodged with you by the late Sir Eric Coverly may throw some light upon a very dark matter, perhaps you will read it to us.”

  I watched the play of expression upon Isobel's face with a depth of sympathy which I cannot attempt to describe. The successive trials which had been imposed upon her in so short a time had robbed her cheeks of their sweet color and there were dark shadows under her eyes. The tumult of my own feelings was such that I was scarcely capable of consistent thought nor had I the moral courage to examine those emotions which stirred so wildly within me.

  Late on the previous night I had performed the unhappy duty of breaking to her the news of Coverly's dreadful death. I shall never forget that black hour. Her courage, however, under all these trials had been admirable, and although I well knew what it must have cost her, she replied now with perfect composure:

  “Look—I took it out of my bureau when I heard that you were here, Inspector.”

  She took up from the table a foolscap envelope sealed and having her name written upon it in large and somewhat unsteady characters.

  “I would suggest,” said Gatton, with a delicacy which earned my gratitude, “that you read it yourself first, Miss Merlin. If there is anything helpful in it you can then communicate it to me.”

  I saw Isobel biting her lip hard, but she resolutely tore open the envelope; and leaving her to read the contents, I joined Gatton at the window. We both stood staring out for what seemed a very long time, then:

  “It is rather long,” said Isobel in a low voice.

  Gatton and I turned together, and saw her, looking even more pale than before, seated by the table holding a sheet of notepaper in her hand. Without glancing at either of us, she began to read as follows, in an even and monotonous voice which I knew she had adopted to hide her emotion:

  “This account of my movements on the night of August 6th will only

  be read in the event of my being falsely adjudged guilty of the

  murder of my cousin, Marcus Coverly, or in the event of my death.

  “On the afternoon of that date I was informed over the telephone

  that my fiancee, Isobel Merlin, was meeting Sir Marcus the same

  night at a place called the Red House. The address was given me and

  I was asked, in case I doubted the word of the speaker, to watch

  Miss Merlin's movements that evening.

  “I had already quarreled with my cousin respecting his unwelcome

  attentions and although the result did not confirm the promise of

  the informant, in part at least the information was accurate. I

  have no idea of the speaker's identity except that the voice was

  the voice of a woman.

  “Not desiring to trust any one in such a matter I, myself, obtained

  in a remote district the dilapidated garments which are now in the

  possession of the police and respecting which they have subjected

  me to close examination. Attired in these and having my face and

  hands artificially dirtied as a further disguise, I left my

  chambers by a back entrance about nine o'clock, and not having

  sufficient confidence in my make-up to enter a public vehicle,

  walked the whole of the way to College Road.

  “I had little difficulty in finding the Red House, but on

  discovering that it was vacant, I immediately suspected a hoax.

  However, I determined to wait in the neighborhood until the time at

  which the voice had warned me the meeting was to take place. There

  were very few people about and a tremendous downfall of rain

  drenched me to the skin, for the only shelter afforded was that of

  the trees bordering the road unless I had been content to abandon

  my watch.

  “Just before the downpour ceased but after it had abated its first

  fury, I came out from my inadequate shelter and began to walk in

  the direction of the High Street. I had not gone more than twenty

  paces when I saw a cab approaching, and the man, seeing my

  bedraggled figure, slowed up, and to my astonishment asked me the

  way to the Red House.

  “I immediately peered into the cab—to find that the passenger was

  none other than Marcus Coverly. I had begun to doubt, but at this I

  doubted no longer. I gave the cabman the necessary directions and,

  slowly following on foot, I saw from the shelter of the trees on

  the opposite side of the road, Sir Marcus dismiss the cab and walk

  up the drive of the empty house.

  “He was alone, and since I knew that Miss Merlin had not preceded

  him, I could only conclude that she would be following later.

  Accordingly I walked slowly away from the Red House again in the

  direction of the High Street, and some five minutes later I passed

  a constable accompanied by a man wearing a light Burberry and a

  soft hat, whom I knew later (although I failed to recognize him at

  the time) to have been Mr. Jack Addison.

  “I stood at the corner by the High Street until long after

  midnight. Twice I returned to the Red House and once even

  penetrated as far as the porch; but although I thought I could

  detect a light shining out through the shutters of the room on the

  right of the door, I could not be sure of it and there was no sound

  of movement within.

  “These were my only discoveries, and very wretched and dissatisfied

  I tramped back to my chambers wondering what the visit of Marcus

  Coverly to this apparently empty house could mean and why he had

  remained there, but particularly wondering why the voice had told

  me this part-truth which had turned me into a spy unavailingly.

  “The discovery made at the docks on the following day placed a new

  and dreadful construction upon the motives of the speaker, and I

  awakened to the fact that although entirely innocent of any

  complicity I had laid myself open to a charge of having been

  concerned in the murder of my cousin.

  “My ill-advised attempt to conceal the garments which I had used as

  a disguise, and of which I had not known how to dispose, was

  dictated by panic. I knew the police were watching me and I was

  fool enough to think that I could escape their vigilance.

  “This is all I have to say. It explains nothing and it does not

  exonerate me, I am aware, but I swear that it is the truth,”

  “(Signed) ERIC COVERLY, Bart.”

  Although she retained so brave a composure I recognized the strain which this new and cruel ordeal had imposed upon Isobel; and Gatton incurred a further debt of gratitude by his tactful behavior, for:

  “Miss Merlin,” he said earnestly—“you are a very brave woman. Thank you. I only wish I could have spared you this.”

  Shaking me warmly by the hand, he bowed and departed, leaving-me alone with Isobel.

  As the sound of his footsteps died away Isobel returned again to the seat from which she had risen; and a silence fell between us. My own feelings I cannot at
tempt to depict, but I will confess that I was afraid of my humanity at that moment. Never had Isobel seemed more desirable; never had I longed as I longed now to take her in my arms.

  The tension of that silence becoming insupportable:

  “You will not stay here alone?” I asked in an unnatural voice.

  Isobel, without looking up, shook her head.

  “I am going to Mrs. Wentworth—my Aunt Alison,” she replied.

  “Good,” I said. “I am glad to know that you will be in her cheery company.”

  Mrs. Wentworth was, indeed, a charming old lady, and so far as I knew, Isobel's only relation in London, if not in England. She occupied a house which, like herself, was small, scrupulously neat and old-worldly. One of those tiny residences which, once counted as being “in the country,” had later become enmeshed in the ever-spreading tentacles of greater London.

  It was situated on the northern outskirts of the county-city, and although rows of modern “villas” had grown up around it, within the walls of that quaint little homestead one found oneself far enough removed from suburbia.

  “When are you going, Isobel?” I asked.

  “I think,” she replied, “in the morning.”

  “Will you let me drive you in the Rover?—or are you taking too much baggage?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, smiling sadly—“I am going to live the simple life for a week. Going out shopping with Aunt Alison—and perhaps sometimes to the pictures!”

  “Then I can drive you over?”

  “Yes—if you would like to,” she answered simply.

  I took my leave shortly afterwards and proceeded to thePlanet office. I had work to do, but I must admit that I little relished the idea of returning to my cottage. Diverted, now, from the notorious Red House, public interest had centered upon my residence, and the seclusion which I had gone so far to seek was disturbed almost hourly by impertinent callers who seemed to think that the scene of a sensational crime was public property.

  Coates had effectually disillusioned several of them on this point, but, nevertheless, the cottage had become distasteful to me. I realized that I must seek a new residence without delay. Shall I add that the primary cause of my reclusion no longer operated so powerfully? Of my dreams at this time I will speak later; but here I may say that I knew, and accepted the knowledge with a fearful joy, that if my new house of hope was doomed to be shattered, no spot in broad England could offer me rest again.