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

I was silent for a while, then:

“If she was so certain that no one could save him,” I said, “she must have had information which neither he nor she ever imparted to us.”

“I am sure she had,” declared Val Beverley.

“But can you think of any reason why she should not have confided in Paul Harley?”

“I cannot, I cannot—unless—”

“Yes?”

“Unless, Mr. Knox,” she looked at me strangely, “they were both under some vow of silence. Oh! it sounds ridiculous, wildly ridiculous, but what other explanation can there be?”

“What other, indeed? And now, Miss Beverley, I know one of the questions Inspector Aylesbury will ask you.”

“What is it?”

“He has learned, from one of the servants I presume, as he did not see you, that you had not retired last night at the time of the tragedy.”

“I had not,” said Val Beverley, quietly. “Is that so singular?”

“To me it is no more than natural.”

“I have never been so frightened in all my life as I was last night. Sleep was utterly out of the question. There was mystery in the very air. I knew, oh, Mr. Knox, in some way I knew that a tragedy was going to happen.”

“I believe I knew, too,” I said. “Good God, to think that we might have saved him!”

“Do you think—” began Val Beverley, and then paused.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“Oh, I was going to say a strange thing that suddenly occurred to me, but it is utterly foolish, I suppose. Inspector Aylesbury is coming back at nine o’clock, is he not?”

“At half-past eight, so I understand.”

“I am afraid I have very little to tell him. I was sitting in my room in an appalling state of nerves when the shot was fired. I was not even reading; I was just waiting, waiting, for something to happen.”

“I understand. My own experience was nearly identical.”

“Then,” continued the girl, “as I unlocked my door and peeped out, feeling too frightened to venture farther in the darkness, I heard Madame’s voice in the hall below.”

“Crying for help?”

“No,” replied the girl, a puzzled frown appearing between her brows. “She cried out something in French. The intonation told me that it was French, although I could not detect a single word. Then I thought I heard a moan.”

“And you ran down?”

“Yes. I summoned up enough courage to turn on the light in the corridor and to run down to the hall. And there she was lying just outside the door of her room.”

“Was her room in darkness?”

“Yes. I turned on the light and succeeded in partly raising her, but she was too heavy for me to lift. I was still trying to revive her when Pedro opened the door of the servants’ quarters. Oh,” she closed her eyes wearily, “I shall never forget it.”

I took her hand and pressed it reassuringly.

“Your courage has been wonderful throughout,” I declared, “and I hope it will remain so to the end.”

She smiled, and flushed slightly, as I released her hand again.

“I must go and take a peep at Madame now,” she said, “but of course I shall not disturb her if she is still sleeping.”

We turned and walked slowly back to the hall, and there just entering from the courtyard was Inspector Aylesbury.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “good morning, Mr. Knox. This is Miss Beverley, I presume?”

“Yes, Inspector,” replied the girl. “I understand that you wish to speak to me?”

“I do, Miss, but I shall not detain you for many minutes.”

“Very well,” she said, and as she turned and retraced her steps, he followed her back into the library.

I walked out to the courtyard, and avoiding the Tudor garden and the billiard room, turned in the other direction, passing the stables where Jim, the negro groom, saluted me very sadly, and proceeded round to the south side of the house.

Inspector Aylesbury, I perceived, had wasted no time. I counted no fewer than four men, two of them in uniform, searching the lawns and the slopes beyond, although what they were looking for I could not imagine.

Giving the library a wide berth, I walked along the second terrace, and presently came in sight of the east wing and the tower. There, apparently engaged in studying the rhododendrons, I saw Paul Harley.

He signalled to me, and, crossing the lawn, I joined him where he stood.

Without any word of greeting:

“You see, Knox,” he said, speaking in the eager manner which betokened a rapidly working brain, “this is the path which the Colonel must have followed last night. Yonder is the door by which, according to his own account, he came out on a previous occasion, walking in his sleep. Do you remember?”

“I remember,” I replied.

“Well, Pedro found it unlocked this morning. You see it faces practically due south, and the Colonel’s bedroom is immediately above us where we stand.” He stared at me queerly. “I must have passed this door last night only a few moments before the Colonel came out, for I was just crossing the courtyard and could see you at my window at the moment when you saw poor Menendez enter the Tudor garden. He must have actually been walking around the east wing at the same time that I was walking around the west. Now, I am going to show you something, Knox, something which I have just discovered.”

From his waistcoat pocket he took out a half-smoked cigarette. I stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“Of course,” he continued, “the weather has been bone dry for more than a week now, and it may have lain there for a long time, but to me, Knox, to me it looks suspiciously fresh.”

“What is the point?” I asked, perplexedly.

“The point is that it is a hand-made cigarette, one of the Colonel’s. Don’t you recognize it?”

“Good heavens!” I said; “yes, of course it is.”

He returned it to his pocket without another word.

“It may mean nothing,” he murmured, “or it may mean everything. And now,