by Sax Rohmer
“Don’t you trust me?” she asked, suddenly. “Or don’t you think I am clever enough to share your confidence?”
As she spoke she looked at him challengingly, and he felt all the force of personality which underlay her outward lightness of manner.
“I both trust you and respect your intelligence,” he answered, quietly. “If I withhold anything from you, I am prompted by a very different motive from the one you suggest.”
“Then you are keeping something from me,” she said, softly. “I knew you were.”
“Miss Abingdon,” replied Harley, “when the worst trials of this affair are over, I want to have a long talk with you. Until then, won’t you believe that I am acting for the best?”
But Phil Abingdon’s glance was unrelenting.
“In your opinion it may be so, but you won’t do me the honour of consulting mine.”
Harley had half anticipated this attitude, but had hoped that she would not adopt it. She possessed in a high degree the feminine art of provoking a quarrel. But he found much consolation in the fact that she had thus shifted the discussion from the abstract to the personal. He smiled slightly, and Phil Abingdon’s expression relaxed in response and she lowered her eyes quickly. “Why do you persistently treat me like a child?” she said.
“I don’t know,” replied Harley, delighted but bewildered by her sudden change of mood. “Perhaps because I want to.”
She did not answer him, but stared abstractedly out of the cab window; and Harley did not break this silence, much as he would have liked to do so. He was mentally reviewing his labours of the preceding day when, in the character of a Colonial visitor with much time on his hands, he had haunted the Savoy for hours in the hope of obtaining a glimpse of Ormuz Khan. His vigil had been fruitless, and on returning by a roundabout route to his office he had bitterly charged himself with wasting valuable time upon a side issue. Yet when, later, he had sat in his study endeavouring to arrange his ideas in order, he had discovered many points in his own defence.
If his ineffective surveillance of Ormuz Khan had been dictated by interest in Phil Abingdon rather than by strictly professional motives, it was, nevertheless, an ordinary part of the conduct of such a case. But while he had personally undertaken the matter of his excellency he had left the work of studying the activities of Nicol Brinn to an assistant. He could not succeed in convincing himself that, on the evidence available, the movements of the Oriental gentleman were more important than those of the American.
“Here we are,” said Phil Abingdon.
She alighted, and Harley dismissed the cabman and followed the girl into Doctor McMurdoch’s house. Here he made the acquaintance of Mrs. McMurdoch, who, as experience had taught him to anticipate, was as plump and merry and vivacious as her husband was lean, gloomy, and taciturn. But she was a perfect well of sympathy, as her treatment of the bereaved girl showed. She took her in her arms and hugged her in a way that was good to see.
“We were waiting for you, dear,” she said when the formality of presenting Harley was over. “Are you quite sure that you want to go?”
Phil Abingdon nodded pathetically. She had raised her veil, and Harley could see that her eyes were full of tears. “I should like to see the flowers,” she answered.
She was staying at the McMurdochs’ house, and as the object at present in view was that of a visit to her old home, from which the funeral of Sir Charles Abingdon was to take place on the morrow, Harley became suddenly conscious of the fact that his presence was inopportune.
“I believe you want to see me, Doctor McMurdoch,” he said, turning to the dour physician. “Shall I await your return or do you expect to be detained?”
But Phil Abingdon had her own views on the matter. She stepped up beside him and linked her arm in his.
“Please come with me, Mr. Harley,” she pleaded. “I want you to.”
As a result he found himself a few minutes later entering the hall of the late Sir Charles’s house. The gloved hand resting on his arm trembled, but when he looked down solicitously into Phil Abingdon’s face she smiled bravely, and momentarily her clasp tightened as if to reassure him.
It seemed quite natural that she should derive comfort from the presence of this comparative stranger; and neither of the two, as they stood there looking at the tributes to the memory of the late Sir Charles — which overflowed from a neighbouring room into the lobby and were even piled upon the library table — were conscious of any strangeness in the situation.
The first thing that had struck Harley on entering the house had been an overpowering perfume of hyacinths. Now he saw whence it arose; for, conspicuous amid the wreaths and crosses, was an enormous device formed of hyacinths. Its proportions dwarfed those of all the others.
Mrs. Howett, the housekeeper, a sad-eyed little figure, appeared now from behind the bank of flowers. Her grief could not rob her of that Old World manner which was hers, and she saluted the visitors with a bow which promised to develop into a curtsey. Noting the direction of Phil Abingdon’s glance, which was set upon a card attached to the wreath of hyacinths: “It was the first to arrive, Miss Phil,” she said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“It’s wonderful,” said the girl, moving forward and drawing Harley along with her. She glanced from the card up to his face, which was set in a rather grim expression.
“Ormuz Khan has been so good,” she said. “He sent his secretary to see if he could be of any assistance yesterday, but I certainly had not expected this.”
Her eyes filled with tears again, and, because he thought they were tears of gratitude, Harley clenched his hand tightly so that the muscles of his forearm became taut to Phil Abingdon’s touch. She looked up at him, smiling pathetically: “Don’t you think it was awfully kind of him?” she asked.
“Very,” replied Harley.
A dry and sepulchral cough of approval came from Doctor McMurdoch; and Harley divined with joy that when the ordeal of the next day was over Phil Abingdon would have to face cross-examination by the conscientious Scotsman respecting this stranger whose attentions, if Orientally extravagant, were instinct with such generous sympathy.
For some reason the heavy perfume of the hyacinths affected him unpleasantly. All his old doubts and suspicions found a new life, so that his share in the conversation which presently arose became confined to a few laconic answers to direct questions.
He was angry, and his anger was more than half directed against himself, because he knew that he had no shadow of right to question this girl about her friendships or even to advise her. He determined, however, even at the cost of incurring a rebuke, to urge Doctor McMurdoch to employ all the influence he possessed to terminate an acquaintanceship which could not be otherwise than undesirable, if it was not actually dangerous.
When, presently, the party returned to the neighbouring house of the physician, however, Harley’s plans in this respect were destroyed by the action of Doctor McMurdoch, in whose composition tact was not a predominant factor. Almost before they were seated in the doctor’s drawing room he voiced his disapproval. “Phil,” he said, ignoring a silent appeal from his wife, “this is, mayhap, no time to speak of the matter, but I’m not glad to see the hyacinths.”
Phil Abingdon’s chin quivered rebelliously, and, to Harley’s dismay, it was upon him that she fixed her gaze in replying. “Perhaps you also disapprove of his excellency’s kindness?” she said, indignantly.
Harley found himself temporarily at a loss for words. She was perfectly well aware that he disapproved, and now was taking a cruel pleasure in reminding him of the fact that he was not entitled to do so. Had he been capable of that calm analysis to which ordinarily he submitted all psychological problems, he must have found matter for rejoicing in this desire of the girl’s to hurt him. “I am afraid, Miss Abingdon,” he replied, quietly, “that the matter is not one in which I am entitled to express my opinion.”
She continued to look at him challengingly, but:
> “Quite right, Mr. Harley,” said Doctor McMurdoch, “but if you were, your opinion would be the same as mine.”
Mrs. McMurdoch’s glance became positively beseeching, but the physician ignored it. “As your father’s oldest friend,” he continued, “I feel called upon to remark that it isn’t usual for strangers to thrust their attentions upon a bereaved family.”
“Oh,” said Phil Abingdon with animation, “do I understand that this is also your opinion, Mr. Harley?”
“As a man of the world,” declared Doctor McMurdoch, gloomily, “it cannot fail to be.”
Tardily enough he now succumbed to the silent entreaties of his wife. “I will speak of this later,” he concluded. “Mayhap I should not have spoken now.”
Tears began to trickle down Phil Abingdon’s cheeks.
“Oh, my dear, my dear!” cried little Mrs. McMurdoch, running to her side.
But the girl sprang up, escaping from the encircling arm of the motherly old lady. She shook her head disdainfully, as if to banish tears and weakness, and glanced rapidly around from face to face. “I think you are all perfectly cruel and horrible,” she said in a choking voice, turned, and ran out.
A distant door banged.
“H’m,” muttered Doctor McMurdoch, “I’ve put my foot in it.”
His wife looked at him in speechless indignation and then followed Phil Abingdon from the room.
CHAPTER IX. TWO REPORTS
On returning to his office Paul Harley found awaiting him the report of the man to whom he had entrusted the study of the movements of Nicol Brinn. His mood was a disturbed one, and he had observed none of his customary precautions in coming from Doctor McMurdoch’s house. He wondered if the surveillance which he had once detected had ceased. Perhaps the chambers of Nicol Brinn were the true danger zone upon which these subtle but powerful forces now were focussed. On the other hand, he was quite well aware that his movements might have been watched almost uninterruptedly since the hour that Sir Charles Abingdon had visited his office.
During the previous day, in his attempt to learn the identity of Ormuz Khan, he had covered his tracks with his customary care. He had sufficient faith in his knowledge of disguise, which was extensive, to believe that those mysterious persons who were interested in his movements remained unaware of the fact that the simple-minded visitor from Vancouver who had spent several hours in and about the Savoy, and Paul Harley of Chancery Lane, were one and the same.
His brain was far too alertly engaged with troubled thoughts of Phil Abingdon to be susceptible to the influence of those delicate etheric waves which he had come to recognize as the note of danger. Practically there had been no development whatever in the investigation, and he was almost tempted to believe that the whole thing was a mirage, when the sight of the typewritten report translated him mentally to the luxurious chambers in Piccadilly.
Again, almost clairvoyantly, he saw the stoical American seated before the empty fireplace, his foot restlessly tapping the fender. Again he heard the curious, high tones: “I’ll tell you... You have opened the gates of hell....”
The whole scene, with its tantalizing undercurrent of mystery, was reenacted before his inner vision. He seemed to hear Nicol Brinn, startled from his reverie, exclaim: “I think it was an owl.... We sometimes get them over from the Green Park....”
Why should so simple an incident have produced so singular an effect? For the face of the speaker had been ashen.
Then the pendulum swung inevitably back: “You are all perfectly cruel and horrible....”
Paul Harley clenched his hands, frowning at the Burmese cabinet as though he hated it.
How persistently the voice of Phil Abingdon rang in his ears! He could not forget her lightest words. How hopelessly her bewitching image intruded itself between his reasoning mind and the problem upon which he sought to concentrate.
Miss Smith, the typist, had gone, for it was after six o’clock, and Innes alone was on duty. He came in as Harley, placing his hat and cane upon the big writing table, sat down to study the report.
“Inspector Wessex rang up, Mr. Harley, about an hour ago. He said he would be at the Yard until six.”
“Has he obtained any information?” asked Paul Harley, wearily, glancing at his little table clock.
“He said he had had insufficient time to do much in the matter, but that there were one or two outstanding facts which might interest you.”
“Did he seem to be surprised?”
“He did,” confessed Innes. “He said that Ormuz Khan was a well-known figure in financial circles, and asked me in what way you were interested in him.”
“Ah!” murmured Harley. He took up the telephone. “City 400,” he said.... “Is that the Commissioner’s Office, New Scotland Yard? ... Paul Harley speaking. Would you please inquire if Detective Inspector Wessex has gone?”
While awaiting a reply he looked up at Innes. “Is there anything else?” he asked.
“Only the letters, Mr. Harley.”
“No callers?”
“No.”
“Leave the letters, then; I will see to them. You need not wait.” A moment later, as his secretary bade him good-night and went out of the office:
“Hello,” said Harley, speaking into the mouthpiece... “The inspector has gone? Perhaps you would ask him to ring me up in the morning.” He replaced the receiver on the hook.
Resting his chin in his hands, he began to read from the typewritten pages before him. His assistant’s report was conceived as follows:
‘Re Mr. Nicol Brinn of Raleigh House, Piccadilly, W. I.
‘Mr. Nicol Brinn is an American citizen, born at Cincinnati, Ohio, February 15, 1884. He is the son of John Nicolas Brinn of the same city, founder of the firm of J. Nicolas Brinn, Incorporated, later reconstituted under the style of Brinn’s Universal Electric Supply Corporation.
‘Nicol Brinn is a graduate of Harvard. He has travelled extensively in nearly all parts of the world and has access to the best society of Europe and America. He has a reputation for eccentricity, has won numerous sporting events as a gentleman rider; was the first airman to fly over the Rockies; took part in the Uruguay rebellion of 1904, and held the rank of lieutenant colonel of field artillery with the American forces during the Great War.
‘He has published a work on big game and has contributed numerous travel articles to American periodicals. On the death of Mr. Brinn, senior, in 1914, he inherited an enormous fortune and a preponderating influence in the B.U.E.S.C. He has never taken any active part in conduct of the concern, but has lived a restless and wandering life in various parts of the world.
‘Mr. Nicol Brinn is a confirmed bachelor. I have been unable to find that he has ever taken the slightest interest in any woman other than his mother throughout his career. Mrs. J. Nicolas Brinn is still living in Cincinnati, and there is said to be a strong bond of affection between mother and son. His movements on yesterday, 4th June, 1921, were as follows:
‘He came out of his chambers at eight o’clock and rode for an hour in the park, when he returned and remained indoors until midday. He then drove to the Carlton, where he lunched with the Foreign Secretary, with whom he remained engaged in earnest conversation until ten minutes to three. The Rt. Hon. gentleman proceeded to the House of Commons and Mr. Brinn to an auction at Christie’s. He bought two oil paintings. He then returned to his chambers and did not reappear again until seven o’clock. He dined alone at a small and unfashionable restaurant in Soho, went on to his box at Covent Garden, where he remained for an hour, also alone, and then went home. He had no callers throughout the day.’
Deliberately Paul Harley had read the report, only removing his hand from his chin to turn over the pages. Now from the cabinet at his elbow he took out his tin of tobacco and, filling and lighting a pipe, lay back, eyes half closed, considering what he had learned respecting Nicol Brinn.
That he was concerned in the death of Sir Charles Abingdon he did not believe for a momen
t; but that this elusive case, which upon investigation only seemed the more obscure, was nevertheless a case of deliberate murder he was as firmly convinced as ever. Of the identity of the murderer, of his motive, he had not the haziest idea, but that the cloud which he had pictured as overhanging the life of the late Sir Charles was a reality and not a myth of the imagination he became more completely convinced with each new failure to pick up a clue.
He found himself helplessly tied. In which direction should he move and to what end? Inclination prompted him in one direction, common sense held him back. As was his custom, he took a pencil and wrote upon a little block:
Find means to force Brinn to speak.
He lay back in his chair again, deep in thought, and presently added the note:
Obtain interview with Ormuz Khan.
Just as he replaced the pencil on the table, his telephone bell rang. The caller proved to be his friend, Inspector Wessex.
“Hello, Mr. Harley,” said the inspector. “I had occasion to return to the Yard, and they told me you had rung up. I don’t know why you are interested in this Ormuz Khan, unless you want to raise a loan.”
Paul Harley laughed. “I gather that he is a man of extensive means,” he replied, “but hitherto he has remained outside my radius of observation.”
“And outside mine,” declared the inspector. “He hasn’t the most distant connection with anything crooked. It gave me a lot of trouble to find out what little I have found out. Briefly, all I have to tell you is this: Ormuz Khan — who is apparently entitled to be addressed as ‘his excellency’ — is a director of the Imperial Bank of Iran, and is associated, too, with one of the Ottoman banks. I presume his nationality is Persian, but I can’t be sure of it. He periodically turns up in the various big capitals when international loans and that sort of thing are being negotiated. I understand that he has a flat somewhere in Paris, and the Service de Surete tells me that his name is good for several million francs over there. He appears to have a certain fondness for London during the spring and early summer months, and I am told he has a fine place in Surrey. He is at present living at Savoy Court. He appears to be something of a dandy and to be very partial to the fair sex, but nevertheless there is nothing wrong with his reputation,considering, I mean, that the man is a sort of Eastern multimillionaire.”