DANGER.
“Beware equally of a sudden friend and a slow enemy.”
Roden and Von Holzen were at work in the little office of the malgamite
works. The sun had just set, and the soft pearly twilight was creeping
over the sand hills. The day's work was over, and the factories were
all locked up for the night. In the stillness that seems to settle over
earth and sea at sunset, the sound of the little waves could be
heard--a distant, constant babbling from the west. The workers had gone
to their huts. They were not a noisy body of men. It was their custom
to creep quietly home when their work was done, and to sit in their
doorways if the evening was warm, or with closed doors if the north
wind was astir, and silently, steadily assuage their deadly thirst.
Those who sought to harvest their days, who fondly imagined they were
going to make a fight for it, drank milk according to advice handed
down to them from their sickly forefathers. The others, more reckless,
or wiser, perhaps, in their brief generation, took stronger drink to
make glad their hearts and for their many infirmities.
They had merely to ask, and that which they asked for was given to them
without comment.
“Yes,” said Uncle Ben to the new-comers, “you has a slap-up time--while
it lasts.”
For Uncle Ben was a strong man, and waxed garrulous in his cups. He had
made malgamite all his life and nothing would kill him, not even drink.
Von Holzen watched Uncle Ben, and did not like him. It was Uncle Ben
who played the concertina at the door of his hut in the evening. He
sprang from the class whose soul takes delight in the music of a
concertina, and rises on bank holidays to that height of gaiety which
can only be expressed by an interchange of hats. He came from the slums
of London, where they breed a race of men, small, ill-formed,
disease-stricken, hard to kill.
The north wind was blowing this evening, and the huts were all closed.
The sound of Uncle Ben's concertina could be dimly heard in what
purported to be a popular air--a sort of nightmare of a tune such as a
barrel-organist must suffer after bad beer. Otherwise, there was
nothing stirring within the enclosure. There was, indeed, a hush over
the whole place, such as Nature sometimes lays over certain spots like
a quiet veil, as one might lay a cloth over the result of an accident,
and say, “There is something wrong here; go away.”
Cornish, having tried the main entrance gate, found it locked, and no
bell with which to summon those within. He went round to the northern
end of the enclosure, where the sand had drifted against the high
corrugated iron fencing, and where there were empty barrels on the
inner side, as Uncle Ben had told him.
“After all, I am a managing director of this concern,” said Cornish to
himself, with a grim laugh, as he clambered over the fence.
He walked down the row of huts very slowly. Some of them were empty.
The door of one stood ajar, and a sudden smell of disinfectant made him
stop and look in. There was something lying on a bed covered by a grimy
sheet.
“Um--m,” muttered Cornish, and walked on.
There had been another visitor to the malgamite works that day. Then
Cornish paused for a moment near Uncle Ben's hut, and listened to
“Ta-ra-ra boom-de-ay.” He bit his lips, restraining a sudden desire to
laugh without any mirth in his heart, and went towards Von Holzen's
office, where a light gleamed through the ill-closed curtains. For
these men were working night and day now--making their fortunes. He
caught, as he passed the window, a glimpse of Roden bending over a
great ledger which lay open before him on the table, while Von Holzen,
at another desk, was writing letters in his neat German hand.
Then Cornish went to the door, opened it, and passing in, closed it
behind him.
“Good evening,” he said, with just a slight exaggeration of his usual
suave politeness.
“Halloa!” exclaimed Roden, with a startled look, and instinctively
closing his ledger.
He looked hastily towards Von Holzen, who turned, pen in hand. Von
Holzen bowed rather coldly.
“Good evening,” he answered, without looking at Roden. Indeed, he
crossed the room, and placed himself in front of his companion.
“Just come across?” inquired Roden, putting together his papers with
his usual leisureliness.
“No; I have been here some time.”
Cornish turned and met Von Holzen's eyes with a ready audacity. He was
not afraid of this silent scientist, and had been trained in a social
world where nerve and daring are highly cultivated. Von Holzen looked
at him with a measuring eye, and remembered some warning words spoken
by Roden months before. This was a cleverer man than they had thought
him. This was the one mistake they had made in their careful scheme.
“I have been looking into things,” said Cornish, in a final voice. He
took off his hat and laid it aside.
Von Holzen went slowly back to his desk, which was a high one. He stood
there close by Roden, leaning his elbow on the letters that he had been
writing. The two men were thus together facing Cornish, who stood at
the other side of the table.
“I have been looking into things,” he repeated, “and--the game is up.”
Roden, whose face was quite colourless, shrugged his shoulders with a
sneering smile. Von Holzen slowly moistened his lips, and Cornish,
meeting his glance, felt his heart leap upward to his throat. His
way had been the way of peace. He had never seen that look in a man's
eyes before, but there was no mistaking it. There are two things that
none can mistake--an earthquake, and murder shining in a man's eyes.
But there was good blood in Cornish's veins, and good blood never
fails. His muscles tightened, and he smiled in Von Holzen's face.
“When you were over in London a fortnight ago,” he said, “you saw my
uncle, and squared him. But I am not Lord Ferriby, and I am not to be
squared. As to the financial part of this business”--he paused, and
glanced at the ledgers--“that seems to be of secondary importance at
the moment. Besides, I do not understand finance.”
Roden's tired eyes flickered at the way in which the word was spoken.
“I propose to deal with the more vital questions,” Cornish continued,
looking straight at Von Holzen. “I want details of the new process--the
prescription, in fact.”
“Then you want much,” answered Von Holzen, with his slight accent.
“Oh, I want more than that,” was the retort; “I want a list of your
deaths--not necessarily for publication. If the public were to hear of
it, they would pull the place down about your ears, and probably hang
you on your own water-tower.”
Von Holzen laughed. “Ah, my fine gentleman, if there is any hanging up
to be done, you are in it, too,” he said. Then he broke into a
good-humoured laugh, and waved the question aside with his hand. “But
why should we quarrel? It is mere foolishness. We are not schoolboys,
but men of the world, who are reasonable, I hope. I cannot give you the
prescription because it is a trade secret. You would not understand it
without expert assistance, and the expert would turn his knowledge to
account. We chemists, you see, do not trust each other. No; but I can
make malgamite here before your eyes--to show you that it is
harmless--what?” He spoke easily, with a certain fascination of manner,
as a man to whom speech was easy enough--who was perhaps silent with a
set purpose--because silence is safe. “But it is a long process,” he
added, holding up one finger, “I warn you. It will take me two hours.
And you, who have perhaps not dined, and this Roden, who is tired
out--”
“Roden can go home--if he is tired,” said Cornish.
“Well,” answered Von Holzen, with outspread hands, “it is as you like.
Will you have it now and here?”
“Yes--now and here.”
Roden was slowly folding away his papers and closing his books. He
glanced curiously at Von Holzen, as if he were displaying a hitherto
unknown side to his character. Von Holzen, too, was collecting the
papers scattered on his desk, with a patient air and a half-suppressed
sigh of weariness, as if he were entering upon a work of
supererogation.
“As to the deaths,” he said, “I can demonstrate that as we go along.
You will see where the dangers lie, and how criminally neglectful these
people are. It is a curious thing, that carelessness of life. I am told
the Russian soldiers have it.”
It seemed that in his way Herr von Holzen was a philosopher, having in
his mind a store of odd human items. He certainly had the power of
arousing curiosity and making his hearers wish him to continue
speaking, which is rare. Most men are uninteresting because they talk
too much.
“Then I think I will go,” said Roden, rising. He looked from one to the
other, and received no answer. “Good night,” he added, and walked to
the door with dragging feet.
“Good night,” said Cornish. And he was left alone for the first time in
his life with Von Holzen, who was clearing the table and making his
preparations with a silent deftness of touch acquired by the handling
of delicate instruments, the mixing of dangerous drugs.
“Then our good friend Lord Ferriby does not know that you are here?” he
inquired, without much interest, as if acknowledging the necessity of
conversation of some sort.
“No,” answered Cornish.
“When I have shown you this experiment,” pursued Von Holzen, setting
the lamp on a side-table, “we must have a little talk about his
lordship. With all modesty, you and I have the clearest heads of all
concerned in this invention.” He looked at Cornish with his sudden,
pleasant smile. “You will excuse me,” he said, “if while I am doing
this I do not talk much. It is a difficult thing to keep in one's head,
and all the attention is required in order to avoid a mistake or a
mishap.”
He had already assumed an air of unconscious command, which was
probably habitual with him, as if there were no question between them
as to who was the stronger man. Cornish sat, pleasantly silent and
acquiescent, but he felt in no way dominated. It is one thing to assume
authority, and another to possess it.
“I have a little laboratory in the factory where I usually work, but
not at night. We do not allow lights in there. Excuse me, I will fetch
my crucible and lamp.”
And he went out, leaving Cornish alone. There was only one door to the
room, leading straight out into the open. The office, it appeared, was
built in the form of an annex to one of the storehouses, which stood
detached from all other buildings.
In a few minutes Von Holzen returned, laden with bottles and jars. One
large wicker-covered bottle with a screw top he set carefully on the
table.
“I had to find them in the dark,” he explained absent-mindedly, as if
his thoughts were all absorbed by the work in hand. “And one must be
careful not to jar or break any of these. Please do not touch them in
my absence.” As he spoke, he again examined the stoppers to see that
all was secure. “I come again,” he said, making sure that the large
basket-covered bottle was safe. Then he walked quickly out of the room
and closed the door behind him.
Almost immediately Cornish was conscious of a bitter taste in his
mouth, though he could smell nothing. The lamp suddenly burnt blue and
instantly went out.
Cornish stood up, groping in the dark, his head swimming, a deadly
numbness dragging at his limbs. He had no pain, only a strange
sensation of being drawn upwards. Then his head bumped against the
door, and the remaining glimmer of consciousness shaped itself into the
knowledge that this was death. He seemed to swing backwards and
forwards between life and death--between sleep and consciousness. Then
he felt a cooler air on his lips. He had fallen against the door, which
did not fit against the threshold, and a draught of fresh air whistled
through upon his face. “Carbonic acid gas,” he muttered, with shaking
lips. “Carbonic acid gas.” He repeated the words over and over again,
as a man in delirium repeats that which has fixed itself in his
wandering brain. Then, with a great effort, he brought himself to
understand the meaning of the words that one portion of his brain kept
repeating to the other portion which could not comprehend them. He
tried to recollect all that he knew of carbonic acid gas, which was, in
fact, not much. He vaguely remembered that it is not an active gas that
mingles with the air and spreads, but rather it lurks in corners--an
invisible form of death--and will so lurk for years unless disturbed
by a current of air.
Cornish knew that in falling he had fallen out of the radius of the
escaping gas, which probably filled the upper part of the room. If he
raised himself, he would raise himself into the gas, which was slowly
descending upon him, and that would mean instant death. He had already
inhaled enough--perhaps too much. He lay quite still, breathing the
draught between the door and the threshold, and raising his left hand,
felt for the handle of the door. He found it and turned it. The door
was locked. He lay still, and his brain began to wander, but with an
effort he kept a hold upon his thoughts. He was a strong man, who had
never had a bad illness--a cool head and an intrepid heart.
Stretching out his legs, he found some object close to him. It was Von
Holzen's desk, which stood on four strong legs against the wall.
Cornish, who was quick and observant, remembered now how the room was
shaped and furnished. He gathered himself together, drew in his legs,
and doubled himself, with his feet against the desk, his shoulder
against the door. He was long and lithe, of a steely strength which he
had never tried. He now slowly straightened himself, and tore the
screws out of the solid wood of the door, which remained hanging by the
upper hinge. His head and shoulders were now out in the open air.
He lay for a moment or two to regain his breath, and recover from the
deadly nausea that follows gas poisoning. Then he rose to his feet, and
stood swaying like a drunken man. Von Holzen's cottage was a few yards
away. A light was burning there, and gleamed through the cracks of the
curtains.
Cornish went towards the cottage, then paused. “No,” he muttered,
holding his head with both hands. “It will keep.” And he staggered away
in the darkness towards the corner where the empty barrels stood
against the fence.