Fire-Tongue by Sax Rohmer (i wanna iguana read aloud .TXT) 📕

handicapped at the very outset. Close inquiries at the Savoy Hotel had shown that Harley had not been there. Wessex, who was a thorough artist within his limitations, had satisfied himself that none of the callers who had asked for Ormuz Khan, and no one who had loitered about the lobbies, could possibly have been even a disguised Paul Harley.

To Inspector Wessex the lines along which Paul Harley was operating remained a matter of profound amazement and mystification. His interview with Mr. Nicol Brinn had only served to baffle him more hopelessly than ever. The nature of Paul Harley’s inquiries—inquiries which, presumably from the death of Sir Charles Abingdon, had led him to investigate the movements of two persons of international repute, neither apparently having even the most remote connection with anything crooked—was a conundrum for the answer to which the detective inspector sought in vain.

“I can see you have no news,” said Innes, dully.

“To be perfectly honest,” replied Wessex, “I feel like a man who is walking in his sleep. Except for the extraordinary words uttered by the late Sir Charles Abingdon, I fail to see that there is any possible connection between his death and Mr. Nicol Brinn. I simply can’t fathom what Mr. Harley was working upon. To my mind there is not the slightest evidence of foul play in the case. There is no motive; apart from which, there is absolutely no link.”

“Nevertheless,” replied Innes, slowly, “you know the chief, and therefore you know as well as I do that he would not have instructed me to communicate with you unless he had definite evidence in his possession. It is perfectly clear that he was interrupted in the act of telephoning. He was literally dragged away from the instrument.”

“I agree,” said Wessex. “He had got into a tight corner somewhere right enough. But where does Nicol Brinn come in?”

“How did he receive your communication?”

“Oh, it took him fairly between the eyes. There is no denying that. He knows something.”

“What he knows,” said Innes, slowly, “is what Mr. Harley learned last night, and what he fears is what has actually befallen the chief.”

Detective Inspector Wessex stood beside the Burmese cabinet, restlessly drumming his fingers upon its lacquered surface. “I am grateful for one thing,” he said. “The press has not got hold of this story.”

“They need never get hold of it if you are moderately careful.”

“For several reasons I am going to be more than moderately careful. Whatever Fire-Tongue may be, its other name is sudden death! It’s a devil of a business; a perfect nightmare. But—” he paused—

“I am wondering what on earth induced Mr. Harley to send that parcel of linen to the analyst.”

“The result of the analysis may prove that the chief was not engaged upon any wild-goose chase.”

“By heavens!” Wessex sprang up, his eyes brightened, and he reached for his hat, “that gives me an idea!”

“The message with the parcel was written upon paper bearing the letterhead of the late Sir Charles Abingdon. So Mr. Harley evidently made his first call there! I’m off, sir! The trail starts from that house!”

Leaving Innes seated at the big table with an expression of despair upon his face, Detective Inspector Wessex set out. He blamed himself for wasting time upon the obvious, for concentrating too closely upon the clue given by Harley’s last words to Innes before leaving the office in Chancery Lane. It was poor workmanship. He had hoped to take a short cut, and it had proved, as usual, to be a long one. Now, as he sat in a laggard cab feeling that every minute wasted might be a matter of life and death, he suddenly became conscious of personal anxiety. He was a courageous, indeed a fearless, man, and he was subconsciously surprised to find himself repeating the words of Nicol Brinn: “Be careful—be very careful!” With all the ardour of the professional, he longed to find a clue which should lead him to the heart of the mystery.

Innes had frankly outlined the whole of Paul Harley’s case to date, and Detective Inspector Wessex, although he had not admitted the fact, had nevertheless recognized that from start to finish the thing did not offer one single line of inquiry which he would have been capable of following up. That Paul Harley had found material to work upon, had somehow picked up a definite clue from this cloudy maze, earned the envious admiration of the Scotland Yard man.

Arrived at his destination, he asked to see Miss Abingdon, and was shown by the butler into a charmingly furnished little sitting room which was deeply impressed with the personality of its dainty owner. It was essentially and delightfully feminine. Yet in the decorations and in the arrangement of the furniture there was a note of independence which was almost a note of defiance. Phyllis Abingdon, an appealingly pathetic figure in her black dress, rose to greet the inspector.

“Don’t be alarmed, Miss Abingdon,” he said, kindly. “My visit does not concern you personally in any way, but I thought perhaps you might be able to help me trace Mr. Paul Harley.”

Wessex had thus expressed himself with the best intentions, but even before the words were fully spoken he realized with a sort of shock that he could not well have made a worse opening. Phil Abingdon’s eyes seemed to grow alarmingly large. She stood quite still, twisting his card between her supple fingers.

“Mr. Harley!” she whispered.

“I did not want to alarm you,” said the detective, guiltily, “but—” He stopped, at a loss for words.

“Has something happened to him?”

“I am sorry if I have alarmed you,” he assured her, “but there is some doubt respecting Mr. Harley’s present whereabouts. Have you any idea where he went when he left this house yesterday?”

“Yes, yes. I know where he went, quite well.”

“Benson, the butler, told me all about it when I came in.” Phil Abingdon spoke excitedly, and took a step nearer Wessex. “He went to call upon Jones, our late parlourmaid.”

“Late parlourmaid?” echoed Wessex, uncomprehendingly.

“Yes. He seemed to think he had made a discovery of importance.”

“Something to do with a parcel which he sent away from here to the analyst?”

“Yes! I have been wondering whatever it could be. In fact, I rang up his office this morning, but learned that he was out. It was a serviette which he took away. Did you know that?”

“I did know it, Miss Abingdon. I called upon the analyst. I understand you were out when Mr. Harley came. May I ask who interviewed him?”

“He saw Benson and Mrs. Howett, the housekeeper.”

“May I also see them?”

“Yes, with pleasure. But please tell me”—Phil Abingdon looked up at him pleadingly—“do you think something—something dreadful has happened to Mr. Harley?”