The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile "Sapper". Sapper
and be done with it when he was here? As it is, I've got to waste tomorrow morning as well fooling round in the city; and with the funeral in the afternoon the old brain will cease to function. Mix me a cocktail, like a good fellow. Everything is in the cupboard."
And thus it came about that while two cocktails were being lowered in gloomy silence in Brook Street, a cheerful-looking old gentleman with mutton- chop whiskers entered his quiet residential hotel in Bayswater. There were no signs of gloomy silence about the old gentleman; in fact, he was almost chatty with the lounge waiter.
"I think—yes, I think," he remarked, 'that I will have a small cocktail. Not a thing I often do—but this evening I will indulge."
"Spotted a winner, sir?" said the waiter, responding to the old gentleman's mood.
"Something of that sort, my lad," he replied genially—"something of that sort."
And Mr William Robinson's smile was enigmatic.
He seldom remembered an afternoon when in a quiet way he had enjoyed himself so much. In fact, he was almost glad that Drummond had refused to hand over the notes: it would have been so inartistic—so crude. Of course it would have saved bother, but where is the true artist who thinks of that? And he had never really imagined that Drummond would; he knew that young gentleman far too well for that. Naturally he was suspicious: well, he would be more suspicious tomorrow morning. He would be so suspicious, in fact, that in all probability the worthy Mr Tootem would get the shock of his life. He chuckled consumedly, and departed so far from his established custom as to order a second Martini. And as he lifted it to his lips he drank a silent toast: he drank to the shrewd powers of observation of a beautiful girl who was even then watching orange change to pink on the snow-capped Dent du Midi from the balcony of her room in the Palace Hotel.
And so it is unnecessary to emphasise the fact that there were wheels destined to rotate within wheels in the comfortable room in Austin Friars where Mr Tootem senior discharged his affairs, though that pillar of the legal profession was supremely unaware of the fact. With his usual courtly grace he had risen to greet the eminent German savant Professor Scheidstrun, who had arrived at about ten minutes to eleven on the following morning. Somewhat to Mr Tootem's surprise, the Professor had been accompanied by his wife, and Frau Scheidstrun was now waiting in the next room for the business to be concluded.
"Most sad, Professor," murmured Mr Tootem. "An irreparable loss, as you say, to the scientific world—and to his friends." He glanced at the clock. "This young man—Captain Drummond—will be here, you say, at eleven."
"That is the arrangement that I haf with him made," answered the German. "He would not to me quite rightly the notes hand over yesterday; but as you see from the letter, it was my dear friend's wish that I should haf them, and carry on with the great discovery he has made."
"Quite so," murmured Mr Tootem benevolently, wishing profoundly that Drummond would hasten his arrival. The morning, was warm; the Professor's egg-stained garments scandalised his British soul to the core; and in addition, Mr Tootem senior had arrived at that ripe age when office hours were made to be relaxed. He particularly wished to be at Lord's in time to see Middlesex open their innings against Yorkshire, and only the fact that Professor Goodman had been a personal friend of his had brought him to the city at all that day.
At length with a sigh of relief he looked up. Sounds of voices outside betokened someone's arrival, and the business would be a short one.
"Is this the young man?" he said, rubbing his hands together.
But the Professor made no reply: he was watching the door which opened at that moment to admit Drummond. And since Mr Tootem rose at once to greet him, the fact that he had not answered escaped the lawyer's attention. He also failed to notice that an unaccountable expression of uneasiness showed for a moment on the German's face, as he contemplated Drummond's vast bulk.
"Ah! Captain Drummond, I'm glad you've come," remarked Mr Tootem. "Let me see—you know Professor Scheidstrun, don't you?" He waved Drummond to a chair.
"Yes, we had a little pow-wow yesterday afternoon," said Drummond, seating himself.
The strained look had vanished from the Professor's face: he beamed cheerfully. "In which I found him most suspicious," he said in his guttural voice. "But quite rightly so."
"Exactly," murmured Mr Tootem, again glancing at the clock. It would take him at least twenty minutes to get to Lord's. "But I am sure he will not be suspicious of me. And since I have one or two important—er— business engagements, perhaps we can conduct this little matter through expeditiously."
He beamed benevolently on Drummond, who was leaning back in his chair regarding the Professor through half-closed lids. "Now, I understand that my dear friend and client, the late Professor Goodman, handed over to you some very valuable papers, Captain Drummond," continued Mr Tootem. "A great compliment, I may say, showing what faith he placed in your judgment and trustworthiness. I have here—and I gather you have seen this letter—instructions that those papers should be handed over to me. You have them with you, I trust?"
"Oh! yes. I've got them with me," said Drummond quietly, though his eyes never left the German's face.
"Excellent," murmured Mr Tootem. At a pinch he might do Lord's in a quarter of an hour. "Then if you would kindly let me have them, that will—ah—conclude the matter. I may say that I quite appreciate your reluctance to hand them to anyone but me..."
The worthy lawyer broke off abruptly. "Good heavens! Captain Drummond, what is the matter?" For Drummond had risen from his chair, and was standing in front of the Professor. "You're not the man who came to see me yesterday," he said quietly. "You're not Professor Scheidstrun at all."
"But the man is mad," gasped the German. "You say I am not Scheidstrun—me."
"You're made up to look exactly like him—but you're not Scheidstrun! I tell you, Mr. Tootem"—he turned to the lawyer, who was staring at him aghast—"that that man is no more Scheidstrun than I am. The disguise is wonderful—but his hair is a slightly different colour. Ever since I came in I've been wondering what it was."
"This young man is mad," said the German angrily. "The reason that it is a slightly different colour is that I wear a wig. I haf two: this morning I wear the other one to what I wear yesterday."
But Drummond wasn't even listening. Like a bird fascinated by a snake he was staring at the Professor's left hand, beating an agitated tattoo on his knee. For a moment or two he was dazed, as the stupendous reality burst on his mind. Before him sat Carl Peterson himself, given away once again by that old trick which he could never get rid of, that ceaseless nervous movement of the left hand. It was incredible; the suddenness of the thing took his breath away. And then the whole thing became clear to him. Somehow or other Peterson had heard of the discovery; perhaps employed by Sir Raymond Blantyre himself. He had found out that the notes of the process were to be handed to Scheidstrun, and with his usual consummate daring had decided to impersonate the German. And the woman he had seen arriving the night before was Irma.
His thoughts were chaotic: only the one great thing stuck out. The man in front of him was Peterson: he knew it. And with one wild hoot of utter joy he leapt upon him.
"My little Carl," he murmured ecstatically, "the pitcher has come to the well once too often."
Possibly it had; but the scene which followed beggared description. Peterson or not Peterson, his confession as to wearing a wig was the truth. It came off with a slight sucking noise, revealing a domelike cranium completely devoid of hair. With a wild yell of terror the unfortunate German sprang from his chair, and darted behind the portly form of Mr Tootem, while Drummond, brandishing the wig, advanced on him.
"Damn it, sir," spluttered Mr Tootem, "I'll send for the police, sir; you must be mad."
"Out of the way, Tootles," said Drummond happily. "You'll scream with laughter when I tell you the truth. Though we'd best make certain the swab hasn't got a gun."
With a quick heave he jerked the cowering man out from behind the lawyer, who immediately rushed to the door shouting for help.
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