“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.
