Account Settled. John Russell Fearn
rose ever so slightly. “Any reason why he shouldn’t? Incidentally, I’d better explain. I am Janet Kayne, personal secretary to Mr. Drew.”
“Then I couldn’t have met a better person!” Jaline Quinton seemed by now to have completely recovered. “I’m wondering what has happened to my father. Have you any idea what time he left here?”
“I should think it would be about quarter to eleven.”
“Then—” Worry came back to Jaline Quinton’s face. “Then where is he? He said he’d come straight back to the hotel. Even if he walked it, he could do it within half an hour—and now it’s noon! I’m terribly worried. That’s why I came along to see if I could find him.”
Jaline’s eyes met the secretary’s level, impersonal ones for a moment. Janet Kayne raised and lowered her shoulders gently.
“I’m sure there must be quite a reasonable explanation, Miss Quinton. After all, not very much time has gone by. Your father may have called somewhere and—”
“But you don’t understand! My father came here about his invention and every moment he’s out of my sight I’m scared for his safety.”
“Then I’m sure you needn’t be. He arrived here safely with all the details of his invention. I know, because I typed out the receipt. If you take my advice, Miss Quinton, you’ll go back to the hotel where I’m sure you’ll find your father waiting for you. By this time he is probably the anxious one.”
Jaline got to her feet and nodded worriedly—then both she and Janet Kayne glanced towards the elevator as the gates clanged back. Emerson Drew himself emerged in topcoat and black soft hat, gold-knobbed cane in his hand.
He glanced briefly towards the two women, let his eyes rest for a moment on his secretary, then following his usual custom outside the office, he took no further notice and proceeded on his way to the outdoors.
“That’s Mr. Drew,” Janet Kayne explained quietly. “And I’m afraid I must be moving on. Perhaps I could see you as far as the end of the street?”
“No, thanks all the same.” Jaline Quinton squared her shoulders. “I’ll be all right—really. I soon get over these bad spells of mine.”
Nevertheless, Janet Kayne took the girl’s arm firmly as they walked side by side towards the swing doors.
* * * *
At the very moment the two women were leaving the Drew Building, Rajek Quinton was recovering from the stupefying effects of an ether-soaked handkerchief. As consciousness drifted back to him in snatches he remembered bits and pieces—vaguely, clouded by the miasma of dreams.
He had got into the car. Brant had driven in quite normal fashion amidst the traffic, then complaining of engine trouble, he had turned down a side street and stopped.… Then what? Dully, Quinton remembered. He had said he would get out and walk—but he had been forced back into the car with that handkerchief over his face, had collapsed in a corner seat as though asleep. And now—
He opened his eyes and for a moment or two his brain swam. Then he became aware that he was out in the country somewhere. There was a dry rustling of grass, a warm breeze fanning his face. Above him was pale autumn sky and the sound of an active bird.
Gradually Quinton propped himself on his elbow and found he was lying in the grass beside a hedge. Not far away, leaning on the wire beside the hedge, was Brant, smoking a cigarette.
“Better, Mr. Quinton?” he asked briefly, and threw the cigarette down to grind it under his heel.
“Better—?” Quinton staggered up and stood staring at the stocky, powerful chauffeur fixedly. “What the devil are you talking about? You made me unconscious with that ether!”
“That’s right,” Brant agreed, straightening. “Just so’s to keep you quiet while I got you out here. We’re about twenty miles from anywhere—and you’re not going back!”
“I’m not—” Quinton’s head swam again. “W-what did you say?”
“You’ve come to the end of the road!” Brant regarded him with small, merciless eyes. “I’ve got a job to do—and I’ll do it proper, as I always do. See those wooden props standing up over there?” He pointed behind him.
Quinton looked wonderingly and nodded.
“They’re disused copper mines,” Brant explained. “And there’s no better place for getting rid o’ folks. Quagmire at the bottom and it takes care of everything. But just in case it doesn’t—in case your body isn’t sucked down as it should be—there’s a second precaution for making you unrecognizable.”
Quinton drew a deep breath and clenched his fists.
“What the devil are you talking about?” he demanded fiercely. “You lay a hand on me and I’ll—”
“No, you won’t,” Brant interrupted. “I’ve got it all planned, and I’ve got your wallet, including the receipt Mr. Drew gave you. Vital for me to have that. There’s no identification beyond the clothes you stand up in. And your face—and neither of ’em will count for much in a moment, either!”
Before Quinton could understand what was intended, Brant stooped and picked up a flat metal bowl that had been lying in the grass. Very carefully he balanced it on his palm. There appeared to be water in it and Quinton watched curiously.
“I filled this while you were unconscious,” Brant explained “Same as I took your wallet. Here it comes!”
Quinton half turned, as though to run—then the water-like liquid in the bowl landed in his face and across his suit. Instantly he screamed at the frightful anguish of pure nitric acid as it ate deep into his flesh. Blindly, as words came tumbling out of his mouth, he fell on his knees, and clawed at his face. The acid trickled corrosively through his clutching fingers.
“Only sure way to destroy identity,” Brant told him. “Now, come on—”
He grabbed him by the arm and forced him, screaming hoarsely, across the rough grass towards the mine planks. Then he gave him a mighty shove. Blindly, sobbing now with the pain of the acid, Quinton heaved over the edge of the mineshaft and pitched downwards.
Brant stood waiting, listening, his square jaw set tightly. At last he heard it—the deep, soggy thud of the body striking the quagmire at the bottom of the shaft. A low sigh escaped him and he lit another cigarette. He delayed several minutes more, and then at last he turned and walked back to where he left the emptied bowl of acid. He picked it up carefully and returned it to the car in the roadway. Silently he drove away down the deserted country lane.
It was half-past two when he entered Emerson Drew’s office and found the big man alone, browsing through the papers on desk. Drew said nothing, but his hard gray eyes had an unmistakable question in them.
Brant nodded slowly in confirmation and placed the wallet on the desk, then he stood and watched in silence, as Drew went through it.
“And there is no chance of him returning?” Drew asked, when his examination was finished.
“None,” Brant replied with conviction. “Nor is there any chance of identification if the body should ever be found. I can give you the details, sir—if you want them.”
Drew shook his shaven head. “No. I’ll take your word for it. That’s all for now, Brant.”
“And what about the daughter, sir? Not bothering about her?”
Drew reflected and then tightened his lips.
“Not yet, anyway. See what develops. Now get out.”
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