Array Sapper - The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile Sapper

The worthy lawyer broke off abruptly. "Good heavens! Captain Drummond, what is the matter?" For Drummond had risen from his chair, and was standing in front of the Professor. "You're not the man who came to see me yesterday," he said quietly. "You're not Professor Scheidstrun at all."

"But the man is mad," gasped the German. "You say I am not Scheidstrun—me."

"You're made up to look exactly like him—but you're not Scheidstrun! I tell you, Mr. Tootem"—he turned to the lawyer, who was staring at him aghast—"that that man is no more Scheidstrun than I am. The disguise is wonderful—but his hair is a slightly different colour. Ever since I came in I've been wondering what it was."

"This young man is mad," said the German angrily. "The reason that it is a slightly different colour is that I wear a wig. I haf two: this morning I wear the other one to what I wear yesterday."

But Drummond wasn't even listening. Like a bird fascinated by a snake he was staring at the Professor's left hand, beating an agitated tattoo on his knee. For a moment or two he was dazed, as the stupendous reality burst on his mind. Before him sat Carl Peterson himself, given away once again by that old trick which he could never get rid of, that ceaseless nervous movement of the left hand. It was incredible; the suddenness of the thing took his breath away. And then the whole thing became clear to him. Somehow or other Peterson had heard of the discovery; perhaps employed by Sir Raymond Blantyre himself. He had found out that the notes of the process were to be handed to Scheidstrun, and with his usual consummate daring had decided to impersonate the German. And the woman he had seen arriving the night before was Irma.

His thoughts were chaotic: only the one great thing stuck out. The man in front of him was Peterson: he knew it. And with one wild hoot of utter joy he leapt upon him.

"My little Carl," he murmured ecstatically, "the pitcher has come to the well once too often."

Possibly it had; but the scene which followed beggared description. Peterson or not Peterson, his confession as to wearing a wig was the truth. It came off with a slight sucking noise, revealing a domelike cranium completely devoid of hair. With a wild yell of terror the unfortunate German sprang from his chair, and darted behind the portly form of Mr Tootem, while Drummond, brandishing the wig, advanced on him.

"Damn it, sir," spluttered Mr Tootem, "I'll send for the police, sir; you must be mad."

"Out of the way, Tootles," said Drummond happily. "You'll scream with laughter when I tell you the truth. Though we'd best make certain the swab hasn't got a gun."

With a quick heave he jerked the cowering man out from behind the lawyer, who immediately rushed to the door shouting for help.

"A madman," he bellowed to his amazed staff. "Send for a keeper, and a straight-jacket."

He turned round, for a sudden silence had settled on the room behind. Drummond was standing motionless gripping both the Professor's arms, with a look of amazement slowly dawning on his face. Surely he couldn't be mistaken, and yet—unless Peterson had suffered from some wasting disease—what on earth had happened to the man? The arms he felt under the coat-sleeve were thin as match-sticks, whereas Peterson as he remembered of old was almost as strong as he was.

He stared at Professor Scheidstrun's face. Yes—surely that nose was too good to be true. He pulled it thoughtfully and methodically—first this way then that—while the unhappy victim screamed with agony, and the junior clerk upset the ink in his excitement at the untoward spectacle.

It was real right enough—that nose. At least nothing had come off so far, and a little dazedly Drummond backed away, still staring at him. Surely he hadn't made a mistake: the gesture—that movement of the left hand had been quite unmistakable. And the next instant a terrific blow on the right ear turned his attention to other things.

He swung round to find a monumental woman regarding him with the light of battle in her eyes.

"How dare you," she boomed, "the nose of my Heinrich pull?" With great agility Drummond dodged a heavy second to the jaw, and it was now his turn to flee for safety. And it took a bit of doing.

The lady was out for blood, as a heavy volume on the intricacies of Real Estate which missed Drummond's head by half an inch and broke a flower-vase clearly proved.

"He seize my wig; he try to pull off my nose," wailed the Professor, as Mr Tootem, junior, attracted by the din, rushed in. "And if I the coward catch," bellowed his spouse, picking up a companion volume on Probate and Divorce, "I will not try—I will succeed with this."

"Three to one on the filly," murmured young Tootem gracelessly, as with a heavy crash Probate and Divorce shot through the window.

But mercifully for all concerned, especially the reputation of Tootem, Price & Tootem, it proved to be the lady's dying gasp.

Completely exhausted she sank into a chair, and Drummond cautiously emerged from behind a table. He was feeling a little faint himself; the need for alcohol was pressing. One thing even to his whirling brain was beyond dispute. Impossible though it was that Peterson should have shrunk, it was even more impossible that Irma should have swollen. By no conceivable art of disguise could that beautiful and graceful girl have turned herself into the human monstrosity who was now regarding him balefully from her chair.

Her arms were twice the size of his own, and unless Irma had developed elephantiasis the thing simply could not be. Of course she might have covered herself with india-rubber and blown herself out in some way; he didn't put anything beyond Peterson. But the thought of pricking her with a pin to make sure was beyond even his nerve. It was too early in the day to ask any woman to burst with a slow whistling noise. And if she was real... He trembled violently at the mere thought of what would happen.

No; incredible though it was, he had made a ghastly mistake. Moreover, the next move was clearly with him. "I'm afraid I've made a bloomer," he murmured, mopping his forehead. "What about a small spot all round, and—er—I'll try to explain."

It cannot be said that he found the process of explaining an easy one. The lady in particular, having got her second wind, seemed only too ready to cut the cackle and get down to it again; and, as Drummond had to admit even to himself, the explanation sounded a bit lame. To assault unmercifully an elderly German savant in a lawyer's office merely because he was drumming with his left hand on his knee was, as Mr Tootem junior put it, a shade over the odds.

And his excuse for so doing—his description of the inconceivable villainies of Carl Peterson in the past—was received coldly.

In fact Hugh Drummond proceeded to spend an extremely unpleasant twenty minutes, which might have been considerably prolonged but for Mr Tootem senior remembering that the umpires were just about coming out at Lord's.

He rose from his chair pontifically.

"I think we must assume," he remarked, "that this misguided young man was actuated by worthy motives, even though his actions left much to be desired. His keenness to safeguard the valuable notes of my late lamented client no doubt inspired his amazing outburst. And since he has apologised so profusely to you, Professor—and also, my dear Madam, to you—I would suggest that you might see your way to accepting that apology, and that we might terminate the interview. I have no doubt that now that Captain Drummond has satisfied himself so—ah—practically that you are not—I forget his friend's name—will have no hesitation in handing over the notes to me. Should he still refuse, I shall, of course, have no other alternative but to send for the police which would cause a most unpleasant contretemps for all concerned. Especially on the very day of the—er—funeral."