When a man wearing a light rainproof and a dark-blue felt hat (property of Detective Officer Moreno) left by a side entrance, walked along to Lafayette Street, and presently picked up a taxi, no one paid any attention to him. But, in order to make quite sure, Nayland Smith gave the address, Waldorf-Astoria, got out at that hotel, walked through to the Park Avenue entrance, and proceeded to his real destination on foot.
He was satisfied that he had no shadow.
* * *
The office was empty, as Camille Navarre came out of her room and crossed to the long desk set before the windows. One end had been equipped for business purposes. There was a leather-covered chair and beside it a dictaphone. A cylinder remained on the machine, for Craig had been dictating when he was called to the laboratory. At the other end stood a draughtsman’s stool and a quantity of pens, pencils, brushes, pans of colored ink, and similar paraphernalia. They lay beside a propped-up drawing board, illuminated by a tubular lamp.
Camille placed several typed letters on the desk, and then stood there studying the unfinished diagram pinned to the board.
She possessed a quiet composure which rarely deserted her. As Craig had once remarked, she was so restful about the place. Her plain suit did not unduly stress a slim figure, and her hair was swept back flatly to a knot at the nape of her neck. She wore black-rimmed glasses, and looked in every respect the perfect secretary for a scientist.
A slight sound, the click of a lock, betrayed the fact that Craig was about to come out. Camille returned to her room.
She had just gone in when the door of the laboratory opened, and Craig walked down the three steps. A man in a white coat, holding a pair of oddly shaped goggles in his hand, stood at the top. He showed outlined against greenish light. With the opening of the door, a curious vibration had become perceptible, a thing which might be sensed, rather than heard.
“In short, Doctor,” he was saying, “we can focus, but we can’t control the volume.”
Craig spoke over his shoulder.
“When we can do both, Regan, we’ll give an audition to the pundits that will turn their wool white.”
Regan, a capable-looking technician, grey-haired and having a finely shaped mathematical head, smiled as he stepped back through the doorway.
“I doubt if Mr. Frobisher will want any ‘auditions,”“ he said drily.
As the door was closed, the vibrant sound ceased.
Craig stood for a moment studying the illuminated diagram as Camille had done. He lighted a cigarette, and then noticed the letters on his desk. He dropped into the chair, switching up a reading lamp, and put on his glasses.
A moment later he was afoot again, as the office door burst open and a man came in rapidly—closely followed by Sam.
“Wait a minute! “Sam was upset. “Listen. Wait a minute!”
Craig dropped his glasses on the desk, stared, and then advanced impulsively, hand outstretched.
“Nayland Smith! By all that’s holy—Nayland Smith!” They exchanged grips, smiling happily. “Why, I thought you were in Ispahan, or Yucatan, or somewhere.”
“Nearly right the first time. But it was Teheran. Flew from there three days ago. More urgent business here.”
“Wait a minute,” Sam muttered, his eye-shade thrust right to the back of his head.
Craig turned to him.
“It’s all right, Sam. This is an old friend.”
“Oh, is that so?”
“Yes—and I don’t believe he has a bit of string.”
Sam stared truculently from face to face, chewing in an ominous way, and then went out.
“Sit down. Smith. This is a great, glad surprise. But why the whirlwind business? And”—staring—”what the devil are you up to?”
Nayland Smith had walked straight across to the long windows which occupied nearly the whole of the west wall. He was examining a narrow terrace outside bordered by an ornamental parapet. He looked beyond, to where the hundred eyes of a towering building shone in the dusk. He turned.
“Anybody else got access to this floor?”
“Only the staff. Why?”
“What do you mean when you say the staff?”
“I mean the staff! Am I on the witness stand? Well, if you must know, the research staff consists of myself; Martin Shaw, my chief assistant, a Columbia graduate; John Regan second technician, who came to me from Vickers; and Miss Navarre, my secretary. She also has scientific training. Except for Sam, the handyman, and Mr. Frobisher, nobody else has access to the laboratory. Do I make myself clear to your honor?”
Nayland Smith was staring towards the steel door and tugging at the lobe of his left ear, a mannerism which denoted intense concentration, and one with which Craig was familiar.
“You don’t take proper precautions,” he snapped. “I got in without any difficulty.”
Morris Craig became vaguely conscious of danger. He recalled vividly the nervous but repressed excitement of Michael Frobisher. He could not ignore the tension now exhibited by Nayland Smith.
“Why these precautions. Smith? What have we to be afraid of?”
Smith swung around on him. His eyes were hard.
“Listen, Craig—we’ve known one another since you were at Oxford. There’s no need to mince words. I don’t know what you’re working on up here—but I’m going to ask you to tell me. I know something else, though. Unless I have made the biggest mistake of my life, one of the few first-class brains in the world today has got you spotted.”
“But, Smith, you’re telling me nothing—”
“Haven’t time. I baited a little trap as I came up. I’m going down to spring it.”
“Spring it?”
“Exactly. Excuse me.”
Smith moved to the door.
“The elevator man will be off duty—”
“He won’t. I ordered him to stand by.”
Nayland Smith went out as rapidly as he had come in.
Craig stood for a moment staring at the door which Smith had just closed. He had an awareness of some menace impending, creeping down upon him; a storm cloud. He scratched his chin reflectively and returned to the letters. He signed them, and pressed a button.
Camille Navarre entered quietly and came over to the desk. Craig took off his glasses and looked up—but Camille’s eyes were fixed on the letters.
“Ah, Miss Navarre—here we are.” He returned them to her. “And there’s rather a long one, bit of a teaser, on this thing.” He pointed to the dictaphone. “Mind removing same and listening in to my rambling rot?”
Camille stooped and took the cylinder off the machine.
“Your dictation is very clear. Dr. Craig.”
She spoke with a faint accent, more of intonation than pronunciation. It was a low-pitched, caressing voice. Craig never tired of it.
“Sweet words of flattery. I sound to myself like a half-strangled parrot. The way you construe is simply wizard.”
Camille smiled. She had beautifully moulded, rather scornful lips.
“Thank you. But it isn’t difficult.”
She put the cylinder in its box and turned to go.
“By the way, you have an invitation from the boss. He bids you to Falling Waters for the week-end.”
Camille paused, but didn’t turn. If Craig could have seen her face, its expression might have puzzled him.
“Really?” she said. “That is sweet of Mr. Frobisher.”
“Can you come? I’m going, too, so I’ll drive you out.”
“That would be very kind of you. Yes,1 should love to come.”
She turned, now, and her smile was radiant.
“Splendid. We’ll hit the trail early No office on Saturday”
There was happiness in Craig’s tone, and in his glance. Camille drooped her eyes and moved away.
“Er—” he added, “is the typewriter in commission again?”
“Yes,” Camille’s lip twitched. “I managed to get it right.”