Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  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 cas
e 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, museum-like 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.”