The Destroying Angel Part 21

Within-doors there was every comfort conceivably to be desired by any other than a sybarite; without--viewed from the shelter of a wide veranda--a vague world of sweeping mist and driving rain; pine trees j.a.panesque against the mist, as if etched in bronze-green on frosted silver; a breadth of rough, hummocky ground sloping down to the water's edge, with a private landing-stage and, farther out, a courtesying cat-boat barely discernible.

The wind, freshening and driving very respectable if miniature rollers against the beach, came in heavy gusts, alternating with periods of steady, strong blowing. At times the shining lances of the rain seemed to drive almost horizontally. Whitaker shivered a little, not unpleasantly, and went indoors.

He poked his head into the kitchen. In that immaculate place, from which every hint of breakfast had disappeared as if by magic, Sum Fat was religiously cleaning his teeth--for the third time that morning, to Whitaker's certain knowledge.

When he had finished, Whitaker put a question:

"Sum Fat, which way does the wind blow--do you know?"

Sum Fat flashed him a dazzling smile.

"East'ly," he said in a cheerful, clucking voice. "I think very fine d.a.m.n three-day blow."

"At least," said Whitaker, "you're a high-spirited prophet of evil. I thank you."

He selected a book from several shelves stocked with a discriminating taste, and settled himself before the fire.

The day wore out before his patience did, and with every indication of fulfilling the prognosis of Sum Fat; by nightfall the wind had developed into an enthusiastic gale, driving before it sheeted rain and great ragged wastes of mist. Whitaker absolutely enjoyed the sensation of renewed intimacy with the weather, from which his life in New York had of late divorced him so completely. He read, dozed, did full justice to the admirable cuisine of Sum Fat, and between whiles considered the state of his soul, the cycle of the suns, his personal marital entanglement, and the further preservation, intact, of his bruised mortal body.

The ceaseless pattering on the shingled roof reminded him very strongly of that dark hour, long gone, when he had made up his mind to wed a strange woman. He marvelled at that madness with an inexhaustible wonder and with an equally vast, desolate, poignant regret.

He considered faithfully what he had gained by rea.s.serting his ident.i.ty, and found it an empty thing. He had been happier when a Wilful Missing, unmissed, unmourned. It seemed as if it might be best to go away again, to eliminate Hugh Whitaker from the coil his reappearance had created.

Then his wife could gain her freedom--and incidentally free him--and marry as she willed. And Drummond would be free to come to life--with hands unstained, his honour besmirched only in the knowledge of a few who would not tell.

Did he remain, Drummond, he feared, would prove a troublesome problem.

Whitaker was, in the light of sober after-thought, more than half convinced that Ember had guessed cunningly at the ident.i.ty of his a.s.sailant. The thing was conceivable, at least, of Drummond: the hedonist and egoist seeking to regain his forfeited world in one murderous cast. And it was hardly conceivable that he would hesitate to make a second attempt whenever opportunity offered. New York, Whitaker saw clearly, was far too small to contain them both while Drummond remained at liberty. By attempting to stay there he would simply invite a second attempt upon his life, merely strengthen Drummond's temptation.

He thought it very curious that he had heard nothing more of the proposed action for divorce. It might be well to communicate again with his wife's attorneys.

He went to bed with a mind unsettled, still curious, speculative, unable to fix upon any definite course of conduct.

And the second day was like unto the first: a day of rain and wind and fog periodically punctuated by black squalls that tore shrieking across the bay with the blind fury of spirits of destruction gone stark, raving mad.

The third day broke full of the spirit of the second; but toward noon the rain ceased, and by mid-afternoon the violence of the wind had moderated perceptibly to a stiffish but failing breeze beneath a breaking cloud-rack. With the disappearance of fog, for the first time since Whitaker's arrival the neighbourhood discovered perspectives. By evening, when the wind went down with the sun, leaving absolute calm, the barrier beach far across the quiet waters of the shallow, landlocked bay shone like a bar of ruddy gold against a horizon of melting mauve.

In the evening, too, a telegram from Ember was transmitted by telephone to the bungalow, advising Whitaker of his host's intention to return by the following night at the latest.

This communication worked with the turn of the weather to effect a change in the temper of Whitaker, who by this time had managed to fret himself to the verge of incontinent departure for Australia _via_ New York. He decided, however, to wait and thank Ember for his hospitality, and thought seriously of consulting him as to the wisest and fairest course to pursue.

None the less, the restlessness and impatience bred of nearly three days of enforced inaction possessed him like a devil. After another of Sum Fat's admirable dinners, his craving for open air and exercise drove him out, despite the failing light, to explore the clearing rather thoroughly, and to some extent the surrounding woodlands. At one time, indeed, he caught sight, through thinning trees, of a summer home somewhat more pretentious than Half-a-loaf Lodge--evidently the property termed by Ember "the Fiske place." But it was then so nearly dark that he didn't pause to investigate an impression that the place was tenanted, contradictory to his host's casual statement; and he was back on the bungalow porch in time to see the moon lift up like a great shield of bra.s.s through the haze beyond the barrier beach.

Sounds of splashings and of song drew him down to the water's edge, to find that Sum Fat had rowed out to the anch.o.r.ed cat-boat and, almost as naked as industrious, was bailing it clear of the three days'

acc.u.mulation of rain-water. He came in, presently, and having performed what was probably at least the eighth cleaning of his teeth since morning, went to bed.

Wearying at length of the lunar spectacle, and quite as weary of the sedulous attentions of a cloud of famished mosquitoes, Whitaker lounged disconsolately indoors to a pipe and a book by candle-light. But the one needed cleaning, and the other was out of tune with his temper, and the flame of the candle excited the amorous interest of a great fluttering fool of a moth until Whitaker blew it out and sat on in darkness, not tired enough to go to bed, too tired to bestir himself and seek distraction from a tormenting train of thought.

A pool of limpid moonlight lay like milk upon the floor beneath a window and held his dreaming gaze while memory marshalled for his delectation a pageant of wasted years, infinitely desolate and dreary in his vision. A life without profit, as he saw it: an existence rendered meaningless by a nameless want--a lack he had not wit to name.... The romance of his life enchanted him, its futility furnished him a vast and profound perplexity. To what end?--this was the haunting burden of his complaint....

How long he sat unstirring, preoccupied with fruitless inquiry, he did not guess. But later he reckoned it could not have been long after ten o'clock when he was disturbed. The sound of a footfall, hushed and stealthy on the veranda, roused him with a start, and almost at the same instant he became aware of a shadow that troubled the pool of moonlight, the foreshortened shadow of a man's head and shoulders. He sat up, tense, rigid with surprise and wonder, and stared at the silhouetted body at pause just outside the window. The fellow was stooping to peer in. Whether he could distinguish Whitaker in the shadows was debatable, but he remained motionless through a long minute, as if fascinated by the undeviating regard returned by Whitaker. Then the latter broke the spell with a hasty movement. Through the feeling of surprised resentment there had filtered a gnawing suspicion that he was acquainted with the pose of that head and the set of those shoulders. Had Drummond hunted him down to this isolate hiding-place? On the thought he leaped up, in two strides slammed out through the door.

"I say!" he cried loudly. But he cried, apparently, to empty air. The man was gone--vanished as strangely and as quietly as he had appeared.

Whitaker shut teeth on an oath and, jumping down from the veranda, cast wildly about the bungalow without uncovering a single sign of the trespa.s.ser. In transit from his chair to the door, he had lost sight of the fellow for no more, certainly, than half a second; and yet, in that absurdly scanty s.p.a.ce of time, the trespa.s.ser had managed to effect an absolute disappearance. No conjuring trick was ever turned more neatly.

There one instant, gone the next!--the mystery of it irritated and perplexed more than did the question of ident.i.ty. It was all very plausible to suspect Drummond--but whither could Drummond have juggled himself in the twinkling of an eyelash? That it was no trick of an idle imagination, Whitaker was prepared to swear: he was positive he had seen what he had seen. And yet.... It was, on the other hand, impossible to say where in the plantation of pines the man might not then be skulking.

Whitaker inst.i.tuted a narrow search, but fruitless.

Eventually pausing and glaring round the clearing in complete bewilderment, he detected or else fancied a slight movement in the shadows on the edge of the encompa.s.sing woodland. Instantly, heedless of the risk he ran if the man were indeed Drummond and if Drummond were indeed guilty of the a.s.sault now four nights old, Whitaker broke for the spot. It proved to be the entrance to one of the woodland paths, and naturally--whether or no his imagination were in fault--there was n.o.body waiting there to be caught.

But if any one had been there, he had unquestionably fled along the trail. Whitaker in a rage set himself to follow, sticking to the path partly through instinct, mainly thanks to a spectral twilight manufactured in the forest by moon-beams filtered thin through innumerable leaves and branches. Once or twice he paused to listen, then again plunged on: misled perhaps by the mysterious but inevitable noises of the nocturnal woodland. Before he realized he could have covered half the distance, he emerged abruptly into the clearing of the Fiske place.

Here he pulled up, for the first time alive to the intrinsic idiocy of his conduct, and diverted besides by the discovery that his impression of the early evening, that the cottage was tenanted, had been well founded.

The ground floor windows shone with a dim but warm illumination. There was one quite near him, a long window opening upon the railed veranda, through which he could see distinctly part of a living-room rather charmingly furnished in a summery way. At its farther end a dark-haired woman in a plain black dress with a short ap.r.o.n and lace cap sat reading by lamplight: evidently a maid. Her mistress--judged by appearances--was outside on the lawn below the veranda, strolling to and fro in company with a somewhat short and heavy man who wore an automobile duster and visored cap. By contrast, her white-clad figure, invested with the illusion of moonlight, seemed unusually tall. Her hair was fair, shining like a head-dress of palest gold as she bent her head, attentive to her companion. And Whitaker thought to discern an unusual quality in her movements, a quality of charm and a graciousness of mien rarely to be noticed even in the most beautiful of the women he had known.

Of a sudden the man paused, produced a watch from beneath his duster, consulted it briefly and shut the case with a snap. He said something in a brusque tone, and was answered by what sounded like a pleasant negative. Promptly, as if annoyed, he turned and strode hastily away, disappearing round the house.

Alone, the woman watched him as long as he was in sight, her head to one side with an effect of critical amus.e.m.e.nt. Then with a low laugh she crossed the veranda and entered the lighted room. At the same time, Whitaker, lingering and watching without in the least understanding or even questioning why he was doing this thing so contrary to his instincts, heard the heavy rumble of a motor-car on the far side of the house and saw the machine swing off across the clearing and into the woods.

In the living-room the woman was saying: "You may go now, Elise. I'll be ready for bed before long."

"Yes, madam." The maid rose and moved briskly out of sight.

Her mistress, casting aside a scarf of embroidered Chinese brocade, moved about the room with an air at once languid and distrait. Pausing beside a table, she took up a book, opened it, shut it smartly, discarding it as if hopeless of finding therein any sort of diversion.

She stood for a moment in deep thought, her head bowed, the knuckle of a slender forefinger tapping her chin--charmingly posed. Whitaker abruptly understood why it was he loitered, peeping: she was absolutely beautiful, a creature both exquisite and superb, a matchless portrait for the galleries of his memory.

With a sigh and a quick movement of impatience, seating herself at a cottage piano she ran her fingers over the keys. Whitaker recognized the opening bars of something or other of Beethoven's--he couldn't say precisely what, at the instant; and even as he tried a thing happened which drove the music altogether from his mind: in short, he discovered that he was not the only watcher below the window.

Something--a movement or perhaps a slight sound--had drawn his attention from the woman. He saw the other man standing boldly in full moonlight, all his attention concentrated on the brilliant picture framed by the window. He was unquestionably without knowledge of the nearness of the other--of Whitaker in the shadows. And though his back was to the moon and his face further shadowed by a peaked cap, Whitaker was absolutely sure of the man: he was certainly Drummond.

Without pause for thought he sprang toward him, in a guarded voice uttering his name--"Drummond!" But the fellow proved too alert and quick for him. Whitaker's hands closed on nothing more substantial than thin air; at the same time he received a blow upon his bruised shoulder smart and forcible enough to stagger him and evoke an involuntary grunt of pain. And before he could regain his balance the fellow was thrashing noisily away through the woodland underbrush.

Involuntarily Whitaker glanced through the window to see if the woman had been alarmed. But apparently a succession of sonorous chords from the piano had deafened her to all other sounds. She played on with every sign of total unconsciousness.

Forthwith he struck off and blundered senselessly through the forest, misled by its elusive phantasmagoria, until, realizing at length he did but duplicate an earlier folly, he gave up the chase in disgust and slowly made his way back to the bungalow.

And yet (for all the mystery and the wonder of his experience) it was with a somewhat sheepish feeling that he took the precaution of locking the doors and windows before turning in. After all, what grounds had he for his suspicions? Merely a hasty guess at the ident.i.ty of one who might turn out to be nothing more than a hapchance tramp--a skulking vagabond on the watch for a chance to pilfer and fly.

If he were Drummond and as murderous-minded as Ember claimed, why had he neglected his dozen opportunities to ambush his prey in the woods?

A shade of incredulity insensibly began to color Whitaker's apprehensions. In time, with impatience, he dismissed them altogether from his mind.

He dozed off while dwelling upon the vision of a fair-haired woman idling over a piano, swaying slightly as she played.

XI

THE SPY