by Sax Rohmer
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.”
“You mean that he may be following him?” cried Wessex.
“It is quite possible — following either Nicol Brinn or the woman.”
“My God, I hope you’re right! — even though it makes the Criminal Investigation Department look a bit silly.”
“Then,” continued Innes, “there is something else which you should know. I heard to-day from a garage, with which Mr. Harley does business, that he hired a racing car last night. He has often used it before. It met him half-way along Pall Mall at seven o’clock, and he drove away in it in the direction of Trafalgar Square.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“Toward Trafalgar Square,” murmured Wessex.
“Ah,” said Innes, shaking his head, “that clue is of no importance. Under the circumstances the chief would be much more likely to head away from his objective than toward it.”
“Quite,” murmured Wessex. “I agree with you. But what’s this?”
The telephone bell was ringing, and as Innes eagerly took up the receiver:
“Yes, yes, Mr. Innes speaking,” he said, quickly. “Is that you, Rector?”
The voice of Rector, one of Paul Harley’s assistants, answered him over the wire:
“I am speaking from Victoria Station, Mr. Innes.”
“Yes!” said Innes. “Go ahead.”
“A very odd-looking woman visited Mr. Nicol Brinn’s chambers this evening. She was beautifully dressed, but wore the collar of her fur coat turned up about her face, so that it was difficult to see her. But somehow I think she was an Oriental.”
“An Oriental!” exclaimed Innes.
“I waited for her to come out,” Rector continued. “She had arrived in a cab, which was waiting, and I learned from the man that he had picked her up at Victoria Station.”
“Yes?”
“She came out some time later in rather a hurry. In fact, I think there was no doubt that she was frightened. By this time I had another cab waiting.”
“And where did she go?” asked Innes.
“Back to Victoria Station.”
“Yes! Go on!”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Innes, my story does not go much further. I wasted very little time, you may be sure. But although no train had left from the South Eastern station, which she had entered, there was no sign of her anywhere. So that I can only suppose she ran through to the Brighton side, or possibly out to a car, which may have been waiting for her somewhere.”
“Is that all?” asked Innes, gloomily.
“That’s all, Mr. Innes. But I thought I would report it.”
“Quite right, Rector; you could do no more. Did you see anything of Detective Sergeant Stokes before you left Piccadilly?”
“I did,” replied the other. “He also was intensely interested in Nicol Brinn’s visitor. And about five minutes before she came out he went upstairs.”
“Oh, I see. She came out almost immediately after Stokes had gone up?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, Rector. Return to Piccadilly, and report to me as soon as possible.” Innes hung up the receiver.
“Did you follow, Wessex?” he said. “Stokes was on the right track, but made a bad blunder. You see, his appearance led to the woman’s retreat.”
“He explained that to me,” returned the inspector, gloomily. “She got out by another door as he came in. Oh! a pretty mess he has made of it. If he and Rector had been cooperating, they could have covered her movements perfectly.”
“There is no use crying over spilt milk,” returned Innes. He glanced significantly in the inspector’s direction. “Miss Abingdon has rung up practically every hour all day,” he said.
Wessex nodded his head.
“I’m a married man myself,” he replied, “and happily married, too. But if you had seen the look in her eyes when I told her that Mr. Harley had disappeared, I believe you would have envied him.”
“Yes,” murmured Innes. “They haven’t known each other long, but I should say from what little I have seen of them that she cares too much for her peace of mind.” He stared hard at the inspector. “I think it will break her heart if anything has happened to the chief. The sound of her voice over the telephone brings a lump into my throat, Wessex. She rang up an hour ago. She will ring up again.”
“Yet I never thought he was a marrying man,” muttered the inspector.
“Neither did I,” returned Innes, smiling sadly. “But even he can be forgiven for changing his mind in the case of Phil Abingdon.”
“Ah,” said the inspector. “I am not sorry to know that he is human like the rest of us.” His expression grew retrospective, and: “I can’t make out how the garage you were speaking about didn�
��t report that matter before,” he added.
“Well, you see,” explained Innes, “they were used to the chief making long journeys.”
“Long journeys,” muttered the inspector. “Did he make a long journey? I wonder — I wonder.”
CHAPTER XXI. THE SEVENTH KAMA
As Nicol Brinn strolled out from the door below his chambers in Piccadilly, a hoarse voice made itself audible above his head.
“Police!” he heard over the roar of the traffic. “Help! Police!”
Detective Sergeant Stokes had come out upon the balcony. But up to the time that Nicol Brinn turned and proceeded in leisurely fashion in the direction of the Cavalry Club, the sergeant had not succeeded in attracting any attention.
Nicol Brinn did not hurry. Having his hands thrust in the pockets of his light overcoat, he sauntered along Piccadilly as an idle man might do. He knew that he had ample time to keep his appointment, and recognizing the vital urgency of the situation, he was grateful for some little leisure to reflect.
One who had obtained a glimpse of his face in the light of the shop windows which he passed must have failed to discern any evidence of anxiety. Yet Nicol Brinn knew that death was beckoning to him. He knew that his keen wit was the only weapon which could avail him to-night; and he knew that he must show himself a master of defence.
A lonely man, of few but enduring friendships, he had admitted but one love to his life, except the love of his mother. This one love for seven years he had sought to kill. But anything forceful enough to penetrate to the stronghold of Nicol Brinn’s soul was indestructible, even by Nicol Brinn himself.
So, now, at the end of a mighty struggle, he had philosophically accepted this hopeless passion which Fate had thrust upon him. Yet he whose world was a chaos outwardly remained unmoved.
Perhaps even that evil presence whose name was Fire-Tongue might have paused, might have hesitated, might even have changed his plans, which, in a certain part of the world, were counted immutable, had he known the manner of man whom he had summoned to him that night.
Just outside the Cavalry Club a limousine was waiting, driven by a chauffeur who looked like some kind of Oriental. Nicol Brinn walked up to the man, and bending forward:
“Fire-Tongue,” he said, in a low voice.
The chauffeur immediately descended and opened the door of the car. The interior was unlighted, but Nicol Brinn cast a comprehensive glance around ere entering. As he settled himself upon the cushions, the door was closed again, and he found himself in absolute darkness.
“Ah,” he muttered. “Might have foreseen it.” All the windows were curtained, or rather, as a rough investigation revealed, were closed with aluminium shutters which were immovable.
A moment later, as the car moved off, a lamp became lighted above him. Then he saw that several current periodicals were placed invitingly in the rack, as well as a box of very choice Egyptian cigarettes.
“H’m,” he murmured.
He made a close investigation upon every side, but he knew enough of the organization with which he was dealing to be prepared for failure.
He failed. There was no cranny through which he could look out. Palpably, it would be impossible to learn where he was being taken. The journey might be a direct one, or might be a detour. He wished that he could have foreseen this device. Above all, he wished that Detective Sergeant Stokes had been a more clever man.
It would have been good to know that he was followed. His only hope was that someone detailed by Paul Harley might be in pursuit.
Lighting a fresh cigar, Nicol Brinn drew a copy of the Sketch from the rack, and studied the photographs of more or less pretty actresses with apparent contentment. He had finished the Sketch, and was perusing the Bystander, when, the car having climbed a steep hill and swerved sharply to the right, he heard the rustling of leaves, and divined that they were proceeding along a drive.
He replaced the paper in the rack, and took out his watch. Consulting it, he returned it to his pocket as the car stopped and the light went out.
The door, which, with its fellow, Nicol Brinn had discovered to be locked, was opened by the Oriental chauffeur, and Brinn descended upon the steps of a shadowed porch. The house door was open, and although there was no light within:
“Come this way,” said a voice, speaking out of the darkness.
Nicol Brinn entered a hallway the atmosphere of which seemed to be very hot.
“Allow me to take your hat and coat,” continued the voice.
He was relieved of these, guided along a dark passage; and presently, an inner door being opened, he found himself in a small, barely furnished room where one shaded lamp burned upon a large writing table.
His conductor, who did not enter, closed the door quietly, and Nicol Brinn found himself looking into the smiling face of a Hindu gentleman who sat at the table.
The room was decorated with queer-looking Indian carvings, pictures upon silk, and other products of Eastern craftsmanship. The table and the several chairs were Oriental in character, but the articles upon the table were very European and businesslike in appearance. Furthermore, the Hindu gentleman, who wore correct evening dress, might have been the representative of an Eastern banking house, as indeed he happened to be, amongst other things.
“Good evening,” he said, speaking perfect English “won’t you sit down?”
He pointed with a pen which he was holding in the direction of a heavily carved chair which stood near the table. Nicol Brinn sat down, regarding the speaker with lack-lustre eyes.
“A query has arisen respecting your fraternal rights,” continued the Hindu. “Am I to understand that you claim to belong to the Seventh Kama?”
“Certainly,” replied Brinn in a toneless voice.
The Hindu drew his cuff back from a slender yellow wrist, revealing a curious mark which appeared to be branded upon the flesh. It was in the form of a torch or flambeau surmounted by a tongue of flame. He raised his black brows, smiling significantly.
Nicol Brinn stood up, removing his tight dinner jacket. Then, rolling back his sleeve from a lean, sinuous forearm, he extended the powerful member, having his fist tightly clenched.
Upon the inside of his arm, just above the elbow, an identical mark had been branded!
The Hindu stood up and saluted Nicol Brinn in a peculiar manner. That is to say, he touched the second finger of his right hand with the tip of his tongue, and then laid the finger upon his forehead, at the same time bowing deeply.
Nicol Brinn repeated the salutation, and quietly put his coat on.
“We greet you,” said the Hindu. “I am Rama Dass of the Bengal Lodge. Have you Hindustani?”
“No.”
“Where were you initiated?”
“At Moon Ali Lane.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the Hindu. “I see it all. In Bombay?”
“In Bombay.”
“When, and by whom, may I ask?”
“By Ruhmani, November 23, 1913.”
“Strange,” murmured Rama Dass. “Brother Ruhmani died in that year; which accounts for our having lost touch with you. What is your grade?”
“The fifth.”
“You have not proceeded far, brother. How do you come to be unacquainted with our presence in England?”
“I cannot say.”
“What work has been allotted to you?”
“None.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“More and more strange,” murmured the Hindu, watching Nicol Brinn through the gold-rimmed spectacles which he wore. “I have only known one other case. Such cases are dangerous, brother.”
“No blame attaches to me,” replied Nicol Brinn.
“I have not said so,” returned Rama Dass. “But in the Seventh Kama all brothers must work. A thousand lives are as nothing so the Fire lives. We had thought our information perfect, but only by accident did we learn of your existence.”
“Indeed,” murmured Nicol Brinn, coldl
y.
Not even this smiling Hindu gentleman, whose smile concealed so much, could read any meaning in those lack-lustre eyes, nor detect any emotion in that high, cool voice.
“A document was found, and in this it was recorded that you bore upon your arm the sign of the Seventh Kama.”
“’Tis Fire that moves the grains of dust,” murmured Nicol Brinn, tonelessly, “which one day make a mountain for the gods.”
Rama Dass stood up at once and repeated his strange gesture of salutation, which Nicol Brinn returned ceremoniously; and resumed his seat at the table.
“You are advanced beyond your grade, brother,” he said. “You are worthy the next step. Do you wish to take it?”
“Every little drop swells the ocean,” returned Nicol Brinn.
“You speak well,” the Hindu said. “We have here your complete record. It shall not be consulted. To do so were unnecessary. We are satisfied. We regret only that one so happily circumstanced to promote the coming of the Fire should have been lost sight of. Last night there were three promotions and several rejections. You were expected.”
“But I was not summoned.”
“No,” murmured Rama Dass. “We had learned of you as I have said. However, great honour results. You will be received alone. Do you desire to advance?”
“No. Give me time.”
Rama Dass again performed the strange salutation, and again Nicol Brinn returned it.
“Wisdom is a potent wine,” said the latter, gravely.
“We respect your decision.”
The Hindu rang a little silver bell upon his table, and the double doors which occupied one end of the small room opened silently, revealing a large shadowy apartment beyond.
Rama Dass stood up, crossed the room, and standing just outside the open doors, beckoned to Nicol Brinn to advance.
“There is no fear,” he said, in a queer, chanting tone.
“There is no fear,” repeated Nicol Brinn.
“There is no love.”
“There is no love.”
“There is no death.”
“There is no death.”
“Fire alone is eternal.”
