The Third Round (McClure's Magazine 1923-24)/Part 1
Illustration: “I was foolish enough to threaten the professor and he rose abruptly from the table. I cursed myself for a fool”
Another Intensely Exciting “Bulldog” Drummond Adventure
WITH a sigh of pleasure, Mr. Edward Blackton opened the windows of his balcony and leaned out, staring over the lake. Opposite, the mountains of Savoy rose steeply from the water: away to the left the Dents du Midi raised its crown of snow above the morning haze.
Below him the waters of the lake glittered and scintillated with a thousand fires. A steamer, with much blowing of sirens and reversing of paddle wheels, had come to rest at a landing stage hard by, and was taking on board a bevy of tourists, while the gulls circled around, shrieking discordantly. For a while he watched them idly, noting the quickness with which the birds swooped and caught the bread as it was thrown into the air, long before it reached the water. He noted also how nearly all the food was secured by half a dozen of the gulls, while the others said a lot, but got nothing. And suddenly Mr. Edward Blackton smiled.
“Like life, my dear,” he said, slipping his arm round the waist of a girl who had just joined him at the window. “It's the fool who shouts in this world: the wise man says nothing and acts.”
The girl lit a cigarette thoughtfully, and sat down on the ledge of the balcony. For a while her eyes followed the steamer puffing fussily away with its load of sightseers, and its attendant retinue of gulls: then she looked at the man standing beside her. Point by point she took him in: the clear blue eyes under the deep forehead, the aquiline nose, the firm mouth and chin. Calmly, dispassionately, she noted the thick brown hair graying a little over the temples, the great depth of chest, the strong powerful hands: then she turned and looked once again at the disappearing steamer. But to the man's surprise she gave a little sigh.
“What is it, my dear?” he said solicitously. “Bored?”
“No, not bored,” she answered. “Whatever may be your failings, mon ami, boring me is not one of them. I was just wondering what it would feel like, if you and I were content to go on a paddle-wheel steamer with a Baedeker and a kodak, and a paper bag full of bananas.”
“We will try tomorrow,” said the man, gravely lighting a cigar.
“It wouldn't be any good,” laughed the girl. “Just once in a way we should probably love it. I meant I wonder what it would feel like if that was the only life we had ever known.”
Her companion nodded.
“I know, carissima,” he answered gently. “I have sometimes wondered the same thing. I suppose there must be compensations in respectability, otherwise so many people wouldn't be respectable. But I'm afraid it is one of those things that we shall never know.”
“I think it's that,” said the girl, waving her hand toward the mountains opposite, “that has caused my mood. It's all so perfectly lovely: the sky is so wonderfully blue. Just look at that sailing boat,” she went on, pointing to one of the big lake barges, with its two huge lateen sails, creeping gently along. “It's all so peaceful and sometimes one wants peace.”
“True,” agreed the man. “One does. It's just reaction, and we've been busy lately.” He rose and began to pace slowly up and.down the balcony. “To be quite honest, recently L myself have once or twice thought that if I could pull off some really big coup—something, I mean, that ran into millions—I would give things up for good.”
The girl smiled and shook 'her head.
“DON'T misunderstand me, my dear,” he went on. “I do not suggest for a moment that we should settle down to a life Of toping and ease. Neither one of us could exist without employing our brains. But with really big money behind us, we should be in a position to employ our brains a little more legitimately, shall I say, than we are able to at present and still get all the excitement we require. Take Drakahoff: that man controls three of the principal governments of Europe. The general public doesn't know it: the governments themselves won't admit it: but it's true for all that. As you know, that little job I carried out for him in Germany averted a second revolution. He didn't want one at the time, and so he called me in. And it cost him in all five million pounds. *What was that to him?”
He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.
“A mere flea bite: a bagatelle. Why, with that man an odd million or two one way or the other wouldn't be noticed in his passbook.”
He paused and stared over the sunlit lake, while the girl watched him in silence.
“Given as much money as that, a man can rule the world. Moreover, he can rule it without fear of consequences. He can have all the excitement he requires: he can wield all the power he desires—and have special posses of police to guard him. I'm afraid we don't have many guard us.”
The girl laughed and lit another cigarette.
“You are right, mon ami, we do not. Hello! Who can that be?”
INSIDE the sitting room the telephone bell was ringing, and with a slight frown Mr. Edward Blackton took off the receiver.
“What is it?”
From the other end came the voice of the manager, suitably deferential as befitted a client of such obvious wealth, installed in the most palatial suite of the Palace Hotel.
“Two gentlemen are here, Mr. Blackton,” said the manager, “who wish to know when they can have the pleasure of seeing you. Their names are Sir Raymond Blantyre, and Mr. Jabez Leibhaus. They arrived this morning from England by the Simplen-Orient express, and they say that their business is most urgent.”
A sudden gleam had come into Mr. Blackton's eyes as he listened, but when he answered his voice was almost bored.
“I shall be pleased to see both gentlemen at eleven o'clock up here. Kindly have champagne and sandwiches sent to my sitting room at that hour.”
He replaced the receiver, and stood for a moment thinking deeply.
“Who was it?” called the girl from the balcony.
“Blantyre and Leibhaus, my dear,” answered the man. “Now what the deuce can they want with me so urgently?”
“Aren't they both big diamond men?” asked the girl, coming into the room.
“They are,” said Blackton. “In romantic fiction they would be described as two diamond kings. Anyway, it won't do them any harm to wait for half an hour.”
“How did they find out your address? I thought you had left strict instructions that you were not to be disturbed.”
There was regret in the girl's voice, and with a faint smile the man tilted back her head and kissed her.
“In our profession, cara mia,” he said gently, “there are times when the strictest instructions have to be disobeyed. Freyder would never have dreamed of worrying me over a little thing, but unless I am much mistaken this isn't going to be little. It's going to be big: those two men don't go chasing half across Europe because they've mislaid a collar stud. Why—who knows? It might prove to be the big coup we were discussing a few minutes ago!”
HE kissed her again: then he turned abruptly away and the girl gave a little sigh. For the look that she knew so well had come into those gray-blue eyes: the alert, keen look which meant business. He crossed the room, and unlocked a heavy leather dispatch case. From it he took out a biggish book which he laid on the table while he lit another cigar. Then, having made himself comfortable on the balcony, he began to turn over the pages.
It was of the loose-leaf variety and on every page were entries in Blackton's small, neat handwriting. It was what he called his “Who's Who,” but it differed from that excellent production in one marked respect. The people in Mr. Edward Blackton's book had not compiled their own notices—which rendered it considerably more truthful, even if less complimentary, than the orthodox volume.
It was arranged alphabetically and it contained an astounding wealth of information. In fact, in lighter moments the author was wont to say that when he retired from active life, he would publish it, and die in luxury on the large sums paid him to suppress it. Mentioned in it were the names of practically every man and woman possessed of real wealth—as Blackton regarded wealth—in Europe and America. There were, of course, many omissions, but in the course of years an extraordinary amount of strange and useful information had been collected. In many cases just bare details about the person were given: these were the uninteresting ones and consisted of people who passed the test as far as money was concerned, but about whom the author had no personal knowledge: In others, however, the entries were far more human. After the name would be recorded certain details, frequently of a most scurrilous description. And these details had one object and one object only—to assist in parting the victim from his money.
Not that Mr. Edward Blackton was a common blackmailer—far from it. Blackmailing pure and simple was a form of amusement which revolted his feelings as an artist. But to make use of certain privately gained information about a man when dealing with him was a different matter altogether. It was of great assistance in estimating character, when meeting a man for the first time, to know that his previous wife had divorced him for carrying on with the housemaid, and that he had then failed to marry the housemaid. Nothing of blackmail in that—just a pointer as to character.
In the immense ramifications of Mr. Blackton's activities, it was of course impossible for him to keep all these details in his head. And so, little by little, the book had grown until it now comprised over three hundred pages. Information obtained first-hand, or from absolutely certain resources, was entered in red: items not quite so reliable in black. And under Sir Raymond Blantyre's name the entry was in red.
- Blantyre, Raymond. Born, 1858. Vice President Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate. Married daughter of John Perkins—wool merchant in London. Knighted, 1904. Something shady about him in South Africa—probably I. D. E. Races a lot. Wife a snob. Living up to the limit of his income. 5.13.
MR. BLACKTON laid the book on his knee and looked thoughtfully over the lake. The last three figures showed that the entry had been made in May, 1913, and if he was living up to the limit of his income then, he must have had to retrench considerably now. And wives who are snobs dislike that particularly.
He picked up the book again and turned up the dossier of his other visitor to find nothing of interest. Mr. Leibhaus bad only bare details after his name, with the solitary piece of information that he, too, was a Vice-President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate.
He closed the book and relocked it in the dispatch case, then he glanced at his watch.
“I think, my dear,” he said, turning to the girl, “that our interview had better be apparently private. Could you make yourself comfortable in your bedroom, so that you will be able to hear everything and give me your opinion afterward?” He opened the door for her and she passed through. “I confess,” he continued, “that I'm a little puzzled. I cannot think what they want to see me about so urgently.”
But there was no trace of this wonder on his face as five minutes later his two visitors were ushered in by the submanager.
“See that the sandwiches and champagne are sent at once please,” he remarked, and the hotel official bustled away.
“We shall be undisturbed, gentlemen,” he said, “after the waiter brings the tray. Until then, we might enjoy the view over the lake. It is rare, I am told, that one can see Les Dents du Midi quite so clearly.”
The three men strolled into the balcony and leaned out. And it struck that exceptionally quick observer of human nature, Mr. Blackton, that both his visitors were a little nervous. Sir Raymond Blantyre, especially, was not at his ease. He answered the casual remarks of his host at random. He was a short stocky little man with a white mustache and a gold-rimmed eyeglass, which he had an irritating habit of taking in and out of his eye—and he gave a sigh of relief as the door finally closed behind the waiter.
“Now perhaps we can come to business, Count—er—I beg your pardon, Mr. Blackton.”
“The mistake is a natural one,” said his host suavely. “Shall we go inside the room to avoid any risk of being overheard?”
“I had better begin at the beginning,” said Sir Raymond, when they were seated in the room, waving away his host's offer of champagne. “And when I've finished you will see, I have no doubt, our reasons for disturbing you in this way. Nothing short of the desperate position in which we find ourselves would have induced us to seek you out after what Mr. Freyder told my friend Leibhaus. But that situation is so desperate that we had no alternative.”
Mr. Blackton's face remained quite expressionless, and the other, after a little pause, went on.
“DOUBTLESS you know who we are, Mr. Blackton. I am the President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate and Mr. Leibhaus is the senior Vice President. In the event of my absence at any time, he deputizes for me. I mention these facts to emphasize the point that we are the heads of that combine, and that you are therefore dealing with the absolute principals, and not with subordinates. Now I may further mention that although the Metropolitan is our particular syndicate, we are both of us considerably interested in other diamond enterprises. In fact, our entire fortune is bound up irretrievably in the diamond industry—as are the fortunes of several other men, for whom, Mr. Blackton, I am authorized to speak. So that I am in a position to say that not only am I here as representative of the Metropolitan Syndicate—but I am here as representative of the whole diamond industry and the enormous capital locked up in that industry.”
Illustration: “If I could pull off some really big coup—something, I mean, that ran into millions—I would give things up,” said the man. The girl smiled and shook her head
“You make yourself perfectly clear, Sir Raymond,” said Mr. Blackton quietly. His face was as masklike as ever, but he wondered more and more what could be coming.
Sir Raymond took out his eyeglass and polished it: then he took a sip of the champagne which, despite his refusal, his host had poured out for him.
“That being so, Mr. Blackton, and my position in the matter being fully understood, I will come to the object of our visit. One day about a fortnight ago I was dining at the house of a certain Professor Goodman. You may perhaps have heard of him by name? No! Well, he is, I understand, one of the foremost chemists of the day. He and I haven't much in common, but my wife and his became acquainted during the war, and we still dine with one another occasionally. There were six of us at dinner—our four selves, his daughter and an extraordinarily inane young man with an eyeglass—who, I gathered, was engaged to the daughter.
“It was during dinner that my attention was caught by a rather peculiar ornament that the daughter was wearing. It looked to me like a piece of ordinary cut glass mounted in a claw of gold, and she was using it as a brooch. The piece of glass was about the size of a large marble, and it scintillated so brilliantly as she moved that I could not help noticing it. I may say that it struck me as a distinctly vulgar ornament—the sort of thing that a housemaid might be expected to wear when she was out. It surprised me, since the Goodmans are the last people one would expect to allow such a thing. And, of course, I should have said nothing about it had not the vapid youth opposite noticed me.
“'Looking at the monkey nut?” he said, or something equally foolish. 'Pretty sound bit of work on the part of the old paternal parent!'
“Professor Goodman looked up and smiled, and the girl took it off and handed it to me.
“'What do you think of it, Sir Raymond?' she said. 'I put it on especially for your benefit tonight.'
“I glanced at it, and, to my amazement, I found that it was a perfectly flawless diamond, worth certainly ten to twelve thousand pounds and possibly more. I suppose my surprise must have been obvious, because they all began to laugh.
“'Well, what is your verdict, Blantyre?' said the professor.
“'I will be perfectly frank,' I answered. 'I cannot understand how you can have placed such a really wonderful stone in such an unworthy setting.'
“And then the professor laughed still more.
“'WHAT would you say was the value of that stone?' he inquired.
“'I should be delighted to give Miss Goodman a check for ten thousand pounds for it here and now,' I said.
“And then he really roared with laughter.
“'But what about it, Brenda?' he cried. 'Do you know what that stone cost me, Blantyre? Five pounds, ten shillings and sixpence—and two burnt fingers!'”
Blackton leaned forward in his chair and stared at the speaker.
“Well—what then?” he said quietly.
Sir Raymond mopped his forehead, and took another sip of champagne.
“You've guessed it, Mr. Blackton. It was false—not false, however, in the sense that synthetic pearls are false, but it had been made by a chemical process in Professor Goodman's laboratory. Otherwise, it was indistinguishable from the genuine article: in fact”—in his agitation he thumped the table with his fist—“it was the genuine article!”
Blackton carefully lit another cigar.
“And what did you do?” he inquired. “I presume that you have tested the matter fully since.”
“Of course,” answered the other. “I will tell you exactly what has happened. That-evening after dinner I sat on talking with the professor. Somewhat naturally I allowed no hint of my agitation to show on my face. As you probably know, Mr. Blackton, artificial diamonds have been manufactured in the past—real diamonds, indistinguishable from those found in nature. But they have been small, and their cost has been greater when made artificially than if they had been found. And so the process has never been economically worth while. But this was altogether different. If what Professor Goodman told me was the truth—if he had indeed manufactured that diamond for five pounds in his laboratory, we were confronted with the possibility of an appalling crisis. And since he was the last person to tell a stupid lie, you may imagine my feelings.
“I need hardly point out to you that the whole diamond market is an artificial one. The output of stones from the mines has to be limited to prevent a slump—to keep prices up. And what would happen if the market was swamped with stones worth a king's ransom each, as prices go today, and costing a fiver to produce was too impossible to contemplate. It meant, of course, absolute ruin to me and others in my position—to say nothing of hundreds of big jewelers and dealers.
“I pointed this out to Professor Goodman, but”—once again Sir Raymond mopped his forehead—”would you believe it, the wretched man seemed completely uninterested! All he was concerned about was his miserable chemistry.
“'An absolutely unique discovery, my dear Blantyre,' he remarked complacently. 'And two years ago I bet professor'—I forget the fool's name, but at any rate he had bet this professor a fiver that he'd do it.”
Sir Raymond rose and walked up and down the room in his agitation.
“A fiver, Mr. Blackton—a fiver! I asked him what he was going to do, and he said he was going to read a paper on it and give a demonstration at the next meeting of the Royal Society. And that takes place in a fortnight. I argued it with him, and I'm afraid I was foolish enough to threaten him. At any rate, he rose abruptly from the table, and I cursed myself for a fool. But toward the end of the evening he recovered himself sufficiently to agree to give me and the members of my syndicate a previous demonstration. His daughter also allowed me to take away her brooch, so that I could subject it to more searching tests the next day.”
HE again sat down and stared at the man opposite him, who seemed more intent on how long he could get the ash of his cigar before it dropped, than on anything else.
“Next day, Mr. Blackton, my worst fears were confirmed. I subjected that stone to every known test—but it was useless. It was a diamond—perfect, flawless: and it had cost five pounds to make. I called together my syndicate, and at first they were inclined to be incredulous. They suggested fraud—as you know, there have been, in the past, several attempts made to obtain money by men who pretended they had discovered the secret of making diamonds in the laboratory. And in every case, up to the present, sleight of hand has been proved. The big uncut diamond was not produced by the chemical reaction, but was introduced at some period during the experiment. Of course the idea was to obtain hush-money to suppress the supposed secret. I pointed out to my friends how impossible such a supposition was in the case of a man like Professor Goodman: and finally—to cut things short—they agreed to come around with me the following afternoon to see the demonstration.
“The professor had forgotten all about the appointment—he is that sort of man—and we waited in an agony of impatience while his secretary telephoned all over London. At last she got him, and the professor arrived, profuse in his apologies.
Illustration: Then we examined the bowl. “Without that retort,” the professor remarked, “the process would be impossible. It is the only thing known to science today which could resist the intense heat of the electric furnace”
“'I have just been watching a most interesting experiment with some blue cheese mold,' he told me, 'and I quite forgot the time. Now, what is it you gentlemen want to see?'”
For the first time a very faint smile flickered on Mr. Blackton's lips, but he said nothing.
“I told him,” continued Sir Raymond, “and we at once adjourned to the laboratory. Most of us had attended similar demonstrations before, and we expected to find the usual apparatus—a mold and a furnace, and so on. Nothing of the sort, however, could we see. There was an electric furnace: a sort of bowl made of some opaque material, and a variety of chemical salts in bottles.
“'You will forgive me, gentlemen,' he remarked, 'if I don't give you my process in detail. I don't want to run any risk of my discovery leaking out before I address the Royal Society.'
“He beamed at us through his spectacles; and—serious though it was—I really could not help smiling. That he should make such a remark to us of all people!
“'You are, of course, at liberty to examine everything that I put into this retort,' he went on, 'and the retort itself.' He was fumbling in his pocket as he spoke, and he finally produced two or three dirty sheets of paper, at which he peered. 'Dear me!' he exclaimed. 'I've got the wrong notes. These are the ones about my new albumin food for infants and adults. Where can I have left them?'
“'I hope,' I remarked, as calmly as I could, 'that you haven't left them lying about where any one could get at them, professor.'
“He shook his head vaguely, though his reply was reassuring.
“'No one could understand them even if I had,' he answered. 'Ah!' Here they are.' With a little cry of triumph he produced some even dirtier scraps which he laid on the desk in front of him.
“'I have to refer to my notes,' he said, 'as the process—though the essence of simplicity, once the correct mixture of the ingredients is obtained—is a difficult one to remember. There are no fewer than thirty-nine salts used in the operation. Now, would you gentlemen come closer, so that you can see everything I do.'
“He produced a balance which he proceeded to adjust with mathematical precision, while we crowded around as close as we could.
“'While I think of it,' he said, looking up suddenly, 'is there any particular color you would like me to make?'
“'Rose pink,' grunted some one, and he nodded.
“'CERTAINLY,' he answered. 'That will necessitate the addition of a somewhat rare strontium salt—making forty in all.'
“He beamed at us and then he commenced. To say that we watched him closely would hardly convey our attitude: we watched him without movement, without speech, almost without breathing. He weighed his salts, and he mixed them—and that part of the process took an hour at least. Then he took up the bowl and we examined that. It was obviously some form of metal, but that was as far as we could get. And it was empty.
“'Without that retort, gentlemen,' he remarked, 'the process would be impossible. There is no secret as to its composition. It is made of a blend of tungsten and osmium, and is the only thing known to science today which could resist the immense heat to which this mixture will be subjected in the electric furnace. Now, possibly one of you would like to pour this mixture into the retort, place the retort in the furnace, and shut the furnace doors. Then I will switch on the current.'
“I personally did what he suggested, Mr. Blackton. [ poured the mixture of fine powders into the empty bowl: I placed the bowl in the furnace, having first examined the furnace: and then I closed the doors. And I knew—and every man there knew—that there had been no suspicion of fraud. Then he switched on the current, and we sat down to wait.
“Gradually the heat grew intense—but no one thought of moving. At first the professor rambled on, but I doubt if any one paid any attention to him. Among other things he told us that from the very start of his experiments he had worked on different lines from the usual ones, which consisted of dissolving carbon in molten iron and then cooling the mass suddenly with cold water.
“'That sets up gigantic pressure,' he remarked, 'but it is too quick. Only small stones are the results. My process was arrived at by totally different methods, as you see.'
“The sweat poured off us, and still we sat there silent—each of us busy with our own thoughts. I think even then we realized that there was no hope: we knew that his claims were justified. But we had to see it through—to make sure. The professor was absorbed in some profound calculations on his new albumin food: the furnace glowed white in the corner—and, Mr. Blackton, men worth tens of millions sat and dripped with perspiration in order to make certain that they were not worth as many farthings.
“I SUPPOSE it was about two hours later that the professor, having looked at his watch, rose and switched off the current.
“'In about an hour, gentlemen,' he remarked, 'the retort will be cool enough to take out. I suggest that you should take it with you, and, having cut out the clinker, you should carry out your own tests on it. Inside that clinker will be your rose-pink diamond—uncut, of course. I make you a present of it: all [ ask is that you return my retort.'
“He blinked at us through his spectacles.
“'You will forgive me if I leave you now, but I have to deliver my address to some students on the catalytic influence of chromous chloride. I fear I am already an hour and a half late, but that is nothing new.' And with that the professor bustled hurriedly out of the room.”
Sir Raymond paused and lit a cigarette.
“You may perhaps think, Mr. Blackton, that I have been unnecessarily verbose over details that are unimportant,” he continued after a moment. “But my object has been to try to show you the type of man Professor Goodman is.”
“You have succeeded admirably, Sir Raymond,” said Blackton quietly.
{fqm|“}GOOD. Then I will go on more quickly. We took his retort home, and we cut out the clinker. No one touched it except ourselves. We chipped off the outside seals, and we came to the diamond. Under our own eyes we had it cut—roughly, of course, because time was urgent. Here are the results.”
He handed over a small box to Blackton, who opened it. Inside, resting on some cotton wool, were two large rose-pink diamonds and three smaller ones—worth in all, to that expert's shrewd eye, anything up to twenty-five thou sand pounds. He took out a pocket lens and examined the largest, and Sir Raymond gave a short, hard laugh.
“Believe me,” he said harshly, “they're genuine, right enough. I wish to Heaven I could detect even the trace of a flaw. There isn't one, I tell you: they're perfect stones—and that's why we've come to you.”
Blackton laid the box on the table, and renewed the contemplation of his cigar.
“At the moment,” he remarked, “the connection is a little obscure. However, pray continue. I assume that you have interviewed the professor again.”
“The very next morning,” said Sir Raymond. “I went around, ostensibly to return his metal bowl, and then again I put the whole matter before him. I pointed out to him that if this discovery of his was made known it would involve thousands of people in utter ruin. I pointed out to him that, after all, no one could say that it was a discovery which could benefit the world generally, profoundly wonderful though it was. Its sole result, so far as I could see, would be to put diamond tiaras within the range of the average scullery maid. In short, I invoked every argument I could think of to try. to persuade him to change his mind. Useless—utterly useless.” He shook his head.
“To do him justice, I do not believe it is simply pig-headedness. He is honestly unable to understand our point of view. To him it is a scientific discovery concerning carbon, and, according to him, carbon is so vitally important, so essentially at the root of all life, that to suppress the results of an experiment such as this would be a crime against science. He sees no harm in diamonds being as plentiful as marbles:in fact, the financial side of the affair is literally meaningless to him.
Illustration: The old man swaying in the aisle suddenly bent his head and spoke to Sir Raymond
“Meaningless, Mr. Blackton, as I found when I played my last card. In the name of my syndicate, I offered him two hundred and fifty thousand pounds to suppress it. He rang the bell—apologized for leaving me so abruptly—and the servant showed me out. And that is how the matter stands today. In a fortnight from now his secret will be given to the world, unless”
Sir Raymond paused, and glanced at Mr. Leibhaus.
“Precisely,” he agreed. “Unless, as you say”
Mr. Blackton said nothing. It was not his business to help them out, though the object of their journey was now obvious.
“Unless, Mr. Blackton'”—Sir Raymond took the plunge—“we can induce you to interest yourself in the matter.”
Mr. Blackton raised his eyebrows slightly.
“I rather fail to see,” he remarked, “how I can hope to succeed where you have failed. You appear to have exhausted every possible argument.”
And now Sir Raymond was beginning to look visibly agitated. Unscrupulous business man though he was, the thing he had to say stuck in his throat. It seemed so cold-blooded, so horrible—especially in that room overlooking the sparkling lake with the peaceful, snow-tipped mountains opposite.
“IT was Baron Vanderton,” he stammered, “who mentioned the Comte de Guy to me. He said that in a certain matter connected, I believe, with one of the big European banking firms, the Comte de Guy had been called in. And that as a result—er—a rather troublesome international financier had—er—disappeared.”
He paused abruptly as he saw Blackton's face. It was hard and merciless, and the gray-blue eyes seemed to be boring into his brain.
“Am I to understand, Sir Raymond,” he remarked, “that you are trying to threaten me into helping you?” He seemed to be carved out of stone, save for the fingers of his left hand which played a ceaseless tattoo on his knee.
“Good heavens, no, Mr. Blackton!” cried the other. “Nothing of the sort, believe me. I merely mentioned the baron to show you how we got on your trail. He told us that you were the only man in the world who would be able to help us, and then only if you were convinced that the matter was sufficiently. big. I trust that now you have heard what we have to say you will consider—like Mr. Freyder—that the matter is big enough to warrant your attention. You must, Mr. Blackton: you really must!” He leaned forward in his excitement. “Think of it: millions and millions of dollars depending on the caprice of an old fool, who is really far more interested in his wretched albumin food. Why—it's intolerable!”
For a while there was silence, broken at length by Blackton.
“And so,” he remarked calmly, “if I understand you aright, Sir Raymond, your proposal is that I should interest myself in the—shall we say—removal of Professor Goodman? Or, not to mince words, in his death!”
Sir Raymond shivered, and into Blackton's eyes there stole a look of faint contempt as he watched the other man.
“Precisely, Mr. Blackton,” he muttered. “Precisely. In such a way, of course, that no shadow of suspicion can rest on us, or on—or on—any one.”
Mr. Blackton rose: the interview was over.
“I will let you know my decision after lunch,” he remarked. “Shall we drink coffee together here at two o'clock? I expect my daughter will be in by then.”
HE opened the door and bowed them out: then he returned to the table and picked up the bottle of champagne. It was empty, as was the plate of sandwiches. He looked at his own unused glass, and, with a faint shrug of his shoulders, he crossed to his dispatch case and opened it. And when the girl came in he was making a couple of entries in his book.
The first was under the heading “Blantyre” and consisted of a line drawn through the word “Vice”: the second was under the heading Liebhaus, and consisted of the one word “Glutton” written in red. He was thorough in his work.
“You heard?” he said, as he replaced the book.
“Every word,” she answered, lighting a cigarette. “What do you propose to do?”
“There is only one possible thing to do,” he remarked. “Don't you realize, my dear, that had I heard of this discovery I should have been compelled to interfere, even if they had not asked me to. In my position I could not permit a diamond slump; as you know, we have quite a few ourselves. But there is no reason why they shouldn't pay me for it!” He smiled gently. “I shall cross to England by the Orient express tonight.”
“But surely,” cried the girl, “over such a simple matter as this seems to be you needn't go yourself!”
He smiled even more gently, and slipped his arm around her shoulders.
“Do you remember what we were talking about this morning?” he said. “The big coup? Don't you see that even if this is not quite it, it will fill in the time.”
She looked a little puzzled.
“Can't say that I do!” she cried tersely. “You can't ask 'em more than half a million.”
“FUNNILY enough, that is the exact figure I intended to ask them,” he replied. “But you've missed the point, my love—and I'm surprised at you. Everything that Blantyre said this morning was correct with regard to the impossibility of letting such a discovery become known to the world at large. I have no intention of letting it become known; but I have still less intention of letting it be lost. That would be an act of almost suicidal folly. Spread abroad, the knowledge would wreck everything: retained by one individual, it places that individual in a position of supreme power. And, needless to say, I propose to be that individual.”
He was staring thoughtfully over the lake, and suddenly she seized his left hand.
“Ted—stop it!”
For a moment he looked at her in surprise: then he laughed.
“Was I doing it again?” he asked. “It's a good thing you spotted that trick of mine, my dear. If there ever is a next time with Drummond”—his eyes blazed suddenly—“if there ever is—well, we shall see. Just at the moment, however, let us concentrate on Professor Goodman. A telling picture that—wasn't it? Can't you see the old man, blinking behind his spectacles, absorbed in calculations on proteins for infants, with a ring of men around him not one of whom but would have murdered him then and there, if he had dared!”
“But I still don't see how this is going to be anything out of the ordinary,” persisted the girl.
“My dear, I'm afraid that the balmy air of the Lake of Geneva has had a bad effect on you.” Mr. Blackton looked at her in genuine surprise. “I confess that I haven't worked out the details yet, but one point is quite obvious. Before Professor Goodman departs this life he is going to make several hundred diamonds for me, though it would never do to let the two anxious gentlemen downstairs know it. They might say that I wasn't earning my half million. Those diamonds I shall unload with care and discretion during the years to come, so as not to cause a slump in prices. So it really boils down to the fact that the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate will be paying me half a million for the express purpose of putting some five or ten million pounds worth of stones in my pocket. My dear! It's a gift: it's one of those things which make strong men consult a doctor for fear they may be imagining things!”
The girl laughed.
“Where do I come in?”
“AT the moment I'm not sure. So much will depend on circumstances. At any rate, for the present you had better stop on here, and I will send for you when things are a little more advanced.”
A waiter knocked and began to lay the table for lunch; and when at two o'clock the coffee and liqueurs arrived, closely followed by his two visitors, Mr. Blackton was in a genial mood. An excellent bottle of Marcobrunner, followed by a glass of his own particular old brandy, had mellowed him to such an extent that he very nearly produced the bottle for them, but sanity prevailed. It was true that they were going to pay him half a million for swindling them soundly, but there were only three bottles of that brandy left in the world.
The two men looked curiously at the girl as Blackton introduced them—Baron Vanderton had told them about the beauty of this so-called daughter who was his constant and invariable companion. Only she, so he had affirmed, knew what the man who now called himself Blackton really looked like when shorn of his innumerable disguises into which he fitted himself so marvelously. But there were more important: matters at stake than that, and Sir Raymond Blantyre's hand shook a little as he helped himself to a cigarette from the box on the table.
“Well, Mr. Blackton,” he said, as the door closed behind the waiter, “have you decided?”
“I have,” returned the other calmly. “Professor Goodman's discovery will not be made public. He will not speak or give a demonstration at the Royal Society.”
With a vast sigh of relief, Sir Raymond sank into a chair.
“And your—er—fee?”
“Half a million pounds. Two hundred and fifty thousand paid by check made out to self—now: the remainder when you receive indisputable proof that I have carried out the job.”
It was significant that Sir Raymond made no attempt to haggle. Without a word he drew his check book from his pocket, and, going over the writing table, he filled in the required amount.
“I should be glad if it was not presented for two or three days,” he remarked, “as it is drawn on my private account, and I shall have to put in funds to meet it on my return to England.”
Mr. Blackton bowed.
“You return tonight?” he asked.
“By the Orient Express. And you?”
Mr. Blackton shrugged his: shoulders.
“The view here is delightful,” he murmured.
AND with that the representatives of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate had to rest content for the time—until, in fact, the train was approaching the Swiss frontier. They had just finished their dinner, their zest for which, though considerably greater than on the previous night, in view of the success of their mission, had been greatly impaired by the manners of an elderly German sitting at the next table. He was a bent and withered old man with a long hook nose and white hair, who, in the intervals of querulously swearing at the attendant, deposited his dinner on his waistcoat. At length he rose, and, having pressed ten centimes into the outraged hand of the head waiter, he stood for a moment by their table, swaying with the motion of the train.And suddenly he bent down and spoke to Sir Raymond.
“Two or three days I think you said, Sir Raymond.”
With a dry chuckle he was gone, tottering and lurching down the carriage, leaving the President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate gasping audibly.
Chapter II
WHEN Brenda Goodman, in a moment of mental aberration, consented to marry Algy Longworth she little guessed the result. From being just an ordinary partially wanting specimen he became a raving imbecile. Presumably she must have thought it was natural as she showed no signs of terror, at any rate in public, but it was otherwise with his friends. Men who had been wont to foregather with him to consume the matutinal cocktail, now fled with shouts of alarm whenever he hove in sight. Only the baser members of that celebrated society, the main object of which is to cultivate the muscles of the left arm when consuming liquid refreshment, clung to him in his fall from grace. They found that his mental fog was so opaque that he habitually forgot the only rule and raised his glass to his lips with his right hand. And since that immediately necessitated a further round at his expense, they gave great glory to Allah for such an eminently satisfactory state of affairs. And when it is further added that he was actually discovered by Peter Darrell reading sentimental poems on the morning of the Derby, it will be readily conceded that matters looked black.
Illustration: In front of the club, Drummond saw the worthy professor, muttering wildly to himself. “Morning, professor,” he remarked affably. “Been stung by a bee, or what?” Then he added: “I suppose you know you're being shadowed?”
That the state of affairs was only temporary was, of course, recognized: but while it lasted it became necessary for him to leave the councils of men. A fellow who wants to trot back to the clubhouse from the ninth green in the middle of a four-ball foursome to blow his fiancée a kiss through the telephone is a truly hideous spectacle.
And so the sudden action of Hugh Drummond, one fine morning in June, is quite understandable. He had been standing by the window of his room staring into the street, and playing Beaver with himself, when with a wild yell he darted to the bell. He pealed it several times; then he rushed to the door and shouted.
“Denny! Where the devil are you, Denny?”
“Here, sir.”
His trusted body servant and erstwhile batman appeared from the nether regions of the house, and regarded his master in some surprise.
“The door, Denny: the front door. Go and bolt and bar it: put the chain up: turn all the latchkeys. Don't stand there blinking, you fool! Mr. Longworth is tacking up the street, and I know he's coming here. Blow at him through the letter box, and tell him to go away. I will not have him about the house at this hour of the morning. Tell him I'm in bed with housemaid's knee. Not the housemaid's knee, you ass: it's a malady, not a dissecting room in a hospital.”
With a sigh of relief he watched Denny bar the door: then he returned to his own room and sank into an armchair.
“Heavens!” he muttered. “What an escape! Poor old Algy!”
HE sighed again profoundly, and then, feeling in need of support, he rose and crossed to a cask of beer which adorned one corner of the room. And he was just preparing to enjoy the fruits of his labors, when the door opened and Denny came in.
“He won't go, sir—says he must see you, before you dine with his young lady tonight.”
“Great Scott! Denny—isn't that enough?” said Drummond wildly. “Not that one minds dining with her, but it's watching him that is so painful. Have you inspected him this morning?”
“I kept the door on the chain, sir, and glanced at him. He seems to me to be a little worried.”
Drummond crossed to the window and looked out. Standing on the pavement outside was the unfortunate Algy, who waved his stick wildly at sight of him.
“Your damned man Denny has gone mad!” he cried. “He kept the door on the chain and gibbered like a monkey. I want to see you.”
“I know you do, Algy: I saw you coming up Brook Street. And it was I who told Denny to bar the door. Have you come to talk to me about love?”
“No, old man, I swear I haven't,” said Algy earnestly. “I won't mention the word, I promise you. And it's really most frightfully important.”
“All right,” said Drummond cautiously. “Denny shall let you in: but at the first word of poetry—out you go through the window.”
He nodded to his servant, and a moment or two later Algy Longworth came into the room. The newcomer was arrayed in a faultless morning coat, and Hugh Drummond eyed him noncommittally. He certainly looked a little worried, though his immaculate topper and white spats seemed to show that he was bearing up with credit.
“Going to Ranelagh, old bird,” said Algy. “Hence the bathing suit. Lunching first, don't you know, and all that—so I thought I'd drop in this morning to make sure of catching you. You and Phyllis are dining there this evening, aren't you?”
“We are,” said Hugh.
“Well, the most awful thing has happened, old boy. My prospective father-in-law to be—Brenda's dear old male parent—has gone mad. He's touched: he's wanting: he's up the pole.”
HE lit a cigarette impressively, and Drummond stared at him.
“What's the matter with the old thing?” he demanded. “I met him outside his club yesterday and he didn't seem to be any worse than usual.”
“My dear boy, I didn't know anything about it till last night!” cried Algy. “He sprang it on us at dinner, and I tell you I nearly swooned. I tried to register mirth, but I failed, Hugh—I failed. I shudder to think what my face must have looked like.” He was pacing up and down the room in his agitation. “You know, don't you, old man, that he ain't what you'd call rolling in boodle? I mean, with the best will in the world, you couldn't call him a financial noise. And though, of course, it doesn't matter to me what Brenda has—if we can't manage I shall have to do a job of work or something—yet I feel sort of responsible for the old parent. And when he goes and makes a prize ass of himself, it struck me that I ought to sit up and take notice. I thought it over all last night, and decided to come and tell you this morning, so that we could all have a go at him tonight.”
“What has he done?” demanded Hugh, with some interest.
“You know he's got a laboratory,” continued Algy, “where he goes and plays games. It's a perfect factory of extraordinary smells, but the old dear seems to enjoy himself. He'll probably try his new albuminized chicken food on you tonight, but that's a detail. To get to the point—have you ever noticed that big diamond Brenda wears as a brooch?”
“Yes—I have. Phyllis was speaking about it the other night.”
“You know he made it,” said Algy quietly, and Hugh stared at him. “It is still supposed to be a secret: it was to be kept dark till the next meeting of the Royal Society—but after what has happened I decided to tell you. About a fortnight ago a peculiar-looking bloke called Sir Raymond Blantyre came and dined. He's made his money in diamonds and he was on to that diamond like a terrier on to a rat. And when he heard old Goodman had made it, I thought he was going to expire from a rush of blood to the head. He'd just offered Brenda a check for ten thousand for it, when he was told it had cost a little over a fiver to make. As I say, he turned a deep magenta and dropped his eyeglass in the Sauce Tartare. That was the first spasm: the next we heard last night. Apparently the old man agreed to give a demonstration to this bloke and some of his pals, and the result of the show was—great heavens, when I think of it, my brain comes out in a rash!—the result, Hugh, was that they offered him a quarter of a million pounds to suppress his discovery. Two hundred and fifty thousand acidulated tablets—and he refused. One supreme glorious burst on fifty thousand of the best, and an income from the remaining two hundred for the rest of his life. We worked it out after dinner, my boy—Brenda and I. Two hundred thousand at five per cent. We couldn't quite make out what it would come to, but whatever it is he has cast it from him. And then you wonder at my anguish!”
WITH a hollow groan, Algy helped himself to beer and sank into a chair.
“Look here, Algy,” said Hugh, after a pause, “you aren't playing the fool, are you? You literally mean that Professor Goodman has discovered a method by which diamonds can be made artificially?”
“Exactly: that is what I literally mean. And I further literally mean that he has turned down an offer of quarter of a million thick-uns to keep dark about it. And what I want you and Phyllis to do this evening”
“Dry up!” interrupted Hugh. He was staring out of the window, and his usual look of inane good temper had completely vanished. He was thinking deeply and after a few moments he swung around on the disconsolate Algy.
“This is a pretty serious affair, Algy,” he remarked.
“You bet your life it is,” agreed his friend. “Quarter”
“Forget the boodle. That's bad I admit—but it's not that I'm thinking of.”
“I don't know what the deuce else there is to think about. Just because he wants to spout out his footling discovery to a bunch of old geysers at the Royal Society ”
Hugh regarded him dispassionately for a moment.
“I have often wondered why they ever let you leave school,” he remarked. “Your brain is even smaller than the ten bob helping of caviare they gave me at the Majestic last night. You don't really think it's a footling discovery, do you? You don't really think people run about the streets of London pressing two hundred and fifty thousand pounds on comparative strangers for fun?”
“Oh! I suppose the old bean has spotted a winner right enough,” conceded Algy grudgingly.
“NOW, look here,” said Drummond quietly. “I don't profess to know anything about diamonds or the diamond market. But if what you say is correct—if the professor can manufacture for a fiver a stone worth ten thousand pounds, at current prices, you don't need to know much about markets to see that diamonds will be on a par with bananas as soon as the process is known. Further, you don't need to know much about markets to see that such a state of affairs would be deuced unpopular with quite a lot of people. If you've got all your money in diamonds and wake up one bright morning to read in the paper that a diamond weighing half a ton has just been manufactured for three and sixpence, it's going to make the breakfast kipper look a bit jaded.”
“I know all that, old boy,” said Algy, a bit wearily. “But they're just additional reasons for the old ass taking the money. Then every one would be happy. Only he's so confoundedly pig-headed! Why when I sort of suggested after dinner last night during the nut mastication period that he could do a lot with the boodle—help him no end with his albuminized chicken seed, and all that—he got quite stuffy.
“'My dear boy,' he said, 'you don't understand. To offer a scientist money to suppress a discovery of possibly far-reaching importance is not only an insult to him, but it is also an insult to science. I would not suppress this for a million pounds.'
“Then he forgot to pass the port, and the meeting broke up in disorder.”
Hugh nodded thoughtfully.
“I'm afraid they will suppress it for him,” he said gravely.
Algy stared at him.
“How do you mean, suppress it for him?” he demanded at length.
“I haven't an idea,” answered Drummond. “Not even the beginning of one. But people have fallen in front of tube trains before now: people have been accidentally killed by a passing car.”
“But, good heavens, man!” cried Algy dazedly. “You don't mean to say that you think some one will murder the poor old fruit!”
Drummond shrugged his shoulders. “Your future father-in-law has it in his power to ruin completely large numbers of extremely wealthy men. Apparently with the best will in the world he proposes to do so. He has butted into a huge vested interest, and, as far as I can make out from what you've told me, he quite fails to realize the fact.” He lit a cigarette thoughtfully.
“But what the devil are we to do, Hugh?” said Algy, now very serious himself. “I tell you it will be impossible to make him accept that money. He's as docile as a sheep in some ways, but once he does stick his toes in over anything, a bag of gunpowder won't shift him.”
“Well, if he really is determined to go through with it, it may be necessary to get him away and keep a watchful eye on him till he gets it off his chest at the Royal Society. That is to say, if he'll come. Once it's out—it's out, and the reasons for doing away with him will largely have disappeared,” he explained.
“Yes—but I say, old man—murder!” Algy harked back to his original point. “Don't you think that's a bit over the odds?”
In the Professor's Lair
Hugh laughed grimly. “You've lived the quiet life too long, Algy. There are stakes at issue now which strike me as being a deuced sight bigger than anything we played for with dear old Carl Peterson. Bigger, at any rate, financially.” An almost dreamy look came into his eyes, and he sighed deeply. “Those were the days, Algy—those were the days. I'm afraid we shall never have them again. Still—if what I'm afraid of is correct, we might have a bit of fun looking after the old man. Dull, of course, but better than nothing.” He sighed again, and helped himself to more beer. “Now you trot off, and lunch with Brenda. Don't tell her anything about what I've said. I shall make one or two discreet inquiries this afternoon, and this evening I will bring the brain to bear over the fish and chips.” He paused and raised his glass.
“Right, old man!” cried Algy, rising with alacrity. “Deuced good of you and all that. I'd hate the dear old bird to take it in the neck. His port is pretty putrid, I admit—but still”
He waved his stick cheerfully, and a few second later Hugh watched him walking rapidly down Brook Street. And long after Algy had disappeared he was still standing at the window staring into the street.
HUGH DRUMMOND laid no claim to being brilliant. His brain, as he frequently remarked, was of the “also-ran” variety. But he was undoubtedly the possessor of shrewd common sense, which generally enabled him to arrive at the same result as a far more brilliant man would reach, and, incidentally, by a much more direct route. He was, it may be said, engaged in trying to arrive at what he called, in military parlance, the general idea. He did it by a process of reasoning which at any rate was easy to follow.
First, Algy, though a fool and partially demented, was not a liar. Therefore, the story he had just listened to was true. Second, the bloke who had turned a deep magenta, though possibly a liar, was certainly not a fool. If he had made his money in diamonds, he couldn't be—at any rate, as far as diamonds were concerned. Third, since he had offered Professor Goodman no less than a quarter of a million to suppress the secret, he had evidently got a jolt in a tender spot. Fourth, here was the great query: Just how tender was that spot?
Hugh had spoken glibly about markets to Algy, but he realized only too well that he actually knew nothing about diamonds. He recalled dimly that they were found in mines near Kimberley: beyond that, his knowledge of the subject was limited to the diamond engagement ring he had bought for Phyllis. And, having reached that point in his deliberations, he decided that before coming to any definite conclusion it would be well to take some expert advice on the matter.
He rose and pressed the bell: Toby Sinclair was the very man. In the intervals of backing losers, that bright particular star graced a city firm with his presence—a firm which he knew dealt in precious stones on the whole sale side.
“Denny,” he said, as his servant came in, “ring up Mr. Sinclair in the city and ask him to have lunch with me at the club today. Tell him it's very important.”
FIVE minutes later he was strolling in the same direction as that taken by Algy, but at a more leisurely pace. His face was still contorted with thought: periodically he stopped abruptly and glared into space. How big was the jolt? Was it really big enough to justify the fears he had expressed to Algy, or was he exaggerating things in his own mind?
He ruminated on the perplexing point over his cocktail in the Regency: he was still ruminating as he passed into St. James' Square on the way to the club. To reach it he had to pass the doors of Professor Goodman's club, and as he walked slowly on the cause of all his profound mental activity hove into sight—the worthy professor himself. Drummond paused: it seemed to him that something had happened. For the professor was muttering wildly to himself, while periodically he shook his fist menacingly in the air.
“Morning, professor,” he remarked affably. “Been stung by a bee, or what?”
The professor stopped abruptly and stared at him dazedly.
“It's you, Drummond, is it?” he said. “I've just received a most scandalous letter—perfectly scandalous. A threat, sir—an anonymous threat. Read it.”
He held out a common-looking envelope which he handed to Drummond. But that worthy only took it mechanically: his eyes—shrewd and thoughtful—were looking over the professor's shoulder. A man had come hurriedly around King Street, only to pause with equal suddenness, and stare into an area below.
“I suppose, professor,” he remarked quietly, still holding the letter in his hand, “that you know you're being followed, don't you?”
To be continued in the October McClure's