Fire Tongue
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Sax Rohmer >> Fire Tongue
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'No.---- Harley Street
London, W. I.
'MY DEAR MERTON:
'I am indebted to you and to Mr. Harley for an opportunity of
examining the serviette, which I return herewith. I agree that
the oil does not respond to ordinary tests, nor is any smell
perceptible. But you have noticed in your microscopic examination
of the stains that there is a peculiar crystalline formation upon
the surface. You state that this is quite unfamiliar to you,
which is not at all strange, since outside of the Himalayan
districts of Northwest India I have never met with it myself.
'Respecting the character of the oil employed, however, I am in
no doubt, and I actually possess a dried specimen of the flower
from which it is expressed. This is poetically known among the
Mangars, one of the fighting tribes of Nepal, as the Bloom or
Orchid of Sleep.
'It is found upon the lower Himalayan slopes, and bears a close
resemblance to the white odontoglossum of commerce, except that
the flower is much smaller. Its perfume attracts insects and
sometimes small animals and reptiles, although inhalation seems
to induce instant death. It may be detected in its natural state
by the presence of hundreds of dead flies and insects upon the
ground surrounding the plant. It is especially fatal to nocturnal
insects, its perfume being stronger at night.
'Preparation of the oil is an art peculiar to members of an
obscure sect established in that district, by whom it is said to
be employed for the removal of enemies.
'An article is sprinkled with it, and whilst the perfume, which
is reported to resemble that of cloves, remains perceptible, to
inhale it results in immediate syncope, although by what
physiological process I have never been enabled to determine.
'With the one exception which I have mentioned, during my stay in
Nepal and the surrounding districts I failed to obtain a specimen
of this orchid. I have twice seen the curious purple stain upon
articles of clothing worn by natives who had died suddenly and
mysteriously. The Mangars simply say, "He has offended someone.
It is the flower of sleep."
'I immediately recognized the colour of the stains upon the
enclosed serviette, and also the curious crystalline formation on
their surface. The identity of the "someone" to whom the Mangars
refer, I never established. I shall welcome any particulars
respecting the history of the serviette.
'Very truly yours,
'WARWICK GREY.'
"Sir Charles Abingdon was poisoned," said Wessex in a hushed
voice. "For the girl's sake I hate the idea, but we shall have to
get an exhumation order."
"It is impossible," returned Innes, shortly. "He was cremated."
"Good heavens," murmured Wessex, "I never knew."
"But after all," continued Inures, "it is just as well for
everyone concerned. The known facts are sufficient to establish
the murder, together with the report of Dr. Warwick Grey. But,
meanwhile, are we any nearer to learning the identity of the
murderer?"
"We are not!" said Wessex, grimly. "And what's more, when I get
to Scotland Yard, I have got to face the music. First Mr. Harley
goes, and now Nicol Brinn has disappeared!"
"It's almost unbelievable!"
"I took him for a white man," said the detective, earnestly. "I
accepted his parole for twenty-four hours. The twenty-four hours
expired about noon to-day, but since he played that trick on
Stokes last night and went out of his chambers, he has vanished
utterly."
Innes stood up excitedly.
"Your ideas may be all wrong, Wessex!" he cried. "Don't you see
that he may have gone the same way as the chief?"
"He was mightily anxious to get out, at any rate."
"And you have no idea where he went?"
"Not the slightest. Following his performance of last night, of
course I was compelled to instal a man in the chambers, and this
morning someone rang up from the house of Lord Wolverham; he is
commanding officer of one of the Guards battalions, I believe. It
appears that Mr. Nicol Brinn not only locked up a representative
of the Criminal Investigation Department, but also stole a Rolls
Royce car from outside the Cavalry Club!"
"What!" cried Innes. "Stole a car?"
"Stole Lord Wolverham's car and calmly drove away in it. We have
failed to trace both car and man!" The detective inspector sighed
wearily. "Well, I suppose I must get along to the Yard. Stokes
has got the laugh on me this time."
Wearing a very gloomy expression, the detective inspector
proceeded on foot to New Scotland Yard, and being informed on his
arrival upstairs that the Assistant Commissioner was expecting
him, he entered the office of that great man.
The Assistant Commissioner, who had palpably seen military
service, was a big man with very tired eyes, and a quiet, almost
apologetic manner.
"Ah, Detective Inspector," he said, as Wessex entered. "I wanted
to see you about this business of Mr. Nicol Brinn."
"Yes, sir," replied Wessex; "naturally."
"Now," the Assistant Commissioner turned wearily in his chair,
and glanced up at his subordinate--"your accepting the parole of
a suspect, under the circumstances, was officially improper, but
I am not blaming you--I am not blaming you for a moment. Mr.
Nicol Brinn's well-known reputation justified your behaviour." He
laid one large hand firmly upon the table. "Mr. Nicol Brinn's
absence alters the matter entirely."
"I am well aware of it," murmured the inspector. "Although,"
continued the Assistant Commissioner, "Mr. Brinn's record leads
me to believe that he will have some suitable explanation to
offer, his behaviour, you will admit, is that of a guilty man?"
"It is, sir; it certainly is."
"The Press, fortunately, has learned nothing of this unpleasant
business, particularly unpleasant because it involves such
well-known people. You will see to it, Detective Inspector, that
all publicity is avoided if possible. Meanwhile, as a matter of
ordinary departmental routine, you will circulate Mr. Brinn's
description through the usual channels, and--" the Assistant
Commissioner raised his eyebrows slightly.
"You mean that?" asked Wessex.
"Certainly. He must be arrested by the first officer who
recognizes him."
"Very good, sir. I will move in the matter at once."
"Do so, please." The Assistant Commissioner sighed wearily, as
one of his telephones set up a muted buzzing. "That is all for
the moment, I think. Good morning."
Detective Inspector Wessex came out, quietly closing the door
behind him. He felt that he had been let down very lightly. But
nevertheless he was unpleasantly warm, and as he walked slowly
along the corridor he whistled softly, and:
"Arrest of Mr. Nicol Brinn," he muttered. "What a headline, if
they ever get it!"
CHAPTER XXVII. AT HILLSIDE
Phil Abingdon arrived at Hillside in a state of mind which she
found herself unable to understand. Mrs. McMurdoch, who had
accepted the invitation under protest, saying that if Doctor
McMurdoch had been at home he would certainly have disapproved,
had so utterly fallen under the strange spell of Ormuz Khan, that
long before they had come to Hillside she was hanging upon his
every word in a way which was almost pathetic to watch.
On the other hand, Phil Abingdon had taken up a definite attitude
of defense; and perceiving this, because of his uncanny
intuitiveness, the Persian had exerted himself to the utmost,
more often addressing Phil than her companion, and striving to
regain that mastery of her emotions which he had formerly
achieved, at least in part.
Her feelings, however, were largely compounded of fear, and fear
strengthened her defense. The repulsive part of Ormuz Khan's
character became more apparent to her than did the fascination
which she had once experienced. She distrusted him, distrusted
him keenly. She knew at the bottom of her heart that this had
always been so, but she had suffered his attentions in much the
same spirit as that which imbues the naturalist who studies the
habits of a poisonous reptile.
She knew that she was playing with fire, and in this knowledge
lay a dangerous pleasure. She had the utmost faith in her own
common sense, and was ambitious to fence with edged tools.
When at last the car was drawn up before the porch of Hillside,
and Ormuz Khan, stepping out, assisted the ladies to alight, for
one moment Phil Abingdon hesitated, although she knew that it was
already too late to do so. They were received by Mr. Rama Dass,
his excellency's courteous secretary, whom she had already met,
and whom Ormuz Khan presented to Mrs. McMurdoch. Almost
immediately:
"You have missed Mr. Harley by only a few minutes," said Rama
Dass.
"What!" exclaimed Phil, her eyes opening very widely.
"Oh, there is no occasion for alarm," explained the secretary in
his urbane manner. "He has ventured as far as Lower Claybury
station. The visit was unavoidable. He particularly requested
that we should commence luncheon, but hoped to be back before we
should have finished."
Phil Abingdon glanced rapidly from the face of the speaker to
that of Ormuz Khan. But her scrutiny of those unreadable
countenances availed her nothing. She was conscious of a great
and growing uneasiness; and Mrs. McMurdoch, misunderstanding the
expression upon her face, squeezed her arm playfully.
"Cheer up, dear," she whispered; "he will be here soon!"
Phil knew that her face had flushed deeply. Partly she was glad
of her emotions, and partly ashamed. This sweet embarrassment in
which there was a sort of pain was a new experience, but one
wholly delightful. She laughed, and accepting the arm of Ormuz
Khan, walked into a very English-looking library, followed by
Rama Dass and Mrs. McMurdoch. The house, she thought, was very
silent, and she found herself wondering why no servants had
appeared.
Rama Dass had taken charge of the ladies' cloaks in the hall, and
in spite of the typical English environment in which she found
herself, Phil sat very near to Mrs. McMurdoch on a settee,
scarcely listening to the conversation, and taking no part in it.
For there was a strange and disturbing air of loneliness about
Hillside. She would have welcomed the appearance of a butler or a
parlourmaid, or any representative of the white race. Yes: there
lay the root of the matter--this feeling of aloofness from all
that was occidental, a feeling which the English appointments of
the room did nothing to dispel. Then a gong sounded and the party
went in to lunch.
A white-robed Hindu waited at table, and Phil discovered his
movements to be unpleasantly silent. There was something very
unreal about it all. She found herself constantly listening for
the sound of an approaching car, of a footstep, of a voice, the
voice of Paul Harley. This waiting presently grew unendurable,
and:
"I hope Mr. Harley is safe," she said, in a rather unnatural
tone. "Surely he should have returned by now?"
Ormuz Khan shrugged his slight shoulders and glanced at a
diamond-studded wrist watch which he wore.
"There is nothing to fear," he declared, in his soft, musical
voice. "He knows how to take care of himself. And"--with a
significant glance of his long, magnetic eyes--"I am certain he
will return as speedily as possible."
Nevertheless, luncheon terminated, and Harley had not appeared.
"You have sometimes expressed a desire," said Ormuz Khan, "to see
the interior of a Persian house. Permit me to show you the only
really characteristic room which I allow myself in my English
home."
Endeavouring to conceal her great anxiety, Phil allowed herself
to be conducted by the Persian to an apartment which realized her
dreams of that Orient which she had never visited.
Three beautiful silver lanterns depended from a domed ceiling in
which wonderfully woven tapestry was draped. The windows were
partly obscured by carved wooden screens, and the light entered
through little panels of coloured glass. There were cushioned
divans, exquisite pottery, and a playful fountain plashing in a
marble pool.
Ormuz Khan conducted her to a wonderfully carven chair over which
a leopard's skin was draped and there she seated herself. She saw
through a wide doorway before her a long and apparently
unfurnished room dimly lighted. At the farther end she could
vaguely discern violet-coloured draperies. Ormuz Khan gracefully
threw himself upon a divan to the right of this open door.
"This, Miss Abingdon," he said, "is a nearly exact reproduction
of a room of a house which I have in Ispahan. I do not claim that
it is typical, but does its manner appeal to you?"
"Immensely," she replied, looking around her.
She became aware of a heavy perfume of hyacinths, and presently
observed that there were many bowls of those flowers set upon
little tables, and in niches in the wall.
"Yet its atmosphere is not truly of the Orient."
"Are such apartments uncommon, then, in Persia?" asked Phil,
striving valiantly to interest herself in the conversation.
"I do not say so," he returned, crossing one delicate foot over
the other, in languorous fashion. "But many things which are
typically of the Orient would probably disillusion you, Miss
Abingdon."
"In what way?" she asked, wondering why Mrs. McMurdoch had not
joined them.
"In many subtle ways. The real wonder and the mystery of the East
lie not upon the surface, but beneath it. And beneath the East of
to-day lies the East of yesterday."
The speaker's expression grew rapt, and he spoke in the mystic
manner which she knew and now dreaded. Her anxiety for the return
of Paul Harley grew urgent--a positive need, as, meeting the gaze
of the long, magnetic eyes, she felt again, like the touch of
cold steel, all the penetrating force of this man's will. She was
angrily aware of the fact that his gaze was holding hers
hypnotically, that she was meeting it contrary to her wish and
inclination. She wanted to look away but found herself looking
steadily into the coal-black eyes of Ormuz Khan.
"The East of yesterday"--his haunting voice seemed to reach her
from a great distance--"saw the birth of all human knowledge and
human power; and to us the East of yesterday is the East of
today."
Phil became aware that a sort of dreamy abstraction was creeping
over her, when in upon this mood came a sound which stimulated
her weakening powers of resistance.
Dimly, for all the windows of the room were closed, she heard a
car come up and stop before the house. It aroused her from the
curious condition of lethargy into which she was falling. She
turned her head sharply aside, the physical reflection of a
mental effort to remove her gaze from the long, magnetic eyes of
Ormuz Khan. And:
"Do you think that is Mr. Harley?" she asked, and failed to
recognize her own voice.
"Possibly," returned the Persian, speaking very gently.
With one ivory hand he touched his knee for a moment, the only
expression of disappointment which he allowed himself.
"May I ask you to go and enquire?" continued Phil, now wholly
mistress of herself again. "I am wondering, too, what can have
become of Mrs. McMurdoch."
"I will find out," said Ormuz Khan.
He rose, his every movement possessing a sort of feline grace. He
bowed and walked out of the room. Phil Abingdon heard in the
distance the motor restarted and the car being driven away from
Hillside. She stood up restlessly.
Beneath the calm of the Persian's manner she had detected the
presence of dangerous fires. The silence of the house oppressed
her. She was not actually frightened yet, but intuitively she
knew that all was not well. Then came a new sound arousing active
fear at last.
Someone was rapping upon one of the long, masked windows! Phil
Abingdon started back with a smothered exclamation.
"Quick!" came a high, cool voice, "open this window. You are in
danger."
The voice was odd, peculiar, but of one thing she was certain. It
was not the voice of an Oriental. Furthermore, it held a note of
command, and something, too, which inspired trust.
She looked quickly about her to make sure that she was alone. And
then, running swiftly to the window from which the sound had
come, she moved a heavy gilded fastening which closed it, and
drew open the heavy leaves.
A narrow terrace was revealed with a shrubbery beyond; and
standing on the terrace was a tall, thin man wearing a light coat
over evening dress. He looked pale, gaunt, and unshaven, and
although the regard of his light eyes was almost dreamy, there
was something very tense in his pose.
"I am Nicol Brinn," said the stranger. "I knew your father. You
have walked into a trap. I am here to get you out of it. Can you
drive?"
"Do you mean an automobile?" asked Phil, breathlessly.
"A Rolls Royce."
"Yes."
"Come right out."
"My furs! my hat!"
"Something bigger is at stake."
It was all wildly bizarre, almost unbelievable. Phil Abingdon had
experienced in her own person the insidious power of Ormuz Khan.
She now found herself under the spell of a personality at least
as forceful, although in a totally different way. She found
herself running through a winding path amid bushes, piloted by
this strange, unshaven man, to whom on sight she had given her
trust unquestioningly!
"When we reach the car," he said over his shoulder, "ask no
questions--head for home, and don't stop for anything--on two
legs or on four. That's the first thing--most important; then,
when you know you're safe, telephone Scotland Yard to send a raid
squad down by road, and do it quick."
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE CHASE
The events which led to the presence of Mr. Nicol Brinn at so
opportune a moment were--consistent with the character of that
remarkable man--of a sensational nature.
Having commandeered the Rolls Royce from the door of the Cavalry
Club, he had immediately, by a mental process which many perils
had perfected, dismissed the question of rightful ownership from
his mind. The fact that he might be intercepted by police scouts
he refused to entertain. The limousine driven by the Hindu
chauffeur was still in sight, and until Mr. Nicol Brinn had seen
it garaged, nothing else mattered, nothing else counted, and
nothing else must be permitted to interfere.
Jamming his hat tightly upon his head, he settled down at the
wheel, drawing up rather closer to the limousine as the chase lay
through crowded thoroughfares and keeping his quarry comfortably
in sight across Westminster Bridge and through the outskirts of
London.
He had carefully timed the drive to the unknown abode of
Fire-Tongue, and unless it had been prolonged, the more
completely to deceive him, he had determined that the house lay
not more than twenty miles from Piccadilly.
When Mitcham was passed, and the limousine headed straight on
into Surrey, he decided that there had been no doubling, but that
the house to which he had been taken lay in one of these
unsuspected country backwaters, which, while they are literally
within sight of the lights of London, have nevertheless a
remoteness as complete as secrecy could desire.
It was the deserted country roads which he feared, for if the man
ahead of him should suspect pursuit, a difficult problem might
arise.
By happy chance Nicol Brinn, an enthusiastic motorist, knew the
map of Surrey as few Englishmen knew it. Indeed, there was no
beauty spot within a forty-mile radius of London to which he
could not have driven by the best and shortest route, at a
moment's notice. This knowledge aided him now.
For presently at a fork in the road he saw that the driver of the
limousine had swung to the left, taking the low road, that to the
right offering a steep gradient. The high road was the direct
road to Lower Claybury, the low road a detour to the same.
Nicol Brinn mentally reviewed the intervening countryside, and
taking a gambler's chance, took the Rolls Royce up the hill. He
knew exactly what he was about, and he knew that the powerful
engine would eat up the slope with ease.
Its behaviour exceeded his expectations, and he found himself
mounting the acclivity at racing speed. At its highest point, the
road, skirting a hilltop, offered an extensive view of the valley
below. Here Nicol Brinn pulled up and, descending, watched and
listened.
In the stillness he could plainly hear the other automobile
humming steadily along the lowland road below. He concentrated
his mind upon the latter part of that strange journey, striving
to recall any details which had marked it immediately preceding
the time when he had detected the rustling of leaves and knew
that they had entered a carriage drive.
Yes, there had been a short but steep hill; and immediately
before this the car had passed over a deeply rutted road, or--he
had a sudden inspiration--over a level crossing.
He knew of just such a hilly road immediately behind Lower
Claybury station. Indeed, it was that by which he should be
compelled to descend if he continued to pursue his present route
to the town. He could think of no large, detached house, the
Manor Park excepted, which corresponded to the one which he
sought. But that in taking the high road he had acted even more
wisely than he knew, he was now firmly convinced.
He determined to proceed as far as the park gates as speedily as
possible. Therefore, returning to the wheel, he sent the car
along the now level road at top speed, so that the railings of
the Manor Park, when presently he found himself skirting the
grounds, had the semblance of a continuous iron fence wherever
the moonlight touched them.
He passed the head of the road dipping down to Lower Claybury,
but forty yards beyond pulled up and descended. Again he stood
listening, and:
"Good!" he muttered.
He could hear the other car labouring up the slope. He ran along
to the corner of the lane, and, crouching close under the bushes,
waited for its appearance. As he had supposed, the chauffeur
turned the car to the right.
"Good!" muttered Nicol Brinn again.
There was a baggage-rack immediately above the number plate. Upon
this Nicol Brinn sprang with the agility of a wildcat, settling
himself upon his perilous perch before the engine had had time to
gather speed.
When presently the car turned into the drive of Hillside, Nicol
Brinn dropped off and dived into the bushes on the right of the
path. From this hiding place he saw the automobile driven around
the front of the house to the garage, which was built out from
the east wing. Not daring to pursue his investigations until the
chauffeur had retired, he sought a more comfortable spot near a
corner of the lawn and there, behind a bank of neglected flowers,
lay down, watching the man's shadowy figure moving about in the
garage.
Although he was some distance from the doors he could see that
there was a second car in the place--a low, torpedo-bodied racer,
painted battleship gray. This sight turned his thoughts in
another direction.
Very cautiously he withdrew to the drive again, retracing his
steps to the lane, and walking back to the spot where he had left
the Rolls Royce, all the time peering about him to right and
left. He was looking for a temporary garage for the car, but one
from which, if necessary, he could depart in a hurry. The shell
of an ancient barn, roofless and desolate, presently invited
inspection and, as a result, a few minutes later Colonel Lord
Wolverham's luxurious automobile was housed for the night in
these strange quarters.
When Nicol Brinn returned to Hillside, he found the garage locked
and the lights extinguished. Standing under a moss-grown wall
which sheltered him from the house, from his case he selected a
long black cigar, lighted it with care and, having his hands
thrust in the pockets of his light overcoat and the cigar
protruding aggressively from the left corner of his mouth, he
moved along to an angle of the wall and stared reflectively at
the silent house.
A mental picture arose of a secret temple in the shadow of the
distant Himalayas. Was it credible that this quiet country house,
so typical of rural England, harboured that same dread secret
which he had believed to be locked away in those Indian hills?
Could he believe that the dark and death-dealing power which he
had seen at work in the East was now centred here, within
telephone-call of London?
The fate of Sir Charles Abingdon and of Paul Harley would seem to
indicate that such was the case. Beyond doubt, the document of
which Rama Dass had spoken was some paper in the possession of
the late Sir Charles. Much that had been mysterious was cleared
up. He wondered why it had not occurred to him from the first
that Sir Charles's inquiry, which he had mentioned to Paul
Harley, respecting Fire-Tongue, had been due to the fact that the
surgeon had seen the secret mark upon his arm after the accident
in the Haymarket. He remembered distinctly that his sleeve had
been torn upon that occasion. He could not imagine, however, what
had directed the attention of the organization to Sir Charles,
and for what reason his death had been decided upon.
He rolled his cigar from corner to corner of his mouth, staring
reflectively with lack-lustre eyes at the silent house before
him. In the moonlight it made a peaceful picture enough. A
cautious tour of the place revealed a lighted window upon the
first floor. Standing in the shadow of an old apple tree, Nicol
Brinn watched the blind of this window minute after minute,
patiently waiting for a shadow to appear upon it; and at last his
patience was rewarded.
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