# The Third Round (McClure's Magazine 1923-24)/Part 2

from McClure's Magazine 1923 Oct, pp. 48—59.
Mr. Edward Blackton Proves Past Master at the Game of Double Cross
The Story from the Beginning
AMONG the snow-capped mountains of Switzerland Mr. Edward Blackton—known by various other names in the course of his eventful career—and the girl who is his constant companion are resting after a particularly unpleasant time in England. Their peace is interrupted by the appearance of two men—Sir Raymond Blantyre and Jabez Leibhaus, diamond magnates—who tell Blackton a strange story, and implore his aid.
According to them, Professor Goodman, a well-known chemist, had succeeded in producing by artificial means a diamond—absolutely perfect, flawless, worth a king's ransom—at a cost of less than six pounds! Realizing that the discovery, if revealed, will mean utter ruin to the diamond interests, Sir Raymond urges the professor not to disclose the secret, finally offering him two hundred and fifty thousand pounds for his silence. The professor refuses—and in desperation Blantyre appeals to Blackton to prevent the disclosure. Blackton agrees to help them, and leaves for England at once.
In England, meanwhile, Professor Goodman's daughter Brenda and her fiancé, Algy Longworth, are tremendously disappointed at this reckless refusal of a vast fortune for the sake of science and Algy appeals to his friend Hugh Drummond to influence the professor to accept the money and forego the glory. But Drummond realizes instantly that the affair is really serious and he promises to lend a hand.
“I KNOW I'm being what?” barked the professor. “Who is following me?”
Drummond slightly raised his voice.
“If you turn around you will see an unpleasant specimen of humanity gazing into the basement of that house. I allude to the bird with the large ears, who is beginning to get a little red about the tonsils.”
With a snarl the man swung on his heel and came toward them.
“Are you talking about me, confound you?” he said, addressing Drummond.
“I am,” remarked Drummond dispassionately. “Mushrooms growing well down below there?” The man looked somewhat disconcerted. “Now, who told you to follow Professor Goodman?”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” said the man surlily.
“Dear me!” remarked Drummond mildly. “I should have thought the question was sufficiently clear even to a person of your limited intelligence. However, if it will save you any bother, the professor is lunching with me at my club—that one over there with the warrior in uniform outside the door—and he will probably be leaving about three. So you can either run away and play marbles till then, or you can stay here and watch the door.”
He put his hand through the professor's arm, and gently propelled him toward the club, leaving the man scratching his head foolishly, utterly at sea.
Illustration: “He's jolly well got to go!” Hugo said. “He's had a letter this morning threatening his life”
“But, my dear fellow,” mildly protested the professor, “this is very kind of you. I'd no idea I was lunching with you.”
“No more had I,” answered Hugh genially. “But I think it's a jolly sort of idea, don't you? We'll get a table in the window and watch our friend earning his pay outside, while we toy with a bit of elusive Stilton.”
“But how do you know the man was following me, Drummond?” demanded the professor excitedly. “And if he was, don't you think I ought to tell the police?”
Gently, but firmly, Drummond piloted him up the steps of the club.
“I have an unerring instinct in such matters, professor,” he remarked. “And he was very bad at it—very bad. Now we will lower a Martini apiece, and I will read this threatening missive of yours.”
THE professor sank into a chair, and blinked at Hugh through his spectacles. He had had a trying morning, and there was something very reassuring about this large and imperturbable young man who he knew was his future son-in-law's greatest friend. And as he watched him reading the typewritten piece of paper strange stories which he had heard of some of Drummond's feats in the past came back to him. They had been told him by Algy and one or two by Brenda, but he had not paid any great attention to them at the time. They were not very much in his line, but now he felt distinctly comforted as he recalled them. To have his life threatened was a new experience for the worthy professor, and one not at all to his liking. It had interfered considerably with his work that morning, and produced a lack of mental concentration which he found most disturbing.
The letter was short and to the point:
“Unless you accept the two hundred and fifty thousand pounds recently offered to you, you will be killed.”
The professor leaned forward as Drummond laid the sheet of paper on the table.
“I must explain, Drummond——” he began, but the other man interrupted him.
“No need to, professor. Algy came around to see me this morning, and he told me about your discovery.” He again picked up the paper and glanced at it. “You have no idea, I suppose, who can have sent this?”
“None,” said the professor. “It is utterly inconceivable that Sir Raymond Blantyre should have stooped to such a thing. As Algy probably told you, he is the man who originally offered me this sum to suppress my discovery. But I refuse to believe for a moment that he would ever have been guilty of such a vulgar threat.”
Drummond regarded him thoughtfully.
“Look here, professor,” he said at length, “it seems to me that you are getting into pretty deep water. How deep I don't quite know. I tell you frankly I can't understand this letter. If, as you say, it is merely a vulgar threat, it is a very stupid and dangerous thing to put on paper. If, on the other hand, it is more than a threat—if it is an actual statement of fact—it is even more incredibly stupid and dangerous.”
“A statement of fact!” gasped the professor. “That I shall be killed if I don't suppress my discovery!”
He was blinking rapidly behind his spectacles, and Drummond smiled.
“A statement of fact as far as the writer of this epistle is concerned,” he remarked. “No more than that, professor, I hope. In fact, we must take steps to insure that it is no more than that. But this letter —on top of your being followed—shows that you are in the public eye, so to speak.”
“But I don't understand, Drummond,” said the professor feebly.
“NO more do I,” answered Hugh. “However, that will make it all the jollier when we do. And it is possible that we may get a bit nearer the mark today at lunch. A fellow of the name of Sinclair is joining us—he's a pal of Algy's, too—and he's in a big diamond merchant's office down in the city. He's a knowledgeable sort of bird, and we'll pump him. I don't want you to say a word as to your discovery—not a word. We'll just put the case to him as an academic one, and get his real opinion on it.”
“But I know their opinion about it already,” said the professor peevishly. “And I tell you that nothing is going to keep me from announcing my discovery in ten days before the Royal Society.”
Drummond drained his cocktail.
“That's the spirit, professor!” he cried cheerily. “But for all that, we may just as well see where we are. Here is Sinclair now: don't forget—not a word.” He rose as Toby Sinclair came up. “Morning, Toby. Do you know Professor Goodman? He is the misguided man who is allowing Algy to marry into his family.”
“Morning, sir,” said Sinclair, with a grin. “Well, old man—a cocktail, a rapid lunch, and I must buzz back. I tell you things are moving with some celerity in our line at present. And as the bright boy of the firm, my time is fully occupied.” He lit a cigarette, and Hugh laughed in disbelief, as he said:
“With a Lunar Guide and the Sportsman! Quite so, old boy—l know.”
“No, really, Hugh,” said Toby seriously, “the old office has not been the usual rest cure just lately. Strong men have rushed in and out and conferred behind locked doors, and the strain has been enormous. Made one quite dizzy to see them. However, it's been better the last two or three days, ever since old Blantyre came back from Switzerland.”
Drummond adroitly kicked the professor's leg.
“And who is old Blantyre?” he remarked carelessly. “And why does he go to Switzerland?”
“SIR RAYMOND BLANTYRE is head of the syndicate to which our firm belongs, though why he went to Switzerland I haven't any idea. All I can tell you is that he went out there looking like nothing on earth, and came back two days later smiling all over his face.”
“Speaks well for the Swiss air,” said Hugh dryly. “However, let's go and inspect the menu.”
He led the way toward the dining room, and his expression was thoughtful. If Sir Raymond Blantyre was now facing immediate ruin, as he had been given to understand, it was a little difficult to see why he should be smiling all over his face. It showed, at any rate, a resignation to Fate which was beyond all praise. Un- less, of course, something had happened in Switzerland to—— But, then, what could have happened? Had he gone over there to dispose of his stock before the crash came? Hugh felt very vague as to whether it would be possible to do such a thing. Anyway, it mightn't be a bad idea to find out where he had been in Switzerland. Just for future reference, in case anything happened.
“Yes—a deuced good advertisement for the Swiss air, old man,” he repeated, after they had sat down. “Where did he go?”
“You seem very interested in his wanderings,” said Toby, with a laugh. “As a matter of fact, I believe he went to Montreux, but since he was only there a day, the air can't have had much to do with it.”
Hugh glanced through the window; the man who had been following the professor was still loitering about the corner of the square. And the frown on his face grew more pronounced. It beat him—the whole thing beat him completely. Especially the threatening letter
“You're marvelously merry and bright this morning, old boy.” Toby broke off his desultory conversation with the professor and regarded Hugh with the eye of an expert. “I don't think you can have been mother's angel boy last night. Anyway, what is this important thing you wanted to see me about?”
WITH an effort his host pulled himself together.
“I was thinking, Toby,” he remarked, “and you know what an awful effect that always has on my system. Look here, diamonds are a pretty good thing, aren't they, as a birthday present for Phyllis?”
Toby stared at him.
“I should think they're a very good thing,” he remarked. “Why?”
“No danger of them losing their value?”
“None whatever. The output is far too carefully controlled for that.”
“But supposing some one came along and manufactured them cheaply?”
Toby laughed. “You needn't worry about that, old man. It has been done in the past and the results cost more than the genuine article.”
“Yes, but supposing it did happen,” persisted Hugh. “Supposing a process was discovered by which big stones really big stones could be made for a mere song—what then?”
Toby shrugged his shoulders.
“The discoverer of the process could ask practically what he liked to suppress it,” he answered.
“And if it wasn't suppressed—if it became known?”
“If it became widely known it would mean absolute ruin to thousands of people. You may take it from me, old man, that in the first place such a process is never likely to be found, and, if it ever was, that it would never come out.”
Hugh flashed a warning glance at the professor.
“There are hundreds of millions of pounds involved directly or indirectly in the diamond business,” went on Toby. “So I think you can safely invest in a few for Phyllis.” He glanced at his watch and rose. “Look here, I must be toddling. Another conference on this afternoon. If you want my advice on choosing them, old boy, I'm always in the office from eleven-thirty to twelve.”
Hugh watched him cross the room; then he turned thoughtfully to the professor.
“So that's that,“ he said. 'Now, what about a bit of Stilton and a glass of light port while we consider the matter?”
“But I knew all that before, and it has no influence on me, Drummond. None at all.” The professor was snorting angrily. “I will not be intimidated into the suppression of a far-reaching chemical discovery by any considerations whatever.”
“Quite so,” murmured Hugh soothingly. “I thought you'd probably feel like that about it. But it's really Algy I'm thinking about. As you know, he's a dear old pal of mine; his wedding is fixed in about a month, and since that is the only thing that can possibly restore him to sanity none of us want it postponed.”
“WHY should it be postponed?” cried the professor.
“Mourning in the bride's family,” said Drummond. “The betting is a tenner to a dried banana that you expire within a week. Have some more cheese?”
“Don't be absurd, Drummond. If you think you are going to persuade me—you're wrong. I suppose that foolish boy Algy has been trying to enlist you on his side.”
“Now look here, professor,” said Hugh quietly. “Will you listen to me for a moment or two? It is perfectly true that Algy did suggest to me this morning that I should try to persuade you to accept the offer Sir Raymond made you. But I am not going to do anything of the sort. I may say that even this morning it struck me that far more serious things were at stake than your acceptance or refusal of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. I am not at all certain in my own mind that if you accepted the money you would even then be safe. You are the owner of far too dangerous a piece of knowledge.
“However, as I say, it struck me this morning that things were serious. Now I'm sure of it, after what Toby said. He evidently knows nothing about it—so the big men are keeping it dark. Moreover, the biggest man of all, according to him, seems perfectly pleased with life at the present moment. Yet it's not due to anything that you have done; you haven't told them that you will accept their offer. Then why is he pleased? Most people wouldn't be full of happiness when they were facing immediate ruin. Professor, you may take it from me—and I am not an alarmist by any means—that the jolly old situation has just about as many unpleasant snags sticking out of it as any that I have ever contemplated. And I've contemplated quite a few in my life.”
He sat back in his chair and drained his port, and the professor, impressed in spite of himself, looked at him in perplexity.
“Then what do you suggest that I should do, Drummond?” he asked. “This sort of thing is not at all in my line.”
Illustration: “Was it you, Lewisham?” asked Liebhaus. Mr. Lewisham swallowed once or twice, then he stood up, clutching the edge of the table. “Yes—it was,” he said defiantly
HUGH smiled. “No, I suppose it's not. Well, I'll tell you what I would suggest your doing. If you are determined to go through with this, I would first of all take that threatening letter to Scotland Yard. Ask for Sir Bryan Johnstone, tell him you're a pal of mine, call him Tum-tum, and he'll eat out of your hand. If you can't see him, round up Inspector McIver, and tell him—well, as much or as little as you like. Of course, it's a little difficult. You can hardly accuse Sir Raymond Blantyre of having sent the letter. Still, it seems the only thing to do.
“Then I propose that you and your wife and your daughter should come away—and Algy, too—and stop with my wife and me, for a little house-warming party at a new place I've just bought down in Sussex. I'll rope in a few of Algy's pals and mine to stop there at the same time, and we'll keep an eye on you until the meeting of the Royal Society.”
“It's very good of you, Drummond,” said the professor uncertainly. “I hardly know what to say. This letter, for instance.”
He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a bunch of papers, which he turned over in his hands.
“To think that there's all this trouble over that,” he continued, holding out two or three sheets of note paper. “Whereas nobody worries over these notes on albuminized proteins.”
Hugh stared at him in amazement.
“You don't mean to say that those are the notes of your diamond process!” he gasped. “Carried loose in your pocket in that fashion!”
“Yes—why not?” said the professor mildly. “I always carry things loose like that, otherwise I lose them. And I should be helpless without these.”
“Good heavens, man, you must be mad!” cried Hugh. “Do you mean to say that you couldn't carry on without those notes? And you carry them like that!”
“I should have to do it all over again, and it would take months to arrive at the right proportions once more.” He was peering through the scattered sheets. “Even now I believe I've lost one—oh, no, here it is! You see, it doesn't make much odds, because no one could understand them except me.”
Hugh looked at him speechlessly for a while; then he passed his hand dazedly across his forehead.
“My dear professor,” he murmured, “you astound me. You positively stagger my brain. The only remaining thing which I feel certain you have not omitted to do is to let Sir Raymond and his friends know that you carry your notes about in your pocket like that. You haven't forgotten to tell them that, have you?”
“WELL, as a matter of fact, Drummond,” said the professor apologetically, “I'm afraid they must guess that I do. You see, when I did my demonstration before them I pulled my notes out of my pocket just as I did a moment or two ago. I suppose it is foolish of me, but until now I haven't really thought any more about the matter. It's all come as such a complete shock, that I really don't know where I am. What do you think I'd better do with them?”
“Deposit them at your bank the very instant you leave here,” said Hugh. “I will come around with you, and—well, what's the matter now, professor?”
The professor had risen to his feet, blinking rapidly in his agitation.
“Good heavens! Drummond, I had completely forgotten! All this bother put it quite out of my head. Professor Scheidstrun—a celebrated German geologist—made an appointment with me at my house for this afternoon. He has brought over several specimens of carboniferous quartz which he claims will completely refute a paper I have just written on the subject of crystalline deposits. I must get home at once, or I shall be late.”
“Not quite so fast, professor,” said Hugh, with a smile. “I don't know anything about carboniferous quartz, but there's one thing I do know. Not for one minute longer do you walk about the streets of London with those notes in your pocket. Come into the smoking room and we'll seal them up in an envelope. Then I'll take charge of them, at any rate until to-night, when I'm coming to dine at your house. And after dinner we can discuss matters further.”
HE led the agitated savant into the smoking room, and stood over him while he placed various well-thumbed pieces of paper in an envelope. Then Hugh sealed the envelope and placed it in his pocket, and, with a sigh of relief, the professor rose. But Drummond had not finished yet.
“What about that letter and the police?” he said, holding out a detaining hand.
“My dear boy, I really haven't got the time now cried the old man. “You've no idea of the importance of this interview this afternoon. Why”—he laid his hand impressively on Drummond's arm—“if what Scheidstrun claims is correct, it may cause a complete revolution in our present ideas on the atomic theory! Think of that, my friend, think of that.”
Drummond suppressed a strong desire to laugh.
“I'm thinking, professor,” he murmured gravely. “And even if he does all that you say and more, I still think that you ought to go to the police with that letter.”
“Tomorrow, Drummond—I will.” Like a rabbit between a line of beaters the professor was dodging toward the door, with Drummond after him. “You shall come with me yourself tomorrow, I promise you. And we'll discuss matters again tonight. But the atomic theory—think of it!”
With a gasp of relief he dashed into a waiting taxi, leaving Hugh partially stupefied on the pavement.
“Tell the driver where to go, there's a good fellow cried the professor. “And if you could possibly lend me half a crown, I'd be very grateful. I've left all my money at home, as usual.”
Drummond smiled and produced the necessary coin. Then a sudden thought struck him.
“I suppose you know this German bloke, don't you?”
“Yes, yes!” cried the professor testily. “Of course I know him. I met him ten years ago in Geneva. For goodness sake, my boy, tell the man to drive on!”
DRUMMOND watched the taxi swing around into King Street; then somewhat thoughtfully he went back into the club. Discussing the atomic theory with a German professor whom he knew seemed a comparatively safe form of amusement, calculated, in fact, to keep the professor out of mischief, but Hugh still felt vaguely uneasy. The man who had followed him seemed to have disappeared; St. James' Square was warm and peaceful.
From one point of view, it was hard to believe that any real danger could threaten the old man; Hugh felt he could understand the professor's surprised incredulity. As he had said, such things were out of his line. But as Drummond might have answered they were not out of his, and no man living knew better that strange things took place daily in London—things which would tax the credulity of the most hardened reader of sensational fiction. And the one great dominant point which stuck out, and refused to be argued away, was this: What was the life of one old man compared to the total loss of hundreds of millions of pounds, when viewed from the standpoint of the losers? He glanced at the envelope he still held in his hand, and slipped it into his pocket. Then he went into the telephone box and rang up his chauffeur to bring around his car.
He felt he wanted some fresh air to clear his brain, and all the way down to Ranelagh the same question kept clouding it. Why had that threatening letter been sent? If the intention was indeed to kill Professor Goodman, why, in the name of all that was marvelous, be so incredibly foolish as not only to warn him, but also to put that warning on paper? And if it was merely a bluff, again why put it on paper when the writer must have known that in all probability it would be taken straight to the police? Or was the whole thing just a silly jest, and was he, personally, making an appalling fool of himself by taking it seriously?
But the last alternative was untenable. The offer of a quarter of a million pounds was no jest; not even the most spritely humorist could possibly consider it one. And so he found himself back at the beginning again, and he was still there when he saw Algy and Brenda having tea.
He deposited himself in a vacant chair beside Brenda, and, having assured her of his continued devotion, he consumed the last sugar cake.
“THE male parent has just lunched with me,” he remarked genially. “And as a result I am in the throes of brain fever. He borrowed half a crown, and went off in Admiral Ferguson's hat, as I subsequently discovered. I left the worthy seaman running around in small circles, snorting like a bull. You should discourage your father, Brenda, from keeping pieces of paper written on with copying ink in the lining. Old Ferguson, who put the hat on by mistake, has a chemistry lecture written all over his head.”
“Did you persuade him not to be such an unmitigated idiot, Hugh?” asked the girl eagerly.
“I regret to state that I did not,” answered Hugh. “Tn fact, honesty compels me to admit, Brenda, that I no longer wonder at his allowing you to marry Algy. He may be the outside size in chemistry, but beyond that he wants lessons. Will you believe it that at lunch today he suddenly removed from his pocket the notes of this bally discovery of his! He has been carrying them loose, along with some peppermint bull's-eyes and bits of string!”
“Oh! But he always carries everything like that,” laughed the girl. “What is the old dear doing now?”
“He rushed away to commune with a German professor on carboniferous quartz and the atomic theory. Seemed immensely excited about it, so I suppose it means something. But to come to more important matters, I have invited him, and Mrs. Goodman and you, to come down and spend a few days with us in Sussex. We might even include Algy.”
“What's the notion, old man?” murmured Algy. “Think he's more likely to see reason if we take him birds' nesting?”
“It's no good, Hugh,” said Brenda decisively. “Besides, he wouldn't go.”
She turned to speak to a passing acquaintance and Hugh bent over to Algy.
“He's jolly well got to go,” he said in a low voice. “He was being followed this morning when I met him outside the club, and he's had a letter threatening his life.”
“The devil he has!” muttered Algy.
“If we can make him see reason and suppress his discovery, so much the better,” went on Hugh. “Personally, I think he's a pig-headed old ass, and that it undoubtedly ought to be suppressed, but there's no good telling him that at present. But if he won't, it's up to me, anyway, to look after him, because he's utterly incapable of doing it himself. Not a word to Brenda, mind, about the letter or his being followed. He's all right for this afternoon, and we'll fix things up this evening definitely.”
And, since the afternoon was all that an afternoon should be and no one may ask for more than that and Ranelagh combined—it was just as well for the peace of mind of all concerned that no power of second-sight enabled them to see what was happening in Professor Goodman's laboratory, where he was discussing carboniferous quartz with a celebrated German geologist.
Illustration: “Underneath that bench with him!” snapped Blackton
Chapter III
AT just about the same time that Algy Longworth was dancing on the pavement in Brook Street and demanding admission to Drummond's house, Sir Raymond Blantyre was holding a conference with the other members of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate. The proceedings were taking place behind locked doors and had an onlooker been present he would have noticed an air of tension in the room. For good or ill, the die was cast, and try as they would the seven eminently respectable city magnates assembled round the table could not rid themselves of the thought that they had deliberately hired a man to commit murder for them.
Not that they admitted it, even to themselves; at any rate, not as crudely as that. Mr. Blackton's services had been secured to arrange matters for them with Professor Goodman; to negotiate for the suppression of his discovery. How he did it, was, of course, his concern and had nothing whatever to do with them. Even Sir Raymond himself tried to lull his conscience by reflecting that perhaps the drastic measures alluded to in his interview at the Palace Hotel would not be necessary. And if they were—well, only a weak man wavered and hesitated, once he was definitely committed to a particular line of action.
After all, the responsibility was not his alone; he had merely been the spokesman for the combined opinions of the Syndicate, reached after mature reflection. And if Professor Goodman was so pig-headed and obstinate, he must take the consequences. There were others to be considered—all those who would be ruined.
Just at first, after his return from Switzerland, such specious arguments had served their purpose; but during the last two days they seemed to have lost some of their soothing power. He had found himself feverishly snatching at every fresh edition of the evening paper to see if anything had happened. He had even found himself wondering whether it was too late to stop things, even now; but he didn't know where the man who called himself Blackton could be found. From the moment when he had realized in the restaurant wagon that the old German professor and Mr. Edward Blackton were one and the same person, he had not set eyes on him again. There had been no trace of him in Paris, and no trace on the boat. He had no idea where he was; he did not even know if he was in London.
His check had been presented in Paris, so he had discovered from his bank only that morning. And that was the last trace of the man he had interviewed at Montreux.
“I suppose there's no chance of this man double-crossing us?” A dark sallow man was speaking, and Sir Raymond glanced up quickly. “When all is said and done, he has had a quarter of a million, and we're hardly in a position to claim it back, you know.”
“That was one of the risks we discussed before we approached him,” said Sir Raymond. “Of course there's a chance; that is obvious on the face of it. My impression is, however, that he will not—apart from the fact that another quarter of a million is at stake. He struck me, in a very marked degree, as being a man of his word.”
There was silence for a while, a silence which was broken suddenly by a mild-looking, middle-aged man.
“It's driving me mad, this—absolutely mad!” he cried, mopping the sweat from his forehead. “I fell asleep last night after dinner, and I tel! you I woke up shouting. Dreams—the most awful dreams, with that poor old devil stabbed in the back and looking at me with great staring eyes. He was calling me a murderer, and I couldn't stand it any more. I know I agreed to it originally, but I can't go on with it—I can't!”
There was a moment's tense silence, and then Sir Raymond spoke.
“I don't understand you, Mr. Lewisham,” he said coldly. “It is quite impossible for you to back out of it now, without betraying us all. And, anyway, I should be greatly obliged if you would lower your voice.”
WITH a great effort, Mr. Lewisham controlled himself.
“Can't we think of some other method, gentlemen?” he said. “This seems so horribly cold-blooded.”
“What other possible method is there?” snarled Leibhaus. “We've tried everything.”
The telephone in front of Sir Raymond rang suddenly, and every one started. It showed the condition of their nerves, and for an appreciable time the president tried to steady his hand before he picked up the receiver. And when after a few seconds he laid it down again, he moistened his lips with his tongue before he trusted himself to speak.
“Mr. Blackton will be with us in quarter of an hour, gentlemen,” he remarked, and his voice was shaking a little. “I have no idea what he wants, and I am somewhat surprised at his coming here, since I laid especial stress on the fact that we were not to be implicated in any way with his—er—visit to England.”
He gave a brief order through a speaking tube; then he rose and walked wearily up and down the room. The prospect of meeting Blackton again was not at all to his taste, though his dislike was not in any way due to a belated access of better feeling and remorse. It was due to the fact that Blackton as a man thoroughly frightened him, and as he paced up and down, glancing at his watch every half minute or so, he felt exactly as he had felt in years long gone by when he had been told that the headmaster was awaiting him in his study.
It was useless to try to bolster up his courage by reflecting that Blackton was, after all, merely the paid servant of his Syndicate. He knew perfectly well that Blackton was nothing of the sort, any more than a doctor can be regarded as the paid servant of his patient. The situation, in brief, was that Mr. Blackton for a suitable fee had agreed to assist them professionally, and any other interpretation of the position would be exceedingly unwise.
HE started nervously as he heard the sound of voices on the stairs, but it was with a very creditable imitation of being at ease that he went forward as the door opened and Mr. Blackton was shown in. He had discarded the disguise he had worn in the train, and appeared as he had been at their first meeting in Switzerland. He nodded briefly to Sir Raymond; then, coming a few steps into the room, he favored each man present with a penetrating stare. Then he laid his gloves on the table and sat down.
“On receiving your message I was not quite sure in which guise we were to expect you,” said Sir Raymond, breaking the silence.
“The absurd passport regulations,” said Mr. Blackton suavely, “necessitate one's altering one's appearance at times. However, to get to business. You are doubtless wondering at my action in coming around to see you. | may say that I had no intention of so doing until this morning. I have been in London for two days, and my plans were complete—when a sudden and most unexpected hitch occurred.” He paused and fixed his eyes on Sir Raymond. “How many people are there who know of Professor Goodman's discovery?”
“His family and our Syndicate,” answered the president.
“No one else in the diamond world except the gentlemen in this room know anything about it?”
“No one!” cried Sir Raymond. “We have most sedulously kept it dark. I feel sure I may speak for my friends.”
He glanced around the room and there was a murmur of assent.
“Then I am forced to the conclusion,” continued Mr. Blackton, “that the writer of an anonymous letter received by the professor this morning is among us at the moment.”
His eyes traveled slowly around the faces of his audience to fasten on Mr. Lewisham, whose telltale start had given him away.
“I am informed,” went on Mr. Blackton, “and my informant, who was cleaning the windows among other things at the professor's house, is a very reliable man—I am informed, I say, that this morning the professor received a letter stating that unless he accepted the money you had offered him, he would be killed. Now, who can have been so incredibly foolish as to have sent that letter?”
MR. LEWISHAM fidgeted in his chair, until at length every one in the room noting the direction of Blackton's glance was staring at him.
“Was it you, Lewisham?” snapped Leibhaus.
Mr. Lewisham swallowed once or twice; then he stood up, clutching the edge of the table.
“Yes—it was,” he said defiantly. “It seemed to me that we ought to neglect no possible chance of getting him to agree to our terms. I typed it, and posted it myself last night.”
Smothered curses came from all sides; only Mr. Blackton seemed unmoved.
“You have realized, of course, what will happen should Professor Goodman take that letter to the police,” he remarked quietly. “The fact that it was your Syndicate that offered him the money will make it a little unpleasant for you all.”
But behind the impassive mask of his face, Mr. Blackton's brain was busy. The thing—the only thing with which even the most perfectly laid schemes were unable to cope had happened here. And that thing was having a chicken-hearted confederate or, worse still, one who was suddenly smitten with conscience. Against such a person nothing could be done. He introduced into any situation an incalculable factor with which even a master craftsman was unable to deal.
Not that he had the remotest intention of giving up the scheme—that was not Mr. Blackton's way at all. Since the interview at Montreux a further priceless idea had come to him, which would render this coup even more wonderful than he had at first thought. Not only would he amass a large store of diamonds himself, but, after that had been done, and any further necessity for the continued existence of Professor Goodman had ceased, he would still have the secret of the process in his possession. And this secret he proposed to sell for a price considerably in excess of the two hundred and fifty thousand pounds offered to its original discoverer. After which he would decide what to do with the copy he had kept.
In fact, Mr. Blackton fully realized that, in the hands of a master expert like himself, the affair presented promises of such boundless wealth that at times it almost staggered even him. And now, at the last moment, this new factor—which might possibly jeopardize his whole carefully thought out scheme—had been introduced into the situation, and the problem was to turn it to the best advantage.
“I don't care,' Mr. Lewisham was saying obstinately to the little group of men who were standing around him. “I don't care if that letter of mine does stop it all. I'd sooner be ruined than go through the rest of my life feeling that I was a murderer.”
“MR. LEWISHAM seems a little excited,” said Blackton suavely. “Who, may I ask, has said anything about murder?”
They fell silent, and stared at him.
“When Sir Raymond Blantyre came to me in Montreux his request to me was to prevent the publication of this secret process of Professor Goodman's. I stated that I would. I stated that the professor would not give his lecture before the Royal Society. I believe that the word murder occurred in the conversation”—he gave a somewhat pained smile—“but do you really imagine, gentlemen, that my methods are as crude as that?”
He carefully lit a cigar, while his audience waited breathlessly for him to continue.
“Since I find, however, that this gentleman has been so Incredibly foolish and has lost his head so pitiably, I regret to state that in all probability I shall have to wash my hands of the entire business.”
Illustration: He advanced toward the parlor maid, gesticulating wildly. “Where is your master?” he cried. “I cannot here the whole day wait!”
Cries of anger and dismay greeted this announcement, though the anger was entirely directed against the author of the ill-advised letter.
“But, really——” stammered Mr. Lewisham, plucking nervously at his collar.
“You have behaved like a foolish, hysterical schoolgirl, sir!” snapped Blackton. “You have jeopardized the success of my entire plan, and apart altogether from the sending of this letter you have shown yourself to be totally unfitted to be mixed up in an affair of this description. Even if the police did treat it as a stupid hoax: even, in fact, if we were able to prevent the letter being shown to the police at all, you are still totally unfit to be trusted. You would probably proclaim your sins through a megaphone in Trafalgar Square, taking special care to incriminate all these other gentlemen. And so I think, since you have decided to act on your own initiative in this way, you had better undertake the affair yourself.”
He rose as if to leave, only to be surrounded at once by the other members of the Syndicate who implored him to reconsider his decision. »And at length Mr. Blackton allowed himself to be persuaded to resume his chair. His indifference was sublime: to all outward intents and purposes, he was utterly bored with the whole proceedings.
“Really, Mr. Blackton—I implore of you, we all implore of you not to desert us like this!” Sir Raymond's eyeglass was dreadfully agitated. “Can nothing be done to counteract Mr. Lewisham's inconceivable stupidity?”
MR. BLACKTON affected to consider the point. Not for him to say that he had already decided exactly what was going to be done; not for him to say that the sole object of his recent remarks had been to produce the exact atmosphere that now existed—an atmosphere of combined antagonism to Lewisham, and an uncomfortable feeling on the part of that unfortunate man that he really had made a fool of himself. And certainly not for him to say what he had decided was a meet and fit punishment for Mr. Lewisham.
He shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
“Since Mr. Lewisham has caused all this trouble,” he said carelessly, “it is up to Mr. Lewisham to endeavor to rectify it.”
A chorus of approval greeted the remark, and Lewisham leaned forward a little in his chair.
“I suggest, therefore, that this afternoon he should pay a visit to Professor Goodman, and find out what has happened to his letter. Should it have been handed over to the police he must endeavor to convince the professor that it was a stupid practical joke on his part, and persuade him to ring up Scotland Yard and explain things. There will be no need for Mr. Lewisham's name to be mentioned, if he handles the professor tactfully. On the other hand, if the note has not been handed over to the police, Mr. Lewisham must endeavor to regain possession of it. And, according to Mr. Lewisham's report, I will decide whether I can continue in this matter or not.”
“That is tantamount to an avowal that the letter was sent by a member of our Syndicate,” said Sir Raymond doubtfully. “You don't think that perhaps it might be advisable to say that he had just discovered that some clerk had played a foolish practical joke.”
“The point seems really immaterial,” returned Mr. Blackton indifferently. “But if Mr. Lewisham prefers to say that, by all means let him do so.”
“You will go, of course, Lewisham,” said Sir Raymond, and the other man nodded.
“I will go and see what I can do,” he answered. “And I can take it from you, Mr. Blackton, that there will be no question of—of—killing Professor Goodman?”
FOR a brief moment there came into Mr. Blackton's gray-blue eyes a faint gleam, as if some delicate inward jest was tickling his sense of humor.
“You may take it from me,” he answered gravely, “that nothing so unpleasant is likely to happen to Professor Goodman.”
Mr. Lewisham gave a sigh of relief.
“What time shall I go?” he asked.
Mr. Blackton paused in the act of drawing on his gloves.
“The professor, I am told,” he remarked, “has an appointment at three o'clock this afternoon. I would suggest, therefore, that you should call about two-thirty.”
“And where shall I communicate with you?”
“You can leave that entirely to me, Mr. Lewisham,” murmured the other, with an almost benevolent smile. “I will take all the necessary steps to get in touch with you. Well, gentlemen”—he turned to the others—“that is all, I think, for the present. I will report further in due course. By the way, Mr. Lewisham, I wouldn't give your name to the servant, if I were you.”
With a slight bow he opened the door and passed down the stairs. He paused as he reached the crowded pavement and spoke two words to a man who was staring into a shop window; then he deliberated whether he should call a taxi, and finally decided to walk. And as he strolled along—slowly, so as not to destroy the aroma of his cigar, his reflections were eminently satisfactory. If the police had not received the note, he was in clover: if they had, a little care would be necessary. But in either case the one detail which had previously been, if not lacking, at any rate not entirely satisfactory, was now supplied.
It gratified his intellect: it pleased his artistic sense. Just as the sudden and unexpected acquisition of a tube of some rare pigment completes a painter's joy, so this one detail completed Mr. Blackton's. That it consisted of a singularly cold-blooded murder is beside the point: all artists are a little peculiar. And if fool men write fool letters they must expect to suffer small annoyances of that sort. After all, reflected Mr. Blackton with commendable thoughtfulness, the world would endure Mr. Lewisham's departure with almost callous fortitude.
HE realized suddenly that he had reached his destination and, throwing away his cigar, he produced his latchkey and entered the house. It was situated in one of those quiet squares which lie, like placid backwaters, off the seething rivers of London. And its chief point of interest lay in the fact that it formed the invariable pied-à-terre of Mr. Blackton when he was visiting England in whatever character he might at the moment be assuming. It appeared in the telephone book as belonging to William Anderson, a gentleman who spent much of his time abroad. And it was to William Anderson that the Inland Revenue were wont yearly to address their friendly reminders as to the duties of British citizens.
Ever mindful of those duties, Mr. Anderson had declared his income at nineteen hundred and fifty pounds per annum, and had opened a special account at a branch bank to cope with the situation. He drew the line at admitting his liability to super-tax: but after mature reflection he decided that his method of life rendered it advisable to state that his income was unearned.
He placed his gloves and stick on the table in the hall, and slowly ascended the stairs. A few little details still required polishing up in connection with his afternoon's work, and he was deep in thought as he entered a room on the first landing.
Seated at a desk was a man who rose as he entered—a man whose face was well-nigh as inscrutable as his chief's. He was Mr. Blackton's confidential secretary, Freyder—a man with a salary of ten thousand a year plus commission. He was as completely unscrupulous as his employer, but he lacked the wonderful organizing brain of the other. Given a certain specific job to do, he could carry it out to perfection; and for making arrangements in detail he was unrivaled. Which made him an ideal staff officer—a fact that the other had very soon recognized. And because Edward Blackton, like all big men, was not such a fool as to underpay an almost invaluable subordinate, he took care that Freyder's salary should be such that he would have no temptation to go. For it he demanded implicit obedience, no mistakes, and at times twenty-four hours' work out of twenty-four.
Illustration: Professor Scheidstrun was ready to discuss the atomic theory, with special reference to carboniferous quartz
“What did you find out, Chief?” Freyder asked curiously.
“It was sent by one of them, as I suspected,” answered Blackton, seating himself at his desk. “A stupid little man called Lewisham, who appears to have lost his head completely. However, on my assuring him that I had no intention of killing the excellent Goodman, he agreed to go around this afternoon to talk to the professor about the matter.”
“Go around this afternoon!” echoed Freyder, surprised. “What do you want him there for, this afternoon?
Blackton smiled gently.
“He happens to be about the same size as our worthy professor,” he murmured, “so it struck me he would come in very handy. By the way, make a note, will you, to obtain a specimen of his writing and signature. Find out if he's married, and, if so, draft a letter to his wife from him saying that he's gone to Valparaiso for the good of his health. Have it sent out to Number 13, and posted there.”
He stared thoughtfully out of the window, and Freyder waited for any further instructions.
“Anything more to be settled about the house?”
“Everything fixed, Chief. It's ready to move straight into this afternoon.”
The telephone bell rang on Freyder's table.
“Good,” he remarked a few moments later, replacing the receiver. “Number 10 reports that he followed Goodman to St. James' Square, that he is now having lunch at the Junior Sports Club, and that he has not communicated verbally with the police.”
“And since the letter was in his pocket when he left his house, presumably he has not communicated in writing. He must be a frivolous old man, Freyder, to lunch at such a club. Anyway, I trust he will have a substantial meal, as I'm afraid his constitution may be tried a little during the next few hours.” He glanced at his watch. “The box and the men are ready?”
“Loaded up on the car at the garage.”
“Excellent. Then I think a pint of champagne, and a little caviare—and after that I must get to work. And we will drink a silent toast to the worthy Mr. Lewisham for his kindly forethought in being much the same size as the professor, and wish him bon voyage to—what did I say?—oh yes, Valparaiso!”
“I don't quite get Mr. Lewisham's part in this show, Chief,” remarked Freyder.
Blackton positively chuckled.
“No more does he, my good Freyder—no more does he. But I can positively assure you of one thing: he is not going to Valparaiso.”
AND he was still chuckling ten minutes later when he rose and passed into an inner room at the back. It was a strange place—this inner sanctum of Mr. Edward Blackton. The window was extra large, and was made of frosted glass which effectually prevented any inquisitive neighbor from seeing in. Around the walls full-length mirrors set at different angles enabled him to see himself from every position—an indispensable adjunct to making-up on the scale he found necessary. A huge cupboard filled one wall of the room, a cupboard crammed with clothes and boots of all sorts and descriptions—while om a shelf at the top, each in its separate pigeonhole, were half a dozen wigs.
But the real interest of the room lay in the small dressing table which he proceeded to unlock. A score of little bottles containing strange liquids: brushes: instruments: lumps of a peculiar putty-like substance were all most carefully arranged on shelves. And it was the contents of this table far more than any change of clothes that enabled him tu make such extraordinary alterations in his personal appearance. Literally, when seated at that table, he could build himself a new face. He could change the color of his eyes, he could alter the shape of his nose. A judicious stain could turn his normally perfect teeth into unpleasant, badly kept ones: while on the subject of dyes for hair and eyebrows he could have written a textbook.
It was three quarters of an hour before the door opened again and the snuffling, querulous old German of the restaurant wagon emerged. Professor Scheidstrun was ready to discuss the atomic theory with Professor Goodman, with special reference to carboniferous quartz. Outside the door a motor car was standing with a large box on board containing his specimens: while by its side were two men who were to lift the box off the car, and in due course lift it on again. And the only other thing of interest which might be mentioned in passing is that if Frau Scheidstrun had happened to see him getting into the car, wheezing peevishly in German, she would undoubtedly have wondered what on earth her husband was doing in London—so perfect was the make-up. But since that excellent woman was chasing the elusive mark in Dresden at the moment, there was but little fear of such an unfortunate contretemps.
IT was at twenty minutes past two that he arrived at Professor Goodman's house. As he stepped out of the car a man walked quietly toward him, a man who stopped to watch the big box being carefully lowered to the ground. He stopped just long enough to say, “No one in the house except the servants,' and then he strolled on.
With great care the two men carried the box up the steps, and, considering that the contents were lumps of carboniferous quartz, the intense respect with which they handled it might have struck an onlooker as strange. But the parlor maid, grown used through long experience to the sudden appearance of strange individuals at odd hours, merely led the way to the laboratory, and, having remarked that the professor might be back at three, or possibly not till six, according to whether he had remembered the appointment or not, she returned to her interrupted dinner.
“Get the box undone,” said Blackton curtly. “But don't take anything out.”
The two men set to work, while he walked quickly around every corner of the room. Of necessity, something had had to be left to chance and though he was perfectly capable of dealing with the unexpected when it arrived he preferred to have things as far as possible cut and dried beforehand. And at the moment what he wanted to find was a cupboard large enough to accommodate a man. Not that it was absolutely necessary, but it would assist matters, especially in the event of the professor bringing a friend with him. That was a possibility always present in his mind, and one which he had been unable to guard against without running the risk of rousing the professor's suspicions.
He found what he wanted in a corner—a big recess under the working bench, screened by a curtain and used for old retorts and test tubes. It was ideal for his purpose, and with a nod of satisfaction he went over to the door. All was well—the key was on the inside, and with one final glance around the room the exponent of the new atomic theory sat down to wait.
BEFORE him lay the riskiest thing he had ever done in all his risky career, but had any one felt his pulse he would have found it normal. And it wasn't of the next hour that Mr. Blackton was thinking so much, but of the future when his coup had succeeded. That it would succeed was certain: no thought of failure was ever allowed to enter his mind.
Five minutes passed: ten—when the ringing of the front door bell brought him back from dreams of the future. This must be Mr. Lewisham and with his arrival came the time for action. Blackton listened intently, wondering whether he would be shown into the laboratory or into some other room. [f the latter, it would necessitate getting him in there on some pretext, but steps coming along the passage settled that point. Once more the door was flung open by the parlor maid: once more she returned to better things in the servants' hall.
Lewisham paused, and glanced a little doubtfully at the old German in his dirty black clothes. One of the professor's chemical friends, evidently: possibly it would be better to wait somewhere else. He half turned to the door as if to go out again, when suddenly he felt two hands like bars of steel around his throat. For a moment or two he struggled impotently: then he grew quiet. And after a while the limp body slipped to the floor and lay still.
“Underneath that bench with him!” snapped Blackton. “Quick.”
He had opened the door an inch or two and was peering out. The passage was empty, and faint sounds were coming up the stairs from the servants' quarters.
“Stay where you are,” he said to the two men. “I shall be back in a minute.”
He walked along the passage toward the front door, which he opened. Then he deliberately rang the bell, and stood for a few seconds, peering out. And it was not until he heard the footsteps of the parlor maid that he shut the door again with a bang, and advanced toward her gesticulating wildly.
“Where is your master?” he cried. “I must to my business get: I cannot here the whole day wait. That other gentleman—he does not wait. He go. I, too—I follow him.” He glanced at the girl. “Speak, woman.” He waved his arms at her, and she retreated in alarm. I will take my specimens, and I will go—like him.”
STILL muttering horribly under his breath, he walked up and down the hall, while the parlor maid endeavored to soothe him.
“I expect the professor will be back soon, sir,” she murmured.
“Soon!” he raved. “I who have come from Germany him to see, and then I wait. He write to me: I write to him—and then I come with my specimens. And you say soon. Nein—I go. I go like that other.”
It was at that moment that the front door opened and Professor Goodman entered.
“A thousand apologies, my dear professor!” he cried, hurrying forward. “I fear I am late—very late. I hope I have not kept you waiting.”
He led the other toward the laboratory, and the parlor maid made hurried tracks for safety.
“No wonder that there other one wouldn't wait,” she remarked to the cook. “He's a holy terror—that German. Dirty old beast, with egg all over his coat, waving his arms at me. Old Goodman is a pretty fair freak, but he does wash. I 'opes he enjoys himself,” she added.
Which was a kindly thought on the part of the parlor maid. And the fact that it was expressed at the exact moment that Professor Goodman went fully under the influence of an anesthetic may be regarded as a strange coincidence. For there was no time wasted in the laboratory that afternoon. Much had to be done and hardly had the door closed behind the master of the house when he found himself seized and pinioned. One feeble cry was all he gave: then a pad soaked in ether was pressed over his nose and mouth, and the subsequent proceedings ceased to interest him.
Very interesting proceedings they were, too—that went on behind the locked door. Bursts of German loquacity, with intervals of a voice astonishingly like Professor Goodman's, would have convinced any inquisitive person listening outside the door that the two savants were in full blast. Not that any one was likely to listen, but Blackton was not a man who took chances. And it takes time to change completely two men's clothes, when one is dead and the other is unconscious.
ONE hour it was, to be exact, before the body of Mr. Lewisham, dressed in Professor Goodman's clothes, even down to his boots, was propped up in a chair against the bench, with various bottles and retorts in front of him. One hour and a quarter it was before a number of small packets had been taken from the big wooden case and stacked carefully on the bench so that they touched the dead man's chest.
One hour and a half it was to the minute before the still unconscious Professor Goodman was placed as comfortably as possible—Mr. Blackton had no wish to run any chances with his health—in the big wooden case, and nailed up. And during the whole of that hour and a half the discussion on carboniferous quartz had continued with unabated zest.
At last, however, everything was finished, and Blackton took from his pocket a little instrument which he handled very gingerly. First of all he wound it up rather as a Bee clock is wound, and when it was ticking gently he placed it in the centre of the heap of small packets. Then he unlocked the door.
“Put the box on the car,” he ordered. “Then pick up Freyder, and go straight to the house.”
Once again the two men staggered down the passage with their load while Blackton glanced at his watch. Just a quarter of an hour to put through—before things happened. He closed the door again, and once more his guttural voice was raised in wordy argument for the benefit of any possible audience. And in the intervals when he ceased only the faint ticking broke the silence. Everything had gone without a hitch, but there were still one or two small things to be done. And the first of these showed the amazing attention to detail which characterized all his actions. He took the key from the door and put it on the desk: a master key of his own would enable him to lock the door from outside, whereas the presence of the key in the room would make it appear that it had been kept locked from within. And it was precisely that appearance which he wished given.
Once more he looked at his watch: ten minutes to go. Nervous work, that waiting: even he began to feel the strain. But he daren't go too soon: he daren't leave too long a space of time between the moment he left the house and the moment when the ticking would cease. And he didn't want to go too late, because the last thing he desired was to be on, or even too near, the premises when the ticking ceased. Moreover, there was always the possibility of a flaw in the mechanism. Morelli was a wonderful craftsman, and he had staked his reputation on it taking exactly a quarter of an hour. But, even so, it was nervous work—waiting.
PRECISELY five minutes later—and they were the longest five minutes Mr. Blackton had ever spent in his life—he pressed the bell. His guttural voice was raised in expostulation and argument as the parlor maid knocked at the door. Still talking, he opened it himself, and over his shoulder the girl got a fleeting glimpse of Professor Goodman absorbed in one of his experiments to the exclusion of all else.
“My hat, girl!” cried the German, waving his arms at her. She went to get it, and from behind her back came the noise of a key turning. “Ach, my friend—no one will disturb you,” rumbled the German. “No need to your door lock.” Mechanically he took the hat the parlor maid was holding out, while he still continued muttering to himself. “What is the good? One mistake and you will experiment no more. You and your house will go sky-high.”
Still waving his arms, he shambled off down the street, and the girl stood watching him. And it was just after he had turned the corner and she was expressing her opinion of his appearance to the cook who was taking a breather in the area below, that she was hurled forward flat on her face. A terrific explosion shook the house; windows broke; plaster and pictures came crashing down.
And if it was bad in the front, it was immeasurably worse at the back. A huge hole had been blown in the outside wall of what had once been the professor's laboratory: the three inside walls had collapsed, and the ceiling had descended, bringing with it a bed, two wardrobes, and a washing stand complete.
In fact, there was every justification for the remark of the parlor maid as she picked herself up.
“Lumme! What's the old fool done now? I suppose he'll ring the bell in a minute and ask me to sweep up the mess.”
{{c|[[[../Part 3|To be continued in the November McClure's}]]}]