Bat Wing, Sax Rohmer [top 20 books to read .txt] 📗

“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.