Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Bat Wing by Sax Rohmer (ebook reader for surface pro txt) 📖
- Author: Sax Rohmer
Book online «Bat Wing by Sax Rohmer (ebook reader for surface pro txt) 📖». Author Sax Rohmer
“Here is the stair, sir,” said Pedro.
In Indian file we mounted to the first floor, to find ourselves in a second, identical room, also stripped of furniture and decorations. Harley barely glanced out of the northern window, shook his head, and:
“Next floor, Pedro,” he directed.
Up we went, our footsteps arousing a cloud of dust from the uncarpeted stairs, and the sound of our movements echoing in hollow fashion around the deserted rooms.
Gaining the next floor, Harley, unable any longer to conceal his excitement, ran to the north window, looked out, and:
“Gentlemen,” he said, “my experiment is complete!”
He turned, his back to the window, and faced us in the dusk of the room.
“Assuming the ash stick to represent the upright body of Colonel Menendez,” he continued, “and the sheet of cardboard to represent his head, the hole which I have cut in it corresponds fairly nearly to the position of his forehead. Further assuming the bullet to have illustrated Euclid’s definition of a straight line, such a line, followed back from the yew tree to the spot where the rifle rested, would pass through the hole in the cardboard! In other words, there is only one place from which it is possible to see the flame of the candle through the hole in the cardboard: the place where the rifle rested! Stand here in the left-hand angle of the window and stoop down! Will you come first, Knox?”
I stepped across the room, bent down, and stared out of the window, across the Tudor garden. Plainly I could see the sun-dial with the ash stick planted before it. I could see the piece of cardboard which surmounted it—and, through the hole cut in the cardboard, I could see the feeble flame of the candle nailed to the ninth yew tree!
I stood upright, knowing that I had grown pale, and conscious of a moist sensation upon my forehead.
“Merciful God!” I said in a hollow voice. “It was from this window that the shot was fired which killed him!”
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE CREEPING SICKNESS
From the ensuing consultation in the library we did not rise until close upon midnight. To the turbid intelligence of Inspector Aylesbury the fact by this time had penetrated that Colin Camber was innocent, that he was the victim of a frame-up, and that Colonel Juan Menendez had been shot from a window of his own house.
By a process of lucid reasoning which must have convinced a junior schoolboy, Paul Harley, there in the big library, with its garish bookcases and its Moorish ornaments, had eliminated every member of the household from the list of suspects. His concluding words, I remember, were as follows:
“Of the known occupants of Cray’s Folly on the night of the tragedy we now find ourselves reduced to four, any one of whom, from the point of view of an impartial critic uninfluenced by personal character, question, or motive, or any consideration other than that of physical possibility, might have shot Colonel Menendez. They are, firstly: Myself.
“In order to believe me guilty, it would be necessary to discount the evidence of Knox, who saw me on the gravel path below at the time that the shot was fired from the tower window.
“Secondly: Knox; whose guilt, equally, could only be assumed by means of eliminating my evidence, since I saw him at the window of my room at the time that the shot was fired.
“Thirdly: Madame de Stämer. Regarding this suspect, in the first place she could not have gained access to the tower room without assistance, and in the second place she was so passionately devoted to the late Colonel Menendez that Dr. Rolleston is of opinion that her reason may remain permanently impaired by the shock of his death. Fourthly and lastly: Miss Val Beverley.”
Over my own feelings, as he had uttered the girl’s name, I must pass in silence.
“Miss Val Beverley is the only one of the four suspects who is not in a position to establish a sound alibi so far as I can see at the moment; but in this case entire absence of motive renders the suspicion absurd. Having dealt with the known occupants, I shall not touch upon the possibility that some stranger had gained access to the house. This opens up a province of speculation which we must explore at greater leisure, for it would be profitless to attempt such an exploration now.”
Thus the gathering had broken up, Inspector Aylesbury returning to Market Hilton to make his report and to release Colin Camber and Ah Tsong, and Wessex to seek his quarters at the Lavender Arms.
I remember that having seen them off, Harley and I stood in the hall, staring at one another in a very odd way, and so we stood when Val Beverley came quietly from Madame de Stämer’s room and spoke to us.
“Pedro has told me what you have done, Mr. Harley,” she said in a low voice. “Oh, thank God you have cleared him. But what, in Heaven’s name, does your new discovery mean?”
“You may well ask,” Harley answered, grimly. “If my first task was a hard one, that which remains before me looks more nearly hopeless than anything I have ever been called upon to attempt.”
“It is horrible, it is horrible,” said the girl, shudderingly. “Oh, Mr. Knox,” she turned to me, “I have felt all along that there was some stranger in the house——”
“You have told me so.”
“Conundrums! Conundrums!” muttered Harley, irritably. “Where am I to begin, upon what am I to erect any feasible theory?” He turned abruptly to Val Beverley. “Does Madame de Stämer know?”
“Yes,” she answered, nodding her head; “and hearing the others depart, she asked me to tell you that sleep is impossible until you have personally given her the details of your discovery.”
“She wishes to see me?” asked Harley, eagerly.
“She insists upon seeing you,” replied the girl, “and also requests Mr. Knox to visit her.” She paused, biting her lip. “Madame’s manner is very, very odd. Dr. Rolleston cannot understand her at all. I expect he has told you? She has been sitting there for hours and hours, writing.”
“Writing?” exclaimed Harley. “Letters?”
“I don’t know what she has been writing,” confessed Val Beverley. “She declines to tell me, or to show me what she has written. But there is quite a little stack of manuscript upon the table beside her bed. Won’t you come in?”
I could see that she was more troubled than
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