Drummond nodded thoughtfully.
“You’re right, Ted—perfectly right.”
“And unless I’m very much surprised, our friend at the present moment is stepping out of his life-belt somewhere on the beach in Colwell Bay. Tomorrow, I should imagine, he will cross to Lymington—and after that you possibly know what his moves will be. I certainly don’t—for I’m completely in the dark over the whole stunt.”
“It’s too long a story to tell you now, old man,” said Drummond. “But one thing I do know. Whoever else may be picked up, our friend will not be amongst the survivors. He’s run unheard-of risks to pull this thing off, including a cold-blooded murder. And now officially he’s going to die himself in order to throw everyone off the scent.” He laughed grimly. “Moreover, he’d have done what he set out to do if you hadn’t been leaning over the side of your governor’s yacht.”
“But what’s the prize this time?”
“Old Goodman’s secret for making artificial diamonds—that was the prize, and Peterson has got it.”
Ted whistled softly.
“I heard something about it from Algy,” he remarked. “But it seems to me, Hugh, that if that is the case, he’s won.”
Drummond laughed.
“You were a bit surprised, Ted, when I refused to allow you to pull us on board your boat. Of course I knew as well as you did that with your speed we could have got clean away from them. But don’t you see, old man, the folly of doing so? He would have spotted at once that we were not drowned; he would further have spotted that I was not as mad as I made out. Chawing soap is the hell of a game,” he added inconsequently. Then he went on again, emphasising each point on his fingers.
“Get me so far? Once he knew we were alive, it would have necessitated a complete alteration of his plans. He’d probably have put straight into some place on the south coast; gone ashore himself and never returned. And then he’d have disappeared into the blue. Maybe he’d have had another shot at murdering old Goodman; however, that point doesn’t arise. The thing is he’d have disappeared.”
“Which is what he seems to have done now,” remarked Ted.
Again Drummond laughed.
“But I think I know where he’ll turn up again. In what form or guise remains to be seen: our one and only Carl is never monotonous, to give him his due. You see, Ted, you don’t seem to realise the intense advantage of being dead. I didn’t till I heard him discussing it one night in his study. And now I’m dead, and the Professor’s dead, and dear Carl is dead. That’s why I bumped the poor old man’s head on the barnacles underneath your boat, as we changed sides. It’s a gorgeous situation.”
“Doubtless, old man,” murmured the other. “Though you must remember it’s all a little dark and confusing to me. And anyway, where do you think he’ll turn up again so that you can recognise him?”
“My dear man, our little Irma, or Janet, or whatever name the sweet thing is masquerading under this time, is a powerful magnet. And I am open to a small bet that at the moment she is taking the air in Switzerland: Montreux to be exact. What more natural, then, that believing himself perfectly safe, our one and only Carl will return to the arms of his lady—if only for a time.”
“And you propose to fly there also?”
“Exactly. I want the notes of that process, and I also want a final reckoning with the gentleman.”
“Final?” said Ted, glancing at Drummond thoughtfully.
“Definitely final,” answered Drummond quietly. “This time our friend has gone too far.”
Jerningham looked at the numerous other boats which, by this time, had arrived at the scene of the disaster. Then he swung his helm hard round.
“That being so,” he remarked, “since our presence is no longer needed here, I suggest that we get a move on. From my knowledge of Montreux, old man, it is getting uncomfortably hot just now. Deauville will be more in Irma’s line. If I were you, I’d get out there, and do it quick. Joking apart, you may be right and, of course, I don’t know all the facts of the case. But from what I’ve guessed, I think friend Peterson will cover all his tracks at the first possible moment.”
“He may,” agreed Drummond. “And yet—believing that the Professor and I are both dead—he may not. You see,” he repeated once again, “he thinks he’s safe. Therein lies the maggot in the Stilton.”
With which profound simile he relapsed into silence, only broken as once more the boat drew up alongside the yacht.
“He thinks he’s safe, which is where he goes into the mulligatawny up to his neck. Put these fellows on shore, Ted, give me a change of clothes, and then run me over to Lymington.”
XII
In Which He Samples Mr. Blackton’s Napoleon Brandy
That Drummond was no fool his intimate friends knew well. He had a strange faculty for hitting the nail on the head far more often than not. Possibly his peculiarly direct method of argument enabled him to reach more correct conclusions than someone subtler-minded and cleverer could achieve. His habit of going for essentials and discarding side issues was merely the mental equivalent of those physical attributes which had made him a holy terror in the ring. Moreover, he had the invaluable gift of being able to put himself in the other man’s place.
But it may be doubted if in any of his duels with Peterson he had ever been more unerringly right than
