Bat Wing

by Sax Rohmer

  In certain moods Paul Harley was impossible as a companion, and I,who knew him well, had learned to leave him to his own devices at suchtimes. These moods invariably corresponded with his meeting some problemto the heart of which the lance of his keen wit failed to penetrate.His humour might not display itself in the spoken word, he merely becameoblivious of everything and everybody around him. People might talk tohim and he scarce noted their presence, familiar faces appear and hewould see them not. Outwardly he remained the observant Harley whocould see further into a mystery than any other in England, but hisobservation was entirely introspective; although he moved amid thehustle of life he was spiritually alone, communing with the solitudewhich dwells in every man's heart.

  Presently, then, as we came to the lake at the foot of the slopinglawns, where water lilies were growing and quite a number of swans hadtheir habitation, I detected the fact that I had ceased to exist sofar as Harley was concerned. Knowing this mood of old, I pursued my wayalone, pressing on across the valley and making for a swing gate whichseemed to open upon a public footpath. Coming to this gate I turned andlooked back.

  Paul Harley was standing where I had left him by the edge of the lake,staring as if hypnotized at the slowly moving swans. But I would havebeen prepared to wager that he saw neither swans nor lake, but mentallywas far from the spot, deep in some complex maze of reflection throughwhich no ordinary mind could hope to follow him.

  I glanced at my watch and found that it was but little after twoo'clock. Luncheon at Cray's Folly was early. I therefore had some timeupon my hands and I determined to employ it in exploring part of theneighbourhood. Accordingly I filled and lighted my pipe and strolledleisurely along the footpath, enjoying the beauty of the afternoon, andadmiring the magnificent timber which grew upon the southerly slopes ofthe valley.

  Larks sang high above me and the air was fragrant with those wonderfulearthy scents which belong to an English countryside. A herd of veryfine Jersey cattle presently claimed inspection, and a little farther onI found myself upon a high road where a brown-faced fellow seated aloftupon a hay-cart cheerily gave me good-day as I passed.

  Quite at random I turned to the left and followed the road, so thatpresently I found myself in a very small village, the principal buildingof which was a very small inn called the "Lavender Arms."

  Colonel Menendez's curacao, combined with the heat of the day, had mademe thirsty; for which reason I stepped into the bar-parlour determinedto sample the local ale. I wars served by the landlady, a neat, round,red little person, and as she retired, having placed a foam-capped mugupon the counter, her glance rested for a moment upon the only otheroccupant of the room, a man seated in an armchair immediately to theright of the door. A glass of whisky stood on the window ledge at hiselbow, and that it was by no means the first which he had imbibed, hisappearance seemed to indicate.

  Having tasted the cool contents of my mug, I leaned back against thecounter and looked at this person curiously.

  He was apparently of about medium height, but of a somewhat fragileappearance. He was dressed like a country gentleman, and a stick andsoft hat lay upon the ledge near his glass. But the thing about himwhich had immediately arrested my attention was his really extraordinaryresemblance to Paul Harley's engraving of Edgar Allan Poe.

  I wondered at first if Harley's frequent references to the eccentricAmerican genius, to whom he accorded a sort of hero-worship, wereresponsible for my imagining a close resemblance where only a slight oneexisted. But inspection of that strange, dark face convinced me ofthe fact that my first impression had been a true one. Perhaps, in mycuriosity, I stared rather rudely.

  "You will pardon me, sir," said the stranger, and I was startled tonote that he spoke with a faint American accent, "but are you a literaryman?"

  As I had judged to be the case, he was slightly bemused, but by nomeans drunk, and although his question was abrupt it was spoken civillyenough.

  "Journalism is one of the several occupations in which I have failed," Ireplied, lightly.

  "You are not a fiction writer?"

  "I lack the imagination necessary for that craft, sir."

  The other wagged his head slowly and took a drink of whisky."Nevertheless," he said, and raised his finger solemnly, "you werethinking that I resembled Edgar Allan Poe!"

  "Good heavens!" I exclaimed, for the man had really amazed me. "Youclearly resemble him in more ways than one. I must really ask you toinform me how you deduced such a fact from a mere glance of mine."

  "I will tell you, sir," he replied. "But, first, I must replenish myglass, and I should be honoured if you would permit me to replenishyours."

  "Thanks very much," I said, "but I would rather you excused me."

  "As you wish, sir," replied the American with grave courtesy, "as youwish."

  He stepped up to the counter and rapped upon it with half a crown, untilthe landlady appeared. She treated me to a pathetic glance, but refilledthe empty glass.

  My American acquaintance having returned to his seat and having added avery little water to the whisky went on:

  "Now, sir," said he, "my name is Colin Camber, formerly of Richmond,Virginia, United States of America, but now of the Guest House, Surrey,England, at your service."

  Taking my cue from Mr. Camber's gloomy but lofty manner, I bowedformally and mentioned my name.

  "I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Knox," he assured me;"and now, sir, to answer your question. When you came in a few momentsago you glanced at me. Your eyes did not open widely as is the casewhen one recognizes, or thinks one recognizes, an acquaintance, theynarrowed. This indicated retrospection. For a moment they turned aside.You were focussing a fugitive idea, a memory. You captured it. Youlooked at me again, and your successive glances read as follows: Thehair worn uncommonly long, the mathematical brow, the eyes of a poet,the slight moustache, small mouth, weak chin; the glass at his elbow.The resemblance is complete. Knowing how complete it is myself, sir, Iventured to test my theory, and it proved to be sound."

  Now, as Mr. Colin Camber had thus spoken in the serious manner of aslightly drunken man, I had formed the opinion that I stood in thepresence of a very singular character. Here was that seeming mesalliancewhich not infrequently begets genius: a powerful and original mindallied to a weak will. I wondered what Mr. Colin Camber's occupationmight be, and somewhat, too, I wondered why his name was unfamiliar tome. For that the possessor of that brow and those eyes could fail tomake his mark in any profession which he might take up I was unwillingto believe.

  "Your exposition has been very interesting, Mr. Camber," I said. "Youare a singularly close observer, I perceive."

  "Yes," he replied, "I have passed my life in observing the ways of myfellowmen, a study which I have pursued in various parts of the worldwithout appreciable benefit to myself. I refer to financial benefit."

  He contemplated me with a look which had grown suddenly pathetic.

  "I would not have you think, sir," he added, "that I am an habitualtoper. I have latterly been much upset by--domestic worries, and--er--"He emptied his glass at a draught. "Surely, Mr. Knox, you are goingto replenish? Whilst you are doing so, would you kindly request Mrs.Wootton to extend the same favour to myself?"

  But at that moment Mrs. Wootton in person appeared behind the counter."Time, please, gentlemen," she said; "it is gone half-past two."

  "What!" exclaimed Mr. Camber, rising. "What is that? You decline toserve me, Mrs. Wootton?"

  "Why, not at all, Mr. Camber," answered the landlady, "but I can serveno one now; it's after time."

  "You decline to serve me," he muttered, his speech becoming slurred. "AmI, then, to be insulted?"

  I caught a glance of entreaty from the landlady. "My dear sir," I said,genially, "we must bow to the law, I suppose. At least we are better offhere than in America."

  "Ah, that is true," agreed Mr. Camber, throwing his head back andspeaking the words as though they possessed some deep dramaticsignificance. "Yes,
but such laws are an insult to every intelligentman."

  He sat down again rather heavily, and I stood looking from him to thelandlady, and wondering what I should do. The matter was decided forme, however, in a way which I could never have foreseen. For, hearinga light footfall upon the step which led up to the bar-parlour, Iturned--and there almost beside me stood a wrinkled little Chinaman!

  He wore a blue suit and a tweed cap, he wore queer, thick-soledslippers, and his face was like a smiling mask hewn out of very oldivory. I could scarcely credit the evidence of my senses, since theLavender Arms was one of the last places in which I should have lookedfor a native of China.

  Mr. Colin Camber rose again, and fixing his melancholy eyes upon thenewcomer:

  "Ah Tsong," he said in a tone of cold anger, "what are you doing here?"

  Quite unmoved the Chinaman replied:

  "Blingee you chit, sir, vellee soon go back."

  "What do you mean?" demanded Mr. Camber. "Answer me, Ah Tsong: who sentyou?"

  "Lilly missee," crooned the Chinaman, smiling up into the other's facewith a sort of childish entreaty. "Lilly missee."

  "Oh," said Mr. Camber in a changed voice. "Oh."

  He stood very upright for a moment, his gaze set upon the wrinkledChinese face. Then he looked at Mrs. Wootton and bowed, and looked at meand bowed, very stiffly.

  "I must excuse myself, sir," he announced. "My wife desires my presenceat home."

  I returned his bow, and as he walked quite steadily toward the door,followed by Ah Tsong, he paused, turned, and said: "Mr. Knox, I shouldesteem it a friendly action if you would spare me an hour of yourcompany before you leave Surrey. My visitors are few. Any one, any one,will direct you to the Guest House. I am persuaded that we have much incommon. Good-day, sir."

  He went down the steps, disappearing in company with the Chinaman,and having watched them go, I turned to Mrs. Wootton, the landlady, insilent astonishment.

  She nodded her head and sighed.

  "The same every day and every evening for months past," she said. "I amafraid it's going to be the death of him."

  "Do you mean that Mr. Camber comes here every day and is always fetchedby the Chinaman?"

  "Twice every day," corrected the landlady, "and his poor wife sends hereregularly."

  "What a tragedy," I muttered, "and such a brilliant man."

  "Ah," said she, busily removing jugs and glasses from the counter, "itdoes seem a terrible thing."

  "Has Mr. Camber lived for long in this neighbourhood?" I ventured toinquire.

  "It was about three years ago, sir, that he took the old Guest House atMid-Hatton. I remember the time well enough because of all the troublethere was about him bringing a Chinaman down here."

  "I can imagine it must have created something of a sensation," Imurmured. "Is the Guest House a large property?"

  "Oh, no, sir, only ten rooms and a garden, and it had been vacant for along time. It belongs to what is called the Crayland Park Estate."

  "Mr. Camber, I take it, is a literary man?"

  "So I believe, sir."

  Mrs. Wootton, having cleared the counter, glanced up at the clock andthen at me with a cheery but significant smile.

  "I see that it is after time," I said, returning the smile, "but thequeer people who seem to live hereabouts interest me very much."

  "I can't wonder at that, sir!" said the landlady, laughing outright."Chinamen and Spanish men and what-not. If some of the old gentry thatlived here before the war could see it, they wouldn't recognize theplace, of that I am sure."

  "Ah, well," said I, pausing at the step, "I shall hope to see more ofMr. Camber, and of yourself too, madam, for your ale is excellent."

  "Thank you, sir, I'm sure," said the landlady much gratified, "but asto Mr. Camber, I really doubt if he would know you if you met him again.Not if he was sober, I mean."

  "Really?"

  "Oh, it's a fact, believe me. Just in the last six months or so he hasstarted on the rampage like, but some of the people he has met in hereand asked to call upon him have done it, thinking he meant it."

  "And they have not been well received?" said I, lingering.

  "They have had the door shut in their faces!" declared Mrs. Wootton witha certain indignation. "He either does not remember what he says or doeswhen he is in drink, or he pretends he doesn't. Oh, dear, it's a funnyworld. Well, good-day, sir."

  "Good-day," said I, and came out of the Lavender Arms full of sympathywith the views of the "old gentry," as outlined by Mrs. Wootton; forcertainly it would seem that this quiet spot in the Surrey Hills hadbecome a rallying ground for peculiar people.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE CALL OF M'KOMBO