Fire-Tongue

  CHAPTER XI. THE PURPLE STAIN

  For more than an hour Harley sat alone, smoking, neglectful of theroutine duties which should have claimed his attention. His face wasset and grim, and his expression one of total abstraction. In spirithe stood again in that superheated room at the Savoy. Sometimes, as hemused, he would smoke with unconscious vigour, surrounding himself withveritable fog banks. An imaginary breath of hyacinths would have reachedhim, to conjure up vividly the hateful, perfumed environment of OrmuzKhan.

  He was savagely aware of a great mental disorderliness. He recognizedthat his brain remained a mere whirlpool from which Phyllis Abingdon,the deceased Sir Charles, Nicol Brinn, and another, alternately arose toclaim supremacy. He clenched his teeth upon the mouthpiece of his pipe.

  But after some time, although rebelliously, his thoughts began tomarshal themselves in a certain definite formation. And outstanding,alone, removed from the ordinary, almost from the real, was the bizarrepersonality of Ormuz Khan.

  The data concerning the Oriental visitor, as supplied by InspectorWessex, had led him to expect quite a different type of character.Inured as Paul Harley was to surprise, his first sentiment as he had seteyes upon the man had been one of sheer amazement.

  "Something of a dandy," inadequately described the repellentsensuousness of this veritable potentate, who could contrive to investa sitting room in a modern hotel with the atmosphere of a secretEastern household. To consider Ormuz Khan in connection with mattersof international finance was wildly incongruous, while the manicuristincident indicated an inherent cruelty only possible in one of Orientalrace.

  In a mood of complete mental detachment Paul Harley found himselflooking again into those black, inscrutable eyes and trying to analyzethe elusive quality of their regard. They were unlike any eyes thathe had met with. It were folly to count their possessor a negligiblequantity. Nevertheless, it was difficult, because of the fellow'sscented effeminacy, to believe that women could find him attractive.But Harley, wise in worldly lore, perceived that the mystery surroundingOrmuz 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 inthe hands of the man who possessed those long-lashed, magnetic eyes.

  He thought of the pretty manicurist. Mortification he had read in herwhite 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 thename, laughed at his own folly.

  In the name of reason, he mused, what could she find to interest her ina man of Ormuz Khan's type? He was prepared to learn that there was amystic side to her personality--a phase in her character which would beresponsive to the outre and romantic. But he was loath to admit thatshe could have any place in her affections for the scented devotee ofhyacinths.

  Thus, as always, his musings brought him back to the same point. Hesuppressed a groan and, standing up, began to pace the room. To and frohe walked, before the gleaming cabinet, and presently his expressionunderwent a subtle change. His pipe had long since gone out, but he hadfailed to observe the fact. His eyes had grown unusually bright--andsuddenly he stepped to the table and stooping made a note upon thelittle writing block.

  He rang the bell communicating with the outer office. Innes came in."Innes," he said, rapidly, "is there anything of really first-rateimportance 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 mostimportant 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 suddenlyrealized the importance of a seemingly trivial incident which Iwitnessed. It is these trivial incidents, Innes, which so often containthe 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 ofOrmuz Khan or the chambers of Nicol Brinn. Listen. Remain here until Iphone--whatever the hour."

  "Shall I advise Wessex to stand by?"

  Harley nodded. "Yes--do so. You understand, Innes, I am engaged and notto 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 telephoneand called Sir Charles Abingdon's number. He was answered by a voicewhich 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 thereis 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 themeantime, will you be good enough to lay the dining table exactly as itwas 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 thetable, sir, for dinner?"

  "For dinner--exactly. I want everything to be there that was present onthe night of the tragedy; everything. Naturally you will have to placedifferent flowers in the vases, but I want to see the same vases. Fromthe soup tureen to the serviette rings, Benson, I wish you to duplicatethe dinner table as I remember it, paying particular attention to theexact position of each article. Mrs. Howett will doubtless be able toassist you in this."

  "Very good, sir," said Benson--but his voice betokened bewilderment. "Iwill 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 privateapartments and also locked the communicating door. A few moments laterhe came out of "The Chancery Agency" and proceeded in the directionof the Strand. Under cover of the wire-gauze curtain which veiledthe 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 wasbeginning to tell upon him. Either his sixth sense had begun toplay tricks or he was the object of the most perfectly organized andefficient system of surveillance with which he had ever come in contact.Once, in the past, he had found himself pitted against the secret policeof Moscow, and hitherto he had counted their methods incomparable.Unless he was the victim of an unpleasant hallucination, those Russianspies 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 Harleyran up the steps. "But Mrs. Howett would like to see you, sir."

  "Very good, Benson," replied Harley, handing his hat and cane to thebutler. "I will see her in the dining room, please."

  Benson throwing open the door, Paul Harley walked into the room which sooften figured in his vain imaginings. The table was laid for dinner inaccordance with his directions. The chair which he remembered to haveoccupied was in place and that in which Sir Charles had died was set atthe head of the table.

  Brows contracted, Harley stood just inside the room, looking slowlyabout him. And, as he stood so, an interrogatory cough drew his gaze tothe doorway. He turned sharply, and there was Mrs. Howett, a patheticlittle figure in black.

  "Ah, Mrs. Howett," said Harley; kindly, "please try to forgive me forthis unpleasant farce with its painful memories. But I have a goodreason. I
think you know this. Now, as I am naturally anxious to haveeverything clear before Miss Abingdon returns, will you be good enoughto tell me if the table is at present set exactly as on the night thatSir Charles and I came in to dinner?"

  "No, Mr. Harley," was the answer, "that was what I was anxious toexplain. The table is now laid as Benson left it on that dreadfulnight."

  "Ah, I see. Then you, personally, made some modifications?"

  "I rearranged the flowers and moved the centre vase so." The methodicalold 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 spoonswhich 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 yourarrival. Just after your arrival I found Jones, the parlourmaid--a mostincompetent, impudent girl--altering the position of the serviettes. Atleast, such was my impression."

  "Of the serviettes?" murmured Harley.

  "She denied it," continued the housekeeper, speaking with greatanimation; "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 Harleywas 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 thelaundry."

  "It has not gone yet," interrupted Mrs. Howett. "I was making up thelist 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 Iassure you it is no idle one."

  Benson looked positively stupid, but Mrs. Howett, who had conceived asort of reverence for Paul Harley, hurried away excitedly.

  "Finally, Benson," said Harley, "what else did you bring into the roomafter Sir Charles and I had entered?"

  "Soup, sir. Here is the tureen, on the sideboard, and all the soupplates of the service in use that night. Of course, sir, I can't saywhich were the actual plates used."

  Paul Harley inspected the plates, a set of fine old Derby ware, andgazed meditatively at the silver ladle. "Did the maid, Jones, handle anyof these?" he asked.

  "No, sir"--emphatically. "She was preparing to bring the trout from thekitchen."

  "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 tothe table."

  "H'm. Has Jones left?"

  "Yes, sir. She was under notice. But after her rudeness, Mrs. Howettpacked her off right away. She left the very next day after poor SirCharles died."

  "Where has she gone?"

  "To a married sister, I believe, until she finds a new job. Mrs. Howetthas the address."

  At this moment Mrs. Howett entered, bearing a tablecloth and a number ofserviettes.

  "This was the cloth," she said, spreading it out, "but which of theserviettes 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 andexamining it critically.

  "What have we here!" he exclaimed, presently. "Have blackberries beenserved within the week, Mrs. Howett?"

  "We never had them on the table, Mr. Harley. Sir Charles--God resthim--said they irritated the stomach. Good gracious!" She turned toBenson. "How is it I never noticed those stains, and what can havecaused them?"

  The serviette which Paul Harley held outstretched was covered all overwith dark purple spots.