by Sax Rohmer
Harley nodded dumbly, and suddenly I found Val Beverley’s little fingers twined about mine.
“I agreed,” continued the deep voice. “It was a boon which I, too, would have asked from one who loved me. But to die, knowing another cherished the woman who had been torn from him, was an impossibility for Juan Menendez. What he had schemed to do at first I never knew. But presently, because of our situation here, and because of that which he had asked of me, it came, the great plan.
“On the night he told me, a night I shall never forget, I drew back in horror from him — I, Marie de Stämer, who thought I knew the blackest that was in him. I shrank. And because of that scene it came to him again in the early morning — the moment of agony, the needle pain, here, low down in his left breast.
“He pleaded with me to do the wicked thing that he had planned, and because I dared not refuse, knowing he might die at my feet, I consented. But, my friends, I had my own plan, too, of which he knew nothing. On the next day he went to Paris, and was told he had two months to live, with great, such great care, but perhaps only a week, a day, if he should permit his hot passions to inflame that threatened heart. Very well.
“I said yes, yes, to all that he suggested, and he began to lay the trail — the trail to lead to his enemy. It was his hobby, this vengeance. He was like a big, cruel boy. It was he, himself, Juan Menendez, who broke into Cray’s Folly. It was he who nailed the bat wing to the door. It was he who bought two rifles of a kind of which so many millions were made during the war that anybody might possess one. And it was he who concealed the first of these, one cartridge discharged, under the floor of the hut in the garden of the Guest House. The other, which was to be used, he placed—”
“In the shutter-case of one of the tower rooms,” continued Paul Harley. “I know! I found it there to-night.”
“What?” I asked, “you found it, Harley?”
“I returned to look for it,” he said. “At the present moment it is upstairs in my room.”
“Ah, M. Harley,” exclaimed Madame, smiling at him radiantly, “I love your genius. Then it was,” she continued, “that he thought himself ready, ready for revenge and ready for death. He summoned you, M. Harley, to be an expert witness. He placed with you evidence which could not fail to lead to the arrest of M. Camber. Very well. I allowed him to do all this. His courage, mon Dieu, how I worshipped his courage!
“At night, when everyone slept, and he could drop the mask, I have seen what he suffered. I have begged him, begged him upon my knees, to allow me to end it then and there; to forget his dream of revenge, to die without this last stain upon his soul. But he, expecting at any hour, at any minute, to know again the agony which cannot be described, which is unlike any other suffered by the flesh — refused, refused! And I” — she raised her eyes ecstatically— “I have worshipped this courage of his, although it was evil — bad.
“The full moon gives the best light, and so he planned it for the night of the full moon. But on the night before, because of some scene which he had with you, M. Harley, nearly I thought his plans would come to nothing. Nearly I thought the last act of love which he asked of me would never be performed. He sat there, up in the little room which he liked best, the coldness upon him which always came before the pang, waiting, waiting, a deathly dew on his forehead, for the end; and I, I who loved him better than life, watched him. And, so Fate willed it, the pang never came.”
“You watched him?” I whispered.
Harley turned to me slowly.
“Don’t you understand, Knox?” he said, in a voice curiously unlike his own.
“Ah, my friend,” Madame de Stämer laid her hand upon my arm with that caressing gesture which I knew, “you do understand, don’t you? The power to use my limbs returned to me during the last week that I lived in Nice.”
She bent forward and raised her face, in an almost agonized appeal to Val Beverley.
“My dear, my dear,” she said, “forgive me, forgive me! But I loved him so. One day, I think” — her glance sought my face— “you will know. Then you will forgive.”
“Oh, Madame, Madame,” whispered the girl, and began to sob silently.
“Is it enough?” asked Madame de Stämer, raising her head, and looking defiantly at Paul Harley. “Last night, you, M. Harley, who have genius, nearly brought it all to nothing. You passed the door in the shrubbery just when Juan was preparing to go out. I was watching from the window above. Then, when you had gone, he came out — smoking his last cigarette.
“I went to my place, entering the tower room by the door from that corridor. I opened the window. It had been carefully oiled. It was soundless. I was cold as one already dead, but love made me strong. I had seen him suffer. I took the rifle from its hiding-place, the heavy rifle which so few women could use. It was no heavier than some which I had used before, and to good purpose.”
Again she paused, and I saw her lips trembling. Before my mind’s eye the picture arose which I had seen from Harley’s window, the picture of Colonel Juan Menendez walking in the moonlight along the path to the sun-dial, with halting steps, with clenched fists, but upright as a soldier on parade. Walking on, dauntlessly, to his execution. Out of a sort of haze, which seemed to obscure both sight and hearing, I heard Madame speaking again.
“He turned his head toward me. He threw me a kiss — and I fired. Did you think a woman lived who could perform such a deed, eh? If you did not think so, it is because you have never looked into the eyes of one who loved with her body, her mind, and with her soul. I think, yes, I think I went mad. The rifle I remember I replaced. But I remember no more. Ah!”
She sighed in a resigned, weary way, untwining her arm from about Val Beverley, and falling back upon her pillows.
“It is all written here,” she said; “every word of it, my friends, and signed at the bottom. I am a murderess, but it was a merciful deed. You see, I had a plan of which Juan knew nothing. This was my plan.” She pointed to the heap of manuscript. “I would give him relief from his agonies, yes. For although he was an evil man, I loved him better than life. I would let him die happy, thinking his revenge complete. But others to suffer? No, no! a thousand times no! Ah, I am so tired.”
She took up the little medicine bottle, poured its contents into the glass, and emptied it at a draught.
Paul Harley, as though galvanized, sprang to his feet. “My God!” he cried, huskily, “Stop her, stop her!” Val Beverley, now desperately white, clutched at me with quivering fingers, her agonized glance set upon the smiling face of Madame de Stämer.
“No fuss, dear friends,” said Madame, gently, “no trouble, no nasty stomach-pumps; for it is useless. I shall just fall asleep in a few moments now, and when I wake Juan will be with me.”
Her face was radiant. It became lighted up magically. I knew in that grim hour what a beautiful woman Madame de Stämer must have been. She rested her hand upon Val Beverley’s head, and looked at me with her strange, still eyes.
“Be good to her, my friend,” she whispered. “She is English, but not cold like some. She, too, can love.”
She closed her eyes and dropped back upon her pillows for the last time.
CHAPTER XXXV. AN AFTERWORD
This shall be a brief afterword, for I have little else to say. As Madame had predicted, all antidotes and restoratives were of no avail. She had taken enough of some drug which she had evidently had in her possession for this very purpose to ensure that there should be no awakening, and although Dr. Rolleston was on the spot within half an hour, Madame de Stämer was already past human aid.
There are perhaps one or two details which may be of interest. For instance, as a result of the post-mortem examination of Colonel Menendez, no trace of disease was discovered in any of the organs, but from information supplied by his solicitors, Harley succeeded in tracing the Paris specialist to whom Madame de Stämer had referred; and he confirmed her statement in every particular. The disease, to which he gave some name which
I have forgotten, was untraceable, he declared, by any means thus far known to science.
As we had anticipated, the bulk of Colonel Don Juan’s wealth he had bequeathed to Madame de Stämer, and she in turn had provided that all of which she might die possessed should be divided between certain charities and Val Beverley.
I thus found myself at the time when all these legal processes terminated engaged to marry a girl as wealthy as she was beautiful. Therefore, except for the many grim memories which it had left with me, nothing but personal good fortune resulted from my sojourn at Cray’s Folly, beneath the shadow of that Bat Wing which had had no existence outside the cunning imagination of Colonel Juan Menendez.
THE END
FIRE-TONGUE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. A CLIENT FOR PAUL HARLEY
CHAPTER II. THE SIXTH SENSE
CHAPTER III. SHADOWS
CHAPTER IV. INTRODUCING MR. NICOL BRINN
CHAPTER V. THE GATES OF HELL
CHAPTER VI. PHIL ABINGDON ARRIVES
CHAPTER VII. CONFESSIONS
CHAPTER VIII. A WREATH OF HYACINTHS
CHAPTER IX. TWO REPORTS
CHAPTER X. HIS EXCELLENCY ORMUZ KHAN
CHAPTER XI. THE PURPLE STAIN
CHAPTER XII. THE VEIL IS RAISED
CHAPTER XIII. NICOL BRINN HAS A VISITOR
CHAPTER XIV. WESSEX GETS BUSY
CHAPTER XV. NAIDA
CHAPTER XVI. NICOL BRINN GOES OUT
CHAPTER XVII. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY
CHAPTER XVIII. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY — CONTINUED
CHAPTER XIX. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY — CONCLUDED
CHAPTER XX. CONFLICTING CLUBS
CHAPTER XXI. THE SEVENTH KAMA
CHAPTER XXII. FIRE-TONGUE SPEAKS
CHAPTER XXIII. PHIL ABINGDON’S VISITOR
CHAPTER XXIV. THE SCREEN OF GOLD
CHAPTER XXV. AN ENGLISHMAN’S HONOUR
CHAPTER XXVI. THE ORCHID OF SLEEP
CHAPTER XXVII. AT HILLSIDE
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE CHASE
CHAPTER XXIX. THE CATASTROPHE
CHAPTER XXX. NICOL BRINN’S STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE
CHAPTER XXXI. STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE (CONTINUED)
CHAPTER XXXII. STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE (CONTINUED)
CHAPTER XXXIII. STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE (CONTINUED)
CHAPTER XXXIV. NICOL BRINN’S STORY (CONCLUDED)
CHAPTER I. A CLIENT FOR PAUL HARLEY
Some of Paul Harley’s most interesting cases were brought to his notice in an almost accidental way. Although he closed his office in Chancery Lane sharply at the hour of six, the hour of six by no means marked the end of his business day. His work was practically ceaseless. But even in times of leisure, at the club or theatre, fate would sometimes cast in his path the first slender thread which was ultimately to lead him into some unsuspected labyrinth, perhaps in the underworld of London, perhaps in a city of the Far East.
His investigation of the case of the man with the shaven skull afforded an instance of this, and even more notable was his first meeting with Major Jack Ragstaff of the Cavalry Club, a meeting which took place after the office had been closed, but which led to the unmasking of perhaps the most cunning murderer in the annals of crime.
One summer’s evening when the little clock upon his table was rapidly approaching the much-desired hour, Harley lay back in his chair and stared meditatively across his private office in the direction of a large and very handsome Burmese cabinet, which seemed strangely out of place amid the filing drawers, bookshelves, and other usual impedimenta of a professional man. A peculiarly uninteresting week was drawing to a close, and he was wondering if this betokened a decreased activity in the higher criminal circles, or whether it was merely one of those usual quiescent periods which characterize every form of warfare.
Paul Harley, although the fact was unknown to the general public, occupied something of the position of an unofficial field marshal of the forces arrayed against evildoers. Throughout the war he had undertaken confidential work of the highest importance, especially in regard to the Near East, with which he was intimately acquainted. A member of the English bar, and the last court of appeal to which Home Office and Foreign Office alike came in troubled times, the brass plate upon the door of his unassuming premises in Chancery Lane conveyed little or nothing to the uninitiated.
The man himself, with his tropical bronze and air of eager vitality, must have told the most careless observer that he stood in the presence of an extraordinary personality. He was slightly gray at the temples in these days, but young in mind and body, physically fit, and possessed of an intellectual keenness which had forced recognition from two hemispheres. His office was part of an old city residence, and his chambers adjoined his workroom, so that now, noting that his table clock registered the hour of six, he pressed a bell which summoned Innes, his confidential secretary.
“Well, Innes,” said Harley, looking around, “another uneventful day.”
“Very uneventful, Mr. Harley. About a month of this and you will have to resume practice at the bar.”
Paul Harley laughed.
“Not a bit likely, Innes,” he replied. “No more briefs for me. I shall retire to Norfolk and devote my declining years to fishing.”
“I don’t know that fishing would entirely satisfy me,” said Innes.
“It would more than satisfy me,” returned Harley. “But every man to his own ambition. Well, there is no occasion to wait; you might as well get along. But what’s that you’ve got in your hand?”
“Well,” replied Innes, laying a card upon the table, “I was just coming in with it when you rang.”
Paul Harley glanced at the card.
“Sir Charles Abingdon,” he read aloud, staring reflectively at his secretary. “That is the osteologist?”
“Yes,” answered Innes, “but I fancy he has retired from practice.”
“Ah,” murmured Harley, “I wonder what he wants. I suppose I had better see him, as I fancy that he and I met casually some years ago in India. Ask him to come in, will you?”
Innes retiring, there presently entered a distinguished-looking, elderly gentleman upon whose florid face rested an expression not unlike that of embarrassment.
“Mr. Harley,” he began, “I feel somewhat ill at ease in encroaching upon your time, for I am by no means sure that my case comes within your particular province.”
“Sit down, Sir Charles,” said Harley with quiet geniality. “Officially, my working day is ended; but if nothing comes of your visit beyond a chat it will have been very welcome. Calcutta, was it not, where we last met?”
“It was,” replied Sir Charles, placing his hat and cane upon the table and sitting down rather wearily in a big leather armchair which Harley had pushed forward. “If I presume upon so slight an acquaintance, I am sorry, but I must confess that only the fact of having met you socially encouraged me to make this visit.”
He raised his eyes to Harley’s face and gazed at him with that peculiarly searching look which belongs to members of his profession; but mingled with it was an expression of almost pathetic appeal, of appeal for understanding, for sympathy of some kind.
“Go on, Sir Charles,” said Harley. He pushed forward a box of cigars. “Will you smoke?”
“Thanks, no,” was the answer.
Sir Charles evidently was oppressed by some secret trouble, thus Harley mused silently, as, taking out a tin of tobacco from a cabinet beside him, he began in leisurely manner to load a briar. In this he desired to convey that he treated the visit as that of a friend, and also, since business was over, that Sir Charles might without scruple speak at length and at leisure of whatever matters had brought him there.
“Very well, then,” began the surgeon; “I am painfully conscious that the facts which I am in a position to lay before you are very scanty and unsatisfactory.”
Paul Harley nodded encouragingly.
“If this were not so,”
he explained, “you would have no occasion to apply to me, Sir Charles. It is my business to look for facts. Naturally, I do not expect my clients to supply them.”
Sir Charles slowly nodded his head, and seemed in some measure to recover confidence.
“Briefly, then,” he said, “I believe my life is in danger.”
“You mean that there is someone who desires your death?”
“I do.”
“H’m,” said Harley, replacing the tin in the cupboard and striking a match. “Even if the facts are scanty, no doubt you have fairly substantial grounds for such a suspicion?”
“I cannot say that they are substantial, Mr. Harley. They are rather more circumstantial. Frankly, I have forced myself to come here, and now that I have intruded upon your privacy, I realize my difficulties more keenly than ever.”
The expression of embarrassment upon the speaker’s face had grown intense; and now he paused, bending forward in his chair. He seemed in his glance to appeal for patience on the part of his hearer, and Harley, lighting his pipe, nodded in understanding fashion. He was the last man in the world to jump to conclusions. He had learned by bitter experience that lightly to dismiss such cases as this of Sir Charles as coming within the province of delusion, was sometimes tantamount to refusing aid to a man in deadly peril.
“You are naturally anxious for the particulars,” Sir Charles presently resumed. “They bear, I regret to say, a close resemblance to the symptoms of a well-known form of hallucination. In short, with one exception, they may practically all be classed under the head of surveillance.”
“Surveillance,” said Paul Harley. “You mean that you are more or less constantly followed?”
“I do.”
“And what is your impression of this follower?”