Whilst this conversation proceeded, Nayland Smith made up his mind to play the last card he held—the one he had planned to play if he could have gained temporary shelter. One arm being semi-free, although the other was pinioned behind him, he managed to pull his wallet out and to force it under the fingers of the man who held him.
That efficient officer grasped it, but did not relax his hold. “Okay,” he said in a low voice, like that of one soothing a child.
“I’ve got it. Safe enough with me. Come along.”
Smith was led to the car by Dr. Malcolm and a low-browed, grey-uniformed chauffeur, who had the face and the physique of a gorilla. Dr. Malcolm took the wheel; the chauffeur got in beside Smith.
And, as the car moved away and excited voices faded, Smith’s brain seemed to become a phonograph which remorselessly repeated the words: “Dr.
“
Chapter VIII
It was on the following morning that Morris Craig arrived ahead of time to find Camille already there. He was just stripping his jacket off when he saw her at the door of her room.
“Hullo!” he called. “Why the wild enthusiasm for toil?”
She was immaculate as always, but he thought she looked pale. She did not wear her glasses.
“I couldn’t sleep. Dr. Craig. When daylight broke at last I was glad to come. And there’s always plenty to do.”
“True. But I don’t like the insomnia.” He walked across to her. “You and I need a rest. When the job’s finished, we’re both going to have one. Shall I tell you something? I’m at it early myself because I mean to finish by Friday night so that we both have a carefree week-end.”
He patted her shoulder and turned away. Pulling out a key ring, he went over to the big safe.
“Dr. Craig.”
“Yes?” He glanced back.
“I suppose you will think it is none of my business, but I feel”—she hesitated—”there are . . . dangers.”
Craig faced her. The boyish gaiety became disturbed.
“What sort of danger?”
Camille met his glance gravely, and he thought her eyes were glorious.
“You have invented something which many people—people capable of any outrage—want to steal from you. And sometimes I think you are very careless.”
“In what way?”
“Well”—she lowered her eyes, for Craig’s regard was becoming ardent—”I know Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s reputation. I expect he came here to tell you the same thing.”
“So what?”
“There are precautions which you neglect.”
“Tell me one.”
“The safe combination is one. Do you ever change it?”
Craig smiled. “No,” he confessed. “Why should I? Nobody else knows it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Sam might have picked it up—so might you. But why worry?”
“I may be foolish. But even if only Sam and I knew it, in your place I should change it. Dr. Craig.”
Craig stared. His expression conveyed nothing definite, but it embarrassed her.
“Not suggesting that Sam—”
“Of course not! I’m only suggesting that, for all our sakes, nobody but yourself should know that combination.”
Craig brushed his hair back and began to grope in a pocket for cigarettes.
“Point begins to dawn, vaguely,” he said. “Rather cloudy morning, but promise of a bright day. You mean that if something should be pinched there from, it must be clear that neither you nor Sam could possibly have known how to open the safe?”
“Yes,” said Camille, “I suppose that is what I mean.”
Craig stood there watching her door for some time after she had gone in and closed it. Then, he crossed, slowly, to the safe.
He had come to the conclusion that Camille was as clever as she was beautiful. He could not know that she had forced herself to this decision to warn him only after many sleepless hours.
Having arranged his work to his satisfaction, Craig took up the phone and dialled a number. When he got through:
“Please connect me with Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” he said.
There was an interval, and then the girl at the hotel switchboard reported, “There’s no reply from his apartment.”
“Oh—well, would you give him a message to call Dr. Morris Craig when he comes in.”
As he hung up he was thinking that Smith was early afoot. He had seen nothing of him since they had dined together, and was burning with anxiety on his behalf. The delicate instrument which Craig called a transmuter had already gone into construction. Shaw was working on a blueprint in the laboratory. It remained only for Craig to complete three details, and for tests to discover whether his plant could control the power he had invoked.
In view of what failure might mean, he had determined to insist that the entire equipment be moved, secretly, to a selected and guarded site in the open country for the carrying out of these tests.
He was beginning to realize that the transmuter might burst under the enormous load of energy it was designed to distribute. If it did, not only the Huston Building but also a great part of neighboring Manhattan could be dispersed like that lump of steel he had used in a demonstration for Nayland Smith.
Craig, in fact, was victim of an odd feeling of unrest. He continued to discount Smith’s more dramatic warnings, and this inspite of the murderous attempt on Moreno, but he was unsure of the future. The feathered dart he had sent to Professor White at Harvard for examination, but so far had had no report.
He pressed a button, then sat on a corner of the desk, swinging one leg, as Sam came in, chewing industriously.
“Morning, boss.”
“Good morning, Sam. What time do you turn up here as a rule?”
“Well”—Sam shook his head thoughtfully—”I’m mostly around by eight, on account of Mr. Shaw or Mr. Regan come off night watch then. I might easy be wanted—see?”
“Yes,1 see. Reason I ask is I thought I saw you tailing me as I came along. If this impression was chimerical, correct me. But it isn’t the first time I have had it.”
Sam’s eyes, behind his spectacles, betrayed childish wonder.
“Me tail you, Doctor! Listen. Wait a minute —”
“I am listening, and I am prepared to wait a minute. But I want an answer.”
“Well”—Sam pulled his eye-shade lower—”sometimes it happens maybe I’m on an errand same time you happen to be going my way—”
“Enough! I understand. You are my Old Man of the Sea, kindly supplied by Nayland Smith. If Mr. Frobisher knew how you wasted time you owe to Huston Electric, he’d fire you. But I’ll have it out with Smith, when I see him.”
A curious expression crossed Sam’s face as Craig spoke, but was gone so quickly that, turning away, he didn’t detect it.
As Sam went out, Craig stood studying the detail on the drawing board, but found himself unable to conquer that spirit of unrest, an unhealthy sense of impending harm, which had descended upon him. Particularly, he was troubled by forebodings about Smith. And although Morris Craig would have rejected such a theory with scientific scorn, it is nevertheless possible that these were telepathic . . .
Less than nine hours before, police headquarters had become a Vesuvius.
Nayland Smith’s wallet had been handed in by the frightened patrolman to whom he had passed it. He had
