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Fire Tongue

S >> Sax Rohmer >> Fire Tongue



This etext was prepared by Michael Delaney of Laurel, MD.





FIRE-TONGUE

By Sax Rohmer




CONTENTS
I. A CLIENT FOR PAUL HARLEY
II. THE SIXTH SENSE
III. SHADOWS
IV. INTRODUCING MR. NICOL BRINN
V. "THE GATES OF HELL"
VI. PHIL ABINGDON ARRIVES
VII. CONFESSIONS
VIII. A WREATH OF HYACINTHS
IX. TWO REPORTS
X. HIS EXCELLENCY ORMUZ KHAN
XI. THE PURPLE STAIN
XII. THE VEIL IS RAISED
XIII. NICOL BRINN HAS A VISITOR
XIV. WESSEX GETS BUSY
XV. NAIDA
XVI. NICOL BRINN GOES OUT
XVII. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY
XVIII. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY (continued)
XIX. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY (concluded)
XX. CONFLICTING CLUES
XXI. THE SEVENTH KAMA
XXII. FIRE-TONGUE SPEAKS
XXIII. PHIL ABINGDON'S VISITOR
XXIV. THE SCREEN OF GOLD
XXV. AN ENGLISHMAN'S HONOUR
XXVI. THE ORCHID OF SLEEP
XXVII. AT HILLSIDE
XXVIII.THE CHASE
XXIX. THE CATASTROPHE
XXX. NICOL BRINN'S STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE
XXXI. STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE (continued)
XXXII. STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE (continued)
XXXIII.STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE (continued)
XXXIV. NICOL BRINN'S STORY (concluded)






CHAPTER I

A CLIENT FOR PAUL HARLEY

Some of Paul Harley's most interesting cases were brought to his
notice in an almost accidental way. Although he closed his office
in Chancery Lane sharply at the hour of six, the hour of six by
no means marked the end of his business day. His work was
practically ceaseless. But even in times of leisure, at the club
or theatre, fate would sometimes cast in his path the first
slender thread which was ultimately to lead him into some
unsuspected labyrinth, perhaps in the underworld of London,
perhaps in a city of the Far East.

His investigation of the case of the man with the shaven skull
afforded an instance of this, and even more notable was his first
meeting with Major Jack Ragstaff of the Cavalry Club, a meeting
which took place after the office had been closed, but which led
to the unmasking of perhaps the most cunning murderer in the
annals of crime.

One summer's evening when the little clock upon his table was
rapidly approaching the much-desired hour, Harley lay back in his
chair and stared meditatively across his private office in the
direction of a large and very handsome Burmese cabinet, which
seemed strangely out of place amid the filing drawers,
bookshelves, and other usual impedimenta of a professional man. A
peculiarly uninteresting week was drawing to a close, and he was
wondering if this betokened a decreased activity in the higher
criminal circles, or whether it was merely one of those usual
quiescent periods which characterize every form of warfare.

Paul Harley, although the fact was unknown to the general public,
occupied something of the position of an unofficial field marshal
of the forces arrayed against evildoers. Throughout the war he
had undertaken confidential work of the highest importance,
especially in regard to the Near East, with which he was
intimately acquainted. A member of the English bar, and the last
court of appeal to which Home Office and Foreign Office alike
came in troubled times, the brass plate upon the door of his
unassuming premises in Chancery Lane conveyed little or nothing
to the uninitiated.

The man himself, with his tropical bronze and air of eager
vitality, must have told the most careless observer that he stood
in the presence of an extraordinary personality. He was slightly
gray at the temples in these days, but young in mind and body,
physically fit, and possessed of an intellectual keenness which
had forced recognition from two hemispheres. His office was part
of an old city residence, and his chambers adjoined his workroom,
so that now, noting that his table clock registered the hour of
six, he pressed a bell which summoned Innes, his confidential
secretary.

"Well, Innes," said Harley, looking around, "another uneventful
day."

"Very uneventful, Mr. Harley. About a month of this and you will
have to resume practice at the bar."

Paul Harley laughed.

"Not a bit likely, Innes," he replied. "No more briefs for me. I
shall retire to Norfolk and devote my declining years to
fishing."

"I don't know that fishing would entirely satisfy me," said
Innes.

"It would more than satisfy me," returned Harley. "But every man
to his own ambition. Well, there is no occasion to wait; you
might as well get along. But what's that you've got in your
hand?"

"Well," replied Innes, laying a card upon the table, "I was just
coming in with it when you rang."

Paul Harley glanced at the card.

"Sir Charles Abingdon," he read aloud, staring reflectively at
his secretary. "That is the osteologist?"

"Yes," answered Innes, "but I fancy he has retired from
practice."

"Ah," murmured Harley, "I wonder what he wants. I suppose I had
better see him, as I fancy that he and I met casually some years
ago in India. Ask him to come in, will you?"

Innes retiring, there presently entered a distinguished-looking,
elderly gentleman upon whose florid face rested an expression not
unlike that of embarrassment.

"Mr. Harley," he began, "I feel somewhat ill at ease in
encroaching upon your time, for I am by no means sure that my
case comes within your particular province."

"Sit down, Sir Charles," said Harley with quiet geniality.
"Officially, my working day is ended; but if nothing comes of
your visit beyond a chat it will have been very welcome.
Calcutta, was it not, where we last met?"

"It was," replied Sir Charles, placing his hat and cane upon the
table and sitting down rather wearily in a big leather armchair
which Harley had pushed forward. "If I presume upon so slight an
acquaintance, I am sorry, but I must confess that only the fact
of having met you socially encouraged me to make this visit."

He raised his eyes to Harley's face and gazed at him with that
peculiarly searching look which belongs to members of his
profession; but mingled with it was an expression of almost
pathetic appeal, of appeal for understanding, for sympathy of
some kind.

"Go on, Sir Charles," said Harley. He pushed forward a box of
cigars. "Will you smoke?"

"Thanks, no," was the answer.

Sir Charles evidently was oppressed by some secret trouble, thus
Harley mused silently, as, taking out a tin of tobacco from a
cabinet beside him, he began in leisurely manner to load a briar.
In this he desired to convey that he treated the visit as that of
a friend, and also, since business was over, that Sir Charles
might without scruple speak at length and at leisure of whatever
matters had brought him there.

"Very well, then," began the surgeon; "I am painfully conscious
that the facts which I am in a position to lay before you are
very scanty and unsatisfactory."

Paul Harley nodded encouragingly.

"If this were not so," he explained, "you would have no occasion
to apply to me, Sir Charles. It is my business to look for facts.
Naturally, I do not expect my clients to supply them."

Sir Charles slowly nodded his head, and seemed in some measure to
recover confidence.

"Briefly, then," he said, "I believe my life is in danger."

"You mean that there is someone who desires your death?"

"I do."

"H'm," said Harley, replacing the tin in the cupboard and
striking a match. "Even if the facts are scanty, no doubt you
have fairly substantial grounds for such a suspicion?"

"I cannot say that they are substantial, Mr. Harley. They are
rather more circumstantial. Frankly, I have forced myself to come
here, and now that I have intruded upon your privacy, I realize
my difficulties more keenly than ever."

The expression of embarrassment upon the speaker's face had grown
intense; and now he paused, bending forward in his chair. He
seemed in his glance to appeal for patience on the part of his
hearer, and Harley, lighting his pipe, nodded in understanding
fashion. He was the last man in the world to jump to conclusions.
He had learned by bitter experience that lightly to dismiss such
cases as this of Sir Charles as coming within the province of
delusion, was sometimes tantamount to refusing aid to a man in
deadly peril.

"You are naturally anxious for the particulars," Sir Charles
presently resumed. "They bear, I regret to say, a close
resemblance to the symptoms of a well-known form of
hallucination. In short, with one exception, they may practically
all be classed under the head of surveillance."

"Surveillance," said Paul Harley. "You mean that you are more or
less constantly followed?"

"I do."

"And what is your impression of this follower?"

"A very hazy one. To-night, as I came to your office, I have
every reason to believe that someone followed me in a taxicab."

"You came in a car?"

"I did."

"And a cab followed you the whole way?"

"Practically the whole way, except that as my chauffeur turned
into Chancery Lane, the cab stopped at the corner of Fleet
Street."

"Your idea is that your pursuer followed on foot from this
point?"

"Such was my impression."

"H'm, quite impossible. And is this sort of thing constant, Sir
Charles?"

"It has been for some time past."

"Anything else?"

"One very notable thing, Mr. Harley. I was actually assaulted
less than a week ago within sight of my own house."

"Indeed! Tell me of this." Paul Harley became aware of an
awakening curiosity. Sir Charles Abingdon was not the type of man
who is lightly intimidated.

"I had been to visit a friend in the neighbourhood," Sir Charles
continued, "whom I am at present attending professionally,
although I am actually retired. I was returning across the
square, close to midnight, when, fortunately for myself, I
detected the sound of light, pattering footsteps immediately
behind me. The place was quite deserted at that hour, and
although I was so near home, the worst would have happened, I
fear, if my sense of hearing had been less acute. I turned in the
very instant that a man was about to spring upon me from behind.
He was holding in his hand what looked like a large silk
handkerchief. This encounter took place in the shadow of some
trees, and beyond the fact that my assailant was a small man, I
could form no impression of his identity."

"What did you do?"

"I turned and struck out with my stick."

"And then?"

"Then he made no attempt to contest the issue, but simply ran
swiftly off, always keeping in the shadows of the trees."

"Very strange," murmured Harley. "Do you think he had meant to
drug you?"

"Maybe," replied Sir Charles. "The handkerchief was perhaps
saturated with some drug, or he may even have designed to attempt
to strangle me."

"And you formed absolutely no impression of the man?"

"None whatever, Mr. Harley. When you see the spot at which the
encounter took place, if you care to do so, you will recognize
the difficulties. It is perfectly dark there after nightfall."

"H'm," mused Harley. "A very alarming occurrence, Sir Charles. It
must have shaken you very badly. But we must not overlook the
possibility that this may have been an ordinary footpad."

"His methods were scarcely those of a footpad," murmured Sir
Charles.

"I quite agree," said Harley. "They were rather Oriental, if I
may say so."

Sir Charles Abingdon started. "Oriental!" he whispered. "Yes, you
are right."

"Does this suggest a train of thought?" prompted Harley.

Sir Charles Abingdon cleared his throat nervously. "It does, Mr.
Harley," he admitted, "but a very confusing train of thought. It
leads me to a point which I must mention, but which concerns a
very well-known man. Before I proceed I should like to make it
clear that I do not believe for a moment that he is responsible
for this unpleasant business."

Harley stared at him curiously. "Nevertheless," he said, "there
must be some data in your possession which suggest to your mind
that he has some connection with it."

"There are, Mr. Harley, and I should be deeply indebted if you
could visit my house this evening, when I could place this
evidence, if evidence it may be called, before you. I find myself
in so delicate a position. If you are free I should welcome your
company at dinner."

Paul Harley seemed to be reflecting.

"Of course, Sir Charles," he said, presently, "your statement is
very interesting and curious, and I shall naturally make a point
of going fully into the matter. But before proceeding further
there are two questions I should like to ask you. The first is
this: What is the name of the 'well-known' man to whom you refer?
And the second: If not he then whom do you suspect of being
behind all this?"

"The one matter is so hopelessly involved in the other," he
finally replied, "that although I came here prepared as I thought
with a full statement of the case, I should welcome a further
opportunity of rearranging the facts before imparting them to
you. One thing, however, I have omitted to mention. It is,
perhaps, of paramount importance. There was a robbery at my house
less than a week ago."

"What! A robbery! Tell me: what was stolen?"

"Nothing of the slightest value, Mr. Harley, to any one but
myself--or so I should have supposed." The speaker coughed
nervously. "The thief had gained admittance to my private study,
where there are several cases of Oriental jewellery and a number
of pieces of valuable gold and silverware, all antique. At what
hour he came, how he gained admittance, and how he retired, I
cannot imagine. All the doors were locked as usual in the morning
and nothing was disturbed."

"I don't understand, then."

"I chanced to have occasion to open my bureau which I invariably
keep locked. Immediately--immediately--I perceived that my papers
were disarranged. Close examination revealed the fact that a
short manuscript in my own hand, which had been placed in one of
the pigeonholes, was missing."

"A manuscript," murmured Harley. "Upon a technical subject?"

"Scarcely a technical subject, Mr. Harley. It was a brief account
which I had vaguely contemplated publishing in one of the
reviews, a brief account of a very extraordinary patient whom I
once attended."

"And had you written it recently?"

"No; some years ago. But I had recently added to it. I may say
that it was my purpose still further to add to it, and with this
object I had actually unlocked the bureau."

"New facts respecting this patient had come into your
possession?"

"They had."

"Before the date of the attack upon you?"

"Before that date, yes."

"And before surveillance of your movements began?"

"I believe so."

"May I suggest that your patient and the 'well-known man' to whom
you referred are one and the same?"

"It is not so, Mr. Harley," returned Sir Charles in a tired
voice. "Nothing so simple. I realize more than ever that I must
arrange my facts in some sort of historical order. Therefore I
ask you again: will you dine with me to-night?"

"With pleasure," replied Harley, promptly. "I have no other
engagement."

That his ready acceptance had immensely relieved the troubled
mind of Sir Charles was evident enough. His visitor stood up. "I
am not prone to sickly fancies, Mr. Harley," he said. "But a
conviction has been growing upon me for some time that I have
incurred, how I cannot imagine, but that nevertheless I have
incurred powerful enmity. I trust our evening's counsel may
enable you, with your highly specialized faculties, to detect an
explanation."

And it was instructive to note how fluently he spoke now that he
found himself temporarily relieved of the necessity of confessing
the source of his mysterious fears.



CHAPTER II. THE SIXTH SENSE

Paul Harley stepped into his car in Chancery Lane. "Drive in the
direction of Hyde Park Corner," he directed the chauffeur. "Go
along the Strand."

Glancing neither right nor left, he entered the car, and
presently they were proceeding slowly with the stream of traffic
in the Strand. "Pull up at the Savoy," he said suddenly through
the tube.

The car slowed down in that little bay which contains the
entrance to the hotel, and Harley stared fixedly out of the rear
window, observing the occupants of all other cars and cabs which
were following. For three minutes or more he remained there
watching. "Go on," he directed.

Again they proceeded westward and, half-way along Piccadilly,
"Stop at the Ritz," came the order.

The car pulled up before the colonnade and Harley, stepping out,
dismissed the man and entered the hotel, walked through to the
side entrance, and directed a porter to get him a taxicab. In
this he proceeded to the house of Sir Charles Abingdon. He had
been seeking to learn whether he was followed, but in none of the
faces he had scrutinized had he detected any interest in himself,
so that his idea that whoever was watching Sir Charles in all
probability would have transferred attention to himself remained
no more than an idea. For all he had gained by his tactics, Sir
Charles's theory might be no more than a delusion after all.

The house of Sir Charles Abingdon was one of those small,
discreet establishments, the very neatness of whose appointments
inspires respect for the occupant. If anything had occurred
during the journey to suggest to Harley that Sir Charles was
indeed under observation by a hidden enemy, the suave British
security and prosperity of his residence must have destroyed the
impression.

As the cab was driven away around the corner, Harley paused for a
moment, glancing about him to right and left and up at the neatly
curtained windows. In the interval which had elapsed since Sir
Charles's departure from his office, he had had leisure to survey
the outstanding features of the story, and, discounting in his
absence the pathetic sincerity of the narrator, he had formed the
opinion that there was nothing in the account which was not
susceptible of an ordinary prosaic explanation.

Sir Charles's hesitancy in regard to two of the questions asked
had contained a hint that they might involve intimate personal
matters, and Harley was prepared to learn that the source of the
distinguished surgeon's dread lay in some unrevealed episode of
the past. Beyond the fact that Sir Charles was a widower, he knew
little or nothing of his private life; and he was far too
experienced an investigator to formulate theories until all the
facts were in his possession. Therefore it was with keen interest
that he looked forward to the interview.

Familiarity with crime, in its many complexions, East and West,
had developed in Paul Harley a sort of sixth sense. It was an
evasive, fickle thing, but was nevertheless the attribute which
had made him an investigator of genius. Often enough it failed
him entirely. It had failed him to-night--or else no one had
followed him from Chancery Lane.

It had failed him earlier in the evening when, secretly, he had
watched from the office window Sir Charles's car proceeding
toward the Strand. That odd, sudden chill, as of an abrupt
lowering of the temperature, which often advised him of the
nearness of malignant activity, had not been experienced.

Now, standing before Sir Charles's house, he "sensed" the
atmosphere keenly--seeking for the note of danger.

There had been a thunder shower just before he had set out, and
now, although rain had ceased, the sky remained blackly overcast
and a curious, dull stillness was come. The air had a welcome
freshness and the glistening pavements looked delightfully cool
after the parching heat of the day. In the quiet square, no
doubt, it was always restful in contrast with the more busy
highroads, and in the murmur of distant traffic he found
something very soothing. About him then were peace, prosperity,
and security.

Yet, as he stood there, waiting--it came to him: the note of
danger. Swiftly he looked to right and left, trying to penetrate
the premature dusk. The whole complexion of the matter changed.
Some menace intangible now, but which at any moment might become
evident--lay near him. It was sheer intuition, no doubt, but it
convinced him.

A moment later he had rung the bell; and as a man opened the
door, showing a easy and well-lighted lobby within, the fear aura
no longer touched Paul Harley. Out from the doorway came hominess
and that air of security and peace which had seemed to
characterize the house when viewed from outside. The focus of
menace, therefore, lay not inside the house of Sir Charles but
without. It was very curious. In the next instant came a possible
explanation.

"Mr. Paul Harley?" said the butler tentatively.

"Yes, I am he."

"Sir Charles is expecting you, sir. He apologizes for not being
in to receive you, but he will only be absent a few minutes."

"Sir Charles has been called out?" inquired Harley as he handed
hat and coat to the man.

"Yes, sir. He is attending Mr. Chester Wilson on the other side
of the square, and Mr. Wilson's man rang up a few moments ago
requesting Sir Charles to step across."

"I see," murmured Harley, as the butler showed him into a small
but well-filled library on the left of the lobby.

Refreshments were set invitingly upon a table beside a deep
lounge chair. But Harley declined the man's request to refresh
himself while waiting and began aimlessly to wander about the
room, apparently studying the titles of the works crowding the
bookshelves. As a matter of fact, he was endeavouring to arrange
certain ideas in order, and if he had been questioned on the
subject it is improbable that he could have mentioned the title
of one book in the library.

His mental equipment was of a character too rarely met with in
the profession to which he belonged. While up to the very moment
of reaching Sir Charles's house he had doubted the reality of the
menace which hung over this man, the note of danger which he had
sensed at the very threshold had convinced him, where more
ordinary circumstantial evidence might have left him in doubt.

It was perhaps pure imagination, but experience had taught him
that it was closely allied to clairvoyance.

Now upon his musing there suddenly intruded sounds of a muffled
altercation. That is to say, the speakers, who were evidently in
the lobby beyond the library door, spoke in low tones, perhaps in
deference to the presence of a visitor. Harley was only mildly
interested, but the voices had broken his train of thought, and
when presently the door opened to admit a very neat but rather
grim-looking old lady he started, then looked across at her with
a smile.

Some of the grimness faded from the wrinkled old face, and the
housekeeper, for this her appearance proclaimed her to be, bowed
in a queer Victorian fashion which suggested that a curtsy might
follow. One did not follow, however. "I am sure I apologize,
sir," she said. "Benson did not tell me you had arrived."

"That's quite all right," said Harley, genially.

His smile held a hint of amusement, for in the comprehensive
glance which the old lady cast across the library, a glance keen
to detect disorder and from which no speck of dust could hope to
conceal itself, there remained a trace of that grimness which he
had detected at the moment of her entrance. In short, she was
still bristling from a recent encounter. So much so that
detecting something sympathetic in Harley's smile she availed
herself of the presence of a badly arranged vase of flowers to
linger and to air her grievances.

"Servants in these times," she informed him, her fingers busily
rearranging the blooms, "are not what servants were in my young
days."

"Unfortunately, that is so," Harley agreed.

The old lady tossed her head. "I do my best," she continued, "but
that girl would not have stayed in the house for one week if I
had had my way. Miss Phil is altogether too soft-hearted. Thank
goodness, she goes to-morrow, though."

"You don't refer to Miss Phil?" said Harley, intentionally
misunderstanding.

"Gracious goodness, no!" exclaimed the housekeeper, and laughed
with simple glee at the joke. "I mean Jones, the new parlourmaid.
When I say new, they are all new, for none of them stay longer
than three months."

"Indeed," smiled Harley, who perceived that the old lady was
something of a martinet.

"Indeed, they don't. Think they are ladies nowadays. Four hours
off has that girl had to-day, although she was out on Wednesday.
Then she has the impudence to allow someone to ring her up here
at the house; and finally I discover her upsetting the table
after Benson had laid it and after I had rearranged it."

She glanced indignantly in the direction of the lobby. "Perhaps
one day," she concluded, pathetically, as she walked slowly from
the room, "we shall find a parlourmaid who is a parlourmaid. Good
evening, sir."

"Good evening," said Harley, quietly amused to be made the
recipient of these domestic confidences.

He continued to smile for some time after the door had been
closed. His former train of ideas was utterly destroyed, but for
this he was not ungrateful to the housekeeper, since the
outstanding disadvantage of that strange gift resembling
prescience was that it sometimes blunted the purely analytical
part of his mind when this should have been at its keenest. He
was now prepared to listen to what Sir Charles had to say and to
judge impartially of its evidential value.

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