Account Settled. John Russell Fearn

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      Immediately Valant whipped it up and stopped the mechanism.

      “It looks,” Marvin de Brock said, musing, “just like a con­juring trick. One of those matter-through-matter illusions.”

      “With one difference, gentlemen, that this is not an illusion,” Valant said. He unfastened the steel plate from the legs and stood it endwise on the desk. There was not a trace of rupture or marking where the bomb had been.

      “Miraculous!” J.K. Darnhome breathed, pushing a lock of fallen gray hair out of his eye.

      “Simply the utilization of scientific facts,” Valant said, shrugging. “Quinton has found a way to make matter pass through matter by forcing the atoms to obey magnetism, and thereby their normal obstructive power is neutralized. It’s brilliant—no doubt of it.”

      Drew nodded slowly and motioned the scientist to put the bomb on the desk.

      “That’s all for now, Valant. You can go home if you want. Thanks for getting the job done.”

      The scientist nodded and left the room. Drew gave a slow, grim smile and then glanced at the men to either side of him.

      “Well, gentlemen, was it worth your while getting here for eight o’clock, or not?”

      “Oh, it was worth it,” J.K. agreed. “Just as you said, the thing is worth a fortune.… How much does this chap Quinton want for it?”

      Drew reached out for a cigar box and held it forth.

      “A million advance in respect of royalties, and the remaining terms to be arranged.”

      “Then he’s crazy,” Marvin de Brock commented, striking his lighter. “Give him a thousand and he’ll think himself lucky.”

      “I do not propose,” Drew said, closing the box emphatically, “to give him anything! I’ve seen him, you have not, and believe me I doubt if a more simple-minded soul ever descended from heaven straight into the lion’s den.”

      “Many inventors are apparently quiet,” Darnhome reflected. “But when you start to cross them, they blow up in your face. I don’t trust the quiet type. Never did.”

      “I don’t think Rajek Quinton falls into the category you’re thinking of, J.K.,” Drew said, shaking his head. “In fact, the thing is so easy it’s nearly a shame to do it. Here, right in our grasp, is the blueprint for an invention worth millions. I could, of course, photocopy it, manufacture it secretly, and have the original blueprint returned to Quinton with the simple statement that his invention doesn’t interest us. But that wouldn’t do us any good. He’d submit it elsewhere and we’d perhaps find our­selves saddled with stiff opposition before very long. So, I see only one way out.…”

      The huge office was quiet for a moment. Marvin de Brock found himself staring at the sinister outlines of the thing that held unlimited power.

      “You mean—dispose of him?” Darnhome’s voice was sober.

      “There have been times,” Drew answered, “when disposal of a certain irritating faction has been necessary, just in the course of business. I don’t hide the fact from either of you, because you yourselves were in at those disposals. Remember Travers of New York? Then there was the case of L’Estrage of Paris, a necessary extermination. I’m afraid we have similar necessary extermination here.”

      De Brock rubbed his chin and scowled. Darnhome looked across at the cocktail cabinet and decided he needed a drink.

      “This is no time for your damned whisky, J.K.!” Drew snapped, turning.

      “Any time’s the time for that.…” The tycoon went over to the cabinet, poured out three glasses of whisky, and brought them across to the desk.

      “Are you sure that nothing can backfire if we dispose of Quinton?” de Brock asked.

      “I’m absolutely sure. I got quite a bit of information out of him without him knowing why I was fishing. He’s only been in England a month, and he can’t have made many friends in that time. He’s here because of his daughter’s health—heart disease or something. Anyway, she needs softer air.”

      Darnhome drained his whisky glass and reflected.

      “Sounds easy enough, if neatly done. Stranger in town with an invalid daughter.”

      “Hardly an invalid,” de Brock corrected. “Even if you have got heart disease, you can sometimes skip around and fool every­body. I don’t like the daughter angle, myself. Girls get out­raged ideas sometimes when their fathers mysteriously vanish. How old is she?”

      “Twenty-five.”

      “I dislike it still more,” de Brock said, and picked up his glass.

      “Well, a venture with no element of risk simply doesn’t exist,” Drew said, shrugging. “The fact remains that you, de Brock, represent Atomic Power; that you, J.K., control Metals, and that I have control of science and finance. Combined, we comprise a triumvirate of infinite power, and into our hands has come the wherewithal to add to our millions—not by manufacturing this bomb for our own country, but for other countries, who, as we know, are just waiting for an invention like this in order to retrieve their shattered fortunes. Atomic explosive in an unlimited number of Quinton bombs can bring any country to its knees in twenty-four hours. I do not propose to let the inventor of such an idea live. It would be suicidal.”

      “All right,” de Brock said, after consideration. “I’m with you. What about you, J.K.?”

      Darnhome shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned, an inventor is neither here nor there where business is concerned.… What do you propose doing, Drew?”

      “You can leave that to me. I haven’t failed before on a job of this kind, and I shan’t this time. There’s a little matter of a receipt that I shall have to attend to. Quinton has that. You need have no fear but what it will be recovered. One thing, though, we must all understand!” Drew looked at both impressively in turn. “The actual secret of the Quinton bomb is ours alone—and that of Valant, my chief scientist. It must go no further than that. I will attend to the scientific end and the financing thereof; you, de Brock, will supply the atomic explosive from your organization; and you, J.K., the necessary metals. I’ll make the necessary international contacts. That agreed?”

      The other two men nodded slowly. Drew sat back and rubbed his hands.

      “Good! With Quinton eliminated, and his daughter taken care of if she shows any signs of getting inquisitive, we’ve nothing to stop us cleaning up the biggest thing yet. Just let me handle it, gentlemen, and I’ll let you know how things work out.”

      They got to their feet and went over to the stand for their coats. In another few minutes they left, Drew thoughtfully contemplating the bomb upon his desk. He sat nearly motionless for three minutes, pulling at his cigar—and then at last he raised the telephone.

      “Get me a Mr. Quinton at the Grand Hotel,” he told the night switch-girl.

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