Complete weird tales of.., p.1226
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1226
“Harold,” she would say, “do you think I’m a fool? If I place the Crimson Diamond in any safe-deposit vault in New York, somebody would steal it sooner or later.” Then she would nibble a sprig of catnip and peer cunningly at me. I loathed the odour of catnip and she knew it. I also loathed cats. This also she knew and of course surrounded herself with a dozen. Poor old lady! On the 1st day of March, 1896, she was found dead in her bed in her apartments at the Waldorf. The doctor said she died from natural causes. The only other occupant of her sleeping room was a cat. The cat fled when we broke open the door, and I heard that she was received and cherished by some people in a neighboring apartment.
Now, although my great-aunt’s death was due to purely natural causes, there was one very startling and disagreeable feature of the case. The velvet bag, containing the Crimson Diamond, had disappeared. Every inch of the apartment was searched, the floors torn up, the walls dismantled, but the Crimson Diamond had vanished. Chief of Police Conlin detailed four of his best men on the case, and as I had nothing better to do, I enrolled myself as a volunteer. I also offered $25,000 reward for the recovery of the gem. All New York was agog.
The case seemed hopeless enough, although there were five of us after the thief. McFarlane was in London, and had been for a month, but Scotland Yard could give him no help, and the last I heard of him he was roaming through Surrey after a man with a white spot in his hair. Harrison had gone to Paris. He kept writing me that clues were plenty and the scent hot, but as Dennet, in Berlin, and Clancy, in Vienna, wrote me the same thing, I began to doubt these gentlemen’s ability.
“You say,” I answered Harrison, “that the fellow is a Frenchman, and that he is now concealed in Paris; but Dennet writes me by the same mail that the thief is undoubtedly a German, and was seen yesterday in Berlin. To-day I received a letter from Clancy, assuring me that Vienna holds the culprit, and that he is an Austrian from Trieste. Now for Heaven’s sake,” I ended, “let me alone and stop writing me letters until you have something to write about.”
The night clerk of the Waldorf had furnished us with our first clue. On the night of my aunt’s death he had seen a tall, grave-faced man, hurriedly leave the hotel. As the man passed the desk, he removed his hat and mopped his forehead, and the night clerk noticed that in the middle of his head there was a patch of hair, as white as snow.
We worked this clue for all it was worth, and, a month later, I received a cable dispatch from Paris, saying that a man, answering to the description of the Waldorf suspect, had offered an enormous crimson diamond for sale to a jeweller in the Palais Royal. Unfortunately the fellow took fright and disappeared before the jeweller could send for the police, and since that time, McFarlane in London, Harrison in Paris, Dennet in Berlin, and Clancy in Vienna, had been chasing men with white patches on their hair until no gray-headed patriarch in Europe was free from suspicion. I myself had sleuthed it through England, France, Holland and Belgium, and now I found myself in Antwerp at the Hotel St. Antoine without a clue that promised anything except another outrage on some respectable white-haired citizen. The case seemed hopeless enough, unless the thief tried again to sell the gem. Here was our only hope, for, unless he cut the stone into smaller ones, he had no more chance of selling it than he would have had if he had stolen the Venus of Milo and peddled her about the rue de Seine. Even were he to cut up the stone, no respectable gem collector or jeweller would buy a crimson diamond without first notifying me; for although a few red stones are known to collectors, the colour of the Crimson Diamond was absolutely unique, and there was little probability of an honest mistake.
Thinking of all these things I sat sipping my Rhine wine in the shadow of the yellow awnings. A large white cat came sauntering by and stopped in front of me to perform her toilet until I wished she would go away. After a while she sat up, licked her whiskers, yawned once or twice, and was about to stroll on, when, catching sight of me, she stopped short and looked me squarely in the face. I returned the attention with a scowl because I wished to discourage any advances towards social intercourse which she might contemplate; but after a while her steady gaze disconcerted me, and I turned to my Rhine wine. A few minutes later I looked up again. The cat was still eyeing me.
“Now what the devil is the matter with the animal,” I muttered, “does she recognize in me a relative?”
“Perhaps,” observed a man at the next table.
“What do you mean by that?” I demanded.
“What I say,” replied the man at the next table.
I looked him full in the face. He was old and bald and appeared weak-minded. His age protected his impudence. I turned my back on him. Then my eyes fell on the cat again. She was still gazing earnestly at me.
Disgusted that she should take such pointed public notice of me, I wondered whether other people saw it; I wondered whether there was anything peculiar in my own personal appearance. How hard the creature stared. It was most embarrassing.
“What has got into that cat?” I thought.
“It’s sheer impudence. It’s an intrusion, and I won’t stand it!” The cat did not move. I tried to stare her out of countenance. It was useless. There was aggressive inquiry in her yellow eyes. A sensation of uneasiness began to steal over me — a sensation of embarrassment not unmixed with awe. All cats looked alike to me, and yet there was something about this one that bothered me — something that I could not explain to myself, but which began to occupy me.
She looked familiar — this Antwerp cat. An odd sense of having seen her before — of having been well acquainted with her in former years slowly settled in my mind, and, although I could never remember the time when I had not detested cats, I was almost convinced that my relations with this Antwerp tabby had once been intimate if not cordial. I looked more closely at the animal. Then an idea struck me, — an idea which persisted and took definite shape in spite of me. I strove to escape from it, to evade it, to stifle and smother it; an inward struggle ensued which brought the perspiration in beads upon my cheeks, — a struggle short, sharp, decisive. It was useless — useless to try to put it from me, — this idea so wretchedly bizarre, so grotesque and fantastic, so utterly inane, — it was useless to deny that the cat bore a distinct resemblance to my great-aunt!
I gazed at her in horror. What enormous eyes the creature had!
“Blood is thicker than water,” said the man at the next table.
“What does he mean by that?” I muttered, angrily swallowing a tumbler of Rhine wine and seltzer. But I did not turn. What was the use?
“Chattering old imbecile,” I added to myself, and struck a match, for my cigar was out; but as I raised the match to relight it, I encountered the cat’s eyes again. I could not enjoy my cigar with the animal staring at me, but I was justly indignant, and I did not intend to be routed. “The idea! forced to leave for a cat!” I sneered, “we will see who will be the one to go!” I tried to give her a jet of seltzer from the siphon, but the bottle was too nearly empty to carry far. Then I attempted to lure her nearer, calling her in French, German, and English, but she did not stir. I did not know the Flemish for “cat.”
“She’s got a name, and won’t come,” I thought. “Now, what under the sun can I call her?”
“Aunty,” suggested the man at the next table.
I sat perfectly still. Could that man have answered my thoughts? — for I had not spoken aloud. Of course not — it was a coincidence, — but a very disgusting one.
“Aunty,” I repeated mechanically, “aunty, aunty — good gracious, how horribly human that cat looks!” Then somehow or other, Shakespeare’s words crept into my head and I found myself repeating: “the soul of his grandam might happily inhabit a bird; the soul of his grandam might happily inhabit a bird; the soul of — nonsense!” I growled— “it isn’t printed correctly! One might possibly say, speaking in poetical metaphor, that the soul of a bird might happily inhabit one’s grandam—” I stopped short, flushing painfully. “What awful rot!” I murmured, and lighted another cigar. The cat was still staring; the cigar went out. I grew more and more nervous. “What rot!” I repeated. “Pythagoras must have been an ass, but I do believe that there are plenty of asses alive to-day who swallow that sort of thing.”
“Who knows,” sighed the man at the next table, and I sprang to my feet and wheeled about. But I only caught a glimpse of a pair of frayed coat-tails and a bald head vanishing into the dining-room. I sat down again, thoroughly indignant. A moment later the cat got up and went away.
II.
DAYLIGHT was fading in the city of Antwerp. Down into the sea sank the sun, tinting the vast horizon with flakes of crimson, and touching with rich deep undertones the tossing waters of the Scheldt. Its glow fell like a rosy mantle over red-tiled roofs and meadows; and through the haze the spires of twenty churches pierced the air like sharp, gilded flames. To the west and south the green plains, over which the Spanish armies tramped so long ago, stretched away until they met the sky; the enchantment of the afterglow had turned old Antwerp into fairyland; and sea and sky and plain were beautiful and vague as the night mists floating in the moats below.
Along the sea-wall from the Rubens Gate, all Antwerp strolled, and chattered, and flirted and sipped their Flemish wines from slender Flemish glasses or gossiped over krugs of foaming beer.
From the Scheldt came the cries of sailors, the creaking of cordage, and the puff! puff! of the ferry-boats. On the bastions of the fortress opposite a bugler was standing. Twice the mellow notes of the bugle came faintly over the water, then a great gun thundered from the ramparts, and the Belgian flag fluttered along the lanyards to the ground.
I leaned listlessly on the sea-wall and looked down at the Scheldt below. A battery of artillery was embarking for the fortress. The tublike transport lay hissing and whistling in the slip, and the stamping of horses, the rumbling of gun and caisson, and the sharp cries of the officers came plainly to the ear.
When the last caisson was aboard and stowed, and the last trooper had sprung jingling to the deck, the transport puffed out into the Scheldt, and I turned away through the throng of promenaders, and found a little table on the terrace, just outside of the pretty café. And as I sat down, I became aware of a girl at the next table — a girl all in white — the most ravishingly and distractingly pretty girl that I had ever seen. In the agitation of the moment I forgot that I was a woman-hater, I forgot my name, my fortune, my aunt, and the Crimson Diamond — all these I forgot in a purely human impulse to see clearly; and to that end I removed my monocle from my left eye. Some moments later I came to myself and feebly replaced it. It was too late; the mischief was done. I was not aware at first of the exact state of my feelings, — for I had never before been in love — but I did know that at her request I would have been proud to stand on my head, or turn a flip-flap into the Scheldt.
I did not stare at her, but I managed to see her most of the time when her eyes were in another direction. I found myself drinking something which a waiter brought presumably upon an order which I did not remember having given. Later I noticed that it was a loathsome drink which the Belgians call “American Grog,” but I swallowed it and lighted a cigarette. As the fragrant cloud rose in the air, a voice, which I recognized with a chill, broke into my dream of enchantment. Could he have been there all the while, — there sitting beside that vision in white? His hat was off, and the ocean breezes whispered about his bald head. His frayed coat-tails were folded carefully over his knees, and between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand he balanced a bad cigar. He looked at me in a mildly cheerful way, and said, “I know now.”
“Know what?” I asked, thinking it better to humour him, for I was convinced that he was mad.
“I know why cats bite.”
This was startling. I hadn’t the vaguest idea what to say.
“I know why,” he repeated; “can you guess why?” There was a covert tone of triumph in his voice and he smiled encouragement. “Come, try and guess,” he urged.
I was uneasy, but I told him with stiff civility that I was unequal to problems.
“Listen, young man,” he continued, folding his coat-tails closely about his legs— “try to reason it out; why should cats bite? Don’t you know? I do.”
He looked at me anxiously.
“You take no interest in this problem?” he demanded.
“Oh, yes.”
“Then why do you not ask me why?” he said, looking vaguely disappointed.
“Well,” I said in desperation, “why do cats bite? — hang it all!” I thought, “it’s like a burnt-cork show, and I’m Mr. Bones and he’s Tambo!”
Then he smiled gently. “Young man,” he said, “cats bite because they feed on cat-nip. I have reasoned it out.”
I stared at him in blank astonishment. Was this benevolent looking old party poking fun at me? Was he paying me up for the morning’s snub? Was he a malignant and revengeful old party, or was he merely feeble-minded? Who might he be? What was he doing here in Antwerp — what was he doing now! — for the bald one had turned familiarly to the beautiful girl in white.
“Elsie,” he said, “do you feel chilly?” The girl shook her head.
“Not in the least, papa.”
“Good Lord!” I thought— “her father!”
“I have been to the Zoo to-day,” announced the bald one, turning toward me.
“Ah, indeed,” I observed,—” er — I trust you enjoyed it.”
“I have been contemplating the apes,” he continued, dreamily. “Yes, contemplating the apes.”
I said nothing, but tried to look interested.
“Yes, the apes,” he murmured, fixing his mild eyes on me. Then he leaned toward me confidentially and whispered; “can you tell me what a monkey thinks?”
“I can not,” I replied, sharply.
“Ah,” he sighed, sinking back in his chair, and patting the slender hand of the girl beside him, “ah, who can tell what a monkey thinks?” His gentle face lulled my suspicions, and I replied very gravely; “who can tell whether they think at all?”
“True, true! Who can tell whether they think at all; and if they do think, ah! who can tell what they think?”
“But,” I began, “if you can’t tell whether they think at all, what’s the use of trying to conjecture what they would think if they did think?”
He raised his hand in deprecation. “Ah, it is exactly that which is of such absorbing interest, exactly that! It is the abstruseness of the proposition which stimulates research — which stirs profoundly the brain of the thinking world. The question is of vital and instant importance. Possibly you have already formed an opinion.”
I admitted that I had thought but little on the subject.
“I doubt,” he continued, swathing his knees in his coat-tails,—” I doubt whether you have given much attention to the subject lately discussed by the Boston Dodo Society of Pythagorean Research.”
“I am not sure,” I said politely, “that I recall that particular discussion. May I ask what was the question brought up?”
“The Felis Domesticus question.”
“Ah, that must indeed be interesting! And — er — what may be the Felis Do — do—”
“Domesticus — not Dodo. Felis Domesticus, the common or garden cat.”
“Indeed,” I murmured.
“You are not listening,” he said.
I only half heard him; I could not turn my eyes from her face.
“Cat!” shouted the bald one, and I almost leaped from my chair. “Are you deaf?” he inquired, sympathetically.
“No — oh no!” I replied, colouring with confusion; “you were — pardon me — you were — er — speaking of the Dodo. Extraordinary bird that—”
“I was not discussing the Dodo,” he sighed— “I was speaking of cats.”
“Of course,” I said.
“The question is,” he continued, twisting his frayed coat-tails into a sort of rope— “the question is, how are we to ameliorate the present condition and social status of our domestic cats —— —”
“Feed ‘em,” I suggested.
He raised both hands. They were eloquent with patient expostulation. “I mean their spiritual condition,” he said.
I nodded, but my eyes reverted to that exquisite face. She sat silent, her eyes fixed on the waning flecks of colour in the western sky.
“Yes,” repeated the bald one, “the spiritual welfare of our domestic cats—”
“Toms and Tabbies?” I murmured.
“Exactly,” he said, tying a large knot in his coat-tails.
“You will ruin your coat,” I observed.
“Papa!” exclaimed the girl, turning in dismay, as that gentleman gave a guilty start, “stop it at once!”
He smiled apologetically and made a feeble attempt to conceal his coat-tails.
“My dear,” he said, with gentle deprecation, “I am so absent-minded — I always do it in the heat of argument.”
The girl rose, and, bending over her untidy parent, deftly untied the knot in his flapping coat. When he was disentangled, she sat down and said, with a ghost of a smile; “he is so very absent-minded.”
“Your father is evidently a great student,” I said, pleasantly. How I pitied her, tied to this lunatic!
“Yes, he is a great student,” she said, quietly.
“I am,” he murmured, “that’s what makes me so absent-minded. I often go to bed and forget to sleep.” Then looking at me he asked me my name, adding, with a bow, that his name was P. Royal Wyeth, Professor of Pythagorean Research and Abstruse Paradox.
“My first name is Penny — named after Professor Penny of Harvard,” he said, “but I seldom use my first name in connection with my second, as the combination suggests a household remedy of penetrating odour.”
“My name is Kensett,” I said, “Harold Kensett of New York.”
“Student?”
“Er — a little—”
