Fire Tongue
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Sax Rohmer >> Fire Tongue
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He walked quite openly up the dilapidated steps to the door of
No. 236, and was about to seize the dirty iron knocker when the
door opened suddenly and a girl came out. She was dressed neatly
and wore a pseudo fashionable hat from which a heavy figured veil
depended so as almost to hide her features. She was carrying a
bulging cane grip secured by a brown leather strap.
Seeing Harley on the step, she paused for a moment, then,
recovering herself:
"Ellen!" she shouted down the dim passageway revealed by the
opening of the door. "Somebody to see you."
Leaving the door open, she hurried past the visitor with averted
face. It was well done, and, thus disguised by the thick veil,
another man than Paul Harley might have failed to recognize one
of whom he had never had more than an imperfect glimpse. But if
Paul Harley's memory did not avail him greatly, his unerring
instinct never failed.
He grasped the girl's arm. "One moment, Miss Jones," he said,
quietly, "it is you I am here to see!"
The girl turned angrily, snatching her arm from his grasp.
"You've made a mistake, haven't you?" she cried, furiously. "I
don't know you and I don't want to!"
"Be good enough to step inside again. Don't make a scene. If you
behave yourself, you have nothing to fear. But I want to talk to
you."
He extended his arm to detain her. But she thrust it aside. "My
boy's waiting round the corner!" she said, viciously. "Just see
what he'll do when I tell him!"
"Step inside," repeated Harley, quietly. "Or accompany me to
Kennington Lane Police Station--whichever you think would be the
more amusing."
"What d'you mean!" blustered the girl. "You can't kid me. I
haven't done anything."
"Then do as I tell you. You have got to answer my
questions--either here or at the station. Which shall it be?"
He had realized the facts of the situation from the moment when
the girl had made her sudden appearance, and he knew that his
only chance of defeating his cunning opponents was to frighten
her. Delicate measures would be wasted upon such a character. But
even as the girl, flinging herself sullenly about, returned into
the passage, he found himself admiring the resourcefulness of his
unknown enemies.
A tired-looking woman carrying a child appeared from somewhere
and stared apathetically at Harley.
Addressing the angry girl: "Another o' your flames, Polly?" she
inquired in a dull voice. "Has he made you change your mind
already?"
The girl addressed as "Polly" dropped her grip on the floor and,
banging open a door, entered a shabby little sitting room,
followed by Harley. Dropping onto a ragged couch, she stared
obstinately out of the dirty window.
"Excuse me, madam, for intruding," said Harley to the woman with
the baby, "but Polly has some information of use to the police.
Oh, don't be alarmed. She has committed no crime. I shall only
detain her for a few minutes."
He bowed to the tired-looking woman and closed the sitting-room
door. "Now, young woman," he said, sternly, adopting this
official manner of his friend, Inspector Wessex, "I am going to
give you one warning, and one only. Although I don't think you
know it, you have got mixed up with a gang of crooks. Play the
game with me, and I'll stand by you. Try any funny business and
you'll go to jail."
The official manner had its effect. Miss Jones looked sharply
across at the speaker. "I haven't done anything," she said,
sullenly.
Paul Harley advanced and stood over her. "What about the trick
with the serviettes at Sir Charles Abingdon's?" he asked,
speaking the words in slow and deliberate fashion.
The shaft went home, but the girl possessed a stock of obstinate
courage. "What about it?" she inquired, but her voice had
changed.
"Who made you do it?"
"What's that to you?"
Paul Harley drew out his watch, glanced at the face, and returned
the timepiece to his pocket. "I have warned you," he said. "In
exactly three minutes' time I shall put you under arrest."
The girl suddenly lifted her veil and, raising her face, looked
up at him. At last he had broken down her obstinate resistance.
Already he had noted the coarse, elemental formation of her
hands, and now, the veil removed, he saw that she belonged to a
type of character often found in Wales and closely duplicated in
certain parts of London. There was a curious flatness of feature
and prominence of upper jaw singularly reminiscent of the
primitive Briton. Withal the girl was not unprepossessing in her
coarse way. Utter stupidity and dogged courage are the
outstanding characteristics of this type. But fear of the law is
strong within them.
"Don't arrest me," she said. "I'll tell you."
"Good. In the first place, then, where were you going when I came
here?"
"To meet my boy at Vauxhall Station."
"What is his name?"
"I'm not going to tell you. What's he done?"
"He has done murder. What is his name?"
"My God!" whispered the girl, and her face blanched swiftly.
"Murder! I--I can't tell you his name--"
"You mean you won't?"
She did not answer.
"He is a very dark man," continued Harley "with black eyes. He is
a Hindu."
The girl stared straight before her, dumbly.
"Answer me!" shouted Harley.
"Yes--yes! He is a foreigner."
"A Hindu?"
"I think so."
"He was here five minutes ago?"
"Yes."
"Where was he going to take you?"
"I don't know. He said he could put me in a good job out of
London. We had only ten minutes to catch the train. He's gone to
get the tickets."
"Where did you meet him?"
"In the Green Park."
"When?"
"About a month ago."
"Was he going to marry you?"
"Yes."
"What did you do to the serviettes on the night Sir Charles
died?"
"Oh, my God! I didn't do anything to hurt him--I didn't do
anything to hurt him!"
"Answer me."
"Sidney--"
"Oh, he called himself Sidney, did he? It isn't his name. But go
on."
"He asked me to get one of the serviettes, with the ring, and to
lend it to him."
"You did this?"
"Yes. But he brought it back."
"When?"
"The afternoon--"
"Before Sir Charles's death? Yes. Go on. What did he tell you to
do with this serviette?"
"It--was in a box. He said I was not to open the box until I put
the serviette on the table, and that it had to be put by Sir
Charles's plate. It had to be put there just before the meal
began."
"What else?"
"I had to burn the box."
"Well?"
"That night I couldn't see how it was to be done. Benson had laid
the dinner table and Mrs. Howett was pottering about. Then, when
I thought I had my chance, Sir Charles sat down in the dining
room and began to read. He was still there and I had the box
hidden in the hall stand, all ready, when Sidney--rang up."
"Rang you up?"
"Yes. We had arranged it. He said he was my brother. I had to
tell him I couldn't do it."
"Yes!"
"He said: 'You must.' I told him Sir Charles was in the dining
room, and he said: 'I'll get him away. Directly he goes, don't
fail to do what I told you.'"
"And then?"
"Another 'phone call came--for Sir Charles. I knew who it was,
because I had told Sidney about the case Sir Charles was
attending in the square. When Sir Charles went out I changed the
serviettes. Mrs. Howett found me in the dining room and played
hell. But afterward I managed to burn the box in the kitchen.
That's all I know. What harm was there?"
"Harm enough!" said Harley, grimly. "And now--what was it that
'Sidney' stole from Sir Charles's bureau in the study?"
The girl started and bit her lip convulsively. "It wasn't
stealing," she muttered. "It wasn't worth anything."
"Answer me. What did he take?"
"He took nothing."
"For the last time: answer."
"It wasn't Sidney who took it. I took it."
"You took what?"
"A paper."
"You mean that you stole Sir Charles's keys and opened his
bureau?"
"There was no stealing. He was out and they were lying on his
dressing table. Sidney had told me to do it the first time I got
a chance."
"What had he told you to do?"
"To search through Sir Charles's papers and see if there was
anything with the word 'Fire-Tongue' in it!"
"Ah!" exclaimed Harley, a note of suppressed triumph in his
voice. "Go on."
"There was only one paper about it," continued the girl, now
speaking rapidly, "or only one that I could find. I put the
bureau straight again and took this paper to Sidney."
"But you must have read the paper?"
"Only a bit of it. When I came to the word 'Fire-Tongue,' I
didn't read any more."
"What was it about--the part you did read?"
"The beginning was all about India. I couldn't understand it. I
jumped a whole lot. I hadn't much time and I was afraid Mrs.
Howett would find me. Then, further on, I came to 'Fire-Tongue'."
"But what did it say about 'Fire-Tongue'?"
"I couldn't make it out, sir. Oh, indeed I'm telling you the
truth! It seemed to me that Fire-Tongue was some sort of mark."
"Mark?"
"Yes--a mark Sir Charles had seen in India, and then again in
London--"
"In London! Where in London?"
"On someone's arm."
"What! Tell me the name of this person!"
"I can't remember, sir! Oh, truly I can't."
"Was the name mentioned?"
"Yes."
"Was it Armand?"
"No."
"Ormond?"
"No."
"Anything like Ormond?"
The girl shook her head.
"It was not Ormuz Khan?"
"No. I am sure it wasn't."
Paul Harley's expression underwent a sudden change. "Was it
Brown?" he asked.
She hesitated. "I believe it did begin with a B," she admitted.
"Was it Brunn?"
"No! I remember, sir. It was Brinn!"
"Good God!" muttered Harley. "Are you sure?"
"Quite sure."
"Do you know any one of that name?"
"No, sir."
"And is this positively all you remember?"
"On my oath, it is."
"How often have you seen Sidney since your dismissal?"
"I saw him on the morning I left."
"And then not again until to-day?"
"No."
"Does he live in London?"
"No. He is a valet to a gentleman who lives in the country."
"How do you know?"
"He told me."
"What is the name of the place?"
"I don't know."
"Once again--what is the name of the place?"
The girl bit her lip.
"Answer!" shouted Harley.
"I swear, sir," cried the girl, beginning suddenly to sob, "that
I don't know! Oh, please let me go! I swear I have told you all I
know!"
"Good!"
Paul Harley glanced at his watch, crossed the room, and opened
the door. He turned. "You can go now," he said. "But I don't
think you will find Sidney waiting!"
It wanted only three minutes to midnight, and Innes, rather
haggard and anxious-eyed, was pacing Paul Harley's private office
when the 'phone bell rang. Eagerly he took up the receiver.
"Hullo!" came a voice. "That you, Innes?"
"Mr. Harley!" cried Innes. "Thank God you are safe! I was growing
desperately anxious!"
"I am by no means safe, Innes! I am in one of the tightest
corners of my life! Listen: Get Wessex! If he's off duty, get
Burton. Tell him to bring--"
The voice ceased.
"Hullo!--Mr. Harley!" called Innes. "Mr. Harley!"
A faint cry answered him. He distinctly heard the sound of a
fall. Then the other receiver was replaced on the hook.
"Merciful Heavens!" whispered Innes. "What has happened? Where
was he speaking from? What can I do?"
CHAPTER XIII. NICOL BRINN HAS A VISITOR
It was close upon noon, but Nicol Brinn had not yet left his
chambers. From that large window which overlooked Piccadilly he
surveyed the prospect with dull, lack-lustre eyes. His morning
attire was at least as tightly fitting as that which he favoured
in the evening, and now, hands clasped behind his back and an
unlighted cigar held firmly in the left corner of his mouth, he
gazed across the park with a dreamy and vacant regard. One very
familiar with this strange and taciturn man might have observed
that his sallow features looked even more gaunt than usual. But
for any trace of emotion in that stoic face the most expert
physiognomist must have sought in vain.
Behind the motionless figure the Alaskan ermine and Manchurian
leopards stared glassily across the room. The flying lemur
continued apparently to contemplate the idea of swooping upon the
head of the tigress where she crouched upon her near-by pedestal.
The death masks grinned; the Egyptian priestess smiled. And Nicol
Brinn, expressionless, watched the traffic in Piccadilly.
There came a knock at the door.
"In," said Nicol Brinn.
Hoskins, his manservant, entered: "Detective Inspector Wessex
would like to see you, sir."
Nicol Brinn did not turn around. "In," he repeated.
Silently Hoskins retired, and, following a short interval,
ushered into the room a typical detective officer, a Scotland
Yard man of the best type. For Detective Inspector Wessex no less
an authority than Paul Harley had predicted a brilliant future,
and since he had attained to his present rank while still a
comparatively young man, the prophecy of the celebrated private
investigator was likely to be realized. Nicol Brinn turned and
bowed in the direction of a large armchair.
"Pray sit down, Inspector," he said.
The high, monotonous voice expressed neither surprise nor
welcome, nor any other sentiment whatever.
Detective Inspector Wessex returned the bow, placed his bowler
hat upon the carpet, and sat down in the armchair. Nicol Brinn
seated himself upon a settee over which was draped a very fine
piece of Persian tapestry, and stared at his visitor with eyes
which expressed nothing but a sort of philosophic stupidity, but
which, as a matter of fact, photographed the personality of the
man indelibly upon that keen brain.
Detective Inspector Wessex cleared his throat and did not appear
to be quite at ease.
"What is it?" inquired Nicol Brinn, and proceeded to light his
cigar.
"Well, sir," said the detective, frankly, "it's a mighty awkward
business, and I don't know just how to approach it."
"Shortest way," drawled Nicol Brinn. "Don't study me."
"Thanks," said Wessex, "I'll do my best. It's like this"--he
stared frankly at the impassive face: "Where is Mr. Paul Harley?"
Nicol Brinn gazed at the lighted end of his cigar meditatively
for a moment and then replaced it in the right and not in the
left corner of his mouth. Even to the trained eye of the
detective inspector he seemed to be quite unmoved, but one who
knew him well would have recognized that this simple action
betokened suppressed excitement.
"He left these chambers at ten-fifteen on Wednesday night,"
replied the American. "I had never seen him before and I have
never seen him since."
"Sure?"
"Quite."
"Could you swear to it before a jury?"
"You seem to doubt my word."
Detective Inspector Wessex stood up. "Mr. Brinn," he said, "I am
in an awkward corner. I know you for a man with a fine sporting
reputation, and therefore I don't doubt your word. But Mr. Paul
Harley disappeared last night."
At last Nicol Brinn was moved. A second time he took the cigar
from his mouth, gazed at the end reflectively, and then hurled
the cigar across the room into the hearth. He stood up, walked to
a window, and stared out. "Just sit quiet a minute," came the
toneless voice. "You've hit me harder than you know. I want to
think it out."
At the back of the tall, slim figure Detective Inspector Wessex
stared with a sort of wonder. Mr. Nicol Brinn of Cincinnati was a
conundrum which he found himself unable to catalogue, although in
his gallery of queer characters were many eccentric and peculiar.
If Nicol Brinn should prove to be crooked, then automatically he
became insane. This Wessex had reasoned out even before he had
set eyes upon the celebrated American traveller. His very first
glimpse of Nicol Brinn had confirmed his reasoning, except that
the cool, calm strength of the man had done much to upset the
theory of lunacy.
Followed an interval of unbroken silence. Not even the ticking of
a clock could be heard in that long, singularly furnished
apartment. Then, as the detective continued to gaze upon the back
of Mr. Nicol Brinn, suddenly the latter turned.
"Detective Inspector Wessex," he said, "there has been a cloud
hanging over my head for seven years. That cloud is going to
burst very soon, and it looks as if it were going to do damage."
"I don't understand you, sir," replied the detective, bluntly.
"But I have been put in charge of the most extraordinary case
that has ever come my way and I'll ask you to make yourself as
clear as possible."
"I'll do all I can," Nicol Brinn assured him. "But first tell me
something: Why have you come to me for information in respect to
Mr. Paul Harley?"
"I'll answer your question," said Wessex, and the fact did not
escape the keen observing power of Nicol Brinn that the
detective's manner had grown guarded. "He informed Mr. Innes, his
secretary, before setting out, that he was coming here to your
chambers."
Nicol Brinn stared blankly at the speaker. "He told him that?
When?"
"Yesterday."
"That he was coming here?"
"He did."
Nicol Brinn sat down again upon the settee. "Detective
Inspector," said he, "I give you my word of honour as a gentleman
that I last saw Mr. Paul Harley at ten-fifteen on Wednesday
night. Since then, not only have I not seen him, but I have
received no communication from him."
The keen glance of the detective met and challenged the dull
glance of the speaker. "I accept your word, sir," said Wessex,
finally, and he sighed and scratched his chin in the manner of a
man hopelessly puzzled.
Silence fell again. The muted sounds of Piccadilly became audible
in the stillness. Cabs and cars rolled by below, their occupants
all unaware of the fact that in that long, museumlike room above
their heads lay the key to a tragedy and the clue to a mystery.
"Look here, sir," said the detective, suddenly, "the result of
Mr. Paul Harley's investigations right up to date has been placed
in my hands, together with all his notes. I wonder if you realize
the fact that, supposing Mr. Harley does not return, I am in
repossession of sufficient evidence to justify me in putting you
under arrest?"
"I see your point quite clearly," replied Nicol Brinn. "I have
seen my danger since the evening that Mr. Paul Harley walked into
this room: but I'll confess I did not anticipate this particular
development."
"To get right down to business," said Wessex, "if Mr. Paul Harley
did not come here, where, in your idea, did he go?"
Nicol Brinn considered the speaker meditatively. "If I knew
that," said he, "maybe I could help. I told him here in this very
room that the pair of us were walking on the edge of hell. I
don't like to say it, and you don't know all it means, but in my
opinion he has taken a step too far."
Detective Inspector Wessex stood up impatiently. "You have
already talked in that strain to Mr. Harley," he said, a bit
brusquely. "Mr. Innes has reported something of the conversation
to me. But I must ask you to remember that, whereas Mr. Paul
Harley is an unofficial investigator, I am an officer of the
Criminal Investigation Department, and figures of speech are of
no use to me. I want facts. I want plain speaking. I ask you for
help and you answer in parables. Now perhaps I am saying too
much, and perhaps I am not, but that Mr. Harley was right in what
he believed, the circumstances of his present disappearance go to
prove. He learned too much about something called Fire-Tongue."
Wessex spoke the word challengingly, staring straight into the
eyes of Nicol Brinn, but the latter gave no sign, and Wessex,
concealing his disappointment, continued: "You know more about
Fire-Tongue than you ever told Mr. Paul Harley. All you know I
have got to know. Mr. Harley has been kidnapped, perhaps done to
death."
"Why do you say so?" asked Nicol Brinn, rapidly.
"Because I know it is so. It does not matter how I know."
"You are certain that his absence is not voluntary?"
"We have definite evidence to that effect."
"I don't expect you to be frank with me, Detective Inspector, but
I'll be as frank with you as I can be. I haven't the slightest
idea in the world where Mr. Harley is. But I have information
which, if I knew where he was, would quite possibly enable me to
rescue him."
"Provided he is alive!" added Wessex, angrily.
"What leads you to suppose that he is not?"
"If he is alive, he is a prisoner."
"Good God!" said Nicol Brinn in a low voice. "It has come." He
took a step toward the detective. "Mr. Wessex," he continued, "I
don't tell you to do whatever your duty indicates; I know you
will do it. But in the interests of everybody concerned I have a
request to make. Have me watched if you like--I suppose that's
automatic. But whatever happens, and wherever your suspicions
point, give me twenty-four hours. As I think you can see, I am a
man who thinks slowly, but moves with a rush. You can believe me
or not, but I am even more anxious than you are to see this thing
through. You think I know what lies back of it all, and I don't
say that you are not right. But one thing you don't know, and
that thing I can't tell you. In twenty-four hours I might be able
to tell you. Whatever happens, even if poor Harley is found dead,
don't hamper my movements between now and this time tomorrow."
Wessex, who had been watching the speaker intently, suddenly held
out his hand. "It's a bet!" he said. "It's my case, and I'll
conduct it in my own way."
"Mr. Wessex," replied Nicol Brinn, taking the extended hand, "I
think you are a clever man. There are questions you would like to
ask me, and there are questions I would like to ask you. But we
both realize the facts of the situation, and we are both silent.
One thing I'll say: You are in the deadliest peril you have ever
known. Be careful. Believe me I mean it. Be very careful."
CHAPTER XIV. WESSEX GETS BUSY
Innes rose from the chair usually occupied by Paul Harley as
Detective Inspector Wessex, with a very blank face, walked into
the office. Innes looked haggard and exhibited unmistakable signs
of anxiety. Since he had received that dramatic telephone message
from his chief he had not spared himself for a moment. The
official machinery of Scotland Yard was at work endeavouring to
trace the missing man, but since it had proved impossible to find
out from where the message had been sent, the investigation was
handicapped at the very outset. Close inquiries at the Savoy
Hotel had shown that Harley had not been there. Wessex, who was a
thorough artist within his limitations, had satisfied himself
that none of the callers who had asked for Ormuz Khan, and no one
who had loitered about the lobbies, could possibly have been even
a disguised Paul Harley.
To Inspector Wessex the lines along which Paul Harley was
operating remained a matter of profound amazement and
mystification. His interview with Mr. Nicol Brinn had only served
to baffle him more hopelessly than ever. The nature of Paul
Harley's inquiries--inquiries which, presumably from the death of
Sir Charles Abingdon, had led him to investigate the movements of
two persons of international repute, neither apparently having
even the most remote connection with anything crooked--was a
conundrum for the answer to which the detective inspector sought
in vain.
"I can see you have no news," said Innes, dully.
"To be perfectly honest," replied Wessex, "I feel like a man who
is walking in his sleep. Except for the extraordinary words
uttered by the late Sir Charles Abingdon, I fail to see that
there is any possible connection between his death and Mr. Nicol
Brinn. I simply can't fathom what Mr. Harley was working upon. To
my mind there is not the slightest evidence of foul play in the
case. There is no motive; apart from which, there is absolutely
no link."
"Nevertheless," replied Innes, slowly, "you know the chief, and
therefore you know as well as I do that he would not have
instructed me to communicate with you unless he had definite
evidence in his possession. It is perfectly clear that he was
interrupted in the act of telephoning. He was literally dragged
away from the instrument."
"I agree," said Wessex. "He had got into a tight corner somewhere
right enough. But where does Nicol Brinn come in?"
"How did he receive your communication?"
"Oh, it took him fairly between the eyes. There is no denying
that. He knows something."
"What he knows," said Innes, slowly, "is what Mr. Harley learned
last night, and what he fears is what has actually befallen the
chief."
Detective Inspector Wessex stood beside the Burmese cabinet,
restlessly drumming his fingers upon its lacquered surface. "I am
grateful for one thing," he said. "The press has not got hold of
this story."
"They need never get hold of it if you are moderately careful."
"For several reasons I am going to be more than moderately
careful. Whatever Fire-Tongue may be, its other name is sudden
death! It's a devil of a business; a perfect nightmare. But--" he
paused--
"I am wondering what on earth induced Mr. Harley to send that
parcel of linen to the analyst."
"The result of the analysis may prove that the chief was not
engaged upon any wild-goose chase."
"By heavens!" Wessex sprang up, his eyes brightened, and he
reached for his hat, "that gives me an idea!"
"The message with the parcel was written upon paper bearing the
letterhead of the late Sir Charles Abingdon. So Mr. Harley
evidently made his first call there! I'm off, sir! The trail
starts from that house!"
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