Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “When I struggled back to consciousness Daisy knelt silently beside me, while Captain McPeek and Professor Holroyd bound up my shattered arm, talking excitedly. The pain made me faint and dizzy. I tried to speak and could not. At last they got me to my feet and into the wagon, and Daisy came, too, and crouched beside me, wrapped in oilskins to her eyes. Fatigue, lack of food, and excitement had combined with wounds and broken bones to extinguish the last atom of strength in my body; but my mind was clear enough to understand that the trouble was over and the thermosaurus safe.

  “I heard McPeek say that one of the birds that I had anchored to a cedar-tree had torn loose from the bullets and had winged its way heavily out to sea. The professor answered: ‘Yes, the ekaf-bird; the others were ool-ylliks. I’d have given my right arm to have secured them.’ Then for a time I heard no more; but the jolting of the wagon over the dunes roused me to keenest pain, and I held out my right hand to Daisy. She clasped it in both of hers, and kissed it again and again.

  “There is little more to add, I think. Professor Bruce Stoddard’s scientific pamphlet will be published soon, to be followed by Professor Holroyd’s sixteen volumes. In a few days the stuffed and mounted thermosaurus will be placed on free public exhibition in the arena of Madison Square Garden, the only building in the city large enough to contain the body of this immense winged reptile.”

  The young man hesitated, looking long and earnestly at Miss Barrison.

  “Did you marry her?” she asked, softly.

  “You wouldn’t believe it,” said the young man, earnestly— “you wouldn’t believe it, after all that happened, if I should tell you that she married Professor Bruce Stoddard, of Columbia — would you?”

  “Yes, I would,” said Miss Barrison. “You never can tell what a girl will do.”

  “That story of yours,” I said, “is to me the most wonderful and valuable contribution to nature study that it has ever been my fortune to listen to. You are fitted to write; it is your sacred mission to produce. Are you going to?”

  “I am writing,” said the young man, quietly, “a nature book. Sir Peter Grebe’s magnificent monograph on the speckled titmouse inspired me. But nature study is not what I have chosen as my life’s mission.”

  He looked dreamily across at Miss Barrison. “No, not natural phenomena,” he repeated, “but unnatural phenomena. What Professor Hyssop has done for Columbia, I shall attempt to do for Harvard. In fact, I have already accepted the chair of Psychical Phenomena at Cambridge.”

  I gazed upon him with intense respect.

  “A personal experience revealed to me my life’s work,” he, went on, thoughtfully stroking his blond mustache. “If Miss Barrison would care to hear it—”

  “Please tell it,” she said, sweetly.

  “I shall have to relate it clothed in that artificial garb known as literary style,” he explained, deprecatingly.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, “I never noticed any style at all in your story of the thermosaurus.”

  He smiled gratefully, and passed his hand over his face; a far-away expression came into his eyes, and he slowly began, hesitating, as though talking to himself:

  XXII

  “It was high noon in the city of Antwerp. From slender steeples floated the mellow music of the Flemish bells, and in the spire of the great cathedral across the square the cracked chimes clashed discords until my ears ached.

  “When the fiend in the cathedral had jerked the last tuneless clang from the chimes, I removed my fingers from my ears and sat down at one of the iron tables in the court. A waiter, with his face shaved blue, brought me a bottle of Rhine wine, a tumbler of cracked ice, and a siphon.

  “‘Does monsieur desire anything else?’ he inquired.

  “‘Yes — the head of the cathedral bell-ringer; bring it with vinegar and potatoes,’ I said, bitterly. Then I began to ponder on my great-aunt and the Crimson Diamond.

  “The white walls of the Hôtel St. Antoine rose in a rectangle around the sunny court, casting long shadows across the basin of the fountain. The strip of blue overhead was cloudless. Sparrows twittered under the eaves the yellow awnings fluttered, the flowers swayed in the summer breeze, and the jet of the fountain splashed among the water-plants. On the sunny side of the piazza the tables were vacant; on the shady side I was lazily aware that the tables behind me were occupied, but I was indifferent as to their occupants, partly because I shunned all tourists, partly because I was thinking of my great-aunt.

  “Most old ladies are eccentric, but there is a limit, and my great-aunt had overstepped it. I had believed her to be wealthy — she died bankrupt. Still, I knew there was one thing she did possess, and that was the famous Crimson Diamond. Now, of course, you know who my great-aunt was.

  “Excepting the Koh-i-noor and the Regent, this enormous and unique stone was, as everybody knows, the most valuable gem in existence. Any ordinary person would have placed that diamond in a safe-deposit. My great-aunt did nothing of the kind. She kept it in a small velvet bag, which she carried about her neck. She never took it off, but wore it dangling openly on her heavy silk gown.

  “In this same bag she also carried dried catnip-leaves, of which she was inordinately fond. Nobody but myself, her only living relative, knew that the Crimson Diamond lay among the sprigs of catnip in the little velvet bag.

  “‘Harold,’ she would say, ‘do you think I’m a fool? If I place the Crimson Diamond in any safe-deposit vault in New York, somebody will steal it, sooner or later.’ Then she would nibble a sprig of catnip and peer cunningly at me. I loathed the odor of catnip and she knew it. I also loathed cats. This also she knew, and of course surrounded herself with a dozen. Poor old lady! One day she was found dead in her bed in her apartments at the Waldorf. The doctor said she died from natural causes. The only other occupant of her sleeping-room was a cat. The cat fled when we broke open the door, and I heard that she was received and cherished by some eccentric people in a neighboring apartment.

  “Now, although my great-aunt’s death was due to purely natural causes, there was one very startling and disagreeable feature of the case. The velvet bag containing the Crimson Diamond had disappeared. Every inch of the apartment was searched, the floors torn up, the walls dismantled, but the Crimson Diamond had vanished. Chief of Police Conlon detailed four of his best men on the case, and, as I had nothing better to do, I enrolled myself as a volunteer. I also offered $25,000 reward for the recovery of the gem. All New York was agog.

  “The case seemed hopeless enough, although there were five of us after the thief. McFarlane was in London, and had been for a month, but Scotland Yard could give him no help, and the last I heard of him he was roaming through Surrey after a man with a white spot in his hair. Harrison had gone to Paris. He kept writing me that clews were plenty and the scent hot, but as Dennet, in Berlin, and Clancy, in Vienna, wrote me the same thing, I began to doubt these gentlemen’s ability.

  “‘You say,’ I answered Harrison, ‘that the fellow is a Frenchman, and that he is now concealed in Paris; but Dennet writes me by the same mail that the thief is undoubtedly a German, and was seen yesterday in Berlin. To-day I received a letter from Clancy, assuring me that Vienna holds the culprit, and that he is an Austrian from Trieste. Now, for Heaven’s sake,’ I ended, ‘let me alone and stop writing me letters until you have something to write about.’

  “The night-clerk at the Waldorf had furnished us with our first clew. On the night of my aunt’s death he had seen a tall, grave-faced man hurriedly leave the hotel. As the man passed the desk he removed his hat and mopped his forehead, and the night-clerk noticed that in the middle of his head there was a patch of hair as white as snow.

  “We worked this clew for all it was worth, and, a month later, I received a cable despatch from Paris, saying that a man answering to the description of the Waldorf suspect had offered an enormous crimson diamond for sale to a jeweller in the Palais Royal. Unfortunately the fellow took fright and disappeared be
fore the jeweller could send for the police, and since that time McFarlane in London, Harrison in Paris, Dennet in Berlin, and Clancy in Vienna had been chasing men with white patches on their hair until no gray-headed patriarch in Europe was free from suspicion. I myself had sleuthed it through England, France, Holland, and Belgium, and now I found myself in Antwerp at the Hôtel St. Antoine, without a clew that promised anything except another outrage on some respectable white-haired citizen. The case seemed hopeless enough, unless the thief tried again to sell the gem. Here was our only hope, for, unless he cut the stone into smaller ones, he had no more chance of selling it than he would have had if he had stolen the Venus of Milo and peddled her about the Rue de Seine. Even were he to cut up the stone, no respectable gem collector or jeweller would buy a crimson diamond without first notifying me; for although a few red stones are known to collectors, the color of the Crimson Diamond was absolutely unique, and there was little probability of an honest mistake.

  “Thinking of all these things, I sat sipping my Rhine wine in the shadow of the yellow awnings. A large white cat came sauntering by and stopped in front of me to perform her toilet, until I wished she would go away. After a while she sat up, licked her whiskers, yawned once or twice, and was about to stroll on, when, catching sight of me, she stopped short and looked me squarely in the face. I returned the attention with a scowl, because I wished to discourage any advances towards social intercourse which she might contemplate; but after a while her steady gaze disconcerted me, and I turned to my Rhine wine. A few minutes later I looked up again. The cat was still eying me.

  “‘Now what the devil is the matter with the animal,’ I muttered; ‘does she recognize in me a relative?’

  “‘Perhaps,’ observed a man at the next table.

  “‘What do you mean by that?’ I demanded.

  “‘What I say,’ replied the man at the next table.

  “I looked him full in the face. He was old and bald and appeared weak-minded. His age protected his impudence. I turned my back on him. Then my eyes fell on the cat again. She was still gazing earnestly at me.

  “Disgusted that she should take such pointed public notice of me, I wondered whether other people saw it; I wondered whether there was anything peculiar in my own personal appearance. How hard the creature stared! It was most embarrassing.

  “‘What has got into that cat?’ I thought. ‘It’s sheer impudence. It’s an intrusion, and I won’t stand it!’ The cat did not move. I tried to stare her out of countenance. It was useless. There was aggressive inquiry in her yellow eyes. A sensation of uneasiness began to steal over me — a sensation of embarrassment not unmixed with awe. All cats looked alike to me, and yet there was something about this one that bothered me — something that I could not explain to myself, but which began to occupy me.

  “She looked familiar — this Antwerp cat. An odd sense of having seen her before, of having been well acquainted with her in former years, slowly settled in my mind, and, although I could never remember the time when I had not detested cats, I was almost convinced that my relations with this Antwerp tabby had once been intimate if not cordial. I looked more closely at the animal. Then an idea struck me — an idea which persisted and took definite shape in spite of me. I strove to escape from it, to evade it, to stifle and smother it; an inward struggle ensued which brought the perspiration in beads upon my cheeks — a struggle short, sharp, decisive. It was useless — useless to try to put it from me — this idea so wretchedly bizarre, so grotesque and fantastic, so utterly inane — it was useless to deny that the cat bore a distinct resemblance to my great-aunt!

  “I gazed at her in horror. What enormous eyes the creature had!

  “‘Blood is thicker than water,’ said the man at the next table.

  “‘What does he mean by that?’ I muttered, angrily, swallowing a tumbler of Rhine wine and seltzer. But I did not turn. What was the use?

  “‘Chattering old imbecile,’ I added to myself, and struck a match, for my cigar was out; but, as I raised the match to relight it, I encountered the cat’s eyes again. I could not enjoy my cigar with the animal staring at me, but I was justly indignant, and I did not intend to be routed. ‘The idea! Forced to leave for a cat!’ I sneered. ‘We will see who will be the one to go!’ I tried to give her a jet of seltzer from the siphon, but the bottle was too nearly empty to carry far. Then I attempted to lure her nearer, calling her in French, German, and English, but she did not stir. I did not know the Flemish for ‘cat.’

  “‘She’s got a name, and won’t come,’ I thought. ‘Now, what under the sun can I call her?’

  “‘Aunty,’ suggested the man at the next table.

  “I sat perfectly still. Could that man have answered my thoughts? — for I had not spoken aloud. Of course not — it was a coincidence — but a very disgusting one.

  “‘Aunty,’ I repeated, mechanically, ‘aunty, aunty — good gracious, how horribly human that cat looks!’ Then, somehow or other, Shakespeare’s words crept into my head and I found myself repeating: ‘The soul of my grandam might haply inhabit a bird; the soul of — nonsense!’ I growled— ‘it isn’t printed correctly! One might possibly say, speaking in poetical metaphor, that the soul of a bird might haply inhabit one’s grandam—’ I stopped short, flushing painfully. ‘What awful rot!’ I murmured, and lighted another cigar. The cat was still staring; the cigar went out. I grew more and more nervous. ‘What rot!’ I repeated. ‘Pythagoras must have been an ass, but I do believe there are plenty of asses alive to-day who swallow that sort of thing.’

  “‘Who knows?’ sighed the man at the next table, and I sprang to my feet and wheeled about. But I only caught a glimpse of a pair of frayed coat-tails and a bald head vanishing into the dining-room. I sat down again, thoroughly indignant. A moment later the cat got up and went away.

  XXIII

  “Daylight was fading in the city of Antwerp. Down into the sea sank the sun, tinting the vast horizon with flakes of crimson, and touching with rich deep undertones the tossing waters of the Scheldt. Its glow fell like a rosy mantle over red-tiled roofs and meadows; and through the haze the spires of twenty churches pierced the air like sharp, gilded flames. To the west and south the green plains, over which the Spanish armies tramped so long ago, stretched away until they met the sky; the enchantment of the after-glow had turned old Antwerp into fairy-land; and sea and sky and plain were beautiful and vague as the night-mists floating in the moats below.

  “Along the sea-wall from the Rubens Gate all Antwerp strolled, and chattered, and flirted, and sipped their Flemish wines from slender Flemish glasses, or gossiped over krugs of foaming beer.

  “From the Scheldt came the cries of sailors, the creaking of cordage, and the puff! puff! of the ferry-boats. On the bastions of the fortress opposite, a bugler was standing. Twice the mellow notes of the bugle came faintly over the water, then a great gun thundered from the ramparts, and the Belgian flag fluttered along the lanyards to the ground.

  “I leaned listlessly on the sea-wall and looked down at the Scheldt below. A battery of artillery was embarking for the fortress. The tublike transport lay hissing and whistling in the slip, and the stamping of horses, the rumbling of gun and caisson, and the sharp cries of the officers came plainly to the ear.

  “When the last caisson was aboard and stowed, and the last trooper had sprung jingling to the deck, the transport puffed out into the Scheldt, and I turned away through the throng of promenaders; and found a little table on the terrace, just outside of the pretty café. And as I sat down I became aware of a girl at the next table — a girl all in white — the most ravishingly and distractingly pretty girl that I had ever seen. In the agitation of the moment I forgot my name, my fortune, my aunt, and the Crimson Diamond — all these I forgot in a purely human impulse to see clearly; and to that end I removed my monocle from my left eye. Some moments later I came to myself and feebly replaced it. It was too late; the mischief was done. I was not aware at first of the
exact state of my feelings — for I had never been in love more than three or four times in all my life — but I did know that at her request I would have been proud to stand on my head, or turn a flip-flap into the Scheldt.

  “I did not stare at her, but I managed to see her most of the time when her eyes were in another direction. I found myself drinking something which a waiter brought, presumably upon an order which I did not remember having given. Later I noticed that it was a loathsome drink which the Belgians call ‘American grog,’ but I swallowed it and lighted a cigarette. As the fragrant cloud rose in the air, a voice, which I recognized with a chill, broke, into my dream of enchantment. Could he have been there all the while — there sitting beside that vision in white? His hat was off, and the ocean-breezes whispered about his bald head. His frayed coat-tails were folded carefully over his knees, and between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand he balanced a bad cigar. He looked at me in a mildly cheerful way, and said, ‘I know now.’

  “‘Know what?’ I asked, thinking it better to humor him, for I was convinced that he was mad.

  “‘I know why cats bite.’

  “This was startling. I hadn’t an idea what to say.