“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.”
Chapter 4 CRAY’S FOLLY
Paul Harley lay back upon the cushions and glanced at me with a quizzical smile. The big, up-to-date car which Colonel Menendez had placed at our disposal was surmounting a steep Surrey lane as though no gradient had existed.