Chapter XII: Colleagues Confer

Armourer had just emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a long towel, when Trevor put his head round the door.

“Battiscombe’s here.”

The magistrate sat down heavily on the bed.

“The devil he is!--That makes six to dinner!--I wonder how the grub’ll spin out!”

Trevor came right in and closed the door after him.

“He hasn’t been home since lunch. Says he had an urgent message to meet the Commissioner at Ketatan. We thought you’d better tell him about Mrs. Battiscombe.”

Armourer rubbed a damp spot on his leg with a corner of the towel.

“Oh, all right. Send him in here--Oh, just a minute, Trevor. We might as well let him down as lightly as we can. Tell Vance the yarn is that Mrs. B. was picked up in the trees on your estate--better say _near_ your estate--and that you brought her here, as you’d heard there was an English girl staying with me. I’ll fit in poor Dick’s affair as best I can.”

The assistant rubbed the back of his head.

“He’s bound to find out in the long run.”

“It’s just possible he will; but we don’t want to risk his going off the deep end at the moment. It won’t suit my purpose to have him worrying about his wife and poor Dick. I want him to concentrate on the Crimson Butterfly business.”

“All right.”

He was about to go in search of Battiscombe, when the huge form of the magistrate from Rembakut filled the doorway.

“Hullo, Trevor! You here, too? Quite a considerable gathering.”

Trevor laughed weakly.

“I’m just off to tell Armourer’s _boy_ that there’ll be another to _makan_. See you later.”

The door closed.

Armourer passed over the cigarette tin and indicated a chair with his bare foot.

“Well, Jim! You think me a howling outsider, don’t you?”

Battiscombe frowned and then laughed.

“Oh, you’re thinking of last night! I thought quite a lot of things then, but fortunately for everybody concerned I’ve reconsidered them. We’ll forget that, if you don’t mind.”

The younger man looked at his toes.

“Thanks. I was afraid you’d want me to explain--and there isn’t any explanation. I was just a damn’ fool, that’s all there is to it.” He struck a match and held it out to the other. “The awkward thing is that Mrs. Battiscombe’s here now--ill.”

“What!”

The match flickered out and Battiscombe stared round the room as if expecting--in a world of fresh surprises--to find his wife secreted somewhere within those four walls.

“Yes, old son. Trevor found her and brought her over. Miss Standen happened to be staying here with her father, and she very kindly consented to nurse her. We sent for you immediately.”

“I haven’t been back. Is she bad?”

“Just a touch of fever. I don’t think there’s the slightest cause for alarm. Luckily we have a doctor in the house--Miss Standen’s father--and he’ll pull her through all right. She mustn’t be moved just yet.”

Battiscombe came slowly to his feet.

“She would ride out in the heat of the day,” he muttered. “I’d better go and see her.”

“I shouldn’t, if I were you. It might upset her.”

The other groaned.

“She must have had it coming on last night. I found her walking in her sleep. When d’you think I’ll be able to see her?”

“We’ll talk to Standen about that in a minute. All you’ve got to do is to sit down quietly and try not to get rattled. After all, everybody out here gets fever sooner or later.”

Battiscombe flopped down again and the chair creaked ominously beneath his weight.

“What’s Vance doing here?”

“I was just going to tell you. Vance and I have been having a pretty tough afternoon. Dick Moberly pegged out just about lunch-time.”

Battiscombe stared at him in blank amazement.

“Pegged out!--Died, you mean?”

Armourer nodded.

“I’m afraid so. Macnally was away at the time and Professor Standen acted for him. It appears he was poisoned by some bug or other, apparently while he was dozing in his chair after the morning’s work. Standen’s an authority on poisons and I’m going to persuade the Commissioner to get him to investigate the matter officially.”

“Sure it wasn’t snake-bite?”

“I don’t think so. It’s a most peculiar case. Everything seems to point to his being stung by a thing that looked like a red butterfly, but, as Standen puts it, was charged with poison-cells from wing-tip to wing-tip. You’ve been out here longer than most of us. I was wondering if you could help us.”

Battiscombe shook his head.

“Butterflies don’t sting,” he insisted.

“That’s one of the queer points about it. Dick had a great crimson patch right across one cheek--exactly like a butterfly.”

“A native _ju-ju_,” suggested the other.

Armourer flicked the ash from his cigarette.

“Vance thinks that now; but _ju-ju_--or their Bornese equivalent--belong to the realm of fairy-tales.”

Battiscombe moved awkwardly in his chair.

“Afraid I really don’t know enough about ’em to express an opinion. A fellow I knew once believed in ’em though--and he’d explored the jungle from end to end. A queer, long chap named Russell. You won’t remember him, I expect; he was a trifle before your time. So Dick’s dead! Doesn’t seem possible, does it?”

“No. It’s a ghastly business, and it’s hit Vance pretty hard. He thought no end of Dick. Er--this _ju-ju_, butterfly, or whatever you like to call it, that caused the trouble was crimson--a crimson butterfly. Does that help at all? Have you ever heard of a native religion that employed one as its symbol?”

He observed the other keenly.

Battiscombe’s great head swung to and fro like a pendulum.

“Never,” he declared, and then frowned heavily. “A crimson butterfly! D’you mean a live butterfly--or something resembling one?”

Armourer grabbed up a pile of underclothes and began scrambling into them.

“Either.”

“I’ve never encountered any cult in which a butterfly bore the slightest significance, but I saw a crimson butterfly on a chain last night. Vera had it and, between ourselves, I made her send it back to Dick.”

“Oh, yes? Dick gave it her?”

“Apparently. It was a pretty thing, with emeralds for eyes. There was something uncanny about it, now you remind me, and for some reason or other I didn’t care about holding it too long.”

“Where did he dig it up?”

“In a bazaar in Colombo or Singapore. Vera didn’t appear certain about it. By Jove, Michael! Dick would have got that this morning!”

“He did,” said Armourer, his head coming out of the top of his vest at that moment; “it was on his table when we discovered him. Queer, wasn’t it?”

“Hell!” remarked the larger man. “I don’t like the look of this. Do I understand you to say that Dick had a mark on him like that butterfly?”

“We all noticed the resemblance.”

“All! What d’you mean by all?”

“Professor Standen, Vance and myself--and Trevor when he came along after accompanying your wife here.”

Battiscombe got up and paced the room for some seconds, a performance which seemed to stimulate his reasoning faculties.

“Moberly dead--and Vera sick! Where did young Trevor pick her up?”

Armourer was brushing his hair vigorously and did not turn his head.

“I don’t know exactly.”

Battiscombe caught his shoulders and forced him round.

“I’m not quite such a blithering idiot as you people persist in imagining. Tell us the whole truth, Michael.”

“Good Lord, man! I’m telling you it as fast as I can.”

The other held his head on one side and screwed up his eyes.

“There’s a conspiracy going on somewhere. I can smell it. Trevor looked as guilty as a schoolboy caught stealing apples. Vance kept hopping first on one foot and then on the other--and I couldn’t get an ounce of sense out of him. You found Vera at Dick’s place, didn’t you? She was just itching to ride over and explain exactly why she returned those confounded trinkets. I’ll wager a thousand dollars with anybody that she hopped into riding kit as soon as I’d left the house. I can see through your little game, Michael, and I admire you all the more for it. You didn’t want my feelings to be hurt. But they’ve been hurt a good deal lately, and one more kick won’t make much odds.” A sudden thought struck him. “She didn’t make a fool of herself and--and shoot him?”

For the first time Armourer laughed.

“Nothing of that sort, old son. You can make your mind quite easy about that.” He regarded his friend steadily. “The story of Dick’s death was a true bill right enough. The mark was on his face and that extraordinary pendant was on the table; but Mrs. Battiscombe didn’t show up until Vance had fetched me. She fainted soon after the awful truth dawned on her and she’s been pretty queer ever since. I’ve still another kick for these poor old feelings of yours, Jim! She seemed to know Dick was going to be killed and that the Crimson Butterfly would have something to do with it.”

“You don’t mean that?”

“I do, Jim. That’s the real reason why I told Trevor to bring her here. I thought that, in her delirium, she might say something that would give us a clue. Listen: Professor Standen saw the insect that might have caused Dick’s death; he chased it almost up to his bungalow this morning. It was a horrible-looking thing, as far as I could make out. He described it rather graphically as a piece of raw meat that had grown legs and antennæ.”

“When was this?”

“Somewhere between noon and lunch. The tragedy must have happened shortly after.”

Battiscombe was tapping his thumb-nail on his teeth.

“Now that’s really extraordinary!”

“What makes you say that?”

“Why, Hoon-Kit came to me with a yarn that Vera had been scared to death by a huge red butterfly that flew on to the verandah and off again. This would have been before your friend saw it, because I came up from the court-house with my usual abnormal thirst at ten minutes to twelve. Vera was in her room when Hoon-Kit trotted the beer along. He murmured something to the effect that the _mem_ was afraid of red butterflies. It was such a fat-headed sort of remark to make that I made him explain himself. What d’you make of _that_?”

“It’s positively uncanny. It’s almost as if the butterfly and its image were connected somehow. Nobody had ever seen the ornament before except, perhaps, Mrs. Battiscombe. As far as we are concerned, it first showed up at your place and then went, almost immediately after, to Moberly’s. Bang on top of this comes the actual butterfly. It floats in at Rembakut, following the trail of the pendant, and, finding it gone, flies across to Dick’s house--and kills the person found in possession of it. Sounds tolerably good nonsense, doesn’t it? But that’s precisely how a superstitious person might be expected to look at it.”

“You’ve a nasty mind, Michael!” declared Battiscombe, and his large frame shuddered.

“But,” persisted the other, “there is a lot more in this than meets the eye. Leaving the pendant out of the question altogether, there’s one great outstanding feature that raises the affair from one of simple insect-bite. While we were on our way here, some person unknown raided Dick’s bungalow and in some mysterious manner erased the mark from his face. If we could discover who that was, we should be a deal nearer the solution.”

Battiscombe shook himself.

“Hurry up with your dressing, for the love of Mike! I’m beginning to want a good stiff tot! Your harrowing narrative has almost made me forget that you and I have got to arrest Mr. Abu-Samar. That’s why the Commissioner was in such a blinking hurry to see me.”

“Arrest Abu-Samar. Whatever for?”

“For being an impostor, incendiary, and the Lord knows what. He’s wanted in Sarawak, Sumatra, the Federated Malay States--and possibly in Timbuctu! Wherever he goes he stirs up trouble--and trouble is the last thing we want here.”

Armourer grinned.

“As far as I can see, we’ve quite enough to go on with, as it is. Arrest Abu-Samar, eh? That’s about the last thing I expected.”

“And I kicked him out of the court-house yesterday for suggesting I should put him up for membership of the club! If I’d known then what I do now--it’d have saved an ocean of trouble!”

Armourer whistled.

“You kicked Abu-Samar, did you? Well, Jim, all I can say is--you must have had intense provocation!”

“I did,” returned Battiscombe. “Now, what about that drink?”