THE VAMPIRE BAT
An hour had elapsed since the departure of our visitor, and Paul Harley
and I sat in the cosy, book-lined study discussing the strange story
which had been related to us. Harley, who had a friend attached to
the Spanish Embassy, had succeeded in getting in touch with him at his
chambers, and had obtained some few particulars of interest concerning
Colonel Don Juan Sarmiento Menendez, for such were the full names and
titles of our late caller.
He was apparently the last representative of a once great Spanish
family, established for many generations in Cuba. His wealth was
incalculable, although the value of his numerous estates had depreciated
in recent years. His family had produced many men of subtle intellect
and powerful administrative qualities; but allied to this they had all
possessed traits of cruelty and debauchery which at one time had made
the name of Menendez a by-word in the West Indies. That there were many
people in that part of the world who would gladly have assassinated
the Colonel, Paul Harley’s informant did not deny. But although this
information somewhat enlarged our knowledge of my friend’s newest
client, it threw no fresh light upon that side of his story which
related to Voodoo and the extraordinary bat wing episodes.
“Of course,” said Harley, after a long silence, “there is one
possibility of which we must not lose sight.”
“What possibility is that?” I asked.
“That Menendez may be mad. Remorse for crimes of cruelty committed in
his youth, and beyond doubt he has been guilty of many, may have led to
a sort of obsession. I have known such cases.”
“That was my first impression,” I confessed, “but it faded somewhat as
the Colonel’s story proceeded. I don’t think any such explanation would
cover the facts.”
“Neither do I,” agreed my friend; “but it is distinctly possible that
such an obsession exists, and that someone is deliberately playing upon
it for his own ends.”
“You mean that someone who knows of these episodes in the earlier life
of Menendez is employing them now for a secret purpose of his own?”
“Exactly.”
“It renders the case none the less interesting.”
“I quite agree, Knox. With you, I believe, that even if the Colonel is
not quite sane, at the same time his fears are by no means imaginary.”
He gingerly took up the bat wing from the arm of his chair where he had
placed it after a detailed examination.
“It seems to be pretty certain,” he said, “that this thing is the wing
of a Desmodus or Vampire Bat. Now, according to our authority”--he
touched a work which lay open on the other arm of his chair--“these are
natives of tropical America, therefore the presence of a living vampire
bat in Surrey is not to be anticipated. I am personally satisfied,
however, that this unpleasant fragment has been preserved in some way.”
“You mean that it is part of a specimen from someone’s collection?”
“Quite possibly. But even a collection of such bats would be quite a
novelty. I don’t know that I can recollect one outside the Museums. To
follow this bat wing business further: there was one very curious point
in the Colonel’s narrative. You recollect his reference to a native girl
who had betrayed certain information to the manager of the estate?”
I nodded rapidly.
“A bat wing was affixed to the wall of her hut and she died, according
to our informant, of a lingering sickness. Now this lingering sickness
might have been anæmia, and anæmia may be induced, either in man or
beast, by frequent but unsuspected visits of a Vampire Bat.”
“Good heavens, Harley!” I exclaimed, “what a horrible idea.”
“It _is_ a horrible idea, but in countries infested by these creatures
such things happen occasionally. I distinctly recollect a story which
I once heard, of a little girl in some district of tropical America
falling into such a decline, from which she was only rescued in the nick
of time by the discovery that one of these Vampire Bats, a particularly
large one, had formed the habit of flying into her room at night and
attaching itself to her bare arm which lay outside the coverlet.”
“How did it penetrate the mosquito curtains?” I enquired, incredulously.
“The very point, Knox, which led to the discovery of the truth. The
thing, exhibiting a sort of uncanny intelligence, used to work its way
up under the edge of the netting. This disturbance of the curtains was
noticed on several occasions by the nurse who occupied an adjoining
room, and finally led to the detection of the bat!”
“But surely,” I said, “such a visitation would awaken any sleeper?”
“On the contrary, it induces deeper sleep. But I have not yet come to my
point, Knox. The vengeance of the High Priest of Voodoo, who figured in
the Colonel’s narrative, was characteristic in the case of the native
woman, since her symptoms at least simulated those which would result
from the visits of a Vampire Bat, although of course they may have been
due to a slow poison. But you will not have failed to note that the
several attacks upon the Colonel personally were made with more ordinary
weapons. On two occasions at least a rifle was employed.”
“Yes,” I replied, slowly. “You are wondering why the lingering sickness
did not visit him?”
“I am, Knox. I can only suppose that he proved to be immune. You recall
his statement that he made an almost miraculous recovery from the fever
which attacked him after his visit to the Black Belt? This would seem to
point to the fact that he possesses that rare type of constitution which
almost defies organisms deadly to ordinary men.”
“I see. Hence the dagger and the rifle?”
“So it would appear.”
“But, Harley,” I cried, “what appalling crime can the man have committed
to call down upon his head a vengeance which has survived for so many
years?”
Paul Harley shrugged his shoulders in a whimsical imitation of the
Spaniard.
“I doubt if the feud dates any earlier,” he replied, “than the time of
Menendez’s last return to Cuba. On that occasion he evidently killed the
High Priest of Voodoo.”
I uttered an exclamation of scorn.
“My dear Harley,” I said, “the whole thing is too utterly fantastic. I
begin to believe again that we are dealing with a madman.”
Harley glanced down at the wing of the bat.
“We shall see,” he murmured. “Even if the only result of our visit is to
make the acquaintance of the Colonel’s household our time will not have
been wasted.”
“No,” said I, “that is true enough. I am looking forward to meeting
Madame de Stämer--”
“The Colonel’s invalid cousin,” added Harley, tonelessly.
“And her companion, Miss Beverley.”
“Quite so. Nor must we forget the Spanish butler, and the Colonel
himself, whose acquaintance I am extremely anxious to renew.”
“The whole thing is wildly bizarre, Harley.”
“My dear Knox,” he replied, stretching himself luxuriously in the long
lounge chair, “the most commonplace life hovers on the edge of the
bizarre. But those of us who overstep the border become preposterous
in the eyes of those who have never done so. This is not because the
unusual is necessarily the untrue, but because writers of fiction have
claimed the unusual as their particular province, and in doing so have
divorced it from fact in the public eye. Thus I, myself, am a myth, and
so are you, Knox!”
He raised his hand and pointed to the doorway communicating with the
office.
“We owe our mythological existence to that American genius whose
portrait hangs beside the Burmese cabinet and who indiscreetly
created the character of C. Auguste Dupin. The doings of this amateur
investigator were chronicled by an admirer, you may remember, since
when no private detective has been allowed to exist outside the pages of
fiction. My most trivial habits confirm my unreality.
“For instance, I have a friend who is good enough sometimes to record
my movements. So had Dupin. I smoke a pipe. So did Dupin. I investigate
crime, and I am sometimes successful. Here I differ from Dupin. Dupin
was always successful. But my argument is this--you complain that the
life of Colonel Don Juan Sarmiento Menendez, on his own showing,
has been at least as romantic as his name. It would not be accounted
romantic by the adventurous, Knox; it is only romantic to the prosaic
mind. In the same way his name is only unusual to our English ears. In
Spain it would pass unnoticed.”
“I see your point,” I said, grudgingly; “but think of I Voodoo in the
Surrey Hills.”
“I am thinking of it, Knox, and it affords me much delight to think of
it. You have placed your finger I upon the very point I was endeavouring
to make. Voodoo in the Surrey Hills! Quite so. Voodoo in some island
of the Caribbean Seas, yes, but Voodoo in the Surrey Hills, no. Yet, my
dear fellow, there is a regular steamer service between South America
and England. Or one may embark at Liverpool and disembark in the Spanish
Main. Why, then, may not one embark in the West Indies and disembark
at Liverpool? This granted, you will also grant that from Liverpool to
Surrey is a feasible journey. Why, then, should you exclaim, ‘but Voodoo
in the Surrey Hills!’ You would be surprised to meet an Esquimaux in
the Strand, but there is no reason why an Esquimaux should not visit the
Strand. In short, the most annoying thing about fact is its resemblance
to fiction. I am looking forward to the day, Knox, when I can retire
from my present fictitious profession and become a recognized member
of the community; such as a press agent, a theatrical manager, or some
other dealer in Fact!”
He burst out laughing, and reaching over to a side-table refilled my
glass and his own.
“There lies the wing of a Vampire Bat,” he said, pointing, “in Chancery
Lane. It is impossible. Yet,” he raised his glass, “‘Pussyfoot’ Johnson
has visited Scotland, the home of Whisky!”
We were silent for a while, whilst I considered his remarks.
“The conclusion to which I have come,” declared Harley, “is that nothing
is so strange as the commonplace. A rod and line, a boat, a luncheon
hamper, a jar of good ale, and the peculiar peace of a Norfolk
river--these joys I willingly curtail in favour of the unknown things
which await us at Cray’s Folly. Remember, Knox,” he stared at me
queerly, “Wednesday is the night of the full moon.”