Account Settled. John Russell Fearn
can’t have made many friends in that time. He’s here because of his daughter’s health—heart disease or something. Anyway, she needs softer air.”
Darnhome drained his whisky glass and reflected.
“Sounds easy enough, if neatly done. Stranger in town with an invalid daughter.”
“Hardly an invalid,” de Brock corrected. “Even if you have got heart disease, you can sometimes skip around and fool everybody. I don’t like the daughter angle, myself. Girls get outraged ideas sometimes when their fathers mysteriously vanish. How old is she?”
“Twenty-five.”
“I dislike it still more,” de Brock said, and picked up his glass.
“Well, a venture with no element of risk simply doesn’t exist,” Drew said, shrugging. “The fact remains that you, de Brock, represent Atomic Power; that you, J.K., control Metals, and that I have control of science and finance. Combined, we comprise a triumvirate of infinite power, and into our hands has come the wherewithal to add to our millions—not by manufacturing this bomb for our own country, but for other countries, who, as we know, are just waiting for an invention like this in order to retrieve their shattered fortunes. Atomic explosive in an unlimited number of Quinton bombs can bring any country to its knees in twenty-four hours. I do not propose to let the inventor of such an idea live. It would be suicidal.”
“All right,” de Brock said, after consideration. “I’m with you. What about you, J.K.?”
Darnhome shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned, an inventor is neither here nor there where business is concerned.… What do you propose doing, Drew?”
“You can leave that to me. I haven’t failed before on a job of this kind, and I shan’t this time. There’s a little matter of a receipt that I shall have to attend to. Quinton has that. You need have no fear but what it will be recovered. One thing, though, we must all understand!” Drew looked at both impressively in turn. “The actual secret of the Quinton bomb is ours alone—and that of Valant, my chief scientist. It must go no further than that. I will attend to the scientific end and the financing thereof; you, de Brock, will supply the atomic explosive from your organization; and you, J.K., the necessary metals. I’ll make the necessary international contacts. That agreed?”
The other two men nodded slowly. Drew sat back and rubbed his hands.
“Good! With Quinton eliminated, and his daughter taken care of if she shows any signs of getting inquisitive, we’ve nothing to stop us cleaning up the biggest thing yet. Just let me handle it, gentlemen, and I’ll let you know how things work out.”
They got to their feet and went over to the stand for their coats. In another few minutes they left, Drew thoughtfully contemplating the bomb upon his desk. He sat nearly motionless for three minutes, pulling at his cigar—and then at last he raised the telephone.
“Get me a Mr. Quinton at the Grand Hotel,” he told the night switch-girl.
“Yes, Mr. Drew.”
After a moment or two of cross-talking, the inventor’s voice came over the wire.
“Ah, Mr. Quinton.” Drew oozed magnanimity. “I’ve been going into the matter of your—er—blueprint, but it’s going to take longer than I anticipated. Maybe a week. Besides, there are one or two other details I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Of course. I’ll come over and have a chat right away if you like—”
“No, no that won’t be necessary. Tomorrow morning will do nicely, as we arranged—but I want you to bring that receipt with you and I’ll give you another one, extending the time we are allowed to keep the blueprint. Understand?”
“Er—yes,” Quinton replied, though he sounded vague.
“Also,” Drew went on, “I’d be glad of your model and whatever notes and other blueprints you may have in connection with this invention. They can all be included on the new receipt if you’d care to bring them.”
“Willingly, Mr. Drew. I’m only too glad to cooperate. Tell me, do you think I have something that really interests you?”
“There’s no doubt of that,” Drew answered calmly. “I think we’ll be able to come to terms. Now look here, I don’t like the thought of a valuable man like you bringing such plans through London either on foot or in a taxi. I’ll send my private car for you. It’ll be there at ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Just so as you can be sure, my chauffeur’s name is Brant.”
“That’s very good of you, Mr. Drew—”
“Not a bit. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Goodbye.”
“Bye.…”
Drew put the phone back on its cradle and then pressed a switch on the interphone box. A gruff voice answered.
“Yes, Mr. Drew?
“Brant? Come up to my office a moment.”
“Yessir.”
Drew waited until his chauffeur came from the staff room at the base of the great building. It took him five minutes, then he came striding into the room in his purple livery, peaked cap in hand. He was an iron-necked, square-jawed man of medium height, and being a chauffeur was not his only vocation. In fact, only the power of Drew kept Douglas Brant out of the reach of the law.
“I’ve a job for you, Brant—” Drew looked at him across the desk. “Tomorrow morning at ten-thirty sharp you will arrive in the car at the Grand Hotel in Fennis Street and pick up a Swiss by the name of Rajek Quinton. You may even be asked if his daughter can come, too. If so, don’t raise any objections. You will bring them straight here. You will ask Quinton if he has got everything: say I told you to ask that. Clear so far?”
The bullet head nodded.
“You will drive Quinton here. When he leaves here, you will head in the direction of the Grand Hotel, but he must never get there. He must be—lost, and you get from him a receipt that he will be carrying with him. It will have my name on it.”
“Yes, sir,” the chauffeur agreed briefly. “As in the ease of that French bloke L’Estrage and that other fellow Travers, from New York, you mean?”
“Exactly. And make a good job of it. No chance of recognition afterwards.”
“And supposing the daughter is there, too? What do I do then?”
Drew spread his podgy hands and smiled. “Like father, like daughter. You need not discriminate.”
“I’ll see to it, sir. Anything more?
“Not in that direction.” Drew got to his feet. “I’m leaving now. You can drive me home.”
CHAPTER THREE
At 10:25 the following morning Rajek Quinton was in the lounge of the Grand Hotel, pacing slowly up and down, hat and topcoat on, his briefcase in one hand and a small cardboard box containing his model bomb in the other. Seated at one of the wicker tables watching him was Jaline.
“I don’t often see you so excited, dad,” she remarked, smiling.
“Who wouldn’t be?” He came over to her. “This may mean a real fortune…the acknowledgment of my genius as a watchmaker, apart from the million advance and royalties to follow. With all that money we’ll really be able to do as we want.”
“For that matter, we could do so on the fifty thousand.”
“Only within limits, my dear—to live as we want to live. I need a lot of money as working capital for other inventions and materials. Fifty thousand doesn’t go far when costly materials are needed.”
“Well.…” A tiny frown marred the girl’s forehead. “I only hope things work out right. Silly of me to be so doubting, I suppose, but somehow—”
“Silly?