“I thought so! I thought so right along!”
“Suppose,” rapped Smith, “we get the facts.”
“The facts are plain! This man”—he pointed a quivering finger at Sam—”was going through my private papers! You took that gun off him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s he doing armed in my house?” Frobisher roared.
“Part of the mystery is solved, anyway—”
A rataplan of footsteps on the stair heralded Morris Craig, in shirt-sleeves, and carrying his reading glasses. He came bounding down.
“Did I hear someone bawling my number?” he pulled up, considered the group, then stared from face to face. “What the devil’s all this?”
Michael Frobisher turned now empurpled features in his direction.
“It’s what I suspected, Craig. I told you I didn’t like the looks of him. There stands the man who broke into the Huston office last night! There stands the man who broke into this house last week. Caught red-handed!”
Sam had dropped his hands, and now, ignoring Stein, he faced his accuser.
“Listen! Wait a minute! I needed a postage stamp. Any harm needing a postage stamp? I just pull a drawer open, just kind of casual, and look in the first thing I see there—”
Craig brushed his forelock back and stared very hard.
“But, I say, Sam—seriously—can you explain this?”
“Sure. I am explaining it!”
Nayland Smith had become silent, but now:
“Does the envelope happen to contain stamps, Mr. Frobisher?” he jerked.
“No, sir.” Michael Frobisher glared at him. “It doesn’t. That inquiry is beside the point. As I understand you represent law and order in this house, I’m sorry—but will you arrange for the arrest of that man.”
His accusing finger was directed again at Sam.
“I mean to say,” Craig broke in, “I may have missed something. But this certainly seems to me—”
“It’s just plain silly,” said Sam. “People getting so het up.”
Came another rush, of lighter footsteps. Camille and Mrs. Frobisher ran in. They halted, thunderstruck by what they saw.
“Whatever is going on?” Stella demanded.
“Sam!” Camille whispered—and crossing to his side, laid her hand on his shoulder. “What has happened?”
Sam stopped chewing, and patted the encouraging hand. His upraised spectacles were eloquent.
“Thanks for the inquiry,” he said. “I’m in trouble.”
“You are!” Frobisher assured him. “Sir Denis! This is either a common thief or a foreign spy. In either case, I want him jailed.”
Nayland Smith, glancing from Sam to Frobisher, snapped his fingers irritably.
“It is absurd,” said Camille in a quiet voice.
“Listen!” Sam patted her hand again and turned to Smith. “I’m sorry. I took chances. The pot’s on the boil, and I thought maybe Mr. Frobisher, even right now, might be thinking more about Huston Electric than about bigger things. I guess I was wrong. But acted for the best.”
Michael Frobisher made a choking sound, like that of a faulty radiator.
“You see, Mr. Frobisher,” said Nayland Smith, “whatever their faults, your police department is very thorough. James Sampson, an operative of the F.B.I., whom you know as Sam, was placed in the Huston research laboratory by his chief, Raymond Harkness, a long time before I was called in. I regret that this has occurred. But he is working entirely in your interests . . .”
Chapter XVIII
Luncheon at Falling Waters was not an unqualified success. Both in the physical and psychical sense, a shadow overhung the feast.
Promise of the morning had not been fulfilled. Young spring shrank away before returning winter; clouds drew a dull curtain over the happy landscape, blotting out gay skies. And with the arrival of Professor Hoffmeyer, a spiritual chill touched at least two of the company.
Camille experienced terror when the stooped figure appeared. His old-fashioned morning coat, his tinted glasses and black gloves, the ebony stick, rang a loud note of alarm within. But the moment he spoke, her terror left her.
“So this,” said the professor in his guttural German-English, “is the little patient who comes to see me not—ha?”
Camille felt helpless. She could think of nothing to say, for she didn’t know if she had ever seen him before.
“Never mind. Some other time. I shall send you no account.”
Michael Frobisher hated the man on sight. His nerves had remained badly on edge since the incident with Sam. He gave the professor a grip of his powerful fingers calculated to hurt.
“Ach! not so hard! not so hard! These”—Hoffmeyer raised gloved hands—”and these”—touching the dark glasses—”and this”—tapping his ebony stick on the floor—”are proofs that in war men become beasts. I ask you to remember that nails were torn from fingers, and eyes exposed to white heat, in some of those Nazi concentration camps. These things, Mr. Frobisher, could be again . . . While we may, let us be gentle.”
Dr. Pardoe treated the professor in a detached way, avoiding technical topics, and rather conveying that he doubted his ability. But not so Mrs. Pardoe. She unbent to the celebrated consultant in a highly gracious manner. A tall, square woman, who always wore black, the sad and sandy Pardoe was not for her first love. There had been two former husbands. Nobody knew why. There was something ominous about the angular frame. She resembled a draped gallows . . .
Professor Hoffmeyer addressed much of his conversation to Craig; and Mrs. Pardoe hung on his every word.
“You are that Morris Craig,” he said, during luncheon, “who reads a paper on the direction of neutrons, at Oxford, two years ago—ha?”
“The same. Professor. Amazing memory. I am that identical egg in the old shell. Rather stupid paper. Learned better since.”
“Modesty is a poor cloak for a man of genius to wear. Discard it, Dr. Craig. It would make me very happy to believe that your work shall be for the good of humanity. This world of ours is spinning— spinning on, to disaster. We are a ship which nears the rocks, with fools at the prow and fanatics at the helm.”
“But is there no way to prevent such a disaster?” Mrs. Pardoe asked, in a voice which seemed to come from a condemned cell.
“But most certainly. There could be a committee of men of high intelligence. To serve this committee would be a group of the first scientific brains in the world—such as that of Dr. Craig.” For some reason, Camille shuddered at those words. “These would have power to enforce their decisions. If some political maniac threatens to use violence, he will be warned. If he neglects this warning-Professor Hoffmeyer helped himself to more fried oysters offered by Stein.
“You believe, then, there’ll be another war?” grumbled Frobisher.
“How, otherwise, shall enslavement to Communism be avoided—ha?”
“Unless I misunderstood you,” Dr. Pardoe interjected sandily, “your concept of good government approaches very closely to that of an intelligent Communist.”
“An intelligent Communist is an impossibility. We have only to separate the rogues from the fools. Yes, Mr. Frobisher, there is danger of another war—from the same quarter as before. Those subhumans of the German General Staff who escaped justice. Those fellows with the traditions of the stockyard and the mentalities of adding machines. Those ghouls in uniform smell blood again. The Kremlin is feeding them meat.”
“You mean,” Camille asked softly, “that the Soviet Government is employing German ex-officers to prepare another war?”