The Third Round

by Sapper

  “But what on earth am I to say about the man who was buried?” And suddenly the full realisation of all that the question implied came home to him and he stood up. “Who was that man?”

  “An uninteresting fellow,” remarked Mr Robinson genially.

  “But if you were the man I thought was Scheidstrun, you must – you must have murdered him.” The old man’s voice rose almost to a scream. “My God! I’d forgotten all about that.”

  He shrank back staring at Mr Robinson, who was watching him narrowly.

  “My dear Professor,” he said coldly, “pray do not excite yourself unnecessarily. I have often thought that a society of murderers run on sound conservative lines would prove an admirable institution. After all, it is the majority who should be considered, and there are so many people who are better out of the way. However, to set your mind at rest,” he continued, “it may interest you to know that the foot which was buried in your boot did not belong to a living man. There are methods of obtaining these things, as you are doubtless aware, for experimental purposes, if you possess a degree.”

  There was no object, he reflected, in unnecessarily alarming the old man; it saves bother to get an animal to walk to the slaughter-house rather than having to drag it there. And he was likely to have all the dragging he wanted with Drummond, even though he was insane.

  Professor Goodman, only half satisfied, sank back in his chair. Already the sweat was running down both their faces from the heat of the furnace, but Mr Robinson had no intention of leaving the room. He was taking no chances this time; not until the current was turned off and the furnace was cool enough to handle did he propose to go and rest. Then, once he was satisfied that the retort did contain diamonds, he would have some badly needed sleep in preparation for the work next night.

  The yacht Gadfly was lying in Southampton Water, and he had decided to go on board in the late afternoon. His two invalids would be carried on stretchers; an ambulance was even now in readiness below to take them to the coast. They would both be unconscious – a matter which presented but little difficulty to Mr Robinson. And the Professor would never regain consciousness. He had served his purpose, and all that mattered as far as he was concerned was to dispose of him as expeditiously as possible. With Drummond things were a little different. In spite of what he had said to Freyder downstairs, the scheme was too big to run any unnecessary risks, and though it went against his grain to kill him in his present condition, he quite saw that he might have to. Drummond might remain in his present condition for months, and it was manifestly impossible to wait for that length of time to obtain his revenge. It might be, of course, that when he woke up he would have recovered his reason, and, if so… Mr Robinson’s eyes gleamed at the thought. In anticipation he lived through the minute when he would watch Drummond, bound and weighted, slip off the deck into the sea.

  Then with an effort he came back to the present. Was there anything left undone in his plans which would cause a check? Point by point he ran over them, and point by point he found them good. Their strength lay in their simplicity, and he could see nothing which was likely to go wrong before he was on board the Gadfly. Up to date no mention of Mr Lewisham’s sudden disappearance had found its way into the papers; presumably, whatever Mrs Lewisham might think of the matter, she had not consulted the police. Similarly with regard to Drummond. No questions were likely to be asked in his case until long after he was safely out of the country. And after that, as he had said to Freyder, nothing mattered. The s.y. Gadfly would founder with all hands somewhere off the coast of Africa, but not too far from the shore to prevent Freyder and himself reaching it. That the crew, drugged and helpless, would go down in her he did not propose to tell them when he went on board. After all, there were not many of them, and it would be a pity to spoil their last voyage.

  The heat from the furnace was growing almost insupportable, and he glanced at his watch. There was another hour to go, and with a sigh of impatience he sat back in his chair. Opposite him Professor Goodman was nodding in a kind of heavy doze, though every now and then he sat up with a jerk and stared about him with frightened eyes. He was muttering to himself, and once he sprang out of his chair with a stifled scream, only to sink back again as he saw the motionless figure opposite.

  “I was dreaming,” he muttered foolishly. “I thought I saw a man standing by the door.”

  Mr Robinson swung round and peered into the passage; there was no one there. Absolute silence still reigned in the house. And then suddenly he rose and went to the door: it seemed to him as if something had stirred outside. But the passage was empty, and he resumed his seat. He felt angry with himself because his own nerves were not quite under their usual iron control. After all, what could possibly happen? It must be the strain of the last few days, he decided.

  Slowly the minutes ticked on, and had anyone been there to see, it must have seemed like some ceremony of black magic. The furnace glowing white hot, and in the circle of light thrown by it two elderly men sitting in chairs – one gently stroking his mutton-chop whiskers, the other muttering restlessly to himself. And then outside the ring of light – darkness. Every now and then a sizzling hiss came from inside the furnace, as the chemical process advanced another stage towards completion – that completion which meant all power to one of the two who watched and waited, and death to the other. The sweat dripped down their faces; breathing was hard in the dried-up air. But to Mr Robinson nothing mattered: such things were trifles. Whatever might be the material discomfort, it was the crowning moment of his life – the moment when the greatest coup of his career had come to a successful conclusion.

  And suddenly he shut his watch with a snap.

  “Two hours,” he cried, and strive as he would he could not keep the exultation out of his voice. “The time is up.”

  With a start Professor Goodman scrambled to his feet, and mumbling foolishly he switched off the current. It was over; he had given away his secret. And all he wanted to do now was to get home as soon as possible. Two hours more to let it cool…

  He paused, motionless, his lips twitching. Great heavens! what was that in the door – that great dark shape. It was moving, and he screamed. It was coming into the circle of light, and as he screamed again, Mr Robinson leapt to his feet.

  Once more the thing moved, and now the light from the furnace shone on it. It was Drummond, his arms still lashed in front of him. His face was covered with blood, but his eyes were fixed on Professor Goodman. And they were the eyes of a homicidal maniac.

  For a moment or two Mr Robinson stood motionless, staring at him. Drummond’s appearance was so utterly unexpected and terrifying that his brain refused to work, and before he realised what had happened, Drummond sprang. But not at him. It was Professor Goodman who had evidently incurred the madman’s wrath, and the reason was soon obvious. Insane though he was, the one dominant idea of his life was still a ruling factor in his actions, though now it was uncontrolled by any reason. And that idea was Peterson.

  Why he should imagine that Professor Goodman was Peterson it was impossible to say, but he undoubtedly did. Again and again he grunted the name as he shook the unfortunate scientist backwards and forwards, and for a while Mr Robinson wondered cynically whether he should let him go on in his delusion and await results. He was almost certain to kill the old man, which might save trouble. At the same time there was still the possibility of some mistake in the process, which rendered it inadvisable to dispense with him for good quite yet.

  An uproar in the passage outside took him to the door. Two of the three men who had been told off to guard Drummond were running towards him, and he cursed them savagely.

  “Pull him off,” he roared. “He’ll murder the old man.”

  They hurled themselves on Drummond, who had forced the Professor to his knees. And this time, strangely enough, he gave no trouble. He looked at them with a vacant stare
, and then grinned placidly.

  “Chief!” cried one of the men, “he’s murdered Simpson. He’s lying there with his neck broken.”

  Mr Robinson darted from the room, to return almost at once. It was only too true. The third man was lying across the bed dead.

  “Where were you two imbeciles?” he snarled savagely.

  “We were taking it in turns, boss,” said the one who had spoken, sullenly. “The swine was asleep and his arms were bound…”

  He turned vindictively on Drummond, who grinned vacantly again.

  “So you left him alone with only one of you,” Mr Robinson remarked coldly. “You fools! – you triple-distilled damned fools. And then I suppose he woke and Simpson went to tuck him up. And Drummond just took him by the throat, and killed him, as he’d kill you or anyone else he got his hands on – bound or not.”

  “Gug-gug,” said Drummond, sitting down and beaming at them. “That man in there hit me in the face, when I took his throat in my hands.”

  And suddenly the madness returned to his eyes, and his huge hands strained and wrestled with the rope that bound them. He grunted and cursed, and the two men instinctively backed away. Only Mr Robinson remained where he was, and the light from the still glowing furnace glinted on the revolver which he held in his hand. This was no time for half-measures; there was no telling what this powerful madman might do next. If necessary, though he did not want to have to do it, he would shoot him where he sat. But the spasm passed, and he lowered his revolver.

  “Just so,” he remarked. “You might as well hit a steam-roller as hit Drummond, once he’s got hold. And judging by his face, Simpson must have hit him hard and often before he died. Take him away; lash him up; and unless you want to join that fool Simpson, don’t take it in turns to guard him – and don’t get within range of his hands.”

  The two men closed in warily on their prisoner, but he gave no further bother. Babbling happily he walked between them out of the room, and Mr Robinson suddenly remembered the unfortunate Professor.

  “A powerful and dangerous young man,” he remarked suavely. “I trust he hasn’t hurt you, my dear Professor.”

  “No,” said the other dazedly; “he hasn’t hurt me.”

  “An extraordinary delusion of his,” pursued Mr Robinson. “Fancy thinking that you, of all people, were that villain Peterson.”

  “Most extraordinary!” muttered the Professor.

  “And it’s really quite amazing that he should have allowed himself to be separated from you so easily. His friends, I believe, call him Bulldog, and he has many of the attributes of that noble animal.” He peered at the Professor’s throat. “Why, he’s hardly marked you. You can count yourself very lucky, believe me. Even when sane he’s a terror – but in his present condition… However, such a regrettable contretemps will not occur again, I trust.”

  He glanced at the furnace.

  “Another hour, I suppose, before it will be cool enough to see the result of our experiment?”

  “Another hour,” agreed the Professor mechanically.

  And during that hour the two men sat in silence. Each was busy with his own thoughts, and it would be hard to say which would have received the greater shock had he been able to read the other’s mind.

  For Mr Robinson was thinking, amongst other things, of the approaching death of the Professor, which would scarcely have been comforting to the principal actor in the performance. And Professor Goodman – who might have been expected to be thinking of nothing but his approaching reunion with his wife – had, sad to relate, completely forgotten the lady’s existence. His mind was engrossed with something quite different. For when a man who is undoubtedly mad – so mad, in fact, that in a fit of homicidal mania he has just throttled a man – gets you by the throat, you expect to experience a certain discomfort. But you do not expect to be pushed backwards and forwards as a child is pushed when you play with it – without discomfort or hurt. And above all you do not expect that madman to mutter urgently in your ear, “For God’s sake – don’t give your secret away. Delay him – at all costs. You’re in the most deadly peril. Burn the house down. Do anything.”

  Unless, of course, the madman was not mad.

  Chapter 10

  In which Drummond goes on board the s.y. “Gadfly”

  But however chaotic Professor Goodman’s thoughts, they were like a placid pool compared to Drummond’s. He had first recovered consciousness as he lay on the floor in the room below, and with that instinctive caution which was second nature to him, he had remained motionless. Two men were talking, and the sound of his own name instinctively put him on his guard. At first he listened vaguely – his head was still aching infernally – while he tried to piece together in his mind what had happened. He remembered taking the receiver off the telephone in the deserted house; he remembered a stunning blow on the back of his head; and after that he remembered nothing more. And since he realised that he was now lying on the floor, it was obvious that an overwhelming desire for his comfort was not a matter of great importance with the floor’s owner. The first point, therefore, to be decided was the identity of that gentleman.

  On that score he was not left long in doubt, and it needed all his marvellous self-control to go on lying doggo when he realised who it was. It was Peterson – and as he listened to the thoughtful arrangements for his future it was evident that Peterson’s feelings for him were still not characterised by warm regard. He heard the other man pleasantly suggest finishing him off then and there; he heard Peterson’s refusal and the reasons for it. And though his head was still swimming, and thinking was difficult, his subconscious mind dictated the obvious course. As long as he remained unconscious, Peterson’s insensate hatred for him would keep him safe. So far, so good – but it wasn’t very far. However, they couldn’t sit there talking the whole night, and once they left him alone, or even with some man to guard him, he had ample faith in his ability to get away. And once out of the house he and Peterson would be on level terms again.

  Once again he turned his attention to the conversation. Yacht – what was this about a yacht? With every sense alert he strove to make his throbbing brain take in what they were saying. And gradually as he listened the main outline of the whole diabolical scheme grew clear in all its magnificent simplicity. But who on earth was the man upstairs to whom Peterson kept alluding? Whoever he was, he was presumably completely unconscious of the fate in store for him. And it struck Drummond that he was going to complicate matters. It would mean intense rapidity of action on his part once he was out of the house if he was going to save the poor devil’s life.

  For one brief instant, as Peterson bent over him, he had a wild thought of bringing matters to a head then and there. To get his hands on the swine once more was an almost overmastering temptation, but he resisted it successfully. It would mean a fight and an unholy fight at that, and Drummond realised that conditions were all against him. His head, for one thing – and total ignorance of the house. And then, to his relief, Peterson sat down again. No – there was nothing for it but to go on shamming and take his chance later.

  Up to date he had not dared to open his eyes for even the fraction of a second, so he had no idea in what guise Peterson was at present masquerading. Nor had he a notion as to what the second man looked like. All he knew about that sportsman was that he was the dealer of the blow that had stunned him. And Drummond had a rooted dislike for men who stunned him. His name he gathered was Freyder, so he added Mr Freyder to his mental black-list.

  At last, to his relief, the conversation had ended, and he heard the orders given about his disposal for the night. Inert and sagging, he had allowed himself to be carried upstairs, and thrown on the bed. And then in very truth nature had asserted herself. He ceased to sham and fell asleep. For how long he remained asleep he had no idea, but he awoke to find himself alone in the room. The door was
open, and from outside there came the sound of voices. It seemed to him that it was now or never, and the next instant he was off the bed. He slipped off his shoes and stole into the passage.

  The voices were coming from the next room, and the door of that was also open. He recognised Peterson and the man called Freyder, and without further delay he turned and went in the opposite direction, only to stop short in his tracks as a terrible scream rang out. It came from the room where Peterson was.

  Like a shadow he stole back and looked in, and the sight he saw almost made him wonder if he wasn’t delirious. For there, moaning pitifully in a chair, was Professor Goodman. That was the staggering fact which drummed in his brain – Professor Goodman was not dead, but alive. But – what to do: that was the point. They were going to torture the poor old man again, and he already heard steps in the hall.

  And like a flash there came the only possible solution. Downstairs they had mentioned concussion: so be it – he would be concussed. It was the only hope, and the ease with which Freyder’s face made contact with the electric furnace was a happy augury.

  But he was under no delusions. From being a helpless log, he had suddenly become an obstreperous madman. It was going to make things considerably more difficult. And one thing it had definitely done – it had lessened any chance he had of escaping from the house. They would be certain to tie him up. Still, now that he had discovered the amazing fact about Professor Goodman, it would have been impossible for him to leave the house in any case, unless he could take the old man with him.