Fire-Tongue

by Sax Rohmer

  CHAPTER V. THE GATES OF HELL

  If Paul Harley had counted upon the word "Fire-Tongue" to have adramatic effect upon Nicol Brinn, he was not disappointed. It was a wordwhich must have conveyed little or nothing to the multitude and whichmight have been pronounced without perceptible effect at any publicmeeting in the land. But Mr. Brinn, impassive though his expressionremained, could not conceal the emotion which he experienced at thesound of it. His gaunt face seemed to grow more angular and his eyes tobecome even less lustrous.

  "Fire-Tongue!" he said, tensely, following a short silence. "For God'ssake, when did you hear that word?"

  "I heard it," replied Harley, slowly, "to-night." He fixed his gazeintently upon the sallow face of the American. "It was spoken by SirCharles Abingdon."

  Closely as he watched Nicol Brinn while pronouncing this name he couldnot detect the slightest change of expression in the stoic features.

  "Sir Charles Abingdon," echoed Brinn; "and in what way is it connectedwith your case?"

  "In this way," answered Harley. "It was spoken by Sir Charles a fewmoments before he died."

  Nicol Brinn's drooping lids flickered rapidly. "Before he died! Then SirCharles Abingdon is dead! When did he die?"

  "He died to-night and the last words that he uttered were'Fire-Tongue'--" He paused, never for a moment removing that fixed gazefrom the other's face.

  "Go on," prompted Mr. Brinn.

  "And 'Nicol Brinn.'"

  Nicol Brinn stood still as a carven man. Indeed, only by an addedrigidity in his pose did he reward Paul Harley's intense scrutiny. Asilence charged with drama was finally broken by the American. "Mr.Harley," he said, "you told me that you were up against the bigproposition of your career. You are right."

  With that he sat down in an armchair and, resting his chin in his hand,gazed fixedly into the empty grate. His pose was that of a man who issuddenly called upon to review the course of his life and upon whosedecision respecting the future that life may depend. Paul Harley watchedhim in silence.

  "Give me the whole story," said Mr. Brinn, "right from the beginning."He looked up. "Do you know what you have done to-night, Mr. Harley?"

  Paul Harley shook his head. Swiftly, like the touch of an icy finger,that warning note of danger had reached him again.

  "I'll tell you," continued Brinn. "You have opened the gates of hell!"

  Not another word did he speak while Paul Harley, pacing slowly up anddown before the hearth, gave him a plain account of the case, omittingall reference to his personal suspicions and to the measures which hehad taken to confirm them.

  He laid his cards upon the table deliberately. Whether Sir CharlesAbingdon had uttered the name of Nicol Brinn as that of one whose aidshould be sought or as a warning, he had yet to learn. And by thisapparent frankness he hoped to achieve his object. That the celebratedAmerican was in any way concerned in the menace which had overhung SirCharles he was not prepared to believe. But he awaited with curiositythat explanation which Nicol Brinn must feel called upon to offer.

  "You think he was murdered?" said Brinn in his high, toneless voice.

  "I have formed no definite opinion. What is your own?"

  "I may not look it," replied Brinn, "but at this present moment I am themost hopelessly puzzled and badly frightened man in London."

  "Frightened?" asked Harley, curiously.

  "I said frightened, I also said puzzled; and I am far too puzzled tobe able to express any opinion respecting the death of Sir CharlesAbingdon. When I tell you all I know of him you will wonder as much as Ido, Mr. Harley, why my name should have been the last to pass his lips."

  He half turned in the big chair to face his visitor, who now wasstanding before the fireplace staring down at him.

  "One day last month," he resumed, "I got out of my car in a big hurry atthe top of the Haymarket. A fool on a motorcycle passed between thecar and the sidewalk just as I stepped down, and I knew nothing furtheruntil I woke up in a drug store close by, feeling very dazed and withmy coat in tatters and my left arm numbed from the elbow. A man wasstanding watching me, and presently when I had pulled round he gave mehis card.

  "He was Sir Charles Abingdon, who had been passing at the time of theaccident. That was how I met him, and as there was nothing seriouslywrong with me I saw him no more professionally. But he dined with me aweek later and I had lunch at his club about a fortnight ago."

  He looked up at Harley. "On my solemn word of honour," he said, "that'sall I know about Sir Charles Abingdon."

  Paul Harley returned the other's fixed stare. "I don't doubt yourassurance on the point, Mr. Brinn," he acknowledged. "I can wellunderstand that you must be badly puzzled; but I would remind you ofyour statement that you were also frightened. Why?"

  Nicol Brinn glanced rapidly about his own luxurious room in an oddlyapprehensive manner. "I said that," he declared, "and I meant it."

  "Then I can only suppose," resumed Harley, deliberately, "that the causeof your fear lies in the term, 'Fire-Tongue'?"

  Brinn again rested his chin in his hand, staring fixedly into the grate.

  "And possibly," went on the remorseless voice, "you can explain thesignificance of that term?"

  Nicol Brinn remained silent--but with one foot he was slowly tapping theedge of the fender.

  "Mr. Harley," he began, abruptly, "you have been perfectly frank with meand in return I wish to be as frank with you as I can be. I am face toface with a thing that has haunted me for seven years, and every step Itake from now onward has to be considered carefully, for any step mightbe my last. And that's not the worst of the matter. I will risk oneof those steps here and now. You ask me to explain the significance ofFire-Tongue" (there was a perceptible pause before he pronounced theword, which Harley duly noticed). "I am going to tell you that SirCharles Abingdon, when I lunched with him at his club, asked meprecisely the same thing."

  "What! He asked you that so long as two weeks ago?"

  "He did."

  "And what reason did he give for his inquiry?"

  Nicol Brinn began to tap the fender again with his foot. "Let me think,"he replied. "I recognize that you must regard my reticence as peculiar,Mr. Harley, but if ever a man had reason to look before he leaped, I amthat man."

  Silence fell again, and Paul Harley, staring down at Nicol Brinn,realized that this indeed was the most hopelessly mystifying case whichfate had ever thrown in his way. This millionaire scholar and traveller,whose figure was as familiar in remote cities of the world as it wasfamiliar in New York, in Paris, and in London, could not conceivably beassociated with any criminal organization. Yet his hesitancy was indeeddifficult to explain, and because it seemed to Harley that the cloudwhich had stolen out across the house of Sir Charles Abingdon now hungthreateningly over those very chambers, he merely waited and wondered.

  "He referred to an experience which had befallen him in India," cameNicol Brinn's belated reply.

  "In India? May I ask you to recount that experience?"

  "Mr. Harley," replied Brinn, suddenly standing up, "I can't."

  "You can't?"

  "I have said so. But I'd give a lot more than you might believe to knowthat Abingdon had told you the story which he told me."

  "You are not helping, Mr. Brinn," said Harley, sternly. "I believe andI think that you share my belief that Sir Charles Abingdon did not diefrom natural causes. You are repressing valuable evidence. Allow meto remind you that if anything should come to light necessitating apost-mortem examination of the body, you will be forced to divulge in acourt of justice the facts which you refuse to divulge to me."

  "I know it," said Brinn, shortly.

  He shot out one long arm and grasped Harley's shoulder as in a vice."I'm counted a wealthy man," he continued, "but I'd give every cent Ipossess to see 'paid' put to the bill of a certain person. Listen.You don't think I was in any way concerned in the death of Sir CharlesAbingdon? It isn't thinkable. But you do think I'm in possession offacts which would help you find
out who is. You're right."

  "Good God!" cried Harley. "Yet you remain silent!"

  "Not so loud--not so loud!" implored Brinn, repeating that odd, almostfurtive glance around. "Mr. Harley--you know me. You've heard of me andnow you've met me. You know my place in the world. Do you believe mewhen I say that from this moment onward I don't trust my own servants?Nor my own friends?" He removed his grip from Harley's shoulder."Inanimate things look like enemies. That mummy over yonder may haveears!"

  "I'm afraid I don't altogether understand you."

  "See here!"

  Nicol Brinn crossed to a bureau, unlocked it, and while Harley watchedhim curiously, sought among a number of press cuttings. Presentlyhe found the cutting for which he was looking. "This was said," heexplained, handing the slip to Harley, "at the Players' Club in NewYork, after a big dinner in pre-dry days. It was said in confidence.But some disguised reporter had got in and it came out in print nextmorning. Read it."

  Paul Harley accepted the cutting and read the following:

  NICOL BRINN'S SECRET AMBITIONS MILLIONAIRE SPORTSMAN WHO WANTS TO SHOOT NIAGARA!

  Mr. Nicol Brinn of Cincinnati, who is at present in New York, opened hisheart to members of the Players' Club last night. Our prominent citizen,responding to a toast, "the distinguished visitor," said:

  "I'd like to live through months of midnight frozen in among the polarice; I'd like to cross Africa from east to west and get lost in themiddle. I'd like to have a Montana sheriff's posse on my heels for horsestealing, and I've prayed to be wrecked on a desert island like RobinsonCrusoe to see if I am man enough to live it out. I want to stand mytrial for murder and defend my own case, and I want to be found by theeunuchs in the harem of the Shah. I want to dive for pearls and scalethe Matterhorn. I want to know where the tunnel leads to--the tunneldown under the Great Pyramid of Gizeh--and I'd love to shoot NiagaraFalls in a barrel."

  "It sounds characteristic," murmured Harley, laying the slip on thecoffee table.

  "It's true!" declared Brinn. "I said it and I meant it. I'm a gluttonfor danger, Mr. Harley, and I'm going to tell you why. Somethinghappened to me seven years ago--"

  "In India?"

  "In India. Correct. Something happened to me, sir, which just tookthe sunshine out of life. At the time I didn't know all it meant. I'velearned since. For seven years I have been flirting with death andhoping to fall!"

  Harley stared at him uncomprehendingly. "More than ever I fail tounderstand."

  "I can only ask you to be patient, Mr. Harley. Time is a wonderfuldoctor, and I don't say that in seven years the old wound hasn't healeda bit. But to-night you have, unknowingly, undone all that time haddone. I'm a man that has been down into hell. I bought myself out. Ithought I knew where the pit was located. I thought I was well away fromit, Mr. Harley, and you have told me something tonight which makes methink that it isn't where I supposed at all, but hidden down here rightunder our feet in London. And we're both standing on the edge!"

  That Nicol Brinn was deeply moved no student of humanity could havedoubted. From beneath the stoic's cloak another than the dare-devilmillionaire whose crazy exploits were notorious had looked out.Persistently the note of danger came to Paul Harley. Those luxuriousPiccadilly chambers were a focus upon which some malignant will wasconcentrated. He became conscious of anger. It was the anger of a justman who finds himself impotent--the rage of Prometheus bound.

  "Mr. Brinn!" he cried, "I accept unreservedly all that you have told me.Its real significance I do not and cannot grasp. But my theory that SirCharles Abingdon was done to death has become a conviction. That a likefate threatens yourself and possibly myself I begin to believe." Helooked almost fiercely into the other's dull eyes. "My reputationeast and west is that of a white man. Mr. Brinn--I ask you for yourconfidence."

  Nicol Brinn dropped his chin into his hand and resumed that unseeingstare into the open grate. Paul Harley watched him intently.

  "There isn't any one I would rather confide in," confessed the American."We are linked by a common danger. But"--he looked up--"I must ask youagain to be patient. Give me time to think--to make plans. For your ownpart--be cautious. You witnessed the death of Sir Charles Abingdon. Youdon't think and perhaps I don't think that it was natural; but whateversteps you may have taken to confirm your theories, I dare not hope thatyou will ever discover even a ghost of a clue. I simply warn you, Mr.Harley. You may go the same way. So may I. Others have travelled thatroad before poor Abingdon."

  He suddenly stood up, all at once exhibiting to his watchful visitorthat tremendous nervous energy which underlay his impassive manner."Good God!" he said, in a cold, even voice. "To think that it is here inLondon. What does it mean?"

  He ceased speaking abruptly, and stood with his elbow resting on acorner of the mantelpiece.

  "You speak of it being here," prompted Harley. "Is it consistent withyour mysterious difficulties to inform me to what you refer?"

  Nicol Brinn glanced aside at him. "If I informed you of that," heanswered, "you would know all you want to know. But neither you nor Iwould live to use the knowledge. Give me time. Let me think."

  Silence fell in the big room, Nicol Brinn staring down vacantly into theempty fireplace, Paul Harley standing watching him in a state of almoststupefied mystification. Muffled to a soothing murmur the sounds ofPiccadilly penetrated to that curtained chamber which held so manyrecords of the troubled past and which seemed to be charged with shadowyportents of the future.

  Something struck with a dull thud upon a windowpane--once--twice. Therefollowed a faint, sibilant sound.

  Paul Harley started and the stoical Nicol Brinn turned rapidly andglanced across the room.

  "What was that?" asked Harley.

  "I expect--it was an owl," answered Brinn. "We sometimes get them overfrom the Green Park."

  His high voice sounded unemotional as ever. But it seemed to Paul Harleythat his face, dimly illuminated by the upcast light from the lamp uponthe coffee table, had paled, had become gaunt.