She Was Evil

Chapter One-2

“Imagine a person, tall, lean and feline, high-shouldered, with a brow like Shakespeare and a face like Satan, a close-shaven skull and long magnetic eyes of the true cat green. Invest him with all the cruel cunning of an entire Eastern race accumulated in one giant intellect and with all the resources of science, past and present. Then you have a mental picture of Dr. Chao-Zhang, the ‘Yellow Peril’ incarnate in one man.”

This visit of Elise Danton had undeniably brought back many unpleasant memories, for her as well as me, as she had played her own part in the drama of two years ago.

“I should like to see Bernard again,” she said suddenly.

I could take no issue with her - on that subject at least.

“It seems a pity that a man of his quality should be buried in Burma, doctor. It is the kind of place capable of making a mess of the best of men.”

Her eyes were serious.

“I take it he remains unmarried still?”

“To the best of my knowledge – as far as that goes at this point in time. When last we spoke he assured me he was never likely to be… attached… in such a way either.”

“And, of course,” he supplied you with no reason for his intention.”

“You know Estephe equally as well as me, Madame Dant… Elise. He is not the kind of man to talk much of such things.”

“That is no more than the simple truth, doctor. And, as he may well have told you when describing me, I can be quite tight-lipped myself on those rare occasions when discretion requires. But…”

“But, what?” I pressed with more than a little impatience when she hesitated.

“The thing is… I have a correspondent from my time in the interior of China, and…”

“And?” I echoed, impatience receding in the face of a certain… anticipation.

“Well, I would not desire to raise vain hopes nor to occasion, shall I say, empty fears; but…”

Again she hesitated and looked almost girlish in doing so.

“No. It was wrong of me to open this conversation. Perhaps, when I know more we will speak again, but for now let us...”

The bell introducing the phone rang and I could see she welcomed the interruption as I answered it.

“Is that Dr. Edgar Corliss?” inquired a woman’s voice.

“Yes; who is speaking?”

“Madame Deschamps has been taken suddenly ill. I know the hour is late, but could you come at once?”

“Certainly,” I replied, for Mrs. Deschamps was not only a profitable patient but an estimable lady. “I shall be with you within the half-hour hour.”

I hung up the receiver and checking my timepiece saw that it had just passed one in the morning.

“Something urgent?” asked Elise Danton, draining her Pastis.

“Sounds like it. A patient. Fortunately, it is no more than a short stroll across the Bois from here. We had best hail you a taxi downstairs.”

“I should much prefer to walk over with you, if it would not be intruding. Our conversation has ill prepared me for sleep.”

I nodded my acquiescence, wondering as I did so why it was I welcomed the prospect of her company.

Three minutes later, me armed with my trusty valise and she with what I thought a somewhat possessive arm through mine, we were striding across the deserted bois towards its north-east tip and the residences to be found there. Unlike the still populated streets it was empty as well as moody. A thin mist intermingled with the foliage of the trees, and beneath the moonlight gave the impression of some diaphanous shroud put in place to protect the greenery from the elements.

Striking out for the north side, we walked in silence at the side of Lac Daumesnil; the Isle de Reuilly, with its Temple d’Amour and an artificial grotto, faintly visible at its middle.

It struck me that the presence of Elise Danton and the irritating recollection of her half-confidence were the responsible factors, but my mind persistently dwelt upon the subject of Chao-Zhang and the atrocities he had committed during his sojourn in England. In fact, so actively was my imagination at work that I felt again the menace which so long had hung over me. A menace that still cast its murderous and barbarous yellow cloud over my beloved England and would until final proof of the evil doctor’s passing from this mortal coil was proved beyond any reasonable doubt.

I also found myself longing for the reassuring company of Estephe Bernard and, though I cannot state with true accuracy the nature of Elise Danton’s silent and concentrated thoughts, I felt the headstrong and imperious woman at my side was thinking along the same lines.

Though whether those two aforementioned qualities would have allowed her to confess as much was another matter.

It was only with a conscious effort that I shook myself out of this morbidly reflective mood, that and upon finding we had crossed the forest and were arrived at the abode of my patient.

“I shall take a little walk,” she announced, impervious to my look of concern that a woman should be alone at such a time of night – even a woman of her fortitude and in such an affluent and respectable area.

Then, a little to my irritation, and as if she had somehow been appointed my protector:

“I shall, of course, never be out of sight of the door.”

With a nod to hide my vexation, though I knew she meant well, and knowing that no words on my part would prevail upon her to change her mind and enter with me, I simply climbed the steps to a rather imposing front-door.

There were no lights to be seen in any of the windows, which circumstance rather surprised me, as my patient occupied, or had occupied when last I had visited her, a first-floor bedroom in the front of the house.

My knocking and ringing produced no response for three or four minutes; then, as I persisted, a scantily clothed and half-awake maid-servant unbarred the door and stared at me stupidly in the moonlight.

“Madame Deschamps requires me?” I asked abruptly.

The girl stared more stupidly than ever.

“No, monsieur,” she said: “she does not, monsieur; she is fast asleep!”

“But someone phoned me!” I insisted, but with growing irritation, I fear. My French, without being swollen-headed, was excellent and I knew we were not having a simple communication problem.

“Not from here, monsieur,” declared the now wide-eyed girl. “We do not have a telephone.”

For a few moments I stood there, staring as foolishly as she for my having forgotten that rather telling fact; then abruptly I turned and descended the steps. At the gate I stood looking up and down the road. The houses were all in darkness.

So what could be the meaning of the nocturnal summons?

I had made no mistake respecting the name of my patient; that was for sure. It had been twice repeated over the telephone and my hearing is as near to perfect as it can be. Yet that the call had not emanated from Madame Deschamps’ house was now palpably evident.

Given my recent history, it would have been only natural for me to regard the episode as a prelude to some physical or medical outrage or some such, but tonight I felt more disposed to ascribe it to a silly practical joke.

I heard the clack of female heels upon pavement and Elise Danton walked up briskly.

“You are in demand to-night, doctor,” she said. “A young person called for you almost directly you had left your house, and, learning where you were gone, followed you.”

“Indeed!” I said, a trifle incredulously, hackles rising. “There are plenty of other doctors if the case is an urgent one.”

“I have just spoken with her and it appears she thought it would save time as you were actually up and dressed,” she explained, pointing to an indeterminate area behind her. “The house is quite near to here, I understand. Number 22 Rue Fontaine.”

Familiar with the general area of the address, I nonetheless looked at her a little condescendingly for what I took to be her gullibility.

This had all the hallmarks of yet another prank by our as yet unknown jester.

“I have been fooled once,” I said. “That first ‘phone call was a hoax.”

“Be that as it may,” she declared, unperturbed. “But the poor girl who approached me was either dreadfully agitated or a wonderful actress. Her employer has broken his leg and is lying helpless.”

The address she gave me was one with which I was already familiar in general terms.

“Where is the girl?” I asked sharply.

“She ran back directly she had given me her message.”

“Was she a servant?”

“I should imagine so: Spanish, I think – at least from her accented French. But she was so wrapped up I had little more than a glimpse of her.”

I allowed myself a deep and put upon sigh.

“Edgar, I am sorry to hear that someone has played a silly joke on you, but believe me this is no jest. The poor girl could scarcely speak for sobs when she asked if I knew your exact whereabouts.”

With another sigh I agreed to go, though not until I had explained that the splints and so forth that I would need were back at home.

“You may leave that to me,” said Elise Danton, thoroughly unperturbed at the prospect of being unaccompanied at such a time of night. “You can, no doubt, do something to alleviate the poor man’s suffering immediately while I will head back to your rooms and re-join you at the address given.”

“But Madame – Elise – I do not…”

She held up her gloved hand.

“The call of suffering humanity, Edgar, is one which I may no more refuse to hear than you.”

I made no further protest after that, for her decision was made and I knew her at least well enough to know that once her mind had been made neither hell nor high water would deter her from the course she had chosen.

Not seconds later, she had been entrusted with my keys, informed where to find my surgical bag, and headed back into the forest in a westerly direction while I made my way to the east.

Some three hundred yards I had gone, I suppose, and my brain had been very active during that small progress, when something occurred to me which placed a new complexion upon this second summons.

I thought of the falsity of the first call for help, of the improbability of even the most hardened practical joker practising his wiles at one o’clock in the morning.

I also thought of our recent conversation and, above all, I thought of the girl who had delivered the message to Elise Danton, the girl whom she had described as a French-speaking but Spanish-looking maid.

A maid, moreover, whose personal charm had so completely enlisted her sympathies.

Now, to this train of thought came a new one, and, adding it, my suspicion became almost a certainty.

I remembered (as, knowing the district, I should have remembered before) that there was no number 22 Rue Fontaine.

Pulling up sharply, I stood looking about me. Not a living soul was in sight. Not even a gendarme.

Where the lamps marked the main paths through and across the Bois nothing moved, and in the shadows about me nothing stirred.

But something certainly stirred within me.

A warning voice which for long had lain dormant and one I had prayed not to hear again.

Something was afoot.

And the prickling at my chilled neck told me it was not benevolent in its nature.

Laugh if you will, but right at that moment I turned and began to run towards the south-west side of the common after Elise Danton and towards my rooms.

I had hoped to head her off, but came upon no sign of her.

As I approached the building housing my rooms, I saw that my windows were lit and that there was a light in the downstairs hall.

With a sigh of relief for Madame Danton’s safety – and my own you can be sure, my key had not found the lock when my estimable housekeeper opened the door.

“There’s a visitor in your rooms, doctor,” she began.

With a brief smile of gratitude for her diligence at so late an hour I raced up the stairs to my study.

My visitor was not Elise Danton

Standing by the writing-table was a tall thin man, his gaunt face brown as a coffee-berry and his steely grey eyes fixed upon me as my heart gave a great leap and seemed to stand still.

It was Estephe Bernard!

“Bernard!” I cried. “Bernard, old man, by God, I’m glad to see you!”

He wrung my hand hard, looking at me with his searching eyes; but there was little enough of gladness in his face and he was altogether greyer than when last I had seen him.

Greyer and sterner.

And something else I had never thought to observe in considering him.

He looked as if something had been taken from him.

Something important.

Though I refused to believe the evidence of my own senses at the time, my first impression was that he looked… broken.

“Where is Madame Danton?” I asked.

Bernard started back as though I had struck him.

“Elise?” he whispered, expression brightening and then becoming anxious. “Is Elise here?”

“I left her not ten minutes ago on the Bois.”

Bernard’s eyes gleamed wildly.

“My God, Corliss!” he said. “Am I fated always to come too late?”

My dreadful fears in that instant were confirmed. I seemed to feel my legs totter beneath me.

“Bernard, you surely don’t mean…?”

“I do, Corliss!”

Suddenly his voice broke and he sounded very far away.

“Chao-Zhang is here.”

I slumped into a thankfully near wing-back as Bernard continued, eyes moistening with tears yet to be shed:

“And Elise, Lord save her… Elise is his first victim!”