Fire Tongue
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Sax Rohmer >> Fire Tongue
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It was thrilling, vaguely pleasurable, but deep terror underlay
it.
"Your Excellency almost frightens me," she whispered. "Yet I do
not doubt that you speak of what you know."
"It is so," he returned, gravely. "At any hour, day or night, if
you care to make the request, I shall be happy to prove my words.
But," he lowered his dark lashes and then raised them again, "the
real object of my visit is concerned with more material things."
"Indeed," said Phil Abingdon, and whether because of the words of
Ormuz Khan, or because of some bond of telepathy which he had
established between them, she immediately found herself to be
thinking of Paul Harley.
"I bring you a message," he continued, "from a friend."
With eyes widely open, Phil Abingdon watched him.
"From," she began--but her lips would not frame the name.
"From Mr. Paul Harley," he said, inclining his head gravely.
"Oh! tell me, tell me!"
"I am here to tell you, Miss Abingdon. Mr. Harley feels that his
absence may have distressed you."
"Yes, yes," she said, eagerly.
"But in pursuit of a certain matter which is known to you, he has
found it necessary in the interests of his safety to remain out
of London for a while."
"Oh," Phil Abingdon heaved a great sigh. "Oh, Your Excellency,
how glad I am to hear that he is safe!"
The long, dark eyes regarded her intently, unemotionally, noting
that the flush had faded from her face, leaving it very pale, and
noting also the expression of gladness in her eyes, the quivering
of her sweet lips.
"He is my guest," continued Ormuz Khan, "my honoured guest."
"He is with you?" exclaimed Phil, almost incredulously.
"With me, at my home in Surrey. In me he found a natural ally,
since my concern was as great as his own. I do not conceal from
you, Miss Abingdon, that he is danger."
"In danger?" she whispered.
"It is true, but beneath my roof he is safe. There is a matter of
vital urgency, however, in which you can assist him."
"I?" she exclaimed.
"No one but you." Ormuz Khan raised his slender hand gracefully.
"I beg you, do not misunderstand me. In the first place, would
Mr. Harley have asked you to visit him at my home, if he had not
been well assured that you could do so with propriety? In the
second place, should I, who respect you more deeply than any
woman in the world, consent to your coming unchaperoned? Miss
Abingdon, you know me better. I beg of you in Mr. Harley's name
and in my own, prevail upon Mrs. McMurdoch to accept the
invitation which I bring to lunch with me at Hillside, my Surrey
home."
He spoke with the deep respect of a courtier addressing his
queen. His low musical voice held a note that was almost a note
of adoration. Phil Abingdon withdrew her gaze from the handsome
ivory face, and strove for mental composure before replying.
Subtly, insidiously, the man had cast his spell upon her. Of this
she was well aware. In other words, her thoughts were not
entirely her own, but in a measure were promptings from that
powerful will.
Indeed, her heart was beating wildly at the mere thought that she
was to see Paul Harley again that very day. She had counted the
hours since their last meeting, and knew exactly how many had
elapsed. Because each one had seemed like twelve, she had ceased
to rebel against this sweet weakness, which, for the first time
in her life, had robbed her of some of her individuality, and had
taught her that she was a woman to whom mastery by man is
exquisite slavery. Suddenly she spoke.
"Of course I will come, Your Excellency," she said. "I will see
Mrs. McMurdoch at once, but I know she will not refuse."
"Naturally she will not refuse, Miss Abingdon," he returned in a
grave voice. "The happiness of so many people is involved."
"It is so good of you," she said, standing up. "I shall never
forget your kindness."
He rose, bowing deeply, from a European standpoint too deeply.
"Kindness is a spiritual investment," he said, "which returns us
interest tenfold. If I can be sure of Mrs. McMurdoch's
acceptance, I will request permission to take my leave now, for I
have an urgent business appointment to keep, after which I will
call for you. Can you be ready by noon?"
"Yes, we shall be ready."
Phil Abingdon held out her hand in a curiously hesitant manner.
The image of Paul Harley had become more real, more insistent.
Her mind was in a strangely chaotic state, so that when the hand
of Ormuz Khan touched her own, she repressed a start and laughed
in an embarrassed way.
She knew that her heart was singing, but under the song lay
something cold, and when Ormuz Khan had bowed himself from the
room, she found herself thinking, not of the newly departed
visitor, nor even of Paul Harley, but of her dead father. In
spite of the sunshine which flooded the room, her flesh turned
cold and she wondered if the uncanny Persian possessed some
strange power.
Clearly as though he had stood beside her, she seemed to hear the
beloved voice of her father. It was imagination, of course, she
knew this; but it was uncannily real.
She thought that he was calling her, urgently, beseechingly:
"Phil.... Phil...."
CHAPTER XXIV. THE SCREEN OF GOLD
Paul Harley raised his aching head and looked wearily about him.
At first, as might be expected, he thought that he was dreaming.
He lay upon a low divan and could only suppose that he had been
transported to India.
Slowly, painfully, memory reasserted itself and he realized that
he had been rendered unconscious by the blow of a sandbag or some
similar weapon while telephoning from the station master's office
at Lower Claybury. How long a time had elapsed since that moment
he was unable to judge, for his watch had been removed from his
pocket. He stared about him with a sort of fearful interest. He
lay in a small barely furnished room having white distempered
walls, wholly undecorated. Its few appointments were Oriental,
and the only window which it boasted was set so high as to be
well out of reach. Moreover, it was iron-barred, and at the
moment admitted no light, whether because it did not communicate
with the outer world, or because night was fallen, he was unable
to tell.
There were two doors in the room, one of very massive
construction, and the other a smaller one. The place was dimly
lighted by a brass lantern which hung from the ceiling. Harley
stood up, staggered slightly, and then sat down again.
"My God," he groaned and raised his hand to his head.
For a few moments he remained seated, victim of a deadly nausea.
Then, clenching his jaws grimly, again he stood up, and this time
succeeded in reaching the heavy door.
As he had supposed, it was firmly locked, and a glance was
sufficient to show him that his unaided effort could never force
it. He turned his attention to the smaller door, which opened at
his touch, revealing a sleeping apartment not unlike a monk's
cell, adjoining which was a tiny bathroom. Neither rooms boasted
windows, both being lighted by brass lanterns.
Harley examined them and their appointments with the utmost care,
and then returned again to the outer room, one feature of which,
and quite the most remarkable, he had reserved for special
investigation.
This was a massive screen of gilded iron scroll work, which
occupied nearly the whole of one end of the room. Beyond the
screen hung a violet-coloured curtain of Oriental fabric; but so
closely woven was the metal design that although he could touch
this curtain with his finger at certain points, it proved
impossible for him to move it aside in any way.
He noted that its lower fringe did not quite touch the door. By
stooping down, he could see a few feet into some room beyond. It
was in darkness, however, and beyond the fact that it was
carpeted with a rich Persian rug, he learned but little from his
scrutiny. The gilded screen was solid and immovable.
Nodding his head grimly, Harley felt in his pockets for pipe and
pouch, wondering if these, too, had been taken from him. They had
not, however, and the first nausea of his awakening having
passed, he filled and lighted his briar and dropped down upon the
divan to consider his position.
That it was fairly desperate was a fact he was unable to hide
from himself, but at least he was still alive, which was a matter
at once for congratulation and surprise.
He had noticed before, in raising his hand to his head, that his
forehead felt cold and wet, and now, considering the matter
closely, he came to the conclusion that an attempt had been made
to aid his recovery, by some person or persons who must have
retired at the moment that he had shown signs of returning
consciousness.
His salvation, then, was not accidental but deliberate. He
wondered what awaited him and why his life had been spared.
That he had walked blindly into a trap prepared for him by that
mysterious personality known as Fire-Tongue, he no longer could
doubt. Intense anxiety and an egotistical faith in his own acumen
had led him to underestimate the cleverness of his enemies, a
vice from which ordinarily he was free.
From what hour they had taken a leading interest in his
movements, he would probably never know, but that they had
detected Paul Harley beneath the vendor of "Old Moore's Almanac"
was certain enough. What a fool he had been!
He reproached himself bitterly. Ordinary common sense should have
told him that the Hindu secretary had given those instructions to
the chauffeur in the courtyard of the Savoy Hotel for his, Paul
Harley's, special benefit. It was palpable enough now. He
wondered how he had ever fallen into such a trap, and biting
savagely upon his pipe, he strove to imagine what ordeal lay
ahead of him.
So his thoughts ran, drifting from his personal danger, which he
knew to be great, to other matters, which he dreaded to consider,
because they meant far more to him than his own life. Upon these
bitter reflections a slight sound intruded, the first which had
disturbed the stillness about him since the moment of his
awakening.
Someone had entered the room beyond the gilded screen, and now a
faint light showed beneath the fringe of the curtain. Paul Harley
sat quite still, smoking and watching.
He had learned to face the inevitable with composure, and now,
apprehending the worst, he waited, puffing at his pipe. Presently
he detected the sound of someone crossing the room toward him, or
rather toward the screen. He lay back against the mattress which
formed the back of the divan, and watched the gap below the
curtain.
Suddenly he perceived a pair of glossy black boots. Their wearer
was evidently standing quite near the screen, possibly listening.
Harley had an idea that some second person stood immediately
behind the first. Of this idea he presently had confirmation. He
was gripping the stem of his pipe very tightly and any one who
could have seen him sitting there must have perceived that
although his face wore an unusual pallor, he was composed and
entirely master of himself.
A voice uttered his name:
"Mr. Paul Harley."
He could not be sure, but he thought it was the voice of Ormuz
Khan's secretary. He drew his pipe from between his teeth, and:
"Yes, what do you want with me?" he asked.
"Your attention, Mr. Harley, for a few moments, if you feel
sufficiently recovered."
"Pray proceed," said Harley.
Of the presence of a second person beyond the screen he was now
assured, for he had detected the sound of whispered instructions;
and sinking lower and lower upon the divan, he peered
surreptitiously under the border of the curtain, believing it to
be more than probable that his movements were watched.
This led to a notable discovery. A pair of gray suede shoes
became visible a few inches behind the glossy black
boots--curiously small shoes with unusually high heels. The
identity of their wearer was beyond dispute to the man who had
measured that delicate foot.
Ormuz Khan stood behind the screen!
CHAPTER XXV. AN ENGLISHMAN'S HONOUR
"You have been guilty of a series of unfortunate mistakes, Mr.
Harley," continued the speaker. "Notably, you have relied upon
the clumsy device of disguise. To the organization in which you
have chosen to interest yourself, this has provided some mild
amusement. Your pedlar of almanacs was a clever impersonation,
but fortunately your appearance at the Savoy had been
anticipated, and no one was deceived."
Paul Harley did not reply. He concluded, quite correctly, that
the organization had failed to detect himself in the person of
the nervous cobbler. He drew courage from this deduction.
Fire-Tongue was not omniscient.
"It is possible," continued the unseen speaker, in whom Harley
had now definitely recognized Ormuz Khan's secretary, "that you
recently overheard a resolution respecting yourself. Your death,
in fact, had been determined upon. Life and death being
synonymous, the philosopher contemplates either with equanimity."
"I am contemplating the latter with equanimity at the moment,"
said Harley, dryly.
"The brave man does so," the Hindu continued, smoothly. "The
world only seems to grow older; its youth is really eternal, but
as age succeeds age, new creeds must take the place of the old
ones which are burned out. Fire, Mr. Harley, sweeps everything
from its path irresistibly. You have dared to stand in the path
of a fiery dawn; therefore, like all specks of dust which clog
the wheels of progress, you must be brushed aside."
Harley nodded grimly, watching a ring of smoke floating slowly
upward.
"It is a little thing to those who know the truth," the speaker
resumed. "To the purblind laws of the West it may seem a great
thing. We seek in Rome to do as Rome does. We judge every man as
we find him. Therefore, recognizing that your total disappearance
might compromise our movements in the near future, we have
decided to offer you an alternative. This offer is based upon the
British character. Where the oath of some men is a thing of
smoke, the word of honour of an Englishman we are prepared to
accept."
"Many thanks," murmured Harley. "On behalf of Great Britain I
accept the compliment."
"We have such faith in the completeness of our plans, and in the
nearness of the hour of triumph, that if you will pledge yourself
to silence, in writing, you will not be molested in any way. You
occupy at the moment the apartment reserved for neophytes of a
certain order. But we do not ask you to become a neophyte.
Disciples must seek us, we do not seek disciples. We only ask for
your word that you will be silent."
"It is impossible," said Harley, tersely.
"Think well of the matter. It may not seem so impossible
to-morrow."
"I decline definitely."
"You are sustaining yourself with false hopes, Mr. Harley. You
think you have clues which will enable you to destroy a system
rooted in the remote past. Also you forget that you have lost
your freedom."
Paul Harley offered no further answer to the speaker concealed
behind the violet curtain.
"Do not misunderstand us," the voice continued. "We bind you to
nothing but silence."
"I refuse," said Harley, sharply. "Dismiss the matter."
"In spite of your refusal, time for consideration will be given
to you."
Faintly Paul Harley detected the sounds made by Ormuz Khan and
his secretary in withdrawing. The light beneath the curtain
disappeared.
For perhaps a space of two hours, Paul Harley sat smoking and
contemplating the situation from every conceivable angle. It was
certainly desperate enough, and after a time he rose with a weary
sigh, and made a second and more detailed examination of the
several apartments.
It availed him nothing, but one point he definitely established.
Escape was impossible, failing outside assistance. A certain
coldness in the atmosphere, which was perceptible immediately
beneath the barred window, led him to believe that this
communicated with the outer air.
He was disposed to think that his unconsciousness had lasted less
than an hour, and that it was still dark without. He was full of
distrust. He no longer believed his immediate death to have been
decided upon. For some reason it would seem that the group wished
him to live, at any rate, temporarily. But now a complete theory
touching the death of Sir Charles Abingdon had presented itself
to his mind. Knowing little, but suspecting much of the resources
of Fire-Tongue, he endeavoured to avoid contact with anything in
the place.
Night attire was provided in the sleeping chamber, but he did not
avail himself of this hospitality. Absolute silence reigned about
him. Yet so immutable are Nature's laws, that presently Paul
Harley sank back upon the mattresses, and fell asleep.
He awoke, acutely uncomfortable and ill-rested. He found a shaft
of light streaming into the room, and casting shadows of the iron
bars upon the opposite wall. The brass lantern still burned above
him, and the silence remained complete as when he had fallen
asleep. He stood up yawning and stretching himself.
At least, it was good to be still alive. He was vaguely conscious
of the fact that he had been dreaming of Phil Abingdon, and
suppressing a sigh, he clenched his teeth grimly and entered the
little bathroom. There proved to be a plentiful supply of hot and
cold water. At this he sniffed suspiciously, but at last:
"I'll risk it," he muttered.
He undressed and revelled in the joy of a hot bath, concluding
with a cold plunge. A razor and excellent toilet requisites were
set upon the dressing table, and whilst his imagination whispered
that the soap might be poisoned and the razor possess a septic
blade, he shaved, and having shaved, lighted his pipe and
redressed himself at leisure.
He had nearly completed his toilet when a slight sound in the
outer room arrested his attention. He turned sharply, stepping
through the doorway.
A low carved table, the only one which the apartment boasted,
displayed an excellent English breakfast laid upon a spotless
cover.
"Ah," he murmured, and by the sight was mentally translated to
that celebrated apartment of the palace at Versailles, where
Louis XIV and his notorious favourite once were accustomed to
dine, alone, and unsuitably dressed, the courses being served in
just this fashion.
Harley held his pipe in his hand, and contemplated the repast. It
was only logical to suppose it to be innocuous, and a keen
appetite hastened the issue. He sidetracked his suspicion, and
made an excellent breakfast. So the first day of his captivity
began.
Growing used to the stillness about him, he presently began to
detect, as the hours wore on, distant familiar sounds.
Automobiles on the highroad, trains leaving and entering a tunnel
which he judged to be from two to three miles distant; even human
voices at long intervals.
The noises of an English countryside crept through the barred
windows. Beyond a doubt he was in the house known as Hillside.
Probably at night the lights of London could be seen from the
garden. He was within ordinary telephone call of Chancery Lane.
Yet he resumed his pipe and smiled philosophically. He had hoped
to see the table disappear beneath the floor. As evidence that he
was constantly watched, this had occurred during a brief visit
which he had made to the bedroom in quest of matches.
When he returned the table was in its former place, but the cover
had been removed. He carefully examined the floor beneath it, and
realized that there was no hope of depressing the trap from
above. Then, at an hour which he judged to be that of noon, the
same voice addressed him from beyond the gilded screen.
"Mr. Paul Harley?"
"Yes, what have you to say?"
"By this time, Mr. Harley, you must have recognized that
opposition is futile. At any moment we could visit death upon
you. Escape, on the other hand, is out of the question. We desire
you no harm. For diplomatic reasons, we should prefer you to
live. Our cause is a sacred one. Do not misjudge it by minor
incidents. A short statement and a copy of your English testament
shall be placed upon the table, if you wish."
"I do not wish," Paul Harley returned.
"Is that your last word, Mr. Harley? We warn you that the third
time of asking will be the last time."
"This is my last word."
"Your own life is not the only stake at issue."
"What do you mean?"
"You will learn what we mean, if you insist upon withholding your
consent until we next invite it."
"Nevertheless, you may regard it as withheld, definitely and
finally."
Silence fell, and Paul Harley knew himself to be once more alone.
Luncheon appeared upon the table whilst he was washing in the
bathroom. Remembering the change in the tone of the unseen
speaker's voice, he avoided touching anything.
From the divan, through half-closed eyes, he examined every inch
of the walls, seeking for the spy-hole through which he knew
himself to be watched. He detected it at last: a little grating,
like a ventilator, immediately above him where he sat. This
communicated with some room where a silent watcher was constantly
on duty!
Paul Harley gave no sign that he had made this discovery. But
already his keen wits were at work upon a plan. He watched the
bar of light fading, fading, until, judging it to be dinner time,
he retired discreetly.
When he returned, he found dinner spread upon the table.
He wondered for what ordeal the neophyte was prepared in this
singular apartment. He wondered how such neophytes were chosen,
and to what tests they were submitted before being accepted as
members of the bloodthirsty order. He could not even surmise.
Evidently no neophyte had been accepted on the previous night,
unless there were other like chambers in the house. The occupants
of the shuttered cars must therefore have been more advanced
members. He spent the night in the little cell-like bedchamber,
and his second day of captivity began as the first had begun.
For his dinner he had eaten nothing but bread and fruit. For his
breakfast he ate an egg and drank water from the tap in the
bathroom. His plan was now nearing completion. Only one point
remained doubtful.
At noon the voice again addressed him from behind the gilded
screen:
"Mr. Paul Harley?"
"Yes?"
"Your last opportunity has come. For your own future or for that
of the world you seem to care little or nothing. Are you still
determined to oppose our wishes?"
"I am."
"You have yet an hour. Your final decision will be demanded of
you at the end of that time."
Faint sounds of withdrawal followed these words and Harley
suddenly discovered himself to be very cold. The note of danger
had touched him. For long it had been silent. Now it clamoured
insistently. He knew beyond all doubt that he was approaching a
crisis in his life. At its nature he could not even guess.
He began to pace the room nervously, listening for he knew not
what. His mind was filled with vague imaginings; when at last
came an overture to the grim test to be imposed upon him.
A slight metallic sound drew his glance in the direction of the
gilded screen. A sliding door of thick plate glass had been
closed behind it, filling the space between the metal work and
the curtain. Then--the light in the brass lantern became
extinguished.
Standing rigidly, fists clenched, Paul Harley watched the
curtain. And as he watched, slowly it was drawn aside. He found
himself looking into a long room which appeared to be practically
unfurnished.
The floor was spread with rugs and at the farther end folding
doors had been opened, so that he could see into a second room,
most elegantly appointed in Persian fashion. Here were silver
lanterns, and many silken cushions, out of which, as from a sea
of colour, arose slender pillars, the scheme possessing an air of
exotic luxury peculiarly Oriental.
Seated in a carved chair over which a leopard skin had been
thrown, and talking earnestly to some invisible companion, whose
conversation seemed wholly to enthrall her, was Phil Abingdon!
CHAPTER XXVI. THE ORCHID OF SLEEP
"My God!" cried Innes, "here is proof that the chief was right!"
Wessex nodded in silent agreement. On the table lay the report of
Merton, the analyst, concerning the stains upon the serviette
which Harley had sent from the house of the late Sir Charles
Abingdon. Briefly, it stated that the serviette had been
sprinkled with some essential oil, the exact character of which
Merton had found himself unable to determine, its perfume, if it
ever possessed any, having disappeared. And the minute quantity
obtainable from the linen rendered ordinary tests difficult to
apply. The analyst's report, however, concluded as follows:
"Mr. Harley, having foreseen these difficulties, and having
apparently suspected that the oil was of Oriental origin,
recommended me, in the note which he enclosed with the serviette,
to confer with Dr. Warwick Grey. I send a copy of a highly
interesting letter which I have received from Doctor Grey, whose
knowledge of Eastern poison is unparalleled, and to whose opinion
I attach immense importance."
It was the contents of this appended letter which had inspired
Innes's remarks. Indeed, it contained matter which triumphantly
established Paul Harley's theory that Sir Charles Abingdon had
not died from natural causes. The letter was as follows:
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