AT FERRARA'S CHAMBERS
Dr. Bruce Cairn swung around in his chair, lifting his heavy eyebrows
interrogatively, as his son, Robert, entered the consulting-room.
Half-Moon Street was bathed in almost tropical sunlight, but already
the celebrated physician had sent those out from his house to whom the
sky was overcast, whom the sun would gladden no more, and a group of
anxious-eyed sufferers yet awaited his scrutiny in an adjoining room.
"Hullo, Rob! Do you wish to see me professionally?"
Robert Cairn seated himself upon a corner of the big table, shaking
his head slowly.
"No, thanks sir; I'm fit enough; but I thought you might like to know
about the will--"
"I do know. Since I was largely interested, Jermyn attended on my
behalf; an urgent case detained me. He rang up earlier this morning."
"Oh, I see. Then perhaps I'm wasting your time; but it was a
surprise--quite a pleasant one--to find that Sir Michael had provided
for Myra--Miss Duquesne."
Dr. Cairn stared hard.
"What led you to suppose that he had _not_ provided for his niece? She
is an orphan, and he was her guardian."
"Of course, he should have done so; but I was not alone in my belief
that during the--peculiar state of mind--which preceded his death, he
had altered his will--"
"In favour of his adopted son, Antony?"
"Yes. I know _you_ were afraid of it, sir! But as it turns out they
inherit equal shares, and the house goes to Myra. Mr. Antony
Ferrara"--he accentuated the name--"quite failed to conceal his
chagrin."
"Indeed!"
"Rather. He was there in person, wearing one of his beastly fur
coats--a fur coat, with the thermometer at Africa!--lined with
civet-cat, of all abominations!"
Dr. Cairn turned to his table, tapping at the blotting-pad with the
tube of a stethoscope.
"I regret your attitude towards young Ferrara, Rob."
His son started.
"Regret it! I don't understand. Why, you, yourself brought about an
open rupture on the night of Sir Michael's death."
"Nevertheless, I am sorry. You know, since you were present, that Sir
Michael has left his niece--to my care--"
"Thank God for that!"
"I am glad, too, although there are many difficulties. But,
furthermore, he enjoined me to--"
"Keep an eye on Antony! Yes, yes--but, heavens! he didn't know him for
what he is!"
Dr. Cairn turned to him again.
"He did not; by a divine mercy, he never knew--what we know. But"--his
clear eyes were raised to his son's--"the charge is none the less
sacred, boy!"
The younger man stared perplexedly.
"But he is nothing less than a ----"
His father's upraised hand checked the word on his tongue.
"_I_ know what he is, Rob, even better than you do. But cannot you see
how this ties my hands, seals my lips?"
Robert Cairn was silent, stupefied.
"Give me time to see my way clearly, Rob. At the moment I cannot
reconcile my duty and my conscience; I confess it. But give me time.
If only as a move--as a matter of policy--keep in touch with Ferrara.
You loathe him, I know; but we _must_ watch him! There are other
interests--"
"Myra!" Robert Cairn flushed hotly. "Yes, I see. I understand. By
heavens, it's a hard part to play, but--"
"Be advised by me, Rob. Meet stealth with stealth. My boy, we have
seen strange ends come to those who stood in the path of someone. If
you had studied the subjects that I have studied you would know that
retribution, though slow, is inevitable. But be on your guard. I am
taking precautions. We have an enemy; I do not pretend to deny it; and
he fights with strange weapons. Perhaps I know something of those
weapons, too, and I am adopting--certain measures. But one defence,
and the one for you, is guile--stealth!"
Robert Cairn spoke abruptly.
"He is installed in palatial chambers in Piccadilly."
"Have you been there?"
"No."
"Call upon him. Take the first opportunity to do so. Had it not been
for your knowledge of certain things which happened in a top set at
Oxford we might be groping in the dark now! You never liked Antony
Ferrara--no men do; but you used to call upon him in college. Continue
to call upon him, in town."
Robert Cairn stood up, and lighted a cigarette.
"Right you are, sir!" he said. "I'm glad I'm not alone in this thing!
By the way, about--?"
"Myra? For the present she remains at the house. There is Mrs. Hume,
and all the old servants. We shall see what is to be done, later. You
might run over and give her a look-up, though."
"I will, sir! Good-bye."
"Good-bye," said Dr. Cairn, and pressed the bell which summoned
Marston to usher out the caller, and usher in the next patient.
In Half-Moon Street, Robert Cairn stood irresolute; for he was one of
those whose mental moods are physically reflected. He might call upon
Myra Duquesne, in which event he would almost certainly be asked to
stay to lunch; or he might call upon Antony Ferrara. He determined
upon the latter, though less pleasant course.
Turning his steps in the direction of Piccadilly, he reflected that
this grim and uncanny secret which he shared with his father was like
to prove prejudicial to his success in journalism. It was eternally
uprising, demoniac, between himself and his work. The feeling of
fierce resentment towards Antony Ferrara which he cherished grew
stronger at every step. _He_ was the spider governing the web, the web
that clammily touched Dr. Cairn, himself, Robert Cairn, and--Myra
Duquesne. Others there had been who had felt its touch, who had been
drawn to the heart of the unclean labyrinth--and devoured. In the mind
of Cairn, the figure of Antony Ferrara assumed the shape of a monster,
a ghoul, an elemental spirit of evil.
And now he was ascending the marble steps. Before the gates of the
lift he stood and pressed the bell.
Ferrara's proved to be a first-floor suite, and the doors were opened
by an Eastern servant dressed in white.
"His beastly theatrical affectation again!" muttered Cairn. "The man
should have been a music-hall illusionist!"
The visitor was salaamed into a small reception room. Of this
apartment the walls and ceiling were entirely covered by a fretwork in
sandalwood, evidently Oriental in workmanship. In niches, or doorless
cup-boards; stood curious-looking vases and pots. Heavy curtains of
rich fabric draped the doors. The floor was of mosaic, and a small
fountain played in the centre. A cushioned divan occupied one side of
the place, from which natural light was entirely excluded and which
was illuminated only by an ornate lantern swung from the ceiling. This
lantern had panes of blue glass, producing a singular effect. A silver
_mibkharah_, or incense-burner, stood near to one corner of the divan
and emitted a subtle perfume. As the servant withdrew:
"Good heavens!" muttered Cairn, disgustedly; "poor Sir Michael's
fortune won't last long at this rate!" He glanced at the smoking
_mibkharah_. "Phew! effeminate beast! Ambergris!"
No more singular anomaly could well be pictured than that afforded by
the lean, neatly-groomed Scotsman, with his fresh, clean-shaven face
and typically British air, in this setting of Eastern voluptuousness.
The dusky servitor drew back a curtain and waved him to enter, bowing
low as the visitor passed. Cairn found himself in Antony Ferrara's
study. A huge fire was blazing in the grate, rendering the heat of the
study almost insufferable.
It was, he perceived, an elaborated copy of Ferrara's room at Oxford;
infinitely more spacious, of course, and by reason of the rugs,
cushions and carpets with which its floor was strewn, suggestive of
great opulence. But the littered table was there, with its nameless
instruments and its extraordinary silver lamp; the mummies were there;
the antique volumes, rolls of papyrus, preserved snakes and cats and
ibises, statuettes of Isis, Osiris and other Nile deities were there;
the many photographs of women, too (Cairn had dubbed it at Oxford "the
zenana"); above all, there was Antony Ferrara.
He wore the silver-grey dressing-gown trimmed with white swansdown in
which Cairn had seen him before. His statuesque ivory face was set in
a smile, which yet was no smile of welcome; the over-red lips smiled
alone; the long, glittering dark eyes were joyless; almost, beneath
the straightly-pencilled brows, sinister. Save for the short,
lustreless hair it was the face of a handsome, evil woman.
"My dear Cairn--what a welcome interruption. How good of you!"
There was strange music in his husky tones. He spoke unemotionally,
falsely, but Cairn could not deny the charm of that unique voice. It
was possible to understand how women--some women--would be as clay in
the hands of the man who had such a voice as that.
His visitor nodded shortly. Cairn was a poor actor; already his _rôle_
was oppressing him. Whilst Ferrara was speaking one found a sort of
fascination in listening, but when he was silent he repelled. Ferrara
may have been conscious of this, for he spoke much, and well.
"You have made yourself jolly comfortable," said Cairn.
"Why not, my dear Cairn? Every man has within him something of the
Sybarite. Why crush a propensity so delightful? The Spartan philosophy
is palpably absurd; it is that of one who finds himself in a garden
filled with roses and who holds his nostrils; who perceives there
shady bowers, but chooses to burn in the sun; who, ignoring the choice
fruits which tempt his hand and court his palate, stoops to pluck
bitter herbs from the wayside!"
"I see!" snapped Cairn. "Aren't you thinking of doing any more work,
then?"
"Work!" Antony Ferrara smiled and sank upon a heap of cushions.
"Forgive me, Cairn, but I leave it, gladly and confidently, to more
robust characters such as your own."
He proffered a silver box of cigarettes, but Cairn shook his head,
balancing himself on a corner of the table.
"No; thanks. I have smoked too much already; my tongue is parched."
"My dear fellow!" Ferrara rose. "I have a wine which, I declare, you
will never have tasted but which you will pronounce to be nectar. It
is made in Cyprus--"
Cairn raised his hand in a way that might have reminded a nice
observer of his father.
"Thank you, nevertheless. Some other time, Ferrara; I am no wine man."
"A whisky and soda, or a burly British B. and S., even a sporty
'Scotch and Polly'?"
There was a suggestion of laughter in the husky voice, now, of a sort
of contemptuous banter. But Cairn stolidly shook his head and forced a
smile.
"Many thanks; but it's too early."
He stood up and began to walk about the room, inspecting the
numberless oddities which it contained. The photographs he examined
with supercilious curiosity. Then, passing to a huge cabinet, he began
to peer in at the rows of amulets, statuettes and other,
unclassifiable, objects with which it was laden. Ferrara's voice came.
"That head of a priestess on the left, Cairn, is of great interest.
The brain had not been removed, and quite a colony of Dermestes
Beetles had propagated in the cavity. Those creatures never saw the
light, Cairn. Yet I assure you that they had eyes. I have nearly forty
of them in the small glass case on the table there. You might like to
examine them."
Cairn shuddered, but felt impelled to turn and look at these gruesome
relics. In a square, glass case he saw the creatures. They lay in rows
on a bed of moss; one might almost have supposed that unclean life yet
survived in the little black insects. They were an unfamiliar species
to Cairn, being covered with unusually long, black hair, except upon
the root of the wing-cases where they were of brilliant orange.
"The perfect pupæ of this insect are extremely rare," added Ferrara
informatively.
"Indeed?" replied Cairn.
He found something physically revolting in that group of beetles whose
history had begun and ended in the skull of a mummy.
"Filthy things!" he said. "Why do you keep them?"
Ferrara shrugged his shoulders.
"Who knows?" he answered enigmatically. "They might prove useful, some
day."
A bell rang; and from Ferrara's attitude it occurred to Cairn that he
was expecting a visitor.
"I must be off," he said accordingly.
And indeed he was conscious of a craving for the cool and
comparatively clean air of Piccadilly. He knew something of the great
evil which dwelt within this man whom he was compelled, by singular
circumstances, to tolerate. But the duty began to irk.
"If you must," was the reply. "Of course, your press work no doubt is
very exacting."
The note of badinage was discernible again, but Cairn passed out into
the _mandarah_ without replying, where the fountain plashed coolly and
the silver _mibkharah_ sent up its pencils of vapour. The outer door
was opened by the Oriental servant, and Ferrara stood and bowed to his
departing visitor. He did not proffer his hand.
"Until our next meeting. Cairn, _es-selâm aleykûm_!" (peace be with
you) he murmured, "as the Moslems say. But indeed I shall be with you
in spirit, dear Cairn."
There was something in the tone wherein he spoke those last words that
brought Cairn up short. He turned, but the doors closed silently. A
faint breath of ambergris was borne to his nostrils.