Fire Tongue
S >>
Sax Rohmer >> Fire Tongue
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 | 9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15
Stokes thrust his hands in his pockets and coughed uneasily. "I
am not a machine," he replied; "and I do my own job in my own
way."
"I doubt if Inspector Wessex would approve of your way."
"That's my business."
"Maybe, but it is no affair of yours to interfere with private
affairs of mine, Detective Sergeant. See here, there is no lady
in these chambers. Secondly, I have an appointment at nine
o'clock, and you are detaining me."
"What's more," answered Stokes, who had now quite lost his
temper, "I intend to go on detaining you until I have searched
these chambers and searched them thoroughly."
Nicol Brinn glanced at his watch. "If I leave in five minutes,
I'll be in good time," he said. "Follow me."
Crossing to the centre section of a massive bookcase, he opened
it, and it proved to be a door. So cunning was the design that
the closest scrutiny must have failed to detect any difference
between the dummy books with which it was decorated, and the
authentic works which filled the shelves to right and to left of
it. Within was a small and cosy study. In contrast with the
museum-like room out of which it opened, it was furnished in a
severely simple fashion, and one more experienced in the study of
complex humanity than Detective Sergeant Stokes must have
perceived that here the real Nicol Brinn spent his leisure hours.
Above the mantel was a life-sized oil painting of Mrs. Nicolas
Brinn; and whereas the great room overlooking Piccadilly was
exotic to a degree, the atmosphere of the study was markedly
American.
Palpably there was no one there. Nor did the two bedrooms, the
kitchen, and the lobby afford any more satisfactory evidence.
Nicol Brinn led the way back from the lobby, through the small
study, and into the famous room where the Egyptian priestess
smiled eternally. He resumed his place upon the hearthrug.
"Are you satisfied, Detective Sergeant?"
"I am!" Stokes spoke angrily. "While you kept me talking, she
slipped out through that study, and down into the street."
"Ah," murmured Nicol Brinn.
"In fact, the whole business looks very suspicious to me,"
continued the detective.
"Sorry," drawled Brinn, again consulting his watch. "The five
minutes are up. I must be off."
"Not until I have spoken to Scotland Yard, sir."
"You wish to speak to Scotland Yard?"
"I do," said Stokes, grimly.
Nicol Brinn strode to the telephone, which stood upon a small
table almost immediately in front of the bookcase. The masked
door remained ajar.
"You are quite fixed upon detaining me?"
"Quite," said Stokes, watching him closely.
In one long stride Brinn was through the doorway, telephone in
hand! Before Stokes had time to move, the door closed violently,
in order, no doubt, to make it shut over the telephone cable
which lay under it!
Detective Sergeant Stokes fell back, gazed wildly at the false
books for a moment, and then, turning, leaped to the outer door.
It was locked!
In the meanwhile, Nicol Brinn, having secured the door which
communicated with the study, walked out into the lobby where
Hoskins was seated. Hoskins stood up.
"The lady went, Hoskins?"
"She did, sir."
Nicol Brinn withdrew the key from the door of the room in which
Detective Sergeant Stokes was confined. Stokes began banging
wildly upon the panels from within.
"That row will continue," Nicol Brinn said, coldly; "perhaps he
will shout murder from one of the windows. You have only to say
you had no key. I am going out now. The light coat, Hoskins."
Hoskins unemotionally handed coat, hat, and cane to his master
and, opening the front door, stood aside. The sound of a window
being raised became audible from within the locked room.
"Probably," added Nicol Brinn, "you will be arrested."
"Very good, sir," said Hoskins. "Good-night, sir..."
CHAPTER XVII. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY
Some two hours after Paul Harley's examination of Jones, the
ex-parlourmaid, a shabby street hawker appeared in the Strand,
bearing a tray containing copies of "Old Moore's Almanac." He was
an ugly-looking fellow with a split lip, and appeared to have
neglected to shave for at least a week. Nobody appeared to be
particularly interested, and during his slow progression from
Wellington Street to the Savoy Hotel he smoked cigarettes almost
continuously. Trade was far from brisk, and the vendor of
prophecies filled in his spare time by opening car doors, for
which menial service he collected one three-penny bit and several
sixpences.
This commercial optimist was still haunting the courtyard of the
hotel at a time when a very handsome limousine pulled up beside
the curb and a sprucely attired Hindu stepped out. One who had
been in the apartments of Ormuz Khan must have recognized his
excellency's private secretary. Turning to the chauffeur, a
half-caste of some kind, and ignoring the presence of the prophet
who had generously opened the door, "You will return at eight
o'clock," he said, speaking perfect and cultured English, "to
take his excellency to High Claybury. Make a note, now, as I
shall be very busy, reminding me to call at Lower Claybury
station for a parcel which will be awaiting me there."
"Yes, sir," replied the chauffeur, and he touched his cap as the
Hindu walked into the hotel.
The salesman reclosed the door of the car, and spat reflectively
upon the pavement.
Limping wearily, he worked his way along in the direction of
Chancery Lane. But, before reaching Chancery Lane, he plunged
into a maze of courts with which he was evidently well
acquainted. His bookselling enterprise presently terminated, as
it had commenced, at The Chancery Agency.
Once more safe in his dressing room, the pedler rapidly
transformed himself into Paul Harley, and Paul Harley, laying his
watch upon the table before him, lighted his pipe and indulged in
half an hour's close thinking.
His again electing to focus his attention upon Ormuz Khan was
this time beyond reproach. It was the course which logic
dictated. Until he had attempted the task earlier in the day, he
could not have supposed it so difficult to trace the country
address of a well-known figure like that of the Persian.
This address he had determined to learn, and, having learned it,
was also determined to inspect the premises. But for such a
stroke of good luck as that which had befallen him at the Savoy,
he could scarcely have hoped. His course now lay clearly before
him. And presently, laying his pipe aside, he took up a telephone
which stood upon the dressing table and rang up a garage with
which he had an account.
"Hello, is that you, Mason?" he said. "Have the racer to meet me
at seven o'clock, half-way along Pall Mall."
Never for a moment did he relax his vigilance. Observing every
precaution when he left The Chancery Agency, he spent the
intervening time at one of his clubs, from which, having made an
early dinner, he set off for Pall Mall at ten minutes to seven. A
rakish-looking gray car resembling a giant torpedo was
approaching slowly from the direction of Buckingham Palace. The
driver pulled up as Paul Harley stepped into the road, and
following a brief conversation Harley set out westward,
performing a detour before heading south for Lower Claybury, a
little town with which he was only slightly acquainted. No
evidence of espionage could he detect, but the note of danger
spoke intimately to his inner consciousness; so that when, the
metropolis left behind, he found himself in the hilly Surrey
countryside, more than once he pulled up, sitting silent for a
while and listening intently. He failed, always, to detect any
sign of pursuit.
The night was tropically brilliant, hot, and still, but saving
the distant murmur of the city, and ordinary comings and goings
along the country roads, there was nothing to account for a
growing anxiety of which he became conscious.
He was in gunshot of Old Claybury church tower, when the sight of
a haystack immediately inside a meadow gate suggested a likely
hiding place for the racer; and, having run the car under cover,
Harley proceeded on foot to the little railway station. He
approached a porter who leaned in the doorway. "Could you direct
me to the house of his excellency Ormuz Khan?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir," was the reply. "If you follow the uphill road on the
other side of the station until you come to the Manor Park--you
will see the gates--and then branch off to the right, taking the
road facing the gates. Hillside--that's the name of the house--is
about a quarter of a mile along."
Dusk was beginning to fall and, although the nature of his
proposed operations demanded secrecy, he recognized that every
hour was precious. Accordingly he walked immediately back to the
spot at which he had left the car and, following the porter's
directions, drove over the line at the level crossing immediately
beyond the station, and proceeded up a tree-lined road until he
found himself skirting the railing of an extensive tract of park
land.
Presently heavy gates appeared in view; and then, to the right,
another lane in which the growing dusk had painted many shadows.
He determined to drive on until he should find a suitable hiding
place. And at a spot, as he presently learned, not a hundred
yards from Hillside, he discovered an opening in the hedge which
divided the road from a tilled field. Into this, without
hesitation, he turned the racer, backing in, in order that he
might be ready for a flying start in case of emergency. Once more
he set out on foot.
He proceeded with caution, walking softly close to the side of
the road, and frequently pausing to listen. Advancing in this
fashion, he found himself standing ere long before an open
gateway, and gazing along a drive which presented a vista of
utter blackness. A faint sound reached his ear--the distant drone
of a powerful engine. A big car was mounting the slope from Lower
Claybury Station.
CHAPTER XVIII
WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY--CONTINUED
Not until Harley came within sight of the house, a low, rambling
Jacobean building, did he attempt to take cover. He scrambled up
a tree and got astride of a wall. A swift survey by his electric
torch of the ground on the other side revealed a jungle of weeds
in either direction.
He uttered an impatient exclamation. He calculated that the car
was now within a hundred yards of the end of the lane. Suddenly
came an idea that was born of emergency. Swarming up the tree to
where its dense foliage began, he perched upon a stout bough and
waited.
Three minutes later came a blaze of light through the gathering
darkness, and the car which he had last seen at the Savoy was
turned into the drive, and presently glided smoothly past him
below.
The interior lights were extinguished, so that he was unable to
discern the occupants. The house itself was also unilluminated.
And when the car pulled up before the porch, less than ten yards
from his observation post, he could not have recognized the
persons who descended and entered Hillside.
Indeed, only by the sound of the closing door did he know that
they had gone in. But two figures were easily discernible; and he
judged them to be those of Ormuz Khan and his secretary. He
waited patiently, and ere long the limousine was turned in the
little courtyard before the porch and driven out into the lane
again. He did not fail to note that, the lane regained, the
chauffeur headed, not toward Lower Claybury, but away from it.
He retained his position until the hum of the motor grew dim in
the distance, and was about to descend when he detected the sound
of a second approaching car! Acutely conscious of danger, he
remained where he was. Almost before the hum of the retiring
limousine had become inaudible, a second car entered the lane and
turned into the drive of Hillside.
Harley peered eagerly downward, half closing his eyes in order
that he might not be dazzled by the blaze of the headlight. This
was another limousine, its most notable characteristic being that
the blinds were drawn in all the windows.
On this occasion, when the chauffeur stepped around and opened
the door, only one passenger alighted. There seemed to be some
delay before he was admitted, but Harley found it impossible to
detect any details of the scene being enacted in the shadowed
porch.
Presently the second car was driven away, pursuing the same
direction as the first. Hot upon its departure came the drone of
a third. The windows of the third car also exhibited drawn
blinds. As it passed beneath him he stifled an exclamation of
triumph. Vaguely, nebulously, the secret of this dread thing
Fire-Tongue, which had uplifted its head in England, appeared
before his mind's eye. It was only necessary for him to assure
himself that the latest visitor had been admitted to the house
before the next move became possible. Accordingly he changed his
position, settling himself more comfortably upon the bough. And
now he watched the three cars perform each two journeys to some
spot or spots unknown, and, returning, deposit their passengers
before the porch of Hillside. The limousine used by Ormuz Khan,
upon its second appearance had partaken of the same peculiarity
as the others: there were blinds drawn inside the windows.
Paul Harley believed that he understood precisely what this
signified, and when, after listening intently in the stillness of
the night, he failed to detect sounds of any other approach, he
descended to the path and stole toward the dark house.
There were French windows upon the ground floor, all of them
closely shuttered. Although he recognized that he was taking
desperate chances, he inspected each one of them closely.
Passing gently from window to window, his quest ultimately earned
its reward. Through a crack in one of the shutters a dim light
shone out. His heart was beating uncomfortably, although he had
himself well in hand; and, crawling into the recess formed by the
window, he pressed his ear against a pane and listened intently.
At first he could hear nothing, but, his investigation being
aided by the stillness of the night, he presently became aware
that a voice was speaking within the room--deliberately,
musically. The beating of his heart seemed to make his body throb
to the very finger tips. He had recognized the voice to be the
voice of Ormuz Khan!
Now, his sense of hearing becoming attuned to the muffled tones,
he began to make out syllables, words, and, finally, sentences.
Darkness wrapped him about, so that no one watching could have
seen his face. But he himself knew that under the bronze which he
never lost he had grown pale. His heartbeats grew suddenly
fainter, an eerie chill more intense than any which the note of
danger had ever occasioned caused him to draw sharply back.
"My God!" he whispered. He drew his automatic swiftly from his
pocket, and, pressed against the wall beside the window, looked
about him as a man looks who finds himself surrounded by enemies.
Not a sound disturbed the stillness of the garden except for
sibilant rustlings of the leaves, occasioned by a slight breeze.
Paul Harley retreated step by step to the bushes. He held the
pistol tightly clenched in his right hand.
He had heard his own death sentence pronounced and he knew that
it was likely to be executed.
CHAPTER XIX. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY--CONCLUDED
He regained the curve of the drive without meeting any
opposition. There, slipping the pistol into his pocket, he
climbed rapidly up the tree from which he had watched the arrival
of the three cars, climbed over the wall, and dropped into the
weed jungle beyond. He crept stealthily forward to the gap where
he had concealed the racer, drawing nearer and nearer to the
bushes lining the lane. Only by a patch of greater darkness
before him did he realize that he had reached it. But when the
realization came one word only he uttered: "Gone!"
His car had disappeared!
Despair was alien to his character: A true Englishman, he never
knew when he was beaten. Beyond doubt, now, he must accept the
presence of hidden enemies surrounding him, of enemies whose
presence even his trained powers of perception had been unable to
detect. The intensity of the note of danger which he had
recognized now was fully explained. He grew icily cool, master of
his every faculty. "We shall see!" he muttered, grimly.
Feeling his way into the lane, he set out running for the
highroad, his footsteps ringing out sharply upon the dusty way.
The highroad gained, he turned, not to the left, but to the
right, ran up the bank and threw himself flatly down upon it,
lying close to the hedge and watching the entrance to the lane.
Nothing appeared; nothing stirred. He knew the silence to be
illusive; he blamed himself for having ventured upon such a quest
without acquainting himself with the geography of the
neighbourhood.
Great issues often rest upon a needle point. He had no idea of
the direction or extent of the park land adjoining the highroad.
Nevertheless, further inaction being out of the question,
creeping along the grassy bank, he began to retreat from the
entrance to the lane. Some ten yards he had progressed in this
fashion when his hidden watchers made their first mistake.
A faint sound, so faint that only a man in deadly peril could
have detected it, brought him up sharply. He crouched back
against the hedge, looking behind him. For a long time he failed
to observe anything. Then, against the comparatively high tone of
the dusty road, he saw a silhouette--the head and shoulders of
someone who peered out cautiously.
Still as the trees above him he crouched, watching, and
presently, bent forward, questing to right and left, questing in
a horribly suggestive animal fashion, the entire figure of the
man appeared in the roadway.
As Paul Harley had prayed would be the case, his pursuers
evidently believed that he had turned in the direction of Lower
Claybury. A vague, phantom figure, Harley saw the man wave his
arm, whereupon a second man joined him--a third--and, finally, a
fourth.
Harley clenched his teeth grimly, and as the ominous quartet
began to move toward the left, he resumed his slow retreat to the
right--going ever farther away, of necessity, from the only
centre with which he was acquainted and from which he could hope
to summon assistance. Finally he reached a milestone resting
almost against the railings of the Manor Park.
Drawing a deep breath, he sprang upon the milestone, succeeded in
grasping the top of the high iron railings, and hauled himself up
bodily.
Praying that the turf might be soft, he jumped. Fit though he
was, and hardened by physical exercise, the impact almost stunned
him. He came down like an acrobat--left foot, right foot, and
then upon his hands, but nevertheless he lay there for a moment
breathless and temporarily numbed by the shock.
In less than a minute he was on his feet again and looking
alertly about him. Striking into the park land, turning to the
left, and paralleling the highroad, he presently came out upon
the roadway, along which under shelter of a straggling hedge, he
began to double back. In sight of the road dipping down to Lower
Claybury he crossed, forcing his way through a second hedge
thickly sown with thorns.
Badly torn, but careless of such minor injuries, he plunged
heavily through a turnip field, and, bearing always to the left,
came out finally upon the road leading to the station, and only
some fifty yards from the bottom of the declivity.
A moment he paused, questioning the silence. He was unwilling to
believe that he had outwitted his pursuers. His nerves were
strung to highest tension, and his strange gift of semi-
prescience told him that danger was at least as imminent as ever,
even though he could neither see nor hear his enemies. Therefore,
pistol in hand again, he descended to the foot of the hill.
He remembered having noticed, when he had applied to the porter
for information respecting the residence of Ormuz Khan, that upon
a window adjoining the entrance had appeared the words "Station
Master." The station master's office, therefore, was upon the
distant side of the line.
Now came the hardest blow of all. The station was closed for the
night. Nor was there any light in the signal box. Evidently no
other train was due upon that branch line until some time in the
early morning. The level crossing gate was open, but before
breaking cover he paused a while to consider what he should do.
Lower Claybury was one of those stations which have no intimate
connection with any township. The nearest house, so far as Harley
could recall, was fully twenty yards from the spot at which he
stood. Furthermore, the urgency of the case had fired the soul of
the professional investigator.
He made up his mind, and, darting out into the road, he ran
across the line, turned sharply, and did not pause until he stood
before the station master's window. Then his quick wits were put
to their ultimate test.
Right, left, it seemed from all about him, came swiftly pattering
footsteps! Instantly he divined the truth. Losing his tracks upon
the highroad above, a section of his pursuers had surrounded the
station, believing that he would head for it in retreat.
Paul Harley whipped off his coat in a flash, and using it as a
ram, smashed the window. He reached up, found the catch, and
opened the sash. In ten seconds he was in the room, and a great
clatter told him that he had overturned some piece of furniture.
Disentangling his coat, he sought and found the electric torch.
He pressed the button. No light came. It was broken! He drew a
hissing breath, and began to grope about the little room. At last
his hand touched the telephone, and, taking it up:
"Hello!" he said. "Hello!"
"Yes," came the voice of the operator--"what number?"
"City 8951. Police business! Urgent!"
One, two, three seconds elapsed, four, five, six.
"Hello!" came the voice of Innes.
"That you, Innes?" said Harley. And, interrupting the other's
reply: "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--"
Someone leaped in at the broken window behind the speaker.
Resting the telephone upon the table, where he had found it,
Harley reached into his hip pocket and snapped out his automatic.
Dimly he could hear Innes speaking. He half-turned, raised the
pistol, and knew a sudden intense pain at the back of his skull.
A thousand lights seemed suddenly to split the darkness. He felt
himself sinking into an apparently bottomless pit.
CHAPTER XX. CONFLICTING CLUBS
"Any news, Wessex?" asked Innes, eagerly, starting up from his
chair as the inspector entered the office.
Wessex shook his head, and sitting down took out and lighted a
cigarette.
"News of a sort," he replied, slowly, "but nothing of any value,
I am afraid. My assistant, Stokes, has distinguished himself."
"In what way?" asked Innes, dully, dropping back into his chair.
These were trying days for the indefatigable secretary. Believing
that some clue of importance might come to light at any hour of
the day or night he remained at the chambers in Chancery Lane,
sleeping nightly in the spare room.
"Well," continued the inspector, "I had detailed him to watch
Nicol Brinn, but my explicit instructions were that Nicol Brinn
was not to be molested in any way."
"What happened?"
"To-night Nicol Brinn had a visitor--possibly a valuable witness.
Stokes, like an idiot, allowed her to slip through his fingers
and tried to arrest Brinn!"
"What? Arrest him!" cried Innes.
"Precisely. But I rather fancy," added the inspector, grimly,
"that Mr. Stokes will think twice before taking leaps like that
in the dark again."
"You say he tried to arrest him. What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that Nicol Brinn, leaving Stokes locked in his chambers,
went out and has completely disappeared!"
"But the woman?"
"Ah, the woman! There's the rub. If he had lain low and followed
the woman, all might have been well. But who she was, where she
came from, and where she has gone, we have no idea."
"Nicol Brinn must have been desperate to adopt such measures?"
Detective Inspector Wessex nodded.
"I quite agree with you."
"He evidently had an appointment of such urgency that he could
permit nothing to stand in his way."
"He is a very clever man, Mr. Innes. He removed the telephone
from the room in which he had locked Stokes, so that my
blundering assistant was detained for nearly fifteen
minutes--detained, in fact, until his cries from the window
attracted the attention of a passing constable!"
"Nicol Brinn's man did not release him?"
"No, he said he had no key."
"What happened?"
"Stokes wanted to detain the servant, whose name is Hoskins, but
I simply wouldn't hear of it. I am a poor man, but I would
cheerfully give fifty pounds to know where Nicol Brinn is at this
moment."
Innes stood up restlessly and began to drum his fingers upon the
table edge. Presently he looked up, and:
"There's a shadow of hope," he said. "Rector--you know
Rector?--had been detailed by the chief to cover the activities
of Nicol Brinn. He has not reported to me so far to-night."
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 | 9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15