Fire-Tongue

by Sax Rohmer

  CHAPTER XXIX. THE CATASTROPHE

  The first faint spears of morning creeping through the trees whichsurrounded Hillside revealed two figures upon a rustic bench in thelittle orchard adjoining the house. A pair incongruous enough--thisdark-eyed Eastern woman, wrapped in a long fur cloak, and Nicol Brinn,gaunt, unshaven, fantastic in his evening dress, revealed now in thegray morning light.

  "Look!" whispered Naida. "It is the dawn. I must go!"

  Nicol Brinn clenched his teeth tightly but made no reply.

  "You promised," she said, and although her voice was very tender shestrove to detach his arm, which was locked about her shoulders.

  He nodded grimly.

  "I'll keep my word. I made a contract with hell with my eyes open, andI'll stick to it." He stood up suddenly. "Go back, Naida!" he said. "Goback! You have my promise, now, and I'm helpless. But at last I see away, and I'm going to take it."

  "What do you mean?" she cried, standing up and clutching his arm.

  "Never mind." His tone was cool again. "Just go back."

  "You would not--" she began.

  "I never broke my word in my life, and even now I'm not going to begin.While you live I stay silent."

  In the growing light Naida looked about her affrightedly. Then, throwingher arms impulsively around Brinn, she kissed him--a caress that waspassionate but sexless; rather the kiss of a mother who parts with abeloved son than that which a woman bestows upon the man she loves; anact of renunciation.

  He uttered a low cry and would have seized her in his arms but, lithelyevading him, she turned, stifling a sob, and darted away through thetrees toward the house.

  For long he stood looking after her, fists clenched and his face verygray in the morning light. Some small inner voice told him that his newplan, and the others which he had built upon it, must crumble and fallas a castle of sand. He groaned and, turning aside, made his way throughthe shrubbery to the highroad.

  He was become accessory to a murder; for he had learned for what reasonand by what means Sir Charles Abingdon had been assassinated. He hadeven learned the identity of his assassin; had learned that the dreadedbeing called Fire-Tongue in India was known and respected throughout thecivilized world as His Excellency Ormuz Khan!

  Paul Harley had learned these things also, and now at this very hourPaul Harley lay a captive in Hillside. Naida had assured him that PaulHarley was alive and safe. It had been decided that his death would leadto the destruction of the movement, but pressure was being brought uponhim to ensure his silence.

  Yes, he, Nicol Brinn, was bound and manacled to a gang of assassins;and because his tongue was tied, because the woman he loved better thananything in the world was actually a member of the murderous group, hemust pace the deserted country lanes inactive; he must hold his hand,although he might summon the resources of New Scotland Yard by phoningfrom Lower Claybury station!

  Through life his word had been his bond, and Nicol Brinn was incapableof compromising with his conscience. But the direct way was barred tohim. Nevertheless, no task could appal the inflexible spirit of the man,and he had registered a silent vow that Ormuz Khan should never leaveEngland alive.

  Not a soul was astir yet upon the country roads, and sitting down upon agrassy bank, Nicol Brinn lighted one of his black cigars, which in timesof stress were his food and drink, upon which if necessary he couldcarry-on for forty-eight hours upon end.

  In connection with his plan for coercing Harley, Ormuz Khan had goneto London by rail on the previous night, departing from Lower Clayburystation at about the time that Colonel Lord Wolverham came out of theCavalry Club to discover his Rolls Royce to be missing. This same RollsRoyce was now a source of some anxiety to Nicol Brinn, for its discoveryby a passing labourer in the deserted barn seemed highly probable.

  However, he had matters of greater urgency to think about, not theleast of these being the necessity of concealing his presence in theneighbourhood of Hillside. Perhaps his Sioux-like face reflected aspirit allied in some respects to that of the once great Indian tribe.

  His genius for taking cover, perfected upon many a big-game expedition,enabled him successfully to accomplish the feat; so that, when thelimousine, which he had watched go by during the morning, returnedshortly after noon, the lack-lustre eyes were peering out through thebushes near the entrance to the drive.

  Instinct told him that the pretty girl with whom Ormuz Khan was deep inconversation could be none other than Phil Abingdon, but the identityof her companion he could not even guess. On the other hand, that thispoisonously handsome Hindu, who bent forward so solicitously towardhis charming travelling companion, was none other than the dreadedFire-Tongue, he did not doubt.

  He returned to a strategic position which he had discovered during thenight. In a measure he was nonplussed. That the presence of the girl wasprimarily associated with the coercion of Paul Harley, he understood;but might it not portend something even more sinister?

  When, later, the limousine departed again, at great risk of detection heran across a corner of the lawn to peer out into the lane, in order thathe might obtain a glimpse of its occupant. This proved to be none otherthan Phil Abingdon's elderly companion. She had apparently been takenill, and a dignified Hindu gentleman, wearing gold-rimmed pince-nez, wasin attendance.

  Nicol Brinn clenched his jaws hard. The girl had fallen into a trap. Heturned rapidly, facing the house. Only at one point did the shrubberyapproach the wall, but for that point he set out hot foot, passing frombush to bush with Indian cleverness, tense, alert, and cool in despiteof his long vigil.

  At last he came to the shallow veranda with its four sightless windowsbacked by fancifully carven screens. He stepped up to the first of theseand pressed his ear against the glass.

  Fate was with him, for almost immediately he detected a smooth, musicalvoice speaking in the room beyond. A woman's voice answered and,listening intently, he detected the sound of a closing door.

  Thereupon he acted: with the result, as has appeared, that PhilAbingdon, hatless, without her furs, breathless and more frightenedthan she had ever been in her life, presently found herself driving aluxurious Rolls Royce out of a roofless barn on to the highroad, anddown the slope to Claybury station.

  It was at about this time, or a little later, that Paul Harley put intoexecution a project which he had formed. The ventilator above the divan,which he had determined to be the spy-hole through which his everymovement was watched, had an ornamental framework studded with metalknobs. He had recently discovered an electric bell-push in the centrepanel of the massive door of his prison.

  Inwardly on fire, imagining a thousand and one horrors centring aboutthe figure of Phil Abingdon, but retaining his outward calm by dint of agiant effort, he pressed this bell and waited.

  Perhaps two minutes elapsed. Then the glass doors beyond the gildedscreen were drawn open, and the now-familiar voice spoke:

  "Mr. Paul Harley?"

  "Yes," he replied, "I have made my final decision."

  "And that is?"

  "I agree."

  "You are wise," the voice replied. "A statement will be placed beforeyou for signature. When you have signed it, ring the bell again, and ina few minutes you will be free."

  Vaguely he detected the speaker withdrawing. Thereupon, heaving a loudsigh, he removed his coat, looked about him as if in quest of some placeto hang it, and finally, fixing his gaze upon the studded grating, stoodupon the divan and hung his coat over the spy-hole! This accomplished,he turned.

  The table was slowly sinking through the gap in the floor beneath.

  Treading softly, he moved forward and seated himself cross-legged uponit! It continued to descend, and he found himself in absolute darkness.

  Nicol Brinn ran on to the veranda and paused for a moment to takebreath. The window remained open, as Phil Abingdon had left it. Hestepped into the room with its elegant Persian appointments. It wasempty. But as he crossed the threshold, he paused, arrested by the soundof a vo
ice.

  "A statement will be placed before you," said the voice, "and when youhave signed it, in a few minutes you will be free."

  Nicol Brinn silently dropped flat at the back of a divan, as Rama Dass,coming out of the room which communicated with the golden screen, madehis way toward the distant door. Having one eye raised above the topof the cushions, Nicol Brinn watched him, recognizing the man who hadaccompanied the swooning lady. She had been deposited, then, at no greatdistance from the house.

  He was to learn later that poor Mrs. McMurdoch, in her artificiallyinduced swoon, had been left in charge of a hospitable cottager, whileher solicitous Oriental escort had sped away in quest of a physician.But at the moment matters of even greater urgency engaged his attention.

  Creeping forward to the doorway by which Rama Dass had gone out,Nicol Brinn emerged upon a landing from which stairs both ascended anddescended. Faint sounds of footsteps below guided him, and although fromall outward seeming he appeared to saunter casually down, his left handwas clutching the butt of a Colt automatic.

  He presently found himself in a maze of basements--kitchens of theestablishment, no doubt. The sound of footsteps no longer guided him. Hewalked along, and in a smaller deserted pantry discovered the base of alift shaft in which some sort of small elevator worked. He was staringat this reflectively, when, for the second time in his adventurouscareer, a silken cord was slipped tightly about his throat!

  He was tripped and thrown. He fought furiously, but the fatal kneepressure came upon his spine so shrewdly as to deprive him of thestrength to raise his hands.

  "My finish!" were the words that flashed through his mind, as soundslike the waves of a great ocean beat upon his ears and darkness began todescend.

  Then, miraculously, the pressure ceased; the sound of great waterssubsided; and choking, coughing, he fought his way back to life, gropinglike a blind man and striving to regain his feet.

  "Mr. Brinn!" said a vaguely familiar voice. "Mr. Brinn!"

  The realities reasserted themselves. Before him, pale, wide-eyed, andbreathing heavily, stood Paul Harley; and prone upon the floor of thepantry lay Rama Dass, still clutching one end of the silken rope in hishand!

  "Mr. Harley!" gasped Brinn. "My God, sir!" He clutched at his bruisedthroat. "I have to thank you for my life."

  He paused, looking down at the prone figure as Harley, dropping upon hisknees, turned the man over.

  "I struck him behind the ear," he muttered, "and gave him every ounce.Good heavens!"

  He had slipped his hand inside Rama Dass's vest, and now he looked up,his face very grim.

  "Good enough!" said Brinn, coolly. "He asked for it; he's got it. Takethis." He thrust the Colt automatic into Harley's hand as the latterstood up again.

  "What do we do now?" asked Harley.

  "Search the house," was the reply. "Everything coloured you see, shoot,unless I say no."

  "Miss Abingdon?"

  "She's safe. Follow me."

  Straight up two flights of stairs led Nicol Brinn, taking three steps ata stride. Palpably enough the place was deserted. Ormuz Khan's plans fordeparture were complete.

  Into two rooms on the first floor they burst, to find them stripped andbare. On the threshold of the third Brinn stopped dead, and his gauntface grew ashen. Then he tottered across the room, arms outstretched.

  "Naida," he whispered. "My love, my love!"

  Paul Harley withdrew quietly. He had begun to walk along the corridorwhen the sound of a motor brought him up sharply. A limousine was beingdriven away from the side entrance! Not alone had he heard that sound.His face deathly, and the lack-lustre eyes dully on fire, Nicol Brinnburst out of the room and, not heeding the presence of Harley, hurledhimself down the stairs. He was as a man demented, an avenging angel.

  "There he is!" cried Harley--"heading for the Dover Road!"

  Nicol Brinn, at the wheel of the racer--the same in which Harley hadmade his fateful journey and which had afterward been concealed in thegarage at Hillside--scarcely nodded.

  Nearer they drew to the quarry, and nearer. Once--twice--and again,the face of Ormuz Khan peered out of the window at the rear of thelimousine.

  They drew abreast; the road was deserted. And they passed slightlyahead.

  Paul Harley glanced at the granite face of his companion with anapprehension he was unable to conceal. This was a cool madman who drove.What did he intend to do?

  Inch by inch, Nicol Brinn edged the torpedo body nearer to the wheels ofthe racing limousine. The Oriental chauffeur drew in ever closer to theditch bordering the roadside. He shouted hoarsely and was about to applythe brakes when the two cars touched!

  A rending crash came--a hoarse scream--and the big limousine toppledover into the ditch.

  Harley felt himself hurled through space.

  "Shall I follow on to Lower Claybury, sir?" asked Inspector Wessex,excitedly.

  Phil Abingdon's message had come through nearly an hour before, anda party had been despatched in accordance with Brinn's instructions.Wessex had returned to New Scotland Yard too late to take charge, andnow, before the Assistant Commissioner had time to reply, a 'phonebuzzed.

  "Yes?" said the Assistant Commissioner, taking up one of the severalinstruments: "What!"

  Even this great man, so justly celebrated for his placid demeanour, wasunable to conceal his amazement.

  "Yes," he added. "Let him come up!" He replaced the receiver and turningto Wessex: "Mr. Nicol Brinn is here!" he informed him.

  "What's that!" cried the inspector, quite startled out of his usualdeferential manner.

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Came a rap at the door.

  "Come in," said the Assistant Commissioner.

  The door was thrown open and Nicol Brinn entered. One who knew him wellwould have said that he had aged ten years. Even to the eye of Wessex helooked an older man. He wore a shoddy suit and a rough tweed cap and hisleft arm was bandaged.

  "Gentlemen," he said, without other greeting, "I'm here to make astatement. I desire that a shorthand-writer attend to take it down."

  He dropped weakly into a chair which Wessex placed for him. TheAssistant Commissioner, doubtless stimulated by the manner of hisextraordinary visitor, who now extracted a cigar from the breast pocketof his ill-fitting jacket and nonchalantly lighted it, successfullyresumed his well-known tired manner, and, pressing a bell:

  "One shall attend, Mr. Brinn," he said.

  A knock came at the door and a sergeant entered.

  "Send Ferris," directed the Assistant Commissioner. "Quickly."

  Two minutes later a man came in carrying a note book and fountain pen.The Assistant Commissioner motioned him to a chair, and:

  "Pray proceed, Mr. Brinn," he said.