“Oh, yes,” Vance told him carelessly. “Mr. Arnesson recalled the incident, but couldn’t throw any light on it. We thought perhaps you could succeed where he had failed.”
“I regret I can’t accommodate you.” There was the suggestion of a sneer in Drukker’s reply. “Any one might use the tensor. Weyl’s and Einstein’s works are full of it. It isn’t copyrighted. . . .” He leaned over a revolving book case and drew out a thin octavo pamphlet. “Here it is in Minkowski’s ‘Relativitätsprinzip,’ only with different symbols—a T for the B, for instance; and Greek letters for the indices.” He reached for another volume. “Poincaré also uses it in his ‘Hypothèses Cosmogoniques,’ with still other symbolic equivalents.” He tossed the books on the table contemptuously. “Why come to me about it?”
“It wasn’t the tensor formula alone that led our roving footsteps to your door,” said Vance lightly. “For instance, we have reason to believe that Sprigg’s death is connected with Robin’s murder. . . .”
Drukker’s long hands caught the edge of the table, and he leaned forward, his eyes glittering excitedly.
“Connected—Sprigg and Robin? You don’t believe that newspaper talk, do you? . . . It’s a damned lie!” His face had begun to twitch, and his voice rose shrilly. “It’s insane nonsense. . . . There’s no proof, I tell you—not a shred of proof!”
“Cock Robin and Johnny Sprig, don’t y’ know,” came Vance’s soft insistent voice.
“That rot! That crazy rot!—Oh, good God! Has the world gone mad! . . .” He swayed back and forth as he beat on the table with one hand, sending the papers flying in all directions.
Vance looked at him with mild surprise.
“Aren’t you acquainted with the Bishop, Mr. Drukker?”
The man stopped swaying and, steadying himself, stared at Vance with terrible intensity. His mouth was drawn back at the corners, resembling the transverse laugh of progressive muscular dystrophy.