THE CRYSTAL CLAW
[Illustration: The fatal candle flickered as its heat caused the
fragile balloon to expand.]
THE
CRYSTAL CLAW
BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
AUTHOR OF “MADEMOISELLE OF MONTE CARLO,”
“THE VOICE FROM THE VOID,” ETC.
_Frontispiece by_
GEORGE W. GAGE
NEW YORK
THE MACAULAY COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1924
BY THE MACAULAY COMPANY
_Printed in the United States of America_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I MID SILENT SNOWS 9
II A TEMPORARY BRIDE 26
III THE DEADLY FOEHN 44
IV WHISPERS OF WOMEN 59
V ESTABLISHES SOME CURIOUS FACTS 74
VI THE HAM-BONE CLUB 88
VII IN THE WEB 97
VIII DOCTOR FENG’S VIEW 107
IX CROOKED PATHS 119
X IN ROOM NUMBER EIGHTEEN 131
XI LOVE VS. HONOR 143
XII STRANGE SUSPICIONS 158
XIII SPUME OF THE STORM 171
XIV IN THE NIGHT 191
XV MORE DISCLOSURES 204
XVI GROWING SUSPICIONS 218
XVII PLOT AND COUNTER-PLOT 231
XVIII MISSING 244
XIX AT HEATHERMORE GARDENS 254
XX THE CHILD’S AIR-BALL 267
XXI WHO WAS DOCTOR FENG? 278
XXII THE SECRET DISCLOSED 298
THE CRYSTAL CLAW
THE CRYSTAL CLAW
CHAPTER I
MID SILENT SNOWS
“Yes, an extremely pretty girl,” remarked old Dr. Feng, bending towards
me and speaking softly across the _table-à-deux_ at which we were
dining at the Kürhaus hotel at Mürren, high-up in the snow-clad Alps.
“A honeymooning couple, no doubt,” he went on--“nice place this for a
honeymoon!” and the white-haired old Chinese who--most unusual in one
of his race, had a long white beard--smiled as he poured out a tiny
glass of white curaçao, the only form of alcohol I ever saw him indulge
in.
I glanced across in the direction he indicated and saw seated in a
corner, a pretty dark-haired grey-eyed girl of twenty. She wore a
flame-colored dance-frock, and was laughing happily as she chatted
with a good-looking young man, perhaps six years or so her senior.
The young fellow was smart and distinguished-looking and the girl was
very handsome, with irregular features, and singularly expressive
eyes, but hers was a nervous, restless physiognomy that rather chilled
one at first sight. The expression in both their faces told the truth
quite clearly. They were, indeed, newly wed, and they had that evening
arrived on the funicular railway from Lauterbrunnen, in the valley
below, by the service which had left Victoria station the previous
afternoon.
“Yes, a very handsome pair,” I agreed. “I wonder who they are?”
“Don’t inquire. When you marry, Yelverton, you won’t like people to be
inquisitive. All newly-married people are super-sensitive, you know,”
declared my companion.
Dr. Feng Tsu’tong, despite his seventy years, did not look a day more
than sixty. Much above the common height for a Chinese he possessed
features of the type which seldom show many signs of advancing age.
Erect and virile he carried himself like a much younger man and of his
activity and endurance I had had ample proof, for, in our frequent long
tramps and ski expeditions across the snow, he had shown me more than
once that his muscles were equal to my own, despite the great disparity
in our ages.
He was a highly-cultured and widely read man. I imagined when I first
met him, as I found to be the case when I knew him better, that he
must have left China many years before, for he spoke perfect English,
though with a slight American accent. His quaint philosophy had made
an instant appeal to me. Though he was much older than I, his mental
outlook was surprisingly young and we had become constant companions
and very firm friends in quite a short time. I have seldom met a
man in whom I felt such complete confidence and sympathy as in this
old Chinese doctor. We spent much time together, often taking long
expeditions afoot or on ski or sometimes as partners in a game of
curling of which he was passionately fond.
Our acquaintance as a matter of fact had been a casual one. I had left
London blanketed under fog and rain and after a twenty-four hours’
journey by rail had found myself in Mürren--that winter paradise of the
young, opposite the towering Jungfrau with its attendant heights, the
Monch and the Eiger, high-up in a glittering world of sunshine, snow
and silence. The scene looked almost like a typical Christmas card. We
were so high up that by day the sun shone brightly from a sky as blue
and cloudless as that of Cannes, there were ten feet of powdery snow
everywhere and the crystal-clear air was as bright and invigorating as
champagne.
Giacomo, the smiling head waiter, had placed me with Dr. Feng at a
small table set in the window in the great _salle à manger_. We had
taken to each other at once and had become companions, not only at
meals, but on the superb ice-rink which was in perfect condition as was
flooded and re-frozen each night. There we skated or curled, or we took
excursions on the wonderful rack-railway up to the Allmendhubel, or
else over the snow to what is known as the Half-way House, or else down
to the Blumen-tal.
Mürren in winter is _par excellence_ a sports centre for young people
who indulge in skating, tobogganing, _lugeing_ and skiing, the winter
sports that are, in these post-war days, happily eclipsing the exotic
pleasures one obtains on the Riviera. There, in the Bernese Oberland,
the vice of gambling hardly exists save in the form of occasional
bridge as a relaxation after the day’s sport.
Each winter the Kürhaus hotel is a centre for the ever-growing band
of enthusiasts who meet there for the bright social life and superb
out-door sport which Mürren affords. These are the people who truly
enjoy themselves healthfully. Skiing and similar pursuits demand
perfect physical fitness and at the Kürhaus one is in the centre
of wholesome out-door exercise by day and in the evening of a gay
merriment which only seems to round off and complete the pleasures of
days spent in the open air on the towering mountain slopes. At Mürren
one finds a winter life that cannot be excelled in Europe.
The scene was wonderfully attractive. All around us were the great
hills clothed in virgin snow, dotted here and there with merry parties
of girls whose bright sports costumes provided startling splashes of
color against the white background. Everywhere pretty lips laughed in
the sheer joy of young exuberant life. Everywhere merry conversation
rang out from dawn to dusk, everybody seemed to be active, healthy and
happy.
But beneath all the fun and frivolling I had found a deeper, more
serious note. It was struck for me by Dr. Feng.
More and more I found myself falling under the spell of the old man’s
mentality. More and more I realized how much we had in common. A native
of Yunnan, he had left China when about thirty--chiefly, I gathered, on
account of political troubles. The range and variety of his knowledge
was encyclopædic: there seemed to be hardly a subject on which he could
not talk brilliantly if he chose to exert himself. And we had one great
bond of sympathy--both of us loved music. Feng was a brilliant pianist.
I was passionately devoted to the violin and we spent many hours over
the works of the great composers. Like most other young men I had a
fairly good opinion of myself, but compared with Dr. Feng, I was a mere
child in musical knowledge. Our music, however, made us both popular
and it had become quite a regular evening custom for us to play to the
Kürhaus guests in the great ball-room.
There was, however, a still deeper side to our intercourse. Feng
had initiated me into the first principles of the little-known Yogi
philosophy--the doctrine that the real man is not the visible body,
that the immortal “I,” of which each human being is conscious to
a greater or lesser extent, merely occupies and uses the corporal
transient flesh. The Yogis believe that the body is but as a suit of
clothes which the Spirit puts on and off from time to time, and they
insist that the body must be brought under the perfect control of the
mind--that the instrument must be finely tuned so as to respond to the
touch of the hand of the master.
Feng had made a deep study of the Yogi teaching and was, in himself,
living evidence of a man virile and rejuvenated in both body and
mind. People stood astounded when they were told his actual age, and
I, admiring him, was now endeavoring in my own way to follow his
footsteps. The doctrine he urged with such compelling eloquence and
powers had taken a deep hold of my mind--how deep I never realized
until I found myself flung suddenly into dangers and temptations which
were to try my physical and mental fortitude to their very depths.
It was the arrival of Stanley Audley and his bride that, suddenly and
unexpectedly, changed the entire current of my life. And as I sit
here placing on record this chronicle of bewildering events, I wonder
that I came safely through the maze of doubt, mystery and peril in
which I found myself so suddenly plunged. I can only believe that a
man, profoundly influenced, as I very speedily was, by the splendid
philosophy of Yogi and buoyed up by a consuming love for a pure and
beautiful woman, will face dangers before which others might well
quail,--will even, as the saying goes, “throw dice with the devil” if
need be.
To make my story clear, I had better formally introduce myself. My
name is Rex Yelverton, my age at present moment twenty-eight and the
astounding incidents I am about to relate happened just over three
years ago, so that I was under twenty-five at the time.
My father had died when I was twenty-three and had left me a small
estate near Andover. I had been brought up to the law and had been
admitted a solicitor just before my father’s death. I could not
afford to live on the estate, so had cosy chambers on the top floor
of an old-fashioned house in Russell Square and having entered into
partnership with a solicitor named Hensman, practiced with him in
Bedford Row.
Hensman’s hobby was golf and for that reason he took his holiday in
the summer. I loved the winter life of Switzerland and for some years
had made it my rule to get away in the winter. In addition to my
music I was deeply interested in wireless, and had fitted up quite
a respectable wireless station in a room in Russell Square. I had a
transmitting license and with my two hobbies found my spare time so
fully occupied that I mixed but little in ordinary society.
On that never-to-be-forgotten night when I first saw Stanley Audley
and his handsome bride, the Doctor retired early, as was his habit.
So, strolling into the ball-room of the Kürhaus opposite the hotel, I
watched the pair dancing happily together, the cynosure of all eyes, of
course, though the room was not very full, as the season had only just
begun.
Like all other honeymoon couples, they were trying to pretend that they
had been married for years and, like all other honeymoon couples, they
were failing lamentably! The truth was, as ever, palpable to every
onlooker. Like every one else I admired them, though like every one
else, I smiled at their pretty pretense. As they had arrived by the
night train from Calais, I guessed they had been married in London
about thirty hours before and had come straight through to Mürren.
This, in fact, proved to be the truth.
In my admiration of the beautiful young bride I was not alone, for a
middle-aged, grey-bearded invalid, name Hartley Humphreys, with whom
I often played billiards before going to bed, also remarked upon her
beauty, and expressed wonder as to who they were. It was then that
another man in the room, also evidently interested, told us that their
name was Audley.
Next morning, on coming downstairs, I found little Mrs. Audley dressed
in winter-sports clothes and looking inexpressibly sweet and charming.
She wore a pale grey Fair Isle jersey, with a bright jazzy pattern,
with a saucy little cap to match, and over the jersey a short dark
brown coat with fur collar and cuffs, and around her waist a leather
belt. Brown corduroy breeches, and heavy well-oiled boots and
ski-anklets completed one of the most sensible ski-outfits I have ever
seen. That she was no novice at skiing was evident from the badge, a
pair of crossed skis, she wore in her cap. It was the badge of the
Swiss Ski Club--the same as that worn by the Alpine guides themselves.
Naturally I was surprised. I had, on the previous night, believed her
to be simply a handsome young bride who had come to spend her honeymoon
amid the winter gayety of Mürren, but now it was clear she was no
beginner.
She had already breakfasted and was smoking a cigarette and laughing
gayly with an American girl she had met on the previous night, and
apparently awaiting her husband.
In a few moments the husband, in a wind-proof ski-suit and wearing one
of those peaked caps of blue serge which nobody dare wear save the
practiced ski-runner, came down with a word of apology.
“I broke my boot-lace, dearest. I apologize.”
“Oh! That’s all right, Stan,” she laughed, “John has got the food in
his rucksack.”
Then I saw that John von Allmen, the intrepid and popular young guide,
was waiting outside for them. They were going on a skiing excursion
up the Schelthorn. Certainly they were no novices! I soon afterwards
discovered they had both passed their “tests” in previous winters at
Wengen and Pontresina.
The sun was shining brightly upon the newly fallen snow, although it
was not yet nine o’clock, and as I watched the happy young couple
adjust the ski-bindings to the boots and take their ski-sticks, those
iron spiked poles of cherry wood with circular ends of cane to prevent
sinking where the snow is soft, I noted how merry and blissful they
were.
Suddenly the tall, lithe, young Alpine guide in his neat blue serge
skiing suit drew on his leather mitts, hitched on his rucksack and the
little party slid swiftly away over the snow.
It was clear the girl was an expert--her every movement showed it.
Those who go skiing well know the difficulty of keeping their balance
on the long, narrow planks turned up in front which constitute ski. But
the bride had long ago passed through the initial stages. As I found
out later she had been year after year to winter sports and had long
passed the period when she practiced her “telemarks” and “stemmings”
on the “Nursery Slopes.” Her lithe swift movements were delightful
to watch and it was clear she was enjoying to the full the keen
exhilaration born of the swift gliding over the crisp snow.
As I stood watching the swift progress of the Audleys and their guide,
old Dr. Feng spoke behind me.
“A pretty sight, Yelverton. It is good, indeed, to be young. There’s an
example of the fate lying before you: you’ll have to marry some day,
you know.”
“No sign of it yet, doctor,” I laughingly replied.
As a matter of fact, matrimony had so far made no appeal to me: I had
never met a girl who had stirred me deeply. I had many friends--or at
least acquaintances--of my own sex, but I was deeply absorbed in my
hobbies and, not seeking society for society’s sake, I had hardly any
woman friends. Sometimes I fancied that the opposite sex found in me
something antipathetic and uncongenial: at any rate, I made little
progress with them and, perhaps for that reason, was quite content to
remain a bachelor and keep my father’s old housekeeper, Mrs. Chapman,
to “mother” me as she did when I was a boy and manage my flat in
Russell Square.
I suppose I was no better and no worse than thousands of other fellows
of my age. Men coming down from Oxford and flung into the whirl of
London life are not usually Puritans or ascetics. I suppose I was much
like them. Life was young in me, and fortune had been kind. If I had
few friends, I had no enemies: I had an income ample for my wants and I
enjoyed myself in my own way. My work kept me busy during the day: my
evenings were filled with music, my “wireless,” an occasional dance,
or theatre and I was always merry and happy. Nothing had occurred
to make me, a careless youngster, realize that there was something
in life deeper and dearer than anything I know. I was not given to
self-analysis or overmuch introspection and that a storm of love might
some day shatter my complacent existence to bits never crossed my mind.
My music and my experiments in radio-telephony were about the only
serious side of my life. So Dr. Feng’s good humored badinage left me
quite unmoved.
We strolled together to the curling rink for a match.
Old Mr. Humphreys, a grey-faced financier from the near East, and
a very charming and refined old fellow, sat in his invalid chair
watching us. The ice was in perfect condition and very fast, so that
the game was as good as could be obtained, even in Scotland itself.
The orchestra was playing gay music for the skaters, some of whom were
waltzing, laughter sounded everywhere and the bright sunny morning was
most enjoyable.
We lost the match, mostly, I fear, through several very bad stones
that I played, and our lack of energy in sweeping. Curling is a very
difficult game to play well, for, unlike golf or tennis, one can get
such little practice at home.
However, we all afterward retired to the bar, and over our cocktails
old Mr. Humphreys who, being a confirmed invalid, wheeled himself about
in his chair, chatted merrily. He had arrived about a week after I had
come. He seldom, if ever, left his chair during the day. His guidance
and management of the chair was wonderful and he could even play
billiards while seated. He and the doctor were great friends and often
joined a bridge party together, while I took my skis up the cable
railway to the Allmendhubel and swept back down the slopes.
The following afternoon, while passing along the terrace of the big
chalet which overlooks the rink, I found Major Harold Burton, here the
secretary of the Mürren Bob-sleigh Club, and at home an officer in the
Tank Corps, chatting with the Audleys.
“I say, Yelverton!” he exclaimed, “will you join us on a test on the
bob-run presently? Mr. and Mrs. Audley are coming. Let me introduce
you.”
I raised my ski-cap and bowed.
“Thanks,” I replied, “I’ll be delighted to make a fourth. You’re the
only man I’d trust to take me down. It’s too fast for me!” I added with
a laugh.
“Is it really a fast run?” asked the bride, smiling.
“Well, you will see for yourself,” I replied.
Laughing gayly we went over the snow, past the bend at the village shop
where one can obtain anything from a Swiss cuckoo clock, to a paper of
pins, and whose elderly proprietor is one of the best ski instructors
in the canton. Paying our fare, we ascended by the rack-railway up the
snowy heights of the Allmendhubel.
On the truck was our heavy “bob,” with its steel frame and runners, and
its delicate controls. At the summit the attendants pushed it along the
flat to the narrow entrance of the bob-run which a hundred hands had,
a few weeks before, constructed in the snow, digging it all out and
making many banked-up hair-pin bends down the side of the mountain for
two and a half miles back into Mürren.
Those curves are scientifically calculated for speed, but it takes an
expert to negotiate them successfully. The crew of a “big bob” must
know the course, and be alert to the command of the driver to bend over
“right,” “left,” or “up.” One’s first trip in a “bob” on a fast run is
an experience never to be forgotten. But both the bride and bridegroom
revealed that they had done such things before.
At the “gate” of the run--a narrow cut eight feet deep in the snow--a
smiling Swiss stood beside the telephone, which gave “clear passage.”
Burton, as an expert, who took no chances, had the “bob” turned over,
and examined the brakes and controls, which sometimes get clogged with
snow.
We all got in and set our feet forward on the rests, I being behind to
act as brakesman, and to “brake” at the instant order of Burton.
“Everybody all right?” he asked, as we settled ourselves behind each
other on the big bob.
We responded that we were, then four men pushed us off down the narrow
icy slope.
Slowly we went at first. Then, suddenly gathering speed, we saw a dead
end in front of us.
“Right!” cried Burton, and all of us leaned over to the right and thus
negotiated the corner.
“Left!” was the order, and round we went every moment gathering speed.
“Careful!” he cried, “in a minute we shall have a right and left
quickly. Now--! Right! Left! Up! Quick!”
By this time we were flying down the side of the mountain, showers
of particles of ice every now and then being thrown up and cutting
our faces. Now and again we swept through clouds of snow. We held our
breath and screwed up our eyes until we could only just see.
“Left! Right! Up! Left--again! Right!” shouted Burton, and each of us
alert and quick, obeyed. We were traveling at a furious speed and any
fault might mean a serious accident, such as that in which one of the
British Bob-sleigh team for the Olympic Sports broke both his legs
during a run at Chamonix.
“Straight!” we heard Burton shout as we flew along, still down and
down. “Right in a few moments,” he cried. “Be careful. Then a big bump
and we’re down. Steady!--steady! Now-w-w! Right!--Look out! Bump!
Good!” and he steered us down a straight path past where the watcher
stood at the other end of the telephone.
“Well?” he shouted to the time-keeper, as he pulled up, “what is it?”
“Four minutes, eight and a half seconds, sir,” replied the tall,
thin-faced Swiss peasant, speaking in French.
“Good! Fairly fast! But we’ll try to do it in better time tomorrow.”
I had sat behind little Mrs. Audley who, turning to me, her face
reddened by the rush of frosty air, exclaimed,--
“Wasn’t it glorious! I’ve been to Switzerland three times before. I
passed my third test in skiing two years ago, but have never been on a
big bob-run. That last double turn was most exciting, wasn’t it?”
I agreed, and we all four strolled together back to the hotel to tea.
Afterward, as I walked in the twilight upon the snowy path leading to
the station of the funicular railway, I found myself surrounded by
groups of young men and girls returning from skiing on the Grütsch
Alp, and other places. But even these cheerful greetings and joyous
conversations could not remove from my mind a new and entirely strange
feeling of fascination that I felt was exercised over me by pretty Mrs.
Audley. It was something magnetic, something indescribable, and, to me,
wholly weird and uncanny. I had only spoken to her a few casual words.
Yet I knew instinctively that into my careless and care-free life a new
and disturbing element had entered.