# The Third Round (McClure's Magazine 1923-24)/Part 6

from McClure's Magazine 1924 Feb, pp. 105—112, 114, 116.
Bulldog Drummond Receives a Painful Lesson in Geography
STILL smiling benevolently, Mr. Robinson strolled away and shortly afterward a series of sharp orders followed by a faint throbbing announced that the voyage of the S. Y. Gadfly had commenced. The Cunarder receded into the distance, and still Drummond lay on the bunk wrestling with the problem of what to do. He judged the time as being about six, so they would pass Ted Jerningham's yacht in daylight.
Apparently no guard was considered necessary for him now the yacht was under way. And with a feeling of impotent rage, Drummond realized how easy it would be to cut the ropes and go quietly overboard. A swim of a mile or so meant nothing to him. If only it hadn't been for the professor——
No; the last hope—the only hope—lay in Ted Jerningham. Once that failed, it seemed to Drummond that nothing could save them. And it was perfectly clear that by no possibility could he hope to communicate with Ted from his present position. He must be free to use his limbs. And during the next ten minutes he discovered that the blade of a safety razor is an unpleasant implement with which to cut half-inch rope, especially when one's wrists are bound.
But at last it was done, and he was free. No one had interrupted him. But he was still no nearer to the solution of the problem. At any moment some one might come in and find him, and there would be no mistake about binding him the second time. Moreover, it would prove fairly conclusively that he Was not as mad as he pretended.
Illustration: Drummond was in the stern, with the professor in his arms. “At last I've got you, Peterson!” they heard him shout
Quickly he arranged the ropes with the cut ends underneath, so that to a cursory glance they appeared intact, and again he lay still. Then, suddenly, came the idea—Ted's motor boat. How it was going to help he didn't see; he had no coherent plan. But with a sort of subconscious certainty he felt that Ted's motor boat held the key of the problem. But how? How to get Ted, how to tell him was the problem. Methodically he thought things out; now that he had something definite in his mind to go on his brain was cool and collected. And it seemed to him that the only way would be to go overboard as they passed Ted's yacht, and then follow the Gadfly at once while she was still close to land.
He glanced through the open door to try to determine his position, and estimated that another half hour at the rate they were going would just about bring them opposite Ted's yacht. Still no one came near him, though periodically he could see one of the sailors moving about the deck. As far as he could tell he had been slung just aft of the funnel.
Twenty minutes later he peered out again; they were getting very close. The deck was deserted, and suddenly he felt he could bear the strain no longer. He rose from the bunk and cautiously peered out of the door. And the sight he saw almost staggered him with his good fortune, for not a hundred yards away to port lay Jerningham's yacht, with the motor boat alongside the gangway.
Drummond glanced around. He could see no one. The structure in which he had been hoisted on board, effectively screened him from the bridge; the sailors were apparently having their evening meal. And taking a quick breath, he prepared to make a sprint for the side, when he saw something else which completely altered his plans. Leaning over the side of the yacht he was watching were a man and a woman. And the man was Ted Jerningham himself.
Drummond saw him focus a pair of field glasses, and turn them on the Gadfly. And then clear and distinct across the water he heard the amazed shout of “Hugh!” Jerningham had seen him. The supreme chance had come, if only he wasn't interrupted. And it is safe to say that during the next minute a very astonished girl stood beside a man whom she almost failed to recognize as the Ted Jerningham of normal life.
“A pencil,” he snapped. “Write as I spell out. Get a move on. Look out—he's beginning. D-A-N-G-E-R F-O-L-L-O-W I-N M-O-T-O-R B-O-A-T P-E-T-E-R-S-O-N U-R-G-E-N-T. That's all.”
She looked up; the huge man on board the passing yacht who had been standing outlined against the sky waving his arms had disappeared.
“What on earth was he doing?” she cried.
“Semaphoring,” answering Jerningham briefly.
“But I don't understand,” she said.
“Nor do I,” returned her companion. “But that was Hugh Drummond. And what Hugh says—goes, if we follow for the whole night. Coming?”
“Rather!” laughed the girl, following him down the gangway into the waiting motor boat.
A terrific explosion rent the air followed by a cloud of blue exhaust smoke, and Jerningham took the tiller.
And so it came about that Drummond, watching feverishly from his bunk in the Gadfly, saw the motor boat shoot out across the water, and he breathed a prayer that Ted wouldn't come too close to the yacht. But soon he perceived that Ted had evidently realized that to follow steadily would arouse suspicion, and was laying his plans accordingly. He overhauled them like an express train passed forty yards to starboard, circled across their bows, and came dashing back. Then away at a tangent for half a mile or so, only to shoot back and stop, apparently with engine trouble.
The sea was like a millpond, and as the Gadfly passed the now silent motor boat, the sounds of a phonograph were plainly audible from it. Obviously some one with a racing motor boat joy-riding with a girl, reflected the skipper as he paced the bridge, and dismissed the matter from his mind.
A sudden hoarse scream of fear some five minutes later made him jump to the side of the bridge. Two sailors were rushing along the deck as if pursued by the devil, and he roared an order at them. But they took no notice of him, and dashed below. For a moment the worthy skipper stood there dumfounded; then, cursing fluently, he dashed after them only to stop with a strange pricking feeling in his scalp as a huge and ghastly figure confronted him. A great mass of foam was around its mouth, and it was brandishing a marline spike, and bellowing. A terrifying spectacle in the half light of dusk—a spectacle to put the fear of God into any man. And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone.
TERROR is an infectious thing, and the infection spread in the good ship Gadfly. Within two minutes men were running in all directions, shouting that a homicidal maniac was loose on board. The captain was powerless; things had gone beyond him. And then, quite suddenly, the pandemonium ceased. How he had got there no one could say—but they all saw him outlined against the darkening sky.
He was in the stern, and in his arms he held the body of a man.
“At last,” they heard him shout, “at last I've got you, Peterson, and we'll die together—you scoundrel!”
“Stop them!” howled Mr. Robinson, who had just dashed on deck, holding a limp right arm, but no man moved. Only a loud splash broke the silence, and the stern was empty.
“Man overboard. Lower a boat. Stop the yacht, you cursed fool!” snarled Mr. Robinson to the captain, and then he rushed to the stern. It was a couple of minutes before a boat was lowered, and while he waited he heard the roar of an engine coming nearer. Then the engine ceased, and he saw the outline of a motor boat,
“That boat may have picked 'em up, sir,” said the captain, as Mr. Robinson ran down the gangway into the waiting cutter. “Give way, all,” came the second officer's curt order. “With a will, boys.”
The motor boat, still motionless, loomed rapidly up, and Mr. Robinson stood up.
“Ahoy there! Did you pick up two men who fell overboard?”
“Two!” Ted Jerningham, a conspicuous figure in white flannels, stood up also. “I heard the most infernal shindy on board your yacht and then a splash. Did two men really fall overboard?”
The yacht's boat was close to, the sailors resting on their oars.
“Yes. Have you see 'em?” asked the second officer,
“Not a sign. And the water's like a duck pond, too.”
The girl with him shuddered.
“How dreadful! You don't mean the poor fellows are drowned?”
“Afraid it looks like it, miss,” said the officer, staring around the water. “Even in this light we'd see them with the sea as calm as it is.”
THE oars dipped into the water, and they passed astern of the motor boat. And had Mr. Robinson been watching Ted Jerningham instead of the water he might have seen a sudden strained look appear on that young gentleman's face, and his hand move instinctively toward the starting switch. He might even have wondered why the girl, who had seemed so calm and unperturbed in the face of this dreadful tragedy, should suddenly give vent to a loud and hysterical outburst.
“It's dreadful!” she sobbed. “Too dreadful. To think of those two poor men being drowned like that.”
But Mr. Robinson was not concerned with the dreadfulness of the situation; all that mattered to him was whether it was true or not. From the moment when Drummond, foaming at the mouth, had dashed into the dining saloon Mr. Robinson's brain had been working furiously.
Now his eyes searched the water again, thoughtfully; there was no trace of either man. Of a suspicious nature, he had examined both sides of the motor boat; moreover, he had seen inside the motor boat. And now as the girl's sobs died away he turned to the officer beside him.
“There can be no doubt about it, I fear,” he remarked, with a suitable inflection of sorrow in his voice.
“None, sir—I'm afraid. Even if we couldn't see them, we could hear them.”
“Sink in a brace of shakes with a holy terror like that 'anging round yer neck,” said one of the sailors.
“Yes, I'm afraid there can be no possibility of saving them now,” Ted Jerningham agreed. “Doubtless, however, their bodies will be washed ashore in time.”
"Er—doubtless,” murmured Mr. Robinson. That aspect of the case had already struck him, and had not pleased him in the slightest degree. Had he been able to conform with his original plan, neither body would ever have been seen again. However, he had not been able to conform to that plan, so there was no more to be said about it. The main point was that both of them were drowned
Illustration: “Quick, Hugh!” cried. Jerningham. “Get the old boy on board.” With a heave, the almost unconscious form of Professor Goodman was hoisted into the boat. To be followed immediately by Drummond himself
“Doubtless,” he repeated “Poor fellows; poor fellows. Two neurasthenic patients of mine, sir—— How sad! How terribly sad! However, I fear there is no good wasting any more time. I can only thank you for you for your prompt assistance.”
Jerningham bowed.
“Don't mention it, sir. Don't mention it,” he murmured. “But I think since I can do no more that I will now get back. The tragedy, as you will has somewhat upset this lady.”
HE put his finger on the starting switch, and the quiet of the night was broken by the roar of the engines. And as the sailors dipped in their oars to row back to the yacht, the motor boat circled slowly around
“Good night, sir.” Mr. Robinson waved a courteous hand. “And again a thousand thanks.”
“And again don't mention it,” returned Jerningham, sitting down by the tiller. “You can take your wrap off his hand now, Pat,” he whispered. “They can't see.”
A vast hand grasping the gunwale was revealed as she did so, and an agonized whisper came from the water.
“Hurry, old man, for the love of Pete! Unless we can hold the old man upside down soon to drain the water out of him, he'll drown.”
“Right-ho, Hugh. Can you hold on for a couple of hundred yards. I'll go slow. But they may have a searchlight on the yacht, and we're still very close to her.”
“All right, Ted. I leave it to you.”
“I'll keep broadside on, old man; though I don't think he had any suspicions.”
He nosed the motor boat through the water, and a few moments later the necessity of his precaution was justified. A blinding light flickered across the water, found them and held steady. It was the Gadfly's searchlight. Jerningham rose and waved his hand, and at last the light went out.
“Quick, Hugh!” cried Jerningham. "Get the old boy on board.”
With a heave, the almost unconscious form of Professor Goodman was hoisted into the boat, to be followed immediately by Drummond himself.
“Lie down, old man; lie down in case they use that searchlight again.”
The engine roared and spluttered, and two black mountains of water swirled past the bows.
“Forty-five on her head, Hugh!” shouted Ted. “Incidentally, what's this particular brand of round game?”
“The largest drink in the shortest time, old son,” laughed the other. “And for the professor—bed, pretty darn quick.” He turned to the girl. "My dear soul,” he said, “you were magnificent. If you hadn't had hysteria when I began to sneeze it would have been all up.”
“But what could he have done?” cried the girl. “He looked like such a nice old man.”
Drummond laughed grimly.
“Did you recognize him, Ted?” Once again he turned to the girl. “If he'd known that we were in the water, that nice old man would have had no more compunction in shooting you and Ted and dropping your bodies overboard than I shall have in drinking that drink. It's been the biggest coup of his life, Ted—but it's failed. Though, by Jove, old man—it's been touch and go, believe you me.”
The roar of the engine made conversation difficult, and, after covering the dripping form of the professor with a dry rug, they fell silent. Astern the lights of the Gadfly were growing fainter and fainter in the distance; ahead lay Cowes and safety.
The engine ceased abruptly, and Drummond realized they had reached the yacht. Leaning over the side were some of the guests, and as he and Ted lifted the body of the professor up the gangway a chorus of excited questioning broke out, a chorus which was interrupted by the amazed ejaculation of an elderly man.
“God bless my soul!” he cried incredulously, as the light fell on the professor's face. “It's old Goodman's double.”
“Not exactly,” answered Drummond. “It's Professor Goodman himself.”
“But damme, sir!” spluttered the other. “I was at his funeral a week ago. He was blown up in his house in Hampstead doing some fool experiment.”
“So we all thought,” remarked Drummond quietly. “And as it happened, we thought wrong. Get him below, Ted—and get him to bed, or we really shall be attending his funeral. He's swallowed most of the English Channel as it is. And he's been through—— By Jove, what's that?”
It was very faint, like the boom of a distant heavy gun, but Drummond happened to be looking toward the Needles, and he had seen a sudden deep orange flash in the water against the sky—the flash such as in old days an airplane bomb had made on bursting. The others swung around and stared seaward, but there was nothing more to be seen.
“It sounded like a shell,” said one of the men. “What did you think it was?”
He turned to Drummond, but he had disappeared, only to dash on deck a moment or two later with Ted behind him.
“Every ounce you can get out of her, Ted. Rip her to pieces, if necessary. That infernal scoundrel has blown up the yacht.”
The motor boat spun around, and like a living beast gathered speed. The bow waves rose higher and higher, till they stood four feet above the gunwales, to fall away stern into a mass of seething white.
“I'll never forgive myself!” shouted Drummond in Ted's ear. “I knew he was going to blow her up, but I never thought he'd do it so soon.”
QUIVERING like a thing possessed, the boat rushed toward the scene of the explosion.
“Go to the bows!” howled Ted. “Wreckage.”
With a nod Drummond scrambled forward and, lying between the two black walls of water, he slowly swung the headlight backward and forward over the sea in front. Suddenly he held up his hand. In front was a large dark object with two or three men clinging to it, and as he focused the headlight on them he could see them waving. The roar of the engine died away and, timing it perfectly, Jerningham went full speed astern.
The thing in the water was one of the large wooden lockers used for storing life belts, and they drew alongside just in time. It was water-logged and the weight of the men clinging to it was more than it could stand. Even as the last of them stepped into the boat, the locker turned over and drifted away only just awash.
“Ye'd better mind out,” said one of the men. “There's a lot of that about.”
“Go slow, Ted!” cried Drummond. Then he turned to the men. “What happened?”
“Strike me pink, governor, I'm darned if I know. We've had a wonderful trip, we 'ave—you can take my word. Fust a madman jumps overboard with another bloke—and they both drowns. Then 'alf-an-hour later there comes the 'ell of an explosion from below; the 'ole deck goes sky 'igh. We 'eeled right over, and in 'alf-a-minute she sank.”
“Anybody else saved?” asked Drummond.
“I dunno, governor,” answered the man.
“Any idea what caused the explosion?”
“I 'aven't, governor; that's strite.”
DRUMMOND stared silently ahead. In the dim light he had no fear of being recognized, and his mind was busy. He had not the slightest doubt that Peterson had caused the explosion; he had even less doubt that Peterson, at any rate, was not drowned. But why had he taken the appalling risk of doing such a thing in so populous a waterway?
He went back to the stern and sat down beside Ted, who was nosing the boat cautiously through the masses of débris surrounding them.
“What made him risk it here, Ted?” he whispered.
“Obvious, old man,” returned the other in a low voice. “He thought your bodies would be washed ashore; he had no means of telling when. He knew they would be identified; he further knew that I would at once say what had happened. From that moment he would be in deadly danger; wireless would put every ship at sea wise. And to do a little stunt of this sort, if he was to escape, it was imperative he should be near land. So, he didn't hesitate for a moment, but put the job through at once.”
“You're right, Ted; perfectly right,” agreed Drummond.
“And unless I'm very much surprised, our friend at the present moment is stepping out of his life belt somewhere on the beach in Colwell Bay. After that you possibly know what his moves will be. I certainly don't for I'm completely in the dark over the whole stunt.”
“It's too long a story to tell you now, old man,” said Drummond. “But one thing I do know. Whoever else may be picked up, our friend will not be among the survivors. He's run unheard-of risks to pull this thing off, including a cold-blooded murder. And now, officially, he's going to die himself in order to throw every one off the scent.” He laughed grimly. “Moreover, he'd have done what he set out to do if you hadn't been leaning over the side of your governor's yacht.”
“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. 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 pretended to be. Chewing soap is a dickens of a game,” he added inconsequently. Then he went on again: “Get me so far? Once he knew we were alive, it would have necessitated a complete alteration of his plans. 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.
“But I think I know where he'll turn up again,” Drummond explained. “You see, 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.”
“That being so,” Jerningham remarked, “I suggest that we get a move on. If I were you I'd get to Montreux, and do it quick. From what you've said, 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, which was only broken when 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.”
DRUMMOND 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. 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 further. He felt that this culminating duel should be worthy of them both. 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 and in which the last word would be his own.
As for Mr. Edward Blackton, when he stepped out of the train at Montreux station at nine o'clock on a glorious summer's evening, he 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 onto 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 hand bag 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 among those drowned.
The Story from the Beginning
WHEN a terrific explosion occurs in the Goodman laboratory, with tragic results for the worthy professor whose workshop it is, Bulldog Drummond becomes suspicious. For it seems to him a most opportune accident for a number of people. In particular, for the men who have vast diamond interests—in jeopardy at the moment because of Professor Goodman's recent discovery of a method of manufacturing flawless stones at a small cost.
Therefore, Drummond interviews the members of a diamond syndicate whose president, Sir Raymond Blantyre, knew of the professor's secret process and had offered him a huge sum to suppress it. Drummond tells these men a fact of which they are obviously ignorant: that the professor's notes had not been destroyed in the explosion, as they supposed, but were in the hands of another man, a Professor Scheidstrun. He further suggests that Sir Raymond go with him to see the German chemist. And later on, leaving Sir Raymond with the German, Drummond conceals himself in the next room, where he overhears an illuminating conversation between the two men, which discloses the fact that his old enemy, Carl Peterson, had been called on by the syndicate to suppress the process and that the notes are now in his possession.
But, unfortunately, he is discovered by Peterson's secretary, is knocked unconscious and taken to Peterson, who is now masquerading under the name of William Robinson. When Drummond recovers consciousness, he finds that Professor Goodman is being held by Robinson, who forces him to reveal his secret by torturing him. In desperation, Drummond pretends to be insane—from the blow on his head. In this way he is able to warn Professor Goodman of his danger—too late, however, as the professor tells him he has already given away his secret.
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 what he was looking for. In a corner sat Irma, talking to a wealthy young Roumanian. He sauntered across the lounge toward her, and realized 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 to his knee.
“Blantyre,” he laughed. “Sir Raymond! 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?”
“Righter even than that, carissima. Blantyre simply doesn't come into the picture.”
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 scoundrel! Have you got the papers containing Goodman's process, or have you not?” he demanded 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?”
“You scoundrel!” spluttered Sir Raymond. “You took our money—half-a-million pounds—on the clear understanding that the process was to be suppressed.”
“THE point is a small one,” Blackton 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 has not 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 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 businessmen are hard. No—a thousand times—no. To present me with the secret was charming; but to force upon me a half-a-million pounds sterling as well, was most 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 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. 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 credit for 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. And though I admit that it is unpleasant for you to realize 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 that 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 impractical old chemist.
“You see, Sir Raymond,” went on Mr. Blackton, “the whole matter is so very 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 for me. The only trouble was that he mistook some one else for your obedient servant, and at last his feelings overcame him. I took him for a short sea voyage, with the gentleman he believed was myself, and he rewarded me by frothing at the mouth and jumping overboard in a fit of frenzy, clutching the 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 the sound of a cork being extracted. It was was unmistakable, and a sudden deadly silence settled on the room. The occupants seemed temporarily paralyzed; 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 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,” he added genially.
As he stared at the speaker, Blackton had a sudden sense of unreality. 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 his legs, “this is undoubtedly a moment fraught with emotion, and, I trust I may say 'tender memories.' He bowed to the girl, who was staring at him with unfathomable eyes.
“How did you get here?” gasped Blackton hoarsely.
“By the Orient Express this morning,” returned Drummond, emerging languidly from the cupboard.
“Jove! 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.
“ON the contrary—very human, indeed,” Drummond murmured. “Even as you, Carl. To err is human—and you erred once. It's bad luck, because I may frankly say that in all the pleasant rencontre we've had together nothing has filled me with such a profound admiration for your ability as this meeting. 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?”
“So you hadn't got concussion,” said the other. His voice was steadier now; he was thinking desperately.
“You've hit it, Carl. I recovered from my concussion on the floor of your room, and listened with interest to your plans for my future. And, having a certain natural gift for lying doggo—I utilized it. You will doubtless be glad to hear that by this time Professor Goodman is restored to his family.”
Illustration: “Good heavens!” cried the pool “What's that?” From inside a large cupboard came the sound of a cork being extracted and a sudden deadly silence settled on the three
A strangled noise came from behind him, and he turned around to find Sir Raymond Blantyre in a partially choking condition.
“Who did you say?” he demanded thickly.
“Professor Goodman,” repeated Drummond, and his voice was icy. “I haven't got much to say to you, Sir Raymond—except that you're a nasty piece of work. Few things in my life have afforded me so much pleasure as the fact that you were swindled out of half a million. I wish it had been more. For the man who carried this coup through, one can feel a certain unwilling admiration; for you, one can feel only the most unmitigated contempt.”
“How dare you speak like that?” spluttered the other, but Drummond was taking no further notice of him.
“That was your second error, Carl. You ought to have come into the motor boat. I assure you I had a dreadful time dragging that poor old chap underneath it, as you crossed our stern.”
“So that was it, was it?” said Blackton slowly. His nerve was completely recovered, and he lit a cigar with ease. “I really think it is for me to congratulate you, my dear Drummond. Apart, however, from this exchange of pleasantries—er—what do we do now?”
“You say that Professor Goodman is still alive?” Sir Raymond had found his voice again. “Then who—who was buried?”
“Precisely,” murmured Drummond. “Who was it, Carl?”
“The point seems to me to be of but academic interest,” remarked Mr. Blackton in a bored voice. “The individual was no loss to the community whatever, I assure you.”
And suddenly a light dawned on Sir Raymond Blantyre.
“Great heavens! It was poor Lewisham.” He stared at Blackton with a sort of fascinated horror. The reason for Lewisham's visit to Professor Goodman was clear, and he shuddered uncontrollably.
“I rather believe it was,” murmured Blackton, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. He turned again to Drummond. “So Professor Goodman is restored to his family once more. I trust he has suffered no ill effects from his prolonged immersion.”
“None at all, thank you,” answered Drummond. “Somewhat naturally he is angry. In fact, for a mild and gentle old man, he is in what might be described as the devil of a temper.”
“But if he's back in London,” broke in Sir Raymond excitedly, “what about his secret? It will be given to the world, and all this will have been in vain.”
“From many points of view, Sir Raymond, I wish it could be given to the world,” said Drummond, coldly. “I can think of no better punishment for you, or one more richly deserved. Unfortunately, however, you can set your mind at rest on that point. Professor Goodman no longer possesses his notes on the process.”
“Precisely,” murmured Mr. Blackton. “It struck me that one copy was ample. So I destroyed his.”
“But for all that,” continued Drummond, noting Sir Raymond's look of relief, “I don't think you're going to have a fearfully jolly time when you return to London. In fact, if I may offer you a word of advice I wouldn't return at all.”
“What do you mean?” stammered the other.
“EXACTLY what I say, you confounded swine!” snapped Drummond. “Do you imagine you can instigate murder and sudden death, and then go trotting into the Berkeley as if nothing had happened? As I told you, the professor is angry and he's obstinate—and he wants your blood. My own impression is that if you get off with fifteen years you can think yourself lucky.”
Sir Raymond plucked at his collar feverishly.
“Fifteen years!” His voice rose to a scream. “But it was this villain who did it all, I tell you: who murdered Lewisham, who——”
With a crash he fell back in the chair where Drummond had thrown him. Blackton was still critically regarding the ash on his cigar; Drummond turned his back and spoke again.
“Yes, Carl,” he said, “the professor and I will deal with Sir Raymond. Or if anything should happen to me, the professor is quite capable of doing it himself.”
“And what do you anticipate should happen to you?” asked Blackton politely.
“Nothing, I trust. But there is one thing which I have never done in the past during all our games of fun and laughter. I have never made the mistake of underrating you.”
“We appear,” Blackton murmured, “to be approaching the sixpence in the plum pudding.”
“We are,” returned Drummond quietly. “Sir Raymond is the professor's portion: you are mine.”
A silence settled on the room—a silence broken at length by Blackton.
“I am all attention,” he remarked, eyes fixed on Drummond's face.
“There is not much to say,” said Drummond. “But what there is, I hope may interest you. If my memory serves me right, there was one unfailing jest between us in the old days. I allude to the determination expressed by you to kill me.”
Blackton nodded thoughtfully.
“Now you speak of it, I do recall something of the sort.”
“GOOD,” continued Drummond. “And since no one could call me grudging in praise, I will admit that you made several exceedingly creditable attempts. This time, however, the boot is on the other leg. It's my turn to say—snap. In other words, I am going to kill you, Carl. At least, lest I should seem to boast, I'm going to have a jolly good attempt—one that I trust will be even more creditable than yours.”
Once again a silence settled, broken this time by an amused laugh from the girl.
“Adorable as ever, my Hugh,” she murmured. “And where shall I send the wreath?”
“Mademoiselle,” answered Drummond gravely. “I propose to be far more original than that. And I should like you to listen while I outline my proposal.” He turned again to Blackton. “First, I would like you to understand quite clearly what will happen if you refuse to fall in with it. Outside in the passage, Carl, are two large, stolid Swiss gendarmes. They don't know why they are there at present, but it will not take long to enlighten them. Should you decide, therefore, to decline my suggestion, I shall be under the painful necessity of requesting them to step in here, when I will inform them of just so much of your past history as to insure your sleeping for the next few nights in rather less comfortable quarters. Until, in fact, extradition papers arrive from England. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” answered the other. “That will occur if I do not fall in with your suggestion. So let us hear the suggestion.”
“It took a bit of thinking out,” admitted Drummond. “I haven't your fertile brain, Carl, over these little matters. Still, I flatter myself it's not bad for a first attempt. Since we have fought in the past without the police, I wanted to finish without them. Having made up my mind to that, it became necessary to think of some scheme by which the survivor should not suffer. If it's you—well, you'll get caught sooner or later; if it's I, I certainly don't propose to suffer in any way.”
He selected a cigarette with care and lit it.
“At first sight it may seem absurd—even fanciful—this scheme of mine. But don't condemn it hastily, I beg you. Know anything about glaciers, Carl?” He smiled at the look of blank amazement on the other's face. “Jolly little things, my dear fellow, if you treat 'em the right way. But dangerous things to play tricks with. There are great cracks in them, you know—deep cracks with walls of solid ice. If a man falls down on cracks, unless help is forthcoming he won't live long, Carl. In fact, he dies astonishingly quickly. People fall down these cracks accidentally sometimes.” Drummond paused hopefully. “That's a pretty original idea, Carl, don't you think?”
“Am I to understand,” said Blackton harshly, “that you propose that one or the other of us fall down a crevasse in a glacier?”
“Yes, that is my proposal,” answered Drummond. “You and I, Carl, will go unarmed to a glacier. We will there find a suitable deep crevasse. And on the edge of that crevasse”—his voice changed suddenly—“we will fight for the last time with our bare hands. It's that or the police, Peterson. One gives you a chance, the other gives you none.”
“I refuse utterly,” snarled the other. “It's murder—nothing nor less.”
“A form of amusement you should be used to,” said Drummond. “However, you refuse. Very good. I will now send for the police.”
He rose and went to the door, and Blackton looked around desperately.
“Wait!” he cried. “Can't we—can't we come to an agreement?”
“None. These are my terms. And there is one other that I have not mentioned. You said that two copies of the professor's notes were excessive. I agree—but I go further: One is too much. The process is altogether too dangerous. If the police take you—it doesn't matter; but if you accept my terms you've got to hand over that copy to me now. And I shall burn it. I don't mind running the risk of being killed; but if I am you're not going to get away with the other thing too.” Drummond glanced at his watch. “I give you half a minute to decide.”
The seconds dragged by and Blackton stared in front of him. Plan after plan flashed through his mind, only to be dismissed as impossible. He was caught—and he knew it. Once the police had him, he was done for utterly and completely. They would hang him ten times over in England alone. He was caught. Not only had this, his greatest coup failed, but his life was forfeit as well. For he was under no delusions as to what would be the result of the fight on the glacier.
He heard the snap of a watch closing.
“Your half minute is up, Peterson.” Drummond's hand was on the door. “And I must say I thought better of you.”
“Stop!” cried the other. “I accept.”
Drummond came back into the room.
“That is good,” remarked. “Then—first of all—the notes of Professor Goodman's process.”
Without a word Blackton handed over two sheets of paper, though in his eyes was a look of smoldering fury.
“You fool!” he snarled, as he watched them burn to ashes. “You infernal fool.”
“Opinions differ,” murmured Drummond, powdering the ash on the table. “And now to discuss arrangements. We start early tomorrow morning by car. To the best of my ability, I've hemmed you in for the few hours that remain before we start. And when we leave you and I will sit on the back seat and discuss the view.”
“And until we start?” said Blackton.
“We remain in this room,” answered Drummond. “At least—you and I do. Mademoiselle must please herself.”
The girl looked at him languidly.
“You don't mind if I leave you,” she remarked. “To tell he truth, mon ami, since I am going to Evian-les-Bains for the waters tomorrow I think I'll retire to bed. Do you know Evians?”
“Never heard of it, I'm afraid,” said Drummond. “My geography is rotten.”
He was lighting a cigar, more to conceal his thoughts than from any desire to smoke. That she was a perfect actress, he knew, and yet it seemed impossible to believe that her composure was anything but natural. He glanced at Peterson, who was sitting motionless, his chin sunk on his chest. He glanced at the girl, and she was patting a stray tendril of hair in front of a mirror. Was it conceivable that he had left a loophole in his scheme? Or could it be that she had ceased to regard for Peterson?
The girl had turned and was regarding him with a faint smile.
“I fear I sha'n't be up before you go tomorrow,” she murmured. “But whoever does not go into cold storage must come and tell me about it. And there are a lot of other things too I want to hear about. Why Carl, for instance, ought to have looked in the motor boat, and how you got concussion.”
Drummond looked at her steadily.
“I find you a little difficult to understand, Mademoiselle. I trust you are under no delusions as to whether I am bluffing or not. You can at any rate settle one point in your mind by glancing outside the door.”
“To see two large policemen?” laughed the girl. “La, la, my dear man—they would give me what you call a nightmare. I will take your word for it.”
“And any appeal for help will result somewhat unfortunately for Carl.”
She shrugged her shoulders irritably.
“I know when the game is up,” she remarked. the abruptly she turned on the man who had been her companion for years. “Bah! You fool!” she stormed. “Every time this great idiot here eludes you. Not once, but half a dozen times have you told me, 'Drummond is dead'—and every time he bobs up again like a jack in the box. And now, this time, when you had everything—you go and let him beat you again. You tire me. It is good that we end our partnership. You are imbecile!”
She raged out of the room, and Carl Peter raised his haggard eyes as the door closed. His lips had set in a twisted smile, and after a while his head sunk forward again. He seemed to have aged suddenly. And into Drummond's mind there stole a faint feeling of pity.
“I'm sorry about that, Peterson,” he said quietly. “She might at least have seen the game out to the end.”
The other made no reply, and Drummond's feeling of pity increased. Scoundrel, murderer, unmitigated blackguard though he knew this man to be, yet when all was said and done he was no weakling. And it wasn't difficult to read his thoughts at the moment—to realize the bitterness and the fury that must be possessing him. Half an hour ago he had believed himself successful beyond his wildest dreams; now—— And then for the girl to go back on him at the finish.
Drummond pulled himself together; such thoughts were dangerous. If the positions were reversed, would one thought of mercy have softened the man he now held in his power? No one knew better than Drummond himself that he would not. And yet he could have wished the girl had not proved herself so rotten——
The lights were out on the long terrace fronting the lake, and he glanced at his watch. It was twelve o'clock; in another three hours it would be light enough to start.
“You are quite determined to go through with this?” asked Peterson abruptly.
“Quite,” answered Drummond briefly.
Peterson said no more, but after a while he rose and walked into the glassed-in balcony. The windows were open, and with his hands in his pockets he stared out over the lake.
“I advise you to try nothing foolish,” said Drummond, joining him. “The Swiss police are remarkably efficient, and communication with the frontiers by telephone is rapid.”
“You think of everything,” murmured Peterson. “There doesn't seem much more to be said.” He turned and faced Drummond thoughtfully. “How on earth do you do it, my young friend? I wonder very much. In fact, I shall really have to find out. Good heavens! Look at that fool Blantyre.”
Drummond swung around, and as he did so Peterson hit him with all his force under the jaw. The blow caught him off his balance, and he crashed backward, striking the back of his head against the side of the balcony as he fell. For a moment or two he lay there half stunned. Dimly he saw that Peterson had disappeared, then dazed and sick he scrambled to his feet.
Desperately he pulled himself together. The police outside, the telephone—there was still time. He could hear the engine of a motor boat now, but even so there was time. He rushed across the room to the door; outside in the passage were the two gendarmes.
They listened as he poured out the story, and then one of them shook his head a little doubtfully.
“It is perfectly true, monsieur,” he remarked, “that we can communicate with the gendarmes of all the Swiss towns au bord du lac—and at once. But with the French towns it is different.”
“French?” said Drummond, staring at him. “Isn't this bally lake Swiss?”
“Mais non, monsieur. Most of it is. But the southern shore from St. Gingolph to Hermance is French. Evian-les-Bains is a well-known French watering place.”
“Evian-les-Bains!” shouted Drummond. “Evian-les-Bains! Stung! Utterly, absolutely, completely stung! And to think that that darned girl fixed the whole thing under my very nose.” For a moment he stood undecided; then at a run he started along the corridor, “After 'em, mes braves. Another motor boat is the only chance.”
There was another moored close in shore, and into it they all tumbled followed by Ted Jerningham and Algy Longworth whom they had roused from their slumbers in the lounge. Ted, as the authority, took charge of the engine—only to peer at it once, and start laughing.
“What's the matter?” snapped Drummond.
“Nothing much, old man,” said his pal, “Only that there are difficulties in the way of making a petrol engine go when both sparking plugs have long been removed.”
And it seemed to Drummond that, at that moment, there came a faint mocking shout from far out on the darkness of the lake,
“Mind you wear hobnailed boots on the glacier!”
IT was four days later. During those four days Drummond's usual bright conversational powers had been limited to one word—“Stung.” And now as he drew his second pint from the cask in the corner of his room in Brook Street, he elaborated it.
“Stung in the center and on both flanks,” he remarked morosely. “And biffed in the jaw into the bargain.”
“Still, old dear,” murmured Algy brightly—Algy's world was bright again, now that there was no further need to postpone his marriage, “you may meet him again.”
“Stung,” reiterated Drummond, and relapsed into moody silence, which remained unbroken till the sudden entrance of Professor Goodman. He was holding in his hand an early edition of an evening paper, and his face was agitated.
“What's up, professor?” asked Drummond.
“Read that,” said the other.
Drummond glanced at the paper.
“Death of well-known English financier in Paris,” ran the headline. He read on:
“This morning Sir Raymond Blantyre, who was stopping at the Savoy Hotel, was found dead in his bed. Beside the deceased man an empty bottle of veronal was discovered. No further details are at present to hand.”
So Blantyre had failed to face the music. As usual the lesser man paid, while Peterson got off.
“Suicide, I assume,” said the professor.
“Undoubtedly,” answered Drummond. “It saves trouble. And I may say I put the fear of God into him. What is it, Denny?”
“This letter and parcel have just come for you, sir,” said his servant.
Drummond turned them both over in his hand, and a faint smile showed on his face. The postmark was Rome; the writing he knew. It was the letter he opened first.
“I have threatened often; I shall not always fail. You have threatened once; you could hardly hope to succeed. I shall treasure some edelweiss. Au revoir.”
Still smiling, he looked at the parcel. After all, perhaps it was as well. Life without Peterson would indeed be tame. He cut the string; he undid the paper. And then a strange look spread over his face look which alarmed the faithful Denny.
“Beer, fool, beer!” cried his master hoarsely.
On the table in front of him lay a book. It was entitled “Our little Tots' Primer of Geography.”
[THE END]
Copyright, 1924, by H. C. McNeile