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Produced by Michael Delaney





FIRE-TONGUE

By Sax Rohmer




CONTENTS

I. A CLIENT FOR PAUL HARLEY
II. THE SIXTH SENSE
III. SHADOWS
IV. INTRODUCING MR. NICOL BRINN
V. "THE GATES OF HELL"
VI. PHIL ABINGDON ARRIVES
VII. CONFESSIONS
VIII. A WREATH OF HYACINTHS
IX. TWO REPORTS
X. HIS EXCELLENCY ORMUZ KHAN
XI. THE PURPLE STAIN
XII. THE VEIL IS RAISED
XIII. NICOL BRINN HAS A VISITOR
XIV. WESSEX GETS BUSY
XV. NAIDA
XVI. NICOL BRINN GOES OUT
XVII. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY
XVIII. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY (continued)
XIX. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY (concluded)
XX. CONFLICTING CLUES
XXI. THE SEVENTH KAMA
XXII. FIRE-TONGUE SPEAKS
XXIII. PHIL ABINGDON'S VISITOR
XXIV. THE SCREEN OF GOLD
XXV. AN ENGLISHMAN'S HONOUR
XXVI. THE ORCHID OF SLEEP
XXVII. AT HILLSIDE
XXVIII.THE CHASE
XXIX. THE CATASTROPHE
XXX. NICOL BRINN'S STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE
XXXI. STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE (continued)
XXXII. STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE (continued)
XXXIII.STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE (continued)
XXXIV. NICOL BRINN'S STORY (concluded)






CHAPTER I. A CLIENT FOR PAUL HARLEY

Some of Paul Harley's most interesting cases were brought to his notice
in an almost accidental way. Although he closed his office in Chancery
Lane sharply at the hour of six, the hour of six by no means marked the
end of his business day. His work was practically ceaseless. But even in
times of leisure, at the club or theatre, fate would sometimes cast in
his path the first slender thread which was ultimately to lead him into
some unsuspected labyrinth, perhaps in the underworld of London, perhaps
in a city of the Far East.

His investigation of the case of the man with the shaven skull afforded
an instance of this, and even more notable was his first meeting with
Major Jack Ragstaff of the Cavalry Club, a meeting which took place
after the office had been closed, but which led to the unmasking of
perhaps the most cunning murderer in the annals of crime.

One summer's evening when the little clock upon his table was rapidly
approaching the much-desired hour, Harley lay back in his chair and
stared meditatively across his private office in the direction of a
large and very handsome Burmese cabinet, which seemed strangely out of
place amid the filing drawers, bookshelves, and other usual impedimenta
of a professional man. A peculiarly uninteresting week was drawing to
a close, and he was wondering if this betokened a decreased activity in
the higher criminal circles, or whether it was merely one of those usual
quiescent periods which characterize every form of warfare.

Paul Harley, although the fact was unknown to the general public,
occupied something of the position of an unofficial field marshal of the
forces arrayed against evildoers. Throughout the war he had undertaken
confidential work of the highest importance, especially in regard to
the Near East, with which he was intimately acquainted. A member of
the English bar, and the last court of appeal to which Home Office and
Foreign Office alike came in troubled times, the brass plate upon the
door of his unassuming premises in Chancery Lane conveyed little or
nothing to the uninitiated.

The man himself, with his tropical bronze and air of eager vitality,
must have told the most careless observer that he stood in the presence
of an extraordinary personality. He was slightly gray at the temples in
these days, but young in mind and body, physically fit, and possessed
of an intellectual keenness which had forced recognition from two
hemispheres. His office was part of an old city residence, and his
chambers adjoined his workroom, so that now, noting that his table clock
registered the hour of six, he pressed a bell which summoned Innes, his
confidential secretary.

"Well, Innes," said Harley, looking around, "another uneventful day."

"Very uneventful, Mr. Harley. About a month of this and you will have to
resume practice at the bar."

Paul Harley laughed.

"Not a bit likely, Innes," he replied. "No more briefs for me. I shall
retire to Norfolk and devote my declining years to fishing."

"I don't know that fishing would entirely satisfy me," said Innes.

"It would more than satisfy me," returned Harley. "But every man to his
own ambition. Well, there is no occasion to wait; you might as well get
along. But what's that you've got in your hand?"

"Well," replied Innes, laying a card upon the table, "I was just coming
in with it when you rang."

Paul Harley glanced at the card.

"Sir Charles Abingdon," he read aloud, staring reflectively at his
secretary. "That is the osteologist?"

"Yes," answered Innes, "but I fancy he has retired from practice."

"Ah," murmured Harley, "I wonder what he wants. I suppose I had better
see him, as I fancy that he and I met casually some years ago in India.
Ask him to come in, will you?"

Innes retiring, there presently entered a distinguished-looking, elderly
gentleman upon whose florid face rested an expression not unlike that of
embarrassment.

"Mr. Harley," he began, "I feel somewhat ill at ease in encroaching
upon your time, for I am by no means sure that my case comes within your
particular province."

"Sit down, Sir Charles," said Harley with quiet geniality. "Officially,
my working day is ended; but if nothing comes of your visit beyond a
chat it will have been very welcome. Calcutta, was it not, where we last
met?"

"It was," replied Sir Charles, placing his hat and cane upon the table
and sitting down rather wearily in a big leather armchair which Harley
had pushed forward. "If I presume upon so slight an acquaintance, I am
sorry, but I must confess that only the fact of having met you socially
encouraged me to make this visit."

He raised his eyes to Harley's face and gazed at him with that
peculiarly searching look which belongs to members of his profession;
but mingled with it was an expression of almost pathetic appeal, of
appeal for understanding, for sympathy of some kind.

"Go on, Sir Charles," said Harley. He pushed forward a box of cigars.
"Will you smoke?"

"Thanks, no," was the answer.

Sir Charles evidently was oppressed by some secret trouble, thus Harley
mused silently, as, taking out a tin of tobacco from a cabinet beside
him, he began in leisurely manner to load a briar. In this he desired
to convey that he treated the visit as that of a friend, and also,
since business was over, that Sir Charles might without scruple speak at
length and at leisure of whatever matters had brought him there.

"Very well, then," began the surgeon; "I am painfully conscious that
the facts which I am in a position to lay before you are very scanty and
unsatisfactory."

Paul Harley nodded encouragingly.

"If this were not so," he explained, "you would have no occasion
to apply to me, Sir Charles. It is my business to look for facts.
Naturally, I do not expect my clients to supply them."

Sir Charles slowly nodded his head, and seemed in some measure to
recover confidence.

"Briefly, then," he said, "I believe my life is in danger."

"You mean that there is someone who desires your death?"

"I do."

"H'm," said Harley, replacing the tin in the cupboard and striking
a match. "Even if the facts are scanty, no doubt you have fairly
substantial grounds for such a suspicion?"

"I cannot say that they are substantial, Mr. Harley. They are rather
more circumstantial. Frankly, I have forced myself to come here, and now
that I have intruded upon your privacy, I realize my difficulties more
keenly than ever."

The expression of embarrassment upon the speaker's face had grown
intense; and now he paused, bending forward in his chair. He seemed in
his glance to appeal for patience on the part of his hearer, and Harley,
lighting his pipe, nodded in understanding fashion. He was the last man
in the world to jump to conclusions. He had learned by bitter experience
that lightly to dismiss such cases as this of Sir Charles as coming
within the province of delusion, was sometimes tantamount to refusing
aid to a man in deadly peril.

"You are naturally anxious for the particulars," Sir Charles presently
resumed. "They bear, I regret to say, a close resemblance to the
symptoms of a well-known form of hallucination. In short, with one
exception, they may practically all be classed under the head of
surveillance."

"Surveillance," said Paul Harley. "You mean that you are more or less
constantly followed?"

"I do."

"And what is your impression of this follower?"

"A very hazy one. To-night, as I came to your office, I have every
reason to believe that someone followed me in a taxicab."

"You came in a car?"

"I did."

"And a cab followed you the whole way?"

"Practically the whole way, except that as my chauffeur turned into
Chancery Lane, the cab stopped at the corner of Fleet Street."

"Your idea is that your pursuer followed on foot from this point?"

"Such was my impression."

"H'm, quite impossible. And is this sort of thing constant, Sir
Charles?"

"It has been for some time past."

"Anything else?"

"One very notable thing, Mr. Harley. I was actually assaulted less than
a week ago within sight of my own house."

"Indeed! Tell me of this." Paul Harley became aware of an awakening
curiosity. Sir Charles Abingdon was not the type of man who is lightly
intimidated.

"I had been to visit a friend in the neighbourhood," Sir Charles
continued, "whom I am at present attending professionally, although I am
actually retired. I was returning across the square, close to midnight,
when, fortunately for myself, I detected the sound of light, pattering
footsteps immediately behind me. The place was quite deserted at that
hour, and although I was so near home, the worst would have happened, I
fear, if my sense of hearing had been less acute. I turned in the very
instant that a man was about to spring upon me from behind. He was
holding in his hand what looked like a large silk handkerchief. This
encounter took place in the shadow of some trees, and beyond the fact
that my assailant was a small man, I could form no impression of his
identity."

"What did you do?"

"I turned and struck out with my stick."

"And then?"

"Then he made no attempt to contest the issue, but simply ran swiftly
off, always keeping in the shadows of the trees."

"Very strange," murmured Harley. "Do you think he had meant to drug
you?"

"Maybe," replied Sir Charles. "The handkerchief was perhaps saturated
with some drug, or he may even have designed to attempt to strangle me."

"And you formed absolutely no impression of the man?"

"None whatever, Mr. Harley. When you see the spot at which the encounter
took place, if you care to do so, you will recognize the difficulties.
It is perfectly dark there after nightfall."

"H'm," mused Harley. "A very alarming occurrence, Sir Charles. It must
have shaken you very badly. But we must not overlook the possibility
that this may have been an ordinary footpad."

"His methods were scarcely those of a footpad," murmured Sir Charles.

"I quite agree," said Harley. "They were rather Oriental, if I may say
so."

Sir Charles Abingdon started. "Oriental!" he whispered. "Yes, you are
right."

"Does this suggest a train of thought?" prompted Harley.

Sir Charles Abingdon cleared his throat nervously. "It does, Mr.
Harley," he admitted, "but a very confusing train of thought. It leads
me to a point which I must mention, but which concerns a very well-known
man. Before I proceed I should like to make it clear that I do not
believe for a moment that he is responsible for this unpleasant
business."

Harley stared at him curiously. "Nevertheless," he said, "there must be
some data in your possession which suggest to your mind that he has some
connection with it."

"There are, Mr. Harley, and I should be deeply indebted if you could
visit my house this evening, when I could place this evidence, if
evidence it may be called, before you. I find myself in so delicate a
position. If you are free I should welcome your company at dinner."

Paul Harley seemed to be reflecting.

"Of course, Sir Charles," he said, presently, "your statement is very
interesting and curious, and I shall naturally make a point of going
fully into the matter. But before proceeding further there are two
questions I should like to ask you. The first is this: What is the name
of the 'well-known' man to whom you refer? And the second: If not he
then whom do you suspect of being behind all this?"

"The one matter is so hopelessly involved in the other," he finally
replied, "that although I came here prepared as I thought with a
full statement of the case, I should welcome a further opportunity of
rearranging the facts before imparting them to you. One thing, however,
I have omitted to mention. It is, perhaps, of paramount importance.
There was a robbery at my house less than a week ago."

"What! A robbery! Tell me: what was stolen?"

"Nothing of the slightest value, Mr. Harley, to any one but myself - or
so I should have supposed." The speaker coughed nervously. "The thief
had gained admittance to my private study, where there are several
cases of Oriental jewellery and a number of pieces of valuable gold and
silverware, all antique. At what hour he came, how he gained admittance,
and how he retired, I cannot imagine. All the doors were locked as usual
in the morning and nothing was disturbed."

"I don't understand, then."

"I chanced to have occasion to open my bureau which I invariably keep
locked. Immediately - immediately - I perceived that my papers were
disarranged. Close examination revealed the fact that a short manuscript
in my own hand, which had been placed in one of the pigeonholes, was
missing."

"A manuscript," murmured Harley. "Upon a technical subject?"

"Scarcely a technical subject, Mr. Harley. It was a brief account which
I had vaguely contemplated publishing in one of the reviews, a brief
account of a very extraordinary patient whom I once attended."

"And had you written it recently?"

"No; some years ago. But I had recently added to it. I may say that it
was my purpose still further to add to it, and with this object I had
actually unlocked the bureau."

"New facts respecting this patient had come into your possession?"

"They had."

"Before the date of the attack upon you?"

"Before that date, yes."

"And before surveillance of your movements began?"

"I believe so."

"May I suggest that your patient and the 'well-known man' to whom you
referred are one and the same?"

"It is not so, Mr. Harley," returned Sir Charles in a tired voice.
"Nothing so simple. I realize more than ever that I must arrange my
facts in some sort of historical order. Therefore I ask you again: will
you dine with me to-night?"

"With pleasure," replied Harley, promptly. "I have no other engagement."

That his ready acceptance had immensely relieved the troubled mind of
Sir Charles was evident enough. His visitor stood up. "I am not prone to
sickly fancies, Mr. Harley," he said. "But a conviction has been growing
upon me for some time that I have incurred, how I cannot imagine, but
that nevertheless I have incurred powerful enmity. I trust our evening's
counsel may enable you, with your highly specialized faculties, to
detect an explanation."

And it was instructive to note how fluently he spoke now that he found
himself temporarily relieved of the necessity of confessing the source
of his mysterious fears.



CHAPTER II. THE SIXTH SENSE

Paul Harley stepped into his car in Chancery Lane. "Drive in the
direction of Hyde Park Corner," he directed the chauffeur. "Go along the
Strand."

Glancing neither right nor left, he entered the car, and presently they
were proceeding slowly with the stream of traffic in the Strand. "Pull
up at the Savoy," he said suddenly through the tube.

The car slowed down in that little bay which contains the entrance to
the hotel, and Harley stared fixedly out of the rear window, observing
the occupants of all other cars and cabs which were following. For three
minutes or more he remained there watching. "Go on," he directed.

Again they proceeded westward and, half-way along Piccadilly, "Stop at
the Ritz," came the order.

The car pulled up before the colonnade and Harley, stepping out,
dismissed the man and entered the hotel, walked through to the side
entrance, and directed a porter to get him a taxicab. In this he
proceeded to the house of Sir Charles Abingdon. He had been seeking
to learn whether he was followed, but in none of the faces he had
scrutinized had he detected any interest in himself, so that his idea
that whoever was watching Sir Charles in all probability would have
transferred attention to himself remained no more than an idea. For all
he had gained by his tactics, Sir Charles's theory might be no more than
a delusion after all.

The house of Sir Charles Abingdon was one of those small, discreet
establishments, the very neatness of whose appointments inspires respect
for the occupant. If anything had occurred during the journey to suggest
to Harley that Sir Charles was indeed under observation by a hidden
enemy, the suave British security and prosperity of his residence must
have destroyed the impression.

As the cab was driven away around the corner, Harley paused for a
moment, glancing about him to right and left and up at the neatly
curtained windows. In the interval which had elapsed since Sir Charles's
departure from his office, he had had leisure to survey the outstanding
features of the story, and, discounting in his absence the pathetic
sincerity of the narrator, he had formed the opinion that there was
nothing in the account which was not susceptible of an ordinary prosaic
explanation.

Sir Charles's hesitancy in regard to two of the questions asked had
contained a hint that they might involve intimate personal matters,
and Harley was prepared to learn that the source of the distinguished
surgeon's dread lay in some unrevealed episode of the past. Beyond the
fact that Sir Charles was a widower, he knew little or nothing of
his private life; and he was far too experienced an investigator to
formulate theories until all the facts were in his possession. Therefore
it was with keen interest that he looked forward to the interview.

Familiarity with crime, in its many complexions, East and West, had
developed in Paul Harley a sort of sixth sense. It was an evasive,
fickle thing, but was nevertheless the attribute which had made him
an investigator of genius. Often enough it failed him entirely. It had
failed him to-night - or else no one had followed him from Chancery Lane.

It had failed him earlier in the evening when, secretly, he had watched
from the office window Sir Charles's car proceeding toward the Strand.
That odd, sudden chill, as of an abrupt lowering of the temperature,
which often advised him of the nearness of malignant activity, had not
been experienced.

Now, standing before Sir Charles's house, he "sensed" the atmosphere
keenly - seeking for the note of danger.

There had been a thunder shower just before he had set out, and now,
although rain had ceased, the sky remained blackly overcast and a
curious, dull stillness was come. The air had a welcome freshness and
the glistening pavements looked delightfully cool after the parching
heat of the day. In the quiet square, no doubt, it was always restful
in contrast with the more busy highroads, and in the murmur of distant
traffic he found something very soothing. About him then were peace,
prosperity, and security.

Yet, as he stood there, waiting - it came to him: the note of danger.
Swiftly he looked to right and left, trying to penetrate the premature
dusk. The whole complexion of the matter changed. Some menace intangible
now, but which at any moment might become evident - lay near him. It was
sheer intuition, no doubt, but it convinced him.

A moment later he had rung the bell; and as a man opened the door,
showing a easy and well-lighted lobby within, the fear aura no longer
touched Paul Harley. Out from the doorway came hominess and that air
of security and peace which had seemed to characterize the house when
viewed from outside. The focus of menace, therefore, lay not inside
the house of Sir Charles but without. It was very curious. In the next
instant came a possible explanation.

"Mr. Paul Harley?" said the butler tentatively.

"Yes, I am he."

"Sir Charles is expecting you, sir. He apologizes for not being in to
receive you, but he will only be absent a few minutes."

"Sir Charles has been called out?" inquired Harley as he handed hat and
coat to the man.

"Yes, sir. He is attending Mr. Chester Wilson on the other side of the
square, and Mr. Wilson's man rang up a few moments ago requesting Sir
Charles to step across."

"I see," murmured Harley, as the butler showed him into a small but
well-filled library on the left of the lobby.

Refreshments were set invitingly upon a table beside a deep lounge
chair. But Harley declined the man's request to refresh himself while
waiting and began aimlessly to wander about the room, apparently
studying the titles of the works crowding the bookshelves. As a matter
of fact, he was endeavouring to arrange certain ideas in order, and if
he had been questioned on the subject it is improbable that he could
have mentioned the title of one book in the library.

His mental equipment was of a character too rarely met with in the
profession to which he belonged. While up to the very moment of reaching
Sir Charles's house he had doubted the reality of the menace which
hung over this man, the note of danger which he had sensed at the very
threshold had convinced him, where more ordinary circumstantial evidence
might have left him in doubt.

It was perhaps pure imagination, but experience had taught him that it
was closely allied to clairvoyance.

Now upon his musing there suddenly intruded sounds of a muffled
altercation. That is to say, the speakers, who were evidently in the
lobby beyond the library door, spoke in low tones, perhaps in deference
to the presence of a visitor. Harley was only mildly interested, but
the voices had broken his train of thought, and when presently the door
opened to admit a very neat but rather grim-looking old lady he started,
then looked across at her with a smile.

Some of the grimness faded from the wrinkled old face, and the
housekeeper, for this her appearance proclaimed her to be, bowed in a
queer Victorian fashion which suggested that a curtsy might follow. One
did not follow, however. "I am sure I apologize, sir," she said. "Benson
did not tell me you had arrived."

"That's quite all right," said Harley, genially.

His smile held a hint of amusement, for in the comprehensive glance
which the old lady cast across the library, a glance keen to detect
disorder and from which no speck of dust could hope to conceal itself,
there remained a trace of that grimness which he had detected at the
moment of her entrance. In short, she was still bristling from a recent
encounter. So much so that detecting something sympathetic in Harley's
smile she availed herself of the presence of a badly arranged vase of
flowers to linger and to air her grievances.

"Servants in these times," she informed him, her fingers busily
rearranging the blooms, "are not what servants were in my young days."

"Unfortunately, that is so," Harley agreed.

The old lady tossed her head. "I do my best," she continued, "but that
girl would not have stayed in the house for one week if I had had my
way. Miss Phil is altogether too soft-hearted. Thank goodness, she goes
to-morrow, though."

"You don't refer to Miss Phil?" said Harley, intentionally
misunderstanding.

"Gracious goodness, no!" exclaimed the housekeeper, and laughed with
simple glee at the joke. "I mean Jones, the new parlourmaid. When I say
new, they are all new, for none of them stay longer than three months."

"Indeed," smiled Harley, who perceived that the old lady was something
of a martinet.

"Indeed, they don't. Think they are ladies nowadays. Four hours off has
that girl had to-day, although she was out on Wednesday. Then she has
the impudence to allow someone to ring her up here at the house; and
finally I discover her upsetting the table after Benson had laid it and
after I had rearranged it."


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