The Bomb-Makers

One afternoon the young man Schrieber called, remained talking alone with Drost for about ten minutes, and then left. Presently the old man entered the drawing-room wherein his daughter was seated writing a letter. In his hand he carried a china vase about fourteen inches high, the dark-blue ornamentation being very similar to a “willow-pattern” plate. It was shaped something like a Greek amphora, and quite of ordinary quality.

“Ella, dear,” said her father, handing her the vase, “I wish you could get one exactly like this. You’ll be able to get it quite easily at one of the big stores in the West End. A friend of mine has a pair, and has broken one.”

“Certainly, dad,” was the girl’s reply. “I’m going out this afternoon, and I’ll take it with me.” That afternoon Ella Drost went to several shops until at last, at one in Oxford Street, she found the exact replica. They were in pairs, and she was compelled to buy both. Later on she took them to Barnes, but before doing so she called in at her own flat and there left the superfluous vase.

Old Drost seemed highly delighted at securing the exact replica of the broken ornament.

“Excellent!” he said. “Excellent! Really, my dear child, I thought that you would have had to get it made. And making things in war-time is such a very long process.”

“I had a little trouble, but I at last got a clue to where they had been bought, and there, sure enough, they had one pair still in stock.”

“Excellent! Excellent!” he grunted, and he carried off both the pattern vase and its companion to his little den where he usually did his writing.

That same evening, while the taxi was at the door to take Ella to the theatre, the Count called.

“Ah! Fräulein!” he cried, as he entered the dining-room where Ella stood ready dressed in her smart coat and hat, as became one who had been so successful in her profession and drew such a handsome salary, much to the envy of her less fortunate fellow-artistes. “Why – you’re quite a stranger – always away at the theatre whenever I call. I took some friends from the club to see you the night before last. That new waltz-song of yours is really most delightful – so catchy,” he added, speaking in German.

“Do you like it?” asked the bright, athletic girl who led such a strange semi-Bohemian life, and was yet filled with constant suspicion concerning her father. “At first I did not like singing it, because I objected to some of the lines. But I see now that everyone seems attracted by it.”

“No, Fraulein Ella!” exclaimed the Count, with his exquisite courtesy. “The public are not attracted by the song, but by your own chic and charm.”

“Now, really, Count,” exclaimed Ella, “this is too bad of you! If one of my stall-admirers had said so I would forgive him. But, surely, you know me too well to think that I care for flattery from you. I have been too long on the stage, I assure you. To me applause is merely part of the show. I expect it, and smile and bow when the house claps. It does not fill me with the least personal pride, I assure you. When I first went on the stage it certainly did. But to-day, after being all these years before the public – ”

“All these years!” echoed Ortmann, interrupting her. “Why, you are not much more than twenty now, Ella!”

“And think, I’ve already been twelve years on the stage – a life hard enough, I can tell you!”

“Yes, I know,” remarked the Count. “But you’ll forget all about your friend Commander Kennedy some day, I expect, and marry a wealthy man.”

Ella’s eyebrows contracted for a few seconds.

“Well – perhaps,” she said. “But I may yet marry Mr Kennedy, you know!”

Count Ernst Ortmann smiled – a hard evil expression upon his heavy lips. He held Seymour Kennedy in distinct suspicion.

Indeed, when Ella had gone and he was standing with old Drost in the dining-room, he remarked:

“I still entertain very grave suspicions regarding that fellow Kennedy. Couldn’t you keep Ella away from him? Could not we part them somehow? While they are in love a distinct danger exists. He may learn something at any moment. My information is that he is particularly shrewd at investigations, and he may suspect. If so, then the game might very easily be up.”

“Bah! Do not anticipate any such contretemps. He knows nothing – take that from me. We have nothing whatever to fear in that direction,” Drost assured him. “If I thought so I should very soon take steps to part them.”

“How would you accomplish that?”

Theodore Drost’s narrow face – broad at the brow and narrow at the chin – puckered in a smile.

“It would not be at all difficult,” he said, with a mysterious expression. “I have something upstairs which would very soon effect our purpose and leave no trace – if it were necessary.”

“But it is necessary,” the Count declared.

“One day it may be,” Drost said. “But not yet.”

“Your girl is in love with him, and I suppose you think it a pity to – well, to spoil their romance, even in face of all that Germany has at stake!” remarked the Count, with an undisguised sneer. “Ah, my dear Drost! you pose as a Dutch pastor, but do you not remember our German motto: Der beste prediger ist der Zeit?” (Time is the best preacher.)

“Yes, yes,” replied the old man with the scraggy beard. “But please rely upon my wits. My eyes are open, and I assure you there is nothing whatever at present to fear.”

“Very well, Drost,” Answered the Count. “I submit to your wider knowledge. But now that the girl has gone, we may as well go upstairs – eh? You’ve, of course, seen in to-night’s paper that Merton Mansfield is to address the munition-makers in the Midlands in a fortnight’s time.”

Old Drost again smiled mysteriously, and said:

“I knew that quite a fortnight ago. Schrieber has been north. He returned only last Tuesday.”

“Did you send him north?”

“I did. He went upon a mission. As you know, I am generally well ahead with any plans I make.”

“Plans! What are they? Really, my dear Theodore, you are a perfect marvel of clever inventiveness!”

Ella’s father shrugged his shoulders, and in his deep guttural German replied:

“I am only doing my duty as a good loyal son of our own Fatherland.”

“Well spoken,” declared the Count. “There is a good and just reward awaiting you after the war, never fear! Our Emperor does not forget services rendered. Let us go upstairs – eh? I am anxious to learn what you suggest.”

The pair ascended the stairs to the carefully locked room in the roof, that long, well-equipped laboratory wherein Theodore Drost spent so many hours daily experimenting in the latest discovered high-explosives. After Drost had switched on the light he carefully closed the door, and then, crossing to a long deal cupboard where hung several cotton overalls to protect his clothes against the splash of acids, he took out his military gas-masks – those hideous devices with rubber mouth-pieces and mica eye-holes, as used by our men at the front.

“It is always best to take precautions,” Drost said, as he handed his companion and taskmaster a helmet. “You may find it a little stifling at first, but it is most necessary.”

Both put on the masks, after which Drost handed the Count a pair of rubber gloves. These Ortmann put on, watching Drost, who did the same.

“It is a good job, Count, that we are alone in the house, otherwise I could do no work. The gas is heavy, and any escaping from here will fall to the basement. One fourteen-thousandth part in air, and the result must be fatal. There is no known antidote. Ah!” he laughed, “these poor, too-confiding English little dream of our latter-day discoveries – scientific discoveries by which we hold all the honours in the game of war.”

“Very well,” grunted the Count. “Let us hope that our science is better than that of our enemies. But I confess that to-day I have doubts. These British have made most wonderful strides – the most amazing progress in their munitions and devices.”

While he spoke old Drost was, with expert hand, mixing certain compounds, grey and bright-green crystals, which he pounded in a mortar. Then, carefully weighing with his apothecary’s scales several grammes of a fine white powder, he added it and, while the Count, still wearing his ugly mask, watched, mixed a measured quantity of water and placed the whole into a big glass retort which was already in a holder warmed by the pale-blue flame of a spirit-lamp.

Suddenly Drost made a gesture to his companion, and while the liquid in the retort was bubbling, he attached to the narrow end of the retort an arrangement of bent glass tube, and proceeded to distil the liquid he had produced.

This product, which fell drop by drop into a long test-tube, was of a bright-blue colour. Drop by drop fell that fatal liquid – fatal because it gave off a poison-gas against which no human being could exist for more than five seconds.

“This,” exclaimed Drost, his voice muffled by his mask, “is the most fatal of any gas that chemical science has yet discovered. It does not merely asphyxiate and leave bad symptoms afterwards, but it kills outright in a few seconds. It is absolutely deadly.”

The room had by that time become filled by a curious orange-coloured vapour – bright-orange – which to Ortmann’s eyes was an extraordinary phenomenon. Had he not worn the protective mask he would have been instantly overwhelmed by an odour closely resembling that of cloves – a terribly fatal perfume, which would sweep away men like moths passing through the flame of a candle.

“Well, my dear Drost,” said the Count, “I know you will never rest until you’ve devised a means of carrying out our plans for the downfall of Merton Mansfield, and certainly you seem to have adopted some measure – deadly though it may be – which is quite in accord with your ingenuity.” He also spoke in a low, stifled voice from within his ugly mask.

Drost nodded, and then into the marble mortar, in which he had mixed his devilish compounds, he poured something from a long blue glass-stoppered bottle, whereupon the place instantly became filled with volumes of grey smoke which, when it cleared, left the atmosphere perfectly clear – so clear, indeed, that both men removed their masks, sniffing, however, at the faint odour of cloves still remaining.

Afterwards the old chemist took from the cupboard a small cardboard box which, on opening, contained, carefully packed in cotton wool, a short, stout, but hollow needle. Attached to it at one end was a small steel box about two inches broad and the same high. The box was perforated at intervals.