This time it was Maxwell’s turn to swear, and for a minute or two the air of the office was sulphurous. When the atmosphere had cleared again, Sprague went on.
“I presume that your defence in court will be that you were trying an experiment to neutralize the effect of the alkaline water of this region?”
Bascom grinned appreciatively. “You’re an expert chemist yourself, Mr. Sprague. The water in this country, outside of the Park, is pretty badly alkali, as you probably know.”
“But that defence will scarcely explain why you put acid in the oil which is used for lubricating the internal parts of the engines—cylinders and valves,” Sprague cut in quietly.
The master mechanic’s chair righted itself with a crash, and the crash punctuated another blast of bad language directed at the man who had been left crouching in the corner in Sprague’s uptown laboratory.
“So Murtagh gave you that, too, did he?” Bascom finished. “It’s your lead, Mr. Sprague; what do you want me to play?”
“Names,” said the expert curtly.
“But if I say I was playing a lone hand?”
“We should know you were lying. This acid business may be all your own; but there are other things. You’ve had plenty of help in the drink-fest and the demoralization game, Bascom.”
The big master mechanic’s lips shut like the jaws of a steel trap. But after a time he said: “What do I get if I spout on the others?”