Account Settled. John Russell Fearn

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СКАЧАТЬ After all, Mr. Quinton, that’s a colossal sum!”

      “It’s a colossal invention, and it’s not a big sum compared to the international value—and danger—of the thing! It might even be worth a million to keep me quiet!” Quinton shrugged. “However, I merely tell you my figure beforehand so that you will know how to plan accordingly. I certainly will not take less. As for the blueprint.…”

      He stopped, frowning hard.

      “You shall have an undertaking and receipt for it,” Drew said. “I can understand your reluctance, but if you won’t leave it, we can’t do business—and there it is. After all, the Drew Financial Trust is not a firm that is here today and gone tomorrow, you know.”

      “True, but— You couldn’t have your scientists examine it here and now, while I wait?”

      Drew shook his head. His gray hair was cropped so closely it resembled plush.

      “Afraid not. It’s the work of many hours to be sure of every detail. We may even have to make a working model before we can be certain.”

      Quinton still meditated, then at last he nodded.

      “Very well, then. Let me have your receipt.”

      Drew pressed a button on his desk, and Janet Kayne entered silently. Drew looked across at her.

      “Oh, Miss Kayne, make out an undertaking for Mr. Quinton—in consideration of him allowing us to have—er—Blueprint Number 7670/K, we undertake—and so on. You know. Right away please.”

      “Very good, Mr. Drew.”

      The door closed again and Quinton aimed questioning blue eyes.

      “How long do you think it will be before you know some­thing definite?”

      Drew reflected briefly. “It’s important enough to get on with right away. We ought to know something by this time to­morrow at the latest.”

      Rajek Quinton nodded quietly, and for a moment or two Drew studied him.

      “Business apart, Mr. Quinton,” he said at length, “how do you like being in England?”

      A faint smile crossed the inventor’s lean, pale features

      “I don’t, really—but as I told you, my daughter’s health comes first. Unfortunately, she has heart disease, and it’s a very big worry for me.”

      “Hmm. I’m sorry to hear that. Is she—young?”

      “Twenty-five—and most capable. You see—” Quinton moved as though his words had suddenly become distasteful to him— “I’m staking pretty well everything on this invention, Mr. Drew. I sold out my watchmaker business, but it didn’t realize a very great deal, certainly not enough money to live in the style my daughter and I would like. I want, if I can, to get into a high social niche in this country, and my daughter too, of course. We undoubtedly will if you and I come to terms. At the moment you can reach me at the Grand Hotel in Fennis Street.”

      Drew jotted down the address on his scratchpad. He was looking quite amiable again now.

      “And if we come to terms, do you propose to stay in London?”

      “I think not. We prefer the country. We have ideas about a quiet place up in the northeast.”

      “And yet I believe you mentioned milder air?

      “The northeast of England is far milder than Switzerland, Mr. Drew, and there’s a lot of quiet countryside up there.”

      “Mmm, true—”

      Drew broke off as Janet Kayne returned, a quarto sheet em­bossed with the Trust seals in her hand. Drew took it, added his signature, then handed it across to Quinton. “There you are, sir—everything in order.”

      Quinton looked at it and put it in his briefcase. The only sound for a moment was of the zipper closing, then the inventor got to his feet.

      “I’ll be here this time tomorrow, Mr. Drew,” he said. “And thank you.”

      The financier rose and shook hands, went with Quinton as far as the office door; then, when he had shown him out, he stood for a moment and pondered, his hand on the knob. Janet Kayne straightened up from the desk, glanced briefly at the blueprint, and set it on one side.

      “Miss Kayne—”

      “Sir?” She glanced up expectantly as Drew came over to her ponderously.

      “Have Mr. Valant come in here from the research depart­ment right away, will you?”

      The girl nodded and went out. Still pensive, pulling at his cigar, Drew unrolled the blueprint again and contemplated it. He was still doing so when Bruce Valant, the lanky chief of the scientific research department, came in. He had light-colored eyes and his wiry hair bushed up around his head.

      “Want me, Mr. Drew?”

      “Yes. Take a look at this and tell me how good or bad it is. A good deal depends on it.”

      The scientist flattened the blueprint out and brooded over it. Drew stood watching, the fragrance from his cigar drifting into his eyes.

      “Offhand,” Valant said at length, straightening up, “I’d say this is some new-fangled sort of bomb. From the look of this blueprint—crazy though it sounds—it looks as though the bomb would pass through the interstices of matter to any desired depth, drawn by the pull of earth’s own gravity.”

      Drew nodded his shaven head approvingly.

      “Good! I can see I don’t pay for nothing in having you, Valant. That’s exactly what the thing is. I want you to rush through a model of it and see just how efficient it is—say, by eight o’clock tonight.”

      The scientist shook his wild-haired head dubiously.

      “That won’t be too easy, sir. There’s some pretty intricate workmanship here—”

      “Quinton told me that a copy model from these designs would not take long, and I want it done!” Drew set his jaw. “Drop everything else, commandeer all the labor and money you need, but get this model ready for eight tonight.”

      Valant rolled the print up and nodded. He knew it was impossible to argue with Emerson Drew when he got hold of pet idea.

      “I’ll do it, sir,” he promised, and headed for the door.

      “And another thing, Valant—”

      “Yes, sir?”

      “Don’t let anybody else see the print. Put your workers on separate sections and never let the entire setup get out of your hands. I’m holding you responsible.”

      The scientist nodded and went out. Drew sat down at the desk again and pulled a telephone to him, dialed on the private wire.

      “That you, J.K.?” he asked presently.

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