Bat Wing by Sax Rohmer (ebook reader for surface pro txt) 📖

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