Bat Wing, Sax Rohmer [top 20 books to read .txt] 📗
- Author: Sax Rohmer
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“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!
CHAPTER XXII. COLIN CAMBER’S SECRET
“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.”
“Ah. He would have to light a candle for that purpose, I suppose?”
“A candle, or a lamp,”
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