by Sapper
“What is it, old man?” he asked quietly.
“I’ll know better after the interview, Toby,” answered the other. “But one thing I will tell you now. It’s either nothing at all, or else your boss is one of the most blackguardly villains alive in London today. Now go up and tell him.”
And without another word Toby Sinclair went. Probably not for another living man would he have interrupted the meeting upstairs. But the habits of other days held; when Hugh Drummond gave an order, it was carried out.
A minute later he was down again.
“Sir Raymond will see you at once, Hugh,” and for Toby Sinclair his expression was thoughtful. For the sudden silence that had settled on the room of directors as he gave the message had not escaped his attention. And the air of carefully suppressed nervous expectancy on the part of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate did not escape Drummond’s attention either as he entered, followed by Algy Longworth.
“Captain Drummond?” Sir Raymond Blantyre rose, and indicated a chair with his hand. “Ah! and Mr Longworth surely. Please sit down. I think I saw you in the distance at the funeral today. Now, Captain Drummond, perhaps you will tell us what you want as quickly as possible, as we are in the middle of a rather important meeting.”
“I will try to be as short as possible, Sir Raymond,” said Drummond quietly. “It concerns, as you have probably guessed, the sad death of Professor Goodman, in which I, personally, am very interested. You see, the Professor lunched with me at my club on the day of his death.”
“Indeed,” murmured Sir Raymond politely.
“Yes – I met him in St. James’s Square, where he’d been followed.”
“Followed,” said one of the directors. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I say. He was being followed. He was also in a very excited condition owing to the fact that he had just received a letter threatening his life, unless he consented to accept two hundred and fifty thousand pounds as the price for suppressing his discovery for manufacturing diamonds cheaply. But you know all this part, don’t you?”
“I know nothing whatever about a threatening letter,” said Sir Raymond. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it. Of his process, of course, I know. I think Mr Longworth was present at the dinner on the night I examined the ornament Miss Goodman was wearing. And believing then that the process was indeed capable of producing genuine diamonds, I did offer Professor Goodman a quarter of a million pounds to suppress it.”
“Believing then?” said Drummond, staring at him.
“Yes; for a time I and my colleagues here did really believe that the discovery had been made,” answered Sir Raymond easily. “And I will go as far as to say that even as it stands the process – now so unfortunately lost to science – produced most marvellous imitations. In fact” – he gave a deprecatory laugh – “it produced such marvellous imitations that it deceived us. But they will not stand the test of time. In some samples he made for us at a demonstration minute flaws are already beginning to show themselves – flaws which only the expert would notice, but they’re there.”
“I see,” murmured Drummond quietly, and Sir Raymond shifted a little in his chair. Ridiculous though it was, this vast young man facing him had a peculiarly direct stare which he found almost disconcerting.
“I see,” repeated Drummond. “So the system was a dud.”
“Precisely, Captain Drummond. The system was of no use. A gigantic advance, you will understand, on anything that has ever been done before in that line – but still, of no use. And if one may extract some little ray of comfort from the appalling tragedy which caused Professor Goodman’s death, it surely is that he was at any rate spared from the laughter of the scientific world whose good opinion he valued so greatly.”
Sir Raymond leaned back in his chair, and a murmur of sympathetic approval for words well and truly uttered passed round the room. And feeling considerably more sure of himself, it dawned on the mind of the chairman that up to date he had done most of the talking, and that so far his visitor’s principal contribution had been confined to monosyllables. Who was he, anyway, this Captain Drummond? Some friend of the idiotic youth with the eyeglass, presumably. He began to wonder why he had ever consented to see him.
“However, Captain Drummond,” he continued with a trace of asperity, “you doubtless came round to speak to me about something. And since we are rather busy this evening…”
He broke off and waited.
“I did wish to speak to you,” said Drummond, carefully selecting a cigarette. “But since the process is no good, I don’t think it matters very much.”
“It is certainly no good,” answered Sir Raymond.
“So I’m afraid old Scheidstrun will only be wasting his time.”
For a moment it almost seemed as if the clock had stopped, so intense was the sudden silence.
“I don’t quite understand what you mean,” said Sir Raymond, in a voice which, strive as he would, he could not make quite steady.
“No?” murmured Drummond placidly. “You didn’t know of Professor Goodman’s last instructions? However, since the whole thing is a dud, I won’t worry you.”
“What do you know of Scheidstrun?” asked Sir Raymond.
“Just a funny old Boche. He came to see me yesterday afternoon with the Professor’s last will, so to speak. And then I interviewed him this morning in the office of the excellent Mr Tootem, and pulled his nose – poor old dear!”
“Professor Scheidstrun came to see you?” cried Sir Raymond, standing up suddenly. “What for?”
“Why, to get the notes of the diamond process, which the Professor gave me at lunch on the day of his death.”
Drummond thoughtfully lit his cigarette, apparently oblivious of the fact that every man in the room was glaring at him speechlessly.
“But since it’s a dud – I’m afraid he’ll waste his time.”
“But the notes were destroyed.” Every vestige of control had left Sir Raymond’s voice; his agitation was obvious.
“How do you know?” snapped Drummond, and the President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate found himself staring almost fascinated at a pair of eyes from which every trace of laziness had vanished.
“He always carried them with him,” he stammered. “And I – er – assumed…”
“Then you assumed wrong. Professor Goodman handed me those notes at lunch the day he died.”
“Where are they now?” It was Mr Leibhaus who asked the question in his guttural voice.
“Since they are of no use, what does it matter?” answered Drummond indifferently.
“Gentlemen!” Sir Raymond’s peremptory voice checked the sudden buzz of conversation. “Captain Drummond,” he remarked, “I must confess that what you have told me this afternoon has given me a slight shock. As I say, I had assumed that the notes of the process had perished with the Professor. You now tell us that he handed them to you. Well, I make no bones about it that though – from a purely scientific point of view the process fails – yet – er – from a business point of view it is not one that any of us would care to have noised abroad. You will understand that if diamonds can be made cheaply which except to the eye of the most practical expert are real, it will – er – not be a good thing for those who are interested in the diamond market? You can understand that, can’t you?”
“I tell you what I can understand, Sir Raymond,” said Drummond quietly. “And that is that you’re a damned bad poker-player. If flaws – as you say – have appeared in the diamonds manufactured by this process, you and your pals here would not now be giving the finest example of a vertical typhoon that I’ve ever seen.”
Sir Raymond subsided in his chair a little foolishly; he felt at a complete loss as to where he stood with this astonishing young man. And it was left to Mr Leibhaus to make the next move.
“Let us leave that point for the moment,” he remarked. “Where are these notes now?”
“I’ve already told you,” replied Drummond casually. “The worthy Scheidstrun has them. And in accordance with Professor Goodman’s written instructions he proposes to give the secret to the world of science at an early date. In fact he is going back to Germany tomorrow to do so.”
“But the thing is impossible,” cried Sir Raymond, recovering his speech. “You mean to say that Professor Goodman left written instructions that the notes of his process were to be handed over to – to Scheidstrun?”
“I do,” returned Drummond. “And if you want confirmation, you can ring up Mr Tootem of Austin Friars – Professor Goodman’s lawyer. He saw the letter, and it was in his office the notes were handed over.”
“You will excuse me, Captain Drummond, if I confer for a few moments with my friends,” said Sir Raymond, rising.
The directors of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate withdrew to the farther end of the long room, leaving Drummond still sitting at the table. And to that gentleman’s shrewd eye it was soon apparent that his chance arrow had hit the mark, though exactly what mark it was, was still beyond him. But the agitation displayed by the group of men in the window was too obvious to miss, and had he known all the facts he would have found it hardly surprising. The directors were faced unexpectedly with as thorny a problem as could well be devised.
Believing as they had that the notes had been destroyed – had not Mr Edward Blackton assured them of that fact? – they had unanimously decided to adopt the role that the process had proved useless, thereby removing any possible suspicion that might attach itself to them. And now they found that not only had the notes not been destroyed, but that they were in the possession of Blackton himself. And it needed but little imagination to realise that dangerous though the knowledge of the process had been in the hands of Professor Goodman, it was twenty times more so in the hands of Blackton if he meant to double-cross them.
That was the point: did he? Or had he discovered somehow or other that Drummond held the notes and taken these steps in order to get them?
And the second little matter which had to be solved was how much this man Drummond knew. If he knew nothing at all, why had he bothered to come round and see them? It was out of the question, surely, that he could have any inkling of the real truth concerning the bogus Professor Scheidstrun. Had not the impersonation deceived even London scientists who knew the real man at the funeral that afternoon?
For a while the directors conferred together in whispers; then Sir Raymond advanced towards the table. The first thing was to get rid of Drummond.
“I am sure we are all very much obliged to you, Captain Drummond, for taking so much trouble and coming round to see us, but I don’t think there is anything more you can do. Should an opportunity arise I will take steps to let Professor Scheidstrun know what we think–”
He held out a cordial hand to terminate the interview.
But it takes two people to terminate an interview, and Drummond had no intention of being the second. He realised that he was on delicate ground and that it behoved him to walk warily. But his conviction that something was wrong somewhere was stronger than ever, and he was determined to try to get to the bottom of it.
“It might perhaps be as well, Sir Raymond,” he remarked, “to go round and tell him now. I know where he is stopping.”
Was it his imagination, or did the men in the window look at one another uneasily?
“As I told you, I pulled the poor old bean’s nose this morning, and it seems a good way of making amends.”
Sir Raymond stared at him.
“May I ask why you pulled his nose?”
And Drummond decided on a bold move.
“Because, Sir Raymond, I came to the conclusion that Professor Scheidstrun was not Professor Scheidstrun, but somebody else.” There was no mistaking the air of tension now. “I may say that I was mistaken.”
“Who did you think he was?” Sir Raymond gave a forced laugh.
“A gentleman of international reputation,” said Drummond quietly, “who masquerades under a variety of names. I knew him first as Carl Peterson, but he answers to a lot of titles. The Comte de Guy is one of them.”
And now the atmosphere was electric, a fact which did not escape Drummond. His eyes had narrowed; he was sitting very still. In the language of the old nursery game, he was getting warm.
“But I conclusively proved, gentlemen,” he continued, “that the man to whom I handed those notes this morning was not the Comte de Guy. The Comte, gentlemen, has arms as big as mine. His physical strength is very great. This man had arms like walking-sticks, and he couldn’t have strangled a mouse.”
One by one the men at the window had returned to their seats, and now they sat in perfect silence staring at Drummond. What on earth was this new complication, or was this man deliberately deceiving them ?
“Do you know the Comte de Guy well?” said Sir Raymond after a pause.
“Very well,” remarked Drummond. “Do you?”
“I have heard of him,” answered the other.
“Then, as you probably know, his power of disguising himself is so miraculous as to be uncanny. He has one little mannerism, however, which he sometimes shows in moments of excitement, whatever his disguise. And it has enabled me to spot him on one or two occasions. When therefore I saw that little trick of his in the lawyer’s office this morning, I jumped to the conclusion that my old friend was on the war-path again. So I leaped upon him, and the subsequent scene was dreadful. It was not my old friend at all, but a complete stranger with a vast wife who nearly felled me with a blow on the ear.”
He selected another cigarette with care.
“However,” he continued casually, “it’s a very good thing for you that the process is a dud. Because I am sure nothing would induce him to disregard Professor Goodman’s wishes on the subject if it hadn’t been.”
“You say you know where he is stopping?” said Sir Raymond.
“I do,” answered Drummond.
“Then I think perhaps that it would be a good thing to do as you suggest, and go round and see him now.” He had been thinking rapidly while Drummond was speaking, and one or two points were clear. In some miraculous way this young man had blundered on to the truth. That the man Drummond had met in the lawyer’s office that morning was any other than Blackton he did not for a moment believe. But Blackton had bluffed him somehow, and for the time had thrown him off the scent. The one vital thing was to prevent him getting on to it again. And since there was no way of telling what Drummond would find when he went round to the house, it was imperative that he should be there himself. For if there was one person whom Sir Raymond did not expect to meet there, it was Professor Scheidstrun. And in that event he must be on hand to see what happened.
“Shall we go at once? My car is here.”
“By all means,” said Drummond. “And if there’s room we might take Algy as well. He gets into mischief if he’s left lying about.”
On one point at any rate Sir Raymond’s expectations were not realised. Professor Scheidstrun was at the house right enough; in fact he and his wife had just finished their tea. And neither the worthy Teuton nor his spouse evinced the slightest pleasure on seeing their visitors. With the termination of the funeral they had believed their troubles to be over, and now this extremely powerful and objectionable young man had come to worry them again, to say nothing of his friend who had spoken to the Professor at the funeral. And what did Sir Raymond Blantyre want? Scheidstrun had been coached carefully as to whom and what Sir Raymond was, but what on earth had he come round about? Especially with Drummond?
It was the latter who stated the reason of their visit.
“I’ve come about those notes, Professor,” he remarked cheerfu
lly. “You know – the ones that caused that slight breeze in old Tootem’s office this morning.”
“So,” grunted the Professor, blinking uneasily behind his spectacles. It struck him that the ground was getting dangerous.
“I feel,” went on Drummond affably, “that after our unfortunate little contretemps I ought to try to make some amends. And as I know you’re a busy man I shouldn’t like you to waste your time needlessly. Now, you propose, don’t you, to carry on with Professor Goodman’s process, and demonstrate it to the world at large?”
“That is so,” said the German.
Out of the corner of his eye Drummond looked at Sir Raymond, but the President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate was staring impassively out of the window.
“Well, I’m sorry to say the process is a dud; a failure; no bally earthly. You get me, I trust.”
“A failure. Ach! is dot so?” rumbled Scheidstrun, who was by this time completely out of his depth.
“And that being the case, Professor,” murmured Sir Raymond, “it would be better to destroy the notes at once, don’t you think? I was under the impression” – he added pointedly – “that they had already been destroyed in the accident.”
Strangely enough, the presence of Drummond gave him a feeling of confidence with Mr Edward Blackton which he had never experienced before. And this was a golden opportunity for securing the destruction of those accursed papers, and thus preventing any possibility of his being double-crossed.
“Shall we therefore destroy them at once?” he repeated quietly.
The German fidgeted in his chair. Willingly would he have destroyed them on the spot if they had still been in his possession. Anything to be rid of his visitors. He glanced from one to the other of them. Drummond was apparently staring at the flies on the ceiling; Sir Raymond was staring at him, and his stare was full of some hidden meaning. But since it was manifestly impossible for him to do as Sir Raymond suggested, the only thing to do was to temporise.