Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  “What do you mean, Sir Charles?”

  “I was called ten minutes ago by someone purporting to be the servant of Mr. Chester Wilson, that friend and neighbour whom I have been attending.”

  “So your butler informed me.”

  “My dear sir,” cried Sir Charles, and the expression in his eyes grew almost wild, “no one in Wilson’s house knew anything about the matter!”

  “What! It was a ruse?”

  “Palpably a ruse to get me away from home.”

  Harley dropped his cigarette into the ash tray beside the match, where, smouldering, it sent up a gray spiral into the air of the library. Whether because of his words or because of the presence of the man himself, the warning, intuitive finger had again touched Paul Harley. “You saw or heard nothing on your way across the square to suggest that any one having designs on your safety was watching you?”

  “Nothing. I searched the shadows most particularly on my return journey, of course. For the thing cannot have been purposeless.”

  “I quite agree with you,” said Paul Harley, quietly.

  Between the promptings of that uncanny sixth sense of his and the working of the trained deductive reasoning powers, he was momentarily at a loss. Some fact, some episode, a memory, was clamouring for recognition, while the intuitive, subconscious voice whispered: “This man is in danger; protect him.” What was the meaning of it all? He felt that a clue lay somewhere outside the reach of his intelligence, and a sort of anger possessed him because of his impotence to grasp it.

  Sir Charles was staring at him in that curiously pathetic way which he had observed at their earlier interview in Chancery Lane. “In any event,” said his host, “let us dine: for already I have kept you waiting.”

  Harley merely bowed, and walking out of the library, entered the cosy dining room. A dreadful premonition had claimed him as his glance had met that of Sir Charles — a premonition that this man’s days were numbered. It was uncanny, unnerving; and whereas, at first, the atmosphere of Sir Charles Abingdon’s home had been laden with prosperous security, now from every side, and even penetrating to the warmly lighted dining room, came that chilling note of danger.

  In crossing the lobby he had not failed to note that there were many Indian curios in the place which could not well have failed to attract the attention of a burglar. But that the person who had penetrated to the house was no common burglar he was now assured and he required no further evidence upon this point.

  As he took his seat at the dining table he observed that Sir Charles’s collection had overflowed even into this room. In the warm shadows about him were pictures and ornaments, all of which came from, or had been inspired by, the Far East.

  In this Oriental environment lay an inspiration. The terror which had come into Sir Charles’s life, the invisible menace which, swordlike, hung over him, surely belonged in its eerie quality to the land of temple bells, of silent, subtle peoples, to the secret land which has bred so many mysteries. Yes, he must look into the past, into the Indian life of Sir Charles Abingdon, for the birth of this thing which now had grown into a shadow almost tangible.

  Benson attended at table, assisted by a dark-faced and very surly-looking maid, in whom Harley thought he recognized the housekeeper’s bete noire.

  When presently both servants had temporarily retired. “You see, Mr. Harley,” began Sir Charles, glancing about his own room in a manner almost furtive, “I realized to-day at your office that the history of this dread which has come upon me perhaps went back so far that it was almost impossible to acquaint you with it under the circumstances.”

  “I quite understand.”

  “I think perhaps I should inform you in the first place that I have a daughter. Her mother has been dead for many years, and perhaps I have not given her the attention which a motherless girl is entitled to expect from her father. I don’t mean,” he said, hastily, “that we are in any sense out of sympathy, but latterly in some way I must confess that we have got a little out of touch.” He glanced anxiously at his guest, indeed almost apologetically. “You will of course understand, Mr. Harley, that this seeming preamble may prove to have a direct bearing upon what I propose to tell you?”

  “Pray tell the story in your own way, Sir Charles,” said Harley with sympathy. “I am all attention, and I shall only interrupt you in the event of any point not being quite clear.”

  “Thank you,” said Sir Charles. “I find it so much easier to explain the matter now. To continue, there is a certain distinguished Oriental gentleman—”

  He paused as Benson appeared to remove the soup plates.

  “It is always delightful to chat with one who knows India so well as you do,” he continued, glancing significantly at his guest.

  Paul Harley, who fully appreciated the purpose of this abrupt change in the conversation, nodded in agreement. “The call of the East,” he replied, “is a very real thing. Only one who has heard it can understand and appreciate all it means.”

  The butler, an excellently trained servant, went about his work with quiet efficiency, and once Harley heard him mutter rapid instructions to the surly parlourmaid, who hovered disdainfully in the background. When again host and guest found themselves alone: “I don’t in any way distrust the servants,” explained Sir Charles, “but one cannot hope to prevent gossip.” He raised his serviette to his lips and almost immediately resumed: “I was about to tell you, Mr. Harley, about my daughter’s—”

  He paused and cleared his throat, then, hastily pouring out a glass of water, he drank a sip or two and Paul Harley noticed that his hand was shaking nervously. He thought of the photograph in the library, and now, in this reference to a distinguished Oriental gentleman, he suddenly perceived the possible drift of the conversation.

  This was the point to which Sir Charles evidently experienced such difficulty in coming. It was something which concerned his daughter; and, mentally visualizing the pure oval face and taunting eyes of the library photograph, Harley found it impossible to believe that the evil which threatened Sir Charles could possibly be associated in any way with Phyllis Abingdon.

  Yet, if the revelation which he had to make must be held responsible for his present condition, then truly it was a dreadful one. No longer able to conceal his concern, Harley stood up. “If the story distresses you so keenly, Sir Charles,” he said, “I beg—”

  Sir Charles waved his hand reassuringly. “A mere nothing. It will pass,” he whispered.

  “But I fear,” continued Harley, “that—”

  He ceased abruptly, and ran to his host’s assistance, for the latter, evidently enough, was in the throes of some sudden illness or seizure. His fresh-coloured face was growing positively livid, and he plucked at the edge of the table with twitching fingers. As Harley reached his side he made a sudden effort to stand up, throwing out his arm to grasp the other’s shoulder.

  “Benson!” cried Harley, loudly. “Quick! Your master is ill!”

  There came a sound of swift footsteps and the door was thrown open.

  “Too late,” whispered Sir Charles in a choking voice. He began to clutch his throat as Benson hurried into the room.

  “My God!” whispered Harley. “He is dying!”

  Indeed, the truth was all too apparent. Sir Charles Abingdon was almost past speech. He was glaring across the table as though he saw some ghastly apparition there. And now with appalling suddenness he became as a dead weight in Harley’s supporting grasp. Raspingly, as if forced in agony from his lips:

  “Fire-Tongue,” he said... “Nicol Brinn...”

  Benson, white and terror-stricken, bent over him.

  “Sir Charles!” he kept muttering. “Sir Charles! What is the matter, sir?”

  A stifled shriek sounded from the doorway, and in tottered Mrs. Howett, the old housekeeper, with other servants peering over her shoulder into that warmly lighted dining room where Sir Charles Abingdon lay huddled in his own chair — dead.

  CHAPTER III.
SHADOWS

  “Had you reason to suspect any cardiac trouble, Doctor McMurdoch?” asked Harley.

  Doctor McMurdoch, a local practitioner who had been a friend of Sir Charles Abingdon, shook his head slowly. He was a tall, preternaturally thin Scotsman, clean-shaven, with shaggy dark brows and a most gloomy expression in his deep-set eyes. While the presence of his sepulchral figure seemed appropriate enough in that stricken house, Harley could not help thinking that it must have been far from reassuring in a sick room.

  “I had never actually detected anything of the kind,” replied the physician, and his deep voice was gloomily in keeping with his personality. “I had observed a certain breathlessness at times, however. No doubt it is one of those cases of unsuspected endocarditis. Acute. I take it,” raising his shaggy brows interrogatively, “that nothing had occurred to excite Sir Charles?”

  “On the contrary,” replied Harley, “he was highly distressed about some family trouble, the nature of which he was about to confide to me when this sudden illness seized him.”

  He stared hard at Doctor McMurdoch, wondering how much he might hope to learn from him respecting the affairs of Sir Charles. It seemed almost impertinent at that hour to seek to pry into the dead man’s private life.

  To the quiet, book-lined apartment stole now and again little significant sounds which told of the tragedy in the household. Sometimes when a distant door was opened, it would be the sobs of a weeping woman, for the poor old housekeeper had been quite prostrated by the blow. Or ghostly movements would become audible from the room immediately over the library — the room to which the dead man had been carried; muffled footsteps, vague stirrings of furniture; each sound laden with its own peculiar portent, awakening the imagination which all too readily filled in the details of the scene above. Then, to spur Harley to action, came the thought that Sir Charles Abingdon had appealed to him for aid. Did his need terminate with his unexpected death or would the shadow under which he had died extend now? Harley found himself staring across the library at the photograph of Phil Abingdon. It was of her that Sir Charles had been speaking when that mysterious seizure had tied his tongue. That strange, fatal illness, mused Harley, all the more strange in the case of a man supposedly in robust health — it almost seemed like the working of a malignant will. For the revelation, whatever its nature, had almost but not quite been made in Harley’s office that evening. Something, some embarrassment or mental disability, had stopped Sir Charles from completing his statement. Tonight death had stopped him.

  “Was he consulting you professionally, Mr. Harley?” asked the physician.

  “He was,” replied Harley, continuing to stare fascinatedly at the photograph on the mantelpiece. “I am informed,” said he, abruptly, “that Miss Abingdon is out of town?”

  Doctor McMurdoch nodded in his slow, gloomy fashion. “She is staying in Devonshire with poor Abingdon’s sister,” he answered. “I am wondering how we are going to break the news to her.”

  Perceiving that Doctor McMurdoch had clearly been intimate with the late Sir Charles, Harley determined to make use of this opportunity to endeavour to fathom the mystery of the late surgeon’s fears. “You will not misunderstand me, Doctor McMurdoch,” he said, “if I venture to ask you one or two rather personal questions respecting Miss Abingdon?”

  Doctor McMurdoch lowered his shaggy brows and looked gloomily at the speaker. “Mr. Harley,” he replied, “I know you by repute for a man of integrity. But before I answer your questions will you answer one of mine?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then my question is this: Does not your interest cease with the death of your client?”

  “Doctor McMurdoch,” said Harley, sternly, “you no doubt believe yourself to be acting as a friend of this bereaved family. You regard me, perhaps, as a Paul Pry prompted by idle curiosity. On the contrary, I find myself in a delicate and embarrassing situation. From Sir Charles’s conversation I had gathered that he entertained certain fears on behalf of his daughter.”

  “Indeed,” said Doctor McMurdoch.

  “If these fears were well grounded, the danger is not removed, but merely increased by the death of Miss Abingdon’s natural protector. I regret, sir, that I approached you for information, since you have misjudged my motive. But far from my interest having ceased, it has now as I see the matter become a sacred duty to learn what it was that Sir Charles apprehended. This duty, Doctor McMurdoch, I propose to fulfil with or without your assistance.”

  “Oh,” said Doctor McMurdoch, gloomily, “I’m afraid I’ve offended you. But I meant well, Mr. Harley.” A faint trace of human emotion showed itself in his deep voice. “Charley Abingdon and I were students together in Edinburgh,” he explained. “I was mayhap a little strange.”

  His apology was so evidently sincere that Harley relented at once. “Please say no more, Doctor McMurdoch,” he responded. “I fully appreciate your feelings in the matter. At such a time a stranger can only be an intruder; but” — he fixed his keen eyes upon the physician— “there is more underlying all this than you suspect or could readily believe. You will live to know that I have spoken the truth.”

  “I know it now,” declared the Scotsman, solemnly. “Abingdon was always eccentric, but he didn’t know the meaning of fear.”

  “Once that may have been true,” replied Harley. “But a great fear was upon him when he came to me, Doctor McMurdoch, and if it is humanly possible I am going to discover its cause.”

  “Go ahead,” said Doctor McMurdoch and, turning to the side table, he poured out two liberal portions of whiskey. “If there’s anything I can do to help, count me at your service. You tell me he had fears about little Phil?”

  “He had,” answered Harley, “and it is maddening to think that he died before he could acquaint me with their nature. But I have hopes that you can help me in this. For instance” — again he fixed his gaze upon the gloomy face of the physician— “who is the distinguished Oriental gentleman with whom Sir Charles had recently become acquainted?”

  Doctor McMurdoch’s expression remained utterly blank, and he slowly shook his head. “I haven’t an idea in the world,” he declared. “A patient, perhaps?”

  “Possibly,” said Harley, conscious of some disappointment; “yet from the way he spoke of him I scarcely think that he was a patient. Surely Sir Charles, having resided so long in India, numbered several Orientals among his acquaintances if not among his friends?”

  “None ever came to his home,” replied Doctor McMurdoch. “He had all the Anglo-Indian’s prejudice against men of colour.” He rested his massive chin in his hand and stared down reflectively at the carpet.

  “Then you have no suggestion to offer in regard to this person?”

  “None. Did he tell you nothing further about him?”

  “Unfortunately, nothing. In the next place, Doctor McMurdoch, are you aware of any difference of opinion which had arisen latterly between Sir Charles and his daughter?”

  “Difference of opinion!” replied Doctor McMurdoch, raising his brows ironically. “There would always be difference of opinion between little Phil and any man who cared for her. But out-and-out quarrel — no!”

  Again Harley found himself at a deadlock, and it was with scanty hope of success that he put his third question to the gloomy Scot. “Was Sir Charles a friend of Mr. Nicol Brinn?” he asked.

  “Nicol Brinn?” echoed the physician. He looked perplexed. “You mean the American millionaire? I believe they were acquainted. Abingdon knew most of the extraordinary people in London; and if half one hears is true Nicol Brinn is as mad as a hatter. But they were not in any sense friends as far as I know.” He was watching Harley curiously. “Why do you ask that question?”

  “I will tell you in a moment,” said Harley, rapidly, “but I have one more question to put to you first. Does the term Fire-Tongue convey anything to your mind?”

  Doctor McMurdoch’s eyebrows shot upward most amazingly. “I won’t insult you by
supposing that you have chosen such a time for joking,” he said, dourly. “But if your third question surprised me, I must say that your fourth sounds simply daft.”

  “It must,” agreed Harley, and his manner was almost fierce; “but when I tell you why I ask these two questions — and I only do so on the understand ing that my words are to be treated in the strictest confidence — you may regard the matter in a new light. ‘Nicol Brinn’ and ‘Fire-Tongue’ were the last words which Sir Charles Abingdon uttered.”

  “What!” cried Doctor McMurdoch, displaying a sudden surprising energy. “What?”

  “I solemnly assure you,” declared Harley, “that such is the case. Benson, the butler, also overheard them.”

  Doctor McMurdoch relapsed once more into gloom, gazing at the whiskey in the glass which he held in his hand and slowly shaking his head. “Poor old Charley Abingdon,” he murmured. “It’s plain to me, Mr. Harley, that his mind was wandering. May not we find here an explanation, too, of this idea of his that some danger overhung Phil? You didn’t chance to notice, I suppose, whether he had a temperature?”

  “I did not,” replied Harley, smiling slightly. But the smile quickly left his face, which became again grim and stern.

  A short silence ensued, during which Doctor McMurdoch sat staring moodily down at the carpet and Harley slowly paced up and down the room; then:

  “In view of the fact,” he said, suddenly, “that Sir Charles clearly apprehended an attempt upon his life, are you satisfied professionally that death was due to natural causes?”

  “Perfectly satisfied,” replied the physician, looking up with a start: “perfectly satisfied. It was unexpected, of course, but such cases are by no means unusual. He was formerly a keen athlete, remember. ’Tis often so. Surely you don’t suspect foul play? I understood you to mean that his apprehensions were on behalf of Phil.”