Bat Wing by Sax Rohmer (ereader for android .TXT) 📕

point is this,” continued the Inspector, frowning portentously and lowering his chin so that it almost disappeared into the folds of his neck, “I have now interviewed all the inmates of Cray’s Folly except the ladies. It appears to me that four people had not gone to bed. There are you two gentlemen, who have explained why I found you in evening dress, Colonel Menendez, who can never explain, and there is one other.”

He paused, looking from Harley to myself.

It had come, the question which I had dreaded, the question which I had been asking myself ever since I had seen Val Beverley kneeling in the corridor, dressed as she had been when we had parted for the night.

“I refer to Miss Val Beverley,” the police-court voice proceeded. “This lady had evidently not retired, and neither, it would appear, had the Colonel.”

“Neither had I,” murmured Harley, “and neither had Mr. Knox.”

“Your reason I understand,” said the Inspector, “or at least your explanation is a possible one. But if the party broke up, as you say it did, somewhere about half-past ten o’clock, and if Madame de Stämer had gone to bed, why should Miss Beverley have remained up?” He paused significantly. “As well as Colonel Menendez?” he added.

“Look here, Inspector Aylesbury,” I interrupted, I speaking in a very quiet tone, I remember, “your insinuations annoy me.”

“Oh,” said he, turning his prominent eyes in my direction, “I see. They annoy you? If they annoy you, sir, perhaps you can explain this point which is puzzling me?”

“I cannot explain it, but doubtless Miss Beverley can do so when you ask her.”

“I should like to have asked her now, and I can’t make out why she refuses to see me.”

“She has not refused to see you,” replied Harley, smoothly. “She is probably unaware of the fact that you wish to see her.”

“I don’t know so much,” muttered the Inspector. “In my opinion I am being deliberately baffled on all sides. You can throw no light on this matter, then?”

“None,” I answered, shortly, and Paul Harley shook his head.

“But you must remember, Inspector,” he explained, “that the entire household was in a state of unrest.”

“In other words, everybody was waiting for this very thing to happen?”

“Consciously, or subconsciously, everybody was.”

“What do you mean by consciously or subconsciously?”

“I mean that those of us who were aware of the previous attempts on the life of the Colonel apprehended this danger. And I believe that something of this apprehension had extended even to the servants.” “Oh, to the servants? Now, I have seen all the servants, except the chef, who lives at a house on the outskirts of Mid-Hatton, as you may know. Can you give me any information about this man?”

“I have seen him,” replied Harley, “and have congratulated him upon his culinary art. His name, I believe, is Deronne. He is a Spaniard, and a little fat man. Quite an amiable creature,” he added.

“Hm.” The Inspector cleared his throat noisily.

“If that is all,” said Harley, “I should welcome an opportunity of a few hours’ sleep.”

“Oh,” said the Inspector. “Well, I suppose that is quite natural, but I shall probably have a lot more questions to ask you later.”

“Quite,” muttered Harley, “quite. Come on, Knox. Good-night, Inspector Aylesbury.”

“Good-night.”

Harley walked out of the dining room and across the deserted hall. He slowly mounted the stairs and I followed him into his room. It was now quite light, and as my friend dropped down upon the bed I thought that he looked very tired and haggard.

“Knox,” he said, “shut the door.”

I closed the door and turned to him.

“You heard that question about Miss Beverley?” I began.

“I heard it, and I am wondering what her answer will be when the Inspector puts it to her personally.”

“Surely it is obvious?” I cried. “A cloud of apprehension had settled on the house last night, Harley, which was like the darkness of Egypt. The poor girl was afraid to go to bed. She was probably sitting up reading.”

“Hm,” said Harley, drumming his feet upon the carpet. “Of course you realize that there is one person in Cray’s Folly who holds the clue to the heart of the mystery?”

“Madame de Stämer?”

He nodded grimly.

“When the rifle cracked out, Knox, she knew! Remember, no one had told her the truth. Yet can you doubt that she knows?”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Neither do I.” He clenched his teeth tightly and beat his fists upon the coverlet. “I was dreading that our friend the Inspector would ask a question which to my mind was very obvious.”

“You mean?—”

“Well, what investigator whose skull contained anything more useful than bubbles would have failed to ask if Colonel Menendez had an enemy in the neighbourhood?”

“No one,” I admitted; “but I fear the poor man is sadly out of his depth.”

“He is wading hopelessly, Knox, but even he cannot fail to learn about Camber to-morrow.”

He stared at me in a curiously significant manner.

“Do you mean, Harley,” I began, “that you really think——”

“My dear Knox,” he interrupted, “forgetting, if you like, all that preceded the tragedy, with what facts are we left? That Colonel Menendez, at the moment when the bullet entered his brain, must have been standing facing directly toward the Guest House. Now, you have seen the direction of the wound?”

“He was shot squarely between the eyes. A piece of wonderful marksmanship.”

“Quite,” Harley nodded his head. “But the bullet came out just at the vertex of the spine.”

He paused, as if waiting for some comment, and:

“You mean that the shot came from above?” I said, slowly.

“Obviously it came from above, Knox. Keep these two points in your mind, and then consider the fact that someone lighted a lamp in the Guest House only a few moments after the shot had been fired.”

“I remember. I saw it.”

“So did I,” said Harley, grimly, “and I saw something else.”

“What was that?”

“When you went off to summon assistance I ran across the lawn, scrambled through the bushes, and succeeded in climbing down into the little gully in which the stream runs, and up on