“That is true. But this particular demonstration?”
“I’d guess,” suggested Coghlan, “that you put a little smokesquib on the table there—I hope in an ashtray. It had a fuse, which you lighted from your cigarette. You did this while I was bandaging my finger in the other room. You knew how long the fuse would burn. And you have a sweep-second watch on your wrist. Still, you must have had long practise timing a conversation to lead up to your effect at just the instant the fuse will set off the squib.”
Appolonius’ eyes grew intent. Coghlan added:
“And the table’s by the window and there’s a draft going out. It looked like an evil spirit leaping up from my ashtray, and then flowing out the window and away. Effective!”
“A compliment from you, Mr. Coghlan,” said Appolonius, unsmiling, “is a compliment indeed. But I penetrate your illusions as readily as you do mine. More readily!”
Coghlan looked at his bandaged thumb, and then up. “Now, what do you mean by that?”
“I think it would be well to consider,” said Appolonius, harshly, “that I can unmask you at any instant.”
“Oh!” said Coghlan, in lively interest. “You think I’m in a conspiracy with Duval and Lieutenant Ghalil to swindle Mannard out of some money?”
“I do,” said Appolonius. “I could explain to Mr. Mannard. Shall I?”
Coghlan found himself amused.
“So you know everything! Tell you what, Appolonius. If you’ll explain the refrigeration business I’ll let you in on everything else!” He explained carefully: “I mean the refrigeration at 80 Hosain, where we went last night. Elucidate that, and I’ll tell you everything I know!”
Appolonius’ eyes wavered. He said contemptuously:
“I am not to be trapped so easily! That is a foolish question!”
“Try to answer it!” Coghlan waited with a dry patience. “You can’t? My dear Appolonius! You don’t even know what I’m talking about! You’re a faker, trying to cut in on a swindle by a bluff! Clear out!”
There were sounds out in the courtyard. Footsteps. Appolonius looked more menacing still. Coghlan snapped:
“Clear out! You bother me! Get going!”
He opened the door. There were footsteps at the bottom of the stairs. Appolonius said nastily:
“I have taken precautions! If anything should happen to me— you would be sorry!”
“I’d be heart-broken!” said Coghlan impatiently. “Shoo!” He pushed Appolonius out and closed the door. He went to the small room in which he kept his private experimental equipment. As an instructor in physics he worked on a limited budget at the college. He had his classes build much of the apparatus used, both to save money and because they would learn more that way. But some things he had to build himself—again to save money, and for the plain satisfaction of the job. Now he began to pack stray items. A couple of thermometers. Batteries and a couple of coils and a headset that would constitute an induction balance when they were put together. A gold-leaf electroscope. He got out the large alnico magnet that had made a good many delicate measurements possible. He was packing a scintillometer when his doorbell rang.
He answered it, scowling. There stood Mannard and Laurie, studying the scowl. They came in and Mannard said genially:
“Our little friend Appolonius is upset, Tommy. He’s not himself. What’d you do to him?”
“He thinks,” said Coghlan, “that everything that’s happened in the past thirty hours is part of a scheme to extort money from you—the scheme operating from the fourth dimension. He demanded a cut on threat of revealing all. I put him out. Did he expose me as a scoundrel and a blackmailer?”
Mannard shook his head. Then he said:
“I’m taking Laurie home. I wouldn’t run away myself, but you may be right—she may be the real target of this scheme when it gets in good working order. So I’m taking her away. How about coming along?” He added bluntly: “You could pick out some real equipment for the physics laboratory at the college. It’s needed, and I’ll pay for it.”
It was transparent. Coghlan looked at Laurie. She protested reproachfully:
“It’s not me, Tommy! I wouldn’t ply you with cyclotrons!”
“If you want to make a gift to the lab, I’ll give you a whopping list,” said Coghlan. “But there’s a gadget over at 80 Hosain that I’ve got to work out. It produces a thin layer of cold in air. I think it’s a force-field of some sort, but it’s a plane surface! I’ve got to find out what makes it and how it works. It’s something new in physics!”
Laurie muttered to herself. Coghlan added:
“Ghalil’s there now, waiting for me—he and Duval.”
“I want to talk to that Lieutenant Ghalil,” said Mannard, grumpily. “The police were going to refer this morning’s shooting business to him, but I guess he wasn’t too concerned! He hasn’t tried to get in touch with me!”
Coghlan opened his mouth and then closed it. It would hardly be tactful to tell Mannard who had shot the cup out of his hand. If he heard that news before he got the full story, it might create a certain indignation. And it was Ghalil’s story to tell. So he said:
“I’m headed back with this stuff now. You can pile in the police-car with me and talk to him right away. He’ll see you get back to the hotel.”
Mannard nodded. “Let’s go.”
Coghlan packed his equipment into a suitcase and headed for the door. As they went out, Laurie caught his arm. She said breathlessly:
“Tommy! You cut your thumb! Was it—will it—”
“Yes,” he told her. “It was in the place the scar showed, and I’m afraid it will leave that scar.”
She followed him down the stairs, was silent on the way across the courtyard. Her father went to dismiss the car that had brought them here. Laurie said in a queer voice:
“That book came from the thirteenth century, they said. And your fingerprints are in it. And this gadget you’re talking about . . . could it take you back to the thirteenth century, Tommy?”
“I’m not planning to make the trip,” he told her dryly.
“I don’t want you to go back to the thirteenth century!” she said fiercely. She was even a little bit pale. “I know it’s ridiculous. It’s as impossible as anything could be! But I don’t want you to go back there! I don’t want to have to think of you as—dead for centuries, and buried in some mouldly old crypt—just a skeleton—”
“Stop it!” he said harshly. She gulped. “I mean it!”
“I wish things were different,” he said bitterly.
Then she grinned, still pale.
“I’ll wear you down,” she promised. “Won’t that be nice?” Then her father came back from the other car and they got into the police-car. It headed back for 80 Hosain.
In the room on the second floor, Ghalil was painstakingly pulling down plaster. He had not touched the wall on which the wet spot showed. That remained as Coghlan had left it. But there had been places on the other walls where bits of plaster had fallen away. Dim colors showed through. It was becoming clear, from Ghalil’s work, that the original plaster of the room had been elaborately decorated, with encaustic, most likely—wax colors laid on the wall and melted into the plaster. He had already uncovered a fragment of what must have been a most spirited mural. It appeared to deal with nymphs and satyrs, from the irregular space so far disclosed. Duval was agitatedly examining each new portion of the scene as the removal of the overlying plaster showed it. But Ghalil stopped his labor when Coghlan and the others arrived. He’d met Mannard the night before, of course.
“Ah, Mr. Mannard!” he said cordially. “We perform archaeological research!”