Читать книгу Account Settled - John Russell Fearn - Страница 6

CHAPTER TWO

Jaline Quinton was waiting for her father when he came into the entrance lounge of the Grand Hotel. She saw him enter through the revolving doors, got to her feet hurriedly, and went across to him.

“Well, dad, how did it go?” She spoke in her native tongue.

“Oh, hello, Jal.…” Her father smiled at her, did not resist as she led him across to the wicker chairs under the dried palms where she had been seated. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

“Nothing else for it,” the girl answered, sighing. “The post was filled. Don’t seem to be many people who want an inter­preter these days. You’d think that with a knowledge of seven languages, I’d get a good deal further than this.”

Her serious blue eyes regarded him for a moment. She was a good-looking girl of obviously Teutonic descent. Blonde hair was piled in coils and waves on top of her head and about her ears. She was slender-shouldered, elfin-limbed, with features which had the pink and white delicacy begotten of her cardiac trouble.

“And you?” she asked. “How did you get on?”

“I think Mr. Drew will be able to do something for me—”

“Then—then you don’t know? You showed him the blueprint, didn’t you?”

“Of course—but I had to leave it with him for examination. His research department has to go through it.”

Jaline considered him in troubled silence for a moment.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, setting the briefcase down on the chair beside him. “That I shouldn’t have done that. I had to, Jal: there was no other way. No scientist could decide the value of my invention by a mere glance. I’m going back tomorrow morning for the answer. I have a receipt, so there’s nothing whatever to worry about.”

“If ever there was a man with no business acumen and a frightening trust of his fellow men, it’s you, dad,” the girl sighed. “You built that watch-making firm of yours up into a concern worth a fortune, and then you let it go for a paltry fifty thousand pounds, English value. Now you have an invention that is again worth millions, and you actually leave the blueprint in the hands of a man about whom you know nothing, trusting solely to a receipt. Do you realize what you’ve done?”

Quinton smiled and patted the girl’s hand. “I have copies of the print, my dear. Everything will be all right, don’t you worry. Drew is too well-known as a financier to try any shady tricks. Wouldn’t pay him.”

“I wonder…,” Jaline reflected. “I don’t trust financiers—not the big ones anyway—no more than you trust banks. Remember how you had your cheque for fifty thousand changed into notes when you got to England, and now have it stored away in your trunk upstairs? Well, you’re afraid of banks, just as I am of financiers.… Y’know, dad, what I really wish is—” The girl’s voice trailed off and she shrugged. “What’s the use of my talking?”

“What? What do you really wish?”

“That we could go back to Switzerland, retire on the fifty thousand, and forget everything. England and London are not the places for us, dad. I’m unhappy. That’s why I’m trying to liven things up by looking for a post of some kind.”

Her father looked at her steadily. “We can’t go back to our own country, Jal—and you know it. We’ve got to re­member what the specialists said.”

“About my heart, you mean? That only softer air could prolong my life? That’s all medical talk and I don’t believe one half of it. Let’s go back, the moment we have Drew’s answer!”

Quinton shook his head slowly.

“No, my dear, I wouldn’t take the risk, not with your heart in its present state. If we went back and the air braced you so much as to—to kill you, just think how I’d feel!”

Jaline shrugged. “All right, then, we’ll just have to carry on in London—or out in the northeast country somewhere. Per­haps we’d better discuss it tomorrow when we’ve heard what Drew has to say.”

“That,” her father agreed quietly, “would probably be the best.”

* * * *

At eight o’clock that evening the shades were tightly drawn over the windows in Emerson Drew’s immense office, and the concealed lighting glowed on the furniture and roughcast walls in shadowless brilliance.

He sat at the desk, square and complacent, contemplating the finished model of the Quinton bomb. On his right was the pale-faced, lean-cheeked Metals tycoon J.K. Darnhome, his cold gray eyes studying the bomb’s smooth, tapering outlines.

Marvin de Brock, acid-faced, black-haired, fiftyish, had his elbows on the desk and his chin cradled in his hands. His expression was one of profound absorption.

“And you are sure,” Drew asked Bruce Valant, the scientist, slowly, “that everything is perfect? That Quinton really knows what he is up to?”

“Beyond a doubt,” the scientist agreed, standing on the oppo­site side of the desk. “Suppose I demonstrate the thing for you, then you’ll get the right idea.…”

Drew nodded, waved a hand, and sat back in his chair. Valant picked up the bomb and took it across to a sheet of two-inch-thick steel that he had brought in. The steel formed the top of a table, collapsible legs supporting it on each side.

“Observe, gentlemen,” Valant said, after setting the bomb’s internal mechanism in operation.

He put the bomb nose-down on the steel plate, and before the eyes of the astonished men the object began to sink gently through the tabletop, until its entire length had made the tran­sition, and it dropped like a gigantic metallic pear to the carpet.

Immediately Valant whipped it up and stopped the mechanism.

“It looks,” Marvin de Brock said, musing, “just like a con­juring trick. One of those matter-through-matter illusions.”

“With one difference, gentlemen, that this is not an illusion,” Valant said. He unfastened the steel plate from the legs and stood it endwise on the desk. There was not a trace of rupture or marking where the bomb had been.

“Miraculous!” J.K. Darnhome breathed, pushing a lock of fallen gray hair out of his eye.

“Simply the utilization of scientific facts,” Valant said, shrugging. “Quinton has found a way to make matter pass through matter by forcing the atoms to obey magnetism, and thereby their normal obstructive power is neutralized. It’s brilliant—no doubt of it.”

Drew nodded slowly and motioned the scientist to put the bomb on the desk.

“That’s all for now, Valant. You can go home if you want. Thanks for getting the job done.”

The scientist nodded and left the room. Drew gave a slow, grim smile and then glanced at the men to either side of him.

“Well, gentlemen, was it worth your while getting here for eight o’clock, or not?”

“Oh, it was worth it,” J.K. agreed. “Just as you said, the thing is worth a fortune.… How much does this chap Quinton want for it?”

Drew reached out for a cigar box and held it forth.

“A million advance in respect of royalties, and the remaining terms to be arranged.”

“Then he’s crazy,” Marvin de Brock commented, striking his lighter. “Give him a thousand and he’ll think himself lucky.”

“I do not propose,” Drew said, closing the box emphatically, “to give him anything! I’ve seen him, you have not, and believe me I doubt if a more simple-minded soul ever descended from heaven straight into the lion’s den.”

“Many inventors are apparently quiet,” Darnhome reflected. “But when you start to cross them, they blow up in your face. I don’t trust the quiet type. Never did.”

“I don’t think Rajek Quinton falls into the category you’re thinking of, J.K.,” Drew said, shaking his head. “In fact, the thing is so easy it’s nearly a shame to do it. Here, right in our grasp, is the blueprint for an invention worth millions. I could, of course, photocopy it, manufacture it secretly, and have the original blueprint returned to Quinton with the simple statement that his invention doesn’t interest us. But that wouldn’t do us any good. He’d submit it elsewhere and we’d perhaps find our­selves saddled with stiff opposition before very long. So, I see only one way out.…”

The huge office was quiet for a moment. Marvin de Brock found himself staring at the sinister outlines of the thing that held unlimited power.

“You mean—dispose of him?” Darnhome’s voice was sober.

“There have been times,” Drew answered, “when disposal of a certain irritating faction has been necessary, just in the course of business. I don’t hide the fact from either of you, because you yourselves were in at those disposals. Remember Travers of New York? Then there was the case of L’Estrage of Paris, a necessary extermination. I’m afraid we have similar necessary extermination here.”

De Brock rubbed his chin and scowled. Darnhome looked across at the cocktail cabinet and decided he needed a drink.

“This is no time for your damned whisky, J.K.!” Drew snapped, turning.

“Any time’s the time for that.…” The tycoon went over to the cabinet, poured out three glasses of whisky, and brought them across to the desk.

“Are you sure that nothing can backfire if we dispose of Quinton?” de Brock asked.

“I’m absolutely sure. I got quite a bit of information out of him without him knowing why I was fishing. He’s only been in England a month, and he 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.”