Tales of Mystery & Suspense: 25+ Thrillers in One Edition. E. Phillips Oppenheim
Professor sat up, and gazed at them all with the air of a man who had just awakened from a dream. His features relapsed, his mouth once more resolved itself into pleasant and natural lines. He smiled at them cordially.
“Have I, by any chance, slept?” he asked. “Or—”
He never finished his sentence. His eyes fell upon the mirror, the metal band lying by his side. He read the truth in the faces still turned towards him. He rose to his feet. There was another and equally sudden change in his demeanour and tone. He carried himself with the calm dignity of the scientist.
“The end of our struggle, I presume?” he said to Quest, pointing to the metal band. “You will at least admit that I have shown you fine sport?”
No one answered him. Even Quest had barely yet recovered himself. The Professor shrugged his shoulders.
“I recognise, of course,” he said gravely, “that this is the end. A person in extremis has privileges. Will you allow me to write just a matter of twenty lines at your desk?”
Silently Quest assented. The Professor seated himself in the swing chair, drew a sheet of paper towards him, dipped the pen in the ink and began to write. Then he turned round and reached for his own small black bag which lay upon the table. Quest caught him by the wrist.
“What do you want out of that, Professor?” he enquired.
“Merely my own pen and ink,” the Professor expostulated. “If there is anything I detest in the world, it is violet ink. And your pen, too, is execrable. As these are to be the last words I shall leave to a sorrowing world, I should like to write them in my own fashion. Open the bag for yourself, if you will. You can pass me the things out.”
Quest opened the bag, took out a pen and a small glass bottle of ink. He handed them to the Professor, who started once more to write. Quest watched him for a moment and then turned away to French. The Professor looked over his shoulder and suddenly bared his wrist. Lenora seized her employer by the arm.
“Look!” she cried. “What is he going to do?”
Quest swung round, but he was too late. The Professor had dug the pen into his arm. He sat in his chair and laughed as they all hurried towards him. Then suddenly he sprang to his feet. Again the change came into his face which they had seen in the mirror. French dashed forward towards him. The Professor snarled, seemed about to spring, then suddenly once more stretched out his hands to show that he was helpless and handed to Quest the paper upon which he had been writing.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” he exclaimed. “Here is my last message to you, Sanford Quest. Read it—read it aloud. Always remember that this was not your triumph but mine.”
Quest held up the paper. They all read. The Professor’s letters were carefully formed, his handwriting perfectly legible.
“You have been a clever opponent, Sanford Quest, but even now you are to be cheated. The wisdom of the ages outreaches yours, outreaches it and triumphs.”
Quest looked up quickly.
“What the devil does he mean?” he muttered.
The Professor’s arms shot suddenly above his head. Again that strange, animal look convulsed his features. He burst into a loud, unnatural laugh.
“Mean, you fool?” he cried, holding out his wrist, which was slowly turning black. “Poisoned! That is what it means!”
They all stared at him. Quest seized the ink bottle, revealed the false top and laid it down again with a little exclamation. Then, before they could realize it, the end came. The Professor lay, a crumpled-up heap, upon the floor. The last change of all had taken place in his face. His arms were outstretched, his face deathly white, his lips faintly curved in the half amiable, half supercilious smile of the savant who sees beyond. Quest stooped over him.
“He is dead,” he declared.
Quest swung round in his chair as French entered the room, and held out his left hand.
“Glad to see you, French. Help yourself to a cigar.”
“I don’t know as I want to smoke this morning just at present, thank you,” French replied.
Quest laid down his pen and looked up. French was fidgeting about with his hat in his hand. He was dressed more carefully than usual, but he was obviously ill at ease.
“Nothing wrong, eh?”
“No, there’s nothing wrong,” French admitted. “I just looked in—”
Quest waited for a moment. Then he crossed his legs and assumed a patient attitude.
“What the dickens did you look in for?” he asked.
“The fact of it is,” French explained, “I should like a few words with Miss Laura.”
Quest laughed shortly.
“Why on earth couldn’t you say so?” he observed. “Never knew you bashful before, Inspector. She’s up in the laboratory. I’ll ring for some one to show you the way.”
Quest touched the bell and his new secretary entered almost at once.
“Take Inspector French up into the laboratory,” Quest directed. “See you later, French.”
“Yes—perhaps—I hope so,” the Inspector replied nervously.
Quest watched him disappear, with a puzzled smile.
Then he sat down at his desk, drew a sheet of paper towards him and began to write:
“My dear Inspector,
“I am taking this opportunity of letting you know that out of deference to the wishes of the woman I hope soon to marry, I am abandoning the hazardous and nerve-racking profession of criminology for a safer and happier career. You will have, therefore, to find help elsewhere in the future.
“With best wishes,
“Yours,
“Sanford Quest.”
He left the sheet of paper upon the desk and, ringing the bell, sent for Lenora. She appeared in a few moments and came over to his side.
“What is it, Mr. Quest?” she asked.
He gave her the letter without remark. She read it through and, turning slowly around, looked at him expectantly.
“How’s that seem to you?” he asked, reaching out his hand for a cigar.
“Very sensible indeed,” she replied.
“It’s no sort of life, this, for a married man,” Quest declared. “You agree with me there, don’t you, Lenora?”
“Yes!” she admitted, a little faintly.
Quest lit his cigar deliberately. Then he enclosed the letter in an envelope and addressed it to Inspector French.
“You’d better deliver this to the Inspector,” he said, “in case he doesn’t call round here on his way out.”
He handed her the note. For a moment she looked at him, then she turned quickly away.
“He shall have it at once,” she said in a low tone.
Quest watched her cross the room. She opened the door and passed out without a backward glance. Then he shrugged his shoulders, hesitated for a moment, and followed her. He heard the door of her apartment on the next floor close, however, and made his way to the laboratory. He entered the room softly and paused upon the threshold. His presence was altogether unobserved by the two people who were standing at the other end of the apartment.
“I say, Miss Laura,” the Inspector was saying, “this has got to come sometime or other. Why don’t you make up your mind to it? I’m no great hand at love-making, but I’m the right sort of man for you and I think you know it.”
“This,” Quest