The Destroying Angel

by Louis Joseph Vance

  X

  THE WINDOW

  Though they left New York not long after three in the afternoon,twilight was fast ebbing into night when the motor-car--the ownerdriving, Whitaker invalided to the lonely grandeur of the tonneau--sweptup from a long waste of semi-wooded countryside, sparsely populated,bumped over railroad tracks, purred softly at sedate pace through thesingle street of a drowsy village, and then struck away from the maincountry road.

  Once clear of the village bounds, as if assured of an unobstructed way,Ember gave the motor its head; with a long, keen whine of delight ittook the bit between its teeth and flung away like a thoroughbredromping down the home-stretch. Its headlights clove a path throughdarkness, like a splendid sword; a pale shining ribbon of road seemed torun to the wheels as if eager to be devoured; on either hand woodlandsand desolate clearings blurred into dark and rushing walls; the windbuffeted the faces of the travellers like a soft and tender hand,seeking vainly if with all its strength to withstand their impetus: onlythe wonderful wilderness of stars remained imperturbable.

  Whitaker, braced against the jolting, snatched begrudged mouthfuls ofair strong of the sea. From time to time he caught fugitive glimpses ofwhat seemed to be water, far in the distances to the right. He had novery definite idea of their whereabouts, having neglected through sheerindifference to question Ember, but he knew that they were drawingminute by minute closer to the Atlantic. And the knowledge was soothingto the unquiet of his soul, who loved the sea. He dreamed vaguely, withyearning, of wave-swept shores and their sonorous silences.

  After some time the car slowed to a palpitant pause at a spot where theroad was bordered on one hand by a woods, on the other by meadow-landsrunning down to an arm of a bay, on whose gently undulant surface theflame-tipped finger of a distant lighthouse drew an undulant path ofradiance.

  Ember jumped out to open a barred gate, then returning swung the carinto a clear but narrow woodland road. "Mine own domain," he informedWhitaker with a laugh, as he stopped a second time to go back and closethe gate. "Now we're shut of the world, entirely."

  The car crawled cautiously on, following a path that, in the searchingglare of headlights, showed as two parallel tracks of white set apart bya strip of livid green and walled in by a dense tangle of scrub-oak andpine and second growth. Underbrush rasped and rattled against theguards. Outside the lighted way arose strange sounds audible above eventhe purring of the motor--vast mysterious whisperings and rustlings:stealthy and murmurous protests against this startling trespass.

  Whitaker bent forward, inquiring: "Where are we?"

  "Almost there. Patience."

  Whitaker sat back again, content to await enlightenment at the pleasureof his host. Really, he didn't much care where they were: the sense ofisolation, strong upon his spirit, numbed all his curiosity.

  He reckoned idly that they must have threaded a good two miles ofwoodland, when at length the car emerged upon a clearing and immediatelyturned aside to the open doorway of a miniature garage.

  For the first time in five hours he was aware of the hush of Nature; themotor's song was ended for the night.

  The clearing seemed no more than a fair two acres in extent; the foresthemmed it in on three sides; on the fourth lay water. Nor was it anunqualified clearing; a hundred yards distant the lighted windows of aone-story structure shone pleasantly through a scattering plantation ofpine.

  Linking arms the better to guide his guest, Ember drew him toward thelights.

  "Bungalow," he explained, sententious, flourishing his free hand:"hermitage--retreat."

  "Paradise," Whitaker summed up, in the same humour.

  "Still-water swimming at the front door; surf bathing on the beachacross the bay; sailing, if you care for it; fishing, if you don't carewhat you say; all sorts of civilized loafing and no society except ourown."

  "No women?"

  "Not a petticoat."

  "No neighbours?"

  "Oh"--Ember motioned to his left as they faced the water--"there's amarried establishment over there somewhere, but we don't bother oneanother. Fellow by the name of Fiske. I understand the place is shutup--Fiske not coming down this year."

  "So much the better. I've been wanting just this all summer, withoutrealizing it."

  "Welcome, then, to Half-a-loaf Lodge!"

  Skirting the edges of the plantation, they had come round to the frontof the house. An open door, warm with light, welcomed them. They entereda long and deep living-room with walls of peeled logs and, at one end, astone fireplace wherein a wood fire blazed heartily. Two score candlesin sconces furnished an illumination mellow and benign. At a comfortabledistance from the hearth stood a table bright with linen, silver andcrystal--covers for two. The rear wall was broken by three doors, in oneof which a rotund Chinaman beamed oleaginously. Ember hailed him by thetitle of Sum Fat, explaining that it wasn't his name, but claiming forit the virtue of exquisite felicity.

  "My servant in town, here man-of-all-work; I've had him for years;faithful and indispensable...."

  Toward the end of an excellent dinner, Whitaker caught himself noddingand blinking with drowsiness. The fatigue of their long ride, added tothe nervous strain and excitement of the previous night, was provingmore than he had strength to struggle against. Ember took laughingcompassion upon him and led him forthwith to a bedroom furnished withthe rigid simplicity of a summer camp. Once abed he lay awake only longenough to recognize, in the pulsating quiet, the restless thunder ofsurf on the beach across the bay. Then he slept round the clock.

  He recovered consciousness to lie luxuriating in the sensation ofdelicious and complete repose, and to listen lazily to the drum ofraindrops on the low roof--too lazy, indeed, to turn his head andconsult his watch. Yet he knew it must be late in the morning, for thelight was broad, if gray.

  The shrill, imperative rattle of a telephone bell roused him morethoroughly. Lifting on his elbow, he eyed his watch, then hastily swunghis legs out of bed; for it was nearly ten o'clock.

  As he dressed he could hear the voice of Ember in the living-roomtalking over the telephone. Presently there came a tap at his door, andhis host entered.

  "Up, eh?" he said cheerfully. "I was afraid I'd have to wake you. You'resurely a sincere young sleeper.... I say!" His smile vanished beneaththe clouds of an impatient frown. "This is the devil of a note: I've gotto leave you."

  "What's the trouble?"

  "That's what I'm called upon to find out. A friend of mine's in a tightplace, and I've got to go and help pull him through. He just called meup--and I can't refuse. D'you mind being left alone for a day or so?"

  "Certainly not--only I'm sorry."

  "No more than I. But I'll try to get back to-morrow. If I don't, thenext day--or as soon as I possibly can. Meanwhile, please consideryourself lord and master here. Sum Fat will take good care of you.Anything you want, just ask him. Now I've got to get into waterproofs:it's raining like all get-out, but I can't wait for a let-up."

  By the time Whitaker was ready for breakfast, his host had splashed offto his motor car.

  Later, while Sum Fat crooned to himself over the dish-pan in thekitchen, Whitaker explored his quarters; to begin with, not in the leastdisconsolate to be left alone. The place had for his imagination thezest of novelty and isolation. He rather enjoyed the sensation ofcomplete dissociation from the rest of the world, of freedom to humourhis idlest whim without reference to the prejudices of any neighbour.

  Within-doors there was every comfort conceivably to be desired by anyother than a sybarite; without--viewed from the shelter of a wideveranda--a vague world of sweeping mist and driving rain; pine treesJapanesque against the mist, as if etched in bronze-green on frostedsilver; a breadth of rough, hummocky ground sloping down to the water'sedge, with a private landing-stage and, farther out, a courtesyingcat-boat barely discernible.

  The wind, freshening and driving very respectable if miniature rollersagainst the beach, came in heavy gusts, alternating with periods ofsteady, strong
blowing. At times the shining lances of the rain seemedto drive almost horizontally. Whitaker shivered a little, notunpleasantly, and went indoors.

  He poked his head into the kitchen. In that immaculate place, from whichevery hint of breakfast had disappeared as if by magic, Sum Fat wasreligiously cleaning his teeth--for the third time that morning, toWhitaker's certain knowledge.

  When he had finished, Whitaker put a question:

  "Sum Fat, which way does the wind blow--do you know?"

  Sum Fat flashed him a dazzling smile.

  "East'ly," he said in a cheerful, clucking voice. "I think very finedamn three-day blow."

  "At least," said Whitaker, "you're a high-spirited prophet of evil. Ithank you."

  He selected a book from several shelves stocked with a discriminatingtaste, and settled himself before the fire.

  The day wore out before his patience did, and with every indication offulfilling the prognosis of Sum Fat; by nightfall the wind had developedinto an enthusiastic gale, driving before it sheeted rain and greatragged wastes of mist. Whitaker absolutely enjoyed the sensation ofrenewed intimacy with the weather, from which his life in New York hadof late divorced him so completely. He read, dozed, did full justice tothe admirable cuisine of Sum Fat, and between whiles considered thestate of his soul, the cycle of the suns, his personal maritalentanglement, and the further preservation, intact, of his bruisedmortal body.

  The ceaseless pattering on the shingled roof reminded him very stronglyof that dark hour, long gone, when he had made up his mind to wed astrange woman. He marvelled at that madness with an inexhaustible wonderand with an equally vast, desolate, poignant regret.

  He considered faithfully what he had gained by reasserting his identity,and found it an empty thing. He had been happier when a Wilful Missing,unmissed, unmourned. It seemed as if it might be best to go away again,to eliminate Hugh Whitaker from the coil his reappearance had created.Then his wife could gain her freedom--and incidentally free him--andmarry as she willed. And Drummond would be free to come to life--withhands unstained, his honour besmirched only in the knowledge of a fewwho would not tell.

  Did he remain, Drummond, he feared, would prove a troublesome problem.Whitaker was, in the light of sober after-thought, more than halfconvinced that Ember had guessed cunningly at the identity of hisassailant. The thing was conceivable, at least, of Drummond: thehedonist and egoist seeking to regain his forfeited world in onemurderous cast. And it was hardly conceivable that he would hesitate tomake a second attempt whenever opportunity offered. New York, Whitakersaw clearly, was far too small to contain them both while Drummondremained at liberty. By attempting to stay there he would simply invitea second attempt upon his life, merely strengthen Drummond's temptation.

  He thought it very curious that he had heard nothing more of theproposed action for divorce. It might be well to communicate again withhis wife's attorneys.

  He went to bed with a mind unsettled, still curious, speculative, unableto fix upon any definite course of conduct.

  And the second day was like unto the first: a day of rain and wind andfog periodically punctuated by black squalls that tore shrieking acrossthe bay with the blind fury of spirits of destruction gone stark, ravingmad.

  The third day broke full of the spirit of the second; but toward noonthe rain ceased, and by mid-afternoon the violence of the wind hadmoderated perceptibly to a stiffish but failing breeze beneath abreaking cloud-rack. With the disappearance of fog, for the first timesince Whitaker's arrival the neighbourhood discovered perspectives. Byevening, when the wind went down with the sun, leaving absolute calm,the barrier beach far across the quiet waters of the shallow, landlockedbay shone like a bar of ruddy gold against a horizon of melting mauve.

  In the evening, too, a telegram from Ember was transmitted by telephoneto the bungalow, advising Whitaker of his host's intention to return bythe following night at the latest.

  This communication worked with the turn of the weather to effect achange in the temper of Whitaker, who by this time had managed to frethimself to the verge of incontinent departure for Australia _via_ NewYork. He decided, however, to wait and thank Ember for his hospitality,and thought seriously of consulting him as to the wisest and fairestcourse to pursue.

  None the less, the restlessness and impatience bred of nearly three daysof enforced inaction possessed him like a devil. After another of SumFat's admirable dinners, his craving for open air and exercise drove himout, despite the failing light, to explore the clearing ratherthoroughly, and to some extent the surrounding woodlands. At one time,indeed, he caught sight, through thinning trees, of a summer homesomewhat more pretentious than Half-a-loaf Lodge--evidently the propertytermed by Ember "the Fiske place." But it was then so nearly dark thathe didn't pause to investigate an impression that the place wastenanted, contradictory to his host's casual statement; and he was backon the bungalow porch in time to see the moon lift up like a greatshield of brass through the haze beyond the barrier beach.

  Sounds of splashings and of song drew him down to the water's edge, tofind that Sum Fat had rowed out to the anchored cat-boat and, almost asnaked as industrious, was bailing it clear of the three days'accumulation of rain-water. He came in, presently, and having performedwhat was probably at least the eighth cleaning of his teeth sincemorning, went to bed.

  Wearying at length of the lunar spectacle, and quite as weary of thesedulous attentions of a cloud of famished mosquitoes, Whitaker loungeddisconsolately indoors to a pipe and a book by candle-light. But the oneneeded cleaning, and the other was out of tune with his temper, and theflame of the candle excited the amorous interest of a great flutteringfool of a moth until Whitaker blew it out and sat on in darkness, nottired enough to go to bed, too tired to bestir himself and seekdistraction from a tormenting train of thought.

  A pool of limpid moonlight lay like milk upon the floor beneath a windowand held his dreaming gaze while memory marshalled for his delectation apageant of wasted years, infinitely desolate and dreary in his vision. Alife without profit, as he saw it: an existence rendered meaningless bya nameless want--a lack he had not wit to name.... The romance of hislife enchanted him, its futility furnished him a vast and profoundperplexity. To what end?--this was the haunting burden of hiscomplaint....

  How long he sat unstirring, preoccupied with fruitless inquiry, he didnot guess. But later he reckoned it could not have been long after teno'clock when he was disturbed. The sound of a footfall, hushed andstealthy on the veranda, roused him with a start, and almost at the sameinstant he became aware of a shadow that troubled the pool of moonlight,the foreshortened shadow of a man's head and shoulders. He sat up,tense, rigid with surprise and wonder, and stared at the silhouettedbody at pause just outside the window. The fellow was stooping to peerin. Whether he could distinguish Whitaker in the shadows was debatable,but he remained motionless through a long minute, as if fascinated bythe undeviating regard returned by Whitaker. Then the latter broke thespell with a hasty movement. Through the feeling of surprised resentmentthere had filtered a gnawing suspicion that he was acquainted with thepose of that head and the set of those shoulders. Had Drummond huntedhim down to this isolate hiding-place? On the thought he leaped up, intwo strides slammed out through the door.

  "I say!" he cried loudly. But he cried, apparently, to empty air. Theman was gone--vanished as strangely and as quietly as he had appeared.

  Whitaker shut teeth on an oath and, jumping down from the veranda, castwildly about the bungalow without uncovering a single sign of thetrespasser. In transit from his chair to the door, he had lost sight ofthe fellow for no more, certainly, than half a second; and yet, in thatabsurdly scanty space of time, the trespasser had managed to effect anabsolute disappearance. No conjuring trick was ever turned more neatly.There one instant, gone the next!--the mystery of it irritated andperplexed more than did the question of identity. It was all veryplausible to suspect Drummond--but whither could Drummond have juggledhimself in the twinkling of an e
yelash? That it was no trick of an idleimagination, Whitaker was prepared to swear: he was positive he had seenwhat he had seen. And yet.... It was, on the other hand, impossible tosay where in the plantation of pines the man might not then be skulking.Whitaker instituted a narrow search, but fruitless.

  Eventually pausing and glaring round the clearing in completebewilderment, he detected or else fancied a slight movement in theshadows on the edge of the encompassing woodland. Instantly, heedless ofthe risk he ran if the man were indeed Drummond and if Drummond wereindeed guilty of the assault now four nights old, Whitaker broke for thespot. It proved to be the entrance to one of the woodland paths, andnaturally--whether or no his imagination were in fault--there was nobodywaiting there to be caught.

  But if any one had been there, he had unquestionably fled along thetrail. Whitaker in a rage set himself to follow, sticking to the pathpartly through instinct, mainly thanks to a spectral twilightmanufactured in the forest by moon-beams filtered thin throughinnumerable leaves and branches. Once or twice he paused to listen, thenagain plunged on: misled perhaps by the mysterious but inevitable noisesof the nocturnal woodland. Before he realized he could have covered halfthe distance, he emerged abruptly into the clearing of the Fiske place.

  Here he pulled up, for the first time alive to the intrinsic idiocy ofhis conduct, and diverted besides by the discovery that his impressionof the early evening, that the cottage was tenanted, had been wellfounded.

  The ground floor windows shone with a dim but warm illumination. Therewas one quite near him, a long window opening upon the railed veranda,through which he could see distinctly part of a living-room rathercharmingly furnished in a summery way. At its farther end a dark-hairedwoman in a plain black dress with a short apron and lace cap sat readingby lamplight: evidently a maid. Her mistress--judged by appearances--wasoutside on the lawn below the veranda, strolling to and fro in companywith a somewhat short and heavy man who wore an automobile duster andvisored cap. By contrast, her white-clad figure, invested with theillusion of moonlight, seemed unusually tall. Her hair was fair, shininglike a head-dress of palest gold as she bent her head, attentive to hercompanion. And Whitaker thought to discern an unusual quality in hermovements, a quality of charm and a graciousness of mien rarely to benoticed even in the most beautiful of the women he had known.

  Of a sudden the man paused, produced a watch from beneath his duster,consulted it briefly and shut the case with a snap. He said something ina brusque tone, and was answered by what sounded like a pleasantnegative. Promptly, as if annoyed, he turned and strode hastily away,disappearing round the house.

  Alone, the woman watched him as long as he was in sight, her head to oneside with an effect of critical amusement. Then with a low laugh shecrossed the veranda and entered the lighted room. At the same time,Whitaker, lingering and watching without in the least understanding oreven questioning why he was doing this thing so contrary to hisinstincts, heard the heavy rumble of a motor-car on the far side of thehouse and saw the machine swing off across the clearing and into thewoods.

  In the living-room the woman was saying: "You may go now, Elise. I'll beready for bed before long."

  "Yes, madam." The maid rose and moved briskly out of sight.

  Her mistress, casting aside a scarf of embroidered Chinese brocade,moved about the room with an air at once languid and distrait. Pausingbeside a table, she took up a book, opened it, shut it smartly,discarding it as if hopeless of finding therein any sort of diversion.She stood for a moment in deep thought, her head bowed, the knuckle of aslender forefinger tapping her chin--charmingly posed. Whitaker abruptlyunderstood why it was he loitered, peeping: she was absolutelybeautiful, a creature both exquisite and superb, a matchless portraitfor the galleries of his memory.

  With a sigh and a quick movement of impatience, seating herself at acottage piano she ran her fingers over the keys. Whitaker recognized theopening bars of something or other of Beethoven's--he couldn't sayprecisely what, at the instant; and even as he tried a thing happenedwhich drove the music altogether from his mind: in short, he discoveredthat he was not the only watcher below the window.

  Something--a movement or perhaps a slight sound--had drawn his attentionfrom the woman. He saw the other man standing boldly in full moonlight,all his attention concentrated on the brilliant picture framed by thewindow. He was unquestionably without knowledge of the nearness of theother--of Whitaker in the shadows. And though his back was to the moonand his face further shadowed by a peaked cap, Whitaker was absolutelysure of the man: he was certainly Drummond.

  Without pause for thought he sprang toward him, in a guarded voiceuttering his name--"Drummond!" But the fellow proved too alert and quickfor him. Whitaker's hands closed on nothing more substantial than thinair; at the same time he received a blow upon his bruised shoulder smartand forcible enough to stagger him and evoke an involuntary grunt ofpain. And before he could regain his balance the fellow was thrashingnoisily away through the woodland underbrush.

  Involuntarily Whitaker glanced through the window to see if the womanhad been alarmed. But apparently a succession of sonorous chords fromthe piano had deafened her to all other sounds. She played on with everysign of total unconsciousness.

  Forthwith he struck off and blundered senselessly through the forest,misled by its elusive phantasmagoria, until, realizing at length he didbut duplicate an earlier folly, he gave up the chase in disgust andslowly made his way back to the bungalow.

  And yet (for all the mystery and the wonder of his experience) it waswith a somewhat sheepish feeling that he took the precaution of lockingthe doors and windows before turning in. After all, what grounds had hefor his suspicions? Merely a hasty guess at the identity of one whomight turn out to be nothing more than a hapchance tramp--a skulkingvagabond on the watch for a chance to pilfer and fly.

  If he were Drummond and as murderous-minded as Ember claimed, why had heneglected his dozen opportunities to ambush his prey in the woods?

  A shade of incredulity insensibly began to color Whitaker'sapprehensions. In time, with impatience, he dismissed them altogetherfrom his mind.

  He dozed off while dwelling upon the vision of a fair-haired womanidling over a piano, swaying slightly as she played.