by Sax Rohmer
Of tea upon the veranda of Cray's Folly that afternoon I retain severalnotable memories. I got into closer touch with my host and hostess,without achieving anything like a proper understanding of either ofthem, and I procured a new viewpoint of Miss Val Beverley. Her reposewas misleading. She deliberately subjugated her own vital personality tothat of Madame de Staemer, why, I knew not, unless she felt herself underan obligation to do so. That her blue-gray eyes could be wistful wastrue enough, they could also be gay; and once I detected in them alook of sadness which dispelled the butterfly illusion belonging to herdainty slenderness, to her mobile lips, to the vagabond curling hair ofrusset brown.
Paul Harley's manner remained absent, but I who knew his moods so wellrecognized that this abstraction was no longer real. It was a posewhich he often adopted when in reality he was keenly interested inhis surroundings. It baffled me, however, as effectively as it baffledothers, and whilst at one moment I decided that he was studying ColonelMenendez, in the next I became convinced that Madame de Staemer was thesubject upon his mental dissecting table.
That he should find in Madame a fascinating problem did not surprise me.She must have afforded tempting study for any psychologist. I couldnot fathom the nature of the kinship existing between herself and theSpanish colonel, for Madame de Staemer was French to her fingertips.Her expressions, her gestures, her whole outlook on life proclaimed thefashionable Parisienne.
She possessed a vigorous masculine intelligence and was the mostentertaining companion imaginable. She was daringly outspoken, and itwas hard to believe that her gaiety was forced. Yet, as the afternoonwore on, I became more and more convinced that such was the case.
I thought that before affliction visited her Madame de Staemer must havebeen a vivacious and a beautiful woman. Her vivacity remained and muchof her beauty, so that it was difficult to believe her snow-white hairto be a product of nature. Again and again I found myself regarding itas a powdered coiffure of the Pompadour period and wondering why Madamewore no patches.
That a deep and sympathetic understanding existed between herself andColonel Menendez was unmistakable. More than once I intercepted glancesfrom the dark eyes of Madame which were lover-like, yet laden with aprofound sorrow. She was playing a role, and I was convinced that Harleyknew this. It was not merely a courageous fight against affliction onthe part of a woman of the world, versed in masking her real self fromthe prying eyes of society, it was a studied performance prompted bysome deeper motive.
She dressed with exquisite taste, and to see her seated there amid hercushions, gesticulating vivaciously, one would never have supposed thatshe was crippled. My admiration for her momentarily increased, the moreso since I could see that she was sincerely fond of Val Beverley, whoseevery movement she followed with looks of almost motherly affection.This was all the more strange as Madame de Staemer whose age, I supposed,lay somewhere on the sunny side of forty, was of a type which expects,and wins, admiration, long after the average woman has ceased to beattractive.
One endowed with such a temperament is as a rule unreasonably jealousof youth and good looks in another. I could not determine if Madame'sattitude were to be ascribed to complacent self-satisfaction or to anobler motive. It sufficed for me that she took an unfeigned joy in theyouthful sweetness of her companion.
"Val, dear," she said, presently, addressing the girl, "you should makethose sleeves shorter, my dear."
She had a rapid way of speaking, and possessed a slightly husky butfascinatingly vibrant voice.
"Your arms are very pretty. You should not hide them."
Val Beverley blushed, and laughed to conceal her embarrassment.
"Oh, my dear," exclaimed Madame, "why be ashamed of arms? All women havearms, but some do well to hide them."
"Quite right, Marie," agreed the Colonel, his thin voice affording anodd contrast to the deeper tones of his cousin. "But it is the scraggyones who seem to delight in displaying their angles."
"The English, yes," Madame admitted, "but the French, no. They are tooclever, Juan."
"Frenchwomen think too much about their looks," said Val Beverley,quietly. "Oh, you know they do, Madame. They would rather die than bewithout admiration."
Madame shrugged her shoulders.
"So would I, my dear," she confessed, "although I cannot walk. Withoutadmiration there is"--she snapped her fingers--"nothing. And who wouldnotice a linnet when a bird of paradise was about, however sweet hervoice? Tell me that, my dear?"
Paul Harley aroused himself and laughed heartily.
"Yet," he said, "I think with Miss Beverley, that this love of elegancedoes not always make for happiness. Surely it is the cause of half thedomestic tragedies in France?"
"Ah, the French love elegance," cried Madame, shrugging, "they cannothelp it. To secure what is elegant a Frenchwoman will sometimes forgether husband, yes, but never forget herself."
"Really, Marie," protested the Colonel, "you say most strange things!"
"Is that so, Juan?" she replied, casting one of her queer glances in hisdirection; "but how would you like to be surrounded by a lot of drabs,eh? That man, Mr. Knox," she extended one white hand in the direction ofColonel Menendez, the fingers half closed, in a gesture which curiouslyreminded me of Sarah Bernhardt, "that man would notice if a parlourmaidcame into the room with a shoe unbuttoned. Poof! if we love elegance itis because without it the men would never love _us_."
Colonel Menendez bent across the table and kissed the white fingers inhis courtier-like fashion.
"My sweet cousin," he said, "I should love you in rags."
Madame smiled and flushed like a girl, but withdrawing her hand sheshrugged.
"They would have to be _pretty_ rags!" she added.
During this little scene I detected Val Beverley looking at me in avaguely troubled way, and it was easy to guess that she was wonderingwhat construction I should place upon it. However:
"I am going into the town," declared Madame de Staemer, energetically."Half the things ordered from Hartley's have never been sent."
"Oh, Madame, please let _me_ go," cried Val Beverley.
"My dear," pronounced Madame, "I will not let you go, but I will let youcome with me if you wish."
She rang a little bell which stood upon the tea-table beside the urn,and Pedro came out through the drawing room.
"Pedro," she said, "is the car ready?"
The Spanish butler bowed.
"Tell Carter to bring it round. Hurry, dear," to the girl, "if you arecoming with me. I shall not be a minute."
Thereupon she whisked her mechanical chair about, waved her hand todismiss Pedro, and went steering through the drawing room at a greatrate, with Val Beverley walking beside her.
As we resumed our seats Colonel Menendez lay back with half-closedeyes, his glance following the chair and its occupant until both wereswallowed up in the shadows of the big drawing room.
"Madame de Staemer is a very remarkable woman," said Paul Harley.
"Remarkable?" replied the Colonel. "The spirit of all the old chivalryof France is imprisoned within her, I think."
He passed cigarettes around, of a long kind resembling cherootsand wrapped in tobacco leaf. I thought it strange that having thusemphasized Madame's nationality he did not feel it incumbent upon him toexplain the mystery of their kinship. However, he made no attempt to doso, and almost before we had lighted up, a racy little two-seater wasdriven around the gravel path by Carter, the chauffeur who had broughtus to Cray's Folly from London.
The man descended and began to arrange wraps and cushions, and a fewmoments later back came Madame again, dressed for driving. Carterwas about to lift her into the car when Colonel Menendez stood up andadvanced.
"Sit down, Juan, sit down!" said Madame, sharply.
A look of keen anxiety, I had almost said of pain, leapt into her eyes,and the Colonel hesitated.
"How often must I tell you," continued the throbbing voice, "that youmust not exert yourself."
Colonel Menendez accepted the rebuke humbly, but the incident struckme as grotesque; for it was difficult to associate delicacy with such afine specimen of well-preserved manhood as the Colonel.
However, Carter performed the duty of assisting Madame into her littlecar, and when for a moment he supported her upright, before placingher among the cushions, I noted that she was a tall woman, slender andelegant.
All smiles and light, sparkling conversation, she settled herselfcomfortably at the wheel and Val Beverley got in beside her. Madamenodded to Carter in dismissal, waved her hand to Colonel Menendez, cried"Au revoir!" and then away went the little car, swinging around theangle of the house and out of sight.
Our host stood bare-headed upon the veranda listening to the soundof the engine dying away among the trees. He seemed to be lost inreflection from which he only aroused himself when the purr of the motorbecame inaudible.
"And now, gentlemen," he said, and suppressed a sigh, "we have much totalk about. This spot is cool, but is it sufficiently private? Perhaps,Mr. Harley, you would prefer to talk in the library?"
Paul Harley flicked ash from the end of his cigarette.
"Better still in your own study, Colonel Menendez," he replied.
"What, do you suspect eavesdroppers?" asked the Colonel, his mannerbecoming momentarily agitated.
He looked at Harley as though he suspected the latter of possessingprivate information.
"We should neglect no possible precaution," answered my friend. "Thatagencies inimical to your safety are focussed upon the house your ownstatement amply demonstrates."
Colonel Menendez seemed to be on the point of speaking again, but hechecked himself and in silence led the way through the ornate libraryto a smaller room which opened out of it, and which was furnished as astudy.
Here the motif was distinctly one of officialdom. Although the Southernelement was not lacking, it was not so marked as in the library or inthe hall. The place was appointed for utility rather than ornament.Everything was in perfect order. In the library, with the blinds drawn,one might have supposed oneself in Trinidad; in the study, under similarconditions, one might equally well have imagined Downing Street to lieoutside the windows. Essentially, this was the workroom of a man ofaffairs.
Having settled ourselves comfortably, Paul Harley opened theconversation.
"In several particulars," said he, "I find my information to beincomplete."
He consulted the back of an envelope, upon which, I presumed during theafternoon, he had made a number of pencilled notes.
"For instance," he continued, "your detection of someone watching thehouse, and subsequently of someone forcing an entrance, had no visibleassociation with the presence of the bat wing attached to your frontdoor?"
"No," replied the Colonel, slowly, "these episodes took place a monthago."
"Exactly a month ago?"
"They took place immediately before the last full moon."
"Ah, before the full moon. And because you associate the activities ofVoodoo with the full moon, you believe that the old menace has againbecome active?"
The Colonel nodded emphatically. He was busily engaged in rolling one ofhis eternal cigarettes.
"This belief of yours was recently confirmed by the discovery of the batwing?"
"I no longer doubted," said Colonel Menendez, shrugging his shoulders."How could I?"
"Quite so," murmured Harley, absently, and evidently pursuing someprivate train of thought. "And now, I take it that your suspicions, ifexpressed in words would amount to this: During your last visit to Cubayou (_a_) either killed some high priest of Voodoo, or (_b_) seriouslyinjured him? Assuming the first theory to be the correct one, your deathwas determined upon by the sect over which he had formerly presided.Assuming the second to be accurate, however, it is presumably the manhimself for whom we must look. Now, Colonel Menendez, kindly inform meif you recall the name of this man?"
"I recall it very well," replied the Colonel. "His name was M'kombo, andhe was a Benin negro."
"Assuming that he is still alive, what, roughly, would his age beto-day?"
The Colonel seemed to meditate, pushing a box of long Martinique cigarsacross the table in my direction.
"He would be an old man," he pronounced. "I, myself, am fifty-two, and Ishould say that M'kombo if alive to-day would be nearer to seventy thansixty."
"Ah," murmured Harley, "and did he speak English?"
"A few words, I believe."
Paul Harley fixed his gaze upon the dark, aquiline face.
"In short," he said, "do you really suspect that it was M'kombo whoseshadow you saw upon the lawn, who a month ago made a midnight entranceinto Cray's Folly, and who recently pinned a bat wing to the door?"
Colonel Menendez seemed somewhat taken aback by this direct question. "Icannot believe it," he confessed.
"Do you believe that this order or religion of Voodooism has anyexistence outside those places where African negroes or descendents ofnegroes are settled?"
"I should not have been prepared to believe it, Mr. Harley, prior to myexperiences in Washington and elsewhere."
"Then you do believe that there are representatives of this cult to bemet with in Europe and America?"
"I should have been prepared to believe it possible in America, for inAmerica there are many negroes, but in England----"
Again he shrugged his shoulders.
"I would remind you," said Harley, quietly, "that there are also quite anumber of negroes in England. If you seriously believe Voodoo to follownegro migration, I can see no objection to assuming it to be a universalcult."
"Such an idea is incredible."
"Yet by what other hypothesis," asked Harley, "are we to cover the factsof your own case as stated by yourself? Now," he consulted his pencillednotes, "there is another point. I gather that these African sorcerersrely largely upon what I may term intimidation. In other words, theyclaim the power of wishing an enemy to death."
He raised his eyes and stared grimly at the Colonel.
"I should not like to suppose that a man of your courage and culturecould subscribe to such a belief."
"I do not, sir," declared the Colonel, warmly. "No Obeah man could everexercise his will upon _me!_"
"Yet, if I may say so," murmured Harley, "your will to live seems tohave become somewhat weakened."
"What do you mean?"
Colonel Menendez stood up, his delicate nostrils dilated. He glaredangrily at Harley.
"I mean that I perceive a certain resignation in your manner of which Ido not approve."
"You do not _approve?_" said Colonel Menendez, softly; and I thoughtas he stood looking down upon my friend that I had rarely seen a moreformidable figure.
Paul Harley had roused him unaccountably, and knowing my friend for amaster of tact I knew also that this had been deliberate, although Icould not even dimly perceive his object.
"I occupy the position of a specialist," Harley continued, "and youoccupy that of my patient. Now, you cannot disguise from me that yourmental opposition to this danger which threatens has become slackened.Allow me to remind you that the strongest defence is counter-attack.You are angry, Colonel Menendez, but I would rather see you angry thanapathetic. To come to my last point. You spoke of a neighbour in termswhich led me to suppose that you suspected him of some association withyour enemies. May I ask for the name of this person?"
Colonel Menendez sat down again, puffing furiously at his cigarette,whilst beginning to roll another. He was much disturbed, was fighting toregain mastery of himself.
"I apologize from the bottom of my heart," he said, "for a breach ofgood behaviour which really was unforgivable. I was angry when I shouldhave been grateful. Much that you have said is true. Because it is true,I despise myself."
He flashed a glance at Paul Harley.
"Awake," he continued, "I care for no man breathing, black or white; but_asleep_"--he shrugged his shoulders. "It is in sleep that these dealersin unclean things
obtain their advantage."
"You excite my curiosity," declared Harley.
"Listen," Colonel Menendez bent forward, resting his elbows upon hisknees. Between the yellow fingers of his left hand he held the newlycompleted cigarette whilst he continued to puff vigorously at the oldone. "You recollect my speaking of the death of a certain native girl?"
Paul Harley nodded.
"The real cause of her death was never known, but I obtained evidence toshow that on the night after the wing of a bat had been attached to herhut, she wandered out in her sleep and visited the Black Belt. Can youdoubt that someone was calling her?"
"Calling her?"
"Mr. Harley, she was obeying the call of M'kombo!"
"The _call_ of M'kombo? You refer to some kind of hypnotic suggestions?"
"I illustrate," replied the Colonel, "to help to make clear somethingwhich I have to tell you. On the night when last the moon was full--onthe night after someone had entered the house--I had retired early tobed. Suddenly I awoke, feeling very cold. I awoke, I say, and where doyou suppose I found myself?"
"I am all anxiety to hear."
"On the point of entering the Tudor garden--you call it Tudorgarden?--which is visible from the window of your room!"
"Most extraordinary," murmured Harley; "and you were in your nightattire?"
"I was."
"And what had awakened you?"
"An accident. I believe a lucky accident. I had cut my bare foot uponthe gravel and the pain awakened me."
"You had no recollection of any dream which had prompted you to go downinto the garden?"
"None whatever."
"Does your room face in that direction?"
"It does not. It faces the lake on the south of the house. I haddescended to a side door, unbarred it, and walked entirely around theeast wing before I awakened."
"Your room faces the lake," murmured Harley.
"Yes."
Their glances met, and in Paul Harley's expression there seemed to be achallenge.
"You have not yet told me," said he, "the name of your neighbour."
Colonel Menendez lighted his new cigarette.
"Mr. Harley," he confessed, "I regret that I ever referred to thissuspicion of mine. Indeed it is hardly a suspicion, it is what I maycall a desperate doubt. Do you say that, a desperate doubt?"
"I think I follow you," said Harley.
"The fact is this, I only know of one person within ten miles of Cray'sFolly who has ever visited Cuba."
"Ah."
"I have no other scrap of evidence to associate him I with my shadowyenemy. This being so, you will pardon me if I ask you to forget that Iever referred to his existence."
He spoke the words with a sort of lofty finality, and accompanied themwith a gesture of the hands which really left Harley no alternative butto drop the subject.
Again their glances met, and it was patent to me that underlying allthis conversation was something beyond my ken. What it was that Harleysuspected I could not imagine, nor what it was that Colonel Menendezdesired to conceal; but tension was in the very air. The Spaniard was onthe defensive, and Paul Harley was puzzled, irritated.
It was a strange interview, and one which in the light of after eventsI recognized to possess extraordinary significance. That sixth sense ofHarley's was awake, was prompting him, but to what extent he understoodits promptings at that hour I did not know, and have never known tothis day. Intuitively, I believe, as he sat there staring at ColonelMenendez, he began to perceive the shadow within a shadow which was thesecret of Cray's Folly, which was the thing called Bat Wing, which wasthe devilish force at that very hour alive and potent in our midst.
CHAPTER IX
OBEAH