Bulldog Drummond at Bay by Sapper (Herman Cyril McNeile)

Author:Sapper (Herman Cyril McNeile) [Sapper (Herman Cyril McNeile)]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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CHAPTER IX

"I trust that everything is to monsieur's satisfaction?"

The head waiter bowed obsequiously as an underling replaced the gold-foil bottle in the ice bucket. The silver gleamed in the shaded light; a big jar of caviare shone like black velvet in the centre of the table. From outside came the dull roar of the Strand by night; save for that, no sound disturbed the occupant of the suite in the Ritz-Carlton.

"Thank you, Henri. All is excellent as usual. Let my friend be shown up the instant he arrives."

"I will see to it personally, m'sieur."

With another low bow befitting a man whose wealth was reputed to be fabulous, and who, unlike some others of the millionaire variety, dispensed largesse freely, Henri marshalled his attendants and left the room, leaving the diner alone.

For a while he ate with the quiet deliberation of a man used to feeding by himself—sparingly and yet with the appreciation of the true epicure. Every now and then his eyes rested on the ormolu clock which occupied the centre of the mantel-piece. They were strange eyes—almost repellent. Very light blue in colour, they protruded slightly, giving the impression of a fish. But what was most noticeable about them was their unwavering stare: they never seemed to blink. Hypnotic, frightening, eyes to which it would take a bold man to lie; eyes which made women turn away with a shudder; eyes which had done more than anything else to make Ivor Kalinsky one of the most powerful forces in Europe.

He finished the caviare, and pouring himself out another glass of champagne, he lit a cigarette. He smoked as he had eaten, slowly and with deliberation, using an amber holder. And after a time he rose and began to pace slowly up and down the room. The clanging bell of a passing fire-engine grew to a crescendo and died away in the distance, but he scarcely heard it: his mind was engrossed in other matters, for Ivor Kalinsky was confronted with the biggest problem of his career. On which side should he tip the balance—for or against another European war?

To the countless thousands hurrying through the streets of London to their favourite cinema it would have seemed fantastic that such a thing could be possible. Had they been asked to swallow such a situation even in their most hectic melodrama, they would have poured scorn upon the mentality of the producer of the film. Governments and politicians made wars—not one lone individual pacing to and fro in a dim-lit sitting-room. Who wanted a war, anyway? Hadn't the last one been bad enough?

For or against! For or against! Ceaselessly his brain was working, weighing factor against factor, as coldly and analytically as a chemist conducting an experiment. To the moral side of the issue he gave no thought; it simply did not enter into his calculations. To him the matter was a game of chess, and it was imperative that he should not make a false move.

He drew back the curtains and stared out over the city.

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