Bat-Wing (23 page)

"
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.

"The
late
Colonel 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."