“Carl—my pet—you’ll make me cry in a minute,” said Drummond quietly. To all outward appearances he was in the same mocking vein as his principal enemy, but a little pulse was beginning to hammer in his throat, and his mouth felt strangely dry. He knew he was being played with as a mouse is played with by a cat, and it was all he could do to stop himself from demanding outright to know what was coming. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Phyllis sitting very white and still, but he didn’t dare to look at her direct for fear he might break down. And then, still in the same tone, Peterson went on:
“I knew I could rely on you to meet me. I shall tell Irma when I see her, and she will be very touched by your kindness, Drummond—very touched. But to come back to the point. As my friend Zadowa most justly observed—we want an accident: a real good bona fide accident, which will relieve the world of your presence and will bring no scorching glare of publicity upon this house or any of my confrères who remain in England. You may recall that that was my original idea, only you seem in the most extraordinary way to have escaped from being drowned. Still, as far as it goes, we have a very good foundation to build on. Your car—duly perceived by the gentleman of limited intelligence who works the bridge—went over the edge. You were duly perceived in it. Strangely enough, his eyesight must have been defective—or else he was so flustered by your amazing action that he was incapable of noticing everything at such a moment. Because he actually failed to see that your charming wife was seated beside you. In the moment of panic when she realized you had fainted, she leant forward—doubtless to try and throw out the clutch. Yes”—his eyes, cold and expressionless, were turned momentarily on Phyllis—“I think that is what she must have done. That accounts for the not very intelligent gate-opener failing to see her. But that she was there is certain. Because, Captain Drummond, both bodies will be recovered from the river the day after tomorrow, shall we say? some two or three miles downstream.”
“Your efforts at drowning have not been vastly successful up to date, Carl, have they?” said Drummond genially. “Do I understand that we are both to be taken out and held under the water, or are you going to use the bath here? That is to say”—and he glanced pointedly at Yulowski—“if such a commodity exists. Or are you again going to experiment with that dope of yours?”
“Wrong on all counts,” answered Peterson. “You are far too large and strong, my dear Drummond, to be drowned by such rudimentary methods. And it is more than likely that even if we attempted to do it, the fact that you struggled would be revealed in a postmortem examination. And that would spoil everything, wouldn’t it? No longer would it appear to be an accident: Count Zadowa’s masterly arguments would all have been wasted. Why—I might as well agree at once to Yulowski’s suggestion of the bayonet. Pray give me credit, my dear young friend, for a little more brains than that.”
“I do, Theo: I assure you I do,” said Drummond earnestly. “It’s only my terrible fear that you’ll again go and make a hash of it that inspires my remarks.”
“Thank you a thousand times,” murmured the clergyman gently. He was leaning forward, his elbows on the table—and for the first time Drummond understood something of the diabolical hatred which Peterson felt for him. He had never shown it before: he was far too big a man ever to betray his feeling unnecessarily. But now, as he sat facing him gently rubbing his big white hands together, Drummond understood.
“Thank you a thousand times,” he repeated in the same gentle voice. “And since you are so concerned about the matter, I will tell you my plan in some detail. I need hardly say that any suggestions you make on any points that may strike you will receive my most careful attention. When the car crashed into the water it carried you and your wife with it. We have got as far as that, haven’t we? As it plunged downwards you—still unconscious from your dreadful and sudden fainting fit—were hurled out. Your wife, in a magnificent endeavour to save you, rose in her seat and was hurled out too. I think we can safely say that, don’t you, seeing that the not too intelligent gatekeeper could not have seen the car as it fell?”
“Go on,” said Drummond quietly.
“Interested, I hope,” murmured Peterson. “But don’t hesitate to stop me if anything is at all obscure. I feel that you have a perfect right to suggest any small alterations you like. Well—to proceed. You were both hurled out as the car plunged into the water, and somewhat naturally you were both thrown forward. Head foremost, you will note, Drummond, you left the car—and your heads struck the stonework of the opposite pier with sickening force, just before you reached the water. In fact, a marked feature of the case, when this dreadful accident is reported in the papers, will be the force with which you both struck that pier. Your two heads were terribly battered. In fact, I have but little doubt that the coroner will decide, when your bodies are recovered some few miles downstream—that you were not in reality drowned, but that the terrific impact on the stone pier killed you instantly. Do you think
