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Bat Wing

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CHAPTER IX

OBEAH



This conversation in Colonel Menendez's study produced a very
unpleasant impression upon my mind. The atmosphere of Cray's Folly
seemed to become charged with unrest. Of Madame de Stämer and Miss
Beverley I saw nothing up to the time that I retired to dress. Having
dressed I walked into Harley's room, anxious to learn if he had formed
any theory to account for the singular business which had brought us to
Surrey.

Harley had excused himself directly we had left the study, stating that
he wished to get to the village post-office in time to send a telegram
to London. Our host had suggested a messenger, but this, as well as the
offer of a car, Harley had declined, saying that the exercise would aid
reflection. Nevertheless, I was surprised to find his room empty, for I
could not imagine why the sending of a telegram should have detained
him so long.

Dusk was falling, and viewed from the open window the Tudor garden
below looked very beautiful, part of it lying in a sort of purplish
shadow and the rest being mystically lighted as though viewed through a
golden veil. To the whole picture a sort of magic quality was added by
a speck of high-light which rested upon the face of the old sun-dial.

I thought that here was a fit illustration for a fairy tale; then I
remembered the Colonel's account of how he had awakened in the act of
entering this romantic plaisance, and I was touched anew by an
unrestfulness, by a sense of the uncanny.

I observed a book lying upon the dressing table, and concluding that it
was one which Harley had brought with him, I took it up, glancing at
the title. It was "Negro Magic," and switching on the light, for there
was a private electric plant in Cray's Folly, I opened the book at
random and began to read.

"The religion of the negro," said this authority, "is emotional, and
more often than not associated with beliefs in witchcraft and in the
rites known as Voodoo or Obi Mysteries. It has been endeavoured by some
students to show that these are relics of the Fetish worship of
equatorial Africa, but such a genealogy has never been satisfactorily
demonstrated. The cannibalistic rituals, human sacrifices, and obscene
ceremonies resembling those of the Black Sabbath of the Middle Ages,
reported to prevail in Haiti and other of the islands, and by some
among the negroes of the Southern States of America, may be said to
rest on doubtful authority. Nevertheless, it is a fact beyond doubt
that among the negroes both of the West Indies and the United States
there is a widespread belief in the powers of the Obeah man. A native
who believes himself to have come under the spell of such a sorcerer
will sink into a kind of decline and sometimes die."

At this point I discovered several paragraphs underlined in pencil, and
concluding that the underlining had been done by Paul Harley, I read
them with particular care. They were as follows: "According to Hesketh
J. Bell, the term Obeah is most probably derived from the substantive
Obi, a word used on the East coast of Africa to denote witchcraft,
sorcery, and fetishism in general. The etymology of Obi has been traced
to a very antique source, stretching far back into Egyptian mythology.
A serpent in the Egyptian language was called Ob or Aub. Obion is still
the Egyptian name for a serpent. Moses, in the name of God, forbade the
Israelites ever to enquire of the demon, Ob, which is translated in our
Bible: Charmer or wizard, divinator or sorcerer. The Witch of Endor is
called Oub or Ob, translated Pythonissa; and Oubois was the name of the
basilisk or royal serpent, emblem of the Sun and an ancient oracular
deity of Africa."

A paragraph followed which was doubly underlined, and pursuing my
reading I made a discovery which literally caused me to hold my breath.
This is what I read:

"In a recent contribution to the _Occult Review_, Mr. Colin Camber, the
American authority, offered some very curious particulars in support of
a theory to show that whereas snakes and scorpions have always been
recognized as sacred by Voodoo worshippers, the real emblem of their
unclean religion is the bat, especially _the Vampire Bat of South
America._

"He pointed out that the symptoms of one dying beneath the spell of an
Obeah man are closely paralleled in the cases of men and animals who
have suffered from nocturnal attacks of blood-sucking bats."

I laid the open book down upon the bed. My brain was in a tumult. The
several theories, or outlines of theories which hitherto I had
entertained, were, by these simple paragraphs, cast into the utmost
disorder. I thought of the Colonel's covert references to a neighbour
whom he feared, of his guarded statement that the devotees of Voodoo
were not confined to the West Indies, of the attack upon him in
Washington, of the bat wing pinned to the door of Cray's Folly.

Incredulously, I thought of my acquaintance of the Lavender Arms, with
his bemused expression and his magnificent brow; and a great doubt and
wonder grew up in my mind.

I became increasingly impatient for the return of Paul Harley. I felt
that a clue of the first importance had fallen into my possession; so
that when, presently, as I walked impatiently up and down the room, the
door opened and Harley entered, I greeted him excitedly.

"Harley!" I cried, "Harley! I have learned a most extraordinary thing!"

Even as I spoke and looked into the keen, eager face, the expression in
Harley's eyes struck me. I recognized that in him, too, intense
excitement was pent up. Furthermore, he was in one of his irritable
moods. But, full of my own discoveries:

"I chanced to glance at this book," I continued, "whilst I was waiting
for you. You have underlined certain passages."

He stared at me queerly.

"I discovered the book in my own library after you had gone last night,
Knox, and it was then that I marked the passages which struck me as
significant."

"But, Harley," I cried, "the man who is quoted here, Colin Camber,
lives in this very neighbourhood!"

"I know."

"What! You know?"

"I learned it from Inspector Aylesbury of the County Police half an
hour ago."

Harley frowned perplexedly. "Then, why, in Heaven's name didn't you
tell me?" he exclaimed. "It would have saved me a most disagreeable
journey into Market Hilton."

"Market Hilton! What, have you been into the town?"

"That is exactly where I have been, Knox. I 'phoned through to Innes
from the village post-office after lunch to have the car sent down.
There is a convenient garage by the Lavender Arms."

"But the Colonel has three cars," I exclaimed.

"The horse has four legs," replied Harley, irritably, "but although I
have only two, there are times when I prefer to use them. I am still
wondering why you failed to mention this piece of information when you
had obtained it."

"My dear Harley," said I, patiently, "how could I possibly be expected
to attach any importance to the matter? You must remember that at the
time I had never seen this work on negro sorcery."

"No," said Harley, dropping down upon the bed, "that is perfectly true,
Knox. I am afraid I have a liver at times; a distinct Indian liver.
Excuse me, old man, but to tell you the truth I feel strangely inclined
to pack my bag and leave for London without a moment's delay."

"What!" I cried.

"Oh, I know you would be sorry to go, Knox," said Harley, smiling, "and
so, for many reasons, should I. But I have the strongest possible
objection to being trifled with."

"I am afraid I don't quite understand you, Harley."

"Well, just consider the matter for a moment. Do you suppose that
Colonel Menendez is ignorant of the fact that his nearest neighbour is
a recognized authority upon Voodoo and allied subjects?"

"You are speaking, of course, of Colin Camber?"

"Of none other."

"No," I replied, thoughtfully, "the Colonel must know, of course, that
Camber resides in the neighbourhood."

"And that he knows something of the nature of Camber's studies his
remarks sufficiently indicate," added Harley. "The whole theory to
account for these attacks upon his life rests on the premise that
agents of these Obeah people are established in England and America.
Then, in spite of my direct questions, he leaves me to find out for
myself that Colin Camber's property practically adjoins his own!"

"Really! Does he reside so near as that?"

"My dear fellow," cried Harley, "he lives at a place called the Guest
House. You can see it from part of the grounds of Cray's Folly. We were
looking at it to-day."

"What! the house on the hillside?"

"That's the Guest House! What do you make of it, Knox? That Menendez
suspects this man is beyond doubt. Why should he hesitate to mention
his name?"

"Well," I replied, slowly, "probably because to associate practical
sorcery and assassination with such a character would be preposterous."

"But the man is admittedly a student of these things, Knox."

"He may be, and that he is a genius of some kind I am quite prepared to
believe. But having had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Colin Camber, I am
not prepared to believe him capable of murder."

I suppose I spoke with a certain air of triumph, for Paul Harley
regarded me silently for a while.

"You seem to be taking this case out of my hands, Knox," he said.
"Whilst I have been systematically at work racing about the county in
quest of information you would appear to have blundered further into
the labyrinth than all my industry has enabled me to do."

He remained in a very evil humour, and now the cause of this suddenly
came to light.

"I have spent a thoroughly unpleasant afternoon," he continued,
"interviewing an impossible country policeman who had never heard of my
existence!"

This display of human resentment honestly delighted me. It was
refreshing to know that the omniscient Paul Harley was capable of
pique.

"One, Inspector Aylesbury," he went on, bitterly, "a large person
bearing a really interesting resemblance to a walrus, but lacking that
creature's intelligence. It was not until Superintendent East had
spoken to him from Scotland Yard that he ceased to treat me as a
suspect. But his new attitude was almost more provoking than the old
one. He adopted the manner of a regimental sergeant-major reluctantly
interviewing a private with a grievance. If matters should so develop
that we are compelled to deal with that fish-faced idiot, God help us
all!"

He burst out laughing, his good humour suddenly quite restored, and
taking out his pipe began industriously to load it.

"I can smoke while I am changing," he said, "and you can sit there and
tell me all about Colin Camber."

I did as he requested, and Harley, who could change quicker than any
man I had ever known, had just finished tying his bow as I completed my
story of the encounter at the Lavender Arms.

"Hm," he muttered, as I ceased speaking. "At every turn I realize that
without you I should have been lost, Knox. I am afraid I shall have to
change your duties to-morrow."

"Change my duties? What do you mean?"

"I warn you that the new ones will be less pleasant than the old! In
other words, I must ask you to tear yourself away from Miss Val
Beverley for an hour in the morning, and take advantage of Mr. Camber's
invitation to call upon him."

"Frankly, I doubt if he would acknowledge me."

"Nevertheless, you have a better excuse than I. In the circumstances it
is most important that we should get in touch with this man."

"Very well," I said, ruefully. "I will do my best. But you don't
seriously think, Harley, that the danger comes from there?"

Paul Harley took his dinner jacket from the chair upon which the man
had laid it out, and turned to me.

"My dear Knox," he said, "you may remember that I spoke, recently, of
retiring from this profession?"

"You did."

"My retirement will not be voluntary, Knox. I shall be kicked out as an
incompetent ass; for, respecting the connection, if any, between the
narrative of Colonel Menendez, the bat wing nailed to the door of the
house, and Mr. Colin Camber, I have not the foggiest notion. In this,
at last, I have triumphed over Auguste Dupin. Auguste Dupin never
confessed defeat."




CHAPTER X

THE NIGHT WALKER



If luncheon had seemed extravagant, dinner at Cray's Folly proved to be
a veritable Roman banquet. To associate ideas of selfishness with Miss
Beverley was hateful, but the more I learned of the luxurious life of
this queer household hidden away in the Surrey Hills the less I
wondered at any one's consenting to share such exile. I had hitherto
counted an American freak dinner, organized by a lucky plunger and held
at the Café de Paris, as the last word in extravagant feasting. But I
learned now that what was caviare in Monte Carlo was ordinary fare at
Cray's Folly.

Colonel Menendez was an epicure with an endless purse. The excellence
of one of the courses upon which I had commented led to a curious
incident.

"You approve of the efforts of my chef?" said the Colonel.

"He is worthy of his employer," I replied.

Colonel Menendez bowed in his cavalierly fashion and Madame de Stämer
positively beamed upon me.

"You shall speak for him," said the Spaniard. "He was with me in Cuba,
but has no reputation in London. There are hotels that would snap him
up."

I looked at the speaker in surprise.

"Surely he is not leaving you?" I asked.

The Colonel exhibited a momentary embarrassment.

"No, no. No, no," he replied, waving his hand gracefully, "I was only
thinking that he--" there was a scarcely perceptible pause--"might wish
to better himself. You understand?"

I understood only too well; and recollecting the words spoken by Paul
Harley that afternoon, respecting the Colonel's will to live, I became
conscious of an uncomfortable sense of chill.

If I had doubted that in so speaking he had been contemplating his own
death, the behaviour of Madame de Stämer must have convinced me. Her
complexion was slightly but cleverly made up, with all the exquisite
art of the Parisienne, but even through the artificial bloom I saw her
cheeks blanch. Her face grew haggard and her eyes burned unnaturally.
She turned quickly aside to address Paul Harley, but I knew that the
significance of this slight episode had not escaped him.

He was by no means at ease. In the first place, he was badly puzzled;
in the second place, he was angry. He felt it incumbent upon him to
save this man from a menace which he, Paul Harley, evidently recognized
to be real, although to me it appeared wildly chimerical, and the very
person upon whose active coöperation he naturally counted not only
seemed resigned to his fate, but by deliberate omission of important
data added to Harley's difficulties.

How much of this secret drama proceeding in Cray's Folly was
appreciated by Val Beverley I could not determine. On this occasion, I
remember, she was simply but perfectly dressed and, in my eyes, seemed
the most sweetly desirable woman I had ever known. Realizing that I had
already revealed my interest in the girl, I was oddly self-conscious,
and a hundred times during the progress of dinner I glanced across at
Harley, expecting to detect his quizzical smile. He was very stern,
however, and seemed more reserved than usual. He was uncertain of his
ground, I could see. He resented the understanding which evidently
existed between Colonel Menendez and Madame de Stämer, and to which,
although his aid had been sought, he was not admitted.

It seemed to me, personally, that an almost palpable shadow lay upon
the room. Although, save for this one lapse, our host throughout talked
gaily and entertainingly, I was obsessed by a memory of the expression
which I had detected upon his face that morning, the expression of a
doomed man.

What, in Heaven's name, I asked myself, did it all mean? If ever I saw
the fighting spirit looking out of any man's eyes, it looked out of the
eyes of Don Juan Sarmiento Menendez. Why, then, did he lie down to the
menace of this mysterious Bat Wing, and if he counted opposition
futile, why had he summoned Paul Harley to Cray's Folly?

With the passing of every moment I sympathized more fully with the
perplexity of my friend, and no longer wondered that even his highly
specialized faculties had failed to detect an explanation.

Remembering Colin Camber as I had seen him at the Lavender Arms, it was
simply impossible to suppose that such a man as Menendez could fear
such a man as Camber. True, I had seen the latter at a disadvantage,
and I knew well enough that many a genius has been also a drunkard. But
although I was prepared to find that Colin Camber possessed genius, I
found it hard to believe that this was of a criminal type. That such a
character could be the representative of some remote negro society was
an idea too grotesque to be entertained for a moment.

I was tempted to believe that his presence in the neighbourhood of this
haunted Cuban was one of those strange coincidences which in criminal
history have sometimes proved so tragic for their victims.

Madame de Stämer, avoiding the Colonel's glances, which were
pathetically apologetic, gradually recovered herself, and:

"My dear," she said to Val Beverley, "you look perfectly sweet to-
night. Don't you think she looks perfectly sweet, Mr. Knox?"

Ignoring a look of entreaty from the blue-gray eyes:

"Perfectly," I replied.

"Oh, Mr. Knox," cried the girl, "why do you encourage her? She says
embarrassing things like that every time I put on a new dress."

Her reference to a new dress set me speculating again upon the apparent
anomaly of her presence at Cray's Folly. That she was not a
professional "companion" was clear enough. I assumed that her father
had left her suitably provided for, since she wore such expensively
simple gowns. She had a delightful trick of blushing when attention was
focussed upon her, and said Madame de Stämer:

"To be able to blush like that I would give my string of pearls--no,
half of it."

"My dear Marie," declared Colonel Menendez, "I have seen you blush
perfectly."

"No, no," Madame disclaimed the suggestion with one of those Bernhardt
gestures, "I blushed my last blush when my second husband introduced me
to my first husband's wife."

"Madame!" exclaimed Val Beverley, "how can you say such things?" She
turned to me. "Really, Mr. Knox, they are all fables."

"In fables we renew our youth," said Madame.

"Ah," sighed Colonel Menendez; "our youth, our youth."

"Why sigh, Juan, why regret?" cried Madame, immediately. "Old age is
only tragic to those who have never been young."

She directed a glance toward him as she spoke those words, and as I had
felt when I had seen his tragic face on the veranda that morning I felt
again in detecting this look of Madame de Stämer's. The yearning yet
selfless love which it expressed was not for my eyes to witness.

"Thank God, Marie," replied the Colonel, and gallantly kissed his hand
to her, "we have both been young, gloriously young."

When, at the termination of this truly historic dinner, the ladies left
us:

"Remember, Juan," said Madame, raising her white, jewelled hand, and
holding the fingers characteristically curled, "no excitement, no
billiards, no cards."

Colonel Menendez bowed deeply, as the invalid wheeled herself from the
room, followed by Miss Beverley. My heart was beating delightfully, for
in the moment of departure the latter had favoured me with a
significant glance, which seemed to say, "I am looking forward to a
chat with you presently."

"Ah," said Colonel Menendez, when we three men found ourselves alone,
"truly I am blessed in the autumn of my life with such charming
companionship. Beauty and wit, youth and discretion. Is he not a happy
man who possesses all these?"

"He should be," said Harley, gravely.

The saturnine Pedro entered with some wonderful crusted port, and
Colonel Menendez offered cigars.

"I believe you are a pipe-smoker," said our courteous host to Harley,
"and if this is so, I know that you will prefer your favourite mixture
to any cigar that ever was rolled."

"Many thanks," said Harley, to whom no more delicate compliment could
have been paid.

He was indeed an inveterate pipe-smoker, and only rarely did he truly
enjoy a cigar, however choice its pedigree. With a sigh of content he
began to fill his briar. His mood was more restful, and covertly I
watched him studying our host. The night remained very warm and one of
the two windows of the dining room, which was the most homely apartment
in Cray's Folly, was wide open, offering a prospect of sweeping velvet
lawns touched by the magic of the moonlight.

A short silence fell, to be broken by the Colonel.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I trust you do not regret your fishing
excursion?"

"I could cheerfully pass the rest of my days in such ideal
surroundings," replied Paul Harley.

I nodded in agreement.

"But," continued my friend, speaking very deliberately, "I have to
remember that I am here upon business, and that my professional
reputation is perhaps at stake."

He stared very hard at Colonel Menendez.

"I have spoken with your butler, known as Pedro, and with some of the
other servants, and have learned all that there is to be learned about
the person unknown who gained admittance to the house a month ago, and
concerning the wing of a bat, found attached to the door more
recently."

"And to what conclusion have you come?" asked Colonel Menendez,
eagerly.

He bent forward, resting his elbows upon his knees, a pose which he
frequently adopted. He was smoking a cigar, but his total absorption in
the topic under discussion was revealed by the fact that from a pocket
in his dinner jacket he had taken out a portion of tobacco, had laid it
in a slip of rice paper, and was busily rolling one of his eternal
cigarettes.

"I might be enabled to come to one," replied Harley, "if you would
answer a very simple question."

"What is this question?"

"It is this--Have you any idea who nailed the bat's wing to your door?"

Colonel Menendez's eyes opened very widely, and his face became more
aquiline than ever.

"You have heard my story, Mr. Harley," he replied, softly. "If I know
the explanation, why do I come to you?"

Paul Harley puffed at his pipe. His expression did not alter in the
slightest.

"I merely wondered if your suspicions tended in the direction of Mr.
Colin Camber," he said.

"Colin Camber!"

As the Colonel spoke the name either I became victim of a strange
delusion or his face was momentarily convulsed. If my senses served me
aright then his pronouncing of the words "Colin Camber" occasioned him
positive agony. He clutched the arms of his chair, striving, I thought,
to retain composure, and in this he succeeded, for when he spoke again
his voice was quite normal.

"Have you any particular reason for your remark, Mr. Harley?"

"I have a reason," replied Paul Harley, "but don't misunderstand me. I
suggest nothing against Mr. Camber. I should be glad, however, to know
if you are acquainted with him?"

"We have never met."

"You possibly know him by repute?"

"I have heard of him, Mr. Harley. But to be perfectly frank, I have
little in common with citizens of the United States."

A note of arrogance, which at times crept into his high, thin voice,
became perceptible now, and the aristocratic, aquiline face looked very
supercilious.

How the conversation would have developed I know not, but at this
moment Pedro entered and delivered a message in Spanish to the Colonel,
whereupon the latter arose and with very profuse apologies begged
permission to leave us for a few moments.

When he had retired:

"I am going upstairs to write a letter, Knox," said Paul Harley. "Carry
on with your old duties to-day, your new ones do not commence until to-
morrow."

With that he laughed and walked out of the dining room, leaving me
wondering whether to be grateful or annoyed. However, it did not take
me long to find my way to the drawing room where the two ladies were
seated side by side upon a settee, Madame's chair having been wheeled
into a corner.

"Ah, Mr. Knox," exclaimed Madame as I entered, "have the others
deserted, then?"

"Scarcely deserted, I think. They are merely straggling."

"Absent without leave," murmured Val Beverley.

I laughed, and drew up a chair. Madame de Stämer was smoking, but Miss
Beverley was not. Accordingly, I offered her a cigarette, which she
accepted, and as I was lighting it with elaborate care, every moment
finding a new beauty in her charming face, Pedro again appeared and
addressed some remark in Spanish to Madame.

"My chair, Pedro," she said; "I will come at once."

The Spanish butler wheeled the chair across to the settee, and lifting
her with an ease which spoke of long practice, placed her amidst the
cushions where she spent so many hours of her life.

"I know you will excuse me, dear," she said to Val Beverley, "because I
feel sure that Mr. Knox will do his very best to make up for my
absence. Presently, I shall be back."

Pedro holding the door open, she went wheeling out, and I found myself
alone with Val Beverley.

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