Читать книгу The Bat Flies Low - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 14

In the museum with its pendant lights and gruesome exhibits, Captain Rorke was standing by an open wall case. The case contained a beautifully painted sarcophagus lid, that of a priestess who had been a member of the family of Rameses III. Its usual position was indicated by a wooden peg upon the wall, which normally secured it. It stood now a foot removed from its proper place.

“Did you find it this way, Paddy?”

Lincoln Haves’ monotonous voice was normal, but he was dusting the lapel of his coat.

Rorke nodded. His cold eyes were colder than usual; the humorous lips beneath his brusque mustache were set in a grim line.

“Door of the case was ajar. Do you keep it locked, Lincoln?”

“Yes. Ann would have got the keys, though.”

“She wouldn’t have moved that lid.”

“Unlikely—next to impossible.”

“I’ll tell you what I think, Mr. Hayes,” said Sergeant Hawley. “Somebody hid in here tonight, behind that lid. Why, I can almost reconstruct what happened! Assisting the lady who was showing him around, he pretended to re-lock this case, but didn’t do it. He aimed to hide there later on. There is something else.” His beady eyes glanced alternately at Captain Rorke and Lincoln Hayes. Maguire was examining the open door. “We’ve only got the word of Lurgan that he left this room when Mohammed Bey and Miss Wayland came in. I’m going to tax him with that.”

He stared at the lid of the mummy case as though he hated it.

“Get headquarters when you’re through,” Maguire directed. “Have Stainer come right along to hunt fingerprints. Nobody touch this door.”

“Queer thing!” Rorke murmured. “That odd smell which we have noticed isn’t perceptible in here at all. It seems to center in the library and lobby.”

“If I may say so,” said Hawley, “you’ve got a theory about this smell.”

“Suppose I have, sergeant?”

“I want to know it.”

“I am afraid,” said Captain Rorke, with a faint smile, “you will have to wait. You see, there’s more behind this case than you appreciate at the moment.”

“There’s a lot behind it,” the drawling voice replied, “which I mean to find out.”

“Good luck to you,” said Rorke.

They returned to the Venetian lobby. Hushed but excited voices might be heard from some upper landing. Hawley stared up.

“I should be glad,” he said, with harsh distinctness, “if all members of the staff not on duty went to their rooms and stayed there.”

Silence fell above.

Stefanson was standing near one of the Cellini silver lamps, scribbling notes on the margin of a loose page. Lurgan remained where they had left him. Stefanson looked up.

“W-well?” he said.

“Looks like someone hid himself in the museum tonight, Stefanson,” Lincoln Hayes replied. “What for—I don’t know.”

“Perhaps,” growled Maguire, suddenly glaring at Lurgan, “you can tell us.”

“No, sir, I assure you. I can’t.”

“Might I say a word, sir?” came the dry voice of Detective Sergeant Hawley.

“Go right ahead.”

“You stated, Lurgan,” the detective sergeant went on, “that you left the museum almost directly Miss Wayland and the Egyptian came in and went to your room.”

“That is so.”

“I suggest you’re a liar.”

“In that case,” Lurgan replied, “I hope I may never have to come to you for a reference.”

He suffered a barrage of stares from Detective Sergeant Hawley, District Attorney Maguire, and Captain Rorke. He was pale but unmoved.

“The last of your evidence I heard, Lurgan,” said Maguire, “took us up to the time Mohammed Bey disappeared while you came to the library.”

“I rapped on the library door,” Lurgan replied quite tonelessly, “under the impression that Miss Wayland had remained in the museum. Apparently, however, she had followed me. I suddenly discovered, as I opened the door, that she was behind me in the corridor.... When it was found that Mohammed Bey had gone, and when you, sir—” he addressed Lincoln Hayes—“and Miss Wayland went to the museum, I looked through the lobby curtains and saw that Slim was standing beside the car outside. You may remember, sir, that I told you he was there when you asked me if he had driven Mohammed Bey.”

He turned again to District Attorney Maguire.

“I saw Miss Wayland go upstairs, presumably to her room, and I returned to my room.”

“Where’s Miss Wayland’s room?” Hawley asked.

“She has a bedroom, sitting room, and bathroom almost immediately above us.”

“Go ahead.”

“I was making up a few accounts when I heard a terrible scream——”

“How long had elapsed?” Maguire’s deep voice interrupted.

“I should say, sir, less than ten minutes. But I have no means of being sure on the point. I rushed upstairs and had begun to run across the lobby when I saw Miss Wayland just ahead of me, running in the same direction——”

“Where had she come from?” Lincoln Hayes inquired.

“I don’t know, sir. She was heading for the library when I saw her. I called out, but she didn’t stop. I saw her race to the library door—as though she were demented, sir. Then suddenly everything went dark. There seemed to be a sudden flash, as though all the lights flared up—and then it all went dark.”

“What did you do?” Detective Sergeant Hawley asked.

“I groped for the nearest switch. It was on; I thought the main fuse had blown. I could see no light anywhere. I groped my way downstairs—I know the house very well—and reached my room: the fuse box is there. There were matches on my table, and I struck one. It showed no light ... but it burned down to my fingers!”

“What do you mean?” Maguire growled.

“Already heard this,” said Lincoln Hayes. “Don’t quite understand, but it corresponds to my own impression.”

“Sounds tall to me,” Hawley drawled. “D’you mean to say you struck a match and it burned down to your fingers but you saw no light?”

“That was what I said.”

There was a momentary awkward pause, then:

“Let it pass,” said Captain Rorke; “queer things have happened here tonight.”

“Evidently.” District Attorney Maguire’s voice was pitched in its lowest register. “I came here as a friend, Hayes, but it’s just as clear as can be that you’re keeping something back. I don’t call that fair.”

There was a second pause.

“You have all the facts,” said Lincoln Hayes, “known to us. We don’t want to confuse you with theories. Theories can come later.”

“Qui-quite!” interrupted Stefanson, “but I th-think I can explain this phe-phe-phenomenon.”

“It wants a bit of explaining,” commented Detective Sergeant Hawley.

“Go ahead, Lurgan,” Maguire growled ...

There came a sound of footsteps on the stair. It induced a sudden silence.

All eyes watched Dr. Muller as he descended. He did not hurry, but his very atmosphere spelt news. At the foot of the stairs:

“I’m very happy to report——” he began.

Rorke crushed a cigarette in an ash tray and locked his hands behind him.

“—that my brilliant confrère has demonstrated the impossible. He has restored the dead to life. Miss Wayland will live.”

He turned, in his queerly pedantic manner, and remounted the stairs. Rorke walked across the lobby and went out in the direction of the street entrance.

Detective Sergeant Hawley stared, but Lincoln Hayes understood. Yet neither his understanding nor his sympathy found expression upon that immobile face. One would not have supposed him interested in the life or death of Ann Wayland; in the happiness or the sorrow of his friend Patrick Rorke.

As a matter of fact, a dark curtain had been lifted from his mind. The dreadful idea that Ann Wayland had been murdered no longer obtruded itself between his vision and those distant, strange things on which he wanted to focus. He saw again the delicate face, crowned with flame-like hair, of the girl in the theater box; the dark features of her companion, Mohammed Ahmes Bey. He felt again the thrall of the dignified Egyptian; he realized, against his will, that Mohammed Ahmes Bey, in all probability, was responsible for the occurrences in his house tonight. He challenged himself: where did his interest lie?

And instantly he knew the answer. He was in love with a woman he had seen only at a distance; never before had he known this intense desire for contact with any human being. It was a kind of madness. He had exchanged one long glance with her across the breadth of the theater; he had called to her, and she had seemed to understand. Afterwards, she had given no sign....