The Third Round

by Sapper

  “But what’s the prize this time?”

  “Old Goodman’s secret for making artificial diamonds – that was the prize, and Peterson has got it.”

  Ted whistled softly.

  “I heard something about it from Algy,” he remarked. “But it seems to me, Hugh, that if that is the case, he’s won.”

  Drummond laughed.

  “You were a bit surprised, Ted, when I refused to allow you to pull us on board your boat. Of course I knew as well as you did that with your speed we could have got clean away from them. But don’t you see, old man, the folly of doing so? He would have spotted at once that we were not drowned; he would further have spotted that I was not as mad as I made out. Chawing soap is the hell of a game,” he added inconsequently. Then he went on again, emphasising each point on his fingers.

  “Get me so far? Once he knew we were alive, it would have necessitated a complete alteration of his plans. He’d probably have put straight into some place on the south coast; gone ashore himself and never returned. And then he’d have disappeared into the blue. Maybe he’d have had another shot at murdering old Goodman; however, that point doesn’t arise. The thing is he’d have disappeared.”

  “Which is what he seems to have done now,” remarked Ted.

  Again Drummond laughed.

  “But I think I know where he’ll turn up again. In what form or guise remains to be seen: our one and only Carl is never monotonous, to give him his due. You see, Ted, you don’t seem to realise the intense advantage of being dead. I didn’t till I heard him discussing it one night in his study. And now I’m dead, and the Professor’s dead, and dear Carl is dead. That’s why I bumped the poor old man’s head on the barnacles underneath your boat, as we changed sides. It’s a gorgeous situation.”

  “Doubtless, old man,” murmured the other. “Though you must remember it’s all a little dark and confusing to me. And anyway, where do you think he’ll turn up again so that you can recognise him?”

  “My dear man, our little Irma, or Janet, or whatever name the sweet thing is masquerading under this time, is a powerful magnet. And I am open to a small bet that at the moment she is taking the air in Switzerland: Montreux to be exact. What more natural, then, that believing himself perfectly safe, our one and only Carl will return to the arms of his lady – if only for a time.”

  “And you propose to fly there also?”

  “Exactly. I want the notes of that process, and I also want a final reckoning with the gentleman.”

  “Final?” said Ted, glancing at Drummond thoughtfully.

  “Definitely final,” answered Drummond quietly. “This time our friend has gone too far.”

  Jerningham looked at the numerous other boats which, by this time, had arrived at the scene of the disaster. Then he swung his helm hard round.

  “That being so,” he remarked, “since our presence is no longer needed here, I suggest that we get a move on. From my knowledge of Montreux, old man, it is getting uncomfortably hot just now. Deauville will be more in Irma’s line. If I were you, I’d get out there, and do it quick. Joking apart, you may be right and, of course, I don’t know all the facts of the case. But from what I’ve guessed, I think friend Peterson will cover all his tracks at the first possible moment.”

  “He may,” agreed Drummond. “And yet – believing that the Professor and I are both dead – he may not. You see,” he repeated once again, “he thinks he’s safe. Therein lies the maggot in the Stilton.”

  With which profound simile he relapsed into silence, only broken as once more the boat drew up alongside the yacht.

  “He thinks he’s safe, which is where he goes into the mulligatawny up to his neck. Put these fellows on shore, Ted, give me a change of clothes, and then run me over to Lymington.”

  Chapter 12

  In which he samples Mr Blackton’s Napoleon brandy

  That Drummond was no fool his intimate friends knew well. He had a strange faculty for hitting the nail on the head far more often than not. Possibly his peculiarly direct method of argument enabled him to reach more correct conclusions than someone subtler-minded and cleverer could achieve. His habit of going for essentials and discarding side issues was merely the mental equivalent of those physical attributes which had made him a holy terror in the ring. Moreover, he had the invaluable gift of being able to put himself in the other man’s place.

  But it may be doubted if in any of his duels with Peterson he had ever been more unerringly right than in his diagnosis of the immediate future. It was not a fluke; it was in no sense guesswork. He merely put himself in Peterson’s place, and decided what he would do under similar circumstances. And having decided on that, he went straight ahead with his own plans, which, like all he made, were simple and to the point. They necessitated taking a chance, but, after all, what plan doesn’t?

  He had made up his mind to kill Peterson, but he wanted to do it in such a manner that it would appeal to his sense of art in after-life. And with Drummond the sense of art was synonymous with the sense of fair play. He would give Peterson a fair chance to fight for his life. But in addition to that his ambition went a little farther. He felt that this culminating duel should be worthy of them both. The mental atmosphere must be correct, as well as the mundane surroundings. That that was largely beyond his control he realised, but he hoped for the best. The sudden plunging of Peterson from the dizzy heights of success into the valley of utter failure must not be a hurried affair, but a leisurely business in which each word would tell. How dizzy were the heights to which Peterson thought he had attained was, of course, known only to Peterson. But, on that point, he need not have worried.

  For Mr Edward Blackton, as he stepped out of the train at Montreux station at nine o’clock on a glorious summer’s evening, was in a condition in which even a request for one of his three remaining bottles of Napoleon brandy might have been acceded to. True, his right arm pained him somewhat; true, he was supremely unaware that at seven o’clock that morning Drummond had descended from the Orient Express on to the same platform. What he was aware of was that in his pocket reposed the secret which would make him all-powerful; and in his handbag reposed an English morning paper giving the eminently satisfactory news that only six survivors had been rescued from the s.y. Gadfly, which had mysteriously blown up off the Needles. Moreover, all six had combined in saying that the temporary owner of the yacht – a Mr Robinson – must be amongst those drowned.

  The hotel ’bus drew up at the door of the Palace Hotel, and Mr Blackton descended. He smiled a genial welcome at the manager, and strolled into the luxurious lounge. In the ballroom leading out of it a few couples were dancing, but his shrewd glance at once found whom he was looking for. In a corner sat Irma talking to a young Roumanian of great wealth, and a benevolent glow spread over him. No more would the dear child have to do these fatiguing things from necessity. If she chose to continue parting men from their money as a hobby it would be quite a different thing. There is a vast difference between pleasure and business.

  He sauntered across the lounge towards her, and realised at once that there was something of importance she wished to say to him. For a minute or two, however, they remained there chatting; then with a courteous good night they left the Roumanian and ascended in the lift to their suite.

  “What is it, my dearest?” he remarked, as he shut the sitting-room door.

  “That man Blantyre is here, Ted,” said the girl. “He’s been asking to see you.”

  He sat down and pulled her on to his knee.

  “Blantyre,” he laughed. “Sir Raymond! I thought it possible he might come. And is he very angry?”

  “When he saw me he was nearly speechless with rage.”

  “Dear fellow! It must have been a dreadful shock to him.”

  “But, Ted,” she cried anxiously, “is it all right?”

&nb
sp; “Righter even than that, carissima. Blantyre simply doesn’t come into the picture. All I trust is that he won’t have a fit in the room or anything, because I think that Sir Raymond in a fit would be a disquieting spectacle.”

  There was a knock at the door, and the girl got quickly up.

  “Come in.”

  Mr Blackton regarded the infuriated man who entered with a tolerant smile.

  “Sir Raymond Blantyre, surely. A delightful surprise. Please shut the door, and tell us to what we are indebted for the pleasure of this visit.”

  The President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate advanced slowly across the room. His usually florid face was white with rage, and his voice, when he spoke, shook uncontrollably.

  “You scoundrel – you infernal, damned scoundrel!”

  Mr Blackton thoughtfully lit a cigar; then, leaning back in his chair, he surveyed his visitor benignly.

  “Tush, tush!” he murmured. “I must beg of you to remember that there is a lady present.”

  Sir Raymond muttered something under his breath; then, controlling himself with an effort, he sat down.

  “I presume it is unnecessary for me to explain why I am here,” he remarked at length.

  “I had imagined through a desire to broaden our comparatively slight acquaintance into something deeper and more intimate,” said Mr Blackton hopefully.

  “Quit this fooling,” snarled the other. “Do you deny that you have the papers containing Goodman’s process?”

  “I never deny anything till I’m asked, and not always then.”

  “Have you got them, or have you not?” cried Sir Raymond furiously.

  “Now I put it to you, my dear fellow, am I a fool or am I not?” Mr Blackton seemed almost pained. “Of course I have the papers of the process. What on earth do you suppose I put myself to the trouble and inconvenience of coming over to England for? Moreover, if it is of any interest to you, the notes are no longer in the somewhat difficult caligraphy of our lamented Professor, but in my own perfectly legible writing.”

  “You scoundrel!” spluttered Sir Raymond. “You took our money – half a million pounds – on the clear understanding that the process was to be suppressed.”

  Mr Blackton blew out a large cloud of smoke.

  “The point is a small one,” he murmured, “but that is not my recollection of what transpired. You and your syndicate offered me half a million pounds to prevent Professor Goodman revealing his secret to the world. Well, Professor Goodman hasn’t done so – nor will he do so. So I quite fail to see any cause for complaint.”

  The veins stood out on Sir Raymond’s forehead.

  “You have the brazen effrontery to sit there and maintain that our offer to you did not include the destruction of the secret? Do you imagine we should have been so incredibly foolish as to pay you a large sum of money merely to transfer those papers from his pocket to yours?”

  Mr Blackton shrugged his shoulders.

  “The longer I live, my dear Sir Raymond, the more profoundly do I become impressed with how incredibly foolish a lot of people are. But, in this case, do not let us call it foolishness. A kinder word is surely more appropriate to express your magnanimity. There are people who say that business men are hard. No – a thousand times, no. To present me with the secret was charming; but to force upon me half a million pounds sterling as well was almost extravagant.”

  “Hand it over – or I’ll kill you like a dog.”

  Mr Blackton’s eyes narrowed a little; then he smiled.

  “Really, Sir Raymond – don’t be so crude. I must beg of you to put that absurd weapon away. Why, my dear fellow, it might go off. And though I believe capital punishment has been abolished in most of the cantons in Switzerland, I don’t think imprisonment for life would appeal to you.”

  Slowly the other man lowered his revolver.

  “That’s better – much better,” said Mr Blackton approvingly. “And now, have we anything further to discuss?”

  “What do you propose to do?” asked Sir Raymond dully.

  “Really, my dear fellow, I should have thought it was fairly obvious. One thing you may be quite sure about: I do not propose to inform the Royal Society about the matter.”

  “No, but you propose to make use of your knowledge yourself?”

  “Naturally. In fact I propose to become a millionaire many times over by means of it.”

  “That means the ruin of all of us.”

  “My dear Sir Raymond, your naturally brilliant brain seems amazingly obtuse this evening. Please give me the credit of knowing something about the diamond market. I shall place these stones with such care that even you will have no fault to find. It will do me no good to deflate the price of diamonds. Really, if you look into it, you know, your half-million has not been wasted. You would have been ruined without doubt if Professor Goodman had broadcasted his discovery to the world at large. Every little chemist would have had genuine diamonds the size of tomatoes in his front window. Now nothing of the sort will happen. And though I admit that it is unpleasant for you to realise that at any moment a stone worth many thousands may be put on the market at the cost of a fiver, it’s not as bad as it would have been if you hadn’t called me in. And one thing I do promise you: I will make no attempt to undersell you. My stones will be sold at the current market price.”

  Sir Raymond stirred restlessly in his chair. It was perfectly true what this arch-scoundrel said: it was better that the secret should be in the hands of a man who knew how to use it than in those of an unpractical old chemist.

  “You see, Sir Raymond,” went on Mr Blackton, “the whole matter is so simple. The only living people who know anything about this process are you and your syndicate – and I. One can really pay no attention to that inconceivable poop – I forget his name. I mean the one with the eyeglass.”

  “There’s his friend,” grunted Sir Raymond – “that vast man.”

  “You allude to Drummond,” said Mr Blackton softly.

  “That’s his name. I don’t know how much he knows, but he suspects a good deal. And he struck me as being a dangerous young man.”

  Mr Blackton smiled sadly.

  “Drummond! Dear fellow. My darling,” he turned to the girl, “I have some sad news for you. In the excitement of Sir Raymond’s visit, I quite forgot to tell you. Poor Drummond is no more.”

  The girl sat up quickly.

  “Dead! Drummond dead! Good heavens! how?”

  “It was all very sad, and rather complicated. The poor dear chap went mad. In his own charming phraseology he got kittens in the granary. But all through his terrible affliction, one spark of his old life remained: his rooted aversion to me. The only trouble was that he mistook someone else for your obedient servant, and at last his feelings overcame him. I took him for a short sea-voyage, with the gentleman be believed was me, and he rewarded me by frothing at the mouth, and jumping overboard in a fit of frenzy, clutching this unfortunate gentleman in the grip of a maniac. They were both drowned. Too sad, is it not?”

  “But I don’t understand,” cried the girl. “Good heavens! what’s that?”

  From a large cupboard occupying most of one wall came the sound of a cork being extracted. It was unmistakable, and a sudden deadly silence settled on the room. The occupants seemed temporarily paralysed: corks do not extract themselves. And then a strange pallor spread over Mr Blackton’s face, as if some ghastly premonition of the truth had dawned on him.

  He tottered rather than walked to the cupboard and flung it open. Comfortably settled in the corner was Drummond. In one hand he held a corkscrew, in the other a full bottle of Napoleonic brandy, which he was sniffing with deep appreciation.

  “I pass this, Carl,” he remarked, “as a very sound liqueur brandy. And if you would oblige me with a glass, I will decide
if the taste comes up to the bouquet. A tooth-tumbler will do excellently, if you have no other.”

  The pallor grew more sickly on Blackton’s face as he stared at the speaker. He had a sudden sense of unreality; the room was spinning round. It was untrue, of course; it was a dream. Drummond was drowned: he knew it. So how could he be sitting in the cupboard? Manifestly the thing was impossible.

  “Well, well,” said the apparition, stretching out his legs comfortably, “this is undoubtedly a moment fraught with emotion and, I trust I may say, tender memories.” He bowed to the girl, who, with her hands locked together, was staring at him with unfathomable eyes. “Before proceeding, may I ask the correct method of addressing you? I like to pander to your foibles, Carl, in any way I can, and I gather that neither Mr Robinson nor Professor Scheidstrun is technically accurate at the moment.”

  “How did you get here?” said Blackton in a voice he hardly recognised as his own.

  “By the Orient Express this morning,” returned Drummond, emerging languidly from the cupboard.

  “My God! you’re not human.”

  The words seemed to be wrung from Blackton by a force greater than his own, and Drummond looked at him thoughtfully. There was no doubt about it – Peterson’s nerve had gone. And Drummond would indeed not have been human if a very real thrill of triumph had not run through him at that moment. But no trace showed on his face as he opened his cigarette-case.

  “On the contrary – very human indeed,” he murmured. “Even as you, Carl – you’ll excuse me if I return to our original nomenclature: it’s so much less confusing. To err is human – and you erred once. It’s bad luck, because I may frankly say that in all the pleasant rencontres we’ve had together nothing has filled me with such profound admiration for your ability as this meeting. There are one or two details lacking in my mind – one in particular; but on what I do know, I congratulate you. And possessing, as I think you must admit, a sense of sportsmanship, I feel almost sorry for that one big error of yours, though it is a delightful compliment to my histrionic abilities. How’s Freyder’s face?”