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  The Third Round

  First published in 1924

  © Trustees of the Estate of H.C. McNeile; House of Stratus 1924-2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of H.C. McNeile (Sapper) to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2010 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., 21 Beeching Park, Kelly Bray,

  Cornwall, PL17 8QS, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  1842325604 9781842325605 Print

  0755116887 9780755116881 Print (Alt)

  0755123018 9780755123018 Pdf

  0755123387 9780755123384 Mobi

  0755123395 9780755123391 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Herman Cyril McNeile, who wrote under the pseudonym Sapper, was born in Bodmin, Cornwall, on 28 September 1888 to Captain Malcolm McNeile RN and his wife, Christiana Mary. He was educated at Cheltenham College, and then went on to the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich, before joining the Royal Engineers in 1907, from which he derived his pseudonym – ‘sappers’ being the nickname of the Engineers.

  During World War One he served first as a Captain, seeing action at both the First and the Second Battle of Ypres, and won the Military Cross before retiring from the army as a Lieutenant-Colonel in 1919. Prior to this, in 1914 he met and married Violet Baird, daughter of a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Cameron Highlanders. They eventually had two sons.

  Somewhat remarkably, he managed to publish a number of books during the war and whilst still serving, (serving officers were not permitted to publish under their own names – hence the need for a pseudonym), commencing with The Lieutenant and Others and Sergeant Michael Cassidy, R.E. in 1915. Lord Northcliff, the owner of the Daily Mail, was so impressed by this writing that he attempted, but failed, to have McNeile released from the army so he could work as a war correspondent.

  McNeile's first full length novel, Mufti, was published in 1919, but it was in 1920 that his greatest hit Bulldog Drummond, was published. This concerned the exploits of a demobilised officer, Captain Hugh ‘Bulldog’ Drummond, ‘who found peace dull’. This was an immediate and enduring success and has been filmed and performed on stage both in the UK and USA. Further Drummond adventures were to follow, along with other novels, notably those featuring the private detective Ronald Standish.

  Much of his writing is based upon the atmosphere, rather than experiences, he absorbed from public school and London Gentleman’s Clubs. His heroes are most decidedly ‘English’ in character and ‘do the right thing’, whilst his villains are foreign and ‘do not play by the rules’. Ian Fleming once noted that his own hero James Bond was ‘Sapper’ from the waist up.

  McNeile died in 1937 at his home in Sussex, having lived a relatively quiet and content life, in sharp contrast to the characters in his books. His friend Gerard Fairlie, thought to be the model for Drummond, went on to write seven more adventures. Many of his books are collections of short stories, with most having a twist in the tail, usually surprising the reader by totally flawing anticipations with regard to their ending within the last few sentences. They are as popular today as ever and eagerly adopted by succeeding generations as amongst the best of their genre.

  House of Stratus was pleased to gain the right to publish from McNeile’s estate in 1999 and has since continually held his major works in print.

  Chapter 1

  In which the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate holds converse with Mr Edward Blackton

  With a sigh of pleasure Mr Edward Blackton opened the windows of his balcony and leaned out, staring over the lake. Opposite, the mountains of Savoy rose steeply from the water; away to the left the Dent du Midi raised its crown of snow above the morning haze.

  Below him the waters of the lake glittered and scintillated with a thousand fires. A steamer, with much blowing of sirens and reversing of paddlewheels, had come to rest at a landing-stage hard by, and was taking on board a bevy of tourists, while the gulls circled round shrieking discordantly. For a while he watched them idly, noting the quickness with which the birds swooped and caught the bread as it was thrown into the air, long before it reached the water. He noted also how nearly all the food was secured by half a dozen of the gulls, whilst the others said a lot but got nothing. And suddenly Mr Edward Blackton smiled.

  “Like life, my dear,” he said, slipping his arm round the waist of a girl who had just joined him at the window. “It’s the fool who shouts in this world: the wise man says nothing and acts.”

  The girl lit a cigarette thoughtfully, and sat down on the ledge of the balcony. For a while her eyes followed the steamer puffing fussily away with its load of sightseers and its attendant retinue of gulls: then she looked at the man standing beside her. Point by point she took him in: the clear blue eyes under the deep forehead, the aquiline nose, the firm mouth and chin. Calmly, dispassionately she noted the thick brown hair greying a little over the temples, the great depth of chest, and the strong, powerful hands: then she turned and looked once again at the disappearing steamer. But to the man’s surprise she gave a little sigh.

  “What is it, my dear?” he said solicitously. “Bored?”

  “No, not bored,” she answered. “Whatever may be your failings, mon ami, boring me is not one of them. I was just wondering what it would feel like if you and I were content to go on a paddlewheel steamer with a Baedeker and a Kodak, and a paper bag full of bananas.”

  “We will try tomorrow,” said the man, gravely lighting a cigar.

  “It wouldn’t be any good,” laughed the girl. “Just once in a way we should probably love it. I meant I wonder what it would feel like if that was our life.”

  Her companion nodded.

  “I know, carissima,” he answered gently. “I have sometimes wondered the same thing. I suppose there must be compensations in respectability, otherwise so many people wouldn’t be respectable. But I’m afraid it is one of those things that we shall never know.”

  “I think it’s that,” said the girl, waving her hand towards the mountains opposite – “that has caused my mood. It’s all so perfectly lovely: the sky is just so wonderfully blue. And look at that sailing boat.”

  She pointed to one of the big lake barges, with its two huge lateen sails creeping gently along in the centre of the lake. “It’s all so peaceful, and sometimes one wants peace.”

  “True,” agreed the man; “one does. It’s just reaction, and we’ve been busy lately.” He rose and began to pace slowly up and down the balcony. “To be quite honest, I myself have once or twice thought recently that if I could pull off some really big coup – something, I mean, that ran into the millions – I would give things up.”

  The girl smiled and shook her head.

  “Don’t misunderstand me, my dear,” he went on. “I do not suggest for a moment that we should settle down to a life of toping and ease. We could ne
ither of us exist without employing our brains. But with really big money behind one, we should be in a position to employ our brains a little more legitimately, shall I say, than we are able to at present, and still get all the excitement we require.

  “Take Drakshoff: that man controls three of the principal Governments of Europe. The general public don’t know it; the Governments themselves won’t admit it: but it’s true for all that. As you know, that little job I carried out for him in Germany averted a second revolution. He didn’t want one at the time, and so he called me in. And it cost him in all five million pounds. What was that to him?”

  He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

  “A mere flea-bite – a bagatelle. Why, with that man an odd million or two one way or the other wouldn’t be noticed in his pass-book.”

  He paused and stared over the sunlit lake, while the girl watched him in silence.

  “Given money as big as that, and a man can rule the world. Moreover, he can rule it without fear of consequences. He can have all the excitement he requires; he can wield all the power he desires – and have special posses of police to guard him. I’m afraid we don’t have many to guard us.”

  The girl laughed and lit another cigarette.

  “You are right, mon ami, we do not. Hullo! who can that be?”

  Inside the sitting-room the telephone bell was ringing, and with a slight frown Mr Edward Blackton took off the receiver.

  “What is it?”

  From the other end came the voice of the manager, suitably deferential as befitted a client of such obvious wealth installed in the most palatial suite of the Palace Hotel.

  “Two gentlemen are here, Mr Blackton,” said the manager, “who wish to know when they can have the pleasure of seeing you. Their names are Sir Raymond Blantyre and Mr Jabez Leibhaus. They arrived this morning from England by the Simplon Orient Express, and they say that their business is most urgent.”

  A sudden gleam had come into Mr Blackton’s eyes as he listened, but his voice as he answered was almost bored.

  “I shall be pleased to see both gentlemen at eleven o’clock up here. Kindly have champagne and sandwiches sent to my sitting-room at that hour.”

  He replaced the receiver, and stood for a moment thinking deeply.

  “Who was it?” called the girl from the balcony.

  “Blantyre and Leibhaus, my dear,” answered the man. “Now, what the deuce can they want with me so urgently?”

  “Aren’t they both big diamond men?” said the girl, coming into the room.

  “They are,” said Blackton. “In romantic fiction they would be described as two diamond kings. Anyway, it won’t do them any harm to wait for half an hour.”

  “How did they find out your address? I thought you had left strict instructions that you were not to be disturbed.”

  There was regret in the girl’s voice, and with a faint smile the man tilted back her head and kissed her.

  “In our profession, cara mia,” he said gently, “there are times when the strictest instructions have to be disobeyed. Freyder would never have dreamed of worrying me over a little thing, but unless I am much mistaken this isn’t going to be little. It’s going to be big: those two below don’t go chasing half across Europe because they’ve mislaid a collar stud. Why – who knows? – it might prove to be the big coup we were discussing a few minutes ago.”

  He kissed her again; then he turned abruptly away and the girl gave a little sigh. For the look had come into those grey-blue eyes that she knew so well: the alert, keen look which meant business. He crossed the room, and unlocked a heavy leather dispatch-case. From it he took out a biggish book which he laid on the table. Then having made himself comfortable on the balcony, he lit another cigar, and began to turn over the pages.

  It was of the loose-leaf variety, and every page had entries on it in Blackton’s small, neat handwriting. It was what he called his “Who’s Who,” but it differed from that excellent production in one marked respect. The people in Mr Edward Blackton’s production had not compiled their own notices, which rendered it considerably more truthful even if less complimentary than the orthodox volume.

  It was arranged alphabetically, and it contained an astounding wealth of information. In fact in his lighter moments the author was wont to say that when he retired from active life he would publish it, and die in luxury on the large sums paid him to suppress it. Mentioned in it were the names of practically every man and woman possessed of real wealth – as Blackton regarded wealth – in Europe and America.

  There were, of course, many omissions, but in the course of years an extraordinary amount of strange and useful information had been collected. In many cases just the bare details of the person were given: these were the uninteresting ones, and consisted of people who passed the test as far as money was concerned but about whom the author had no personal knowledge.

  In others, however, the entries were far more human. After the name would be recorded certain details, frequently of a most scurrilous description. And these details had one object and one object only – to assist at the proper time and place in parting the victim from his money.

  Not that Mr Edward Blackton was a common blackmailer – far from it. Blackmailing pure and simple was a form of amusement which revolted his feelings as an artist. But to make use of certain privately gained information about a man when dealing with him was a different matter altogether.

  It was a great assistance in estimating character when meeting a man for the first time to know that his previous wife had divorced him for carrying on with the housemaid, and that he had then failed to marry the housemaid. Nothing of blackmail in that: just a pointer as to character.

  In the immense ramifications of Mr Blackton’s activities it was of course impossible for him to keep all these details in his head. And so little by little the book had grown until it now comprised over three hundred pages. Information obtained first-hand or from absolutely certain sources was entered in red; items not quite so reliable in black. And under Sir Raymond Blantyre’s name the entry was in red.

  “Blantyre, Raymond.Born 1858. Vice-President Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate. Married daughter of John Perkins, wool merchant in London. Knighted 1904. Something shady about him in South Africa – probably I.D.B. Races a lot. Wife a snob. Living up to the limit of his income. 5.13.”

  Mr Blackton laid the book on his knee and looked thoughtfully over the lake. The last three figures showed that the entry had been made in May 1913, and if he was living up to the limit of his income then, he must have had to retrench considerably now. And wives who are snobs dislike that particularly.

  He picked up the book again and turned up the dossier of his other visitor, to find nothing of interest. Mr Leibhaus had only bare details after his name, with the solitary piece of information that he, too, was a Vice-President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate.

  He closed the book and relocked it in the dispatch-case; then he glanced at his watch.

  “I think, my dear,” he said, turning to the girl, “that our interview had better be apparently private. Could you make yourself comfortable in your bedroom, so that you will be able to hear everything and give me your opinion afterwards?” He opened the door for her and she passed through. “I confess,” he continued, “that I’m a little puzzled. I cannot think what they want to see me about so urgently.”

  But there was no trace of it on his face as five minutes later his two visitors were ushered in by the sub-manager.

  “See that the sandwiches and champagne are sent at once, please,” he remarked, and the hotel official bustled away.

  “We shall be undisturbed, gentlemen,” he said, “after the waiter brings the tray. Until then we might enjoy the view over the lake. It is rare, I am told, that one can see the Dent du Midi quite so clearly.”

  The th
ree men strolled into the balcony and leaned out. And it struck that exceptionally quick observer of human nature, Mr Blackton, that both his visitors were a little nervous. Sir Raymond Blantyre especially was not at his ease, answering the casual remarks of his host at random. He was a short, stocky little man with a white moustache and a gold-rimmed eyeglass, which he had an irritating habit of taking in and out of his eye, and he gave a sigh of relief as the door finally closed behind the waiter.

  “Now perhaps we can come to business, Count – er – I beg your pardon, Mr Blackton.”

  “The mistake is a natural one,” said his host suavely. “Shall we go inside the room to avoid any risk of being overheard?”

  “I had better begin at the beginning,” said Sir Raymond, waving away his host’s offer of champagne. “And when I’ve finished, you will see, I have no doubt, our reasons for disturbing you in this way. Nothing short of the desperate position in which we find ourselves would have induced us to seek you out after what Mr Freyder told my friend Leibhaus. But that situation is so desperate that we had no alternative.”

  Mr Blackton’s face remained quite expressionless, and the other, after a little pause, went on:

  “Doubtless you know who we are, Mr Blackton. I am the President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate and Mr Leibhaus is the senior Vice-President. In the event of my absence at any time, he deputises for me. I mention these facts to emphasise the point that we are the heads of that combine, and that you are therefore dealing with the absolute principals, and not with subordinates.

  “Now, I may further mention that although the Metropolitan is our particular Syndicate, we are both of us considerably interested in other diamond enterprises. In fact our entire fortune is bound up irretrievably in the diamond industry – as are the fortunes of several other men, for whom, Mr Blackton, I am authorised to speak.