Bat-Wing (12 page)

"I have heard of him, Mr. Harley. But to be perfectly frank, I have
little in common with citizens of the United States."

A note of arrogance, which at times crept into his high, thin voice,
became perceptible now, and the aristocratic, aquiline face looked very
supercilious.

How the conversation would have developed I know not, but at this
moment Pedro entered and delivered a message in Spanish to the Colonel,
whereupon the latter arose and with very profuse apologies begged
permission to leave us for a few moments.

When he had retired:

"I am going upstairs to write a letter, Knox," said Paul Harley. "Carry
on with your old duties to-day, your new ones do not commence until to-
morrow."

With that he laughed and walked out of the dining room, leaving me
wondering whether to be grateful or annoyed. However, it did not take
me long to find my way to the drawing room where the two ladies were
seated side by side upon a settee, Madame's chair having been wheeled
into a corner.

"Ah, Mr. Knox," exclaimed Madame as I entered, "have the others
deserted, then?"

"Scarcely deserted, I think. They are merely straggling."

"Absent without leave," murmured Val Beverley.

I laughed, and drew up a chair. Madame de Stämer was smoking, but Miss
Beverley was not. Accordingly, I offered her a cigarette, which she
accepted, and as I was lighting it with elaborate care, every moment
finding a new beauty in her charming face, Pedro again appeared and
addressed some remark in Spanish to Madame.

"My chair, Pedro," she said; "I will come at once."

The Spanish butler wheeled the chair across to the settee, and lifting
her with an ease which spoke of long practice, placed her amidst the
cushions where she spent so many hours of her life.

"I know you will excuse me, dear," she said to Val Beverley, "because I
feel sure that Mr. Knox will do his very best to make up for my
absence. Presently, I shall be back."

Pedro holding the door open, she went wheeling out, and I found myself
alone with Val Beverley.

At the time I was much too delighted to question the circumstances
which had led to this tête-à-tête, but had I cared to give the matter
any consideration, it must have presented rather curious features. The
call first of host and then of hostess was inconsistent with the
courtesy of the master of Cray's Folly, which, like the appointments of
his home and his mode of life, was elaborate. But these ideas did not
trouble me at the moment.

Suddenly, however, indeed before I had time to speak, the girl started
and laid her hand upon my arm.

"Did you hear something?" she whispered, "a queer sort of sound?"

"No," I replied, "what kind of sound?"

"An odd sort of sound, almost like—the flapping of wings."

I saw that she had turned pale, I saw the confirmation of something
which I had only partly realised before: that her life at Cray's Folly
was a constant fight against some haunting shadow. Her gaiety, her
lightness, were but a mask. For now, in those wide-open eyes, I read
absolute horror.

"Miss Beverley," I said, grasping her hand reassuringly, "you alarm me.
What has made you so nervous to-night?"

"To-night!" she echoed, "to-night? It is every night. If you had not
come—" she corrected herself—"if someone had not come, I don't think
I could have stayed. I am sure I could not have stayed."

"Doubtless the attempted burglary alarmed you?" I suggested, intending
to sooth her fears.

"Burglary?" She smiled unmirthfully. "It was no burglary."

"Why do you say so, Miss Beverley?"

"Do you think I don't know why Mr. Harley is here?" she challenged.
"Oh, believe me, I know—I know. I, too, saw the bat's wing nailed to
the door, Mr. Knox. You are surely not going to suggest that this was
the work of a burglar?"

I seated myself beside her on the settee.

"You have great courage," I said. "Believe me, I quite understand all
that you have suffered."

"Is my acting so poor?" she asked, with a pathetic smile.

"No, it is wonderful, but to a sympathetic observer only acting,
nevertheless."

I noted that my presence reassured her, and was much comforted by this
fact.

"Would you like to tell me all about it," I continued; "or would this
merely renew your fears?"

"I should like to tell you," she replied in a low voice, glancing about
her as if to make sure that we were alone. "Except for odd people,
friends, I suppose, of the Colonel's, we have had so few visitors since
we have been at Cray's Folly. Apart from all sorts of queer happenings
which really"—she laughed nervously—"may have no significance
whatever, the crowning mystery to my mind is why Colonel Menendez
should have leased this huge house."

"He does not entertain very much, then?"

"Scarcely at all. The 'County'—do you know what I mean by the
'County?'—began by receiving him with open arms and ended by sending
him to Coventry. His lavish style of entertainment they labelled
'swank'—horrible word but very expressive! They concluded that they
did not understand him, and of everything they don't understand they
disapprove. So after the first month or so it became very lonely at
Cray's Folly. Our foreign servants—there are five of them altogether—
got us a dreadfully bad name. Then, little by little, a sort of cloud
seemed to settle on everything. The Colonel made two visits abroad, I
don't know exactly where he went, but on his return from the first
visit Madame de Stämer changed."

"Changed?—in what way?"

"I am afraid it would be hopeless to try to make you understand, Mr.
Knox, but in some subtle way she changed. Underneath all her vivacity
she is a tragic woman, and—oh, how can I explain?" Val Beverley made a
little gesture of despair.

"Perhaps you mean," I suggested, "that she seemed to become even less
happy than before?"

"Yes," she replied, looking at me eagerly. "Has Colonel Menendez told
you anything to account for it?"

"Nothing," I said, "He has left us strangely in the dark. But you say
he went abroad on a second and more recent occasion?"

"Yes, not much more than a month ago. And after that, somehow or other,
matters seemed to come to a head. I confess I became horribly
frightened, but to have left would have seemed like desertion, and
Madame de Stämer has been so good to me."

"Did you actually witness any of the episodes which took place about a
month ago?"

Val Beverley shook her head.

"I never saw anything really definite," she replied.

"Yet, evidently you either saw or heard something which alarmed you."

"Yes, that is true, but it is so difficult to explain."

"Could you try to explain?"

"I will try if you wish, for really I am longing to talk to someone
about it. For instance, on several occasions I have heard footsteps in
the corridor outside my room."

"At night?"

"Yes, at night."

"Strange footsteps?"

She nodded.

"That is the uncanny part of it. You know how familiar one grows with
the footsteps of persons living in the same house? Well, these
footsteps were quite unfamiliar to me."

"And you say they passed your door?"

"Yes. My rooms are almost directly overhead. And right at the end of
the corridor, that is on the southeast corner of the building, is
Colonel Menendez's bedroom, and facing it a sort of little smoke-room.
It was in this direction that the footsteps went."

"To Colonel Menendez's room?"

"Yes. They were light, furtive footsteps."

"This took place late at night?"

"Quite late, long after everyone had retired."

She paused, staring at me with a sort of embarrassment, and presently:

"Were the footsteps those of a man or a woman?" I asked.

"Of a woman. Someone, Mr. Knox," she bent forward, and that look of
fear began to creep into her eyes again, "with whose footsteps I was
quite unfamiliar."

"You mean a stranger to the house?"

"Yes. Oh, it was uncanny." She shuddered. "The first time I heard it I
had been lying awake listening. I was nervous. Madame de Stämer had
told me that morning that the Colonel had seen someone lurking about
the lawns on the previous night. Then, as I lay awake listening for the
slightest sound, I suddenly detected these footsteps; and they paused—
right outside my door."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "What did you do?"

"Frankly, I was too frightened to do anything. I just lay still with my
heart beating horribly, and presently they passed on, and I heard them
no more."

"Was your door locked?"

"No." She laughed nervously. "But it has been locked every night since
then!"

"And these sounds were repeated on other nights?"

"Yes, I have often heard them, Mr. Knox. What makes it so strange is
that all the servants sleep out in the west wing, as you know, and
Pedro locks the communicating door every night before retiring."

"It is certainly strange," I muttered.

"It is horrible," declared the girl, almost in a whisper. "For what can
it mean except that there is someone in Cray's Folly who is never seen
during the daytime?"

"But that is incredible."

"It is not so incredible in a big house like this. Besides, what other
explanation can there be?"

"There must be one," I said, reassuringly. "Have you spoken of this to
Madame de Stämer?"

"Yes."

Val Beverley's expression grew troubled.

"Had she any explanation to offer?"

"None. Her attitude mystified me very much. Indeed, instead of
reassuring me, she frightened me more than ever by her very silence. I
grew to dread the coming of each night. Then—" she hesitated again,
looking at me pathetically—"twice I have been awakened by a loud cry."

"What kind of cry?"

"I could not tell you, Mr. Knox. You see I have always been asleep when
it has come, but I have sat up trembling and dimly aware that what had
awakened me was a cry of some kind."

"You have no idea from whence it proceeded?"

"None whatever. Of course, all these things may seem trivial to you,
and possibly they can be explained in quite a simple way. But this
feeling of something pending has grown almost unendurable. Then, I
don't understand Madame and the Colonel at all."

She suddenly stopped speaking and flushed with embarrassment.

"If you mean that Madame de Stämer is in love with her cousin, I agree
with you," I said, quietly.

"Oh, is it so evident as that?" murmured Val Beverley. She laughed to
cover her confusion. "I wish I could understand what it all means."

At this point our tête-à-tête was interrupted by the return of Madame
de Stämer.

"Oh, la la!" she cried, "the Colonel must have allowed himself to
become too animated this evening. He is threatened with one of his
attacks and I have insisted upon his immediate retirement. He makes his
apologies, but knows you will understand."

I expressed my concern, and:

"I was unaware that Colonel Menendez's health was impaired," I said.

"Ah," Madame shrugged characteristically. "Juan has travelled too much
of the road of life on top speed, Mr. Knox." She snapped her white
fingers and grimaced significantly. "Excitement is bad for him."

She wheeled her chair up beside Val Beverley, and taking the girl's
hand patted it affectionately.

"You look pale to-night, my dear," she said. "All this bogey business
is getting on your nerves, eh?"

"Oh, not at all," declared the girl. "It is very mysterious and
annoying, of course."

"But M. Paul Harley will presently tell us what it is all about,"
concluded Madame. "Yes, I trust so. We want no Cuban devils here at
Cray's Folly."

I had hoped that she would speak further of the matter, but having thus
apologized for our host's absence, she plunged into an amusing account
of Parisian society, and of the changes which five years of war had
brought about. Her comments, although brilliant, were superficial, the
only point I recollect being her reference to a certain Baron Bergmann,
a Swedish diplomat, who, according to Madame, had the longest nose and
the shortest memory in Paris, so that in the cold weather, "he even
sometimes forgot to blow his nose."

Her brightness I thought was almost feverish. She chattered and laughed
and gesticulated, but on this occasion she was overacting. Underneath
all her vivacity lay something cold and grim.

Harley rejoined us in half an hour or so, but I could see that he was
as conscious of the air of tension as I was. All Madame's high spirits
could not enable her to conceal the fact that she was anxious to
retire. But Harley's evident desire to do likewise surprised me very
greatly; for from the point of view of the investigation the day had
been an unsatisfactory one. I knew that there must be a hundred and one
things which my friend desired to know, questions which Madame de
Stämer could have answered. Nevertheless, at about ten o'clock we
separated for the night, and although I was intensely anxious to talk
to Harley, his reticent mood had descended upon him again, and:

"Sleep well, Knox," he said, as he paused at my door. "I may be
awakening you early."

With which cryptic remark and not another word he passed on and entered
his own room.

Perhaps it was childish on my part, but I accepted this curt dismissal
very ill-humouredly. That Harley, for some reason of his own, wished to
be alone, was evident enough, but I resented being excluded from his
confidence, even temporarily. It would seem that he had formed a theory
in the prosecution of which my coöperation was not needed. And what
with profitless conjectures concerning its nature, and memories of Val
Beverley's pathetic parting glance as we had bade one another good-
night, sleep seemed to be out of the question, and I stood for a long
time staring out of the open window.