Criminals -- Fiction; Detective and mystery stories; Great Britain. Metropolitan Police Office -- Fiction; Wills -- Fiction
He wanted three minutes, he wanted them very badly; perhaps two minutes
would be enough. All the time the lawyer was speaking he was actively
employed. He had kicked off his shoes when the lights went out, and
now he stole round the room, his sensitive hands flying over the stony
walls.
“As to my intentions,” the lawyer was saying, “it must be fairly
obvious to you that I am not going to hand you over to the police.
Rather, my young friend, in the vulgar parlance of the criminal
classes, I am going to ‘do you in,’ meaning thereby, if you will
forgive the legal terminology, that I shall assist you to another and,
I hope, though I am not sanguine, a better world.”
He heard Jimmy’s insolent laugh in the blackness.
“You are a man after my own heart, Jimmy,” he went on regretfully. “I
could have wished that I might have been spared this painful duty; but
it is a duty, one that I owe to society and myself.”
“You are an amusing person,” said Jimmy’s voice.
“I am glad you think so. Jimmy, my young friend, I am afraid our
conversation must end here. Do you know anything of chemistry?”
“A little.”
“Then you will appreciate my burglar catcher,” said Spedding, with
uncanny satisfaction. “You, perhaps, noticed the japanned box with the
perforated lid? You did? Good! There are two compartments, and two
chemicals in certain quantities kept apart. My hand is on the key now
that will combine them. When cyanide of potassium is combined with
sulphuric acid, do you know what gas is formed?”
Jimmy did not reply. He had found what he had been searching for.
His talk with the Spanish builder had been to some purpose. It was a
little stony projection from the wall. He pressed it downward, and was
sensible of a sensation of coldness. He reached out his hand, and found
where solid wall had been a blank space.
“Do you hear, Jimmy?” asked the lawyer’s voice.
“I hear,” replied Jimmy, and felt for the edge of the secret door. His
fingers sliding down the smooth surface of the flange encountered the
two catches.
“It is hydrocyanic acid,” said the lawyer’s smooth voice, and Jimmy
heard the snap of the button.
“Good-by,” said the lawyer’s voice again, and Jimmy reeled back through
the open doorway swinging the door behind him, and carrying with him a
whiff of air heavily laden with the scent of almonds.
CHAPTER VII
WHAT THE RED ENVELOPE HELD
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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