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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BAT WING *** Text file produced by Anne Soulard, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team HTML file produced by David Widger








BAT WING By Sax Rohmer





CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. PAUL HARLEY OF CHANCERY LANE

CHAPTER II. THE VOODOO SWAMP

CHAPTER III. THE VAMPIRE BAT

CHAPTER IV. CRAY’S FOLLY

CHAPTER V. VAL BEVERLEY

CHAPTER VI. THE BARRIER

CHAPTER VII. AT THE LAVENDER ARMS

CHAPTER VIII. THE CALL OF M’KOMBO

CHAPTER IX. OBEAH

CHAPTER X. THE NIGHT WALKER

CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND

CHAPTER XII. MORNING MISTS

CHAPTER XIII. AT THE GUEST HOUSE

CHAPTER XIV. YSOLA CAMBER

CHAPTER XV. UNREST

CHAPTER XVI. RED EVE

CHAPTER XVII. NIGHT OF THE FULL MOON

CHAPTER XVIII. INSPECTOR AYLESBURY OF MARKET HILTON

CHAPTER XIX. COMPLICATIONS

CHAPTER XX. A SPANISH CIGARETTE

CHAPTER XXI. THE WING OF A BAT

CHAPTER XXII. COLIN CAMBER’S SECRET

CHAPTER XXIII. INSPECTOR AYLESBURY CROSS-EXAMINES

CHAPTER XXIV. AN OFFICIAL MOVE

CHAPTER XXV. AYLESBURY’S THEORY

CHAPTER XXVI. IN MADAME’S ROOM

CHAPTER XXVII. AN INSPIRATION

CHAPTER XXVIII. MY THEORY OF THE CRIME

CHAPTER XXIX. A LEE-ENFIELD RIFLE

CHAPTER XXX. THE SEVENTH YEW TREE

CHAPTER XXXI. YSOLA CAMBER’S CONFESSION

CHAPTER XXXII. PAUL HARLEY’S EXPERIMENT

CHAPTER XXXIII. PAUL HARLEY’S EXPERIMENT CONCLUDED

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE CREEPING SICKNESS

CHAPTER XXXV. AN AFTERWORD







CHAPTER I. PAUL HARLEY OF CHANCERY LANE

Toward the hour of six on a hot summer’s evening Mr. Paul Harley was seated in his private office in Chancery Lane reading through a number of letters which Innes, his secretary, had placed before him for signature. Only one more remained to be passed, but it was a long, confidential report upon a certain matter, which Harley had prepared for His Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for the Home Department. He glanced with a sigh of weariness at the little clock upon his table before commencing to read.

“Shall detain you only a few minutes, now, Knox,” he said.

I nodded, smiling. I was quite content to sit and watch my friend at work.

Paul Harley occupied a unique place in the maelstrom of vice and ambition which is sometimes called London life. Whilst at present he held no official post, some of the most momentous problems of British policy during the past five years, problems imperilling inter-state relationships and not infrequently threatening a renewal of the world war, had owed their solution to the peculiar genius of this man.

No clue to his profession appeared upon the plain brass plate attached to his door, and little did those who regarded Paul Harley merely as a successful private detective suspect that he was in the confidence of some who guided the destinies of the Empire. Paul Harley’s work in Constantinople during the feverish months preceding hostilities with Turkey, although unknown to the general public, had been of a most extraordinary nature. His recommendations were never adopted, unfortunately. Otherwise, the tragedy of the Dardanelles might have been averted.

His surroundings as he sat there, gaze bent upon the typewritten pages, were those of any other professional man. So it would have seemed to the casual observer. But perhaps there was a quality in the atmosphere of the office which would have told a more sensitive visitor that it was the apartment of no ordinary man of business. Whilst there were filing cabinets and bookshelves laden with works of reference, many of them legal, a large and handsome Burmese cabinet struck an unexpected note.

On closer inspection, other splashes of significant colour must have been detected in the scheme, notably a very fine engraving of Edgar Allan Poe, from the daguerreotype of 1848; and upon the man himself lay the indelible mark of the tropics. His clean-cut features had that hint of underlying bronze which tells of years spent beneath a merciless sun, and the touch of gray at his temples only added to the eager, almost fierce vitality of the dark face. Paul Harley was notable because of that intellectual strength which does not strike one immediately, since it is purely temperamental, but which, nevertheless, invests its possessor with an aura of distinction.

Writing his name at the bottom of the report, Paul Harley enclosed the pages in a long envelope and dropped the envelope into a basket which contained a number of other letters. His work for the day was ended, and glancing at me with a triumphant smile, he stood up. His office was a part of a residential suite, but although, like some old-time burgher of the city, he lived on the premises, the shutting of a door which led to his private rooms marked the close of the business day. Pressing a bell which connected with the public office occupied by his secretary, Paul Harley stood up as Innes entered.

“There’s nothing further, is there, Innes?” he asked.

“Nothing, Mr. Harley, if you have passed the Home Office report?”

Paul Harley laughed shortly.

“There it is,” he replied, pointing to the basket; “a tedious and thankless job, Innes. It is the fifth draft

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