Tom Tiddler's Island, стр. 49
“What strikes you as curious about Ruff a?” said Wenlock, unexpectedly breaking in on Colin’s rather chaotic musings.
“Curious?” Colin repeated, defensively.
“Oh, come now, Mr. Trent,” Wenlock protested in an injured and disappointed tone. “This is hardly fair with me. You’ve been more days on this island than I’ve spent hours, myself; and yet I’ve picked up quite a number of points that I’d call curious. There’s a house where some hush-hush chemical process is going on; there’s an armed guard over it; there’s a wolf-hound, too, to help the guard; craft of one sort and another drop in from time to time, and they land stuff or embark it; and finally there’s a bird-watcher”—he smiled with a shade of contempt—“who doesn’t know a heron from a cormorant by sight. Your experience must have been strange and varied if you don’t call such goings-on ‘curious’.”
Colin realised that Dinnet must have been talking freely to the detective, much more freely than he had done to Colin himself. His respect for Scotland Yard went up. “Why,” he reflected, “this man’s a promoted policeman, and he talks better English than I do.” Which was true, though rather humbling to Colin. He failed to realise that frequent service in the witness-box gives an unequalled training in the precise meaning and use of words. One thing was quite clear; if Dinnet had been talking, then he, Colin, had better make a clean breast of things now; otherwise he might involve himself in an awkward tangle. The only matter in which his hands were tied to any extent was his conversation with Northfleet. That, to Colin’s mind, had been a confidential affair; and he could hardly bring himself to divulge its tenor.
“Well,” he said at last, “I’ll add an item or two to your list, if you like. Haven’t been altogether blind, you know.”
And with that he plunged into a detailed recital of what he had seen on the island since his arrival: the wounded man, the gold brick, the wireless cipher messages, the coming of the yacht and its sudden departure. Wenlock interjected a question occasionally; but for the most part he was content to let Colin tell his story in his own way. The detective’s face betrayed nothing of his thoughts, and Colin could not make out whether the fresh facts pleased Wenlock or not. He admitted that he had shown Northfleet the cipher and that Northfleet had unravelled it; but he said nothing about Northfleet’s tale of modern alchemy.
“A somewhat exciting time you seem to have had,” was the detective’s comment when Colin had finished his story. “Just one point, Mr. Trent. You say you think these men on the yacht were foreigners. Could you be sure of that?”
Colin considered for a moment or two, seeking definite evidence.
“Tell you one thing,” he said, suddenly. “When we barged into them unexpectedly, one of the fellows bawled out: ‘Au large!’ on the spur of the moment. Taken aback, I expect, and used his native language—second nature, in a flurry. Then he corrected himself and said: ‘Sheer off!’ That’s a bit of evidence apart from the mere matter of accent.”
Wenlock nodded.
“You mean he was a Frenchman, Mr. Trent?”
“Looks like it,” said Colin, cautiously. “Look here, Inspector, if there’s anything crooked going on, is it an international affair?”
“If there’s anything crooked going on,” the detective answered with equal caution, “then it is an international business. But I don’t want to give you a false impression, Mr. Trent. I don’t know whether there’s anything crooked or not. That’s the plain truth. Curious things have been happening, and naturally it’s our business to make what we can of the matter. We can make inquiries. That’s justifiable enough; and that’s why I’m here now. But I’m frank when I say that I’ve nothing definite against anyone on this island. I’m merely a seeker after knowledge in a small way.”
“Does Scotland Yard usually detach an Inspector and send him to the Back o’ Beyond to look into things ‘in a small way’?” Colin asked shrewdly.
“A match isn’t much in itself, but it might lead to trouble in a powder-magazine,” Wenlock analogised.
The illustration reminded Colin unpleasantly of Northfleet’s gloomy forecasts.
“Now about this gold ingot,” the detective went on briskly. “You handed it over to this Mr. Northfleet, you say. In a way, that’s a pity. I should like to see it.”
“I could get it back from him,” Colin pointed out.
Wenlock shook his head decidedly.
“That would simply set him thinking, and then he’d begin to ask questions. The fewer questions the better, Mr. Trent, if you don’t mind. My arrival here is suspicious enough in itself without firing off a cannon to draw attention to it. What makes you think the thing was gold?”
“Well, it was as heavy as lead, and when I cut into it with my knife it was uniform all through, so far as I could see. It wasn’t a lead block gilded over, anyhow. It looked like gold; and there’s no other soft yellow metal anything like so heavy, bulk for bulk, is there?”
“No, I suppose you’re right there,” the detective conceded. “Now let’s get this fairytale straight, Mr. Trent. This is the way it runs. I’ve come to you with an introduction from Mr. Craigmore. Beyond that you know nothing about me. That saves all bother about inventing a history of me. I’ve told you I’m an amateur geologist with a theory about the north-west coast-line that I’m trying to prove by an examination of the rocks on Ruffa. You don’t understand my theory, which saves you explanations. I’m not just of the social class you usually mix with. That accounts for