by Sax Rohmer
CHAPTER III. SHADOWS
"Had you reason to suspect any cardiac trouble, Doctor McMurdoch?" askedHarley.
Doctor McMurdoch, a local practitioner who had been a friend of SirCharles Abingdon, shook his head slowly. He was a tall, preternaturallythin Scotsman, clean-shaven, with shaggy dark brows and a most gloomyexpression in his deep-set eyes. While the presence of his sepulchralfigure seemed appropriate enough in that stricken house, Harley couldnot help thinking that it must have been far from reassuring in a sickroom.
"I had never actually detected anything of the kind," replied thephysician, and his deep voice was gloomily in keeping with hispersonality. "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 hadoccurred to excite Sir Charles?"
"On the contrary," replied Harley, "he was highly distressed about somefamily trouble, the nature of which he was about to confide to me whenthis sudden illness seized him."
He stared hard at Doctor McMurdoch, wondering how much he might hope tolearn from him respecting the affairs of Sir Charles. It seemed almostimpertinent at that hour to seek to pry into the dead man's privatelife.
To the quiet, book-lined apartment stole now and again littlesignificant sounds which told of the tragedy in the household. Sometimeswhen 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. Orghostly movements would become audible from the room immediately overthe library--the room to which the dead man had been carried; muffledfootsteps, vague stirrings of furniture; each sound laden with its ownpeculiar portent, awakening the imagination which all too readily filledin the details of the scene above. Then, to spur Harley to action, camethe thought that Sir Charles Abingdon had appealed to him for aid. Didhis need terminate with his unexpected death or would the shadow underwhich he had died extend now? Harley found himself staring across thelibrary at the photograph of Phil Abingdon. It was of her that SirCharles had been speaking when that mysterious seizure had tied histongue. That strange, fatal illness, mused Harley, all the more strangein the case of a man supposedly in robust health--it almost seemedlike the working of a malignant will. For the revelation, whateverits nature, had almost but not quite been made in Harley's office thatevening. Something, some embarrassment or mental disability, had stoppedSir Charles from completing his statement. Tonight death had stoppedhim.
"Was he consulting you professionally, Mr. Harley?" asked the physician.
"He was," replied Harley, continuing to stare fascinatedly at thephotograph on the mantelpiece. "I am informed," said he, abruptly, "thatMiss Abingdon is out of town?"
Doctor McMurdoch nodded in his slow, gloomy fashion. "She is staying inDevonshire with poor Abingdon's sister," he answered. "I am wonderinghow we are going to break the news to her."
Perceiving that Doctor McMurdoch had clearly been intimate with thelate Sir Charles, Harley determined to make use of this opportunity toendeavour to fathom the mystery of the late surgeon's fears. "You willnot misunderstand me, Doctor McMurdoch," he said, "if I venture to askyou one or two rather personal questions respecting Miss Abingdon?"
Doctor McMurdoch lowered his shaggy brows and looked gloomily at thespeaker. "Mr. Harley," he replied, "I know you by repute for a man ofintegrity. But before I answer your questions will you answer one ofmine?"
"Certainly."
"Then my question is this: Does not your interest cease with the deathof your client?"
"Doctor McMurdoch," said Harley, sternly, "you no doubt believe yourselfto be acting as a friend of this bereaved family. You regard me,perhaps, as a Paul Pry prompted by idle curiosity. On the contrary, Ifind myself in a delicate and embarrassing situation. From Sir Charles'sconversation I had gathered that he entertained certain fears on behalfof his daughter."
"Indeed," said Doctor McMurdoch.
"If these fears were well grounded, the danger is not removed, butmerely increased by the death of Miss Abingdon's natural protector.I regret, sir, that I approached you for information, since you havemisjudged my motive. But far from my interest having ceased, it has nowas I see the matter become a sacred duty to learn what it was that SirCharles apprehended. This duty, Doctor McMurdoch, I propose to fulfilwith 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 showeditself in his deep voice. "Charley Abingdon and I were students togetherin 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 fullyappreciate your feelings in the matter. At such a time a strangercan only be an intruder; but"--he fixed his keen eyes upon thephysician--"there is more underlying all this than you suspect or couldreadily believe. You will live to know that I have spoken the truth."
"I know it now," declared the Scotsman, solemnly. "Abingdon was alwayseccentric, but he didn't know the meaning of fear."
"Once that may have been true," replied Harley. "But a great fear wasupon him when he came to me, Doctor McMurdoch, and if it is humanlypossible I am going to discover its cause."
"Go ahead," said Doctor McMurdoch and, turning to the side table, hepoured out two liberal portions of whiskey. "If there's anything I cando to help, count me at your service. You tell me he had fears aboutlittle Phil?"
"He had," answered Harley, "and it is maddening to think that he diedbefore he could acquaint me with their nature. But I have hopes thatyou can help me in this. For instance"--again he fixed his gaze uponthe gloomy face of the physician--"who is the distinguished Orientalgentleman with whom Sir Charles had recently become acquainted?"
Doctor McMurdoch's expression remained utterly blank, and he slowlyshook his head. "I haven't an idea in the world," he declared. "Apatient, perhaps?"
"Possibly," said Harley, conscious of some disappointment; "yet from theway he spoke of him I scarcely think that he was a patient. Surely SirCharles, having resided so long in India, numbered several Orientalsamong his acquaintances if not among his friends?"
"None ever came to his home," replied Doctor McMurdoch. "He had all theAnglo-Indian's prejudice against men of colour." He rested his massivechin 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 youaware of any difference of opinion which had arisen latterly between SirCharles and his daughter?"
"Difference of opinion!" replied Doctor McMurdoch, raising his browsironically. "There would always be difference of opinion between littlePhil 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 hopeof success that he put his third question to the gloomy Scot. "Was SirCharles a friend of Mr. Nicol Brinn?" he asked.
"Nicol Brinn?" echoed the physician. He looked perplexed. "You mean theAmerican millionaire? I believe they were acquainted. Abingdon knew mostof the extraordinary people in London; and if half one hears is trueNicol Brinn is as mad as a hatter. But they were not in any sensefriends as far as I know." He was watching Harley curiously. "Why do youask that question?"
"I will tell you in a moment," said Harley, rapidly, "but I have onemore question to put to you first. Does the term Fire-Tongue conveyanything to your mind?"
Doctor McMurdoch's eyebrows shot upward most amazingly. "I won't insultyou 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 yourfourth sounds simply daft."
"It must," agreed Harley, and his manner was almost fierce; "but whenI tell you why I ask these two questions--and I only do so on theunderstand ing that my
words are to be treated in the strictestconfidence--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 inthe glass which he held in his hand and slowly shaking his head. "Poorold Charley Abingdon," he murmured. "It's plain to me, Mr. Harley, thathis mind was wandering. May not we find here an explanation, too, ofthis idea of his that some danger overhung Phil? You didn't chance tonotice, I suppose, whether he had a temperature?"
"I did not," replied Harley, smiling slightly. But the smile quicklyleft his face, which became again grim and stern.
A short silence ensued, during which Doctor McMurdoch sat staringmoodily 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 clearlyapprehended an attempt upon his life, are you satisfied professionallythat 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 areby no means unusual. He was formerly a keen athlete, remember. 'Tisoften so. Surely you don't suspect foul play? I understood you to meanthat his apprehensions were on behalf of Phil."
Paul Harley stood still, staring meditatively in the other's direction."There is not a scrap of evidence to support such a theory," headmitted, "but if you knew of the existence of any poisonous agent whichwould produce effects simulating these familiar symptoms, I should betempted to take certain steps."
"If you are talking about poisons," said the physician, a ratherstartled look appearing upon his face, "there are several I mightmention; but the idea seems preposterous to me. Why should any one wantto harm Charley Abingdon? When could poison have been administered andby whom?"
"When, indeed?" murmured Harley. "Yet I am not satisfied."
"You're not hinting at--suicide?"
"Emphatically no."
"What had he eaten?"
"Nothing but soup, except that he drank a portion of a glass of water. Iam wondering if he took anything at Mr. Wilson's house." He stared hardat Doctor McMurdoch. "It may surprise you to learn that I have alreadytaken steps to have the remains of the soup from Sir Charles's plateexamined, as well as the water in the glass. I now propose to call uponMr. Wilson in order that I may complete this line of enquiry."
"I sympathize with your suspicions, Mr. Harley," said the physiciandourly, "but you are wasting your time." A touch of the old aciditycrept back into his manner. "My certificate will be 'syncope due tounusual excitement'; and I shall stand by it."
"You are quite entitled to your own opinion," Harley conceded, "which ifI were in your place would be my own. But what do you make of the factthat Sir Charles received a bogus telephone message some ten minutesbefore my arrival, as a result of which he visited Mr. Wilson's house?"
"But he's attending Wilson," protested the physician.
"Nevertheless, no one there had telephoned. It was a ruse. I don'tassume for a moment that this ruse was purposeless."
Doctor McMurdoch was now staring hard at the speaker.
"You may also know," Harley continued, "that there was an attemptedburglary here less than a week ago."
"I know that," admitted the other, "but it counts for little. There havebeen several burglaries in the neighbourhood of late."
Harley perceived that Doctor McMurdoch was one of those characters, notuncommon north of the Tweed, who, if slow in forming an opinion, oncehaving done so cling to it as tightly as any barnacle.
"You may be right and I may be wrong," Harley admitted, "but while yourprofessional business with Sir Charles unfortunately is ended, mine isonly beginning. May I count upon you to advise me of Miss Abingdon'sreturn? I particularly wish to see her, and I should prefer to meether in the capacity of a friend rather than in that of a professionalinvestigator."
"At the earliest moment that I can decently arrange a meeting," repliedDoctor McMurdoch, "I will communicate with you, Mr. Harley. I am justcudgelling my brains at the moment to think how the news is to be brokento her. Poor little Phil! He was all she had."
"I wish I could help you," declared Harley with sincerity, "but in thecircumstances any suggestion of mine would be mere impertinence." Heheld out his hand to the doctor.
"Good-night," said the latter, gripping it heartily. "If there is anymystery surrounding poor Abingdon's death, I believe you are the man toclear it up. But, frankly, it was his heart. I believe he had a touch ofthe sun once in India. Who knows? His idea that some danger threatenedhim or threatened Phil may have been merely--" He tapped his browsignificantly.
"But in the whole of your knowledge of Sir Charles," cried Harley,exhibiting a certain irritation, "have you ever known him to suffer fromdelusions of that kind or any other?"
"Never," replied the physician, firmly; "but once a man has had the sunone cannot tell."
"Ah!" said Harley. "Good-night, Doctor McMurdoch."
When presently he left the house, carrying a brown leather bag which hehad borrowed from the butler, he knew that rightly or wrongly his ownopinion remained unchanged in spite of the stubborn opposition of theScottish physician. The bogus message remained to be explained, and theassault in the square, as did the purpose of the burglar to whom goldand silver plate made no appeal. More important even than these pointswere the dead man's extraordinary words: "Fire-Tongue"--"Nicol Brinn."Finally and conclusively, he had detected the note of danger outside andinside the house; and now as he began to cross the square it touched himagain intimately.
He looked up at the darkened sky. A black cloud was moving slowlyoverhead, high above the roof of the late Sir Charles Abingdon; andas he watched its stealthy approach it seemed to Paul Harley to be thesymbol of that dread in which latterly Sir Charles's life had lain,beneath which he had died, and which now was stretching out, mysteriousand menacing, over himself.