The Green Eyes of Bast

by Sax Rohmer

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  “By telephone,” repeated Gatton. “He was rung up about ten days ago by some one who made a verbal offer to lease the Red House for a period of twelve months. A foreigner, who in lieu of the usual references, was prepared to pay the annual rent in advance. As the Red House, to use an Irishism, was regarded as something of a white elephant, the agent was interested, apparently; and when on the following day the sum agreed upon arrived by post, he did not demur about delivering the keys to the prospective lessee, who desired to take certain measurements in regard to carpets and so forth.”

  “Wait a moment,” I interrupted; “to whom did he deliver these keys?”

  “To a district messenger who called for them, as the agent had been advised that one would do.”

  “Very well. What then?”

  “That is all that the agent had to say.”

  “What, that is all?”

  “Substantially there is nothing more. It is quite evident that the sole intention of this unknown lessee was to secure possession of the house for the purpose of the crime only.”

  “Do you mean that from first to last no one but the district messenger appeared in the matter?”

  “No one,” Gatton assured me, “and the rent, payment of which quite disarmed the agent of course, was sent in the form of Treasury notes and not by check.”

  “But surely some name, some address, must have been given?”

  “A name was given,” replied Gatton, “and a hotel address, but confirmation of their accuracy was never sought, after the receipt of the money.”

  “And the voice on the telephone?”

  Again I saw that odd expression creep over Gatton's face, and:

  “It was a woman's voice,” he answered.

  “Great heavens!” I muttered—“what does it all mean?”

  That the evidence of the cabman when he was discovered and of the carter who had taken the box from the garage to the docks, and (for it was possibly the same man) who had first delivered it at the Red House, would but tighten the net about Isobel, whom I knew to be innocent, I felt assured.

  “Gatton,” I said, “this case appears to me to resolve itself into a deliberate conspiracy of which the end was not the assassination of Sir Marcus, but the conviction of Miss Merlin!”

  Gatton looked at me with evident complexity written all over him.

  “I begin to think the same,” he confessed. “This business was never planned and carried out by a woman, I'll swear to that. There is a woman concerned in it, for at every point we come upon evidence of her voice issuing the mysterious instructions; but she is not alone in the matter. Already the intricacy of the thing points to a criminal of genius. When we know the whole truth, if we ever do, that the crime was planned by a man of amazing, if perverted, intellect, will be put beyond dispute, I think.”

  “What is puzzling me, Gatton,” I said, “is the connection existing between the incidents which took place in this garage and those, unknown at present, which took place in the furnished room in the Red House.”

  “Obviously,” replied Gatton, “a supper for two had been prepared, and that one of those two was the late Sir Marcus is perfectly obvious. That he expected the other to be Miss Merlin is at least suggested by the presence of her photograph in the room; for you will have noticed that it is theonly photograph there.”

  “Nevertheless,” I said firmly, “I am positive that no one would be more surprised than herself to learn of its presence.”

  “And as I have already said,” replied Gatton, “I am rapidly coming round to your way of thinking. But even if I were quite sure of it the evidence at the moment is all the other way, you will admit. As to the connection between this garage and the interrupted supper party (for obviously it was interrupted) this it must be my business to find out.”

  “Don't you think,” I said, “that we are attaching perhaps undue importance to the fact that some kind of fittings have been removed from the doors? They may have been removed by the late occupier, and the call to the police depot may have been made with the idea of securing a witness, and a credible one, to the presence of the crate here on the night of the murder.”

  “At the moment,” replied Gatton, musingly, “I cannot see that this would have served any useful purpose; but nevertheless you may be right. I am going to assume, however, that you are wrong, and that the object of sending Bolton here last night was to open and shut these doors. I propose now to return again to the scene of the interrupted supper.”

  Leaving the garage not very much wiser than when we had entered it, we paced once more up the drive in the shade of the big trees and were greeted again by the malarious smell of rotting leaves. Entering the Red House, Gatton and I proceeded first to that incredible oasis in the desert of empty rooms and my companion made a detailed examination of everything in the place, even sounding the walls, examining the fittings of the door, and finally proceeding through the hall in the direction of the south wing of the house—that nearest to the garage.

  What he expected to find I had no idea, but his attention seemed to be more particularly directed towards the wainscot and the picture-rails of the empty and uncarpeted rooms which we entered. Whatever he had sought he failed to find, and at last we stood in a desolate apartment looking out into the tangled shrubbery before the windows. The back of the garage was visible from there and I viewed it dully, wondering what evil secret it held, and marveling at the trick of fate which had made me witness of an act in this gruesome drama.

  “Of course, Gatton,” I said, “we are all along assuming that Sir Marcus actually met his death in this house. We must remember that he may merely have been brought here after the crime.”

  “Such a short period elapsed,” replied the Inspector, “between his leaving the New Avenue Theater and the approximate time of his death that it seems unlikely that he visited any intermediate spot.”

  “But he may not have been in the crate when Bolton and I saw it.”

  “I don't believe he was in the crate then,” replied Gatton, “but I think he was at the Red House nevertheless.”

  I stared at him with curiosity.

  “You mean that he was in the house at the time that the constable and I opened the garage?”

  “I do. I think he was in that room where supper was laid for two.”

  “Good God!” I exclaimed; for there was something horrible in the idea of the man who now lay murdered having been in the house presumably alive, whilst Bolton and I had stood within forty yards of him; in the idea that it had lain in our power, except for those human limitations which rendered us ignorant of his presence, to have averted his fate, perhaps to have checked the remorseless movement of this elaborate murder machine which seemingly had been set up in the Red House.

  “Some one was here last night,” declared Gatton suddenly, as we turned to leave the deserted room, “after you and Bolton had gone. Everything incriminating the assassin has been removed. Looking at the matter judicially, it becomes quite evident that any one clever enough to have planned this crime could not possibly have been guilty of an act of such glaring stupidity as that of accidentally leaving a photograph planted upon the mantelpiece.”

  That this fact had presented itself to the Inspector with such a force of conviction raised a great load from my mind. It had all along been evident to me, but I had feared that to the official outlook of my companion, and the official outlook is always peculiar, it might have seemed otherwise.

  “The clever and cunning villain who planned this thing,” I said, “has overstepped himself, as you say, Gatton. If the murder was planned artistically, in his attempt to throw the onus of the crime upon innocent shoulders he has been guilty of a piece of very mediocre work. It would not deceive a child.”

  “No, I agree with you there. The discovery of that photograph has done more to convince me of the innocence of Miss Merlin than any amount of testimonials to her good character could ever have done. Y
ou see,” he added, smiling whimsically, “all sorts of people hitherto unsuspected by their closest friends of criminal tendency, develop that taint, so that I am never surprised to find a convicted thief or assassin possessed of credentials which would do justice to an Archbishop. But when I see an obviously artificial clew I recognize it a mile off. Real clews never stare you in the face like that.”

  Coming out of the front door, we walked down the leaf-strewn drive to find that the constable on duty at the gate had been joined by a plain-clothes man who was evidently waiting to speak to the Inspector.

  “Yes?” said Gatton eagerly, at sight of the newcomer.

  “We have her, sir,” he reported tersely.

  “Does he refer to Marie?” I asked.

  Gatton nodded.

  “I think, Mr. Addison,” he said, “I will proceed immediately to Bow Street, where she has been taken to be interrogated. Will you come with me or are you otherwise engaged?”

  I hesitated ere I replied:

  “I do not particularly want to confront this woman, but I should be much indebted if you could let me know the result of your examination.”

  “I shall do that without fail,” said Gatton, “and some time to-day I should be obliged if you could provide me with the facts concerning the little cat-images which you said you had in your possession.”

  “Certainly,” I agreed. “You are still of the opinion that the mark upon the crate and the image of the cat-woman have an important bearing upon the crime?”

  “I don't doubt it,” was the reply. “If the photograph clew is a false one, the cat clew is a true one and one to be followed up. Perhaps,” he added, “it would be as well if you returned now and looked out the points which you think would be of interest, as when I come I may not have long to stay.”

  “I will do so,” I said, “although I think I can lay my hands upon the material almost immediately.”

  Accordingly Gatton set off with the detective who had brought the news of Marie's arrest and I, turning in the opposite direction, proceeded towards my cottage in such a state of mental tumult respecting what the end of all this would be and what it might mean for Isobel, that I found myself unable to think connectedly; and needless to say I failed to conjure up by any stretch of the imagination a theory which could cover this amazing and terribly sequence of events.

  CHAPTER VII. THE CAT OF BUBASTIS

  “She belongs to the innumerable family of cats which suddenly came forth from the ruins of Tell Bastah in 1878,” I wrote, Sir Gaston Maspero's “Egyptian Art” lying before me on the table, “and were in a few years scattered over the whole world.”

  “She is Bast, a goddess of good family, the worship of whom flourished especially in the east of the delta, and she is very often drawn or named on the monuments, although they do not tell us enough of her myths or her origin. She was allied or related to the Sun, and was now said to be his sister or wife, now his daughter. She sometimes filled a gracious and beneficent role, protecting men against contagious diseases or evil spirits, keeping them off by the music of her sistrum: she had also her hours of treacherous perversity, during which she played with her victim as with a mouse, before finishing him off with a blow of her claws. She dwelt by preference in the city that bore her name, Poubastit, the Bubastis of classical writers. Her temple, at which Cheops and Chephren had worked while building their pyramids, was rebuilt by the Pharaohs of the 22nd Dynasty, enlarged by those of the 26th; when Herodotus visited it in the middle of the fifth century B.C. he considered it one of the most remarkable he had seen in the parts of Egypt through which he had traveled.

  “The fetes of Bast attracted pilgrims from all parts of Egypt, as at the present day those of Sidi Ahmed el-Bedawee draw people to the modern fair of Tantah. The people of each village crowded into large boats to get there, men and women pell-mell, with the fixed intention of enjoying themselves on the journey, a thing they never failed to do. They accompanied the slow progress of navigation with endless songs, love songs rather than sacred hymns, and there were also to be found among them flute-players and castanet-players to support or keep time to the voices. Whenever they passed by a town they approached the bank as near as they could without landing, and then, while the orchestra redoubled its noise, the passengers threw volleys of insults and coarse remarks at the women standing on the banks; they retorted, and when they had exhausted words ...”

  I finished my notes at this point; the improper behavior of the Ancient Egyptians mentioned by the great Egyptologist having no possible bearing upon the matter in hand, I thought. I then proceeded to add some facts directly relating to the votive offerings laid at the feet of the goddess.

  “The greater number of pilgrims, before returning home, left a souvenir of their visit at the feet of Bast. It was a votive stele with a fine inscription, and a picture showing the donor worshiping his goddess; or a statuette in blue or green pottery, or if they were wealthy, in bronze, silver, or sometimes gold: the goddess would be standing, seated, crouching, with a woman's body and a cat's head, a sistrum or an aegis in her hand. During the Greek period the figures were in bronze or in painted or gilded wood surmounted by a cat's head in bronze, many were life-size and modeled with elaborate art; they had eyes of enamel and amulets on the forehead.”

  The learned authority went on to explain that these accumulated offerings were after a time stored by the priests in cellars or in pits dug expressly for them, “veritablefavissae similar to those of classical times.” They accumulated in thousands, large and small, some intact and fresh as when just made, others already out of shape and of no value. The places of concealment were soon forgotten, and the stores hidden therein reposed beyond the reach of men until the day when the chances of excavation brought them to light.

  My notes completed, I turned my attention to the little image of green enamel ware which Gatton had left with me for examination. It was not possible to determine the period at which it was buried, but judging from the contours and general forms, together with the aspect of the enamel, I thought I recognized the style of the second Saite Period, and attributed the piece to the early Ptolemies, or the fourth century B.C. It was the time when the worship of Bast and her subordinate forms, Pakh, Mait, was most popular, the period when the most extensive cemetery of cats was established in Egypt. The execution of the little figure was pure Egyptian, and in no way betrayed Greek influence.

  So far had my studies proceeded when I heard the door-bell ring, and Coates entered the room.

  “Detective-Inspector Gatton to see you, sir.”

  Gatton came in looking if anything more puzzled than when I had left him at the Red House; also I thought he looked tired, and:

  “Mix yourself a drink, Inspector,” I said, pointing to a side-table upon which refreshments were placed.

  “Thanks,” replied Gatton. “I have not had time to stop for a drink or even a smoke since I left you; but evidence is coming in quickly enough now.”

  He helped himself to a whisky and soda, being an old visitor and one used to the Bohemian ways of my household; then setting his glass upon a corner of my writing-table, he dropped into the armchair and began in leisurely fashion to fill his pipe.

  Although the hour was growing late, sunset was still a long way off and the prospect visible through the window was bathed in golden light. From where I sat I could catch a glimpse of the tree-lined road, and for the first time since that strange experience had befallen me, I found myself wondering if the vaguely-perceived follower whom I had detected on the previous night and those blazing feline eyes which had looked out at me from beneath the shadow of the hedge could have had any possible connection with the tragedy which at about the same hour was being enacted in the Red House. I determined presently to confide the strange particulars to my friend, but first I was all anxiety to learn what evidence Marie had given; and that this evidence, to which he had referred had done little more than to increase Gatton's perplexity was clear enough from his
expression. Therefore:

  “Tell me about Marie,” I said.

  Gatton smiled grimly, took a drink from his glass, and then:

  “She began of course as I had anticipated, by denying all knowledge of the matter, but recognizing that she was in a tight corner, she presently changed her tactics, and although every available plan was tried to induce her to change her ground, she afterwards stuck to the extraordinary story which we first extracted from her. Briefly it was this:

  “The late Sir Marcus had been paying unwelcome attention to Miss Merlin for a long time, and Marie had instructions that he was to be discouraged as much as possible. In fact I am pleased to say that your theory of Miss Merlin's ignorance respecting the murder plot is borne out by the testimony of her maid. On several occasions, it appears, when he sent his card to the dressing-room, Marie returned equivocal messages and did not even inform her mistress of Sir Marcus's visit. This had been going on for some time when one night whilst Miss Merlin was on the stage a telephone call came for Marie and a certain proposal was made to her.

  “It was this: if on the following night Sir Marcus should present himself she was to tell him that Miss Merlin would take supper in his company after the performance, but that he was to observe every possible precaution. Marie, according to her account, at first declined to entertain the proposal, but being informed that it was merely intended to play a practical joke upon the baronet, she ultimately consented. I may add that the promise of a ten-pound note undoubtedly hastened her decision and it was on her receipt of the amount by post on the following morning that she determined to carry out her part of the bargain.

  “Her instructions had been explicit. She was to tell Sir Marcus that Miss Merlin would see him after the performance, then when he presented himself, to inform him that her mistress had decided it would be more prudent for him to proceed to the rendezvous alone, where she would join him in a quarter of an hour. She was to give him the door key (which had arrived with the money) and to direct him to enter and wait in the room on the right of the hall. A cabman who knew the address would be waiting at the stage door.”