Bat Wing by Sax Rohmer

S >> Sax Rohmer >> Bat Wing

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19

This abrupt question rather startled me, but:

"You refer to the Borneo hill-country?"

"Precisely."

"No, I was never there."

"Then this little magical implement will be new to you," said he.

Standing up, he crossed to a cabinet littered untidily with all sorts
of strange-looking objects, carved bones, queer little inlaid boxes,
images, untidy manuscripts, and what-not.

He took up what looked like a very ungainly tobacco-pipe, made of some
rich brown wood, and, handing it to me:

"Examine this, Mr. Knox," he said, the boyish smile of triumph
returning again to his face.

I did as he requested and made no discovery of note. The thing clearly
was not intended for a pipe. The stem was soiled and, moreover, there
was carving inside the bowl. So that presently I returned it to him,
shaking my head.

"Unless one should be informed of the properties of this little
instrument," he declared, "discovery by experiment is improbable. Now,
note."

He struck the hollow of the bowl upon the palm of his hand, and it
delivered a high, bell-like note which lingered curiously. Then:

"Note again."

He made a short striking motion with the thing, similar to that which
one would employ who had designed to jerk something out of the bowl.
And at the very spot on the floor where any object contained in the
bowl would have fallen, came a reprise of the bell note! Clearly, from
almost at my feet, it sounded, a high, metallic ring.

He struck upward, and the bell-note sounded on the ceiling; to the
right, and it came from the window; in my direction, and the tiny bell
seemed to ring beside my ear! I will honestly admit that I was
startled, but:

"Dyak magic," said Colin Camber; "one of nature's secrets not yet
discovered by conventional Western science. It was known to the
Egyptian priesthood, of course; hence the Vocal Memnon. It was known to
Madame Blavatsky, who employed an 'astral bell'; and it is known to
me."

He returned the little instrument to its place upon the cabinet.

"I wonder if the fact will strike you as significant," said he, "that
the note which you have just heard can only be produced between sunrise
and sunset?"

Without giving me time to reply:

"The most notable survival of black magic--that is, the scientific
employment of darkness against light--is to be met with in Haiti and
other islands of the West Indies."

"You are referring to Voodooism?" I said, slowly.

He nodded, replacing his pipe between his teeth.

"A subject, Mr. Knox, which I investigated exhaustively some years
ago."

I was watching him closely as he spoke, and a shadow, a strange shadow,
crept over his face, a look almost of exaltation--of mingled sorrow and
gladness which I find myself quite unable to describe.

"In the West Indies, Mr. Knox," he continued, in a strangely altered
voice, "I lost all and found all. Have you ever realized, sir, that
sorrow is the price we must pay for joy?"

I did not understand his question, and was still wondering about it
when I heard a gentle knock, the door opened, and a woman came in.

CHAPTER XIV

YSOLA CAMBER

I find it difficult, now, to recapture my first impression of that
meeting. About the woman, hesitating before me, there was something
unexpected, something wholly unfamiliar. She belonged to a type with
which I was not acquainted. Nor was it wonderful that she should strike
me in this fashion, since my wanderings, although fairly extensive, had
never included the West Indies, nor had I been to Spain; and this girl
--I could have sworn that she was under twenty--was one of those rare
beauties, a golden Spaniard.

That she was not purely Spanish I learned later.

She was small, and girlishly slight, with slender ankles and exquisite
little feet; indeed I think she had the tiniest feet of any woman I had
ever met. She wore a sort of white pinafore over her dress, and her
arms, which were bare because of the short sleeves of her frock, were
of a child-like roundness, whilst her creamy skin was touched with a
faint tinge of bronze, as though, I remember thinking, it had absorbed
and retained something of the Southern sunshine. She had the swaying
carriage which usually belongs to a tall woman, and her head and neck
were Grecian in poise.

Her hair, which was of a curious dull gold colour, presented a mass of
thick, tight curls, and her beauty was of that unusual character which
makes a Cleopatra a subject of deathless debate. What I mean to say is
this: whilst no man could have denied, for instance, that Val Beverley
was a charmingly pretty woman, nine critics out of ten must have failed
to classify this golden Spaniard correctly or justly. Her complexion
was peach-like in the Oriental sense, that strange hint of gold
underlying the delicate skin, and her dark blue eyes were shaded by
really wonderful silken lashes.

Emotion had the effect of enlarging the pupils, a phenomenon rarely met
with, so that now as she entered the room and found a stranger present
they seemed to be rather black than blue.

Her embarrassment was acute, and I think she would have retired without
speaking, but:

"Ysola," said Colin Camber, regarding her with a look curiously
compounded of sorrow and pride, "allow me to present Mr. Malcolm Knox,
who has honoured us with a visit."

He turned to me.

"Mr. Knox," he said, "it gives me great pleasure that you should meet
my wife."

Perhaps I had expected this, indeed, subconsciously, I think I had.
Nevertheless, at the words "my wife" I felt that I started. The analogy
with Edgar Allan Poe was complete.

As Mrs. Camber extended her hand with a sort of appealing timidity, it
appeared to me that she felt herself to be intruding. The expression in
her beautiful eyes when she glanced at her husband could only be
described as one of adoration; and whilst it was impossible to doubt
his love for her, I wondered if his colossal egotism were capable of
stooping to affection. I wondered if he knew how to tend and protect
this delicate Southern girl wife of his.

Remembering the episode of the Lavender Arms, I felt justified in
doubting her happiness, and in this I saw an explanation of the mingled
sorrow and pride with which Colin Camber regarded her. It might betoken
recognition of his own shortcomings as a husband.

"How nice of you to come and see us. Mr. Knox," she said.

She spoke in a faintly husky manner which was curiously attractive,
although lacking the deep, vibrant tones of Madame de Staemer's
memorable voice. Her English was imperfect, but her accent good.

"Your husband has been carrying me to enchanted lands, Mrs. Camber," I
replied. "I have never known a morning to pass so quickly."

"Oh," she replied, and laughed with a childish glee which I was glad to
witness. "Did he tell you all about the book which is going to make the
world good? Did he tell you it will make us rich as well?"

"Rich?" said Camber, frowning slightly. "Nature's riches are health and
love. If we hold these the rest will come. Now that you have joined us,
Ysola, I shall beg Mr. Knox, in honour of this occasion, to drink a
glass of wine and break a biscuit as a pledge of future meetings."

I watched him as he spoke, a lean, unkempt figure invested with a
curious dignity, and I found it almost impossible to believe that this
was the same man who had sat in the bar of the Lavender Arms, sipping
whisky and water. The resemblance to the portrait in Harley's office
became more marked than ever. There was an air of high breeding about
the delicate features which, curiously enough, was accentuated by the
unshaven chin. I recognized that refusal would be regarded as a rebuff,
and therefore:

"You are very kind," I said.

Colin Camber inclined his head gravely and courteously.

"We are very glad to have you with us, Mr. Knox," he replied.

He clapped his hands, and, silent as a shadow, Ah Tsong appeared. I
noted that although it was Camber who had summoned him, it was to Mrs.
Camber that the Chinaman turned for orders. I had thought his yellow
face incapable of expression, but as his oblique eyes turned in the
direction of the girl I read in them a sort of dumb worship, such as
one sees in the eyes of a dog.

She spoke to him rapidly in Chinese.

"Hoi, hoi," he muttered, "hoi, hoi," nodded his head, and went out.

I saw that Colin Camber had detected my interest, for:

"Ah Tsong is really my wife's servant," he explained.

"Oh," she said in a low voice, and looked at me earnestly, "Ah Tsong
nursed me when I was a little baby so high." She held her hand about
four feet from the floor and laughed gleefully. "Can you imagine what a
funny little thing I was?"

"You must have been a wonder-child, Mrs. Camber," I replied with
sincerity; "and Ah Tsong has remained with you ever since?"

"Ever since," she echoed, shaking her head in a vaguely pathetic way.
"He will never leave me, do you think, Colin?"

"Never," replied her husband; "you are all he loves in the world. A
case, Mr. Knox," he turned to me, "of deathless fidelity rarely met
with nowadays and only possible, perhaps, in its true form in an
Oriental."

Mrs. Camber having seated herself upon one of the few chairs which was
not piled with books, her husband had resumed his place by the writing
desk, and I sought in vain to interpret the glances which passed
between them.

The fact that these two were lovers none could have mistaken. But here
again, as at Cray's Folly, I detected a shadow. I felt that something
had struck at the very root of their happiness, in fact, I wondered if
they had been parted, and were but newly reunited for there was a sort
of constraint between them, the more marked on the woman's side than on
the man's. I wondered how long they had been married, but felt that it
would have been indiscreet to ask.

Even as the idea occurred to me, however, an opportunity arose of
learning what I wished to know. I heard a bell ring, and:

"There is someone at the door, Colin," said Mrs. Camber.

"I will go," he replied. "Ah Tsong has enough to do."

Without another word he stood up and walked out of the room.

"You see," said Mrs. Camber, smiling in her naive way, "we only have
one servant, except Ah Tsong, her name is Mrs. Powis. She is visiting
her daughter who is married. We made the poor old lady take a holiday."

"It is difficult to imagine you burdened with household
responsibilities, Mrs. Camber," I replied. "Please forgive me but I
cannot help wondering how long you have been married?"

"For nearly four years."

"Really?" I exclaimed. "You must have been married very young?"

"I was twenty. Do I look so young?"

I gazed at her in amazement.

"You astonish me," I declared, which was quite true and no mere
compliment. "I had guessed your age to be eighteen."

"Oh," she laughed, and resting her hands upon the settee leaned forward
with sparkling eyes, "how funny. Sometimes I wish I looked older. It is
dreadful in this place, although we have been so happy here. At all the
shops they look at me so funny, so I always send Mrs. Powis now."

"You are really quite wonderful," I said. "You are Spanish, are you
not, Mrs. Camber?"

She slightly shook her head, and I saw the pupils begin to dilate.

"Not really Spanish," she replied, haltingly. "I was born in Cuba."

"In Cuba?"

She nodded.

"Then it was in Cuba that you met Mr. Camber?"

She nodded again, watching me intently.

"It is strange that a Virginian should settle in Surrey."

"Yes?" she murmured, "you think so? But really it is not strange at
all. Colin's people are so proud, so proud. Do you know what they are
like, those Virginians? Oh! I hate them."

"You hate them?"

"No, I cannot hate them, for he is one. But he will never go back."

"Why should he never go back, Mrs. Camber?"

"Because of me."

"You mean that you do not wish to settle in America?"

"I could not--not where he comes from. They would not have me."

Her eyes grew misty, and she quickly lowered her lashes.

"Would not have you?" I exclaimed. "I don't understand."

"No?" she said, and smiled up at me very gravely. "It is simple. I am a
Cuban, one, as they say, of an inferior race--and of mixed blood."

She shook her golden head as if to dismiss the subject, and stood up,
as Camber entered, followed by Ah Tsong bearing a tray of refreshments.

Of the ensuing conversation I remember nothing. My mind was focussed
upon the one vital fact that Mrs. Camber was a Cuban Creole. Dimly I
felt that here was the missing link for which Paul Harley was groping.
For it was in Cuba that Colin Camber had met his wife, it was from Cuba
that the menace of Bat Wing came.

What could it mean? Surely it was more than a coincidence that these
two families, both associated with the West Indies, should reside
within sight of one another in the Surrey Hills. Yet, if it were the
result of design, the design must be on the part of Colonel Menendez,
since the Cambers had occupied the Guest House before he had leased
Cray's Folly.

I know not if I betrayed my absentmindedness during the time that I was
struggling vainly with these maddening problems, but presently, Mrs.
Camber having departed about her household duties, I found myself
walking down the garden with her husband.

"This is the summer house of which I was speaking, Mr. Knox," he said,
and I regret to state that I retained no impression of his having
previously mentioned the subject. "During the time that Sir James
Appleton resided at Cray's Folly, I worked here regularly in the summer
months. It was Sir James, of course, who laid out the greater part of
the gardens and who rescued the property from the state of decay into
which it had fallen."

I aroused myself from the profitless reverie in which I had become
lost. We were standing before a sort of arbour which marked the end of
the grounds of the Guest House. It overhung the edge of a miniature
ravine, in which, over a pebbly course, a little stream pursued its way
down the valley to feed the lake in the grounds of Cray's Folly.

From this point of vantage I could see the greater part of Colonel
Menendez's residence. I had an unobstructed view of the tower and of
the Tudor garden.

"I abandoned my work-shop," pursued Colin Camber, "when the--er--the
new tenant took up his residence. I work now in the room in which you
found me this morning."

He sighed, and turning abruptly, led the way back to the house, holding
himself very erect, and presenting a queer figure in his threadbare
dressing gown.

It was now a perfect summer's day, and I commented upon the beauty of
the old garden, which in places was bordered by a crumbling wall.

"Yes, a quaint old spot," said Camber. "I thought at one time, because
of the name of the house, that it might have been part of a monastery
or convent. This was not the case, however. It derives its name from a
certain Sir Jaspar Guest, who flourished, I believe, under King Charles
of merry memory."

"Nevertheless," I added, "the Guest House is a charming survival of
more spacious days."

"True," returned Colin Camber, gravely. "Here it is possible to lead
one's own life, away from the noisy world," he sighed again wearily.
"Yes, I shall regret leaving the Guest House."

"What! You are leaving?"

"I am leaving as soon as I can find another residence, suited both to
my requirements and to my slender purse. But these domestic affairs can
be of no possible interest to you. I take it, Mr. Knox, that you will
grant my wife and myself the pleasure of your company at lunch?"

"Many thanks," I replied, "but really I must return to Cray's Folly."

As I spoke the words I had moved a little ahead at a point where the
path was overgrown by a rose bush, for the garden was somewhat
neglected.

"You will quite understand," I said, and turned.

Never can I forget the spectacle which I beheld.

Colin Camber's peculiarly pale complexion had assumed a truly ghastly
pallor, and he stood with tightly clenched hands, glaring at me almost
insanely.

"Mr. Camber," I cried, with concern, "are you unwell?"

He moistened his dry lips, and:

"You are returning--to Cray's Folly?" he said, speaking, it seemed,
with difficulty.

"I am, sir. I am staying with Colonel Menendez."

"Ah!"

He clutched the collar of his pyjama jacket and wrenched so strongly
that the button was torn off. His passion was incredible, insane. The
power of speech had almost left him.

"You are a guest of--of Devil Menendez," he whispered, and the speaking
of the name seemed almost to choke him. "Of--Devil Menendez. You--you--
are a spy. You have stolen my hospitality--you have obtained access to
my house under false pretences. God! if I had known!"

"Mr. Camber," I said, sternly, and realized that I, too, had clenched
my fists, for the man's language was grossly insulting, "you forget
yourself."

"Perhaps I do," he muttered, thickly; "and therefore"--he raised a
quivering forefinger--"go! If you have any spark of compassion in your
breast, go! Leave my house."

Nostrils dilated, he stood with that quivering finger outstretched, and
now having become as speechless as he, I turned and walked rapidly up
to the house.

"Ah Tsong! Ah Tsong!" came a cry from behind me in tones which I can
only describe as hysterical--"Mr. Knox's hat and stick. Quickly."

As I walked in past the study door the Chinaman came to meet me,
holding my hat and cane. I took them from him without a word, and, the
door being held open by Ah Tsong, walked out on to the road.

My heart was beating rapidly. I did not know what to think nor what to
do. This ignominious dismissal afforded an experience new to me. I was
humiliated, mortified, but above all, wildly angry.

How far I had gone on my homeward journey I cannot say, when the sound
of quickly pattering footsteps intruded upon my wild reverie. I
stopped, turned, and there was Ah Tsong almost at my heels.

"Blinga chit flom lilly missee," he said, and held the note toward me.

I hesitated, glaring at him in a way that must have been very
unpleasant; but recovering myself I tore open the envelope, and read
the following note, written in pencil and very shakily:

MR. KNOX.
Please forgive him. If you knew what we have suffered from Senor Don
Juan Menendez, I know you would forgive him. Please, for my sake.
YSOLA CAMBER.

The Chinaman was watching me, that strangely pathetic expression in his
eyes, and:

"Tell your mistress that I quite understand and will write to her," I
said.

"Hoi, hoi."

Ah Tsong turned, and ran swiftly off, as I pursued my way back to
Cray's Folly in a mood which I shall not attempt to describe.

CHAPTER XV

UNREST

I sat in Paul Harley's room. Luncheon was over, and although, as on the
previous day, it had been a perfect repast, perfectly served, the sense
of tension which I had experienced throughout the meal had made me
horribly ill at ease.

That shadow of which I have spoken elsewhere seemed to have become
almost palpable. In vain I had ascribed it to a morbid imagination:
persistently it lingered.

Madame de Staemer's gaiety rang more false than ever. She twirled the
rings upon her slender fingers and shot little enquiring glances all
around the table. This spirit of unrest, from wherever it arose, had
communicated itself to everybody. Madame's several bon mots one and all
were failures. She delivered them without conviction like an amateur
repeating lines learned by heart. The Colonel was unusually silent,
eating little but drinking much. There was something unreal, almost
ghastly, about the whole affair; and when at last Madame de Staemer
retired, bearing Val Beverley with her, I felt certain that the Colonel
would make some communication to us. If ever knowledge of portentous
evil were written upon a man's face it was written upon his, as he sat
there at the head of the table, staring straightly before him. However:

"Gentlemen," he said, "if your enquiries here have led to no result of,
shall I say, a tangible character, at least I feel sure that you must
have realized one thing."

Harley stared at him sternly.

"I have realized, Colonel Menendez," he replied, "that something is
pending."

"Ah!" murmured the Colonel, and he clutched the edge of the table with
his strong brown hands.

"But," continued my friend, "I have realized something more. You have
asked for my aid, and I am here. Now you have deliberately tied my
hands."

"What do you mean, sir?" asked the other, softly.

"I will speak plainly. I mean that you know more about the nature of
this danger than you have ever communicated to me. Allow me to proceed,
if you please, Colonel Menendez. For your delightful hospitality I
thank you. As your guest I could be happy, but as a professional
investigator whose services have been called upon under most unusual
circumstances, I cannot be happy and I do not thank you."

Their glances met. Both were angry, wilful, and self-confident.
Following a few moments of silence:

"Perhaps, Mr. Harley," said the Colonel, "you have something further to
say?"

"I have this to say," was the answer: "I esteem your friendship, but I
fear I must return to town without delay."

The Colonel's jaws were clenched so tightly that I could see the
muscles protruding. He was fighting an inward battle; then:

"What!" he said, "you would desert me?"

"I never deserted any man who sought my aid."

"I have sought your aid."

"Then accept it!" cried Harley. "This, or allow me to retire from the
case. You ask me to find an enemy who threatens you, and you withhold
every clue which could aid me in my search."

"What clue have I withheld?"

Paul Harley stood up.

"It is useless to discuss the matter further, Colonel Menendez," he
said, coldly.

The Colonel rose also, and:

"Mr. Harley," he replied, and his high voice was ill-controlled, "if I
give you my word of honour that I dare not tell you more, and if,
having done so, I beg of you to remain at least another night, can you
refuse me?"

Harley stood at the end of the table watching him.

"Colonel Menendez," he said, "this would appear to be a game in which
my handicap rests on the fact that I do not know against whom I am
pitted. Very well. You leave me no alternative but to reply that I will
stay."

"I thank you, Mr. Harley. As I fear I am far from well, dare I hope to
be excused if I retire to my room for an hour's rest?"

Harley and I bowed, and the Colonel, returning our salutations, walked
slowly out, his bearing one of grace and dignity. So that memorable
luncheon terminated, and now we found ourselves alone and faced with a
problem which, from whatever point one viewed it, offered no single
opening whereby one might hope to penetrate to the truth.

Paul Harley was pacing up and down the room in a state of such nervous
irritability as I never remembered to have witnessed in him before.

I had just finished an account of my visit to the Guest House and of
the indignity which had been put upon me, and:

"Conundrums! conundrums!" my friend exclaimed. "This quest of Bat Wing
is like the quest of heaven, Knox. A hundred open doors invite us, each
one promising to lead to the light, and if we enter where do they
lead?--to mystification. For instance, Colonel Menendez has broadly
hinted that he looks upon Colin Camber as an enemy. Judging from your
reception at the Guest House to-day, such an enmity, and a deadly
enmity, actually exists. But whereas Camber has resided here for three
years, the Colonel is a newcomer. We are, therefore, offered the
spectacle of a trembling victim seeking the sacrifice. Bah! it is
preposterous."

"If you had seen Colin Camber's face to-day, you might not have thought
it so preposterous."

"But I should, Knox! I should! It is impossible to suppose that Colonel
Menendez was unaware when he leased Cray's Folly that Camber occupied
the Guest House."

"And Mrs. Camber is a Cuban," I murmured.

"Don't, Knox!" my friend implored. "This case is driving me mad. I have
a conviction that it is going to prove my Waterloo."

"My dear fellow," I said, "this mood is new to you."

"Why don't you advise me to remember Auguste Dupin?" asked Harley,
bitterly. "That great man, preserving his philosophical calm, doubtless
by this time would have pieced together these disjointed clues, and
have produced an elegant pattern ready to be framed and exhibited to
the admiring public."

He dropped down upon the bed, and taking his briar from his pocket,
began to load it in a manner which was almost vicious. I stood watching
him and offered no remark, until, having lighted the pipe, he began to
smoke. I knew that these "Indian moods" were of short duration, and,
sure enough, presently:

"God bless us all, Knox," he said, breaking into an amused smile, "how
we bristle when someone tries to prove that we are not infallible! How
human we are, Knox, but how fortunate that we can laugh at ourselves."

I sighed with relief, for Harley at these times imposed a severe strain
even upon my easy-going disposition.

"Let us go down to the billiard room," he continued. "I will play you a
hundred up. I have arrived at a point where my ideas persistently work
in circles. The best cure is golf; failing golf, billiards."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19