Bat-Wing (4 page)

"That night, just at the hour of sunset, a shot was fired at me from a
neighbouring clump of trees, only missing me I think by the fraction of
an inch. I realized that the peril was real, and was one against which
I could not fight.

"Permit me to be brief, gentlemen. Six attempts of various kinds were
made upon my life in Cuba. I crossed to the United States. In
Washington, the political capital of the country, an assassin gained
access to my hotel apartment and but for the fact that a friend chanced
to call me up on the telephone at that late hour of the night, thereby
awakening me, I should have received a knife in my heart. I saw the
knife in the dim light; I saw the shadowy figure. I leapt out on the
opposite side of the bed, seized a table-lamp which stood there, and
hurled it at my assailant.

"There was a crash, a stifled exclamation, shuffling, the door opened,
and my would-be assassin was gone. But I had learned something, and to
my old fears a new one was added."

"What had you learned?" asked Harley, whose interest in the narrative
was displayed by the fact that his pipe had long since gone out.

"Vaguely, vaguely, you understand, for there was little light, I had
seen the face of the man. He wore some kind of black cloak doubtless to
conceal his movements. His silhouette resembled that of a bat. But,
gentlemen, he was neither a negro nor even a half-caste; he was of the
white races, to that I could swear."

Colonel Menendez lighted the cigarette which he had been busily
rolling, and fixed his dark eyes upon Harley.

"You puzzle me, sir," said the latter. "Do you wish me to believe that
this cult of Voodoo claims European or American devotees?"

"I wish you to believe," returned the Colonel, "that although as the
result of the alarm which I gave the hotel was searched and the
Washington police exerted themselves to the utmost, no trace was ever
found of the man who had tried to murder me, except"—he extended a
long, yellow forefinger, and pointed to the wing of the bat lying upon
Harley's table—"a bat wing was found pinned to my bedroom door."

Silence fell for a while; an impressive silence. Truly this was the
strangest story to which I had ever listened.

"How long ago was that?" asked Harley.

"Only two years ago. At about the time that the great war terminated. I
came to Europe and believed that at last I had found security. I lived
for a time in London amidst a refreshing peace that was new to me.
Then, chancing to hear of a property in Surrey which was available, I
leased it for a period of years, installing—is it correct?—my cousin,
Madame de Stämer, as housekeeper. Madame, alas, is an invalid, but"—he
kissed his fingers—"a genius. She has with her, as companion, a very
charming English girl, Miss Val Beverley, the orphaned daughter of a
distinguished surgeon of Edinburg. Miss Beverley was with my cousin in
the hospital which she established in France during the war. If you
will honour me with your presence at Cray's Folly to-morrow, gentlemen,
you will not lack congenial company, I can assure you."

He raised his heavy eyebrows, looking interrogatively from Harley to
myself.

"For my own part," said my friend, slowly, "I shall be delighted. What
do you say, Knox?"

"I also."

"But," continued Harley, "your presence here today, Colonel Menendez,
suggests to my mind that England has not proved so safe a haven as you
had anticipated?"

Colonel Menendez crossed the room and stood once more before the
Burmese cabinet, one hand resting upon his hip; a massive yet graceful
figure.

"Mr. Harley," he replied, "four days ago my butler, who is a Spaniard,
brought me—" He pointed to the bat wing lying upon the blotting pad.
"He had found it pinned to an oaken panel of the main entrance door."

"Was it prior to this discovery, or after it," asked Harley, "that you
detected the presence of someone lurking in the neighbourhood of the
house?"

"Before it."

"And the burglarious entrance?"

"That took place rather less than a month ago. On the eve of the full
moon."

Paul Harley stood up and relighted his pipe.

"There are quite a number of other details, Colonel," he said, "which I
shall require you to place in my possession. Since I have determined to
visit Cray's Folly, these can wait until my arrival. I particularly
refer to a remark concerning a neighbour of yours in Surrey."

Colonel Menendez nodded, twirling his cigarette between his long,
yellow fingers.

"It is a delicate matter, gentlemen," he confessed.

"I must take time to consider how I shall place it before you. But I
may count upon your arrival tomorrow?"

"Certainly. I am looking forward to the visit with keen interest."

"It is important," declared our visitor; "for on Wednesday is the full
moon, and the full moon is in some way associated with the sacrificial
rites of Voodoo."

An hour had elapsed since the departure of our visitor, and Paul Harley
and I sat in the cosy, book-lined study discussing the strange story
which had been related to us. Harley, who had a friend attached to the
Spanish Embassy, had succeeded in getting in touch with him at his
chambers, and had obtained some few particulars of interest concerning
Colonel Don Juan Sarmiento Menendez, for such were the full names and
titles of our late caller.

He was apparently the last representative of a once great Spanish
family, established for many generations in Cuba. His wealth was
incalculable, although the value of his numerous estates had
depreciated in recent years. His family had produced many men of subtle
intellect and powerful administrative qualities; but allied to this
they had all possessed traits of cruelty and debauchery which at one
time had made the name of Menendez a by-word in the West Indies. That
there were many people in that part of the world who would gladly have
assassinated the Colonel, Paul Harley's informant did not deny. But
although this information somewhat enlarged our knowledge of my
friend's newest client, it threw no fresh light upon that side of his
story which related to Voodoo and the extraordinary bat wing episodes.

"Of course," said Harley, after a long silence, "there is one
possibility of which we must not lose sight."

"What possibility is that?" I asked.

"That Menendez may be mad. Remorse for crimes of cruelty committed in
his youth, and beyond doubt he has been guilty of many, may have led to
a sort of obsession. I have known such cases."

"That was my first impression," I confessed, "but it faded somewhat as
the Colonel's story proceeded. I don't think any such explanation would
cover the facts."

"Neither do I," agreed my friend; "but it is distinctly possible that
such an obsession exists, and that someone is deliberately playing upon
it for his own ends."

"You mean that someone who knows of these episodes in the earlier life
of Menendez is employing them now for a secret purpose of his own?"

"Exactly."

"It renders the case none the less interesting."

"I quite agree, Knox. With you, I believe, that even if the Colonel is
not quite sane, at the same time his fears are by no means imaginary."

He gingerly took up the bat wing from the arm of his chair where he had
placed it after a detailed examination.

"It seems to be pretty certain," he said, "that this thing is the wing
of a Desmodus or Vampire Bat. Now, according to our authority"—he
touched a work which lay open on the other arm of his chair—"these are
natives of tropical America, therefore the presence of a living vampire
bat in Surrey is not to be anticipated. I am personally satisfied,
however, that this unpleasant fragment has been preserved in some way."

"You mean that it is part of a specimen from someone's collection?"

"Quite possibly. But even a collection of such bats would be quite a
novelty. I don't know that I can recollect one outside the Museums. To
follow this bat wing business further: there was one very curious point
in the Colonel's narrative. You recollect his reference to a native
girl who had betrayed certain information to the manager of the
estate?"

I nodded rapidly.

"A bat wing was affixed to the wall of her hut and she died, according
to our informant, of a lingering sickness. Now this lingering sickness
might have been anæmia, and anæmia may be induced, either in man or
beast, by frequent but unsuspected visits of a Vampire Bat."

"Good heavens, Harley!" I exclaimed, "what a horrible idea."

"It
is
a horrible idea, but in countries infested by these creatures
such things happen occasionally. I distinctly recollect a story which I
once heard, of a little girl in some district of tropical America
falling into such a decline, from which she was only rescued in
the nick of time by the discovery that one of these Vampire Bats, a
particularly large one, had formed the habit of flying into her room at
night and attaching itself to her bare arm which lay outside the
coverlet."

"How did it penetrate the mosquito curtains?" I enquired, incredulously.

"The very point, Knox, which led to the discovery of the truth. The
thing, exhibiting a sort of uncanny intelligence, used to work its
way up under the edge of the netting. This disturbance of the curtains
was noticed on several occasions by the nurse who occupied an
adjoining room, and finally led to the detection of the bat!"

"But surely," I said, "such a visitation would awaken any sleeper?"

"On the contrary, it induces deeper sleep. But I have not yet come to
my point, Knox. The vengeance of the High Priest of Voodoo, who figured
in the Colonel's narrative, was characteristic in the case of the
native woman, since her symptoms at least simulated those which would
result from the visits of a Vampire Bat, although of course they may
have been due to a slow poison. But you will not have failed to note
that the several attacks upon the Colonel personally were made with
more ordinary weapons. On two occasions at least a rifle was employed."

"Yes," I replied, slowly. "You are wondering why the lingering sickness
did not visit him?"

"I am, Knox. I can only suppose that he proved to be immune. You recall
his statement that he made an almost miraculous recovery from the fever
which attacked him after his visit to the Black Belt? This would seem
to point to the fact that he possesses that rare type of constitution
which almost defies organisms deadly to ordinary men."

"I see. Hence the dagger and the rifle?"

"So it would appear."

"But, Harley," I cried, "what appalling crime can the man have
committed to call down upon his head a vengeance which has survived
for so many years?"

Paul Harley shrugged his shoulders in a whimsical imitation of the
Spaniard.

"I doubt if the feud dates any earlier," he replied, "than the time of
Menendez's last return to Cuba. On that occasion he evidently killed
the High Priest of Voodoo."

I uttered an exclamation of scorn.

"My dear Harley," I said, "the whole thing is too utterly fantastic. I
begin to believe again that we are dealing with a madman."

Harley glanced down at the wing of the bat.

"We shall see," he murmured. "Even if the only result of our visit is
to make the acquaintance of the Colonel's household our time will not
have been wasted."

"No," said I, "that is true enough. I am looking forward to meeting
Madame de Stämer—"

"The Colonel's invalid cousin," added Harley, tonelessly.

"And her companion, Miss Beverley."

"Quite so. Nor must we forget the Spanish butler, and the Colonel
himself, whose acquaintance I am extremely anxious to renew."

"The whole thing is wildly bizarre, Harley."

"My dear Knox," he replied, stretching himself luxuriously in the long
lounge chair, "the most commonplace life hovers on the edge of the
bizarre. But those of us who overstep the border become preposterous in
the eyes of those who have never done so. This is not because the
unusual is necessarily the untrue, but because writers of fiction have
claimed the unusual as their particular province, and in doing so have
divorced it from fact in the public eye. Thus I, myself, am a myth, and
so are you, Knox!"

He raised his hand and pointed to the doorway communicating with the
office.

"We owe our mythological existence to that American genius whose
portrait hangs beside the Burmese cabinet and who indiscreetly created
the character of C. Auguste Dupin. The doings of this amateur
investigator were chronicled by an admirer, you may remember, since
when no private detective has been allowed to exist outside the pages
of fiction. My most trivial habits confirm my unreality.

"For instance, I have a friend who is good enough sometimes to record
my movements. So had Dupin. I smoke a pipe. So did Dupin. I investigate
crime, and I am sometimes successful. Here I differ from Dupin. Dupin
was always successful. But my argument is this—you complain that the
life of Colonel Don Juan Sarmiento Menendez, on his own showing, has
been at least as romantic as his name. It would not be accounted
romantic by the adventurous, Knox; it is only romantic to the prosaic
mind. In the same way his name is only unusual to our English ears. In
Spain it would pass unnoticed."

"I see your point," I said, grudgingly; "but think of I Voodoo in the
Surrey Hills."

"I am thinking of it, Knox, and it affords me much delight to think of
it. You have placed your finger I upon the very point I was
endeavouring to make. Voodoo in the Surrey Hills! Quite so. Voodoo in
some island of the Caribbean Seas, yes, but Voodoo in the Surrey Hills,
no. Yet, my dear fellow, there is a regular steamer service between
South America and England. Or one may embark at Liverpool and disembark
in the Spanish Main. Why, then, may not one embark in the West Indies
and disembark at Liverpool? This granted, you will also grant that from
Liverpool to Surrey is a feasible journey. Why, then, should you
exclaim, 'but Voodoo in the Surrey Hills!' You would be surprised to
meet an Esquimaux in the Strand, but there is no reason why an
Esquimaux should not visit the Strand. In short, the most annoying
thing about fact is its resemblance to fiction. I am looking forward to
the day, Knox, when I can retire from my present fictitious profession
and become a recognized member of the community; such as a press agent,
a theatrical manager, or some other dealer in Fact!"