Bat Wing by Sax Rohmer (ereader for android .TXT) 📕
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- Author: Sax Rohmer
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“What part of the grounds were you in when the shot was fired?” he demanded.
“Halfway along the north side.”
“What were you doing?”
“I was running.”
“Running?”
“You see, Inspector, I regarded it as my duty to patrol the grounds of the house at nightfall, since, for all I knew to the contrary, some of the servants might be responsible for the attempts of which the Colonel complained. I had descended from the window of my room, had passed entirely around the house east to west, and had returned to my starting-point when Mr. Knox, who was looking out of the window, observed Colonel Menendez entering the Tudor garden.”
“Oh. Colonel Menendez was not visible to you?”
“Not from my position below, but being informed by my friend, who was hurriedly descending the ladder, that the Colonel had entered the garden, I set off running to intercept him.”
“Why?”
“He had acquired a habit of walking in his sleep, and I presumed that he was doing so on this occasion.”
“Oh, I see. So being told by the gentleman at the window that Colonel Menendez was in the garden, you started to run toward him. While you were running you heard a shot?”
“I did.”
“Where do you think it came from?”
“Nothing is more difficult to judge, Inspector, especially when one is near to a large building surrounded by trees.”
“Nevertheless,” said the Inspector, again raising his finger and frowning at Harley, “you cannot tell me that you formed no impression on the point. For instance, was it near, or a long way off?”
“It was fairly near.”
“Ten yards, twenty yards, a hundred yards, a mile?”
“Within a hundred yards. I cannot be more exact.”
“Within a hundred yards, and you have no idea from which direction the shot was fired?”
“From the sound I could form none.”
“Oh, I see. And what did you do?”
“I ran on and down into the sunken garden. I saw Colonel Menendez lying upon his face near the sun-dial. He was moving convulsively. Running up to him, I that he had been shot through the head.”
“What steps did you take?”
“My friend, Mr. Knox, had joined me, and I sent him for assistance.”
“But what steps did you take to apprehend the murderer?”
Paul Harley looked at him quietly.
“What steps should you have taken?” he asked.
Inspector Aylesbury cleared his throat again, and:
“I don’t think I should have let my man slip through my fingers like that,” he replied. “Why! by now he may be out of the county.”
“Your theory is quite feasible,” said Harley, tonelessly.
“You were actually on the spot when the shot was fired, you admit that it was fired within a hundred yards, yet you did nothing to apprehend the murderer.”
“No,” replied Harley, “I was ridiculously inactive. You see, I am a mere amateur, Inspector. For my future guidance I should be glad to know what the correct procedure would have been.”
Inspector Aylesbury blew his nose.
“I know my job,” he said. “If I had been called in there might have been a different tale to tell. But he was a foreigner, and he paid for his ignorance, poor fellow.”
Paul Harley took out his pipe and began to load it in a deliberate and lazy manner.
Inspector Aylesbury turned his prominent eyes in my direction.
CHAPTER XIX. COMPLICATIONS
“I am afraid of this man Aylesbury,” said Paul Harley. We sat in the deserted dining room. I had contributed my account of the evening’s happenings, Dr. Rolleston had made his report, and Inspector Aylesbury was now examining the servants in the library. Harley and I had obtained his official permission to withdraw, and the physician was visiting Madame de Stämer, who lay in a state of utter prostration.
“What do you mean, Harley?”
“I mean that he will presently make some tragic blunder. Good God, Knox, to think that this man had sought my aid, and that I stood by idly whilst he walked out to his death. I shall never forgive myself.” He banged the table with his fist. “Even now that these unknown fiends have achieved their object, I am helpless, helpless. There was not a wisp of smoke to guide me, Knox, and one man cannot search a county.”
I sighed wearily.
“Do you know, Harley,” I said, “I am thinking of a verse of Kipling’s.”
“I know!” he interrupted, almost savagely.
“A Snider squibbed in the jungle. Somebody laughed and fled—”“Oh, I know, Knox. I heard that damnable laughter, too.”
“My God,” I whispered, “who was it? What was it? Where did it come from?”
“As well ask where the shot came from, Knox. Out amongst all those trees, with a house that might have been built for a sounding-board, who could presume to say where either came from? One thing we know, that the shot came from the south.”
He leaned upon a corner of the table, staring at me intently.
“From the south?” I echoed.
Harley glanced in the direction of the open door.
“Presently,” he said, “we shall have to tell Aylesbury everything that we know. After all, he represents the law; but unless we can get Inspector Wessex down from Scotland Yard, I foresee a miscarriage of justice. Colonel Menendez lay on his face, and the line made by his recumbent body pointed almost directly toward—”
I nodded, watching him.
“I know, Harley—toward the Guest House.”
Paul Harley inclined his head, grimly.
“The first light which we saw,” he continued, “was in a window of the Guest House. It may have had no significance. Awakened by the sound of a rifle-shot near by, any one would naturally get up.”
“And having decided to
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