“I mean that those of us who were aware of the previous attempts onthe life of the Colonel apprehended this danger. And I believe thatsomething of this apprehension had extended even to the servants.”“Oh, to the servants? Now, I have seen all the servants, except thechef, who lives at a house on the outskirts of Mid-Hatton, as you mayknow. Can you give me any information about this man?”
“I have seen him,” replied Harley, “and have congratulated him upon his culinary art. His name, I believe, is Deronne. He is a Spaniard, and a little fat man. Quite an amiable creature,” he added.
“Hm.” The Inspector cleared his throat noisily.
“If that is all,” said Harley, “I should welcome an opportunity of a few hours’ sleep.”
“Oh,” said the Inspector. “Well, I suppose that is quite natural, but I shall probably have a lot more questions to ask you later.”
“Quite,” muttered Harley, “quite. Come on, Knox. Good-night, Inspector Aylesbury.”
“Good-night.”
Harley walked out of the dining room and across the deserted hall. He slowly mounted the stairs and I followed him into his room. It was now quite light, and as my friend dropped down upon the bed I thought that he looked very tired and haggard.
“Knox,” he said, “shut the door.”
I closed the door and turned to him.
“You heard that question about Miss Beverley?” I began.
“I heard it, and I am wondering what her answer will be when the Inspector puts it to her personally.”
“Surely it is obvious?” I cried. “A cloud of apprehension had settled on the house last night, Harley, which was like the darkness of Egypt. The poor girl was afraid to go to bed. She was probably sitting up reading.”
“Hm,” said Harley, drumming his feet upon the carpet. “Of course you realize that there is one person in Cray’s Folly who holds the clue to the heart of the mystery?”
“Madame de Stämer?”
He nodded grimly.
“When the rifle cracked out, Knox, she knew! Remember, no one had told her the truth. Yet can you doubt that she knows?”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Neither do I.” He clenched his teeth tightly and beat his fists upon the coverlet. “I was dreading that our friend the Inspector would ask a question which to my mind was very obvious.”
“You mean?—”
“Well, what investigator whose skull contained anything more useful than bubbles would have failed to ask if Colonel Menendez had an enemy in the neighbourhood?”
“No one,” I admitted; “but I fear the poor man is sadly out of his depth.”
“He is wading hopelessly, Knox, but even he cannot fail to learn about Camber to-morrow.”
He stared at me in a curiously significant manner.
“Do you mean, Harley,” I began, “that you really think——”
“My dear Knox,” he interrupted, “forgetting, if you like, all that preceded the tragedy, with what facts are we left? That Colonel Menendez, at the moment when the bullet entered his brain, must have been standing facing directly toward the Guest House. Now, you have seen the direction of the wound?”
“He was shot squarely between the eyes. A piece of wonderful marksmanship.”
“Quite,” Harley nodded his head. “But the bullet came out just at the vertex of the spine.”
He paused, as if waiting for some comment, and:
“You mean that the shot came from above?” I said, slowly.
“Obviously it came from above, Knox. Keep these two points in your mind, and then consider the fact that someone lighted a lamp in the Guest House only a few moments after the shot had been fired.”
“I remember. I saw it.”
“So did I,” said Harley, grimly, “and I saw something else.”
“What was that?”
“When you went off to summon assistance I ran across the lawn, scrambled through the bushes, and succeeded in climbing down into the little gully in which the stream runs, and up on the other side. I had proceeded practically in a straight line from the sun-dial, and do you know where I found myself?”
“I can guess,” I replied.
“Of course you can. You have visited the place. I came out immediately beside a little hut, Knox, which stands at the end of the garden of the Guest House. Ahead of me, visible through a tangle of bushes in the neglected garden, a lamp was burning. I crept cautiously forward, and presently obtained a view of the interior of a kitchen. Just as I arrived at this point of vantage the lamp was extinguished, but not before I had had a glimpse of the only occupant of the room—the man who had extinguished the lamp.”
“Who was it?” I asked, in a low voice.
“It was a Chinaman.”
“Ah Tsong!” I cried.
“Doubtless.”
“Good heavens, Harley, do you think—”
“I don’t know what to think, Knox. A possible explanation is that the household had been aroused by the sound of the shot, and that Ah Tsong had been directed to go out and see if he could learn what had happened. At any rate, I waited no longer, but returned by the same route. If our portly friend from Market Hilton had possessed the eyes of an Auguste Dupin, he could not have failed to note that my dress boots were caked with light yellow clay; which also, by the way, besmears my trousers.”
He stooped and examined the garments as he spoke.
“A number of thorns are also present,” he continued. “In short, from the point of view of an investigation, I am a most provoking object.”
He sighed wearily, and stared out of the window in the direction of the Tudor garden. There was a slight chilliness in the air, which, or perhaps a sudden memory of that which lay in the billiard room beneath us, may have accounted for the fact that I shivered violently.
Harley glanced up with a rather sad smile.
“The morning after Waterloo,” he said. “Sleep well, Knox.”
Sleep was not for me, despite Harley’s injunction, and although I was early afoot, the big house was already astir with significant movements which set the imagination on fire, to conjure up again the moonlight scene in the garden, making mock of the song of the birds and of the glory of the morning.
Manoel replied to my ring, and prepared my bath, but it was easy to see that he had not slept.
No sound came from Harley’s room, therefore I did not disturb him, but proceeded downstairs in the hope of finding Miss Beverley about. Pedro was in the hall, talking to Mrs. Fisher, and:
“Is Inspector Aylesbury here?” I asked.
“No, sir, but he will be returning at about half-past eight, so he said.”
“How is Madame de Stämer, Mrs. Fisher?” I enquired.
“Oh, poor, poor Madame,” said the old lady, “she is asleep, thank God. But I am dreading her awakening.”
“The blow is a dreadful one,” I admitted; “and Miss Beverley?”
“She didn’t go to her room until after four o’clock, sir, but Nita tells me that she will be down any moment now.”
“Ah,” said I, and lighting a cigarette, I walked out of the open doors into the courtyard.
I dreaded all the ghastly official formalities which the day would bring, since I realized that the brunt of the trouble must fall upon the shoulders of Miss Beverley in the absence of Madame de Stämer.
I wandered about restlessly, awaiting the girl’s appearance. A little two seater was drawn up in the courtyard, but I had not paid much attention to it, until, wandering through the opening in the box hedge and on along the gravel path, I saw unfamiliar figures moving in the billiard room, and turned, hastily retracing my steps. Officialdom was at work already, and I knew that there would be no rest for any of us from that hour onward.
As I reëntered the hall I saw Val Beverley coming down the staircase. She looked pale, but seemed to be in better spirits than I could have hoped for, although there were dark shadows under her eyes.
“Good morning, Miss Beverley,” I said.
“Good morning, Mr. Knox. It was good of you to come down so early.”
“I had hoped for a chat with you before Inspector Aylesbury returned,” I explained.
She looked at me pathetically.
“I suppose he will want me to give evidence?”
“He will. We had great difficulty in persuading him not to demand your presence last night.”
“It was impossible,” she protested. “It would have been cruel to make me leave Madame in the circumstances.”
“We realized this, Miss Beverley, but you will have to face the ordeal this morning.”
We walked through into the library, where a maid white-faced and frightened looking, was dusting in a desultory fashion. She went out as we entered, and Val Beverley stood looking from the open window out into the rose garden bathed in the morning sunlight.
“Oh, Heavens,” she said, clenching her hands desperately, “even now I cannot realize that the horrible thing is true.” She turned to me. “Who can possibly have committed this cold-blooded crime?” she said in a low voice. “What does Mr. Harley think? Has he any idea, any idea whatever?”
“Not that he has confided to me,” I said, watching her intently. “But tell me, does Madame de Stämer know yet?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean has she been told the truth?”
The girl shook her head.
“No,” she replied; “I am positive that no one has told her. I was with her all the time, up to the very moment that she fell asleep. Yet—”
She hesitated.
“Yes?”
“She knows! Oh, Mr. Knox! to me that is the most horrible thing of all: that she knows, that she must have known all along—that the mere sound of the shot told her everything!”
“You realize, now,” I said, quietly, “that she had anticipated the end?”
“Yes, yes. This was the meaning of the sorrow which I had seen so often in her eyes, the meaning of so much that puzzled me in her words, the explanation of lots of little things which have made me wonder in the past.”
I was silent for a while, then:
“If she was so certain that no one could save him,” I said, “she must have had information which neither he nor she ever imparted to us.”
“I am sure she had,” declared Val Beverley.
“But can you think of any reason why she should not have confided in Paul Harley?”
“I cannot, I cannot—unless—”
“Yes?”
“Unless, Mr. Knox,” she looked at me strangely, “they were both under some vow of silence. Oh! it sounds ridiculous, wildly ridiculous, but what other explanation can there be?”
“What other, indeed? And now, Miss Beverley, I know one of the questions Inspector Aylesbury will ask you.”
“What is it?”
“He has learned, from one of the servants I presume, as he did not see you, that you had not retired last night at the time of the tragedy.”
“I had not,” said Val Beverley, quietly. “Is that so singular?”
“To me it is no more than natural.”
“I have never been so frightened in all my life as I was last night. Sleep was utterly out of the question. There was mystery in the very air. I knew, oh, Mr. Knox, in some way I knew that a tragedy was going to happen.”
“I believe I knew, too,” I said. “Good God, to think that we might have saved him!”
“Do you think—” began Val Beverley, and then paused.
“Yes?” I prompted.
“Oh, I was going to say a strange thing that suddenly occurred to me, but it is utterly foolish, I suppose. Inspector Aylesbury is coming back at nine o’clock, is he not?”
“At half-past eight, so I understand.”
“I am afraid I have very little to tell him. I was sitting in my room in an appalling state of nerves when the shot was fired. I was not even reading; I was just waiting, waiting, for something to happen.”
“I understand. My own experience was nearly identical.”
“Then,” continued the girl, “as I unlocked my door and peeped out, feeling too frightened to venture farther in the darkness, I heard Madame’s voice in the hall below.”
“Crying for help?”
“No,” replied the girl, a puzzled frown appearing between her brows. “She cried out something in French. The intonation told me that it was French, although I could not detect a single word. Then I thought I heard a moan.”
“And you ran down?”
“Yes. I summoned up enough courage to turn on the light in the corridor and to run down to the hall. And there she was lying just outside the door of her room.”
“Was her room in darkness?”
“Yes. I turned on the light and succeeded in partly raising her, but she was too heavy for me to lift. I was still trying to revive her when Pedro opened the door of the servants’ quarters. Oh,” she closed her eyes wearily, “I shall never forget it.”
I took her hand and pressed it reassuringly.
“Your courage has been wonderful throughout,” I declared, “and I hope it will remain so to the end.”
She smiled, and flushed slightly, as I released her hand again.
“I must go and take a peep at Madame now,” she said, “but of course I shall not disturb her if she is still sleeping.”
We turned and walked slowly back to the hall, and there just entering from the courtyard was Inspector Aylesbury.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “good morning, Mr. Knox. This is Miss Beverley, I presume?”
“Yes, Inspector,” replied the girl. “I understand that you wish to speak to me?”
“I do, Miss, but I shall not detain you for many minutes.”
“Very well,” she said, and as she turned and retraced her steps, he followed her back into the library.
I walked out to the courtyard, and avoiding the Tudor garden and the billiard room, turned in the other direction, passing the stables where Jim, the negro groom, saluted me very sadly, and proceeded round to the south side of the house.
Inspector Aylesbury, I perceived, had wasted no time. I counted no fewer than four men, two of them in uniform, searching the lawns and the slopes beyond, although what they were looking for I could not imagine.
Giving the library a wide berth, I walked along the second terrace, and presently came in sight of the east wing and the tower. There, apparently engaged in studying the rhododendrons, I saw Paul Harley.
He signalled to me, and, crossing the lawn, I joined him where he stood.
Without any word of greeting:
“You see, Knox,” he said, speaking in the eager manner which betokened a rapidly working brain, “this is the path which the Colonel must have followed last night. Yonder is the door by which, according to his own account, he came out on a previous occasion, walking in his sleep. Do you remember?”
“I remember,” I replied.
“Well, Pedro found it unlocked this morning. You see it faces practically due south, and the Colonel’s bedroom is immediately above us where we stand.” He stared at me queerly. “I must have passed this door last night only a few moments before the Colonel came out, for I was just crossing the courtyard and could see you at my window at the moment when you saw poor Menendez enter the Tudor garden. He must have actually been walking around the east wing at the same time that I was walking around the west. Now, I am going to show you something, Knox, something which I have just discovered.”
From his waistcoat pocket he took out a half-smoked cigarette. I stared at it uncomprehendingly.
“Of course,” he continued, “the weather has been bone dry for more than a week now, and it may have lain there for a long time, but to me, Knox, to me it looks suspiciously fresh.”
“What is the point?” I asked, perplexedly.
“The point is that it is a hand-made cigarette, one of the Colonel’s. Don’t you recognize it?”
“Good heavens!” I said; “yes, of course it is.”
He returned it to his pocket without another word.
“It may mean nothing,” he murmured, “or it may mean everything. And now, Knox, we are going to escape.”
“To escape?” I cried.
“Precisely. We are going to anticipate the probable movements of our blundering Aylesbury. In short, I wish you to present me to Mr. Colin Camber.”
“What?” I exclaimed, staring at him incredulously.
“I am going to ask you,” he began, and then, breaking off: “Quick, Knox, run!” he said.
And thereupon, to my amazement, he set off through the rhododendron bushes in the direction of the tower!
Utterly unable to grasp the meaning of his behaviour, I followed, nevertheless, and as we rounded the corner of the tower Harley pulled up short, and:
“I am not mad,” he explained rather breathlessly, “but I wanted to avoid being seen by that constable who is prowling about at the bottom of the lawn making signals in the direction of the library. Presumably he is replying to Inspector Aylesbury who wants to talk to us. I am determined to interview Camber before submitting to further official interrogation. It must be a cross-country journey, Knox. I am afraid we shall be a very muddy pair, but great issues may hang upon the success of our expedition.”
He set off briskly toward a belt of shrubbery which marked the edge of the little stream. Appreciating something of his intentions, I followed his lead unquestioningly; and, scrambling through the bushes:
“This was the point at which I descended last night,” he said. “You will have to wade, Knox, but the water is hardly above one’s ankles.”
He dropped into the brook, waded across, and began to climb up the opposite bank. I imitated his movements, and presently, having scrambled up on the farther side, we found ourselves standing on a narrow bank immediately under that summer house which Colin Camber had told me he had formerly used as a study.
“We can scarcely present ourselves at the kitchen door,” murmured Harley; “therefore we must try to find a way round to the front. There is barbed wire here. Be careful.”
I had now entered with zest into the business, and so the pair of us waded through rank grass which in places was waist high, and on through a perfect wilderness of weeds in which nettles dominated. Presently we came to a dry ditch, which we negotiated successfully, to find ourselves upon the high road some hundred yards to the west of the Guest House.
“I predict an unfriendly reception,” I said, panting from my exertions, and surveying my friend, who was a mockery of his ordinarily spruce self.
“We must face it,” he replied, grimly. “He has everything to gain by being civil to us.”
We proceeded along the dusty high road, almost overarched by trees.
“Harley,” I said, “this is going to be a highly unpleasant ordeal for me.”
Harley stopped short, staring at me sternly.
“I know, Knox,” he replied; “but I suppose you realize that a man’s life is at stake.”
“You mean—?”
“I mean that when we are both compelled to tell all we know, I doubt if there is a counsel in the land who would undertake the defence of Mr. Colin Camber.”
“Good God! then you think he is guilty?”
“Did I say so?” asked Harley, continuing on his way. “I don’t recollect saying so, Knox; but I do say that it will be a giant’s task to prove him innocent.”
“Then you believe him to be innocent?” I cried, eagerly.
“My dear fellow,” he replied, somewhat irritably, “I have not yet met Mr. Colin Camber. I will answer your question at the conclusion of the interview.”
For a long time our knocking and ringing elicited no response. The brilliant state of the door-brass afforded evidence of the fact that Ah Tsong had arisen, even if the other members of the household were still sleeping, and Harley, growing irritable, executed a loud tattoo upon the knocker. This had its effect. The door opened and Ah Tsong looked out.
“Tell your master that Mr. Paul Harley has called to see him upon urgent business.”
“Master no got,” replied Ah Tsong, and proceeded to close the door.
Paul Harley thrust his hand against it and addressed the man rapidly in Chinese. I could not have supposed the face of Ah Tsong capable of expressing so much animation. At the sound of his native tongue his eyes lighted up, and:
“Tchée, tchée,” he said, turned, and disappeared.
Although he had studiously avoided looking at me, that Ah Tsong would inform his master of the identity of his second visitor I did not doubt. If I had doubted I should promptly have been disillusioned, for:
“Tell them to go away!” came a muffled cry from somewhere within. “No spy of Devil Menendez shall ever pass my doors again!”
The Chinaman, on retiring, had left the door wide open, and I could see right to the end of the gloomy hall. Ah Tsong presently re-appeared, shuffling along in our direction. Unemotionally:
“Master no got,” he repeated.
Paul Harley stamped his foot irritably.
“Good God, Knox,” he said, “this unreasonable fool almost exhausts my patience.”
Again he addressed Ah Tsong in Chinese, and although the man’s wrinkled ivory face exhibited no trace of emotion, a deep understanding was to be read in those oblique eyes; and a second time Ah Tsong turned and trotted back to the study. I could hear a muttered colloquy in progress, and suddenly the gaunt figure of Colin Camber burst into view.
He was shaved this morning, but arrayed as I had last seen him. Whilst he was not in that state of incoherent anger which I remembered and still resented, he was nevertheless in an evil temper.
He strode along the hallway, his large eyes widely opened, and fixing a cold stare upon the face of Harley.
“I learn that your name is Mr. Paul Harley,” he said, entirely ignoring my presence, “and you send me a very strange message. I am used to the ways of Señor Menendez, therefore your message does not deceive me. The gateway, sir, is directly behind you.”
Harley clenched his teeth, then:
“The scaffold, Mr. Camber,” he replied, “is directly in front of you.”
“What do you mean, sir?” demanded the other, and despite my resentment of the treatment which I had received at his hands, I could only admire the lofty disdain of his manner.
“I mean, Mr. Camber, that the police are close upon my heels.”
“The police? Of what interest can this be to me?”
Harley’s keen eyes were searching the pale face of the man before him.
“Mr. Camber,” he said, “the shot was a good one.”
Not a muscle of Colin Camber’s face moved, but slowly he looked Paul Harley up and down, then:
“I have been called a hasty man,” he replied, coldly, “but I can scarcely be accused of leaping to a conclusion when I say that I believe you to be mad. You have interrupted me, sir. Good morning.”
He stepped back, and would have closed the door, but:
“Mr. Camber,” said Paul Harley, and the tone of his voice was arresting.
Colin Camber paused.
“My name is evidently unfamiliar to you,” Harley continued. “You regard myself and Mr. Knox as friends of the late Colonel Menendez—”
At that Colin Camber started forward.
“ThelateColonel Menendez?” he echoed, speaking almost in a whisper.
But as if he had not heard him Harley continued:
“As a matter of fact, I am a criminal investigator, and Mr. Knox is assisting me in my present case.”
Colin Camber clenched his hands and seemed to be fighting with some emotion which possessed him, then:
“Do you mean,” he said, hoarsely—“do you mean that Menendez is—dead?”
“I do,” replied Harley. “May I request the privilege of ten minutes’ private conversation with you?”
Colin Camber stood aside, holding the door open, and inclining his head in that grave salutation which I knew, but on this occasion, I think, principally with intent to hide his emotion.
Not another word did he speak until the three of us stood in the strange study where East grimaced at West, and emblems of remote devil-worship jostled the cross of the Holy Rose. The place was laden with tobacco smoke, and scattered on the carpet about the feet of the writing table lay twenty or more pages of closely written manuscript. Although this was a brilliant summer’s morning, an old-fashioned reading lamp, called, I believe, a Victoria, having a nickel receptacle for oil at one side of the standard and a burner with a green glass shade upon the other, still shed its light upon the desk. It was only reasonable to suppose that Colin Camber had been at work all night.
He placed chairs for us, clearing them of the open volumes which they bore, and, seating himself at the desk:
“Mr. Knox,” he began, slowly, paused, and then stood up, “I accused you of something when you last visited my house, something of which I would not lightly accuse any man. If I was wrong, I wish to apologize.”
“Only a matter of the utmost urgency could have induced me to cross your threshold again,” I replied, coldly. “Your behaviour, sir, was inexcusable.”
He rested his long white hands upon the desk, looking across at me.
“Whatever I did and whatever I said,” he continued, “one insult I laid upon you more deadly than the rest: I accused you of friendship with Juan Menendez. Was I unjust?”
He paused for a moment.
“I had been retained professionally by Colonel Menendez,” replied Harley without hesitation, “and Mr. Knox kindly consented to accompany me.”
Colin Camber looked very hard at the speaker, and then equally hard at me.
“Was it at behest of Colonel Menendez that you called upon me, Mr. Knox?”
“It was not,” said Harley, tersely; “it was at mine. And he is here now at my request. Come, sir, we are wasting time. At any moment—”
Colin Camber held up his hand, interrupting him.
“By your leave, Mr. Harley,” he said, and there was something compelling in voice and gesture, “I must first perform my duty as a gentleman.”
He stepped forward in my direction.
“Mr. Knox, I have grossly insulted you. Yet if you knew what had inspired my behaviour I believe you could find it in your heart to forgive me. I do not ask you to do so, however; I accept the humiliation of knowing that I have mortally offended a guest.”
He bowed to me formally, and would have returned to his seat, but:
“Pray say no more,” I said, standing up and extending my hand. Indeed, so impressive was the man’s strange personality that I felt rather as one receiving a royal pardon than as an offended party being offered an apology. “It was a misunderstanding. Let us forget it.”
His eyes gleamed, and he seized my hand in a warm grip.
“You are generous, Mr. Knox, you are generous. And now, sir,” he inclined his head in Paul Harley’s direction, and resumed his seat.
Harley had suffered this odd little interlude in silence but now:
“Mr. Camber,” he said, rapidly, “I sent you a message by your Chinese servant to the effect that the police would be here within ten minutes to arrest you.”
“You did, sir,” replied Colin Camber, drawing toward him a piece of newspaper upon which rested a dwindling mound of shag. “This is most disturbing, of course. But since I have not rendered myself amenable to the law, it leaves me moderately unmoved. Upon your second point, Mr. Harley, I shall beg you, to enlarge. You tell me that Don Juan Menendez is dead?”
He had begun to fill his corn-cob as he spoke the words, but from where I sat I could just see his face, so that although his voice was well controlled, the gleam in his eyes was unmistakable.
“He was shot through the head shortly after midnight.”
“What?”
Colin Camber dropped the corn-cob and stood up again, the light of a dawning comprehension in his eyes.
“Do you mean that he was murdered?”
“I do.”
“Good God,” whispered Camber, “at last I understand.”
“That is why we are here, Mr. Camber, and that is why the police will be here at any moment.”
Colin Camber stood erect, one hand resting upon the desk.
“So this was the meaning of the shot which we heard in the night,” he said, slowly.
Crossing the room, he closed and locked the study door, then, returning, he sat down once more, entirely, master of himself. Frowning slightly he looked from Harley in my direction, and then back again at Harley.
“Gentlemen,” he resumed, “I appreciate the urgency of my danger. Preposterous though I know it to be, nevertheless it is perhaps no more than natural that suspicion should fall upon me.”
He was evidently thinking rapidly. His manner had grown quite cool, and I could see that he had focussed his keen brain upon the abyss which he perceived to lie in his path.
“Before I commit myself to any statements which might be used as evidence,” he said, “doubtless, Mr. Harley, you will inform me of your exact standpoint in this matter. Do you represent the late Colonel Menendez, do you represent the law, or may I regard you as a perfectly impartial enquirer?”
“You may regard me, Mr. Camber, as one to whom nothing but the truth is of the slightest interest. I was requested by the late Colonel Menendez to visit Cray’s Folly.”
“Professionally?”
“To endeavour to trace the origin of certain occurrences which had led him to believe his life to be in danger.”
Harley paused, staring hard at Colin Camber.
“Since I recognize myself to be standing in the position of a suspect,” said the latter, “it is perhaps unfair to request you to acquaint me with the nature of these occurrences?”
“The one, sir,” replied Paul Harley, “which most intimately concerns yourself is this: Almost exactly a month ago the wing of a bat was nailed to the door of Cray’s Folly.”
“What?” exclaimed Colin Camber, leaning forward eagerly—“the wing of a bat? What kind of bat?”
“Of a South American Vampire Bat.”
The effect of those words was curious. If any doubt respecting Camber’s innocence had remained with me at this time I think his expression as he leaned forward across the desk must certainly have removed it. That the man was intellectually unusual, and intensely difficult to understand, must have been apparent to the most superficial observer, but I found it hard to believe that these moods of his were simulated. At the words “A South American Vampire Bat” the enthusiasm of the specialist leapt into his eyes. Personal danger was forgotten. Harley had trenched upon his particular territory, and I knew that if Colin Camber had actually killed Colonel Menendez, then it had been the act of a maniac. No man newly come from so bloody a deed could have acted as Camber acted now.
“It is the death-sign of Voodoo!” he exclaimed, excitedly.
Yet again he arose, and crossing to one of the many cabinets which were in the room, he pulled open a drawer and took out a shallow tray.
My friend was watching him intently, and from the expression upon his bronzed face I could deduce the fact that in Colin Camber he had met the supreme puzzle of his career. As Camber stood there, holding up an object which he had taken from the tray, whilst Paul Harley sat staring at him, I thought the scene was one transcending the grotesque. Here was the suspected man triumphantly producing evidence to hang himself.
Between his finger and thumb Camber held the wing of a bat!
“I brought this bat wing from Haiti,” he explained, replacing it in the tray. “It was found beneath the pillow of a negro missionary who had died mysteriously during the night.”
He returned the tray to the drawer, closed the latter, and, standing erect, raised clenched hands above his head.
“With no thought of blasphemy,” he said, “but with reverence, I thank God from the bottom of my heart that Juan Menendez is dead.”
He reseated himself, whilst Harley regarded him silently, then:
“‘The evil that men do lives after them,’” he murmured. He rested his chin upon his hand. “A bat wing,” he continued, musingly, “a bat wing was nailed to Menendez’s door.” He stared across at Harley. “Am I to believe, sir, that this was the clue which led you to the Guest House?”
Paul Harley nodded.
“It was.”
“I understand. I must therefore take no more excursions into my special subject, but must endeavour to regard the matter from the point of view of the enquiry. Am I to assume that Menendez was acquainted with the significance of this token?”
“He had seen it employed in the West Indies.”
“Ah, the black-hearted devil! But I fear I am involving myself more deeply in suspicion. Perhaps, Mr. Harley, the ends of justice would be better served if you were to question me, and I to confine myself to answering you.”
“Very well,” Harley agreed: “when and where did you meet the late Colonel Menendez?”
“I never met him in my life.”
“Do you mean that you had never spoken to him?”
“Never.”
“Hm. Tell me, Mr. Camber, where were you at twelve o’clock last night?”
“Here, writing.”
“And where was Ah Tsong?”
“Ah Tsong?” Colin Camber stared uncomprehendingly. “Ah Tsong was in bed.”
“Oh. Did anything disturb you?”
“Yes, the sound of a rifle shot.”
“You knew it for a rifle shot?”
“It was unmistakable.”
“What did you do?”
“I was in the midst of a most important passage, and I should probably have taken no steps in the matter but that Ah Tsong knocked upon the study door, to inform me that my wife had been awakened by the sound of the shot. She is somewhat nervous and had rung for Ah Tsong, asking him to see if all were well with me.”
“Do I understand that she imagined the sound to have come from this room?”
“When we are newly awakened from sleep, Mr. Harley, we retain only an imperfect impression of that which awakened us.”
“True,” replied Paul Harley; “and did Ah Tsong return to his room?”
“Not immediately. Permit me to say, Mr. Harley, that the nature of your questions surprises me. At the moment I fail to see their bearing upon the main issue. He returned and reported to my wife that I was writing, and she then requested him to bring her a glass of milk. Accordingly, he came down again, and going out into the kitchen, executed this order.”
“Ah. He would have to light a candle for that purpose, I suppose?”
“A candle, or a lamp,” replied Colin Camber, staring at Paul Harley. Then, his expression altering: “Of course!” he cried. “You saw the light from Cray’s Folly? I understand at last.”
We were silent for a while, until:
“How long a time elapsed between the firing of the shot and Ah Tsong’s knocking at the study door?” asked Harley.
“I could not answer definitely. I was absorbed in my work. But probably only a minute or two.”
“Was the sound a loud one?”
“Fairly loud. And very startling, of course, in the silence of the night.”
“The shot, then, was fired from somewhere quite near the house?”
“I presume so.”
“But you thought no more about the matter?”
“Frankly, I had forgotten it. You see, the neighbourhood is rich with game; it might have been a poacher.”
“Quite,” murmured Harley, but his face was very stern. “I wonder if you fully realize the danger of your position, Mr. Camber?”
“Believe me,” was the reply, “I can anticipate almost every question which I shall be called upon to answer.”
Paul Harley stared at him in a way which told me that he was comparing his features line for line with the etching of Edgar Allen Poe which hung in his office in Chancery Lane, and:
“I do believe you,” he replied, “and I am wondering if you are in a position to clear yourself?”
“On the contrary,” Camber assured him, “I am only waiting to hear that Juan Menendez was shot in the grounds of Cray’s Folly, and not within the house, to propose to you that unless the real assassin be discovered, I shall quite possibly pay the penalty of his crime.”
“He was shot in the Tudor garden,” replied Harley, “within sight of your windows.”
“Ah!” Colin Camber resumed the task of stuffing shag into his corn-cob. “Then if it would interest you, Mr. Harley, I will briefly outline the case against myself. I had never troubled to disguise the fact that I hated Menendez. Many witnesses can be called to testify to this. He was in Cuba when I was in Cuba, and evidence is doubtless obtainable to show that we stayed at the same hotels in various cities of the United States prior to my coming to England and leasing the Guest House. Finally, he became my neighbour in Surrey.”
He carefully lighted his pipe, whilst Harley and I watched him silently, then:
“Menendez had the bat wing nailed to the door of his house,” he continued. “He believed himself to be in danger, and associated this sign with the source of his danger. Excepting himself and possibly certain other members of his household it is improbable that any one else in Surrey understands the significance of the token save myself. The unholy rites of Voodoo are a closed book to the Western nations. I have opened that book, Mr. Harley. The powers of the Obeah man, and especially of the arch-magician known and dreaded by every negro as ‘Bat Wing,’ are familiar to me. Since I was alone at the time that the shot was fired, and for some few minutes afterward, and since the Tudor garden of Cray’s Folly is within easy range of the Guest House, to fail to place me under arrest would be an act of sheer stupidity.”
He spoke the words with a sort of triumph. Like the fakir, he possessed the art of spiritual detachment, which is an attribute of genius. From an intellectual eminence he was surveying his own peril. Colin Camber in the flesh had ceased to exist; he was merely a pawn in a fascinating game.
Paul Harley glanced at his watch.
“Mr. Camber,” he said, “I have just sustained the most crushing defeat of my career. The man who had summoned me to his aid was killed almost before my eyes. One thing I must do or accept professional oblivion.”
“I understand.” Colin Camber nodded. “Apprehend his murderer?”
“Ultimately, yes. But, firstly, I must see that to the assassination of Colonel Menendez a judicial murder is not added.”
“You mean—?” asked Camber, eagerly.
“I mean that if you killed Menendez, you are a madman, and I have formed the opinion during our brief conversation that you are brilliantly sane.”
Colin Camber rose and bowed in that old-world fashion which was his.
“I am obliged to you, Mr. Harley,” he replied. “But has Mr. Knox informed you of my bibulous habits?”
Paul Harley nodded.
“They will, of course, be ascribed,” continued Camber, “and there are many suitable analogies, to deliberate contemplation of a murderous deed. I would remind you that chronic alcoholism is a recognized form, of insanity.”
His mood changed again, and sighing wearily, he lay back in the chair. Over his pale face crept an expression which I knew, instinctively, to mean that he was thinking of his wife.
“Mr. Harley,” he said, speaking in a very low tone which scorned to accentuate the beauty of his voice, “I have suffered much in the quest of truth. Suffering is the gate beyond which we find compassion. Perhaps you have thought my foregoing remarks frivolous, in view of the fact that last night a soul was sent to its reckoning almost at my doors. I revere the truth, however, above all lesser laws and above all expediency. I do not, and I cannot, regret the end of the man Menendez. But for three reasons I should regret to pay the penalty of a crime which I did not commit, These reasons are—one,” he ticked them off upon his delicate fingers—“It would be bitter to know that Devil Menendez even in death had injured me; two—My work in the world, which is unfinished; and, three—My wife.”
I watched and listened, almost awed by the strangeness of the man who sat before me. His three reasons were illuminating. A casual observer might have regarded Colin Camber as a monument of selfishness. But it was evident to me, and I knew it must be evident to Paul Harley, that his egotism was quite selfless. To a natural human resentment and a pathetic love for his wife he had added, as an equal clause, the claim of the world upon his genius.
“I have heard you,” said Paul Harley, quietly, “and you have led me to the most important point of all.”
“What point is that, Mr. Harley?”
“You have referred to your recent lapse from abstemiousness. Excuse me if I discuss personal matters. This you ascribed to domestic troubles, or so Mr. Knox has informed me. You have also referred to your undisguised hatred of the late Colonel Juan Menendez. I am going to ask you, Mr. Camber, to tell me quite frankly what was the nature of those domestic troubles, and what had caused this hatred which survives even the death of its object?”
Colin Camber stood up, angular, untidy, but a figure of great dignity.
“Mr. Harley,” he replied, “I cannot answer your questions.”
Paul Harley inclined his head gravely.
“May I suggest,” he said, “that you will be called upon to do so under circumstances which will brook no denial.”
Colin Camber watched him unflinchingly.
“‘The fate of every man is hung around his neck,’” he replied.
“Yet, in this secret history which you refuse to divulge, and which therefore must count against you, the truth may lie which exculpates you.”
“It may be so. But my determination remains unaltered.”
“Very well,” answered Paul Harley, quietly, but I could see that he was exercising a tremendous restraint upon himself. “I respect your decision, but you have given me a giant’s task, and for this I cannot thank you, Mr. Camber.”
I heard a car pulled up in the road outside the Guest House. Colin Camber clenched his hands and sat down again in the carved chair.
“The opportunity has passed,” said Harley. “The police are here.”