“Who’s there?”
He went out of the porch and looked up. Sir Gregory Penne did not recognize him in the darkness, and called again:
“Who’s there?” and followed this with a phrase which Michael guessed was Malayan.
“It is I, Michael Brixan. I want to see you, Penne.”
“What do you want?”
“Come down and I will tell you.”
“I’ve gone to bed for the night. See me in the morning.”
“I’ll see you now,” said Michael firmly. “I have a warrant to search this house.”
He had no such warrant, but only because he had not asked for one.
The man’s head was hastily withdrawn, the window slammed down, and such a long interval passed that Michael thought that the baronet intended denying him admission. This view, however, was wrong. At the end of a dreary period of waiting the door was opened, and, in the light of the hall lamp, Sir Gregory Penne presented an extraordinary appearance.
He was fully dressed: around his waist were belted two heavy revolvers, but this fact Michael did not immediately notice. The man’s head was swathed in bandages; only one eye was visible; his left arm was stiff with a surgical dressing, and he limped as he walked.
“I’ve had an accident,” he said gruffly.
“It looks a pretty bad one,” said Michael, observing him narrowly.
“I don’t want to talk here: come into my room,” growled the man.
In Sir Gregory’s library there were signs of a struggle. A long mirror which hung on one of the walls was shattered to pieces; and, looking up, Michael saw that one of the two swords was missing.
“You’ve lost something,” he said. “Did that occur in course of the ‘accident’?”
Sir Gregory nodded.
Something in the hang of the second sword attracted Michael’s attention, and, without asking permission, he lifted it down from its hook and drew the blade from the scabbard. It was brown with blood.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked sternly.
Sir Gregory swallowed something.
“A fellow broke into the house last night,” he said slowly, “a Malayan fellow. He had some cock and bull story about my having carried off his wife. He attacked me, and naturally I defended myself.”
“And had you carried off his wife?” asked Michael.
The baronet shrugged.
“The idea is absurd. Most of these Borneo folk are mad, and they’ll run amok on the slightest provocation. I did my best to pacify him—”
Michael looked at the stained sword.
“So I see,” he said dryly. “And did you—pacify him?”
“I defended myself, if that’s what you mean. I returned him almost as good as he gave. You don’t expect me to sit down and be murdered in my own house, do you? I can use a sword as well as any man.”
“And apparently you used it,” said Michael. “What happened to Foss?”
Not a muscle of Penne’s face moved.
“Whom do you mean?”
“I mean Lawley Foss, who was in your house last night.”
“You mean the scenario writer? I haven’t seen him for weeks.”
“You’re a liar,” said Michael calmly. “He was in here last night. I can assure you on this point, because I was in the next room.”
“Oh, it was you, was it?” said the baronet, and seemed relieved. “Yes, he came to borrow money. I let him have fifty pounds, and he went away, and that’s the last I saw of him.”
Michael looked at the sword again.
“Would you be surprised to learn that Foss’s head has been picked up on Chobham Common?” he asked.
The other turned a pair of cold, searching eyes upon his interrogator.
“I should be very much surprised,” he said coolly. “If necessary, I have a witness to prove that Foss went, though I don’t like bringing in a lady’s name. Miss Stella Mendoza was here, having a bit of supper, as you probably know, if it was you in the next room. He left before she did.”
“And he returned,” said Michael.
“I never saw him again, I tell you,” said the baronet violently. “If you can find anybody who saw him come into this house after his first visit you can arrest me. Do you think I killed him?”
Michael did not answer.
“There was a woman upstairs in the tower. What has become of her?”
The other wetted his lips before he replied.
“The only woman in the tower was a sick servant: she has gone.”
“I’d like to see for myself,” said Michael.
Only for a second did the man cast his eyes in the direction of Bhag’s den, and then:
“All right,” he said. “Follow me.”
He went out into the corridor and turned, not toward the hall but in the opposite direction. Ten paces farther down he stopped and opened a door, so cunningly set in the panelling, and so placed between the two shaded lights that illuminated the corridor, that it was difficult to detect its presence. He put in his hand, turned on a light, and Michael saw a long flight of stairs leading back toward the hall.
As he followed the baronet, he realized that the “tower” was something of an illusion. It was only a tower if viewed from the front of the house. Otherwise it was an additional two narrow storeys built on one wing of the building.
They passed through a door, up a circular staircase, and came to the corridor where Michael had seen Bhag squatting on the previous night.
“This is the room,” said Penne, opening a door.
XXIV
The Marks of the Beast
“On the contrary, it is not the room,” said Michael quietly. “The room is at the end of the passage.”
The man hesitated.
“Can’t you believe me?” he asked in an almost affable tone of voice. “What a sceptical chap you are! Now come, Brixan! I don’t want to
