Disappearance of Mrs. Battiscombe
As Armourer dressed himself slowly for the evening meal, feeling
clean and refreshed after his bath, he pondered over the various
phases of his interview with Vera.
Abu-Samar had given her the Crimson Butterfly; that fact he regarded
as completely established. He had given it her on the afternoon of the
day preceding Moberly’s death, she had worn it when he danced with
her, and Jim had discovered it later. To avoid mentioning Samar, she
had included this ornament with Dick’s presents when she returned
them, and to prevent the planter sending it back again, she had ridden
over to explain her position. She had not expected a tragedy; but the
discovery of the dead man and the mark on his face had immediately
recalled to her memory Abu-Samar’s statement that the Butterfly was a
charm that would enable her to attain her desires--and her own foolish
wish, expressed in a weak moment, that Moberly should die.
He tilted back the mirror so that he could see to brush his hair.
It seemed to him that this was the only sensible way of regarding her
part in the affair.
The extent of her friendship with Abu-Samar was no affair of his. He
was concerned with the chain of events leading up to the tragedy at
Bukit-Serang and the later tragedy at his own house--and the chain,
weird, fantastic, incredible as it was, was almost complete.
Abu-Samar, desiring to revenge himself upon Battiscombe for an insult,
had played upon Vera’s notorious love of admiration and costly gifts
to ensure that the talisman that somehow attracted these poisonous
insects should be taken to the magistrate’s house. Following upon a
peculiar sequence of events for which he could not possibly have
allowed, the pendant found its way to Moberly’s bungalow, and the
butterfly, when released, brought about the decease of the wrong man.
Professor Standen would have to supply details that would strengthen
certain of the links.
It remained to be discovered what singular attractive properties the
ornament possessed, and why Mrs. Battiscombe should be immune from
attack. The fact that both the victims were men he regarded as merely
an accident.
Abu-Samar--that arch-criminal, hypnotist, producer of colossal
illusions--had concentrated upon his art until he had succeeded in
producing a masterpiece. As Standen had said, it was a trick,
accomplished in the broad light of day without the aid of mirrors,
traps, or any of the recognised _apparata_ of the Western illusionist,
but still unworthy of any more dignified title than a trick.
And, in common with his more civilised prototype, he was dependent
upon an accomplice and upon certain conditions. Without Mrs.
Battiscombe he could not have counted upon the Butterfly pendant being
in its desired position, and with the pendant kept at a safe distance
from his intended victims, he was unable to produce the trick at all.
Armourer rubbed his hands together and took a final look at himself in
the glass.
Things were beginning to simmer down. Provided that reasonable care
were exerted, a repetition of the affair at Bukit-Serang was next to
impossible, and all that remained to be done was to capture Abu-Samar.
Unless--and the thought rendered him uneasy--the magician, driven into
the backwoods and becoming desperate, were to let loose a cloud of
these insects to wreak indiscriminate vengeance upon anybody who
should come in their way.
Here they were dependent upon Professor Standen too. A powerful
antidote would in this case be the only hope to avert a catastrophe
which was too ghastly to contemplate seriously.
The Butterfly ornament on its filigree chain might, in addition to
directing the movements of the real butterfly, render it more than
usually vindictive; but, even without the ornament, he could not lose
sight of the fact that these creatures were still saturated with venom
from wing-tip to wing-tip and still at liberty to make use of their
fatal powers upon the slightest provocation.
As he strolled out on to the verandah he caught himself hoping that
the professor’s experiments were making headway in the right
direction. He hoped, too, that Jimmy Battiscombe--with his rooted
aversion to leeches--had been dispatched upon a false scent. It would
be particularly unpleasant to come suddenly upon the black magician
and his vile collection of unclean insects without being prepared with
something that could be counted upon to counteract the effects of the
poison.
He found Chong-Si at the living-room doorway.
“The _mem_ is tired,” he informed his master; “she will not eat.”
Armourer walked to the rail and, leaning his hands on it, stared into
the night. He had expected this.
“Very well, Chong-Si,” he said over his shoulder. “Take some food to
her room and then get my dinner as quickly as possible.”
The terriers stole up the stairs, Mick carrying a small rat and Mac
endeavouring to relieve his companion in crime of its ownership.
“Here! Take that thing outside,” recommended their lord and
master--and the procession retreated by the way it had come.
He was glad he had those dogs. Until Joyce had walked into his life,
he had been tolerably contented with his lot. She had been his guest
for little more than a week and now, in her first absence, he was
already beginning to feel unutterably lonely. Looked at from every
reasonable point of view, this phenomenon appeared absurd. He had
never regarded himself seriously as a marrying sort of man; he had had
his work to interest him, the intricacies of native dialect, the
manifold peculiarities and inconsistencies of local character. Even in
the event of his screwing himself up to the point of proposing
matrimony, it was far more likely than not that she would refuse him.
He could scarcely see how she could do otherwise. He had lived so long
alone that he flattered himself he knew his own shortcomings pretty
well. He assumed that these shortcomings were patent to all the
world--more particularly to a beautiful, discerning creature like
Joyce. He was just an ordinary magistrate in very ordinary
surroundings and dependent for his existence upon an ordinary man’s
pay--supplemented by a couple of hundred or so of his own. In the
words of Euclid, the thing was absurd--and yet there was some
obstinate kink in his nature that wouldn’t let him give up hoping.
As he leaned there, gazing down towards the spot where Mick and Mac
still continued their boisterous struggle for the possession of a rat,
a familiar sound broke upon his ears.
He drew himself erect, listening intently.
There was no doubt about it. Somebody on horseback had already left
the trees and was cantering towards the house.
Five minutes later he moistened his lips and called.
“Hullo, there! That you, Trevor?”
The planter’s assistant came up the steps.
“Hullo, Armourer! Here I am and here’s my kit.”
He unhitched a haversack and let it fall to the floor.
“Just in time for _makan_; we’re late to-night. I let my bath-water
get cold and Chong-Si had to boil me some more. How are you?”
Trevor found a chair.
“First class, thanks. I got away sooner than I’d expected and took it
into my head to sponge on you for a meal. Yes, I’ll manage a drink, if
you don’t mind. That ride did me a world of good. It’s a sticky sort
of evening.”
The magistrate concocted an _aperitif_.
“Get that inside you and we’ll go and eat.”
The other tested and signified his approval with a nod.
“If ever you give up this sort of thing you ought to try a hand at
cocktail-shaking. It’s your line all right! How’s the mystery
progressing?”
Armourer lowered his brows.
“Slowly.”
“And Abu?”
“He’s still at large. Battiscombe should have been here to-night, but
he’s gone up-country. That’s why I sent for one of you fellows.” He
lowered his voice. “Jimmy doesn’t seem to mind much how or where he
leaves his wife; but _I_ do. You follow me, don’t you?”
Trevor winked.
“She’s still here, then?”
“Oh, she’s here, right enough; though I don’t suppose we shall be
favoured with her company to-night. She has signified her intention of
dining in her room. The professor and his daughter are in Jesselton.”
They strolled in to dinner.
“And so,” murmured Trevor as Chong-Si set down the soup, “the
distinguished magistrate has found it necessary to seek moral
support.”
“He has indeed!”
He flicked an insect from the rim of his plate with his thumb-nail.
Trevor looked thoughtful.
“Well, I can’t say that I blame you. Mrs. B. would be the most
delightful woman in the world--if she were a little less cosmopolitan
in her tastes. But a flirtation loses half its charm when there’s
every possibility of it developing to something more serious. After
all, there’s no particular fun in attempting to conquer something
that’s in a constant state of surrender. Rather clever for me, what?”
“There are times,” declared his host, “when you verge upon
genius!--Have some more soup?”
“No, thanks. Now, if it had been Miss Standen instead of the aforesaid
female, things would have been very different.”
Armourer looked up sharply.
“How so?”
“You wouldn’t have sent for me.”
The magistrate pushed away his plate.
“I should,” he replied slowly. “I should most emphatically have sent
for you; but I shouldn’t have grown particularly anxious if your
duties had detained you until, say, eleven.”
Trevor stared at him hard.
“Armourer,” he announced at length, “you’re bitten! You have fallen a
victim to the innocent charms of your dark-eyed visitor. Now isn’t
that just my luck!”
“Don’t be an idiot!” growled the other--and then, in an altered tone:
“You’re not keen on her, really?”
“No--not hopelessly; but I fancy I could have been. Lord! I see it all
now! This desperate effort to preserve appearances, to preserve an
hitherto untarnished reputation! It’s as clear as daylight. What a
cunning old devil you are!”
Armourer was crimsoning beneath the tan.
“You are jumping at conclusions.”
“They don’t need much jumping at. I suppose I ought to offer my
congratulations!” His glance fell upon the bottle before him. “I say,
are we supposed to celebrate an occasion like this with _beer_?”
“Trevor,” said Armourer coldly, “you are not a genius; you never were,
and I see no reason to suppose that you ever will be! You can have
champagne if you like; but I can frankly assure you at the same time
that there’s no need for any celebration. Miss Standen is merely an
extremely welcome guest at Jelandang; nothing more and nothing less.”
He rang the bell.
“Which means,” said the irrepressible Trevor, “that the lady has not
yet been consulted on the subject! Nevertheless, I simply refuse to
refrain from drinking your health in the only fluid worth drinking it
in. Taking into consideration your undeniable dash and _élan_, I
regard the forthcoming engagement as a _fait accompli_. Tell Chong-Si
to make it two bottles!”
The servant shuffled in from the kitchen.
“Chong-Si,” ordered Armourer, “bring me two bottles of champagne.” He
detached a key from a ring and tossed it to the cook-boy. “And,
oh--just a minute. You’d better ask the _mem_ if she would care to
take wine. _Tahu_?”
Chong-Si made off.
He was back again in under two minutes, a bottle in either hand and a
look of consternation on his face.
“The _mem_ has gone out, _Tuan_,” he stammered.
The magistrate came to his feet.
“Gone out?”
“_Yah, Tuan._ As I went to the cupboard, I saw something pass the door
of the store-room. I looked down the passage--and found that it was
the lady, with something white thrown over her head. She went out by
the back door.” He placed the bottles on the table and groped in the
depths of a pocket. “There was this letter on the tray in the lady’s
room.”
He handed Armourer a note addressed to himself.