The city clocks were chiming the hour of ten on the following morning when a page from the Savoy approached the shop of Mr. Jarvis, bootmaker, which is situated at no great distance from the hotel. The impudent face of the small boy wore an expression of serio-comic fright as he pushed open the door and entered the shop.
Jarvis, the bootmaker, belonged to a rapidly disappearing class of British tradesmen. He buckled to no one, but took an artistic pride in his own handiwork, criticism from a layman merely provoking a scornful anger which had lost Jarvis many good customers.
He was engaged, at the moment of the page’s entrance, in a little fitting room at the back of his cramped premises, but through the doorway the boy could see the red, bespectacled face with its fringe of bristling white beard, in which he detected all the tokens of brewing storm. He whistled softly in self-sympathy.
“Yes, sir,” Jarvis was saying to an invisible patron, “it’s a welcome sight to see a real Englishman walk into my shop nowadays. London isn’t London, sir, since the war, and the Strand will never be the Strand again.” He turned to his assistant, who stood beside him, bootjack in hand. “If he sends them back again,” he directed, “tell him to go to one of the French firms in Regent Street who cater to dainty ladies.” He positively snorted with indignation, while the page, listening, whistled again and looked down at the parcel which he carried.
“An unwelcome customer, Jarvis?” inquired the voice of the man in the fitting room.
“Quite unwelcome,” said Jarvis. “I don’t want him. I have more work than I know how to turn out. I wish he would go elsewhere. I wish—”
He paused. He had seen the page boy. The latter, having undone his parcel, was holding out a pair of elegant, fawn-coloured shoes.
“Great Moses!” breathed Jarvis. “He’s had the cheek to send them back again!”
“His excellency—” began the page, when Jarvis snatched the shoes from his hand and hurled them to the other end of the shop. His white beard positively bristled.
“Tell his excellency,” he shouted, “to go to the devil, with my compliments!”
So positively ferocious was his aspect that the boy, with upraised arm, backed hastily out into the street. Safety won: “Blimey!” exclaimed the youth. “He’s the warm goods, he is!”
He paused for several moments, staring in a kind of stupefied admiration at the closed door of Mr. Jarvis’s establishment. He whistled again, softly, and then began to run—for the formidable Mr. Jarvis suddenly opened the door. “Hi, boy!” he called to the page. The page hesitated, glancing back doubtfully. “Tell his excellency that I will send round in about half an hour to remeasure his foot.”
“D’you mean it?” inquired the boy, impudently—“or is there a catch in it?”
“I’ll tan your hide, my lad!” cried the bootmaker—“and I mean that! Take my message and keep your mouth shut.”
The boy departed, grinning, and little more than half an hour later a respectable-looking man presented himself at Savoy Court, inquiring of the attendant near the elevator for the apartments of “his excellency,” followed by an unintelligible word which presumably represented “Ormuz Khan.” The visitor wore a well-brushed but threadbare tweed suit, although his soft collar was by no means clean. He had a short, reddish-brown beard, and very thick, curling hair of the same hue protruded from beneath a bowler hat which had seen long service.
Like Mr. Jarvis, he was bespectacled, and his teeth were much discoloured and apparently broken in front, as is usual with cobblers. His hands, too, were toil-stained and his nails very black. He carried a cardboard box. He seemed to be extremely nervous, and this nervousness palpably increased when the impudent page, who was standing in the lobby, giggled on hearing his inquiry.
“He’s second floor,” said the youth. “Are you from Hot-Stuff Jarvis?”
“That’s right, lad,” replied the visitor, speaking with a marked Manchester accent; “from Mr. Jarvis.”
“And are you really going up?” inquired the boy with mock solicitude.
“I’m going up right enough. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Shut up, Chivers,” snapped the hall porter. “Ring the bell.” He glanced at the cobbler. “Second floor,” he said, tersely, and resumed his study of a newspaper which he had been reading.
The representative of Mr. Jarvis was carried up to the second floor and the lift man, having indicated at which door he should knock, descended again. The cobbler’s nervousness thereupon became more marked than ever, so that a waiter, seeing him looking helplessly from door to door, took pity on him and inquired for whom he was searching.
“His excellency,” was the reply; “but I’m hanged if I can remember the number or how to pronounce his name.”
The waiter glanced at him oddly. “Ormuz Khan,” he said, and rang the bell beside a door. As he hurried away, “Good luck!” he called back.
There was a short interval, and then the door was opened by a man who looked like a Hindu. He wore correct morning dress and through gold-rimmed pince-nez he stared inquiringly at the caller.
“Is his excellency at home?” asked the latter. “I’m from Mr. Jarvis, the bootmaker.”
“Oh!” said the other, smiling slightly. “Come in. What is your name?”
“Parker, sir. From Mr. Jarvis.”
As the door closed, Parker found himself in a small lobby. Beside an umbrella rack a high-backed chair was placed. “Sit down,” he was directed. “I will tell his excellency that you are here.”
A door was opened and closed again, and Parker found himself alone. He twirled his bowler hat, which he held in his hand, and stared about the place vacantly. Once he began to whistle, but checked himself and coughed nervously. Finally the Hindu gentleman reappeared, beckoning to him to enter.
Parker stood up very quickly and advanced, hat in hand.
Then he remembered the box which he had left on the floor, and, stooping to recover it, he dropped his hat. But at last, leaving his hat upon the chair and carrying the box under his arm, he entered a room which had been converted into a very businesslike office.
There was a typewriter upon a table near the window at which someone had evidently been at work quite recently, and upon a larger table in the centre of the room were dispatch boxes, neat parcels of documents, ledgers, works of reference, and all the evidence of keen commercial activity. Crossing the room, the Hindu rapped upon an inner door, opened it, and standing aside, “The man from the bootmaker,” he said in a low voice.
Parker advanced, peering about him as one unfamiliar with his surroundings. As he crossed the threshold the door was closed behind him, and he found himself in a superheated atmosphere heavy with the perfume of hyacinths.
The place was furnished as a sitting room, but some of its appointments were obviously importations. Its keynote was orientalism, not of that sensuous yet grossly masculine character which surrounds the wealthy Eastern esthete but quite markedly feminine. There were an extraordinary number of cushions, and many bowls and vases containing hyacinths. What other strange appointments were present Parker was far too nervous to observe.
He stood dumbly before a man who lolled back in a deep, cushioned chair and whose almond-shaped eyes, black as night, were set immovably upon him. This man was apparently young. He wore a rich, brocaded robe, trimmed with marten fur, and out of it his long ivory throat rose statuesquely. His complexion was likewise of this uniform ivory colour, and from his low smooth brow his hair was brushed back in a series of glossy black waves.
His lips were full and very red. As a woman he might have been considered handsome—even beautiful; in a man this beauty was unnatural and repellent. He wore Oriental slippers, fur-lined, and his feet rested on a small ottoman. One long, slender hand lay upon a cushion placed on the chair arm, and a pretty girl was busily engaged in manicuring his excellency’s nails. Although the day held every promise of being uncomfortably hot, already a huge fire was burning in the grate.
As Parker stood before him, the languid, handsome Oriental did not stir a muscle, merely keeping the gaze of his strange black eyes fixed upon the nervous cobbler. The manicurist, after one quick upward glance, continued her work. But in this moment of distraction she had hurt the cuticle of one of those delicate, slender fingers.
Ormuz Khan withdrew his hand sharply from the cushion, glanced aside at the girl, and then, extending his hand again, pushed her away from him. Because of her half-kneeling posture, she almost fell, but managed to recover herself by clutching at the edge of a little table upon which the implements of her trade were spread. The table rocked and a bowl of water fell crashing on the carpet. His excellency spoke. His voice was very musical.
“Clumsy fool,” he said. “You have hurt me. Go.”
The girl became very white and began to gather up the articles upon the table. “I am sorry,” she said, “but—”
“I do not wish you to speak,” continued the musical voice; “only to go.”
Hurriedly collecting the remainder of the implements and placing them in an attache case, the manicurist hurried from the room. Her eyes were overbright and her lips pathetically tremulous. Ormuz Khan never glanced in her direction again, but resumed his disconcerting survey of Parker. “Yes?” he said.
Parker bumblingly began to remove the lid of the cardboard box which he had brought with him.
“I do not wish you to alter the shoes you have made,” said his excellency. “I instructed you to remeasure my foot in order that you might make a pair to fit.”
“Yes, sir,” said Parker. “Quite so, your excellency.” And he dropped the box and the shoes upon the floor. “Just a moment, sir?”
From an inner pocket he drew out a large sheet of white paper, a pencil, and a tape measure. “Will you place your foot upon this sheet of paper, sir?”
Ormuz Khan raised his right foot listlessly.
“Slipper off, please, sir.”
“I am waiting,” replied the other, never removing his gaze from Parker’s face.
“Oh, I beg your pardon sir, your excellency,” muttered the bootmaker.
Dropping upon one knee, he removed the furred slipper from a slender, arched foot, bare, of the delicate colour of ivory, and as small as a woman’s.
“Now, sir.”
The ivory foot was placed upon the sheet of paper, and very clumsily Parker drew its outline. He then took certain measurements and made a number of notes with a stub of thick pencil. Whenever his none too clean hands touched Ormuz Khan’s delicate skin the Oriental perceptibly shuddered.
“Of course, sir,” said Parker at last, “I should really have taken your measurement with the sock on.”
“I wear only the finest silk.”
“Very well, sir. As you wish.”
Parker replaced paper, pencil, and measure, and, packing up the rejected shoes, made for the door.
“Oh, bootmaker!” came the musical voice.
Parker turned. “Yes, sir?”
“They will be ready by Monday?”
“If possible, your excellency.”
“Otherwise I shall not accept them.”
Ormuz Khan drew a hyacinth from a vase close beside him and languidly waved it in dismissal.
In the outer room the courteous secretary awaited Parker, and there was apparently no one else in the place, for the Hindu conducted him to the lobby and opened the door.
Parker said “Good morning, sir,” and would have departed without his hat had not the secretary smilingly handed it to him.
When, presently, the cobbler emerged from the elevator, below, he paused before leaving the hotel to mop his perspiring brow with a large, soiled handkerchief. The perfume of hyacinths seemed to have pursued him, bringing with it a memory of the handsome, effeminate ivory face of the man above. He was recalled to his senses by the voice of the impudent page.
“Been kicked out, gov’nor?” the youth inquired. “You’re the third this morning.”
“Is that so?” answered Parker. “Who were the other two, lad?”
“The girl wot comes to do his nails. A stunnin’ bird, too. She came down cryin’ a few minutes ago. Then—”
“Shut up, Chivers!” cried the hall porter. “You’re asking for the sack, and I’m the man to get it for you.”
Chivers did not appear to be vastly perturbed by this prospect, and he grinned agreeably at Parker as the latter made his way out into the courtyard.
Any one sufficiently interested to have done so might have found matter for surprise had he followed that conscientious bootmaker as he left the hotel. He did not proceed to the shop of Mr. Jarvis, but, crossing the Strand, mounted a city-bound motor bus and proceeded eastward upon it as far as the Law Courts. Here he dismounted and plunged into that maze of tortuous lanes which dissects the triangle formed by Chancery Lane and Holborn.
His step was leisurely, and once he stopped to light his pipe, peering with interest into the shop window of a law stationer. Finally he came to another little shop which had once formed part of a private house. It was of the lock-up variety, and upon the gauze blind which concealed the interior appeared the words: “The Chancery Agency.”
Whether the Chancery Agency was a press agency, a literary or a dramatic agency, was not specified, but Mr. Parker was evidently well acquainted with the establishment, for he unlocked the door with a key which he carried and, entering a tiny shop, closed and locked the door behind him again.
The place was not more than ten yards square and the ceiling was very low. It was barely furnished as an office, but evidently Mr. Parker’s business was not of a nature to detain him here. There was a second door to be unlocked; and beyond it appeared a flight of narrow stairs—at some time the servant’s stair of the partially demolished house which had occupied that site in former days. Relocking this door in turn, Mr. Parker mounted the stair and presently found himself in a spacious and well-furnished bedroom.
This bedroom contained an extraordinary number of wardrobes, and a big dressing table with wing mirrors lent a theatrical touch to the apartment. This was still further enhanced by the presence of all sorts of wigs, boxes of false hair, and other items of make-up. At the table Mr. Parker seated himself, and when, half an hour later, the bedroom door was opened, it was not Mr. Parker who crossed the book-lined study within and walked through to the private office where Innes was seated writing. It was Mr. Paul Harley.
For more than an hour Harley sat alone, smoking, neglectful of the routine duties which should have claimed his attention. His face was set and grim, and his expression one of total abstraction. In spirit he stood again in that superheated room at the Savoy. Sometimes, as he mused, he would smoke with unconscious vigour, surrounding himself with veritable fog banks. An imaginary breath of hyacinths would have reached him, to conjure up vividly the hateful, perfumed environment of Ormuz Khan.
He was savagely aware of a great mental disorderliness. He recognized that his brain remained a mere whirlpool from which Phyllis Abingdon, the deceased Sir Charles, Nicol Brinn, and another, alternately arose to claim supremacy. He clenched his teeth upon the mouthpiece of his pipe.
But after some time, although rebelliously, his thoughts began to marshal themselves in a certain definite formation. And outstanding, alone, removed from the ordinary, almost from the real, was the bizarre personality of Ormuz Khan.
The data concerning the Oriental visitor, as supplied by Inspector Wessex, had led him to expect quite a different type of character. Inured as Paul Harley was to surprise, his first sentiment as he had set eyes upon the man had been one of sheer amazement.
“Something of a dandy,” inadequately described the repellent sensuousness of this veritable potentate, who could contrive to invest a sitting room in a modern hotel with the atmosphere of a secret Eastern household. To consider Ormuz Khan in connection with matters of international finance was wildly incongruous, while the manicurist incident indicated an inherent cruelty only possible in one of Oriental race.
In a mood of complete mental detachment Paul Harley found himself looking again into those black, inscrutable eyes and trying to analyze the elusive quality of their regard. They were unlike any eyes that he had met with. It were folly to count their possessor a negligible quantity. Nevertheless, it was difficult, because of the fellow’s scented effeminacy, to believe that women could find him attractive. But Harley, wise in worldly lore, perceived that the mystery surrounding Ormuz Khan must make a strong appeal to a certain type of female mind. He was forced to admit that some women, indeed many, would be as clay in the hands of the man who possessed those long-lashed, magnetic eyes.
He thought of the pretty manicurist. Mortification he had read in her white face, and pain; but no anger. Yes, Ormuz Khan was dangerous.
In what respect was he dangerous?
“Phil Abingdon!” Harley whispered, and, in the act of breathing the name, laughed at his own folly.
In the name of reason, he mused, what could she find to interest her in a man of Ormuz Khan’s type? He was prepared to learn that there was a mystic side to her personality—a phase in her character which would be responsive to the outre and romantic. But he was loath to admit that she could have any place in her affections for the scented devotee of hyacinths.
Thus, as always, his musings brought him back to the same point. He suppressed a groan and, standing up, began to pace the room. To and fro he walked, before the gleaming cabinet, and presently his expression underwent a subtle change. His pipe had long since gone out, but he had failed to observe the fact. His eyes had grown unusually bright—and suddenly he stepped to the table and stooping made a note upon the little writing block.
He rang the bell communicating with the outer office. Innes came in. “Innes,” he said, rapidly, “is there anything of really first-rate importance with which I should deal personally?”
“Well,” replied the secretary, glancing at some papers which he carried, “there is nothing that could not wait until to-morrow at a pinch.”
“The pinch has come,” said Harley. “I am going to interview the two most important witnesses in the Abingdon case.”
“To whom do you refer, Mr. Harley?”
Innes stared rather blankly, as he made the inquiry, whereupon:
“I have no time to explain,” continued Harley. “But I have suddenly realized the importance of a seemingly trivial incident which I witnessed. It is these trivial incidents, Innes, which so often contain the hidden clue.”
“What! you really think you have a clue at last?”
“I do.” The speaker’s face grew grimly serious. “Innes, if I am right, I shall probably proceed to one of two places: the apartments of Ormuz Khan or the chambers of Nicol Brinn. Listen. Remain here until I phone—whatever the hour.”
“Shall I advise Wessex to stand by?”
Harley nodded. “Yes—do so. You understand, Innes, I am engaged and not to be disturbed on any account?”
“I understand. You are going out by the private exit?”
“Exactly.”
As Innes retired, quietly closing the door, Harley took up the telephone and called Sir Charles Abingdon’s number. He was answered by a voice which he recognized.
“This is Paul Harley speaking,” he said. “Is that Benson?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the butler. “Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Benson. I have one or two questions to ask you, and there is something I want you to do for me. Miss Abingdon is out, I presume?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Benson, sadly. “At the funeral, sir.”
“Is Mrs. Howett in?”
“She is, sir.”
“I shall be around in about a quarter of an hour, Benson. In the meantime, will you be good enough to lay the dining table exactly as it was laid on the night of Sir Charles’s death?”
Benson could be heard nervously clearing his throat, then: “Perhaps, sir,” he said, diffidently, “I didn’t quite understand you. Lay the table, sir, for dinner?”
“For dinner—exactly. I want everything to be there that was present on the night of the tragedy; everything. Naturally you will have to place different flowers in the vases, but I want to see the same vases. From the soup tureen to the serviette rings, Benson, I wish you to duplicate the dinner table as I remember it, paying particular attention to the exact position of each article. Mrs. Howett will doubtless be able to assist you in this.”
“Very good, sir,” said Benson—but his voice betokened bewilderment. “I will see Mrs. Howett at once, sir.”
“Right. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, sir.”
Replacing the receiver, Harley took a bunch of keys from his pocket and, crossing the office, locked the door. He then retired to his private apartments and also locked the communicating door. A few moments later he came out of “The Chancery Agency” and proceeded in the direction of the Strand. Under cover of the wire-gauze curtain which veiled the window he had carefully inspected the scene before emerging. But although his eyes were keen and his sixth sense whispered “Danger—danger!” he had failed to detect anything amiss.
This constant conflict between intuition and tangible evidence was beginning to tell upon him. Either his sixth sense had begun to play tricks or he was the object of the most perfectly organized and efficient system of surveillance with which he had ever come in contact. Once, in the past, he had found himself pitted against the secret police of Moscow, and hitherto he had counted their methods incomparable. Unless he was the victim of an unpleasant hallucination, those Russian spies had their peers in London.
As he alighted from a cab before the house of the late Sir Charles, Benson opened the door. “We have just finished, sir,” he said, as Harley ran up the steps. “But Mrs. Howett would like to see you, sir.”
“Very good, Benson,” replied Harley, handing his hat and cane to the butler. “I will see her in the dining room, please.”
Benson throwing open the door, Paul Harley walked into the room which so often figured in his vain imaginings. The table was laid for dinner in accordance with his directions. The chair which he remembered to have occupied was in place and that in which Sir Charles had died was set at the head of the table.
Brows contracted, Harley stood just inside the room, looking slowly about him. And, as he stood so, an interrogatory cough drew his gaze to the doorway. He turned sharply, and there was Mrs. Howett, a pathetic little figure in black.
“Ah, Mrs. Howett,” said Harley; kindly, “please try to forgive me for this unpleasant farce with its painful memories. But I have a good reason. I think you know this. Now, as I am naturally anxious to have everything clear before Miss Abingdon returns, will you be good enough to tell me if the table is at present set exactly as on the night that Sir Charles and I came in to dinner?”
“No, Mr. Harley,” was the answer, “that was what I was anxious to explain. The table is now laid as Benson left it on that dreadful night.”
“Ah, I see. Then you, personally, made some modifications?”
“I rearranged the flowers and moved the centre vase so.” The methodical old lady illustrated her words. “I also had the dessert spoons changed. You remember, Benson?”
Benson inclined his head. From a sideboard he took out two silver spoons which he substituted for those already set upon the table.
“Anything else, Mrs. Howett?”
“The table is now as I left it, sir, a few minutes before your arrival. Just after your arrival I found Jones, the parlourmaid—a most incompetent, impudent girl—altering the position of the serviettes. At least, such was my impression.”
“Of the serviettes?” murmured Harley.
“She denied it,” continued the housekeeper, speaking with great animation; “but she could give no explanation. It was the last straw. She took too many liberties altogether.”
As Harley remained silent, the old lady ran on animatedly, but Harley was no longer listening.
“This is not the same table linen?” he asked, suddenly.
“Why, no, sir,” replied Benson. “Last week’s linen will be at the laundry.”
“It has not gone yet,” interrupted Mrs. Howett. “I was making up the list when you brought me Mr. Harley’s message.”
Paul Harley turned to her.
“May I ask you to bring the actual linen used at table on that occasion, Mrs. Howett?” he said. “My request must appear singular, I know, but I assure you it is no idle one.”
Benson looked positively stupid, but Mrs. Howett, who had conceived a sort of reverence for Paul Harley, hurried away excitedly.
“Finally, Benson,” said Harley, “what else did you bring into the room after Sir Charles and I had entered?”
“Soup, sir. Here is the tureen, on the sideboard, and all the soup plates of the service in use that night. Of course, sir, I can’t say which were the actual plates used.”
Paul Harley inspected the plates, a set of fine old Derby ware, and gazed meditatively at the silver ladle. “Did the maid, Jones, handle any of these?” he asked.
“No, sir”—emphatically. “She was preparing to bring the trout from the kitchen.”
“But I saw her in the room.”
“She had brought in the fish plates, a sauce boat, and two toast racks, sir. She put them here, on the sideboard. But they were never brought to the table.”
“H’m. Has Jones left?”
“Yes, sir. She was under notice. But after her rudeness, Mrs. Howett packed her off right away. She left the very next day after poor Sir Charles died.”
“Where has she gone?”
“To a married sister, I believe, until she finds a new job. Mrs. Howett has the address.”
At this moment Mrs. Howett entered, bearing a tablecloth and a number of serviettes.
“This was the cloth,” she said, spreading it out, “but which of the serviettes were used I cannot say.”
“Allow me to look,” replied Paul Harley.
One by one he began to inspect the serviettes, opening each in turn and examining it critically.
“What have we here!” he exclaimed, presently. “Have blackberries been served within the week, Mrs. Howett?”
“We never had them on the table, Mr. Harley. Sir Charles—God rest him—said they irritated the stomach. Good gracious!” She turned to Benson. “How is it I never noticed those stains, and what can have caused them?”
The serviette which Paul Harley held outstretched was covered all over with dark purple spots.
Rising from the writing table in the library, Paul Harley crossed to the mantelpiece and stared long and hungrily at a photograph in a silver frame. So closely did he concentrate upon it that he induced a sort of auto-hypnosis, so that Phil Abingdon seemed to smile at him sadly. Then a shadow appeared to obscure the piquant face. The soft outline changed, subtly; the lips grew more full, became voluptuous; the eyes lengthened and grew languorous. He found himself looking into the face of Ormuz Khan.
“Damn it!” he muttered, awakened from his trance.
He turned aside, conscious of a sudden, unaccountable chill. It might have been caused by the mental picture which he had conjured up, or it might be another of those mysterious warnings of which latterly he had had so many without encountering any positive danger. He stood quite still, listening.
Afterward he sometimes recalled that moment, and often enough asked himself what he had expected to hear. It was from this room, on an earlier occasion, that he had heard the ominous movements in the apartment above. To-day he heard nothing.
“Benson,” he called, opening the library door. As the man came along the hall: “I have written a note to Mr. Innes, my secretary,” he explained. “There it is, on the table. When the district messenger, for whom you telephoned, arrives, give him the parcel and the note. He is to accept no other receipt than that of Mr. Innes.”
“Very good, sir.”
Harley took his hat and cane, and Benson opened the front door.
“Good day, sir,” said the butler.
“Good day, Benson,” called Harley, hurrying out to the waiting cab. “Number 236 South Lambeth Road,” he directed the man.
Off moved the taxi, and Harley lay back upon the cushions heaving a long sigh. The irksome period of inaction was ended. The cloud which for a time had dulled his usually keen wits was lifted. He was by no means sure that enlightenment had come in time, but at least he was in hot pursuit of a tangible clue, and he must hope that it would lead him, though tardily, to the heart of this labyrinth which concealed—what?
Which concealed something, or someone, known and feared as Fire-Tongue.
For the moment he must focus upon establishing, beyond query or doubt, the fact that Sir Charles Abingdon had not died from natural causes. Premonitions, intuitions, beliefs resting upon a foundation of strange dreams—these were helpful to himself, if properly employed, but they were not legal evidence. This first point achieved, the motive of the crime must be sought; and then—the criminal.
“One thing at a time,” Harley finally murmured.
Turning his head, he glanced back at the traffic in the street behind him. The action was sheerly automatic. He had ceased to expect to detect the presence of any pursuer. Yet he was convinced that his every movement was closely watched. It was uncanny, unnerving, this consciousness of invisible surveillance. Now, as he looked, he started. The invisible had become the visible.
His cab was just on the point of turning on to the slope of Vauxhall Bridge. And fifty yards behind, speeding along the Embankment, was a small French car. The features of the driver he had no time to observe. But, peering eagerly through the window, showed the dark face of the passenger. The man’s nationality it was impossible to determine, but the keen, almost savage interest, betrayed by the glittering black eyes, it was equally impossible to mistake.
If the following car had turned on to the bridge, Harley, even yet, might have entertained a certain doubt. But, mentally putting himself in the pursuer’s place, he imagined himself detected and knew at once exactly what he should do. Since this hypothetical course was actually pursued by the other, Harley’s belief was confirmed.
Craning his neck, he saw the little French car turn abruptly and proceed in the direction of Victoria Station. Instantly he acted.
Leaning out of the window he thrust a ten-shilling note into the cabman’s hand. “Slow down, but don’t pull up,” he directed. “I am going to jump out just as you pass that lorry ahead. Ten yards further on stop. Get down and crank your engine, and then proceed slowly over the bridge. I shall not want you again.”
“Right-oh, sir,” said the man, grinning broadly. As a result, immediately he was afforded the necessary cover, Harley jumped from the cab. The man reached back and closed the door, proceeding on his leisurely way. Excepting the driver of the lorry, no one witnessed this eccentric performance, and Harley, stepping on to the footpath, quietly joined the stream of pedestrians and strolled slowly along.
He presently passed the stationary cab without giving any sign of recognition to the dismounted driver. Then, a minute later, the cab overtook him and was soon lost in the traffic ahead. Even as it disappeared another cab went by rapidly.
Leaning forward in order to peer through the front window was the dark-faced man whom he had detected on the Embankment!
“Quite correct,” murmured Harley, dryly. “Exactly what I should have done.”
The spy, knowing himself discovered, had abandoned his own car in favour of a passing taxicab, and in the latter had taken up the pursuit.
Paul Harley lighted a cigarette. Oddly enough, he was aware of a feeling of great relief. In the first place, his sixth sense had been triumphantly vindicated; and, in the second place, his hitherto shadowy enemies, with their seemingly supernatural methods, had been unmasked. At least they were human, almost incredibly clever, but of no more than ordinary flesh and blood.
The contest had developed into open warfare. Harley’s accurate knowledge of London had enabled him to locate No. 236 South Lambeth Road without recourse to a guide, and now, walking on past the big gas works and the railway station, he turned under the dark arches and pressed on to where a row of unprepossessing dwellings extended in uniform ugliness from a partly demolished building to a patch of waste ground.
That the house was being watched he did not doubt. In fact, he no longer believed subterfuge to be of any avail. He was dealing with dangerously accomplished criminals. How clever they were he had yet to learn; and it was only his keen intuitive which at this juncture enabled him to score a point over his cunning opponents.
He walked quite openly up the dilapidated steps to the door of No. 236, and was about to seize the dirty iron knocker when the door opened suddenly and a girl came out. She was dressed neatly and wore a pseudo fashionable hat from which a heavy figured veil depended so as almost to hide her features. She was carrying a bulging cane grip secured by a brown leather strap.
Seeing Harley on the step, she paused for a moment, then, recovering herself:
“Ellen!” she shouted down the dim passageway revealed by the opening of the door. “Somebody to see you.”
Leaving the door open, she hurried past the visitor with averted face. It was well done, and, thus disguised by the thick veil, another man than Paul Harley might have failed to recognize one of whom he had never had more than an imperfect glimpse. But if Paul Harley’s memory did not avail him greatly, his unerring instinct never failed.
He grasped the girl’s arm. “One moment, Miss Jones,” he said, quietly, “it is you I am here to see!”
The girl turned angrily, snatching her arm from his grasp. “You’ve made a mistake, haven’t you?” she cried, furiously. “I don’t know you and I don’t want to!”
“Be good enough to step inside again. Don’t make a scene. If you behave yourself, you have nothing to fear. But I want to talk to you.”
He extended his arm to detain her. But she thrust it aside. “My boy’s waiting round the corner!” she said, viciously. “Just see what he’ll do when I tell him!”
“Step inside,” repeated Harley, quietly. “Or accompany me to Kennington Lane Police Station—whichever you think would be the more amusing.”
“What d’you mean!” blustered the girl. “You can’t kid me. I haven’t done anything.”
“Then do as I tell you. You have got to answer my questions—either here or at the station. Which shall it be?”
He had realized the facts of the situation from the moment when the girl had made her sudden appearance, and he knew that his only chance of defeating his cunning opponents was to frighten her. Delicate measures would be wasted upon such a character. But even as the girl, flinging herself sullenly about, returned into the passage, he found himself admiring the resourcefulness of his unknown enemies.
A tired-looking woman carrying a child appeared from somewhere and stared apathetically at Harley.
Addressing the angry girl: “Another o’ your flames, Polly?” she inquired in a dull voice. “Has he made you change your mind already?”
The girl addressed as “Polly” dropped her grip on the floor and, banging open a door, entered a shabby little sitting room, followed by Harley. Dropping onto a ragged couch, she stared obstinately out of the dirty window.
“Excuse me, madam, for intruding,” said Harley to the woman with the baby, “but Polly has some information of use to the police. Oh, don’t be alarmed. She has committed no crime. I shall only detain her for a few minutes.”
He bowed to the tired-looking woman and closed the sitting-room door. “Now, young woman,” he said, sternly, adopting this official manner of his friend, Inspector Wessex, “I am going to give you one warning, and one only. Although I don’t think you know it, you have got mixed up with a gang of crooks. Play the game with me, and I’ll stand by you. Try any funny business and you’ll go to jail.”
The official manner had its effect. Miss Jones looked sharply across at the speaker. “I haven’t done anything,” she said, sullenly.
Paul Harley advanced and stood over her. “What about the trick with the serviettes at Sir Charles Abingdon’s?” he asked, speaking the words in slow and deliberate fashion.
The shaft went home, but the girl possessed a stock of obstinate courage. “What about it?” she inquired, but her voice had changed.
“Who made you do it?”
“What’s that to you?”
Paul Harley drew out his watch, glanced at the face, and returned the timepiece to his pocket. “I have warned you,” he said. “In exactly three minutes’ time I shall put you under arrest.”
The girl suddenly lifted her veil and, raising her face, looked up at him. At last he had broken down her obstinate resistance. Already he had noted the coarse, elemental formation of her hands, and now, the veil removed, he saw that she belonged to a type of character often found in Wales and closely duplicated in certain parts of London. There was a curious flatness of feature and prominence of upper jaw singularly reminiscent of the primitive Briton. Withal the girl was not unprepossessing in her coarse way. Utter stupidity and dogged courage are the outstanding characteristics of this type. But fear of the law is strong within them.
“Don’t arrest me,” she said. “I’ll tell you.”
“Good. In the first place, then, where were you going when I came here?”
“To meet my boy at Vauxhall Station.”
“What is his name?”
“I’m not going to tell you. What’s he done?”
“He has done murder. What is his name?”
“My God!” whispered the girl, and her face blanched swiftly. “Murder! I—I can’t tell you his name—”
“You mean you won’t?”
She did not answer.
“He is a very dark man,” continued Harley “with black eyes. He is a Hindu.”
The girl stared straight before her, dumbly.
“Answer me!” shouted Harley.
“Yes—yes! He is a foreigner.”
“A Hindu?”
“I think so.”
“He was here five minutes ago?”
“Yes.”
“Where was he going to take you?”
“I don’t know. He said he could put me in a good job out of London. We had only ten minutes to catch the train. He’s gone to get the tickets.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“In the Green Park.”
“When?”
“About a month ago.”
“Was he going to marry you?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do to the serviettes on the night Sir Charles died?”
“Oh, my God! I didn’t do anything to hurt him—I didn’t do anything to hurt him!”
“Answer me.”
“Sidney—”
“Oh, he called himself Sidney, did he? It isn’t his name. But go on.”
“He asked me to get one of the serviettes, with the ring, and to lend it to him.”
“You did this?”
“Yes. But he brought it back.”
“When?”
“The afternoon—”
“Before Sir Charles’s death? Yes. Go on. What did he tell you to do with this serviette?”
“It—was in a box. He said I was not to open the box until I put the serviette on the table, and that it had to be put by Sir Charles’s plate. It had to be put there just before the meal began.”
“What else?”
“I had to burn the box.”
“Well?”
“That night I couldn’t see how it was to be done. Benson had laid the dinner table and Mrs. Howett was pottering about. Then, when I thought I had my chance, Sir Charles sat down in the dining room and began to read. He was still there and I had the box hidden in the hall stand, all ready, when Sidney—rang up.”
“Rang you up?”
“Yes. We had arranged it. He said he was my brother. I had to tell him I couldn’t do it.”
“Yes!”
“He said: ‘You must.’ I told him Sir Charles was in the dining room, and he said: ‘I’ll get him away. Directly he goes, don’t fail to do what I told you.’”
“And then?”
“Another ‘phone call came—for Sir Charles. I knew who it was, because I had told Sidney about the case Sir Charles was attending in the square. When Sir Charles went out I changed the serviettes. Mrs. Howett found me in the dining room and played hell. But afterward I managed to burn the box in the kitchen. That’s all I know. What harm was there?”
“Harm enough!” said Harley, grimly. “And now—what was it that ‘Sidney’ stole from Sir Charles’s bureau in the study?”
The girl started and bit her lip convulsively. “It wasn’t stealing,” she muttered. “It wasn’t worth anything.”
“Answer me. What did he take?”
“He took nothing.”
“For the last time: answer.”
“It wasn’t Sidney who took it. I took it.”
“You took what?”
“A paper.”
“You mean that you stole Sir Charles’s keys and opened his bureau?”
“There was no stealing. He was out and they were lying on his dressing table. Sidney had told me to do it the first time I got a chance.”
“What had he told you to do?”
“To search through Sir Charles’s papers and see if there was anything with the word ‘Fire-Tongue’ in it!”
“Ah!” exclaimed Harley, a note of suppressed triumph in his voice. “Go on.”
“There was only one paper about it,” continued the girl, now speaking rapidly, “or only one that I could find. I put the bureau straight again and took this paper to Sidney.”
“But you must have read the paper?”
“Only a bit of it. When I came to the word ‘Fire-Tongue,’ I didn’t read any more.”
“What was it about—the part you did read?”
“The beginning was all about India. I couldn’t understand it. I jumped a whole lot. I hadn’t much time and I was afraid Mrs. Howett would find me. Then, further on, I came to ‘Fire-Tongue’.”
“But what did it say about ‘Fire-Tongue’?”
“I couldn’t make it out, sir. Oh, indeed I’m telling you the truth! It seemed to me that Fire-Tongue was some sort of mark.”
“Mark?”
“Yes—a mark Sir Charles had seen in India, and then again in London—”
“In London! Where in London?”
“On someone’s arm.”
“What! Tell me the name of this person!”
“I can’t remember, sir! Oh, truly I can’t.”
“Was the name mentioned?”
“Yes.”
“Was it Armand?”
“No.”
“Ormond?”
“No.”
“Anything like Ormond?”
The girl shook her head.
“It was not Ormuz Khan?”
“No. I am sure it wasn’t.”
Paul Harley’s expression underwent a sudden change. “Was it Brown?” he asked.
She hesitated. “I believe it did begin with a B,” she admitted.
“Was it Brunn?”
“No! I remember, sir. It was Brinn!”
“Good God!” muttered Harley. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Do you know any one of that name?”
“No, sir.”
“And is this positively all you remember?”
“On my oath, it is.”
“How often have you seen Sidney since your dismissal?”
“I saw him on the morning I left.”
“And then not again until to-day?”
“No.”
“Does he live in London?”
“No. He is a valet to a gentleman who lives in the country.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me.”
“What is the name of the place?”
“I don’t know.”
“Once again—what is the name of the place?”
The girl bit her lip.
“Answer!” shouted Harley.
“I swear, sir,” cried the girl, beginning suddenly to sob, “that I don’t know! Oh, please let me go! I swear I have told you all I know!”
“Good!”
Paul Harley glanced at his watch, crossed the room, and opened the door. He turned. “You can go now,” he said. “But I don’t think you will find Sidney waiting!”
It wanted only three minutes to midnight, and Innes, rather haggard and anxious-eyed, was pacing Paul Harley’s private office when the ‘phone bell rang. Eagerly he took up the receiver.
“Hullo!” came a voice. “That you, Innes?”
“Mr. Harley!” cried Innes. “Thank God you are safe! I was growing desperately anxious!”
“I am by no means safe, Innes! I am in one of the tightest corners of my life! Listen: Get Wessex! If he’s off duty, get Burton. Tell him to bring—”
The voice ceased.
“Hullo!—Mr. Harley!” called Innes. “Mr. Harley!”
A faint cry answered him. He distinctly heard the sound of a fall. Then the other receiver was replaced on the hook.
“Merciful Heavens!” whispered Innes. “What has happened? Where was he speaking from? What can I do?”