precisely. Ever since Clinton sent you a certain painted paper pattern
you’ve seen a shadowed reproduction of it. Now I take it he has--as
you suggested--unusual hypnotic power. He has studied mesmerism?”
“I think he’s studied every bloody thing,” said Philip.
“Then that’s a possibility.”
“Yes,” agreed Philip, “it’s a possibility. And I’ll fight it, Teddie,
now that I have you, but can you minister to a mind diseased?”
“Throw quotation to the dogs,” replied Bellamy. “What one man has done
another can undo--there’s one for you.”
“Teddie,” said Philip, “will you come down to Franton to-night?”
“Yes,” said Bellamy. “But why?”
“Because I want you to be with me at twelve o’clock to-night when I
look out from the study window and think I see a shadow flung on the
flag-stones outside the drawing-room window.”
“Why not stay up here for to-night?”
“Because I want to get it settled. Either I’m mad or---- Will you come?”
“If you really mean to go down to-night I’ll come with you.”
“Well, I’ve ordered the car to be here by 9.15,” said Philip. “We’ll
go to your rooms, and you can pack a suitcase and we’ll be there by
half past ten.” Suddenly he looked up sharply, his shoulders drew
together and his eyes narrowed and became intent. It happened that at
that moment no voice was busy in the dining-room of the Brooks’s Club.
No doubt they were changing over at the Power Station, for the lights
dimmed for a moment. It seemed to Bellamy that someone was developing
wavy, wicked little films far back in his brain, and a voice suddenly
whispered in his ear with a vile sort of shyness, “He cometh and he
passeth by!”
As they drove down through the night they talked little. Philip drowsed
and Bellamy’s mind was busy. His preliminary conclusion was that
Philip was neither mad nor going mad, but that he was not normal. He
had always been very sensitive and highly strung, reacting too quickly
and deeply to emotional stresses--and this living alone and eating
nothing--the worst thing for him.
And this Clinton. He had the reputation of being an evil man of power,
and such persons’ hypnotic influence was absurdly underrated. He’d get
on his track.
“When does Clinton get back to England?” he asked.
“If he kept to his plans he’ll be back about now,” said Philip
sleepily.
“What are his haunts?”
“He lives near the British Museum in rooms, but he’s usually to be
found at the Chorazin Club after six o’clock. It’s in Larn Street, just
off Shaftesbury Avenue. A funny place with some funny members.”
Bellamy made a note of this.
“Does he know you know me?”
“No, I think not, there’s no reason why he should.”
“So much the better,” said Bellamy.
“Why?” asked Philip.
“Because I’m going to cultivate his acquaintance.”
“Well, do look out, Teddie, he has a marvellous power of hiding the
fact, but he’s dangerous, and I don’t want you to get into any trouble
like mine.”
“I’ll be careful,” said Bellamy.
Ten minutes later they passed the gates of the drive of Franton Manor,
and Philip began glancing uneasily about him and peering sharply where
the elms flung shadows. It was a perfectly still and cloudless night,
with a quarter moon. It was just a quarter to eleven as they entered
the house. They went up to the library on the first floor which looked
out over the Dutch Garden to the Park. Franton is a typical Georgian
house, with charming gardens and Park, but too big and lonely for one
nervous person to inhabit, thought Bellamy.
The butler brought up sandwiches and drinks, and Bellamy thought he
seemed relieved at their arrival. Philip began to eat ravenously, and
gulped down two stiff whiskies. He kept looking at his watch, and his
eyes were always searching the walls.
“It comes, Teddie, even when it ought to be too light for shadows.”
“Now then,” replied the latter, “I’m with you, and we’re going to keep
quite steady. It may come, but I shall not leave you until it goes and
for ever.” And he managed to lure Philip on to another subject, and
for a time he seemed quieter, but suddenly he stiffened, and his eyes
became rigid and staring. “It’s there,” he cried, “I know it!”
“Steady, Philip!” said Bellamy sharply. “Where?”
“Down below,” he whispered, and began creeping towards the window.
Bellamy reached it first and looked down. He saw it at once, knew what
it was, and set his teeth.
He heard Philip shaking and breathing heavily at his side.
“It’s there,” he said, “and it’s complete at last!”
“Now, Philip,” said Bellamy, “we’re going down, and I’m going out
first, and we’ll settle the thing once and for all.”
They went down the stairs and into the drawing-room. Bellamy turned the
light on and walked quickly to the French window and began to try to
open the catch. He fumbled with it for a moment.
“Let me do it,” said Philip, and put his hand to the catch, and then
the window opened and he stepped out.
“Come back, Philip!” cried Bellamy. As he said it the lights went dim,
a fierce blast of burning air filled the room, the window came crashing
back. Then through the glass Bellamy saw Philip suddenly throw up his
hands, and something huge and dark lean from the wall and envelop him.
He seemed to writhe for a moment in its folds. Bellamy strove madly to
thrust the window open, while his soul strove to withstand the mighty
and evil power he felt was crushing him, and then he saw Philip flung
down with awful force, and he could hear the foul, crushing thud as his
head struck the stone.
And then the window opened and Bellamy dashed out into a quiet and
scented night.
At the inquest the doctor stated he was satisfied that Mr. Franton’s
death was due to a severe heart attack--he had never recovered from
the gas, he said, and such a seizure was always possible.
“Then there are no peculiar circumstances about the case?” asked the
Coroner.
The doctor hesitated. “Well, there is one thing,” he said slowly.
“The pupils of Mr. Franton’s eyes were--well, to put it simply to the
jury--instead of being round, they were drawn up so that they resembled
half-moons--in a sense they were like the pupils in the eyes of a cat.”
“Can you explain that?” asked the Coroner.
“No, I have never seen a similar case,” replied the doctor. “But I am
satisfied the cause of death was as I have stated.”
Bellamy was, of course, called as a witness, but he had little to say.
* * * * *
About eleven o’clock on the morning after these events Bellamy rang up
the Chorazin Club from his chambers and learned from the manager that
Mr. Clinton had returned from abroad. A little later he got a Sloane
number and arranged to lunch with Mr. Solan at the United Universities
Club. And then he made a conscientious effort to estimate the chances
in Rex v. Tipwinkle.
But soon he was restless and pacing the room. He could not exorcise the
jeering demon which told him sniggeringly that he had failed Philip. It
wasn’t true, but it pricked and penetrated. But the game was not yet
played out. If he had failed to save he might still avenge. He would
see what Mr. Solan had to say.
That personage was awaiting him in the smoking room. Mr. Solan was
an original and looked it. Just five feet and two inches--a tiny
body, a mighty head with a dominating forehead studded with a pair
of thrusting frontal lobes. All this covered with a thick, greying
thatch. Veiled, restless little eyes, a perky, tilted, little nose and
a very thin-lipped, fighting mouth from which issued the most curious,
resonant, high and piercing voice. This is a rough and ready sketch
of one who is universally accepted to be the greatest living Oriental
Scholar--a mystic--once upon a time a Senior Wrangler, a philosopher of
European repute, a great and fascinating personality, who lived alone,
save for a brace of tortoise-shell cats and a housekeeper, in Chester
Terrace, Sloane Square. About every six years he published a masterly
treatise on one of his special subjects; otherwise he kept himself to
himself with the remorseless determination he brought to bear upon any
subject which he considered worth serious consideration, such as the
Chess Game, the works of Bach, the paintings of Van Gogh, the poems of
Housman, and the short stories of P. G. Wodehouse and Austin Freeman.
He entirely approved of Bellamy, who had once secured him substantial
damages in a copyright case. The damages had gone to the Society for
the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
“And what can I do for you, my dear Bellamy?” he piped, when they were
seated.
“First of all, have you ever heard of a person called Oscar Clinton?
Secondly, do you know anything of the practice of sending an enemy a
painted paper pattern?”
Mr. Solan smiled slightly at the first question, and ceased to smile
when he heard the second.
“Yes,” he said, “I have heard of both, and I advise you to have nothing
whatsoever to do with either.”
“Unfortunately,” replied Bellamy, “I have already had to do with both.
Two nights ago my best friend died--rather suddenly. Presently I
will tell you how he died. But first of all, tell me something about
Clinton.”
“It is characteristic of him that you know so little about him,”
replied Mr. Solan, “for although he is one of the most dangerous and
intellectually powerful men in the world he gets very little publicity
nowadays. Most of the much-advertised Naughty Boys of the Nineties
harmed no one but themselves--they merely canonised their own and
each other’s dirty linen, but Clinton was in a class by himself. He
was--and no doubt still is--an accomplished corrupter, and he took,
and no doubt still takes, a jocund delight in his hobby. Eventually
he left England--by request--and went out East. He spent some years
in a Tibetan Monastery, and then some other years in less reputable
places--his career is detailed very fully in a file in my study--and
then he applied his truly mighty mind to what I may loosely call
magic--for what I loosely call magic, my dear Bellamy, most certainly
exists. Clinton is highly psychic, with great natural hypnotic power.
He then joined an esoteric and little-known sect--Satanists--of which
he eventually became High Priest. And then he returned to what we call
civilisation, and has since been ‘moved on’ by the Civil Powers of many
countries, for his forte is the extraction of money from credulous and
timid individuals--usually female--by methods highly ingenious and
peculiarly his own. It is a boast of his that he has never yet missed
his revenge. He ought to be stamped out with the brusque ruthlessness
meted out to a spreading fire in a Californian forest.
“Well, there is a short inadequate sketch of Oscar Clinton, and now
about these paper patterns.”
* * * * *
Two hours later Bellamy got up to leave. “I can lend you a good many of
his books,” said Mr. Solan, “and you can get the rest at Lilley’s. Come
to me from four till six on Wednesdays and Fridays, and I’ll teach you
all I think essential. Meanwhile, I will have a watch kept upon him,
but I want you, my dear Bellamy, to do nothing decisive till you are
qualified. It would be a pity if the Bar were to be deprived of your
great gifts prematurely.”
“Many thanks,” said Bellamy. “I have now placed myself in your hands,
and I’m in this thing till the end--some end or other.”
Mr. Plank, Bellamy’s clerk, had no superior in his profession, one
which is the most searching test of character and adaptability. Not one
of the devious and manifold tricks of his trade was unpractised by him,
and his income was £1,250 per annum, a fact which the Inland Revenue
Authorities strongly suspected but were quite unable to establish.
He liked Mr. Bellamy, personally well enough, financially very much
indeed. It was not surprising, therefore, that many seismic recording
instruments registered sharp shocks at four p.m. on June 12th, 192-, a
disturbance caused by the precipitous descent of Mr. Plank’s jaw when
Mr. Bellamy instructed him to accept no more briefs for him for the
next three months. “But,” continued that gentleman, “here is a cheque
which will, I trust, reconcile you to the fact.”
Mr. Plank scrutinised the numerals and was reconciled.
“Taking a holiday, sir?” he asked.
“I rather doubt it,” replied Bellamy. “But you might suggest to any
inquisitive enquirers that that is the explanation.”
“I understand, sir.”
From then till midnight, with one short pause, Bellamy was occupied
with a pile of exotically bound volumes. Occasionally he made a note on
his writing pad. When his clock struck twelve he went to bed and read
_The Wallet of Kai-Lung_ till he felt sleepy enough to turn out the
light.
At eight o’clock the next morning he was busy once more with an
exotically bound book, and making an occasional note on his writing
pad.
Three weeks later he was bidding a temporary farewell to Mr. Solan,
who remarked, “I think you’ll do now. You are an apt pupil; pleading
has given you a command of convincing bluff, and you have sufficient
psychic insight to make it possible for you to succeed. Go forth and
prosper! At all times I shall be fighting for you. He will be there at
nine to-night.”
At a quarter past that hour Bellamy was asking the door-keeper of the
Chorazin Club to tell Mr. Clinton that a Mr. Bellamy wished to see him.
Two minutes later the official reappeared and led him downstairs
into an ornate and gaudy cellar decorated with violence and
indiscretion--the work, he discovered later, of a neglected genius who
had died of neglected cirrhosis of the liver. He was led up to a table
in the corner, where someone was sitting alone.
Bellamy’s first impression of Oscar Clinton remained vividly with him
till his death. As he got up to greet him he could see that he was
physically gigantic--six foot five at least, with a massive torso--the
build of a champion wrestler. Topping it was a huge, square, domed
head. He had a white yet mottled face, thick, tense lips, the lower one
protruding fantastically. His hair was clipped close, save for one
twisted and oiled lock which curved down to meet his eyebrows. But what
impressed Bellamy most was a pair of the hardest, most penetrating and
merciless eyes--one of which seemed soaking wet and dripping slowly.
Bellamy “braced his belt about him”--he was in the presence of a power.
“Well, sir,” said Clinton in a beautifully musical voice with a slight
drawl, “I presume you are connected with Scotland Yard. What can I do
for you?”
“No,” replied Bellamy, forcing a smile, “I’m in no way connected with
that valuable institution.”
“Forgive the suggestion,” said Clinton, “but during a somewhat
adventurous career I have received so many unheralded visits from more
or less polite police officials. What, then, is your business?”
“I haven’t any, really,” said Bellamy. “It’s simply that I have long
been a devoted admirer of your work, the greatest imaginative work of
our time in my opinion. A friend of mine mentioned casually that he
had seen you going into this Club, and I could not resist taking the
liberty of forcing, just for a moment, my company upon you.”
Clinton stared at him, and seemed not quite at his ease.
“You interest me,” he said at length. “I’ll tell you why. Usually I
know decisively by certain methods of my own whether a person I meet
comes as an enemy or a friend. These tests have failed in your case,
and this, as I say, interests me. It suggests things to me. Have you
been in the East?”
“No,” said Bellamy.
“And made no study of its mysteries?”
“None whatever, but I can assure you I come merely as a most humble
admirer. Of course, I realise you have enemies--all great men have; it
is the privilege and penalty of their pre-eminence, and I know you to
be a great man.”
“I fancy,” said Clinton, “that you are perplexed by the obstinate
humidity of my left eye. It is caused by the rather heavy injection of
heroin I took this afternoon. I may as well tell you I use all drugs,
but am the slave of none. I take heroin when I desire to contemplate.
But tell me--since you profess such an admiration for my books--which
of them most meets with your approval?”
“That’s a hard question,” replied Bellamy, “but _A Damsel with a
Dulcimer_ seems to me exquisite.”
Clinton smiled patronisingly.
“It has merits,” he said, “but is immature. I wrote it when I was
living with a Bedouin woman aged fourteen in Tunis. Bedouin women
have certain natural gifts”--and here he became remarkably obscene,
before returning to the subject of his works; “my own opinion is that I
reached my zenith in _The Songs of Hamdonna_. Hamdonna was a delightful
companion, the fruit of the raptures of an Italian gentleman and a
Persian lady. She had the most naturally--the most brilliantly vicious
mind of any woman I ever met. She required hardly any training. But she
was unfaithful to me, and died soon after.”
“The Songs are marvellous,” said Bellamy, and he began quoting from
them fluently.
Clinton listened intently. “You have a considerable gift for reciting
poetry,” he said. “May I offer you a drink? I was about to order one
for myself.”
“I’ll join you on one condition--that I may be allowed to pay for both
of them--to celebrate the occasion.”
“Just as you like,” said Clinton, tapping the table with his thumb,
which was adorned with a massive jade ring curiously carved. “I always
drink brandy after heroin, but you order what you please.”
It may have been the whisky, it may have been the pressing nervous
strain or a combination of both, which caused Bellamy now to regard the
mural decorations with a much modified sang-froid. Those distorted and
tortured patches of flat colour, how subtly suggestive they were of
something sniggeringly evil!
“I gave Valin the subject for those panels,” said Clinton. “They are
meant to represent an impression of the stages in the Black Mass,
but he drank away his original inspiration, and they fail to do that
majestic ceremony justice.”
Bellamy flinched at having his thoughts so easily read.
“I was thinking the same thing,” he replied; “that unfortunate cat
they’re slaughtering deserved a less ludicrous memorial to its fate.”
Clinton looked at him sharply and sponged his oozing eye.
“I have made these rather flamboyant references to my habits purposely.
Not to impress you, but to see _how_ they impressed you. Had you
appeared disgusted, I should have known it was useless to pursue our
acquaintanceship. All my life I have been a law unto myself, and that
is probably why the Law has always shown so much interest in me. I know
myself to be a being apart, one to whom the codes and conventions of
the herd can never be applied. I have sampled every so-called ‘vice,’
including every known drug. Always, however, with an object in view.
Mere purposeless debauchery is not in my character. My Art, to which
you have so kindly referred, must always come first. Sometimes it
demands that I sleep with a negress, that I take opium or hashish;
sometimes it dictates rigid asceticism, and I tell you, my friend,
that if such an instruction came again to-morrow, as it has often
come in the past, I could, without the slightest effort, lead a life
of complete abstinence from drink, drugs and women for an indefinite
period. In other words, I have gained absolute control over my senses
after the most exhaustive experiments with them. How many can say the
same? Yet one does not know what life can teach till that control is
established. The man of superior power--there are no such women--should
not flinch from such experiments, he should seek to learn every lesson
evil as well as good has to teach. So will he be able to extend and
multiply his personality, but always he must remain absolute master of
himself. And then he will have many strange rewards, and many secrets
will be revealed to him. Some day, perhaps, I will show you some which
have been revealed to me.”
“Have you absolutely no regard for what is called ‘morality’?” asked
Bellamy.
“None whatever. If I wanted money I should pick your pocket. If I
desired your wife--if you have one--I should seduce her. If someone
obstructs me--something happens to him. You must understand this
clearly--for I am not bragging--I do nothing purposelessly nor
from what I consider a bad motive. To me ‘bad’ is synonymous with
‘unnecessary.’ I do nothing unnecessary.”
“Why is revenge necessary?” asked Bellamy.
“A plausible question. Well, for one thing I like cruelty--one of my
unpublished works is a defence of Super-Sadism. Then it is a warning to
others, and lastly it is a vindication of my personality. All excellent
reasons. Do you like my _Thus spake Eblis_?”
“Masterly,” replied Bellamy. “The perfection of prose, but, of course,
its magical significance is far beyond my meagre understanding.”
“My dear friend, there is only one man in Europe about whom that would
not be equally true.”
“Who is that?” asked Bellamy.
Clinton’s eyes narrowed venomously.
“His name is Solan,” he said. “One of these days, perhaps----” and
he paused. “Well, now, if you like I will tell you of some of my
experiences.”
* * * * *
An hour later a monologue drew to its close. “And now, Mr. Bellamy,
what is your rôle in life?”
“I’m a barrister.”
“Oh, so you _are_ connected with the Law?”
“I hope,” said Bellamy smiling, “you’ll find it possible to forget it.”
“It would help me to do so,” replied Clinton, “if you would lend me ten
pounds. I have forgotten my note-case--a frequent piece of negligence
on my part--and a lady awaits me. Thanks very much. We shall meet
again, I trust.”
“I was just about to suggest that you dined with me one day this week?”
“This is Tuesday,” said Clinton. “What about Thursday?”
“Excellent, will you meet me at the Gridiron about eight?”
“I will be there,” said Clinton, mopping his eye. “Good-night.”
* * * * *
“I can understand now what happened to Franton,” said Bellamy to Mr.
Solan the next evening. “He is the most fascinating and catholic talker
I have met. He has a wicked charm. If half to which he lays claim is
true, he has packed ten lives into sixty years.”
“In a sense,” said Mr. Solan, “he has the best brain of any man living.
He has also a marvellous histrionic sense and he is _deadly_. But he is
vulnerable. On Thursday encourage him to talk of other things. He will
consider you an easy victim. You must make the most of the evening--it
may rather revolt you--he is sure to be suspicious at first.”
* * * * *
“It amuses and reassures me,” said Clinton at ten fifteen on Thursday
evening in Bellamy’s room, “to find you have a lively appreciation of
obscenity.”
He brought out a snuff box, an exquisite little masterpiece with an
inexpressibly vile design enamelled on the lid, from which he took a
pinch of white powder which he sniffed up from the palm of his hand.
“I suppose,” said Bellamy, “that all your magical lore would be quite
beyond me.”
“Oh yes, quite,” replied Clinton, “but I can show you what sort of
power a study of that lore has given me, by a little experiment. Turn
round, look out of the window, and keep quite quiet till I speak to
you.”
It was a brooding night. In the south-west the clouds made restless,
quickly shifting patterns--the heralds of coming storm. The scattered
sound of the traffic in Kingsway rose and fell with the gusts of the
rising wind. Bellamy found a curious picture forming in his brain. A
wide lonely waste of snow and a hill with a copse of fir trees, out
from which someone came running. Presently this person halted and
looked back, and then out from the wood appeared another figure (of a
shape he had seen before). And then the one it seemed to be pursuing
began to run on, staggering through the snow, over which the Shape
seemed to skim lightly and rapidly, and to gain on its quarry. Then
it appeared as if the one in front could go no further. He fell and
rose again, and faced his pursuer. The Shape came swiftly on and flung
itself hideously on the one in front, who fell to his knees. The two
seemed intermingled for a moment....
“Well,” said Clinton, “and what did you think of that?”
Bellamy poured out a whisky and soda and drained it.
“Extremely impressive,” he replied. “It gave me a feeling of great
horror.”
“The individual whose rather painful end you have just witnessed once
did me a dis-service. He was found in a remote part of Norway. Why he
chose to hide himself there is rather difficult to understand.”
“Cause and effect?” asked Bellamy, forcing a smile.