Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

“Fire alone is eternal.”

  As he pronounced those words Nicol Brinn crossed the threshold of the dark room, and the double doors closed silently behind him.

  CHAPTER XXII. FIRE-TONGUE SPEAKS

  Absolute darkness surrounded Nicol Brinn. Darkness, unpleasant heat, and a stifling odour of hyacinths. He had been well coached, and thus far his memory had served him admirably. But now he knew not what to expect. Therefore inwardly on fire but outwardly composed, muscles taut and nerves strung highly, he waited for the next development.

  It took the form, first, of the tinkling of a silver bell, and then of the coming of a dim light at the end of what was evidently a long apartment. The light grew brighter, assuming the form of a bluish flame burning in a little flambeau. Nicol Brinn watched it fascinatedly.

  Absolutely no sound was discernible, until a voice began to speak, a musical voice of curiously arresting quality.

  “You are welcome,” said the voice. “You are of the Bombay Lodge, although a citizen of the United States. Because of some strange error, no work has been allotted to you hitherto. This shall be remedied.”

  Of the weird impressiveness of the scene there could be no doubt. It even touched some unfamiliar chord in the soul of Nicol Brinn. The effect of such an interview upon an imaginative, highly strung temperament, could be well imagined. It was perhaps theatrical, but that by such means great ends had already been achieved he knew to his cost.

  The introduction of Maskelyne illusions into an English country house must ordinarily have touched his sense of humour, but knowing something of the invisible presence in which he stood in that darkened chamber, there was no laughter in the heart of Nicol Brinn, but rather an unfamiliar coldness, the nearest approach to fear of which this steel-nerved man was capable.

  “Temporarily,” the sweet voice continued, “you will be affiliated with the London Lodge, to whom you will look for instructions. These will reach you almost immediately. There is great work to be done in England. It has been decided, however, that you shall be transferred as quickly as possible in our New York Lodge. You will await orders. Only Fire is eternal.”

  Again the voice ceased. But, Nicol Brinn remained silent:

  “Your reply is awaited.”

  “Fire is life,” replied Nicol Brinn.

  The blue tongue of flame subsided, lower and lower, and finally disappeared, so that the apartment became enwrapped in absolute darkness. A faint rustling sound suggested that a heavy curtain had been lowered, and almost immediately the doors behind Nicol Brinn were opened again by Rama Dass.

  “We congratulate you, brother,” he said, extending his hand. “Yet the ordeal was no light one, for all the force of the Fire was focussed upon you.”

  Nicol Brinn reentered the room where the shaded lamp stood upon the writing table. In the past he had moved unscathed through peril unknown to the ordinary man. He was well acquainted with the resources of the organization whose agents, unseen, surrounded him in that remote country house, but that their pretensions were extravagant his present immunity would seem to prove.

  If the speaker with the strangely arresting voice were indeed that Fire-Tongue whose mere name was synonymous with dread in certain parts of the East, then Fire-Tongue was an impostor. He who claimed to read the thoughts of all men had signally failed in the present instance, unless Nicol Brinn stared dully into the smiling face of Rama Dass. Not yet must he congratulate himself. Perhaps the Hindu’s smile concealed as much as the mask worn by Nicol Brinn.

  “We congratulate you,” said Rama Dass. “You are a worthy brother.”

  He performed the secret salutation, which Nicol Brinn automatically acknowledged. Then, without another word, Rama Dass led the way to the door.

  Out into the dark hallway Nicol Brinn stepped, his muscles taut, his brain alert for instant action. But no one offered to molest him. He was assisted into his coat, and his hat was placed in his hands. Then, the front door being opened, he saw the headlights of the waiting car shining on a pillar of the porch.

  A minute later he was seated again in the shuttered limousine, and as it moved off, and the lights leapt up above him, he lay back upon the cushions and uttered a long sigh.

  Already he divined that, following a night’s sleep, these scenes would seem like the episodes of a dream. Taking off his hat, he raised his hand to his forehead, and discovered it to be slightly damp.

  “No wonder,” he muttered.

  Drawing out a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his dinner jacket, he wiped his face and forehead deliberately. Then, selecting a long black cigar from a case which bore the monogram of the late Czar of Russia, he lighted it, dropped the match in the tray, and lolling back in a corner, closed his eyes wearily.

  Thus, almost unmoving, he remained throughout the drive. His only actions were, first, to assure himself that both doors were locked again, and then at intervals tidily to place a little cone of ash in the tray provided for the purpose. Finally, the car drew up and a door was unlocked by the chauffeur.

  Nicol Brinn, placing his hat upon his head, stepped out before the porch of the Cavalry Club.

  The chauffeur closed the door, and returned again to the wheel. Immediately the car moved away. At the illuminated number Nicol Brinn scarcely troubled to glance. Common sense told him that it was not that under which the car was registered. His interest, on the contrary, was entirely focussed upon a beautiful Rolls Royce, which was evidently awaiting some visitor or member of the club. Glancing shrewdly at the chauffeur, a smart, military-looking fellow, Nicol Brinn drew a card from his waistcoat pocket, and resting it upon a wing in the light of one of the lamps, wrote something rapidly upon it in pencil.

  Returning the pencil to his pocket:

  “Whose car, my man?” he inquired of the chauffeur.

  “Colonel Lord Wolverham’s, sir.”

  “Good,” said Nicol Brinn, and put the card and a ten-shilling note into the man’s hand. “Go right into the club and personally give Colonel Lord Wolverham this card. Do you understand?”

  The man understood. Used to discipline, he recognized the note of command in the speaker’s voice.

  “Certainly, sir,” he returned, without hesitation; and stepping down upon the pavement he walked into the club.

  Less than two minutes afterward a highly infuriated military gentleman — who, as it chanced, had never even heard of the distinguished American traveller — came running out hatless into Piccadilly, holding a crumpled visiting card in his hand. The card, which his chauffeur had given him in the midst of a thrilling game, read as follows:

  MR. NICOL BRINN RALEIGH HOUSE, PICCADILLY, W. I.

  And written in pencil beneath the name appeared the following:

  Borrowed your Rolls. Urgent. Will explain tomorrow. Apologize. N.B.

  CHAPTER XXIII. PHIL ABINGDON’S VISITOR

  On the following morning the card of His Excellency Ormuz Khan was brought to Phil Abingdon in the charming little room which Mrs. McMurdoch had allotted to her for a private sanctum during the period of her stay under this hospitable roof.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed, and looked at the maid in a startled way. “I suppose I must see him. Will you ask him to come in, please?”

  A few moments later Ormuz Khan entered. He wore faultless morning dress, too faultless; so devoid of any flaw or crease as to have lost its masculine character. In his buttonhole was a hyacinth, and in one slender ivory hand he carried a huge bunch of pink roses, which, bowing deeply, he presented to the embarrassed girl.

  “Dare I venture,” he said in his musical voice, bending deeply over her extended hand, “to ask you to accept these flowers? It would honour me. Pray do not refuse.”

  “Your excellency is very kind,” she replied, painfully conscious of acute nervousness. “It is more than good of you.”

  “It is good of you to grant me so much pleasure,” he returned, sinking gracefully upon a settee, as Phil Abingdon resumed her seat. “Condolences are mean
ingless. Why should I offer them to one of your acute perceptions? But you know—” the long, magnetic eyes regarded her fixedly— “you know what is in my heart.”

  Phil Abingdon bit her lip, merely nodding in reply.

  “Let us then try to forget, if only for a while,” said Ormuz Khan. “I could show you so easily, if you would consent to allow me, that those we love never leave us.”

  The spell of his haunting voice was beginning to have its effect. Phil Abingdon found herself fighting against something which at once repelled and attracted her. She had experienced this unusual attraction before, and this was not the first time that she had combated it. But whereas formerly she had more or less resigned herself to the strange magic which lay in the voice and in the eyes of Ormuz Khan, this morning there was something within her which rebelled fiercely against the Oriental seductiveness of his manner.

  She recognized that a hot flush had covered her cheeks. For the image of Paul Harley, bronzed, gray-eyed, and reproachful, had appeared before her mind’s eye, and she knew why her resentment of the Persian’s charm of manner had suddenly grown so intense. Yet she was not wholly immune from it, for:

  “Does Your Excellency really mean that?” she whispered.

  A smile appeared upon his face, an alluring smile, but rather that of a beautiful woman than of a man.

  “As you of the West,” he said, “have advanced step by step, ever upward in the mechanical sciences, we of the East have advanced also step by step in other and greater sciences.”

  “Certainly,” she admitted, “you have spoken of such things before.”

  “I speak of things which I know. From that hour when you entered upon your first Kama, back in the dawn of time, until now, those within the ever-moving cycle which bears you on through the ages have been beside you, at times unseen by the world, at times unseen by you, veiled by the mist which men call death, but which is no more than a curtain behind which we sometimes step for a while. In the East we have learned to raise that curtain; in the West are triflers who make like claims, but whose knowledge of the secret of the veil is—” And he snapped his fingers contemptuously.

  The strange personality of the man was having its effect. Phil Abingdon’s eyes were widely open, and she was hanging upon his words. Underneath the soft effeminate exterior lay a masterful spirit — a spirit which had known few obstacles. The world of womanhood could have produced no more difficult subject than Phil Abingdon. Yet she realized, and became conscious of a sense of helplessness, that under certain conditions she would be as a child in the hands of this Persian mystic, whose weird eyes appeared to be watching not her body, nor even her mind, but her soul, whose voice touched unfamiliar chords within her — chords which had never responded to any other human voice.

  It was thrilling, vaguely pleasurable, but deep terror underlay it.

  “Your Excellency almost frightens me,” she whispered. “Yet I do not doubt that you speak of what you know.”

  “It is so,” he returned, gravely. “At any hour, day or night, if you care to make the request, I shall be happy to prove my words. But,” he lowered his dark lashes and then raised them again, “the real object of my visit is concerned with more material things.”

  “Indeed,” said Phil Abingdon, and whether because of the words of Ormuz Khan, or because of some bond of telepathy which he had established between them, she immediately found herself to be thinking of Paul Harley.

  “I bring you a message,” he continued, “from a friend.”

  With eyes widely open, Phil Abingdon watched him.

  “From,” she began — but her lips would not frame the name.

  “From Mr. Paul Harley,” he said, inclining his head gravely.

  “Oh! tell me, tell me!”

  “I am here to tell you, Miss Abingdon. Mr. Harley feels that his absence may have distressed you.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, eagerly.

  “But in pursuit of a certain matter which is known to you, he has found it necessary in the interests of his safety to remain out of London for a while.”

  “Oh,” Phil Abingdon heaved a great sigh. “Oh, Your Excellency, how glad I am to hear that he is safe!”

  The long, dark eyes regarded her intently, unemotionally, noting that the flush had faded from her face, leaving it very pale, and noting also the expression of gladness in her eyes, the quivering of her sweet lips.

  “He is my guest,” continued Ormuz Khan, “my honoured guest.”

  “He is with you?” exclaimed Phil, almost incredulously.

  “With me, at my home in Surrey. In me he found a natural ally, since my concern was as great as his own. I do not conceal from you, Miss Abingdon, that he is danger.”

  “In danger?” she whispered.

  “It is true, but beneath my roof he is safe. There is a matter of vital urgency, however, in which you can assist him.”

  “I?” she exclaimed.

  “No one but you.” Ormuz Khan raised his slender hand gracefully. “I beg you, do not misunderstand me. In the first place, would Mr. Harley have asked you to visit him at my home, if he had not been well assured that you could do so with propriety? In the second place, should I, who respect you more deeply than any woman in the world, consent to your coming unchaperoned? Miss Abingdon, you know me better. I beg of you in Mr. Harley’s name and in my own, prevail upon Mrs. McMurdoch to accept the invitation which I bring to lunch with me at Hillside, my Surrey home.”

  He spoke with the deep respect of a courtier addressing his queen. His low musical voice held a note that was almost a note of adoration. Phil Abingdon withdrew her gaze from the handsome ivory face, and strove for mental composure before replying.

  Subtly, insidiously, the man had cast his spell upon her. Of this she was well aware. In other words, her thoughts were not entirely her own, but in a measure were promptings from that powerful will.

  Indeed, her heart was beating wildly at the mere thought that she was to see Paul Harley again that very day. She had counted the hours since their last meeting, and knew exactly how many had elapsed. Because each one had seemed like twelve, she had ceased to rebel against this sweet weakness, which, for the first time in her life, had robbed her of some of her individuality, and had taught her that she was a woman to whom mastery by man is exquisite slavery. Suddenly she spoke.

  “Of course I will come, Your Excellency,” she said. “I will see Mrs. McMurdoch at once, but I know she will not refuse.”

  “Naturally she will not refuse, Miss Abingdon,” he returned in a grave voice. “The happiness of so many people is involved.”

  “It is so good of you,” she said, standing up. “I shall never forget your kindness.”

  He rose, bowing deeply, from a European standpoint too deeply.

  “Kindness is a spiritual investment,” he said, “which returns us interest tenfold. If I can be sure of Mrs. McMurdoch’s acceptance, I will request permission to take my leave now, for I have an urgent business appointment to keep, after which I will call for you. Can you be ready by noon?”

  “Yes, we shall be ready.”

  Phil Abingdon held out her hand in a curiously hesitant manner. The image of Paul Harley had become more real, more insistent. Her mind was in a strangely chaotic state, so that when the hand of Ormuz Khan touched her own, she repressed a start and laughed in an embarrassed way.

  She knew that her heart was singing, but under the song lay something cold, and when Ormuz Khan had bowed himself from the room, she found herself thinking, not of the newly departed visitor, nor even of Paul Harley, but of her dead father. In spite of the sunshine which flooded the room, her flesh turned cold and she wondered if the uncanny Persian possessed some strange power.

  Clearly as though he had stood beside her, she seemed to hear the beloved voice of her father. It was imagination, of course, she knew this; but it was uncannily real.

  She thought that he was calling her, urgently, beseechingly:

  “Phil...
. Phil....”

  CHAPTER XXIV. THE SCREEN OF GOLD

  Paul Harley raised his aching head and looked wearily about him. At first, as might be expected, he thought that he was dreaming. He lay upon a low divan and could only suppose that he had been transported to India.

  Slowly, painfully, memory reasserted itself and he realized that he had been rendered unconscious by the blow of a sandbag or some similar weapon while telephoning from the station master’s office at Lower Claybury. How long a time had elapsed since that moment he was unable to judge, for his watch had been removed from his pocket. He stared about him with a sort of fearful interest. He lay in a small barely furnished room having white distempered walls, wholly undecorated. Its few appointments were Oriental, and the only window which it boasted was set so high as to be well out of reach. Moreover, it was iron-barred, and at the moment admitted no light, whether because it did not communicate with the outer world, or because night was fallen, he was unable to tell.

  There were two doors in the room, one of very massive construction, and the other a smaller one. The place was dimly lighted by a brass lantern which hung from the ceiling. Harley stood up, staggered slightly, and then sat down again.

  “My God,” he groaned and raised his hand to his head.

  For a few moments he remained seated, victim of a deadly nausea. Then, clenching his jaws grimly, again he stood up, and this time succeeded in reaching the heavy door.

  As he had supposed, it was firmly locked, and a glance was sufficient to show him that his unaided effort could never force it. He turned his attention to the smaller door, which opened at his touch, revealing a sleeping apartment not unlike a monk’s cell, adjoining which was a tiny bathroom. Neither rooms boasted windows, both being lighted by brass lanterns.

  Harley examined them and their appointments with the utmost care, and then returned again to the outer room, one feature of which, and quite the most remarkable, he had reserved for special investigation.

  This was a massive screen of gilded iron scroll work, which occupied nearly the whole of one end of the room. Beyond the screen hung a violet-coloured curtain of Oriental fabric; but so closely woven was the metal design that although he could touch this curtain with his finger at certain points, it proved impossible for him to move it aside in any way.