Number 87

by Harrington Hext

  NUMBER 87

  EDEN PHILLPOTTS

  as HARRINGTON HEXT

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  INTRODUCTION

  THE series of international events here to be chronicled in connection with that astounding apparition, known in the United Kingdom and the United States of America as ‘the Bat,’ while challenging and wakening the terror of the civilized world, yet possessed for one little, commonplace community a unique significance. That company was represented by the Club of Friends, and for this reason it is necessary that a glimpse of the club should open the narrative.

  Fate, which is only another name for human temperament writ large, decreed that a figure second to none, even as it stands, in the history of civilization should never attain to its true dimensions, or win that acclaim its achievement deserved. Instead, human limitations leavened the lump of genius and he, who might have been one of the world’s supreme figures, remains for ever beneath the stature of lesser men than himself.

  Temperament ruined all, and the following record not only chronicles a series of events contrary to human experience and unparalleled in human story, but relates, between the lines, a tragedy comparable to the Greek in its tremendous and solemn proportions. For once again Prometheus set foot upon earth in the likeness of a man, and once again a jealous fate tormented the Lightbringer and confounded his magnificent contribution to the world’s hope of happiness. But no Zeus came between the hero of this awful narrative and his gift to humanity. A darker and subtler destiny was his: to be denied the fruit of his own lifelong devotion by inherent qualities of mind; and to be chained for ever on the arid precipice of the world’s hatred in gyves forged by himself.

  Such confusion of attributes, such greatness and littleness within a single heart, cost civilization a treasure beyond human power to estimate, or indeed conceive. Providence, with one hand, offered the children of men such a boon and bounty as life has not known; and with the other drew it back again. Nor shall Providence be blamed when the tremendous tale is told and its implications perceived.

  E. G.

  CONTENTS

  I. THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER SKEAT

  II. THE NEW MEMBER

  III. WHAT HAS DONE IT?

  IV. THE ALBERT MEMORIAL

  V. JOSEPH ASHLAR

  VI. TO SAVE JUGO-SLAVIA

  VII. THE NEW CHEMISTRY

  VIII. GRIMWOOD

  IX. I SEE ‘THE BAT’

  X. FROM RUSSIA TO CHINA

  XI. THE UNKNOWN IN OUR MIDST

  XII. THE SUMMONS TO GRIMWOOD

  XIII. FACE TO FACE

  XIV. NUMBER 87

  XV. SIR BRUCE’S NARRATIVE

  XVI. THE LAST OF GRIMWOOD

  Also Available

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER I

  THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER SKEAT

  THE Club of Friends was an organism purely social. We met after the work of the day for relaxation and amusement; but certain rules and reservations served always to limit membership, and I think that at no time did we ever number more than five and twenty members. Yet the institution had attained a respectable age, and while most of the rising generation preferred conditions more entertaining and diversified, there never lacked men to enlist in the Club of Friends. When Chislehurst first became a popular suburb of London, a few early, private residents planned the community; and though they were now all gone, others had succeeded them.

  I, for example, followed my father, and my friend, Leon Jacobs, had succeeded old Isidore Jacobs, the founder of the club.

  We met in the evening and enjoyed conversation on all subjects of human interest; while, as an innovation, at the proposal of Bishop Blore, the present doyen of the club, we started a winter session of short lectures and invited eminent publicists to visit us, accept our hospitality and afterwards entertain us with brief addresses, or air their social opinions, followed by discussion. But the experiment was short-lived. Few eminent men cared to be troubled, or could spare the time; while those minor celebrities who did accept our invitation, dine with us at their convenience, and afterwards propound their theories for human advancement, proved too biased, too possessed with the paramount importance of their own convictions on art, politics and economics, to attract unprejudiced listeners.

  The last who came was a man of European reputation, and the tragedy and mystery that surrounded the end of Alexander Skeat followed within a week of his visit. His death created a deep impression in our little circle, and it seemed hard to believe that this famous figure, so full of vitality and the electric energy of genius, should, at the height of his fame, have vanished into the unknown without explanation.

  At the close of our evening with Mr. Skeat — an evening marked by vigorous setting forth of irreconcilable doctrines — Jacobs and I had attended him to the railway station through the darkness of a winter night.

  The great man warned us against sensuality and all indulgence, against indifference, coldness of heart, overmuch curiosity and every form of materialism and greed. He spoke of the iniquities of the middle class and prophesied their well deserved extinction. He then turned upon one Paul Strossmayer, our latest and none too popular guest member, whose views he had furiously opposed. He swore that Strossmayer was a deep knave and in every respect an undesirable alien.

  “I read faces as lesser men read books,” he said, “and I read in this Jugo-Slav, or Serb, or Czecho-Slovake, or whatever he calls himself, a dangerous and anti-human impulse. Be warned and deny him your hospitality or friendship. Under that astute and suave exterior there hides a crafty, calculating, godless rascal with a heart of flint.”

  Skeat was soon gone and I must confess we breathed the easier for his departure. Returning to the club, we found opinion rather set against him and his fiery exegesis; for such is the British instinct, that his onslaught on Strossmayer inclined even those who did not like the new member to take his side.

  A week later the murder of Alexander Skeat startled Europe and America.

  I transcribe an account published in The Times on the morning after the tragedy.

  “We regret to report the death of Mr. Alexander Skeat under extraordinary circumstances. As yet no light has been thrown upon his sudden end, but there can be little doubt that the famous author lost his life at the hand of an assassin, though the manner of the murder and the person of the murderer are as yet unknown.

  “Returning last night from a lecture at the Eccentric Club, near the hour of midnight, Mr. Skeat was crossing St. James’s Park, when death overtook him.

  “A policeman, standing at the time on the suspension bridge that crosses the ornamental waters, heard a single, loud cry from the path that approaches the bridge easterly, and hastening to the spot he found a man lying upon his face on the grass at the path side. Close at hand, though but dimly visible, for the night was foggy, P.C. B49 declares that he saw a large and living animal, such as he had never seen before. He attempts no exact description of this creature, but has sworn that he distinguished a black, humped object, ‘as large as a horse’ with a very long neck and a narrow head above which were set tall ears. Its eyes shone like a cat’s as he turned his lantern upon it, and it appeared to hesitate as he advanced a short distance towards it. He then blew his whistle, and the thing, evidently alarmed, hopped twice, then spread black wings, ascended swiftly into the air and disappeared. The constable likens the creature to a huge bird, and though four other officers, who ran to answer his summons, saw nothing of this alleged rara avis, in one particular they corroborate a detail reported by John Syme (P.C. B49). All were conscious of an overpowering taint and reek in the air — an animal smell. Herbert Adams — a constable from the country — described it as though he had ‘run into a dozen foxes.’ Subsequen
t examination, however, revealed no trace of any disturbance to turf or soil; but the area where Mr. Alexander Skeat perished has been railed off and guarded for more careful investigation today.

  “The unfortunate gentleman appeared to be quite dead. He was carried to the St. James’s Street police station and Dr. Forbes Weston, who arrived within ten minutes, recognized the victim and found life to be extinct.

  “It is not too much to describe this sudden destruction of an extraordinary genius as an international disaster, for Alexander Skeat was still but fifty-four and his creative energy far short of exhaustion. We shall examine his achievement and its significance tomorrow; but for the moment can only chronicle an end upon which no ray of explanatory light has yet fallen.

  “The theory of death at the onset of an unknown and savage animal in the heart of the metropolis appears too extravagant to be entertained and we prefer to believe that time will presently reveal a murder, though whether the purpose and the perpetrator of the crime are discovered remains to be seen. An autopsy takes place this morning.”

  The evening papers of that day conveyed particulars of the post-mortem examination, and this increased the mystery of Skeat’s end. For the result neither confirmed nor contradicted the opinion of The Times.

  There was no wound upon the body of the dead man, and only chance determined the operators to investigate a small red speck discovered under Skeat’s left shoulder-blade. It looked, as the newspapers said, like the bite of a flea or the prick of a pin. Here, however, at this almost imperceptible point, death had entered, and examination showed an incision no wider than a thread which persisted from the skin through the tissues to the heart. Therein it disappeared. There were no inflicted wounds of any sort, though a bruise on the forehead showed that Alexander Skeat had fallen forward and struck his head as he fell. But analysis, while it revealed no poison from this bite, or puncture, discovered a profound disturbance of the blood as a consequence of it — a disturbance believed at first akin to that which certain snake poisons are known to cause. The body of the dead man was also strangely affected. It revealed disintegration of its component parts and the introduction of an unknown material foreign to healthy bone and flesh. Chemists were conducting an examination on these problems.

  The day brought no news from the police. Immense activity marked Scotland Yard and a wide net was spread for possible criminals. But upon no organization or society fell even suspicion. Skeat, while not openly willing to support the more unscrupulous of the organizations working against our Government and Constitution, in no sense could be said to have incurred their enmity. He was a fighter and a hard hitter; but if any regarded him as an adversary of law and order, they were those in authority: men of all least likely to commit lawless violence, or suppress an opponent by direct means. In England one may preach a wide measure of treason at will in books, newspapers and journals; it is only when we utter the same aloud at a street corner to a dozen loafers that we get locked up. This Skeat knew well enough and had always acted accordingly.

  Enemies he possessed in plenty; but among them could be numbered no man likely thus to take the law into his own hands. Moreover the issue was confused by the few particulars recorded of his death. For it appeared certain that he had died under a force as yet a secret from science; and while the majority of those set to solve the problem discarded the theory of a savage and unknown poisonous animal, the fact remained that death had come through a channel absolutely unfamiliar to human experience.

  CHAPTER II

  THE NEW MEMBER

  BEFORE dealing with the new member it is necessary that some of the older supporters of the Club of Friends should first be mentioned.

  General Fordyce and his younger brother, Sir Bruce, were bachelors both — indeed most of us belonged to that order. The general represented a typical reactionary mind, built on old traditions and a lifetime in the army; but his geniality, love of a jest, generosity and humanity made him far more popular than his brother — a much abler man, but lacking in charm, or social gifts. Yet Sir Bruce could claim quite as good a heart — upon that we all agreed. Both he and his brother had spent their working days in India. Sir Bruce was very learned, with a record of distinguished accomplishment behind him. For many years he had been Director of the Royal Botanical Gardens at Calcutta and had won the Fellowship of the Royal Society for his original work on the Chiroptera — the order of flying mammals, or bats. He had built himself a bungalow in the Eastern style at Chislehurst, while his elder brother dwelt not far off upon the Common in a modern villa. But Sir Bruce owned a second home in Devonshire — the family place, which General Fordyce lacked means to keep up and which he had, therefore, handed over to his brother. A great contrast was presented by the pair, for while the soldier loved his own voice and lightened his comments on men and things with invariable good humor, the man of science admitted himself a pessimist and seldom shared our hopes of amelioration for the race of man. Yet under his taciturn and watchful manner he was no cynic, and for my part, I always esteemed his reasoned opinions and valued any conclusions he might impart when in an amiable mood.

  Bishop Walter Blore, a Colonial prelate now retired, preserved a mean between the brothers. He was conservative and a little suspicious of the world’s progress in certain directions, but charity sweetened his outlook and enthusiastic religious faith kept his hope high.

  One must also mention Jack Smith, a barrister who still practiced, though he was always talking of giving up, and Merrivale Medland, a wine merchant, a kind-hearted but credulous man, whom we respected and valued for his supervision of our modest cellar.

  Of younger members there were not many. My friend, Leon Jacobs, was a stockbroker, and I, Ernest Granger, secretary of the Club of Friends, who now undertake this extraordinary narrative, pursued my business of actuary in the Apollo Life Assurance Society. Jacobs and I were of an age — thirty-five — and the infants of the club.

  On the night when Paul Strossmayer first came amongst us, all those I have mentioned, save Bishop Blore, were present in the smoking room, and conversation, as usual, ran upon serious subjects.

  Nature happened to be our theme and somebody — I think Jack Smith, whose hobby was rose-growing — declared that in Nature’s categories mercy found no place.

  “Neither passion nor compassion belongs to her,” he said. “She never laughs, never relents, and is as solemn and bloodthirsty and business-like as a hunting owl.”

  Then Sir Bruce spoke. He was a little fellow and had a weak voice, which belied him, for few old Indians I have met enjoyed greater vigor of mind and body.

  “Sentimental man and his pathetic fallacy have thrown dust into our eyes concerning Nature,” he declared; “and so it comes about that we dignify her energies into something worthy of admiration, or disapproval, as the case may be. That is quite as futile as applauding a thousand horse power steam engine for doing its work. Science has corrected this old attitude, or should do so. Science has revealed that what beauty, or horror, we may find in Nature’s operations and phenomena lies in the human mind which weighs these manifestations. We apply esthetic tests to her outward appearance and control to her terrific energy. Thus we condemn her to the service of man and translate her into human values. In reality, she has no others.”

  “Probably that is why poets hate Science,” I said; but General Fordyce protested.

  “They cannot justly do so, for they must know that Science has improved the world out of knowledge, made it cleaner, sweeter, more wholesome, more adequate, more worthy of mankind. In a word, Science has helped to lift us above the brutes.”

  Sir Bruce spoke again from his armchair by the fire.

  “There’s another side to that. The poets remember what high explosives mean — and poison gas. Did those lift us above the brutes?”

  “My dear Bruce, what a question! Emphatically they did; and who knows that better than you? If Science could help us to beat Germany by the only possible means left to
do so, who shall reasonably blame her for the means?”

  “Only the young poets, who, rather than fight, would have thrown open the door to Germany,” said Jack Smith. “The youthful wiseacres, who avoided fighting, but have been so busy lecturing other people ever since the war ended. They despise Science, sublimely unaware that Science and Science alone kept the enemy’s hoof off their own necks. Where would all these sleek canaries be if Germany had won?”

  “Man may prostitute Science for his own selfish needs,” I declared, “but that is her misfortune, not her fault.”

  Sir Bruce applauded my sentiment.

  “Well said, Granger,” he answered.

  Then Leon Jacobs spoke. He was a man of wide sympathies and acute intelligence.

  “There’s no doubt that a deep, common suspicion exists between the Arts and Science,” he said. “We see it displayed, not only by the poets, but in the highest centers of learning. There is friction and what we call the ‘humanities’ in education are very jealous of Science — as though Science were not the most humane of all branches of human progress. Take the Carnegie Trust of two million’s to the Scots Universities. Already in the administration of this immense sum Science, or those who represent her, find their sense of justice outraged by the steady transference of these endowments from themselves and what the testator intended, to more picturesque mental activities.”

  “Science is still the Cinderella,” said Jack Smith; and at the same moment Mr. Paul Strossmayer entered the smoking room.

  He was a man in the fulness of life — tall and spare, but with abundant physical and intellectual force. One had only to study his face to perceive qualities that lifted the expression out of the common. He was dark-skinned, with a close-cropped black beard and moustache, wonderful brown eyes, heavy, rather coarse hair, also close-cropped, and black eyebrows. His forehead was not high but distinguished by unusual breadth. It seemed to bulge out a little over his ears, which were set closely to his head and of great beauty. His nose was solid but well proportioned and his hands were an artist’s — delicate, nervous and finely moulded. The man, was, in fact, built to challenge and we found presently that he left none of us indifferent. Personally I always found something magnetic and attractive about him, and so did Leon Jacobs; but others he repelled from the first, and these never changed their opinion; though in the case of Medland, the wine merchant, and Jack Smith, they vacillated, sometimes professing to admire Strossmayer, then again detesting him. He spoke perfect English, with an accent and intonation very distinguished, and revealed great vivacity of movement. But his mannerisms were under restraint, and even in the heat of argument he was always courteous and agreeable. Indeed he showed deference to men older than himself, and while making no servile effort to ingratiate, preserved an urbane and amiable attitude to all. One felt curiously that he lived at higher pressure than we, with an intensity of feeling, conviction and ambition that were denied us. A patriotism almost passionate inspired him for his country, and he shared the hopes and dreams of a new-born nation. For he was a Jugo-Slav — a kinsman of that very famous Bishop Strossmayer, who, during his episcopate of five and fifty years, worked so nobly for the union of the Southern Slavs and a promised land which his eyes were not destined to behold. This good prelate had been known to Bishop Blore in past time, and it was our bishop who nominated the visitor, on hearing that he had become domiciled in England for the present with a family of his compatriots at Chislehurst.