It was close upon noon, but Nicol Brinn had not yet left his chambers.
From that large window which overlooked Piccadilly he surveyed the
prospect with dull, lack-lustre eyes. His morning attire was at least as
tightly fitting as that which he favoured in the evening, and now, hands
clasped behind his back and an unlighted cigar held firmly in the left
corner of his mouth, he gazed across the park with a dreamy and vacant
regard. One very familiar with this strange and taciturn man might have
observed that his sallow features looked even more gaunt than usual.
But for any trace of emotion in that stoic face the most expert
physiognomist must have sought in vain.
Behind the motionless figure the Alaskan ermine and Manchurian leopards
stared glassily across the room. The flying lemur continued apparently
to contemplate the idea of swooping upon the head of the tigress where
she crouched upon her near-by pedestal. The death masks grinned; the
Egyptian priestess smiled. And Nicol Brinn, expressionless, watched the
traffic in Piccadilly.
There came a knock at the door.
“In,” said Nicol Brinn.
Hoskins, his manservant, entered: “Detective Inspector Wessex would like
to see you, sir.”
Nicol Brinn did not turn around. “In,” he repeated.
Silently Hoskins retired, and, following a short interval, ushered into
the room a typical detective officer, a Scotland Yard man of the best
type. For Detective Inspector Wessex no less an authority than Paul
Harley had predicted a brilliant future, and since he had attained to
his present rank while still a comparatively young man, the prophecy
of the celebrated private investigator was likely to be realized. Nicol
Brinn turned and bowed in the direction of a large armchair.
“Pray sit down, Inspector,” he said.
The high, monotonous voice expressed neither surprise nor welcome, nor
any other sentiment whatever.
Detective Inspector Wessex returned the bow, placed his bowler hat upon
the carpet, and sat down in the armchair. Nicol Brinn seated himself
upon a settee over which was draped a very fine piece of Persian
tapestry, and stared at his visitor with eyes which expressed nothing
but a sort of philosophic stupidity, but which, as a matter of fact,
photographed the personality of the man indelibly upon that keen brain.
Detective Inspector Wessex cleared his throat and did not appear to be
quite at ease.
“What is it?” inquired Nicol Brinn, and proceeded to light his cigar.
“Well, sir,” said the detective, frankly, “it’s a mighty awkward
business, and I don’t know just how to approach it.”
“Shortest way,” drawled Nicol Brinn. “Don’t study me.”
“Thanks,” said Wessex, “I’ll do my best. It’s like this”--he stared
frankly at the impassive face: “Where is Mr. Paul Harley?”
Nicol Brinn gazed at the lighted end of his cigar meditatively for a
moment and then replaced it in the right and not in the left corner of
his mouth. Even to the trained eye of the detective inspector he seemed
to be quite unmoved, but one who knew him well would have recognized
that this simple action betokened suppressed excitement.
“He left these chambers at ten-fifteen on Wednesday night,” replied the
American. “I had never seen him before and I have never seen him since.”
“Sure?”
“Quite.”
“Could you swear to it before a jury?”
“You seem to doubt my word.”
Detective Inspector Wessex stood up. “Mr. Brinn,” he said, “I am in an
awkward corner. I know you for a man with a fine sporting reputation,
and therefore I don’t doubt your word. But Mr. Paul Harley disappeared
last night.”
At last Nicol Brinn was moved. A second time he took the cigar from his
mouth, gazed at the end reflectively, and then hurled the cigar across
the room into the hearth. He stood up, walked to a window, and stared
out. “Just sit quiet a minute,” came the toneless voice. “You’ve hit me
harder than you know. I want to think it out.”
At the back of the tall, slim figure Detective Inspector Wessex stared
with a sort of wonder. Mr. Nicol Brinn of Cincinnati was a conundrum
which he found himself unable to catalogue, although in his gallery of
queer characters were many eccentric and peculiar. If Nicol Brinn should
prove to be crooked, then automatically he became insane. This Wessex
had reasoned out even before he had set eyes upon the celebrated
American traveller. His very first glimpse of Nicol Brinn had confirmed
his reasoning, except that the cool, calm strength of the man had done
much to upset the theory of lunacy.
Followed an interval of unbroken silence. Not even the ticking of a
clock could be heard in that long, singularly furnished apartment. Then,
as the detective continued to gaze upon the back of Mr. Nicol Brinn,
suddenly the latter turned.
“Detective Inspector Wessex,” he said, “there has been a cloud hanging
over my head for seven years. That cloud is going to burst very soon,
and it looks as if it were going to do damage.”
“I don’t understand you, sir,” replied the detective, bluntly. “But I
have been put in charge of the most extraordinary case that has ever
come my way and I’ll ask you to make yourself as clear as possible.”
“I’ll do all I can,” Nicol Brinn assured him. “But first tell me
something: Why have you come to me for information in respect to Mr.
Paul Harley?”
“I’ll answer your question,” said Wessex, and the fact did not escape
the keen observing power of Nicol Brinn that the detective’s manner had
grown guarded. “He informed Mr. Innes, his secretary, before setting
out, that he was coming here to your chambers.”
Nicol Brinn stared blankly at the speaker. “He told him that? When?”
“Yesterday.”
“That he was coming here?”
“He did.”
Nicol Brinn sat down again upon the settee. “Detective Inspector,” said
he, “I give you my word of honour as a gentleman that I last saw Mr.
Paul Harley at ten-fifteen on Wednesday night. Since then, not only have
I not seen him, but I have received no communication from him.”
The keen glance of the detective met and challenged the dull glance of
the speaker. “I accept your word, sir,” said Wessex, finally, and he
sighed and scratched his chin in the manner of a man hopelessly puzzled.
Silence fell again. The muted sounds of Piccadilly became audible in the
stillness. Cabs and cars rolled by below, their occupants all unaware
of the fact that in that long, museum-like room above their heads lay the
key to a tragedy and the clue to a mystery.
“Look here, sir,” said the detective, suddenly, “the result of Mr. Paul
Harley’s investigations right up to date has been placed in my hands,
together with all his notes. I wonder if you realize the fact that,
supposing Mr. Harley does not return, I am in repossession of sufficient
evidence to justify me in putting you under arrest?”
“I see your point quite clearly,” replied Nicol Brinn. “I have seen my
danger since the evening that Mr. Paul Harley walked into this room: but
I’ll confess I did not anticipate this particular development.”
“To get right down to business,” said Wessex, “if Mr. Paul Harley did
not come here, where, in your idea, did he go?”
Nicol Brinn considered the speaker meditatively. “If I knew that,” said
he, “maybe I could help. I told him here in this very room that the pair
of us were walking on the edge of hell. I don’t like to say it, and you
don’t know all it means, but in my opinion he has taken a step too far.”
Detective Inspector Wessex stood up impatiently. “You have already
talked in that strain to Mr. Harley,” he said, a bit brusquely. “Mr.
Innes has reported something of the conversation to me. But I must
ask you to remember that, whereas Mr. Paul Harley is an unofficial
investigator, I am an officer of the Criminal Investigation Department,
and figures of speech are of no use to me. I want facts. I want plain
speaking. I ask you for help and you answer in parables. Now perhaps I
am saying too much, and perhaps I am not, but that Mr. Harley was right
in what he believed, the circumstances of his present disappearance go
to prove. He learned too much about something called Fire-Tongue.”
Wessex spoke the word challengingly, staring straight into the eyes of
Nicol Brinn, but the latter gave no sign, and Wessex, concealing his
disappointment, continued: “You know more about Fire-Tongue than you
ever told Mr. Paul Harley. All you know I have got to know. Mr. Harley
has been kidnapped, perhaps done to death.”
“Why do you say so?” asked Nicol Brinn, rapidly.
“Because I know it is so. It does not matter how I know.”
“You are certain that his absence is not voluntary?”
“We have definite evidence to that effect.”
“I don’t expect you to be frank with me, Detective Inspector, but I’ll
be as frank with you as I can be. I haven’t the slightest idea in the
world where Mr. Harley is. But I have information which, if I knew where
he was, would quite possibly enable me to rescue him.”
“Provided he is alive!” added Wessex, angrily.
“What leads you to suppose that he is not?”
“If he is alive, he is a prisoner.”
“Good God!” said Nicol Brinn in a low voice. “It has come.” He took a
step toward the detective. “Mr. Wessex,” he continued, “I don’t tell you
to do whatever your duty indicates; I know you will do it. But in the
interests of everybody concerned I have a request to make. Have me
watched if you like--I suppose that’s automatic. But whatever happens,
and wherever your suspicions point, give me twenty-four hours. As I
think you can see, I am a man who thinks slowly, but moves with a rush.
You can believe me or not, but I am even more anxious than you are to
see this thing through. You think I know what lies back of it all, and I
don’t say that you are not right. But one thing you don’t know, and that
thing I can’t tell you. In twenty-four hours I might be able to tell
you. Whatever happens, even if poor Harley is found dead, don’t hamper
my movements between now and this time tomorrow.”
Wessex, who had been watching the speaker intently, suddenly held out
his hand. “It’s a bet!” he said. “It’s my case, and I’ll conduct it in
my own way.”
“Mr. Wessex,” replied Nicol Brinn, taking the extended hand, “I think
you are a clever man. There are questions you would like to ask me, and
there are questions I would like to ask you. But we both realize the
facts of the situation, and we are both silent. One thing I’ll say: You
are in the deadliest peril you have ever known. Be careful. Believe me I
mean it. Be very careful.”