by Sax Rohmer
An hour had elapsed since the departure of our visitor, and Paul Harleyand I sat in the cosy, book-lined study discussing the strange storywhich had been related to us. Harley, who had a friend attached tothe Spanish Embassy, had succeeded in getting in touch with him at hischambers, and had obtained some few particulars of interest concerningColonel Don Juan Sarmiento Menendez, for such were the full names andtitles of our late caller.
He was apparently the last representative of a once great Spanishfamily, established for many generations in Cuba. His wealth wasincalculable, although the value of his numerous estates had depreciatedin recent years. His family had produced many men of subtle intellectand powerful administrative qualities; but allied to this they had allpossessed traits of cruelty and debauchery which at one time had madethe name of Menendez a by-word in the West Indies. That there were manypeople in that part of the world who would gladly have assassinatedthe Colonel, Paul Harley's informant did not deny. But although thisinformation somewhat enlarged our knowledge of my friend's newestclient, it threw no fresh light upon that side of his story whichrelated to Voodoo and the extraordinary bat wing episodes.
"Of course," said Harley, after a long silence, "there is onepossibility of which we must not lose sight."
"What possibility is that?" I asked.
"That Menendez may be mad. Remorse for crimes of cruelty committed inhis youth, and beyond doubt he has been guilty of many, may have led toa sort of obsession. I have known such cases."
"That was my first impression," I confessed, "but it faded somewhat asthe Colonel's story proceeded. I don't think any such explanation wouldcover the facts."
"Neither do I," agreed my friend; "but it is distinctly possible thatsuch an obsession exists, and that someone is deliberately playing uponit for his own ends."
"You mean that someone who knows of these episodes in the earlier lifeof Menendez is employing them now for a secret purpose of his own?"
"Exactly."
"It renders the case none the less interesting."
"I quite agree, Knox. With you, I believe, that even if the Colonel isnot quite sane, at the same time his fears are by no means imaginary."
He gingerly took up the bat wing from the arm of his chair where he hadplaced it after a detailed examination.
"It seems to be pretty certain," he said, "that this thing is the wingof a Desmodus or Vampire Bat. Now, according to our authority"--hetouched a work which lay open on the other arm of his chair--"these arenatives of tropical America, therefore the presence of a living vampirebat in Surrey is not to be anticipated. I am personally satisfied,however, that this unpleasant fragment has been preserved in some way."
"You mean that it is part of a specimen from someone's collection?"
"Quite possibly. But even a collection of such bats would be quite anovelty. I don't know that I can recollect one outside the Museums. Tofollow this bat wing business further: there was one very curious pointin the Colonel's narrative. You recollect his reference to a native girlwho had betrayed certain information to the manager of the estate?"
I nodded rapidly.
"A bat wing was affixed to the wall of her hut and she died, accordingto our informant, of a lingering sickness. Now this lingering sicknessmight have been anaemia, and anaemia may be induced, either in man orbeast, by frequent but unsuspected visits of a Vampire Bat."
"Good heavens, Harley!" I exclaimed, "what a horrible idea."
"It _is_ a horrible idea, but in countries infested by these creaturessuch things happen occasionally. I distinctly recollect a story whichI once heard, of a little girl in some district of tropical Americafalling into such a decline, from which she was only rescued in the nickof time by the discovery that one of these Vampire Bats, a particularlylarge one, had formed the habit of flying into her room at night andattaching itself to her bare arm which lay outside the coverlet."
"How did it penetrate the mosquito curtains?" I enquired, incredulously.
"The very point, Knox, which led to the discovery of the truth. Thething, exhibiting a sort of uncanny intelligence, used to work its wayup under the edge of the netting. This disturbance of the curtains wasnoticed on several occasions by the nurse who occupied an adjoiningroom, and finally led to the detection of the bat!"
"But surely," I said, "such a visitation would awaken any sleeper?"
"On the contrary, it induces deeper sleep. But I have not yet come to mypoint, Knox. The vengeance of the High Priest of Voodoo, who figured inthe Colonel's narrative, was characteristic in the case of the nativewoman, since her symptoms at least simulated those which would resultfrom the visits of a Vampire Bat, although of course they may have beendue to a slow poison. But you will not have failed to note that theseveral attacks upon the Colonel personally were made with more ordinaryweapons. On two occasions at least a rifle was employed."
"Yes," I replied, slowly. "You are wondering why the lingering sicknessdid not visit him?"
"I am, Knox. I can only suppose that he proved to be immune. You recallhis statement that he made an almost miraculous recovery from the feverwhich attacked him after his visit to the Black Belt? This would seem topoint to the fact that he possesses that rare type of constitution whichalmost defies organisms deadly to ordinary men."
"I see. Hence the dagger and the rifle?"
"So it would appear."
"But, Harley," I cried, "what appalling crime can the man have committedto call down upon his head a vengeance which has survived for so manyyears?"
Paul Harley shrugged his shoulders in a whimsical imitation of theSpaniard.
"I doubt if the feud dates any earlier," he replied, "than the time ofMenendez's last return to Cuba. On that occasion he evidently killed theHigh Priest of Voodoo."
I uttered an exclamation of scorn.
"My dear Harley," I said, "the whole thing is too utterly fantastic. Ibegin to believe again that we are dealing with a madman."
Harley glanced down at the wing of the bat.
"We shall see," he murmured. "Even if the only result of our visit is tomake the acquaintance of the Colonel's household our time will not havebeen wasted."
"No," said I, "that is true enough. I am looking forward to meetingMadame de Staemer--"
"The Colonel's invalid cousin," added Harley, tonelessly.
"And her companion, Miss Beverley."
"Quite so. Nor must we forget the Spanish butler, and the Colonelhimself, whose acquaintance I am extremely anxious to renew."
"The whole thing is wildly bizarre, Harley."
"My dear Knox," he replied, stretching himself luxuriously in the longlounge chair, "the most commonplace life hovers on the edge of thebizarre. But those of us who overstep the border become preposterousin the eyes of those who have never done so. This is not because theunusual is necessarily the untrue, but because writers of fiction haveclaimed the unusual as their particular province, and in doing so havedivorced it from fact in the public eye. Thus I, myself, am a myth, andso are you, Knox!"
He raised his hand and pointed to the doorway communicating with theoffice.
"We owe our mythological existence to that American genius whoseportrait hangs beside the Burmese cabinet and who indiscreetlycreated the character of C. Auguste Dupin. The doings of this amateurinvestigator were chronicled by an admirer, you may remember, sincewhen no private detective has been allowed to exist outside the pages offiction. My most trivial habits confirm my unreality.
"For instance, I have a friend who is good enough sometimes to recordmy movements. So had Dupin. I smoke a pipe. So did Dupin. I investigatecrime, and I am sometimes successful. Here I differ from Dupin. Dupinwas always successful. But my argument is this--you complain that thelife of Colonel Don Juan Sarmiento Menendez, on his own showing,has been at least as romantic as his name. It would not be accountedromantic by the adventurous, Knox; it is only romantic to the prosaicmind. In the same way his name is only unusual to our English ears. InSpain it would pass unnoticed."
"I am thinking of it, Knox, and it affords me much delight to think ofit. You have placed your finger I upon the very point I was endeavouringto make. Voodoo in the Surrey Hills! Quite so. Voodoo in some islandof the Caribbean Seas, yes, but Voodoo in the Surrey Hills, no. Yet, mydear fellow, there is a regular steamer service between South Americaand England. Or one may embark at Liverpool and disembark in the SpanishMain. Why, then, may not one embark in the West Indies and disembarkat Liverpool? This granted, you will also grant that from Liverpool toSurrey is a feasible journey. Why, then, should you exclaim, 'but Voodooin the Surrey Hills!' You would be surprised to meet an Esquimaux inthe Strand, but there is no reason why an Esquimaux should not visit theStrand. In short, the most annoying thing about fact is its resemblanceto fiction. I am looking forward to the day, Knox, when I can retirefrom my present fictitious profession and become a recognized memberof the community; such as a press agent, a theatrical manager, or someother dealer in Fact!"
He burst out laughing, and reaching over to a side-table refilled myglass and his own.
"There lies the wing of a Vampire Bat," he said, pointing, "in ChanceryLane. It is impossible. Yet," he raised his glass, "'Pussyfoot' Johnsonhas visited Scotland, the home of Whisky!"
We were silent for a while, whilst I considered his remarks.
"The conclusion to which I have come," declared Harley, "is that nothingis so strange as the commonplace. A rod and line, a boat, a luncheonhamper, a jar of good ale, and the peculiar peace of a Norfolkriver--these joys I willingly curtail in favour of the unknown thingswhich await us at Cray's Folly. Remember, Knox," he stared at mequeerly, "Wednesday is the night of the full moon."
CHAPTER IV
CRAY'S FOLLY
