‘I won the bloody contest outright,’ Devlin interpolated.
‘Unquestionably, but it required someone with my recently acquired knowledge of the rules to point it out. You were grateful at the time, which was fortunate for me, because you went on to tell me over a drink where Mr Malone’s hotel was situated.’
‘That was incautious, Patrick,’ commented Rossanna.
‘Faith, I was setting a bloody trap!’
‘Quite right,’ said Cribb. ‘A possibility I had altogether failed to allow for. After I visited the Alcazar Hotel and found the management most uncommunicative on the subject of Mr Malone, I came out and was ensnared, as Mr Devlin has indicated.’
Rossanna put her face close to the mask and indulged in more finger talk with McGee. ‘My father wishes to know what you want with the dynamiters-if you are successful in finding them.’
Cribb permitted himself a slight smile at the addition, a touch of feminine caution, he was sure. McGee had a thoughtful interpreter. ‘I want to join ’em, miss.’
An agitated session with the hands. ‘My father asks why, when you are patently not an Irishman.’
‘The answer is that I am a professional adventurer. I have a taste for danger, and I know a rare amount about the construction of infernal machines. I believe I could be useful to the dynamiters. And I don’t mind admitting that I would expect to be well-paid for my services.’
Another consultation. ‘Mr Sargent, my father thinks what you have said is presumptuous.’
‘I’m damned sure the dynamite party can afford to pay me, miss.’
She tossed her head impatiently. ‘He was not referring to that. He thinks it presumptuous of you to imagine that you can be of any use to the organisation.’
Cribb raised his eyebrows. Inwardly his pulses were pounding. If he were not convincing now, they would undoubtedly kill him. ‘I didn’t come into this blindly, miss. I took a close look at what the dynamiters have done, and I know where they want some expert advice. Oh, I don’t underestimate their ability, miss, or their pluck. And the machines are well enough made. It’s the positioning of ’em that goes wrong. Take this latest group of bombings as an example. Four machines, of which only one does any notable damage, whatever the newspapers say. And one that doesn’t detonate at all. I thought the reasons for giving up clock-timing was to take the uncertainty out of detonations.’ He raised a finger, warming to his theme. ‘But setting that disappointment aside, it’s a poor way to treat two well-constructed machines to put ’em in places where the best they do is frighten a few domestics and give the glaziers some work. Now a man with my knowledge of the metropolis-not to say dynamite-would have done a little better for the cause last night, I can tell you. Bang, bang, bang round the back of Downing Street, and Gladstone wouldn’t be able to get to the House quick enough to introduce a Home Rule Bill!’
‘You’re not an anarchist, are you, Mr Sargent?’
‘Not unless the money’s right, miss. My affiliations are strictly on a mercenary footing. No, I tell you in all seriousness that what the dynamiters lack is the finishing touch. It’s no good coming over from America-without offence to anyone here present-and leaving bombs at random all round St James’s Square. My observations tell me there are three things lacking in the dynamite campaign: local knowledge, steady hands and the knack of putting bombs where they do the most damage. I’m the man to remedy those deficiencies- at a fee, of course. I was going to suggest a level pony-twenty-five pounds-for each successful detonation. Would you say that’s a reasonable offer?’ He addressed his question to the grey eyes behind the mask.
Rossanna put her head close to her father’s and held his hands. More unearthly sounds proceeded from McGee. One thing was certain: no normal palate could produce such distortions of the human voice. Cribb waited, not knowing whether he was hearing an invitation to the dynamite party or a sentence of death.
Devlin approached the invalid-chair and murmured something-no petition for mercy, Cribb was sure. Rossanna drew away from her father. ‘Mr Sargent, there remains a question to be answered. What was your purpose in telling the driver of our carriage that you wished to be conveyed to Great Scotland Yard?’
She put the question in a disarmingly mild manner, but Devlin’s predatory stare from behind McGee left no doubt of the importance of the answer.
Cribb gave a deliberately naive reply. ‘I thought it was a cab, miss.’
‘One takes that for granted, Mr Sargent.’ Her voice took on a more insistent tone. ‘Why Great Scotland Yard?’
He grinned, as if he had some joke to share with her. ‘Ah, I see your point entirely, miss. A pertinent inquiry, in the circumstances. The fact of the matter is that I’m a reader of The Times. Have you seen today’s edition? There’s a stirring account of the damage perpetrated in the capital last night. As one not uninterested in the fortunes of the dynamite campaign, I studied every word of it. What caught my eye in particular was a paragraph about the bomb discovered at the foot of Nelson’s column. Did you know that it was conveyed to Great Scotland Yard and left in the open for reasons of safety? They won’t have it inside for fear of blowing up what’s left of the Detective Department. So there it stands, miss, for anyone to see, and it’s asking too much of a man as interested as I am in explosives to stay away. That was why the Yard was going to be my next port of call.’
Rossanna turned to Devlin. ‘It appears to answer the point, Patrick. Mr Sargent would naturally be interested in seeing an infernal machine for himself.’ Receiving no response, she addressed her father. ‘What do you say, Papa? Is Mr Sargent to be relied upon?’
It was heartening to have Rossanna’s support intimated, even if Devlin maintained a sceptical silence. The verdict that mattered, though, was being uttered from the invalid-chair. Understanding nothing of the inane sounds McGee was producing, Cribb studied the slits in the mask for some flicker of assent, and saw none. The only conceivable indication of what was going on was the movement of McGee’s head, and when Cribb saw which way it was moving he preferred to regard it as a doubtful portent. Possibly, he told himself, the agitated conversation with the hands was rocking the chair.
It stopped. Rossanna faced Cribb. ‘Mr Sargent, my father wishes me to inform you that he is interested in your claims, but not entirely satisfied of their veracity. However, he is prepared to give you an opportunity tonight of convincing him. You are invited to participate in a small expedition. It provides you with a chance to demonstrate the qualities of a professional adventurer. I take it that the prospect is attractive to you?’