by Sapper
With his hands lashed together on the bed, and this time feigning sleep, he tried to see the way out. Three men were in the room with him now, and for a time he was inclined to curse himself for a fool. Better almost to have let the old man be burnt again – and got away himself for help. But no man – certainly not Drummond – could have allowed such a thing to take place if it was in his power to prevent it. Besides, Freyder’s face was an immense compensation.
Why were they torturing him? There could only be one reason – to compel him to do something which he didn’t wish to. And what could that be except reveal to Peterson the secret of his process? The more he thought about it, the clearer it became. Once Peterson was in possession of the secret, any further necessity for keeping Goodman alive would have departed. Obviously he had deceived Peterson once – but would he have the pluck to do it again? That he was an obstinate old man at times, Drummond knew – but torture has a way of overcoming obstinacy. Especially Peterson’s brand of torture.
For all that, however, torture would be better than death, and to give Peterson the secret would be signing his death-warrant. For hours he lay there trying to see a ray of light. That Peterson would try to restore him to sanity before killing him he knew, but, at the same time, it was not safe to bank on it absolutely. That Peterson would kill Goodman at the first moment possible he also knew. And that was the fact which tied his hands so completely.
If only he could get at Goodman – if only he could warn him not to give away his secret, whatever happened – there was hope. The Professor’s life was safe till then; they might hurt him – but his life was safe. And if only he could get away, he might pull it off even now. The process, he knew, took six hours; if the Professor had the nerve to bluff Peterson twice more – twelve hours, say fourteen… A lot could be done in fourteen hours.
And suddenly he lay very still – two of the men were leaving the room. Was this his chance? He stirred uneasily on the bed, as a sick man does who is asleep. Then he rolled over on his back breathing stertorously. It was all perfectly natural, and roused no suspicions in the mind of the remaining man. But it brought Drummond’s hands into the position in which he wanted them.
Contemptuously the man came over and stared at him as he lay. It was a foolish thing to do, and it was still more foolish to lean down a little to see the patient better. For the next moment a pair of hands with fingers like steel hooks had fastened on his throat, and the sleeper was asleep no more. Gasping and choking, he beat impotently at the big man’s face, striking it again and again, but he might as well have hit the wall for all the good he did. And gradually his struggles grew fainter and fainter till they ceased altogether.
Thus had Drummond got his message through to Professor Goodman. On the spur of the moment it had occurred to him that by pretending to believe he was Peterson not only would it increase his chances of speaking to the Professor, but it would also tend to strengthen the belief that he was insane. An unexpected and additional help towards that end had been his appearance, though that he couldn’t be expected to know. And now as once again he lay on the bed – bound this time hand and foot – he wondered desperately if he had succeeded.
Professor Goodman had got his whispered message – that he knew. But had he been in time? In addition, so far as he could tell, he had, up to the present, successfully bluffed Peterson and everyone else in the house as to his mental condition. But could he keep it up? And, anyway, trussed up as he now was, and as common sense told him he would continue to be until he was taken on board the yacht, what good would it do even if he could? It might save his life for the time being, but it wouldn’t help his ultimate hopes of getting away. Nor the Professor’s. Once they were on board he had to admit to himself that their chance of coming out alive was small. Anything can happen on a boat where the whole crew are unscrupulous. And even if the possibility arose of his getting away by going overboard and swimming, it was out of the question for the Professor. The chances were that the old man couldn’t swim a stroke. And Drummond, powerful though he was in the water, was not such a fool as to imagine that he could support a non-swimmer for possibly several hours. Besides, it was not a matter of great difficulty to lower a boat, and an oar is a nasty thing to be hit on the head with, when swimming. No, the only hope seemed to be that Professor Goodman should hold out, and that by some fluke he should get away. Or send a message. But whom to? – and how? He didn’t even know where he was.
And at that very moment the principal part of that forlorn hope was being dashed to the ground in the next room. Once again the benevolent Mr Robinson was chiselling out the clinker from the metal retort, while the Professor watched him wearily from his chair. There was no mistake this time; Drummond’s warning had come too late. And with a cry of triumph Mr Robinson felt his chisel hit something hard: the diamond was there. He dug on feverishly, and the next minute a big uncut diamond – dirty still with the fragments of clinker adhering to it – lay in his hand. He gazed at it triumphantly, and for a moment or two felt almost unable to speak. Success at last: assured and beyond doubt. In his notebook was the process; there was no need for further delay.
And then he realised that Professor Goodman was saying something.
“I have shown you as I promised.” His voice seemed very weary. “That is the method of making the ordinary white diamond. Tomorrow, after I have rested for a while, I will show you how to make one that is rose-pink.”
Mr Robinson hesitated.
“Is there much difference in the system?” he remarked thoughtfully.
The Professor’s voice shook a little – but then it was hardly to be wondered at. He had had a trying evening.
“It will mean obtaining a somewhat rare strontium salt,” he answered. “Also it has to be added to the other salts in minute doses from time to time to ensure perfect mixing. The heat also has to be regulated a little differently.”
His eyes searched the other’s face anxiously. Delay him – at all costs. Drummond’s urgent words still rang in his ears, and this seemed the only chance of doing so. The main secret he had already given away; there was nothing he could do or say to alter that. Only with Drummond’s warning had he realised finally that he had been fooled; that in all probability the promise of rejoining his wife had been a lie from beginning to end. And the realisation had roused every atom of fight he had in him.
He was a shrewd old man for all his absent-mindedness, and during the hour he had sat there while the furnace cooled his mind had been busy. How Drummond had got there he didn’t know, but in Drummond lay his only hope. And if Drummond said delay, he would do his best to carry out instructions. Moreover, Drummond had said something else too, and he was a chemist.
“Where can you obtain this strontium salt?” asked Mr Robinson at length.
“From any big chemist in London,” replied the other.
Mr Robinson fingered the diamond in his hand. It would mean additional delay, but did that matter very much? Now that he was in possession of the secret he had half decided to get away early in the morning. The yacht was ready; he could step on board when he liked. But there were undoubted advantages in being able to make rose-pink diamonds as well as the ordinary brand, and it struck him that, after all, he might just as well adhere to his original plan. Drummond was safe; there was nothing to fear from the old fool in the chair. So why not?
“Give me the name of the salt and it shall be sent for tomorrow,” he remarked.
“If you’re sending,” said the Professor mildly, “you might get some other salts too. By my process I can make them blue, green, black, or yellow, as well as red. Each requires a separate salt, though the process is basically the same.”
Once again Mr Robinson frowned thoughtfully, and once again he decided – why not? Blue diamonds were immensely valuable, and he might as well have the process complete.
“Make a list of everyt
hing you want,” he snapped, “and I will get the whole lot tomorrow. And now, after you’ve done that, go to bed.”
He watched the old man go shambling along the passage to his room; then, slipping the diamond into his pocket, he went in to have a look at Drummond. He was apparently asleep, and for a while Mr Robinson stood beside him with a look of malignant satisfaction on his face. That his revenge on the man lying bound and helpless on the bed added to the risk of his plans, he knew; but no power on earth would have made him forego it. In the eyes of the world Professor Goodman was already dead; in his case he would merely be confirming an already established fact. But with Drummond it was different. There would be a hue and cry: there was bound to be. But what did it matter? Was he not going to die himself – officially? And dead men are uninteresting people to pursue.
“Don’t relax your guard for an instant,” he said to the two men. “We shall be leaving here tomorrow afternoon.”
He left the room and went down to his own particular sanctum. He had made up his mind as to what he would do, and it seemed to solve all the difficulties in the most satisfactory way. These special salts should be sent direct to the yacht, and Professor Goodman should initiate him into their mysteries on board. He would have the electric furnace taken from the house, and the experiments could be carried out just as easily at sea. And when finally he felt confident of making all the various colours, and not till then, he would drop the old fool overboard. Drummond also; the extra few days would increase the chance of his becoming sane again.
He suddenly bethought him of Freyder, and went into his room. His face, even his eyes, were completely hidden by bandages, and Mr Robinson expressed his sympathy. In fact after Freyder had exhausted his vocabulary on the subject of Drummond, Mr Robinson even went so far as to promise his subordinate a special private chance of getting some of his own back.
“You may do anything you like to him, my dear fellow,” he said soothingly, “save actually kill him. I shall watch it all with the greatest pleasure. I only reserve to myself the actual coup de grâce.”
He closed the door and, returning to his study, took the diamond out of his pocket. The tools at his disposal were not very delicate, but he determined, even at the risk of damaging the diamond, to work with them. He wanted to make assurance doubly sure, and it was not until the first faint streaks of dawn were coming through the window that he rose from his work with a sigh of satisfaction. On the table in front of him lay diamonds to the value of some six or seven thousand pounds; there had been no mistake this time. And with a sigh of satisfaction he placed them in his safe.
He felt suddenly tired, and glancing at his watch he found that it was already half-past three. A little rest was essential, and Mr Robinson went upstairs. He stopped by the Professor’s room and looked in: the old man was fast asleep in bed. Then he went to see Drummond once more, and found him muttering uneasily under the watchful eyes of his two guards. Everything was correct and in order, and with another sigh of satisfaction he retired to his room for a little well-earned repose.
It was one of his assets that he could do with a very small amount of sleep, and eight o’clock the following morning found him up and about again. His first care were his two prisoners, and to his surprise he found the Professor already up and pottering about in the room where he had been working the night before. He seemed in the best of spirits, and for a moment or two Mr Robinson eyed him suspiciously. He quite failed to see what the old man had to be pleased about.
“One day nearer rejoining my dear wife,” he remarked as he saw the other standing in the doorway. “You can’t think how excited I feel about it.”
“Not being married myself,” agreed Mr Robinson pleasantly, “I admit that I cannot enter into your joy. You’re up early this morning.”
“I couldn’t sleep after six,” explained the Professor. “And so I decided to rise.”
Mr Robinson grunted.
“Your breakfast will be brought to you shortly,” he remarked. “I would advise you to eat a good one, as we shall be starting shortly afterwards.”
“Starting?” stammered the Professor. “But I thought you wished me to show you how to make blue diamonds. And the other colours too.”
“I do,” answered the other. “But you will show me, Professor, on board my yacht. I trust that you are a good sailor, though at this time of year the sea should be calm.”
Professor Goodman stood by the electric furnace plucking nervously at his collar. It seemed as if the news of this early departure had given him a bit of a shock.
“I see,” he said at length. “I did not understand that we were starting so soon.”
“You have no objections, I hope,” murmured Mr Robinson politely. “The sooner we start, the sooner will come that delirious moment when you once more clasp Mrs Goodman in your arms. And now I will leave you, if you will excuse me. I have one or two things to attend to – amongst them our obstreperous young friend of last night.”
He strolled along the passage into the room where Drummond was. And though he realised that the idea was absurd, he felt a little throb of relief when he saw him still lying bound on the bed.
Ridiculous, of course, that he should find anything else, and yet Drummond, in the past, had extricated himself from such seemingly impossible situations that the sight of him bound and helpless was reassuring. Drummond smiled at him vacantly, and with a shrug of his shoulders he turned to the two men.
“Has he given any trouble?” he asked.
“Not a bit, guv’nor,” answered one of them. “He’s as balmy as he can be. Grins and smiles all over his face, except when that old bloke next door comes near him.”
Mr Robinson stared at the speaker.
“What do you mean?” he said. “Has the old man been in here this morning?”
“He came in about half an hour ago,” answered the other. “Said he wanted to see how the poor fellow was getting on. And as soon as Drummond saw him he started snarling and cursing and trying to get at him. I tell you we had the devil’s own job with him – and then after a while he lay quiet again. Thinks he’s some bloke of the name of Peterson.”
“How long was the old man here?” said Mr Robinson abruptly.
“About half a minute. Then we turned him out.”
“Under no circumstances is he to be allowed in here again.”
Mr Robinson again bent over Drummond and stared into his eyes. But no sign of reason showed on his face: the half-open mouth still grinned its vacant grin. And after a while Mr Robinson straightened up again. He had allowed himself to be alarmed unnecessarily: Drummond was still off his head.
“We are leaving at once after breakfast,” he remarked. “He is to be put in the ambulance as he is. And if he makes any noise – gag him.”
“Very good, guv’nor. Is he to have anything to eat?”
“No – let the swine starve.”
Mr Robinson left the room without a backward glance, and the sudden desperate glint in Drummond’s eyes passed unnoticed. For now indeed things did look utterly hopeless. The Professor’s plan passed to him on a piece of paper and which he had conveyed to his mouth and swallowed as soon as read, even if it was a plan of despair, had in it the germ of success. It was nothing more nor less than to set fire to the house with chemicals that would burn furiously, and trust to something happening in the confusion. At any rate it might have brought in outside people – the police, the fire brigade. And Peterson could hardly have left him bound upstairs with the house on fire. Not from any kindly motives – but expediency would have prevented it. Only the chemicals had to come from London, and if they were starting at once after breakfast it was obvious that the stuff couldn’t arrive in time.
The dear old Professor he took his hat off to. Tortured and abominably treated, he had kept his head and his nerve in the most wonderful way. For
a man of his age and sedentary method of life not to have broken down completely under the strain was nothing short of marvellous. And not only had he not broken down, but he’d thought out a scheme and got it to Drummond wrapped round a Gillette razor-blade. It had taken a bit of doing to get the blade into his waistcoat pocket, and had his arms been bound to his body he couldn’t have done it. But fortunately only his wrists were lashed together, and he had managed it. And now it all seemed wasted.
He debated in his mind whether he would try to cut the ropes, and chance everything in one wild fight at once. But the two men eating their breakfast near the foot of his bed were burly brutes. And even if by twisting himself up he had been able to cut the cord round his legs without their noticing he would be at a terrible disadvantage, cramped after his confinement as he was. Besides, there was the Professor. Nothing now would have induced him to leave the old man. Whatever happened, he must stay beside him in the hopes of being able to help him. Because one thing was clear. Even if he personally escaped, unless he could get help before the yacht started – the Professor was doomed. The yacht was going down with all hands: there lay the devilish ingenuity of the scheme.
And even if he could have prevented the yacht sailing, he knew Peterson quite well enough to realise that he would merely change his plans at the last moment. As he had so often done in the past, he would disappear, with the secret – having first killed Professor Goodman.
No; the only possible chance lay in his going on the yacht himself and trusting to luck to find a way out. Incidentally it was perhaps as well that the only possible chance did lie in that direction, since, as far as Drummond could see, his prospects of not going on board were even remoter than his prospects of getting any breakfast.
A sudden shuffling step in the passage outside brought his two guards to their feet. They dashed to the door just as Professor Goodman appeared, and then they stopped with a laugh. For the old man was swaying backwards and forwards and his eyes were rolling horribly.