Brood of the Witch-Queen by Sax Rohmer (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) 📕

“What habits?”

“Well, look.” Cairn waved in the direction of the open window. “What does he do in the dark all night, with a fire going?”

“Influenza?”

“Nonsense! You’ve never been in his rooms, have you?”

“No. Very few men have. But as I said before, he’s popular with the women.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there have been complaints. Any other man would have been sent down.”

“You think he has influence⁠—”

“Influence of some sort, undoubtedly.”

“Well, I can see you have serious doubts about the man, as I have myself, so I can unburden my mind. You recall that sudden thunderstorm on Thursday?”

“Rather; quite upset me for work.”

“I was out in it. I was lying in a punt in the backwater⁠—you know, our backwater.”

“Lazy dog.”

“To tell you the truth, I was trying to make up my mind whether I should abandon bones and take the post on the Planet which has been offered me.”

“Pills for the pen⁠—Harley for Fleet? Did you decide?”

“Not then; something happened which quite changed my line of reflection.”

The room was becoming cloudy with tobacco smoke.

“It was delightfully still,” Cairn resumed. “A water rat rose within a foot of me and a kingfisher was busy on a twig almost at my elbow. Twilight was just creeping along, and I could hear nothing but faint creakings of sculls from the river and sometimes the drip of a punt-pole. I thought the river seemed to become suddenly deserted; it grew quite abnormally quiet⁠—and abnormally dark. But I was so deep in reflection that it never occurred to me to move.

“Then the flotilla of swans came round the bend, with Apollo⁠—you know Apollo, the king-swan?⁠—at their head. By this time it had grown tremendously dark, but it never occurred to me to ask myself why. The swans, gliding along so noiselessly, might have been phantoms. A hush, a perfect hush, settled down. Sime, that hush was the prelude to a strange thing⁠—an unholy thing!”

Cairn rose excitedly and strode across to the table, kicking the skull out of his way.

“It was the storm gathering,” snapped Sime.

“It was something else gathering! Listen! It got yet darker, but for some inexplicable reason, although I must have heard the thunder muttering, I couldn’t take my eyes off the swans. Then it happened⁠—the thing I came here to tell you about; I must tell somebody⁠—the thing that I am not going to forget in a hurry.”

He began to knock out the ash from his pipe.

“Go on,” directed Sime tersely.

“The big swan⁠—Apollo⁠—was within ten feet of me; he swam in open water, clear of the others; no living thing touched him. Suddenly, uttering a cry that chilled my very blood, a cry that I never heard from a swan in my life, he rose in the air, his huge wings extended⁠—like a tortured phantom, Sime; I can never forget it⁠—six feet clear of the water. The uncanny wail became a stifled hiss, and sending up a perfect fountain of water⁠—I was deluged⁠—the poor old king-swan fell, beat the surface with his wings⁠—and was still.”

“Well?”

“The other swans glided off like ghosts. Several heavy raindrops pattered on the leaves above. I admit I was scared. Apollo lay with one wing right in the punt. I was standing up; I had jumped to my feet when the thing occurred. I stooped and touched the wing. The bird was quite dead! Sime, I pulled the swan’s head out of the water, and⁠—his neck was broken; no fewer than three vertebrae fractured!”

A cloud of tobacco smoke was wafted towards the open window.

“It isn’t one in a million who could wring the neck of a bird like Apollo, Sime; but it was done before my eyes without the visible agency of God or man! As I dropped him and took to the pole, the storm burst. A clap of thunder spoke with the voice of a thousand cannon, and I poled for bare life from that haunted backwater. I was drenched to the skin when I got in, and I ran up all the way from the stage.”

“Well?” rapped the other again, as Cairn paused to refill his pipe.

“It was seeing the firelight flickering at Ferrara’s window that led me to do it. I don’t often call on him; but I thought that a rub down before the fire and a glass of toddy would put me right. The storm had abated as I got to the foot of his stair⁠—only a distant rolling of thunder.

“Then, out of the shadows⁠—it was quite dark⁠—into the flickering light of the lamp came somebody all muffled up. I started horribly. It was a girl, quite a pretty girl, too, but very pale, and with over-bright eyes. She gave one quick glance up into my face, muttered something, an apology, I think, and drew back again into her hiding-place.”

“He’s been warned,” growled Sime. “It will be notice to quit next time.”

“I ran upstairs and banged on Ferrara’s door. He didn’t open at first, but shouted out to know who was knocking. When I told him, he let me in, and closed the door very quickly. As I went in, a pungent cloud met me⁠—incense.”

“Incense?”

“His rooms smelt like a joss-house; I told him so. He said he was experimenting with Kyphi⁠—the ancient Egyptian stuff used in the temples. It was all dark and hot; phew! like a furnace. Ferrara’s rooms always were odd, but since the long vacation I hadn’t been in. Good lord, they’re disgusting!”

“How? Ferrara spent vacation in Egypt; I suppose he’s brought things back?”

“Things⁠—yes! Unholy things! But that brings me to something too. I ought to know more about the chap than anybody; Sir Michael Ferrara and the governor have been friends for thirty years; but my father is oddly reticent⁠—quite singularly reticent⁠—regarding Antony. Anyway, have you heard about him, in Egypt?”

“I’ve heard he got into trouble. For his age, he has a devil of a queer reputation; there’s no disguising it.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“I’ve no idea. Nobody seems to know. But I heard from young