Part 39 (1/2)
Colin Camber looked very hard at the speaker, and then equally hard at me.
”Was it at behest of Colonel Menendez that you called upon me, Mr.
Knox?”
”It was not,” said Harley, tersely; ”it was at mine. And he is here now at my request. Come, sir, we are wasting time. At any moment-”
Colin Camber held up his hand, interrupting him.
”By your leave, Mr. Harley,” he said, and there was something compelling in voice and gesture, ”I must first perform my duty as a gentleman.”
He stepped forward in my direction.
”Mr. Knox, I have grossly insulted you. Yet if you knew what had inspired my behaviour I believe you could find it in your heart to forgive me. I do not ask you to do so, however; I accept the humiliation of knowing that I have mortally offended a guest.”
He bowed to me formally, and would have returned to his seat, but:
”Pray say no more,” I said, standing up and extending my hand. Indeed, so impressive was the man's strange personality that I felt rather as one receiving a royal pardon than as an offended party being offered an apology. ”It was a misunderstanding. Let us forget it.”
His eyes gleamed, and he seized my hand in a warm grip.
”You are generous, Mr. Knox, you are generous. And now, sir,” he inclined his head in Paul Harley's direction, and resumed his seat.
Harley had suffered this odd little interlude in silence but now:
”Mr. Camber,” he said, rapidly, ”I sent you a message by your Chinese servant to the effect that the police would be here within ten minutes to arrest you.”
”You did, sir,” replied Colin Camber, drawing toward him a piece of newspaper upon which rested a dwindling mound of s.h.a.g. ”This is most disturbing, of course. But since I have not rendered myself amenable to the law, it leaves me moderately unmoved. Upon your second point, Mr. Harley, I shall beg you, to enlarge. You tell me that Don Juan Menendez is dead?”
He had begun to fill his corn-cob as he spoke the words, but from where I sat I could just see his face, so that although his voice was well controlled, the gleam in his eyes was unmistakable.
”He was shot through the head shortly after midnight.”
”What?”
Colin Camber dropped the corn-cob and stood up again, the light of a dawning comprehension in his eyes.
”Do you mean that he was murdered?”
”I do.”
”Good G.o.d,” whispered Camber, ”at last I understand.”
”That is why we are here, Mr. Camber, and that is why the police will be here at any moment.”
Colin Camber stood erect, one hand resting upon the desk.
”So this was the meaning of the shot which we heard in the night,” he said, slowly.
Crossing the room, he closed and locked the study door, then, returning, he sat down once more, entirely, master of himself. Frowning slightly he looked from Harley in my direction, and then back again at Harley.