COLIN CAMBER’S SECRET
“I brought this bat wing from Haiti,” he explained, replacing it in the
tray. “It was found beneath the pillow of a negro missionary who had
died mysteriously during the night.”
He returned the tray to the drawer, closed the latter, and, standing
erect, raised clenched hands above his head.
“With no thought of blasphemy,” he said, “but with reverence, I thank
God from the bottom of my heart that Juan Menendez is dead.”
He reseated himself, whilst Harley regarded him silently, then:
“‘The evil that men do lives after them,’” he murmured. He rested his
chin upon his hand. “A bat wing,” he continued, musingly, “a bat wing
was nailed to Menendez’s door.” He stared across at Harley. “Am I to
believe, sir, that this was the clue which led you to the Guest House?”
Paul Harley nodded.
“It was.”
“I understand. I must therefore take no more excursions into my special
subject, but must endeavour to regard the matter from the point of view
of the enquiry. Am I to assume that Menendez was acquainted with the
significance of this token?”
“He had seen it employed in the West Indies.”
“Ah, the black-hearted devil! But I fear I am involving myself more
deeply in suspicion. Perhaps, Mr. Harley, the ends of justice would be
better served if you were to question me, and I to confine myself to
answering you.”
“Very well,” Harley agreed: “when and where did you meet the late
Colonel Menendez?”
“I never met him in my life.”
“Do you mean that you had never spoken to him?”
“Never.”
“Hm. Tell me, Mr. Camber, where were you at twelve o’clock last night?”
“Here, writing.”
“And where was Ah Tsong?”
“Ah Tsong?” Colin Camber stared uncomprehendingly. “Ah Tsong was in
bed.”
“Oh. Did anything disturb you?”
“Yes, the sound of a rifle shot.”
“You knew it for a rifle shot?”
“It was unmistakable.”
“What did you do?”
“I was in the midst of a most important passage, and I should probably
have taken no steps in the matter but that Ah Tsong knocked upon the
study door, to inform me that my wife had been awakened by the sound of
the shot. She is somewhat nervous and had rung for Ah Tsong, asking him
to see if all were well with me.”
“Do I understand that she imagined the sound to have come from this
room?”
“When we are newly awakened from sleep, Mr. Harley, we retain only an
imperfect impression of that which awakened us.”
“True,” replied Paul Harley; “and did Ah Tsong return to his room?”
“Not immediately. Permit me to say, Mr. Harley, that the nature of your
questions surprises me. At the moment I fail to see their bearing upon
the main issue. He returned and reported to my wife that I was writing,
and she then requested him to bring her a glass of milk. Accordingly, he
came down again, and going out into the kitchen, executed this order.”
“Ah. He would have to light a candle for that purpose, I suppose?”
“A candle, or a lamp,” replied Colin Camber, staring at Paul Harley.
Then, his expression altering: “Of course!” he cried. “You saw the light
from Cray’s Folly? I understand at last.”
We were silent for a while, until:
“How long a time elapsed between the firing of the shot and Ah Tsong’s
knocking at the study door?” asked Harley.
“I could not answer definitely. I was absorbed in my work. But probably
only a minute or two.”
“Was the sound a loud one?”
“Fairly loud. And very startling, of course, in the silence of the
night.”
“The shot, then, was fired from somewhere quite near the house?”
“I presume so.”
“But you thought no more about the matter?”
“Frankly, I had forgotten it. You see, the neighbourhood is rich with
game; it might have been a poacher.”
“Quite,” murmured Harley, but his face was very stern. “I wonder if you
fully realize the danger of your position, Mr. Camber?”
“Believe me,” was the reply, “I can anticipate almost every question
which I shall be called upon to answer.”
Paul Harley stared at him in a way which told me that he was comparing
his features line for line with the etching of Edgar Allen Poe which
hung in his office in Chancery Lane, and:
“I do believe you,” he replied, “and I am wondering if you are in a
position to clear yourself?”
“On the contrary,” Camber assured him, “I am only waiting to hear that
Juan Menendez was shot in the grounds of Cray’s Folly, and not
within the house, to propose to you that unless the real assassin be
discovered, I shall quite possibly pay the penalty of his crime.”
“He was shot in the Tudor garden,” replied Harley, “within sight of your
windows.”
“Ah!” Colin Camber resumed the task of stuffing shag into his corn-cob.
“Then if it would interest you, Mr. Harley, I will briefly outline the
case against myself. I had never troubled to disguise the fact that I
hated Menendez. Many witnesses can be called to testify to this. He was
in Cuba when I was in Cuba, and evidence is doubtless obtainable to show
that we stayed at the same hotels in various cities of the United States
prior to my coming to England and leasing the Guest House. Finally, he
became my neighbour in Surrey.”
He carefully lighted his pipe, whilst Harley and I watched him silently,
then:
“Menendez had the bat wing nailed to the door of his house,” he
continued. “He believed himself to be in danger, and associated this
sign with the source of his danger. Excepting himself and possibly
certain other members of his household it is improbable that any one
else in Surrey understands the significance of the token save myself.
The unholy rites of Voodoo are a closed book to the Western nations.
I have opened that book, Mr. Harley. The powers of the Obeah man, and
especially of the arch-magician known and dreaded by every negro as ‘Bat
Wing,’ are familiar to me. Since I was alone at the time that the shot
was fired, and for some few minutes afterward, and since the Tudor
garden of Cray’s Folly is within easy range of the Guest House, to fail
to place me under arrest would be an act of sheer stupidity.”
He spoke the words with a sort of triumph. Like the fakir, he possessed
the art of spiritual detachment, which is an attribute of genius. From
an intellectual eminence he was surveying his own peril. Colin Camber
in the flesh had ceased to exist; he was merely a pawn in a fascinating
game.
Paul Harley glanced at his watch.
“Mr. Camber,” he said, “I have just sustained the most crushing defeat
of my career. The man who had summoned me to his aid was killed almost
before my eyes. One thing I must do or accept professional oblivion.”
“I understand.” Colin Camber nodded. “Apprehend his murderer?”
“Ultimately, yes. But, firstly, I must see that to the assassination of
Colonel Menendez a judicial murder is not added.”
“You mean--?” asked Camber, eagerly.
“I mean that if you killed Menendez, you are a madman, and I have formed
the opinion during our brief conversation that you are brilliantly
sane.”
Colin Camber rose and bowed in that old-world fashion which was his.
“I am obliged to you, Mr. Harley,” he replied. “But has Mr. Knox
informed you of my bibulous habits?”
Paul Harley nodded.
“They will, of course, be ascribed,” continued Camber, “and there are
many suitable analogies, to deliberate contemplation of a murderous
deed. I would remind you that chronic alcoholism is a recognized form,
of insanity.”
His mood changed again, and sighing wearily, he lay back in the chair.
Over his pale face crept an expression which I knew, instinctively, to
mean that he was thinking of his wife.
“Mr. Harley,” he said, speaking in a very low tone which scorned to
accentuate the beauty of his voice, “I have suffered much in the quest
of truth. Suffering is the gate beyond which we find compassion. Perhaps
you have thought my foregoing remarks frivolous, in view of the fact
that last night a soul was sent to its reckoning almost at my doors.
I revere the truth, however, above all lesser laws and above all
expediency. I do not, and I cannot, regret the end of the man Menendez.
But for three reasons I should regret to pay the penalty of a crime
which I did not commit, These reasons are--one,” he ticked them off upon
his delicate fingers--“It would be bitter to know that Devil Menendez
even in death had injured me; two--My work in the world, which is
unfinished; and, three--My wife.”
I watched and listened, almost awed by the strangeness of the man who
sat before me. His three reasons were illuminating. A casual observer
might have regarded Colin Camber as a monument of selfishness. But it
was evident to me, and I knew it must be evident to Paul Harley, that
his egotism was quite selfless. To a natural human resentment and a
pathetic love for his wife he had added, as an equal clause, the claim
of the world upon his genius.
“I have heard you,” said Paul Harley, quietly, “and you have led me to
the most important point of all.”
“What point is that, Mr. Harley?”
“You have referred to your recent lapse from abstemiousness. Excuse me
if I discuss personal matters. This you ascribed to domestic troubles,
or so Mr. Knox has informed me. You have also referred to your
undisguised hatred of the late Colonel Juan Menendez. I am going to ask
you, Mr. Camber, to tell me quite frankly what was the nature of those
domestic troubles, and what had caused this hatred which survives even
the death of its object?”
Colin Camber stood up, angular, untidy, but a figure of great dignity.
“Mr. Harley,” he replied, “I cannot answer your questions.”
Paul Harley inclined his head gravely.
“May I suggest,” he said, “that you will be called upon to do so under
circumstances which will brook no denial.”
Colin Camber watched him unflinchingly.
“‘The fate of every man is hung around his neck,’” he replied.
“Yet, in this secret history which you refuse to divulge, and which
therefore must count against you, the truth may lie which exculpates
you.”
“It may be so. But my determination remains unaltered.”
“Very well,” answered Paul Harley, quietly, but I could see that he
was exercising a tremendous restraint upon himself. “I respect your
decision, but you have given me a giant’s task, and for this I cannot
thank you, Mr. Camber.”
I heard a car pulled up in the road outside the Guest House. Colin
Camber clenched his hands and sat down again in the carved chair.
“The opportunity has passed,” said Harley. “The police are here.”