MR. JOHN LONERGAN
1
The orchestra in the gardens had ceased. Only distant strains from a
band inside the Kurhaus and a mingling hum of conversation played like
a sustained motif over rhythmic crunching of many leisurely feet when
Mr. Lonergan joined me at a sheltered table. A waiter hovered in the
background, and:
“Beer,” said Mr. Lonergan. “It’s surely a treat to be able to order
beer and to get beer when you order it. Do you keep your private
papers under lock and key in your apartment at the Regal?”
I stared at the speaker in the semi-darkness. To my shame, be it
confessed, I had been somewhat distracted up to the time that he had
so abruptly fired this question at me. I had been listening in memory
to a laughing voice with a queer, deep note in it, and watching a
tall, slender figure moving through the throng with easy, graceful,
yet boyish steps. The waiter had been unable to tell me who she
was--and I had not dared to follow, being already suspect by the
guardian dragon. But of whom did she remind me--and why?
But now, I came sharply to my senses, and:
“I do,” said I. “Why do you ask?”
“Because somebody was exploring in there a while back.”
“What! in my room?”
“Surely.”
He rolled a very abbreviated cigar into a more comfortable position
and paid for the beer which was now set before us. As the waiter moved
away:
“It must have been the manservant,” I said quickly. “He has the key.”
“_I’m_ talking sense,” Lonergan rejoined ill-humouredly. “The kite _I_
mean had no key. He arrived and he quitted per balcony window.”
“You saw this! And you let him escape!”
“Suffering Moses!” Lonergan groaned. “How ever did you pull off the
Brazil contract without brains!”
He drank deep whilst I watched him in growing anger. After all, the
man was no more than a hotel acquaintance; and I should have resented
such rudeness even from an old friend. As he set down his glass:
“Possibly, Mr. Lonergan,” I said smoothly, “you confuse bad manners
with wit. I assure you that I find nothing funny in being called a
fool by a comparative stranger.”
“Is that right?” he replied gloomily, and banged the table to attract
the waiter’s attention. “Well, _I’m_ not laughing. Here am I playing a
lone hand in a murderous game, and I find out that one of the suspects
is on my side of the border. He’s a man that’s done good work, and I
look for intelligent coöperation----”
The waiter attended.
“Beer,” said Lonergan. “What do I find?” He shook his head gloomily.
“Stupidity. But maybe I’m too hard on you. It’s a game that needs
experience. Listen! You’re fussed. Forget it. If you and I are to get
out of this pleasant spot alive, we have to be clever!”
As he spoke, somehow my anger changed to another emotion--in which
wrath was present, certainly, but from which apprehension was not
missing. Lonergan bent forward across the table, so that his face was
lost in shadow.
“We’re covered at this very minute!” he said tensely. “You and I are
up against the toughest proposition that either of us ever faced.
Don’t look around. I have a plan. We’ll go back to the hotel.”
I reserved further comment, and some ten minutes later together we
walked down the tree-lined arcade with its expensive little shops and
on along Lichtenthaler Allee.
2
When in a comparative solitude my surly companion broke long silence:
“You put one wise move across,” he conceded grudgingly. “You figured
out that the best spot to study Felsenweir was the Devil’s Elbow--and
you covered your tracks from everybody but me. That’s exploring, I
guess. I’m not so good on maps.”
My humour was nearly restored, and:
“For a man of your experience,” I said, “wasn’t it rather foolish to
confuse me with the other party? My credentials are easily checked.”
“Maybe they are,” he returned. “But bigger men than you are in the
enemy’s camp.”
His aggressive ill-humour was unique.
“If, as you say, we are covered,” I remarked, “isn’t it unwise of us
to be seen together?”
“No, sir,” he replied. “I’ve baited a trap, and you’re part of the
bait. We’ll go straight to your apartment, and when I’ve done talking
maybe you’ll grasp the size of the proposition.”
But when, at the far end of the alcove, a spot distant from my
shuttered windows, John Lonergan had talked solidly for half an hour,
I was merely more bewildered than before.
“May I suggest _beer_?” said I.
“You can keep right on suggesting beer,” he replied, “while I stay in
Europe. And you’ll never hear me say No.”
His place in the drama was clear enough. He had been detailed by the
United States authorities to follow Mme. Yburg! (I now learned that
she had recently returned from America.) Of his methods of “following”
I had had personal experience; and he had adopted a similar system in
the case of the mysterious German lady.
She had left the port of New York in a slow boat. Lonergan had
“followed” in the _Mauretania_--sailing twenty-four hours later--and
had been waiting at Cherbourg for her arrival!
During the overland journey he had succeeded in making her
acquaintance.
“Get it clear,” said he, in his unmusical voice, “that we’d never have
let her go if we’d had all the facts on the day she sailed.…”
The facts to which he referred were astounding. But in what way they
were related to those other facts--known to me--and to the rumoured
outbreak of vampirism in the Black Forest, was a complete mystery.
Briefly, it appeared that some two months earlier there had been a
disastrous disturbance of radio in the American Continent. It had
affected seven states; namely: New York, Massachusetts, Connecticut,
New Hampshire, Vermont, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey. Furthermore, it
had operated in the North Atlantic over an area roughly contained
within lat. 40-45, long. 65-70.
The newspapers had been “gagged,” I was given to understand. But
during a period of three weeks or more the phenomenon had occurred at
irregular intervals. It had consisted of a complete silencing of all
radio communications.
Experts employed upon the job had finally traced the mysterious
influence, narrowing down their inquiries to a point where it seemed
certain that a wave of unknown character, which “dumbed” or diverted
all others, was being sent out from the neighbourhood of Hartford. A
process of combing followed; and the result was noteworthy.
Interference had ceased for a week or more. But on private, enclosed
property belonging to an absent landlord, the searchers came upon a
dismantled plant which taxed the experience of many specialists. In
some respects it suggested that here had been a secret transmitting
station. In other respects it was unlike--or had been unlike--any such
station known to the investigators.
“Some of the stuff brought away is still under examination,” said
Lonergan. “Latest reports don’t help. But how I came in was this: the
kite the lay-out belonged to--his name don’t matter--had beat it to
some destination unspecified. A local hotel register showed that a
certain Mme. Yburg had been staying in that locality all over the time
the funny business was going on. Inquiry proved that they had been
acquainted.
“One agent was detailed to trace the missing man and his associates. I
was given the job of covering the woman. She’d quitted. But I cut in
on her at Cherbourg.”
“But have none of the American inquiries led to anything? She must
have been in touch with others there as well as with the missing
proprietor of the Hartford property.”
“She was,” Lonergan replied. “And they’ve been closely covered. It’s a
mighty big thing of some sort. There are people high up socially in
it. She butted into another bunch of ’em in Paris. When she alighted
here I thought _you_ were one of the circus.”
“And I thought _you_ were! But who is Mme. Yburg? Have you any data
bearing on her history?”
“No, sir.” He regarded me under drooping lids. “Have _you_?”
“Nothing--beyond a few hints she has dropped about herself.”
“I should quote that stock pretty low. And now--I’ve put my cards on
the table. Where do _you_ come in?”
3
Let me say at once that doubts of Lonergan’s _bona fides_ still
remained. There is Scots in my make-up somewhere, and I am capable of
a sort of belated cautiousness. But, I argued, in any event I had
nothing to gain by hiding what little I knew.
Without undue waste of words, therefore, I told him. The rumours
current in London had not reached New York apparently. Lonergan
listened with a Sioux-like immobility; but I could see that he was
keenly interested all the same.
When I spoke of the great bat alighting in the cemetery, he flicked
his eyes, but otherwise gave no sign of incredulity. My later meeting
with Mme. Yburg he seemed to regard as important, for:
“How was she dressed?” he snapped suddenly.
The inquiry, breaking his long silence, came with something of the
effect of a pistol shot. I told him--for I remembered every detail
very clearly. My conversation with Mme. Yburg I also reported, and:
“I could have sworn you had a date with her that time,” he said. “I
followed you for half a mile and then gave it up!”
“Good Lord! I _thought_ someone was following me!”
“That so?” said Lonergan gloomily. “Bad work. Have you kept the
_caporal_ you picked up?”
“Yes.”
“Mme. Yburg smokes----”
“Egyptians. Always.”
“Ah! Did you see anything of Paul?”
“He passed me on my way up! He was in a car.”
“Ah! I lost him for two hours. But I got the pair of ’em along to a
party and listened in. They gave nothing away.” He was silent for a
while, then:
“Felsenweir is some kind of headquarters. I made my mind up on that
point a week ago.”
“But a headquarters of _what_?” I asked helplessly. “Of vampires?”
He shot one of his keen glances along the room in the direction of the
shuttered window.
“It wouldn’t be surprising--with men in armour on the walls!”
I could not fail to note a subtle change in the speaker’s voice--a
note of humility wholly unfamiliar. And now he fixed his eyes upon me,
lids fully raised, with an expression almost of pleading.
“Is that your story, complete?” he asked. “Because if it is, you’re
lucky!”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean, sir, that even a giant bat maybe can be accounted for; men in
armour the same. But if _you_ had heard a Voice in the night, calling
you by name, when not a living soul was near----”
“Stop!” I jumped up. “I _have_ heard it!”
“What!”
Lonergan was on his feet, facing me.
“I have been given _two days_!” I cried excitedly.
The knowledge that I was not alone in my nightly terrors, that another
had experienced what I had experienced, that, in short, I was _sane_,
brought a mental relief and a flood of gratitude which I found no word
to express.
“Suffering Moses!” Lonergan dropped back in his chair, still staring
at me. “My father, sir, was a pious man and a minister. If he never
approved of anything I did before, I’ll say he’ll approve of what I do
now.”
He clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and:
“Thank God!” he whispered fervently.
4
That strange, short prayer completed, John Lonergan became himself
again.
“Never mind the details,” he said. “The plain fact’s enough, and it’s
Balm of Gilead. There’s work for both of us. Just step right across to
the table and I’ll show you something.”
We moved out of the alcove and went to the big writing table. From a
pocket of his dinner jacket, Lonergan drew out a fat wallet. And from
the wallet he selected three photographic prints which he laid side by
side on the blotting pad.
“I wasn’t working from so good a look-out as you,” he said. “There’s a
tree branch in the way. But if these aren’t pictures of a man in
armour, tell me what they are. I travel a telescopic camera--and it
can’t lie!”
With interest and ever-growing amazement I examined the prints. They
represented the figure of just such a grotesque man at arms as I had
seen on the walls of Felsenweir. The legs of the figure were concealed
in each case. But the head and trunk showed in sharp detail. The
quality of the armour intrigued me. It was unlike that of any period
which I knew. And the odd, square helm worn by this weird patrol was
equally unusual. One gleaming arm, upraised, held a heavy mace.
But, even whilst I studied these extraordinary pictures, I was
listening. I thought I had detected a faint sound on the balcony.
I heard some few distant footsteps, voices, and the ripple of the Oos;
but nothing else.
“Well?”
“I have never seen armour like it.”
“Did you ever see any kind of armour walking?”
“Only at a pageant, perhaps, with an actor inside it.”
“And who do you suppose was inside _that_?”
I looked up at him, over my shoulder.
Lonergan bent forward and rested a finger on one of the prints.
“That wall,” said he, “is ten feet from there to there. I’ve figured
it out--never mind how. Now, just see where the helmet comes.” He
doubled his long thumb to form a ruler. “I’m going to tell you, Mr.
Woodville, that the man inside this suit must have been _seven feet
high!_”
“Good God! You’re right!”
Convinced against my will, I stared harder than ever. Seven-foot men
at arms! Giant bats! Was it all some extravagant illusion? An insane
practical joke? Small wonder that Felsenweir had a bad reputation!
“I’ve been moving heaven and earth,” Lonergan went on, “to get a
permit to view those ruins. But there’s some big influence working
against me.”
“Nobody in these parts,” said I, “will go near the place--not within a
mile--after dusk.”
“Most of ’em won’t even _talk_ about it,” he growled.
“Oh, have _you_ found that? My experience has been similar.”
Lonergan moved left of the table, standing with his back to the
shuttered window and facing in my direction.
“And now,” said he, “I’m going to show you something still more
surprising. I’ll have to go to my apartment. But I sha’n’t be gone
many minutes. Are your notes up to date?”
“Fairly. I have some to add.”
“What I’ve told you is private, yet. Wait right here.”
Whereupon he crossed the room and went out.
I listened intently in the silence which followed the closing of the
door. The hour was growing late--for Baden. Outside, everything was
very still. Only the silvery music of the little stream was audible.
Nothing reached my ears to confirm an uneasy suspicion that I was
spied upon.
Nevertheless, I was aware of a sense of tension. Something seemed to
be closing in around me: I began, in the stillness of the night, to
regard my mission from a new and even more unpleasant angle.…
I started.
Surely a faint sound!
_Was_ there someone--_something_--outside?
Unable to put up with this nervous doubt any longer, I pushed my chair
back, and was on the point of standing up to investigate, when a
sharp, low cry--a cry of pain--came from immediately outside the
shutters.
I sprang up, as:
“Go easy!” said a strident voice--_Lonergan’s_! “The time to break
that hold was a second before you started! Mr. Woodville! Raise your
shutters!”
But I was already hauling on the cords with all my might. And, as the
centre shutter shot up, in from the balcony marched Lonergan,
shoeless, his feet clad in silk socks--pushing before him a captive
whose arms were oddly twisted behind him.
Light fell on the stranger’s face, as he turned to glare at his
captor, and:
“Suffering Moses!” said Lonergan, and released the prisoner’s arms.
_It was M. Paul!_