Fire Tongue

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If his ineffective surveillance of Ormuz Khan had been dictated
by interest in Phil Abingdon rather than by strictly professional
motives, it was, nevertheless, an ordinary part of the conduct of
such a case. But while he had personally undertaken the matter of
his excellency he had left the work of studying the activities of
Nicol Brinn to an assistant. He could not succeed in convincing
himself that, on the evidence available, the movements of the
Oriental gentleman were more important than those of the
American.

"Here we are," said Phil Abingdon.

She alighted, and Harley dismissed the cabman and followed the
girl into Doctor McMurdoch's house. Here he made the acquaintance
of Mrs. McMurdoch, who, as experience had taught him to
anticipate, was as plump and merry and vivacious as her husband
was lean, gloomy, and taciturn. But she was a perfect well of
sympathy, as her treatment of the bereaved girl showed. She took
her in her arms and hugged her in a way that was good to see.

"We were waiting for you, dear," she said when the formality of
presenting Harley was over. "Are you quite sure that you want to
go?"

Phil Abingdon nodded pathetically. She had raised her veil, and
Harley could see that her eyes were full of tears. "I should like
to see the flowers," she answered.

She was staying at the McMurdochs' house, and as the object at
present in view was that of a visit to her old home, from which
the funeral of Sir Charles Abingdon was to take place on the
morrow, Harley became suddenly conscious of the fact that his
presence was inopportune.

"I believe you want to see me, Doctor McMurdoch," he said,
turning to the dour physician. "Shall I await your return or do
you expect to be detained?"

But Phil Abingdon had her own views on the matter. She stepped up
beside him and linked her arm in his.

"Please come with me, Mr. Harley," she pleaded. "I want you to."

As a result he found himself a few minutes later entering the
hall of the late Sir Charles's house. The gloved hand resting on
his arm trembled, but when he looked down solicitously into Phil
Abingdon's face she smiled bravely, and momentarily her clasp
tightened as if to reassure him.

It seemed quite natural that she should derive comfort from the
presence of this comparative stranger; and neither of the two, as
they stood there looking at the tributes to the memory of the
late Sir Charles--which overflowed from a neighbouring room into
the lobby and were even piled upon the library table--were
conscious of any strangeness in the situation.

The first thing that had struck Harley on entering the house had
been an overpowering perfume of hyacinths. Now he saw whence it
arose; for, conspicuous amid the wreaths and crosses, was an
enormous device formed of hyacinths. Its proportions dwarfed
those of all the others.

Mrs. Howett, the housekeeper, a sad-eyed little figure, appeared
now from behind the bank of flowers. Her grief could not rob her
of that Old World manner which was hers, and she saluted the
visitors with a bow which promised to develop into a curtsey.
Noting the direction of Phil Abingdon's glance, which was set
upon a card attached to the wreath of hyacinths: "It was the
first to arrive, Miss Phil," she said. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"It's wonderful," said the girl, moving forward and drawing
Harley along with her. She glanced from the card up to his face,
which was set in a rather grim expression.

"Ormuz Khan has been so good," she said. "He sent his secretary
to see if he could be of any assistance yesterday, but I
certainly had not expected this."

Her eyes filled with tears again, and, because he thought they
were tears of gratitude, Harley clenched his hand tightly so that
the muscles of his forearm became taut to Phil Abingdon's touch.
She looked up at him, smiling pathetically: "Don't you think it
was awfully kind of him?" she asked.

"Very," replied Harley.

A dry and sepulchral cough of approval came from Doctor
McMurdoch; and Harley divined with joy that when the ordeal of
the next day was over Phil Abingdon would have to face
cross-examination by the conscientious Scotsman respecting this
stranger whose attentions, if Orientally extravagant, were
instinct with such generous sympathy.

For some reason the heavy perfume of the hyacinths affected him
unpleasantly. All his old doubts and suspicions found a new life,
so that his share in the conversation which presently arose
became confined to a few laconic answers to direct questions.

He was angry, and his anger was more than half directed against
himself, because he knew that he had no shadow of right to
question this girl about her friendships or even to advise her.
He determined, however, even at the cost of incurring a rebuke,
to urge Doctor McMurdoch to employ all the influence he possessed
to terminate an acquaintanceship which could not be otherwise
than undesirable, if it was not actually dangerous.

When, presently, the party returned to the neighbouring house of
the physician, however, Harley's plans in this respect were
destroyed by the action of Doctor McMurdoch, in whose composition
tact was not a predominant factor. Almost before they were seated
in the doctor's drawing room he voiced his disapproval. "Phil,"
he said, ignoring a silent appeal from his wife, "this is,
mayhap, no time to speak of the matter, but I'm not glad to see
the hyacinths."

Phil Abingdon's chin quivered rebelliously, and, to Harley's
dismay, it was upon him that she fixed her gaze in replying.
"Perhaps you also disapprove of his excellency's kindness?" she
said, indignantly.

Harley found himself temporarily at a loss for words. She was
perfectly well aware that he disapproved, and now was taking a
cruel pleasure in reminding him of the fact that he was not
entitled to do so. Had he been capable of that calm analysis to
which ordinarily he submitted all psychological problems, he must
have found matter for rejoicing in this desire of the girl's to
hurt him. "I am afraid, Miss Abingdon," he replied, quietly,
"that the matter is not one in which I am entitled to express my
opinion."

She continued to look at him challengingly, but:

"Quite right, Mr. Harley," said Doctor McMurdoch, "but if you
were, your opinion would be the same as mine."

Mrs. McMurdoch's glance became positively beseeching, but the
physician ignored it. "As your father's oldest friend," he
continued, "I feel called upon to remark that it isn't usual for
strangers to thrust their attentions upon a bereaved family."

"Oh," said Phil Abingdon with animation, "do I understand that
this is also your opinion, Mr. Harley?"

"As a man of the world," declared Doctor McMurdoch, gloomily, "it
cannot fail to be."

Tardily enough he now succumbed to the silent entreaties of his
wife. "I will speak of this later," he concluded. "Mayhap I
should not have spoken now."

Tears began to trickle down Phil Abingdon's cheeks.

"Oh, my dear, my dear!" cried little Mrs. McMurdoch, running to
her side.

But the girl sprang up, escaping from the encircling arm of the
motherly old lady. She shook her head disdainfully, as if to
banish tears and weakness, and glanced rapidly around from face
to face. "I think you are all perfectly cruel and horrible," she
said in a choking voice, turned, and ran out.

A distant door banged.

"H'm," muttered Doctor McMurdoch, "I've put my foot in it."

His wife looked at him in speechless indignation and then
followed Phil Abingdon from the room.

CHAPTER IX. TWO REPORTS

On returning to his office Paul Harley found awaiting him the
report of the man to whom he had entrusted the study of the
movements of Nicol Brinn. His mood was a disturbed one, and he
had observed none of his customary precautions in coming from
Doctor McMurdoch's house. He wondered if the surveillance which
he had once detected had ceased. Perhaps the chambers of Nicol
Brinn were the true danger zone upon which these subtle but
powerful forces now were focussed. On the other hand, he was
quite well aware that his movements might have been watched
almost uninterruptedly since the hour that Sir Charles Abingdon
had visited his office.

During the previous day, in his attempt to learn the identity of
Ormuz Khan, he had covered his tracks with his customary care. He
had sufficient faith in his knowledge of disguise, which was
extensive, to believe that those mysterious persons who were
interested in his movements remained unaware of the fact that the
simple-minded visitor from Vancouver who had spent several hours
in and about the Savoy, and Paul Harley of Chancery Lane, were
one and the same.

His brain was far too alertly engaged with troubled thoughts of
Phil Abingdon to be susceptible to the influence of those
delicate etheric waves which he had come to recognize as the note
of danger. Practically there had been no development whatever in
the investigation, and he was almost tempted to believe that the
whole thing was a mirage, when the sight of the typewritten
report translated him mentally to the luxurious chambers in
Piccadilly.

Again, almost clairvoyantly, he saw the stoical American seated
before the empty fireplace, his foot restlessly tapping the
fender. Again he heard the curious, high tones: "I'll tell you...
You have opened the gates of hell...."

The whole scene, with its tantalizing undercurrent of mystery,
was reenacted before his inner vision. He seemed to hear Nicol
Brinn, startled from his reverie, exclaim: "I think it was an
owl.... We sometimes get them over from the Green Park...."

Why should so simple an incident have produced so singular an
effect? For the face of the speaker had been ashen.

Then the pendulum swung inevitably back: "You are all perfectly
cruel and horrible...."

Paul Harley clenched his hands, frowning at the Burmese cabinet
as though he hated it.

How persistently the voice of Phil Abingdon rang in his ears! He
could not forget her lightest words. How hopelessly her
bewitching image intruded itself between his reasoning mind and
the problem upon which he sought to concentrate.

Miss Smith, the typist, had gone, for it was after six o'clock,
and Innes alone was on duty. He came in as Harley, placing his
hat and cane upon the big writing table, sat down to study the
report.

"Inspector Wessex rang up, Mr. Harley, about an hour ago. He said
he would be at the Yard until six."

"Has he obtained any information?" asked Paul Harley, wearily,
glancing at his little table clock.

"He said he had had insufficient time to do much in the matter,
but that there were one or two outstanding facts which might
interest you."

"Did he seem to be surprised?"

"He did," confessed Innes. "He said that Ormuz Khan was a
well-known figure in financial circles, and asked me in what way
you were interested in him."

"Ah!" murmured Harley. He took up the telephone. "City 400," he
said.... "Is that the Commissioner's Office, New Scotland Yard?
... Paul Harley speaking. Would you please inquire if Detective
Inspector Wessex has gone?"

While awaiting a reply he looked up at Innes. "Is there anything
else?" he asked.

"Only the letters, Mr. Harley."

"No callers?"

"No."

"Leave the letters, then; I will see to them. You need not wait."
A moment later, as his secretary bade him good-night and went out
of the office:

"Hello," said Harley, speaking into the mouthpiece... "The
inspector has gone? Perhaps you would ask him to ring me up in
the morning." He replaced the receiver on the hook.

Resting his chin in his hands, he began to read from the
typewritten pages before him. His assistant's report was
conceived as follows:

'Re Mr. Nicol Brinn of Raleigh House, Piccadilly, W. I.

'Mr. Nicol Brinn is an American citizen, born at Cincinnati,
Ohio, February 15, 1884. He is the son of John Nicolas Brinn of
the same city, founder of the firm of J. Nicolas Brinn,
Incorporated, later reconstituted under the style of Brinn's
Universal Electric Supply Corporation.

'Nicol Brinn is a graduate of Harvard. He has travelled
extensively in nearly all parts of the world and has access to
the best society of Europe and America. He has a reputation for
eccentricity, has won numerous sporting events as a gentleman
rider; was the first airman to fly over the Rockies; took part in
the Uruguay rebellion of 1904, and held the rank of lieutenant
colonel of field artillery with the American forces during the
Great War.

'He has published a work on big game and has contributed numerous
travel articles to American periodicals. On the death of Mr.
Brinn, senior, in 1914, he inherited an enormous fortune and a
preponderating influence in the B.U.E.S.C. He has never taken any
active part in conduct of the concern, but has lived a restless
and wandering life in various parts of the world.

'Mr. Nicol Brinn is a confirmed bachelor. I have been unable to
find that he has ever taken the slightest interest in any woman
other than his mother throughout his career. Mrs. J. Nicolas
Brinn is still living in Cincinnati, and there is said to be a
strong bond of affection between mother and son. His movements on
yesterday, 4th June, 1921, were as follows:

'He came out of his chambers at eight o'clock and rode for an
hour in the park, when he returned and remained indoors until
midday. He then drove to the Carlton, where he lunched with the
Foreign Secretary, with whom he remained engaged in earnest
conversation until ten minutes to three. The Rt. Hon. gentleman
proceeded to the House of Commons and Mr. Brinn to an auction at
Christie's. He bought two oil paintings. He then returned to his
chambers and did not reappear again until seven o'clock. He dined
alone at a small and unfashionable restaurant in Soho, went on to
his box at Covent Garden, where he remained for an hour, also
alone, and then went home. He had no callers throughout the day.'

Deliberately Paul Harley had read the report, only removing his
hand from his chin to turn over the pages. Now from the cabinet
at his elbow he took out his tin of tobacco and, filling and
lighting a pipe, lay back, eyes half closed, considering what he
had learned respecting Nicol Brinn.

That he was concerned in the death of Sir Charles Abingdon he did
not believe for a moment; but that this elusive case, which upon
investigation only seemed the more obscure, was nevertheless a
case of deliberate murder he was as firmly convinced as ever. Of
the identity of the murderer, of his motive, he had not the
haziest idea, but that the cloud which he had pictured as
overhanging the life of the late Sir Charles was a reality and
not a myth of the imagination he became more completely convinced
with each new failure to pick up a clue.

He found himself helplessly tied. In which direction should he
move and to what end? Inclination prompted him in one direction,
common sense held him back. As was his custom, he took a pencil
and wrote upon a little block:

Find means to force Brinn to speak.

He lay back in his chair again, deep in thought, and presently
added the note:

Obtain interview with Ormuz Khan.

Just as he replaced the pencil on the table, his telephone bell
rang. The caller proved to be his friend, Inspector Wessex.

"Hello, Mr. Harley," said the inspector. "I had occasion to
return to the Yard, and they told me you had rung up. I don't
know why you are interested in this Ormuz Khan, unless you want
to raise a loan."

Paul Harley laughed. "I gather that he is a man of extensive
means," he replied, "but hitherto he has remained outside my
radius of observation."

"And outside mine," declared the inspector. "He hasn't the most
distant connection with anything crooked. It gave me a lot of
trouble to find out what little I have found out. Briefly, all I
have to tell you is this: Ormuz Khan--who is apparently entitled
to be addressed as 'his excellency'--is a director of the
Imperial Bank of Iran, and is associated, too, with one of the
Ottoman banks. I presume his nationality is Persian, but I can't
be sure of it. He periodically turns up in the various big
capitals when international loans and that sort of thing are
being negotiated. I understand that he has a flat somewhere in
Paris, and the Service de Surete tells me that his name is good
for several million francs over there. He appears to have a
certain fondness for London during the spring and early summer
months, and I am told he has a fine place in Surrey. He is at
present living at Savoy Court. He appears to be something of a
dandy and to be very partial to the fair sex, but nevertheless
there is nothing wrong with his reputation, considering, I mean,
that the man is a sort of Eastern multimillionaire."

"Ah!" said Harley, who had been listening eagerly. "Is that the
extent of your information, Wessex?"

"That's it," replied Wessex, with a laugh. "I hope you'll find it
useful, but I doubt it. He hasn't been picking pockets or
anything, has he?"

"No," said Harley, shortly. "I don't apprehend that his
excellency will ever appear in your province, Wessex. My interest
in him is of a purely personal nature. Thanks for all the trouble
you have taken."

Paul Harley began to pace the office. From a professional point
of view the information was uninteresting enough, but from
another point of view it had awakened again that impotent anger
which he had too often experienced in these recent, strangely
restless days.

At all costs he must see Ormuz Khan, although how he was to
obtain access to this man who apparently never left his private
apartments (if the day of his vigil at the Savoy had been a
typical one) he failed to imagine.

Nevertheless, pausing at the table, he again took up his pencil,
and to the note "Obtain interview with Ormuz Khan" he added the
one word, underlined:

"To-morrow."

CHAPTER X. HIS EXCELLENCY ORMUZ KHAN

The city clocks were chiming the hour of ten on the following
morning when a page from the Savoy approached the shop of Mr.
Jarvis, bootmaker, which is situated at no great distance from
the hotel. The impudent face of the small boy wore an expression
of serio-comic fright as he pushed open the door and entered the
shop.

Jarvis, the bootmaker, belonged to a rapidly disappearing class
of British tradesmen. He buckled to no one, but took an artistic
pride in his own handiwork, criticism from a layman merely
provoking a scornful anger which had lost Jarvis many good
customers.

He was engaged, at the moment of the page's entrance, in a little
fitting room at the back of his cramped premises, but through the
doorway the boy could see the red, bespectacled face with its
fringe of bristling white beard, in which he detected all the
tokens of brewing storm. He whistled softly in self-sympathy.

"Yes, sir," Jarvis was saying to an invisible patron, "it's a
welcome sight to see a real Englishman walk into my shop
nowadays. London isn't London, sir, since the war, and the Strand
will never be the Strand again." He turned to his assistant, who
stood beside him, bootjack in hand. "If he sends them back
again," he directed, "tell him to go to one of the French firms
in Regent Street who cater to dainty ladies." He positively
snorted with indignation, while the page, listening, whistled
again and looked down at the parcel which he carried.

"An unwelcome customer, Jarvis?" inquired the voice of the man in
the fitting room.

"Quite unwelcome," said Jarvis. "I don't want him. I have more
work than I know how to turn out. I wish he would go elsewhere. I
wish--"

He paused. He had seen the page boy. The latter, having undone
his parcel, was holding out a pair of elegant, fawn-coloured
shoes.

"Great Moses!" breathed Jarvis. "He's had the cheek to send them
back again!"

"His excellency--" began the page, when Jarvis snatched the shoes
from his hand and hurled them to the other end of the shop. His
white beard positively bristled.

"Tell his excellency," he shouted, "to go to the devil, with my
compliments!"

So positively ferocious was his aspect that the boy, with
upraised arm, backed hastily out into the street. Safety won:
"Blimey!" exclaimed the youth. "He's the warm goods, he is!"

He paused for several moments, staring in a kind of stupefied
admiration at the closed door of Mr. Jarvis's establishment. He
whistled again, softly, and then began to run--for the formidable
Mr. Jarvis suddenly opened the door. "Hi, boy!" he called to the
page. The page hesitated, glancing back doubtfully. "Tell his
excellency that I will send round in about half an hour to
remeasure his foot."

"D'you mean it?" inquired the boy, impudently--"or is there a
catch in it?"

"I'll tan your hide, my lad!" cried the bootmaker--"and I mean
that! Take my message and keep your mouth shut."

The boy departed, grinning, and little more than half an hour
later a respectable-looking man presented himself at Savoy Court,
inquiring of the attendant near the elevator for the apartments
of "his excellency," followed by an unintelligible word which
presumably represented "Ormuz Khan." The visitor wore a
well-brushed but threadbare tweed suit, although his soft collar
was by no means clean. He had a short, reddish-brown beard, and
very thick, curling hair of the same hue protruded from beneath a
bowler hat which had seen long service.

Like Mr. Jarvis, he was bespectacled, and his teeth were much
discoloured and apparently broken in front, as is usual with
cobblers. His hands, too, were toil-stained and his nails very
black. He carried a cardboard box. He seemed to be extremely
nervous, and this nervousness palpably increased when the
impudent page, who was standing in the lobby, giggled on hearing
his inquiry.

"He's second floor," said the youth. "Are you from Hot-Stuff
Jarvis?"

"That's right, lad," replied the visitor, speaking with a marked
Manchester accent; "from Mr. Jarvis."

"And are you really going up?" inquired the boy with mock
solicitude.

"I'm going up right enough. That's what I'm here for."

"Shut up, Chivers," snapped the hall porter. "Ring the bell." He
glanced at the cobbler. "Second floor," he said, tersely, and
resumed his study of a newspaper which he had been reading.

The representative of Mr. Jarvis was carried up to the second
floor and the lift man, having indicated at which door he should
knock, descended again. The cobbler's nervousness thereupon
became more marked than ever, so that a waiter, seeing him
looking helplessly from door to door, took pity on him and
inquired for whom he was searching.

"His excellency," was the reply; "but I'm hanged if I can
remember the number or how to pronounce his name."

The waiter glanced at him oddly. "Ormuz Khan," he said, and rang
the bell beside a door. As he hurried away, "Good luck!" he
called back.

There was a short interval, and then the door was opened by a man
who looked like a Hindu. He wore correct morning dress and
through gold-rimmed pince-nez he stared inquiringly at the
caller.

"Is his excellency at home?" asked the latter. "I'm from Mr.
Jarvis, the bootmaker."

"Oh!" said the other, smiling slightly. "Come in. What is your
name?"

"Parker, sir. From Mr. Jarvis."

As the door closed, Parker found himself in a small lobby. Beside
an umbrella rack a high-backed chair was placed. "Sit down," he
was directed. "I will tell his excellency that you are here."

A door was opened and closed again, and Parker found himself
alone. He twirled his bowler hat, which he held in his hand, and
stared about the place vacantly. Once he began to whistle, but
checked himself and coughed nervously. Finally the Hindu
gentleman reappeared, beckoning to him to enter.

Parker stood up very quickly and advanced, hat in hand.

Then he remembered the box which he had left on the floor, and,
stooping to recover it, he dropped his hat. But at last, leaving
his hat upon the chair and carrying the box under his arm, he
entered a room which had been converted into a very businesslike
office.

There was a typewriter upon a table near the window at which
someone had evidently been at work quite recently, and upon a
larger table in the centre of the room were dispatch boxes, neat
parcels of documents, ledgers, works of reference, and all the
evidence of keen commercial activity. Crossing the room, the
Hindu rapped upon an inner door, opened it, and standing aside,
"The man from the bootmaker," he said in a low voice.

Parker advanced, peering about him as one unfamiliar with his
surroundings. As he crossed the threshold the door was closed
behind him, and he found himself in a superheated atmosphere
heavy with the perfume of hyacinths.

The place was furnished as a sitting room, but some of its
appointments were obviously importations. Its keynote was
orientalism, not of that sensuous yet grossly masculine character
which surrounds the wealthy Eastern esthete but quite markedly
feminine. There were an extraordinary number of cushions, and
many bowls and vases containing hyacinths. What other strange
appointments were present Parker was far too nervous to observe.

He stood dumbly before a man who lolled back in a deep, cushioned
chair and whose almond-shaped eyes, black as night, were set
immovably upon him. This man was apparently young. He wore a
rich, brocaded robe, trimmed with marten fur, and out of it his
long ivory throat rose statuesquely. His complexion was likewise
of this uniform ivory colour, and from his low smooth brow his
hair was brushed back in a series of glossy black waves.

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