For a brief moment there came into Mr. Blackton’s grey-blue eyes a faint gleam as if some delicate inward jest was tickling his sense of humour.
“You may take it from me,” he answered gravely, “that nothing so unpleasant is likely to happen to Professor Goodman.”
Mr. Lewisham gave a sigh of relief.
“What time shall I go?” he asked.
Mr. Blackton paused in the act of drawing on his gloves.
“The Professor, I am told,” he remarked, “has an appointment at three o’clock this afternoon. I would suggest therefore that you should call about two-thirty.”
“And where shall I communicate with you?”
“You can leave that entirely to me, Mr. Lewisham,” murmured the other, with an almost benevolent smile. “I will take all the necessary steps to get in touch with you. Well, gentlemen”—he turned to the others—“that is all, I think, for the present. I will report further in due course. By the way, Mr. Lewisham, I wouldn’t give your name to the servant, if I were you.”
With a slight bow he opened the door and passed down the stairs. He paused as he reached the crowded pavement and spoke two words to a man who was staring into a shopwindow; then he deliberated whether he should call a taxi, and decided to walk. And as he strolled along—slowly, so as not to destroy the aroma of his cigar, his reflections were eminently satisfactory. If the police had not received the note, he was in clover; if they had, a little care would be necessary. But in either case the one detail which had previously been, if not lacking, at any rate not entirely satisfactory was now supplied. It gratified his intellect; it pleased his artistic sense. Just as the sudden and unexpected acquisition of a tube of some rare pigment completes a painter’s joy, so this one detail completed Mr. Blackton’s. That it consisted of a singularly cold-blooded murder is beside the point: all artists are a little peculiar. And if fool men write fool letters, they must expect to suffer small annoyances of that sort. After all, reflected Mr. Blackton with commendable thoughtfulness, the world would endure Mr. Lewisham’s departure with almost callous fortitude.
He realised suddenly that he had reached his destination, and throwing away his cigar he produced his latchkey and entered the house. It was situated in one of those quiet squares which lie, like placid backwaters, off the seething rivers of London. And its chief point of interest lay in the fact that it formed the invariable pied-à-terre of Mr. Blackton when visiting England in whatever character he might at the moment be assuming. It appeared in the telephone-book as belonging to William Anderson, a gentleman who spent much of his time abroad. And it was to William Anderson that the Inland Revenue were wont yearly to address their friendly reminders as to the duties of British citizens. Ever mindful of those duties, Mr. Anderson had declared his income at nineteen hundred and fifty pounds per annum, and had opened a special account at a branch bank to cope with the situation. He drew the line at admitting his liability to supertax; but after mature reflection he decided that his method of life rendered it advisable to state that his income was unearned.
He placed his gloves and stick on the table in the hall, and slowly ascended the stairs. A few little details still required polishing up in connection with his afternoon’s work, and he was still deep in thought as he entered a room on the first landing.
A man was seated at a desk, who rose as he entered—a man whose face was well-nigh as inscrutable as his chief’s. He was Mr. Blackton’s confidential secretary, Freyder, a man with a salary of ten thousand a year plus commission. He was as completely unscrupulous as his employer, but he lacked the wonderful organising brain of the other. Given a certain specific job to do, he could carry it out to perfection; and for making arrangements in detail he was unrivalled. Which made him an ideal staff officer—a fact which the other had very soon recognised. And because Edward Blackton, like all big men, was not such a fool as to underpay an almost invaluable subordinate, he took care that Freyder’s salary should be such that he would have no temptation to go. For it he demanded implicit obedience, no mistakes, and at times twenty-four hours’ work out of twenty-four.
“What did you find out, Chief?” he asked curiously.
“It was sent by one of them, as I suspected,” answered Blackton, seating himself at his desk. “A stupid little man called Lewisham, who appears to have lost his head completely. However, on my assuring him that I had no intention of killing the excellent Goodman, he agreed to go round this afternoon and talk to the Professor about the matter.”
“Go round this afternoon?” echoed Freyder, surprised. “What do you want him there for, this afternoon?”
Blackton smiled gently.
“He happens to be about the same size as our worthy Professor,” he murmured, “so it struck me he would come in very handy. By the way, make a note, will you, to obtain a specimen of his writing and signature. Find out if he’s married, and, if so, draft a letter to his wife from him saying that he’s gone to Valparaiso for the good of his health. Have it sent out to Number 13, and posted there.”
He stared thoughtfully out of the window, and Freyder waited for any further instructions.
“Anything more to be settled about the house?”
“Everything fixed, Chief; it’s ready to move straight into this afternoon.”
The telephone bell rang on Freyder’s table.
“Good,” he remarked a few moments later, replacing the receiver. “Number 10 reports that he followed Goodman to St. James’s Square; that he is now having lunch at the Junior Sports Club, and that he has not communicated verbally with the police.”
“And since
