Fire Tongue
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Sax Rohmer >> Fire Tongue
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A shadow appeared--the shadow of a woman!
Nicol Brinn dropped his cigar at his feet and set his heel upon
it. A bitter-sweet memory which had been with him for seven years
arose again in his mind. There is a kind of mountain owl in
certain parts of northern India which possesses a curiously high,
plaintive note. He wondered if he could remember and reproduce
that note.
He made the attempt, repeating the cry three times. At the third
repetition the light in the first floor window went out. He heard
the sound of the window being gently opened. Then a voice--a
voice which held the sweetest music in the world for the man who
listened below--spoke softly:
"Nicol!"
"Naida!" he called. "Come down to me. You must. Don't answer. I
will wait here."
"Promise you will let me return!"
He hesitated.
"Promise!"
"I promise."
CHAPTER XXIX. THE CATASTROPHE
The first faint spears of morning creeping through the trees
which surrounded Hillside revealed two figures upon a rustic
bench in the little orchard adjoining the house. A pair
incongruous enough--this dark-eyed Eastern woman, wrapped in a
long fur cloak, and Nicol Brinn, gaunt, unshaven, fantastic in
his evening dress, revealed now in the gray morning light.
"Look!" whispered Naida. "It is the dawn. I must go!"
Nicol Brinn clenched his teeth tightly but made no reply.
"You promised," she said, and although her voice was very tender
she strove to detach his arm, which was locked about her
shoulders.
He nodded grimly.
"I'll keep my word. I made a contract with hell with my eyes
open, and I'll stick to it." He stood up suddenly. "Go back,
Naida!" he said. "Go back! You have my promise, now, and I'm
helpless. But at last I see a way, and I'm going to take it."
"What do you mean?" she cried, standing up and clutching his arm.
"Never mind." His tone was cool again. "Just go back."
"You would not--" she began.
"I never broke my word in my life, and even now I'm not going to
begin. While you live I stay silent."
In the growing light Naida looked about her affrightedly. Then,
throwing her arms impulsively around Brinn, she kissed him--a
caress that was passionate but sexless; rather the kiss of a
mother who parts with a beloved son than that which a woman
bestows upon the man she loves; an act of renunciation.
He uttered a low cry and would have seized her in his arms but,
lithely evading him, she turned, stifling a sob, and darted away
through the trees toward the house.
For long he stood looking after her, fists clenched and his face
very gray in the morning light. Some small inner voice told him
that his new plan, and the others which he had built upon it,
must crumble and fall as a castle of sand. He groaned and,
turning aside, made his way through the shrubbery to the
highroad.
He was become accessory to a murder; for he had learned for what
reason and by what means Sir Charles Abingdon had been
assassinated. He had even learned the identity of his assassin;
had learned that the dreaded being called Fire-Tongue in India
was known and respected throughout the civilized world as His
Excellency Ormuz Khan!
Paul Harley had learned these things also, and now at this very
hour Paul Harley lay a captive in Hillside. Naida had assured him
that Paul Harley was alive and safe. It had been decided that his
death would lead to the destruction of the movement, but pressure
was being brought upon him to ensure his silence.
Yes, he, Nicol Brinn, was bound and manacled to a gang of
assassins; and because his tongue was tied, because the woman he
loved better than anything in the world was actually a member of
the murderous group, he must pace the deserted country lanes
inactive; he must hold his hand, although he might summon the
resources of New Scotland Yard by phoning from Lower Claybury
station!
Through life his word had been his bond, and Nicol Brinn was
incapable of compromising with his conscience. But the direct way
was barred to him. Nevertheless, no task could appal the
inflexible spirit of the man, and he had registered a silent vow
that Ormuz Khan should never leave England alive.
Not a soul was astir yet upon the country roads, and sitting down
upon a grassy bank, Nicol Brinn lighted one of his black cigars,
which in times of stress were his food and drink, upon which if
necessary he could carry-on for forty-eight hours upon end.
In connection with his plan for coercing Harley, Ormuz Khan had
gone to London by rail on the previous night, departing from
Lower Claybury station at about the time that Colonel Lord
Wolverham came out of the Cavalry Club to discover his Rolls
Royce to be missing. This same Rolls Royce was now a source of
some anxiety to Nicol Brinn, for its discovery by a passing
labourer in the deserted barn seemed highly probable.
However, he had matters of greater urgency to think about, not
the least of these being the necessity of concealing his presence
in the neighbourhood of Hillside. Perhaps his Sioux-like face
reflected a spirit allied in some respects to that of the once
great Indian tribe.
His genius for taking cover, perfected upon many a big-game
expedition, enabled him successfully to accomplish the feat; so
that, when the limousine, which he had watched go by during the
morning, returned shortly after noon, the lack-lustre eyes were
peering out through the bushes near the entrance to the drive.
Instinct told him that the pretty girl with whom Ormuz Khan was
deep in conversation could be none other than Phil Abingdon, but
the identity of her companion he could not even guess. On the
other hand, that this poisonously handsome Hindu, who bent
forward so solicitously toward his charming travelling companion,
was none other than the dreaded Fire-Tongue, he did not doubt.
He returned to a strategic position which he had discovered
during the night. In a measure he was nonplussed. That the
presence of the girl was primarily associated with the coercion
of Paul Harley, he understood; but might it not portend something
even more sinister?
When, later, the limousine departed again, at great risk of
detection he ran across a corner of the lawn to peer out into the
lane, in order that he might obtain a glimpse of its occupant.
This proved to be none other than Phil Abingdon's elderly
companion. She had apparently been taken ill, and a dignified
Hindu gentleman, wearing gold-rimmed pince-nez, was in
attendance.
Nicol Brinn clenched his jaws hard. The girl had fallen into a
trap. He turned rapidly, facing the house. Only at one point did
the shrubbery approach the wall, but for that point he set out
hot foot, passing from bush to bush with Indian cleverness,
tense, alert, and cool in despite of his long vigil.
At last he came to the shallow veranda with its four sightless
windows backed by fancifully carven screens. He stepped up to the
first of these and pressed his ear against the glass.
Fate was with him, for almost immediately he detected a smooth,
musical voice speaking in the room beyond. A woman's voice
answered and, listening intently, he detected the sound of a
closing door.
Thereupon he acted: with the result, as has appeared, that Phil
Abingdon, hatless, without her furs, breathless and more
frightened than she had ever been in her life, presently found
herself driving a luxurious Rolls Royce out of a roofless barn on
to the highroad, and down the slope to Claybury station.
It was at about this time, or a little later, that Paul Harley
put into execution a project which he had formed. The ventilator
above the divan, which he had determined to be the spy-hole
through which his every movement was watched, had an ornamental
framework studded with metal knobs. He had recently discovered an
electric bell-push in the centre panel of the massive door of his
prison.
Inwardly on fire, imagining a thousand and one horrors centring
about the figure of Phil Abingdon, but retaining his outward calm
by dint of a giant effort, he pressed this bell and waited.
Perhaps two minutes elapsed. Then the glass doors beyond the
gilded screen were drawn open, and the now-familiar voice spoke:
"Mr. Paul Harley?"
"Yes," he replied, "I have made my final decision."
"And that is?"
"I agree."
"You are wise," the voice replied. "A statement will be placed
before you for signature. When you have signed it, ring the bell
again, and in a few minutes you will be free."
Vaguely he detected the speaker withdrawing. Thereupon, heaving a
loud sigh, he removed his coat, looked about him as if in quest
of some place to hang it, and finally, fixing his gaze upon the
studded grating, stood upon the divan and hung his coat over the
spy-hole! This accomplished, he turned.
The table was slowly sinking through the gap in the floor
beneath.
Treading softly, he moved forward and seated himself cross-legged
upon it! It continued to descend, and he found himself in
absolute darkness.
Nicol Brinn ran on to the veranda and paused for a moment to take
breath. The window remained open, as Phil Abingdon had left it.
He stepped into the room with its elegant Persian appointments.
It was empty. But as he crossed the threshold, he paused,
arrested by the sound of a voice.
"A statement will be placed before you," said the voice, "and
when you have signed it, in a few minutes you will be free."
Nicol Brinn silently dropped flat at the back of a divan, as Rama
Dass, coming out of the room which communicated with the golden
screen, made his way toward the distant door. Having one eye
raised above the top of the cushions, Nicol Brinn watched him,
recognizing the man who had accompanied the swooning lady. She
had been deposited, then, at no great distance from the house.
He was to learn later that poor Mrs. McMurdoch, in her
artificially induced swoon, had been left in charge of a
hospitable cottager, while her solicitous Oriental escort had
sped away in quest of a physician. But at the moment matters of
even greater urgency engaged his attention.
Creeping forward to the doorway by which Rama Dass had gone out,
Nicol Brinn emerged upon a landing from which stairs both
ascended and descended. Faint sounds of footsteps below guided
him, and although from all outward seeming he appeared to saunter
casually down, his left hand was clutching the butt of a Colt
automatic.
He presently found himself in a maze of basements--kitchens of
the establishment, no doubt. The sound of footsteps no longer
guided him. He walked along, and in a smaller deserted pantry
discovered the base of a lift shaft in which some sort of small
elevator worked. He was staring at this reflectively, when, for
the second time in his adventurous career, a silken cord was
slipped tightly about his throat!
He was tripped and thrown. He fought furiously, but the fatal
knee pressure came upon his spine so shrewdly as to deprive him
of the strength to raise his hands.
"My finish!" were the words that flashed through his mind, as
sounds like the waves of a great ocean beat upon his ears and
darkness began to descend.
Then, miraculously, the pressure ceased; the sound of great
waters subsided; and choking, coughing, he fought his way back to
life, groping like a blind man and striving to regain his feet.
"Mr. Brinn!" said a vaguely familiar voice. "Mr. Brinn!"
The realities reasserted themselves. Before him, pale, wide-eyed,
and breathing heavily, stood Paul Harley; and prone upon the
floor of the pantry lay Rama Dass, still clutching one end of the
silken rope in his hand!
"Mr. Harley!" gasped Brinn. "My God, sir!" He clutched at his
bruised throat. "I have to thank you for my life."
He paused, looking down at the prone figure as Harley, dropping
upon his knees, turned the man over.
"I struck him behind the ear," he muttered, "and gave him every
ounce. Good heavens!"
He had slipped his hand inside Rama Dass's vest, and now he
looked up, his face very grim.
"Good enough!" said Brinn, coolly. "He asked for it; he's got it.
Take this." He thrust the Colt automatic into Harley's hand as
the latter stood up again.
"What do we do now?" asked Harley.
"Search the house," was the reply. "Everything coloured you see,
shoot, unless I say no."
"Miss Abingdon?"
"She's safe. Follow me."
Straight up two flights of stairs led Nicol Brinn, taking three
steps at a stride. Palpably enough the place was deserted. Ormuz
Khan's plans for departure were complete.
Into two rooms on the first floor they burst, to find them
stripped and bare. On the threshold of the third Brinn stopped
dead, and his gaunt face grew ashen. Then he tottered across the
room, arms outstretched.
"Naida," he whispered. "My love, my love!"
Paul Harley withdrew quietly. He had begun to walk along the
corridor when the sound of a motor brought him up sharply. A
limousine was being driven away from the side entrance! Not alone
had he heard that sound. His face deathly, and the lack-lustre
eyes dully on fire, Nicol Brinn burst out of the room and, not
heeding the presence of Harley, hurled himself down the stairs.
He was as a man demented, an avenging angel.
"There he is!" cried Harley--"heading for the Dover Road!"
Nicol Brinn, at the wheel of the racer--the same in which Harley
had made his fateful journey and which had afterward been
concealed in the garage at Hillside--scarcely nodded.
Nearer they drew to the quarry, and nearer. Once--twice--and
again, the face of Ormuz Khan peered out of the window at the
rear of the limousine.
They drew abreast; the road was deserted. And they passed
slightly ahead.
Paul Harley glanced at the granite face of his companion with an
apprehension he was unable to conceal. This was a cool madman who
drove. What did he intend to do?
Inch by inch, Nicol Brinn edged the torpedo body nearer to the
wheels of the racing limousine. The Oriental chauffeur drew in
ever closer to the ditch bordering the roadside. He shouted
hoarsely and was about to apply the brakes when the two cars
touched!
A rending crash came--a hoarse scream--and the big limousine
toppled over into the ditch.
Harley felt himself hurled through space.
"Shall I follow on to Lower Claybury, sir?" asked Inspector
Wessex, excitedly.
Phil Abingdon's message had come through nearly an hour before,
and a party had been despatched in accordance with Brinn's
instructions. Wessex had returned to New Scotland Yard too late
to take charge, and now, before the Assistant Commissioner had
time to reply, a 'phone buzzed.
"Yes?" said the Assistant Commissioner, taking up one of the
several instruments: "What!"
Even this great man, so justly celebrated for his placid
demeanour, was unable to conceal his amazement.
"Yes," he added. "Let him come up!" He replaced the receiver and
turning to Wessex: "Mr. Nicol Brinn is here!" he informed him.
"What's that!" cried the inspector, quite startled out of his
usual deferential manner.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Came a rap at the door.
"Come in," said the Assistant Commissioner.
The door was thrown open and Nicol Brinn entered. One who knew
him well would have said that he had aged ten years. Even to the
eye of Wessex he looked an older man. He wore a shoddy suit and a
rough tweed cap and his left arm was bandaged.
"Gentlemen," he said, without other greeting, "I'm here to make a
statement. I desire that a shorthand-writer attend to take it
down."
He dropped weakly into a chair which Wessex placed for him. The
Assistant Commissioner, doubtless stimulated by the manner of his
extraordinary visitor, who now extracted a cigar from the breast
pocket of his ill-fitting jacket and nonchalantly lighted it,
successfully resumed his well-known tired manner, and, pressing a
bell:
"One shall attend, Mr. Brinn," he said.
A knock came at the door and a sergeant entered.
"Send Ferris," directed the Assistant Commissioner. "Quickly."
Two minutes later a man came in carrying a note book and fountain
pen. The Assistant Commissioner motioned him to a chair, and:
"Pray proceed, Mr. Brinn," he said.
CHAPTER XXX. NICOL BRINN'S STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE
"The statement which I have to make, gentlemen, will almost
certainly appear incredible to you. However, when it has been
transcribed I will sign it. And I am going to say here and now
that there are points in the narrative which I am in a position
to substantiate. What I can't prove you must take my word for.
But I warn you that the story is tough.
"I have a certain reputation for recklessness. I don't say it may
not be inherent; but if you care to look the matter up, you will
find that the craziest phase of my life is that covering the last
seven years. The reason why I have courted death during that
period I am now about to explain.
"Although my father was no traveller, I think I was born with the
wanderlust. I started to explore the world in my Harvard
vacations, and when college days were over I set about the
business whole-heartedly. Where I went and what I did, up to the
time that my travels led me to India, is of no interest to you or
to anybody else, because in India I found heaven and hell--a
discovery enough to satisfy the most adventurous man alive.
"At this present time, gentlemen, I am not going to load you with
geographical details. The exact spot at which my life ended, in a
sense which I presently hope to make clear, can be located at
leisure by the proper authorities, to whom I will supply a
detailed map which I have in my possession. I am even prepared to
guide the expedition, if the Indian Government considers an
expedition necessary and cares to accept my services. It's good
enough for you to know that pig-sticking and tiger-hunting having
begun to pall upon me somewhat, I broke away from Anglo-Indian
hospitality, and headed up country, where the Himalayas beckoned.
I had figured on crossing at a point where no man has crossed
yet, but that project was interrupted, and I'm here to tell you
why.
"Up there in the northwest provinces they told me I was crazy
when I outlined, one night in a mess, of which I was a guest at
the time, my scheme for heading northeast toward a tributary of
the Ganges which would bring me to the neighbourhood of
Khatmandu, right under the shadow of Everest.
"'Once you leave Khatmandu,' said the mess president, 'you are
outside the pale as far as British influence is concerned. I
suppose you understand that?'
"I told him I quite understood it.
"'You can't reach Tibet that way,' he said.
"'Never mind, sir,' I answered. 'I can try, if I feel like it.'
"Three days later I set out. I am not superstitious, and if I
take a long time to make a plan, once I've made it I generally
stick to it. But right at the very beginning of my expedition I
had a warning, if ever a man had one. The country through which
my route lay is of very curious formation. If you can imagine a
section of your own west country viewed through a giant
magnifying glass, you have some sort of picture of the territory
in which I found myself.
"Gigantic rocks stand up like monstrous tors, or towers,
sometimes offering sheer precipices of many hundreds of feet in
height. On those sides of these giant tors, however, which are
less precipitous, miniature forests are sometimes found, and
absolutely impassable jungles.
"Bordering an independent state, this territory is not at all
well known, but I had secured as a guide a man named Vadi--or
that was the name he gave me whom I knew to be a high-caste
Brahmin of good family. He had been with me for some time, and I
thought I could trust him. Therefore, once clear of British
territory, I took him into my confidence respecting the real
object of my journey.
"This was not primarily to scale a peak of the Himalayas, nor
even to visit Khatmandu, but to endeavour to obtain a glimpse of
the Temple of Fire!
"That has excited your curiosity, gentlemen. I don't suppose any
one here has ever heard of the Temple of Fire.
"By some it is regarded as a sort of native legend but it is more
than a legend. It is a fact. For seven years I have known it to
be a fact, but my tongue has been tied. Listen. Even down in
Bombay, the coming of the next great Master is awaited by certain
of the natives; and for more than ten years now it has been
whispered from end to end of India that he was about to proclaim
himself, that disciples moved secretly among the people of every
province, and that the unknown teacher in person awaited his hour
in a secret temple up near the Tibetan frontier.
"A golden key opens many doors, gentlemen, and at the time of
which I am speaking I had obtained more information respecting
this secret religion or cult than any other member of the white
races had ever collected, or so I thought at the time. I had
definite evidence to show that the existence of this man, or
demi-god--for by some he was said to possess superhuman
powers--was no myth, but an actual fact.
"The collecting of this data was extremely perilous, and one of
my informants, with whom I had come in contact while passing
through the central provinces, died mysteriously the night before
I left Nagpur. I wondered very much on my way north why I was not
molested, for I did not fail to see that the death of the man in
Nagpur was connected with the fact that he had divulged to me
some of the secrets of the religion of Fire-Tongue. Indeed, it
was from him that I first learned the name of the high priest of
the cult of Fire. Why I was not molested I learned later.
"But to return to Vadi, my Brahmin guide. We had camped for the
night in the shadow of one of those giant tors which I have
mentioned. The bearers were seated around their fire at some
little distance from us, and Vadi and I were consulting
respecting our route in the morning, when I decided to take him
into my confidence. Accordingly:
"'Vadi,' I said, 'I know for a positive fact that we are within
ten miles of the secret Temple of Fire.'
"I shall never forget the look in his eyes, with the reflection
of the firelight dancing in them; but he never moved a muscle.
"'The sahib is wise,' he replied.
"'So is Vadi,' said I. 'Therefore he knows how happy a thousand
pounds of English money would make him. It is his in return for a
sight of the Temple.'
"Still as a carven image, he squatted there watching me,
unmoving, expressionless. Then:
"'A man may die for nothing,' he returned, softly. 'Why should
the sahib pay a thousand pounds?'
"'Why should the sahib die?' said I.
"'It is forbidden for any to see the Temple, even from a
distance.'
"'But if no one ever knows that I have seen it?'
"'Fire-Tongue knows everything,' he replied, and as he pronounced
the name, he performed a curious salutation, touching his
forefinger with the tip of his tongue, and then laying his hand
upon his brow, upon his lips, and upon his breast, at the same
time bowing deeply. 'His vengeance is swift and terrible. He
wills a man to die, and the man is dead. None save those who have
passed through the tests may set eyes upon his temple, nor even
speak his name.'
"This conversation took place, as I have already mentioned, in
the shadow of one of those strange stone hillocks which abounded
here, and it was at this point that I received a warning which
might have deterred many men, since it was inexplicable and
strangely awesome.
"My attention was drawn to the phenomenon by a sudden cessation
of chatter amongst the bearers seated around their fire. I became
aware that an absolute stillness had fallen, and in the eyes of
the Brahmin who sat facing me I saw a look of exaltation, of wild
fanaticism.
"I jerked my head around, looking back over my shoulder, and what
I saw I shall never forget, nor to this day have I been able to
explain the means by which the illusion was produced.
"Moving downward toward me through the jungle darkness, slowly,
evenly, but at a height above the ground of what I judged to be
about fifteen feet, was a sort of torch or flambeau, visible
because it was faintly luminous; and surmounting it was a darting
tongue of blue flame!
"At the moment that I set eyes upon this apparently supernatural
spectacle the bearers, crying some word in Hindustani which I did
not understand, rose and fled in a body.
"I may say here that I never saw any of them again; although,
considering that they took nothing with them, how they regained
the nearest village is a mystery which I have never solved.
"Gentlemen, I know the East as few of my fellow-citizens know it.
I know something of the powers which are latent in some Orientals
and active in others. That my Brahmin guide was a hypnotist and
an illusionist, I have since thought.
"For, even as the pattering footsteps of the bearers grew faint
in the distance, the fiery torch disappeared as if by magic, and
a silken cord was about my throat!
"As I began a desperate fight for life, I realized that, whatever
else Vadi might be, he was certainly an expert thug. The jungle,
the rocks, seemed to swim around me as I crashed to the ground
and felt the Brahmin's knee in the small of my back."
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