by Sapper
Professor Goodman’s hands shook uncontrollably; he looked what at the moment he was, a badly frightened old man.
“But, sir,” he quavered pitifully, “won’t you tell me where I am, and why all this is happening to me?”
“Finding the answer should give you some interesting mental recreation during my absence,” said Mr Robinson suavely.
“And my poor wife,” moaned the unhappy man.
“The pangs of widowhood are hard to bear,” agreed the other. “But doubtless time will soften the blow. And anyway, my dear Professor, you died in the cause of duty. I can assure you that Professor Scheidstrun’s peroration over your sole remaining boot brought tears to the eyes of all who heard it. Well, I will say au revoir. Ask for anything you require, but don’t, I beg of you, try any stupid tricks. My servants are rough fellows – some of them.”
With a genial smile he left the room and went downstairs. Whatever may have been his thoughts only the most perfect equanimity showed on his face. He possessed that most priceless asset of any great leader – the power of concealing bad news from his staff. In fact the tighter the corner the more calmly confident did this man always look. Nothing is more fatal to any enterprise than the knowledge on the part of subordinates that the man in charge is shaken. And though he would hardly admit it to himself, Mr William Robinson was badly shaken. In fact when he reached his own private sanctum he did a thing which in his whole long career of crimes he had done but twice before. From a small locked cabinet he took a bottle containing a white powder, and calmly and methodically he measured out a dose which he sniffed up his nose. And had anyone seen this secret operation, he would have realised that the man was the master and not the drug. Only one man in a million may employ cocaine as a servant and keep it in that position: Mr William Robinson was that one.
Deliberately he sat down to await the drug’s action; then with a faint smile he rose and replaced the bottle in the cabinet. The nerve crisis had passed; the master-criminal was himself again.
“Freyder,” he remarked as that worthy entered the room in answer to the bell, “a slight hitch has occurred in my scheme. The indecipherable notes which I so carefully extracted from our friend’s pocket yesterday refer apparently to the prolongation of the lives of rabbits and other fauna. The ones we require are – er – elsewhere. I, naturally, propose to obtain them forthwith, but it will be necessary to proceed with a certain amount of discretion. Incredible to relate, they are in the possession of a young gentleman whom we have come across before – one Drummond.”
Freyder’s breath came in a sharp whistle.
“I see that you recall the name,” went on the other quietly. “And I must say that when Professor Goodman informed me of the fact, I felt for the moment unreasonably annoyed. One cannot legislate for everything, and how any man out of an asylum could give that vast fool anything of importance to look after is one of those things which I confess baffles me completely. However, all that concerns us is that he has them at the moment: the problem is to remove them from his keeping as rapidly as possible. Under normal circumstances the solution of that problem would have presented no difficulties, but Drummond, I am bound to admit, is not normal. In fact, Freyder, as you may remember, I have twice made the unforgivable mistake of underestimating him. This time, however, I have decided on a little scheme which, though a trifle complicated at first sight, is, in reality, profoundly simple. Moreover, it appeals to my sense of humour, which is a great point in its favour. You have your notebook? Then I will give you my instructions.”
They were clear and concise with no possibility of a misunderstanding, and, as Mr Robinson had said, they contained in them a touch of humour that was akin to genius. In fact, despite the seriousness of the situation, on two or three occasions Freyder broke into uncontrollable chuckles of laughter. The whole thing was so gloriously simple that it seemed there must be a flaw somewhere, and yet, try as he would, he could discover none.
“The essence of the whole thing is speed, Freyder,” said his Chief, rising at length. “It is impossible to say what Drummond will do with those notes if he’s left too long in undisturbed possession of them. He must know their value, but for all that he’s quite capable of using them for shaving paper. The one thing, knowing him, which I don’t think he will do is to take them to Scotland Yard. But I don’t want to run any risks. To have to be content with a miserable half-million for this little affair would deprive me of my reason. I should totter to an early grave, as a grey-headed old man. So speed, don’t forget – speed is absolutely essential.”
“I can make all arrangements tonight, Chief,” said Freyder, rising, “and start at dawn tomorrow morning. Back tomorrow evening, and the whole thing can be done the day after.”
“Good,” answered the other. “Then send for the car at once and we’ll get off.”
And thus it happened that two hours after Mr Edward Blackton had arrived at his house on the borders of the New Forest, Mr William Robinson left it again. But on the return journey it is to be regretted that he no longer wished to hear the birds sing or put buttercups in his hair. He sat in his corner sunk in silence while the powerful limousine ate up the miles to London. And his companion Freyder knew better than to break that silence.
It was not until the tramlines at Hounslow were reached that he spoke.
“If I fail to settle accounts with Drummond this time, Freyder, I’ll do as he once recommended and take to growing tomatoes.”
Freyder grunted.
“The notes first, Chief, and after that the man. You’ll win this time.” He spoke down the speaking-tube and the car slowed up. “I’ll get out here; our man is close-to. And I’ll be back tomorrow evening.”
He gave the chauffeur the name of a residential hotel in a quiet part of Bayswater, and stood for a moment watching the car drive away. Then he turned and disappeared down a side-street, while Mr Robinson continued his journey alone. There was nothing more to be done now until Freyder returned, and so, in accordance with his invariable custom, he dismissed the matter from his mind.
To do in Rome as the Romans was another rule of his. And so after dinner at the quiet residential hotel Mr Robinson joined heartily in a merry round game which lacked much of its charm as two cards were missing from the pack. Then refusing with becoming modesty a challenge to take on the hotel champion at halma, he retired to his room and was asleep almost at once. And he was still peacefully sleeping at five o’clock the next morning, when Freyder, shivering a little in the morning air, drew his thick leather coat more closely around his throat. Below him lay the grey sea – hazy still, for the sun had no warmth as yet. In front the pilot was sitting motionless, and after a while the steady roar of the engine lulled him into a gentle doze. The aeroplane flew steadily on towards the east…and Germany.
Chapter 6
In which Hugh Drummond loses his self-control
It must be admitted that there was an air of gloom over Hugh Drummond’s house on the day following the inquest. Mrs Goodman and Brenda had not left their rooms, and somewhat naturally Phyllis was principally occupied in seeing what she could do for them in their terrible sorrow; while Algy Longworth, faced with the necessity of postponing the wedding, had relapsed into a condition of complete imbecility and refused to be comforted. In fact it was not an atmosphere conducive to thought, and Hugh was trying to think.
On the next day was the funeral. The whole thing had already dropped out of the public eye, Professor Goodman, having been neither a pugilist, film star, nor criminal, but merely a gentle old man of science, could lay no claim whatever to the slightest popular interest. But to Hugh he was something more than a gentle old man of science. He was a man who to all intents and purposes had appealed to him for help – a man whose life had been threatened, and who, within a few hours of receiving that threat, had died.
True, according to the verdict at th
e inquest, he would have died whether he had received that threat or not. But Hugh was still dissatisfied with that verdict. The proofs, the evidence, all pointed that way – but he was still dissatisfied. And coupled with his dissatisfaction was an uneasy feeling, which only grew stronger with time, that he had been wrong to suppress his knowledge of that letter from the police.
Now it was impossible to put it forward, but that made things no better. The only result in fact as far as he was concerned was that it hardened his resolve not to let the matter drop where it was. Until after the funeral he would say nothing; then he’d begin some inquiries on his own. And for those inquiries two obvious avenues suggested themselves: the first was Professor Scheidstrun, the second Sir Raymond Blantyre.
Once again he took the Professor’s notes out of his pocket-book and studied them. He had already shown one sheet to a chemist in a neighbouring street in the hope that he might be able to decipher it, but with no result. The atrocious handwriting, coupled with the fact that, according to the chemist, it was written in a sort of code, made them completely incomprehensible to anyone save the man who wrote them. And he was dead…
With a sigh he replaced the papers in his notecase and strolled over to the window. Brook Street presented a quiescent appearance due to the warmth of the day and the recent consumption by its dwellers of lunch. And Hugh was just wondering what form of exercise he could most decently take in view of Mrs Goodman’s presence in the house, when he straightened up and his eyes became suddenly watchful. A wild, excited figure whom he recognised instantly was tacking up the street, peering with short-sighted eyes at the numbers of the houses.
“Algy!”
“What is it?” grunted Longworth, coming out of a melancholy reverie.
“Old Scheidstrun is blowing up the street. He’s looking for a house. Surely he can’t be coming here?”
Algy Longworth sat up in his chair.
“You mean the old bloke who gave evidence at the inquest?”
Hugh nodded.
“By Jove! he is coming here.” His voice held traces of excitement. “Now, why the deuce should he want to see me?”
He went quickly to the door.
“Denny,” he called, and his servant, who was already on his way to the front door, paused and looked up. “Show the gentleman outside straight up here to my room.”
He came back frowning thoughtfully.
“How on earth does he connect me with it, Algy?”
“It’s more than likely, old man,” answered Longworth, “that he may have heard that Mrs Goodman is here, and has come to shoot a card. Anyway, we’ll soon know.”
A moment later Denny ushered Professor Scheidstrun into the room. Seen from close-to, he seemed more untidy and egg-stained than ever, as he stood by the door peering at the two young men.
“Captain Drummond?” he demanded in his hoarse, guttural voice.
“That’s me,” said Hugh, who was standing with his back to the fireplace regarding his visitor curiously. “What can I do for you, sir?”
The Professor waved his arms like an agitated semaphore and sank into a chair.
“Doubtless you wonder who I may be,” he remarked, “and what for I come you to see.”
“I know perfectly well who you are,” said Drummond quietly, “but I confess I’m beat as to why you want to see me. However, the pleasure is entirely mine.”
“So.” The German stared at him. “You know who I am?”
“You are Professor Scheidstrun,” remarked Drummond. “I was present at the inquest yesterday and saw you.”
“Goot.” The Professor nodded his head as if satisfied, though his brain was busy with this very unexpected item of news. “Then I will proceed at once to the business. In the excitement of all this dreadful accident I haf forgotten it until this moment. Then I remember and come to you at once.” He was fumbling in his pocket as he spoke. “A letter, Captain Drummond, which my poor friend give to me to post – and I forget it till an hour ago. And I say at once, I will go round myself and see this gentleman and explain.”
Drummond took the envelope and glanced at it thoughtfully, while Algy looked over his shoulder.
“That’s Professor Goodman’s writing.”
“Since he the letter wrote presumably it is,” remarked the German with ponderous sarcasm.
“You know the contents of this letter, Professor?” asked Drummond, as he slit open the envelope.
“He it read to me,” answered the other. “Ach! it is almost incredible that what my dear friend should have said to me in jest – indeed that which he has written there in jest – should have proved true. Even now I can hardly believe that he is dead. It is a loss, gentlemen, to the world of science which can never be replaced.”
He rambled on while Drummond, having read the letter in silence, handed it to Algy. And if for one fleeting second there showed in the German’s eyes a gleam of almost maniacal hatred as they rested on the owner of the house, it was gone as suddenly as it came. The look on his face was benevolent, even sad, as befitted a man who had recently lost a confrère and friend, when Drummond turned and spoke again.
“The letter is a request, Professor, that certain notes now in my possession should be handed over to you.”
“That is so,” assented the other. “He to me explained all. He told me of his astounding discovery – a discovery which even now I can hardly believe. But he assured me that it was the truth. And on my shoulders he laid the sacred duty of giving that discovery to the world, if anything should happen to him.”
“Astounding coincidence that on the very afternoon he wrote this something did happen to him,” remarked Drummond quietly.
“As I haf said, even now I can hardly believe it,” agreed the Professor. “But it is so, and there is no more to be said.”
“Rather astounding also that you did not mention this at the inquest,” pursued Drummond.
“Till one hour ago, my young friend, I forget I had the letter. I forget about his discovery – about the diamonds – about all. My mind was stunned by the dreadful tragedy. And think – five, ten minutes more and I also to pieces would have been blown. Mein Gott! it makes me sweat.”
He took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.
“By the way, Professor,” said Drummond suddenly, “do you know Sir Raymond Blantyre?”
For the fraction of a second Professor Scheidstrun hesitated. It was not a question he had been expecting and he realised that a lot might hinge on the answer. And then like a flash he remembered that on leaving the inquest he had spoken two or three words to Sir Raymond. Moreover, Drummond had been there himself.
“Sir Raymond Blantyre,” he murmured. “He has a grey moustache and an eyeglass. Slightly I know him. He was – ja! he was at the inquest himself.”
It was glib, it was quick. It would have passed muster nine times out of ten as a spontaneous reply to a perfectly ordinary question. But it was made to a man who was already suspicious, and it was made to a man whose lazy eyes missed nothing. Drummond had noticed that almost imperceptible pause; what was more to the point, he had noticed the sudden look of wariness on the other’s face. More a fleeting shadow than a look, but it had not escaped the lynx-eyed man lounging against the mantelpiece. And it had not tended to allay his suspicions, though his face was still perfectly impassive.
“I assume from what he has written here that Professor Goodman discussed with you the threatening letter he received,” he went on placidly.
“He mentioned it, of course.” The German shrugged his shoulders. “But for me it seems a stupid joke. Absurd! Ridiculous! Who would be so foolish as to write such a thing if it was a genuine threat? It was – how do you say it – it was a hoax? Nein – nein – to that I paid no attention. It was not for that he this letter wrote. He told me of his discovery,
and I who know him well, I say, ‘Where are the notes? It is not safe for you to carry them. You who lose everything – you will lose them. Or more likely still someone will your pocket pick. There are people in London who would like those notes.’’’
“There undoubtedly are,” agreed Drummond mildly.
“He tells me he give them to you. I say, ‘This young man – he too may lose them. Tell him to send them to your men of business.’ He says, ‘Goot – I will.’ And he write the letter there. Then he add, as he thinks, his little joke. My poor friend! My poor, poor friend! For now the joke is not a joke. And on me there falls the sacred trust he has left. But his shall be the glory; all the credit will I give to him. And the world of science shall remember his name for ever by this discovery.”
Overcome by his emotion the Professor lay back in his chair breathing stertorously, while once again he dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Very praiseworthy and all that,” murmured Drummond. “Then I take it that your proposal is, sir, that I should hand these notes over to you here and now?”
The German sat up and shrugged his shoulders.
“It would save trouble, Captain Drummond. For me I wish to return to Germany after my poor friend’s funeral tomorrow. Naturally I must with me take the notes. But if for any reason you would prefer to hand them to the good Mr Tootem of Austin Friars, then perhaps we could arrange to meet there some time tomorrow morning.”
He leaned back in his chair as if the matter was of no account, and Drummond, his hands in his pocket, strolled over to the window. On the face of it everything was perfectly above-board – and yet, try as he would, he could not rid himself of the feeling that something was wrong. Later, when he recalled that interview and realised that for half an hour on that warm summer’s afternoon he had been in his own house with the man he knew as Carl Peterson sitting in his best chair, he used to shake with laughter at the humour of it. But at the time no thought of such a wildly amazing thing was in his mind; no suspicion that Professor Scheidstrun was not Professor Scheidstrun had even entered his head. It was not the German’s identity that worried him, but his goodwill. Was he what he professed to be – a friend of the late Professor Goodman’s? Did he intend to give this scientific discovery to the world as he had promised to do? Or had he deceived Professor Goodman? And if so, why? Could it be possible that this man was being employed by Sir Raymond Blantyre, and that he too was engaged in the conspiracy to destroy the results of the discovery for ever?