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.