The talkers

The intimacy between Sidney Pockman and Casimir Sadoul was a companionship rather than a friendship—a personal association based on similar tastes, similar inclinations, and a common lack of scruple.

This mutual accord seemed to be sincere; stood the usual strains to which real friendship is subject; and, so far, had remained unimpaired.

But when, that night at Derring’s, Pockman raised his pale gaze from the dead girl and rested it on Sadoul, Sadoul realised instantly that he had never trusted Sidney Pockman. And for the first time in his life he knew what it was to be afraid.

The following afternoon, closeted in the private office of the laboratory with Pockman, and having recounted his telephone conversation with Sutton, he awaited Pockman’s comment with a mind already darkly on its guard.

The first unhealthy colour of excitement had faded from Pockman’s flat features; he was taking the astounding news coolly enough. Even a slight smirk returned as he looked up at Sadoul, who still wore his faded soft hat and brown overcoat.

“You’ll have to find her for me,” he said.

“I don’t have to do anything for you,” retorted Sadoul softly.

After a silence Pockman stole a stealthy glance at him, and learned nothing. However, he was already convinced.

“Don’t you think it’s up to you to find Gilda Greenway?”

“I’m not certain it’s up to me, Pockman.”

“Who is to do it, then?”

“There’s Sutton. And if he refuses, then there are confidential agencies——”

“Hadn’t we better cover this affair between ourselves?” inquired Pockman. “It’s safer for—everybody—I imagine.”

The slight menace was not lost on Sadoul, but he coolly chose to misinterpret it.

“You’re a little worried about the irregularity of what you did, I suppose.”

“Not the irregularity of what—I did,” retorted Pockman, smirking.

“What’s bothering you, then?”

Pockman opened a desk drawer, flicked a blue-print toward Sadoul.

“What’s this?” asked the other.

“Finger-prints. They were on the gold-headed pin—or dirk—or stiletto—whatever you call it,” he added with a slight snicker.

Sadoul studied the blue-print. Then he glanced up inquiringly.

“Whose?” he asked.

“Yours, Sadoul.”

Sadoul continued to examine the whorls with detached interest.

“Well?” he inquired finally. “What’s the idea?”

“Nothing,” said Pockman; “you needn’t worry—only—lay off on that stuff, Sadoul.... Because I happen to need your girl in my business. That’s all there will be to it—as far as I’m concerned.... Let me have that blue-print.”

Sadoul passed it back to him across the desk, thoughtfully:

“Do you really think I killed her?” he asked, with his shadowy smile. “Or are you facetious?”

“I’m not speculating.... She isn’t dead, anyway.... And I mean to see that she remains alive and kicking. That’s all.... So——” He smirked, dropped the blue-print into the drawer, locked it, and pocketed the key.

“In my safe-deposit box there’s a duplicate print,” he remarked. “Also a statement.... I want to observe this girl for a while. I don’t want anything to happen to her. When I’m through with her—you can have the finger-prints back if you like.... And the—weapon. Is it understood?”

Sadoul, apparently preoccupied, and sitting motionless in his chair, made no reply. But his brain was a flaming hell.

Impulse after impulse flashed up and raged through him, tearing at self-control. For the first terrified instinct of self-preservation had instantly become a violent desire to end forever the danger threatening him. His powerful frame was tense with purpose. Yet, a trace of reason remained. And he seemed to realise that, even if he could bring himself to do it—and devise a way—it would not help matters to kill Pockman. It was too late. He understood that. But his burning brain raged on.

Sadoul had never before planned murder. He had never even thought of it as a solution for any problem until he saw Gilda Greenway in Sutton’s arms. Then he went mad.

But, even then, had she not been so close—the warm fragrance of her very body in his nostrils—and a weapon at hand, dangling from her perfumed hair——

His swarthy face grayed a little: he got up from his chair, as though very tired, and put on his shabby hat.

“Whatever you think,” he said in an altered voice, “you have no business to threaten me.... Gilda is perfectly safe—you have my word of honour, if you wish. But you must let me have those—blue-prints.”

Pockman was looking at him with intense curiosity. In his gaze there was, also, a sort of half-fearful respect which the habitual smirk intensified.

“My God, Sadoul,” he murmured, “I never even dreamed that sort of thing was in you.”

Sadoul picked up his worn portfolio, slowly buttoned his overcoat, stood so with head lowered.

“I must have the prints,” he repeated in a low voice. Then he raised his smouldering eyes.

After a silence: “Do you give me your solemn promise to let her alone?” demanded Pockman.

“I promise not to—harm her.”

“I want you to keep away from her.”

Sadoul thought for a few moments: “Pockman,” he said calmly, “I shan’t interfere with you if you desire to keep her under professional observation. But, otherwise—I tolerate no other man.”

The unhealthy flush made Pockman’s face a livid pink again.

“My interest in your damned girl is purely professional,” he said.

“Let it remain so. Because my interest is slightly different.”

“What’s your interest in her? I thought you were through,” sneered Pockman.

“I’m still—interested.”

“That girl is turning you crazy!” burst out Pockman. “You’d better look out or you’ll find yourself on the front page some morning——”

Sadoul turned on him, baring every tooth: “Tomorrow morning!—if you don’t get those prints for me. And you’ll be there, too.”

“Get out of my office, you crazy bum!” shouted Pockman.

“Do you really mean that?”

There was a long and tense silence.

Presently Pockman found his voice, weakly: “What in Christ’s name has got into you, anyway!” he demanded.

Sadoul shook his sombre head: “I don’t know.... I don’t know, Pockman.... I can’t manage to forget her—and I can’t go on this way—always——”

Pockman ventured to lay one hand, fearfully, on Sadoul’s shoulder—he had to force himself to do it.

“I wasn’t serious. Hell! I’ll get those things for you. Then you’d better go away somewhere and rid yourself of this fool obsession before it kills you—or somebody——”

“All right.... Thanks.”

After a moment he opened the door and went out, moving as though fatigued, his shabby portfolio hanging from one bony hand.