IN WHICH THE LAST ROUND TAKES PLACE
EPILOGUE
*PROLOGUE*
In the month of December 1918, and on the very day that a British
Cavalry Division marched into Cologne, with flags flying and bands
playing as the conquerors of a beaten nation, the manager of the Hôtel
Nationale in Berne received a letter. Its contents appeared to puzzle
him somewhat, for having read it twice he rang the bell on his desk to
summon his secretary. Almost immediately the door opened, and a young
French girl came into the room.
"Monsieur rang?" She stood in front of the manager’s desk, awaiting
instructions.
"Have we ever had staying in the hotel a man called le Comte de Guy?"
He leaned back in his chair and looked at her through his pince-nez.
The secretary thought for a moment and then shook her head.
"Not as far as I can remember," she said.
"Do we know anything about him? Has he ever fed here, or taken a
private room?"
Again the secretary shook her head.
"Not that I know of."
The manager handed her the letter, and waited in silence until she had
read it.
"It seems on the face of it a peculiar request from an unknown man," he
remarked as she laid it down. "A dinner of four covers; no expense to be
spared. Wines specified and if not in hotel to be obtained. A private
room at half-past seven sharp. Guests to ask for room X."
The secretary nodded in agreement.
"It can hardly be a hoax," she remarked after a short silence.
"No." The manager tapped his teeth with his pen thoughtfully. "But if
by any chance it was, it would prove an expensive one for us. I wish I
could think who this Comte de Guy is."
"He sounds like a Frenchman," she answered. Then after a pause: "I
suppose you’ll have to take it seriously?"
"I must." He took off his pince-nez and laid them on the desk in front
of him. "Would you send the _maître d’hôtel_ to me at once."
Whatever may have been the manager’s misgivings, they were certainly not
shared by the head waiter as he left the office after receiving his
instructions. War and short rations had not been conducive to any
particularly lucrative business in his sphere; and the whole sound of
the proposed entertainment seemed to him to contain considerable
promise. Moreover, he was a man who loved his work, and a free hand
over preparing a dinner was a joy in itself. Undoubtedly he personally
would meet the three guests and the mysterious Comte de Guy; he
personally would see that they had nothing to complain of in the matter
of the service at dinner....
And so at about twenty minutes past seven the _maître d’hôtel_ was
hovering round the hall-porter, the manager was hovering round the
_maître d’hôtel_, and the secretary was hovering round both. At
five-and-twenty minutes past the first guest arrived....
He was a peculiar-looking man, in a big fur coat, reminding one
irresistibly of a cod-fish.
"I wish to be taken to Room X." The French secretary stiffened
involuntarily as the _maître d’hôtel_ stepped obsequiously forward.
Cosmopolitan as the hotel was, even now she could never hear German
spoken without an inward shudder of disgust.
"A Boche," she murmured in disgust to the manager as the first arrival
disappeared through the swing doors at the end of the lounge. It is to
be regretted that that worthy man was more occupied in shaking himself
by the hand, at the proof that the letter was _bona fide_, than in any
meditation on the guest’s nationality.
Almost immediately afterwards the second and third members of the party
arrived. They did not come together, and what seemed peculiar to the
manager was that they were evidently strangers to one another.
The leading one—a tall gaunt man with a ragged beard and a pair of
piercing eyes—asked in a nasal and by no means an inaudible tone for
Room X. As he spoke a little fat man who was standing just behind him
started perceptibly, and shot a bird-like glance at the speaker.
Then in execrable French he too asked for Room X.
"He’s not French," said the secretary excitedly to the manager as the
ill-assorted pair were led out of the lounge by the head waiter. "That
last one was another Boche."
The manager thoughtfully twirled his pince-nez between his fingers.
"Two Germans and an American." He looked a little apprehensive. "Let
us hope the dinner will appease everybody. Otherwise——"
But whatever fears he might have entertained with regard to the
furniture in Room X, they were not destined to be uttered. Even as he
spoke the door again swang open, and a man with a thick white scarf
around his neck, so pulled up as almost completely to cover his face,
came in. A soft hat was pulled down well over his ears, and all that
the manager could swear to as regards the newcomer’s appearance was a
pair of deep-set, steel-grey eyes which seemed to bore through him.
"You got my letter this morning?"
"M’sieur le Comte de Guy?" The manager bowed deferentially and rubbed
his hands together. "Everything is ready, and your three guests have
arrived."
"Good. I will go to the room at once."
The _maître d’hôtel_ stepped forward to relieve him of his coat, but the
Count waved him away.
"I will remove it later," he remarked shortly. "Take me to the room."
As he followed his guide his eyes swept round the lounge. Save for two
or three elderly women of doubtful nationality, and a man in the
American Red Cross, the place was deserted; and as he passed through the
swing doors he turned to the head waiter.
"Business good?" he asked.
No—business decidedly was not good. The waiter was voluble. Business
had never been so poor in the memory of man.... But it was to be hoped
that the dinner would be to Monsieur le Comte’s liking.... He personally
had superintended it.... Also the wines.
"If everything is to my satisfaction you will not regret it," said the
Count tersely. "But remember one thing. After the coffee has been
brought in, I do not wish to be disturbed under any circumstances
whatever." The head waiter paused as he came to a door, and the Count
repeated the last few words. "Under no circumstances whatever."
"Mais certainement, Monsieur le Comte.... I, personally, will see to
it...."
As he spoke he flung open the door and the Count entered. It cannot be
said that the atmosphere of the room was congenial. The three occupants
were regarding one another in hostile silence, and as the Count entered
they, with one accord, transferred their suspicious glances to him.
For a moment he stood motionless, while he looked at each one in turn.
Then he stepped forward....
"Good evening, gentlemen"—he still spoke in French—"I am honoured at
your presence." He turned to the head waiter. "Let dinner be served in
five minutes exactly."
With a bow the man left the room, and the door closed.
"During that five minutes, gentlemen, I propose to introduce myself to
you, and you to one another." As he spoke he divested himself of his
coat and hat. "The business which I wish to discuss we will postpone,
with your permission, till after the coffee, when we shall be
undisturbed."
In silence the three guests waited while he unwound the thick white
muffler; then, with undisguised curiosity, they studied their host. In
appearance he was striking. He had a short dark beard, and in profile
his face was aquiline and stern. The eyes, which had so impressed the
manager, seemed now to be a cold grey-blue; the thick brown hair,
flecked slightly with grey, was brushed back from a broad forehead. His
hands were large and white; not effeminate, but capable and determined:
the hands of a man who knew what he wanted, knew how to get it, and got
it. To even the most superficial observer the giver of the feast was a
man of power: a man capable of forming instant decisions and of carrying
them through....
And if so much was obvious to the superficial observer, it was more than
obvious to the three men who stood by the fire watching him. They were
what they were simply owing to the fact that they were not superficial
servers of humanity; and each one of them, as he watched his host,
realised that he was in the presence of a great man. It was enough:
great men do not send fool invitations to dinner to men of international
repute. It mattered not what form his greatness took—there was money in
greatness, big money. And money was their life....
The Count advanced first to the American.
"Mr. Hocking, I believe," he remarked in English, holding out his hand.
"I am glad you managed to come."
The American shook the proffered hand, while the two Germans looked at
him with sudden interest. As the man at the head of the great American
cotton trust, worth more in millions than he could count, he was
entitled to their respect....
"That’s me, Count," returned the millionaire in his nasal twang. "I am
interested to know to what I am indebted for this invitation."
"All in good time, Mr. Hocking," smiled the host. "I have hopes that the
dinner will fill in that time satisfactorily."
He turned to the taller of the two Germans, who without his coat seemed
more like a cod-fish than ever.
"Herr Steinemann, is it not?" This time he spoke in German.
The man whose interest in German coal was hardly less well known than
Hocking’s in cotton, bowed stiffly.
"And Herr von Gratz?" The Count turned to the last member of the party
and shook hands. Though less well known than either of the other two in
the realms of international finance, von Gratz’s name in the steel trade
of Central Europe was one to conjure with.
"Well, gentlemen," said the Count, "before we sit down to dinner, I may
perhaps be permitted to say a few words of introduction. The nations of
the world have recently been engaged in a performance of unrivalled
stupidity. As far as one can tell that performance is now over. The
last thing I wish to do is to discuss the war—except in so far as it
concerns our meeting here to-night. Mr. Hocking is an American, you two
gentlemen are Germans. I"—the Count smiled slightly—"have no
nationality. Or rather, shall I say, I have every nationality.
Completely cosmopolitan.... Gentlemen, the war was waged by idiots, and
when idiots get busy on a large scale, it is time for clever men to step
in... That is the _raison d’être_ for this little dinner.... I claim
that we four men are sufficiently international to be able to disregard
any stupid and petty feelings about this country and that country, and
to regard the world outlook at the present moment from one point of view
and one point of view only—our own."
The gaunt American gave a hoarse chuckle.
"It will be my object after dinner," continued the Count, "to try and
prove to you that we have a common point of view. Until then—shall we
merely concentrate on a pious hope that the Hôtel Nationale will not
poison us with their food?"
"I guess," remarked the American, "that you’ve got a pretty healthy
command of languages, Count."
"I speak four fluently—French, German, English, and Spanish," returned
the other. "In addition, I can make myself understood in Russia, Japan,
China, the Balkan States, and—America."
His smile, as he spoke, robbed the words of any suspicion of offence.
The next moment the head waiter opened the door, and the four men sat
down to dine.
It must be admitted that the average hostess, desirous of making a
dinner a success, would have been filled with secret dismay at the
general atmosphere in the room. The American, in accumulating his
millions, had also accumulated a digestion of such an exotic and tender
character that dry rusks and Vichy water were the limit of his capacity.
Herr Steinemann was of the common order of German, to whom food is
sacred. He ate and drank enormously, and evidently considered that
nothing further was required of him.
Von Gratz did his best to keep his end up, but as he was apparently in a
chronic condition of fear that the gaunt American would assault him with
violence, he cannot be said to have contributed much to the gaiety of
the meal.
And so to the host must be given the credit that the dinner was a
success. Without appearing to monopolise the conversation he talked
ceaselessly and well. More—he talked brilliantly. There seemed to be
no corner of the globe with which he had not a nodding acquaintance at
least; while with most places he was as familiar as a Londoner with
Piccadilly Circus. But to even the most brilliant of conversationalists
the strain of talking to a hypochondriacal American and two Germans—one
greedy and the other frightened—is considerable; and the Count heaved an
inward sigh of relief when the coffee had been handed round and the door
closed behind the waiter. From now on the topic was an easy one—one
where no effort on his part would be necessary to hold his audience. It
was the topic of money—the common bond of his three guests. And yet, as
he carefully cut the end of his cigar, and realised that the eyes of the
other three were fixed on him expectantly, he knew that the hardest part
of the evening was in front of him. Big financiers, in common with all
other people, are fonder of having money put into their pockets than of
taking it out. And that was the very thing the Count proposed they
should do—in large quantities....
"Gentlemen," he remarked, when his cigar was going to his satisfaction,
"we are all men of business. I do not propose therefore to beat about
the bush over the matter which I have to put before you, but to come to
the point at once. I said before dinner that I considered we were
sufficiently big to exclude any small arbitrary national distinctions
from our minds. As men whose interests are international, such things
are beneath us. I wish now to slightly qualify that remark." He turned
to the American on his right, who with his eyes half closed was
thoughtfully picking his teeth. "At this stage, sir, I address myself
particularly to you."
"Go right ahead," drawled Mr. Hocking.
"I do not wish to touch on the war—or its result; but though the Central
Powers have been beaten by America and France and England, I think I can
speak for you two gentlemen"—he bowed to the two Germans—"when I say
that it is neither France nor America with whom they desire another
round. England is Germany’s main enemy; she always has been, she always
will be."
Both Germans grunted assent, and the American’s eyes closed a little
more.
"I have reason to believe, Mr. Hocking, that you personally do not love
the English?"
"I guess I don’t see what my private feelings have got to do with it.
But if it’s of any interest to the company you are correct in your
belief."
"Good." The Count nodded his head as if satisfied. "I take it then that
you would not be averse to seeing England down and out."
"Wal," remarked the American, "you can assume anything you feel like.
Let’s get to the show-down."
Once again the Count nodded his head; then he turned to the two Germans.
"Now you two gentlemen must admit that your plans have miscarried
somewhat. It was no part of your original programme that a British Army
should occupy Cologne...."
"The war was the act of a fool," snarled Herr Steinemann. "In a few
years more of peace, we should have beaten those swine...."
"And now—they have beaten you." The Count smiled slightly. "Let us
admit that the war was the act of a fool if you like, but as men of
business we can only deal with the result ... the result, gentlemen, as
it concerns us. Both you gentlemen are sufficiently patriotic to resent
the presence of that army at Cologne I have no doubt. And you, Mr.
Hocking, have no love on personal grounds for the English.... But I am
not proposing to appeal to financiers of your reputation on such grounds
as those to support my scheme.... It is enough that your personal
predilections run with and not against what I am about to put before
you—the defeat of England ... a defeat more utter and complete than if
she had lost the war...."
His voice sank a little, and instinctively his three listeners drew
closer.
"Don’t think that I am proposing this through motives of revenge merely.
We are business men, and revenge is only worth our while if it pays.
This will pay. I can give you no figures, but we are not of the type
who deal in thousands, or even hundreds of thousands. There is a force
in England which, if it be harnessed and led properly, will result in
millions coming to you.... It is present now in every nation—fettered,
inarticulate, unco-ordinated.... It is partly the result of the war—the
war that the idiots have waged.... Harness that force, gentlemen,
co-ordinate it, and use it for your own ends.... That is my proposal.
Not only will you humble that cursed country to the dirt, but you will
taste of power such as few men have tasted before...." The Count stood
up, his eyes blazing. "And I—I will do it for you."
He resumed his seat, and his left hand, slipping off the table, beat a
tattoo on his knee.
"This is our opportunity—the opportunity of clever men. I have not got
the money necessary: you have...." He leaned forward in his chair, and
glanced at the intent faces of his audience. Then he began to speak...
Ten minutes later he pushed back his chair.
"There is my proposal, gentlemen, in a nutshell. Unforeseen developments
will doubtless occur; I have spent my life overcoming the unexpected.
What is your answer?"
He rose and stood with his back to them by the fire, and for several
minutes no one spoke. Each man was busy with his own thoughts, and
showed it in his own particular way. The American, his eyes shut,
rolled his toothpick backwards and forwards in his mouth slowly and
methodically; Steinemann stared at the fire, breathing heavily after the
exertions of dinner: von Gratz walked up and down—his hands behind his
back—whistling under his breath. Only the Comte de Guy stared
unconcernedly at the fire, as if indifferent to the result of their
thoughts. In his attitude at that moment he gave a true expression to
his attitude on life. Accustomed to play with great stakes, he had just
dealt the cards for the most gigantic gamble of his life.... What
matter to the three men, who were looking at the hands he had given
them, that only a master criminal could have conceived such a game? The
only question which occupied their minds was whether he could carry it
through. And on that point they had only their judgment of his
personality to rely on.
Suddenly the American removed the toothpick from his mouth, and
stretched out his legs.
"There is a question which occurs to me, Count, before I make up my mind
on the matter. I guess you’ve got us sized up to the last button; you
know who we are, what we’re worth, and all about us. Are you disposed to
be a little more communicative about yourself? If we agree to come in
on this hand, it’s going to cost big money. The handling of that money
is with you. Wal—who are you?"
Von Gratz paused in his restless pacing and nodded his head in
agreement; even Steinemann, with a great effort, raised his eyes to the
Count’s face as he turned and faced them....
"A very fair question, gentlemen, and yet one which I regret I am unable
to answer. I would not insult your intelligence by giving you the
fictitious address of—a fictitious Count. Enough that I am a man whose
livelihood lies in other people’s pockets. As you say, Mr. Hocking, it
is going to cost big money; but compared to the results the costs will
be a flea-bite.... Do I look—and you are all of you used to judging
men—do I look the type who would steal the baby’s money-box which lay on
the mantelpiece, when the pearls could be had for opening the safe....
You will have to trust me, even as I shall have to trust you.... You
will have to trust me not to divert the money which you give me as
working expenses into my own pocket.... I shall have to trust you to
pay me when the job is finished...."
"And that payment will be—how much?" Steinemann’s guttural voice broke
the silence.
"One million pounds sterling—to be split up between you in any
proportion you may decide, and to be paid within one month of the
completion of my work. After that the matter will pass into your hands
... and may you leave that cursed country grovelling in the dirty..."
His eyes glowed with a fierce, vindictive fury; and then, as if
replacing a mask which had slipped for a moment, the Count was once
again the suave, courteous host. He had stated his terms frankly and
without haggling: stated them as one big man states them to another of
the same kidney, to whom time is money and indecision or beating about
the bush anathema.
"Take them or leave them." So much had he said in effect, if not in
actual words, and not one of his audience but was far too used to men
and matters to have dreamed of suggesting any compromise. All or
nothing: and no doctrine could have appealed more to the three men in
whose hands lay the decision....
"Perhaps, Count, you would be good enough to leave us for a few
minutes." Von Gratz was speaking. "The decision is a big one, and..."
"Why, certainly, gentlemen." The Count moved towards the door. "I will
return in ten minutes. By that time you will have decided—one way or
the other."
Once in the lounge he sat down and lit a cigarette. The hotel was
deserted save for one fat woman asleep in a chair opposite, and the
Count gave himself up to thought. Genius that he was in the reading of
men’s minds, he felt that he knew the result of that ten minutes’
deliberation.... And then ... What then? ... In his imagination he saw
his plans growing and spreading, his tentacles reaching into every
corner of a great people—until, at last, everything was ready. He saw
himself supreme in power, glutted with it—a king, an autocrat, who had
only to lift his finger to plunge his kingdom into destruction and
annihilation.... And when he had done it, and the country he hated was
in ruins, then he would claim his million and enjoy it as a great man
should enjoy a great reward.... Thus for the space of ten minutes did
the Count see visions and dream dreams. That the force he proposed to
tamper with was a dangerous force disturbed him not at all: he was a
dangerous man. That his scheme would bring ruin, perhaps death, to
thousands of innocent men and women, caused him no qualm: he was a
supreme egoist. All that appealed to him was that he had seen the
opportunity that existed, and that he had the nerve and the brain to
turn that opportunity to his own advantage. Only the necessary money
was lacking ... and ... With a quick movement he pulled out his watch.
They had had their ten minutes ... the matter was settled, the die was
cast....
He rose and walked across the lounge. At the swing doors was the head
waiter, bowing obsequiously....
It was to be hoped that the dinner had been to the liking of Monsieur le
Comte ... the wines all that he could wish ... that he had been
comfortable and would return again....
"That is improbable." The Count took out his pocket-book. "But one
never knows; perhaps I shall." He gave the waiter a note. "Let my bill
be prepared at once, and given to me as I pass through the hall."
Apparently without a care in the world the Count passed down the passage
to his private room, while the head waiter regarded complacently the
unusual appearance of an English five-pound note.
For an appreciable moment the Count paused by the door, and a faint
smile came to his lips. Then he opened it, and passed into the room....
The American was still chewing his toothpick; Steinemann was still
breathing hard. Only von Gratz had changed his occupation, and he was
sitting at the table smoking a long thin cigar. The Count closed the
door, and walked over to the fireplace....
"Well, gentlemen," he said quietly, "what have you decided?"
It was the American who answered.
"It goes. With one amendment. The money is too big for three of us:
there must be a fourth. That will be a quarter of a million each."
The Count bowed.
"Have you any suggestions as to who the fourth should be?"
"Yep," said the American shortly. "These two gentlemen agree with me
that it should be another of my countrymen—so that we get equal numbers.
The man we have decided on is coming to England in a few weeks—Hiram C.
Potts. If you get him in, you can count us in too. If not, the deal’s
off."
The Count nodded, and if he felt any annoyance at this unexpected
development he showed no sign of it on his face.
"I know of Mr. Potts," he answered quietly. "Your big shipping man,
isn’t he? I agree to your reservation."
"Good," said the American. "Let’s discuss some details."
Without a trace of emotion on his face the Count drew up a chair to the
table. It was only when he sat down that he started to play a tattoo on
his knee with his left hand....
* * * * *
Half an hour later he entered his luxurious suite of rooms at the Hôtel
Magnificent.
A girl, who had been lying by the fire reading a French novel, looked up
at the sound of the door. She did not speak, for the look on his face
told her all she wanted to know.
He crossed to the sofa and smiled down at her.
"Successful ... on our own terms. To-morrow, Irma, the Comte de Guy
dies, and Carl Peterson and his daughter leave for England. A country
gentleman, I think, is Carl Peterson. He might keep hens, and possibly
pigs."
The girl on the sofa rose, yawning.
"Mon Dieu! what a prospect! Pigs and hens—and in England! How long is
it going to take?"
The Count looked thoughtfully into the fire.
"Perhaps a year—perhaps six months ... It is on the lap of the gods...."
*CHAPTER I*
*IN WHICH HE TAKES TEA AT THE CARLTON
AND IS SURPRISED*
*I*
Captain Hugh Drummond, D.S.O., M.C., late of His Majesty’s Royal
Loamshires, was whistling in his morning bath. Being by nature of a
cheerful disposition, the symptom did not surprise his servant, late
private of the same famous regiment, who was laying breakfast in an
adjoining room.
After a while the whistling ceased, and the musical gurgle of escaping
water announced that the concert was over. It was the signal for James
Denny—the square-jawed ex-batman—to disappear into the back regions and
get from his wife the kidneys and bacon which that most excellent woman
had grilled to a turn. But on this particular morning the invariable
routine was broken. James Denny seemed preoccupied, distrait.
Once or twice he scratched his head, and stared out of the window with a
puzzled frown. And each time, after a brief survey of the other side of
Half Moon Street, he turned back again to the breakfast table with a
grin.
"What’s you looking for, James Denny?" The irate voice of his wife at
the door made him turn round guiltily. "Them kidneys is ready and
waiting these five minutes."
Her eyes fell on the table, and she advanced into the room wiping her
hands on her apron.
"Did you ever see such a bunch of letters?" she said.
"Forty-five," returned her husband grimly, "and more to come." He
picked up the newspaper lying beside the chair and opened it out.
"Them’s the result of that," he continued cryptically, indicating a
paragraph with a square finger, and thrusting the paper under his wife’s
nose.
"Demobilised officer," she read slowly, "finding peace incredibly
tedious, would welcome diversion. Legitimate, if possible; but crime, if
of a comparatively humorous description, no objection. Excitement
essential. Would be prepared to consider permanent job if suitably
impressed by applicant for his services. Reply at once Box X10."
She put down the paper on a chair and stared first at her husband and
then at the rows of letters neatly arranged on the table.
"I calls it wicked," she announced at length. "Fair flying in the face
of Providence. Crime, Denny—crime. Don’t you get ’aving nothing to do
with such mad pranks, my man, or you and me will be having words." She
shook an admonitory finger at him, and retired slowly to the kitchen.
In the days of his youth James Denny had been a bit wild, and there was
a look in his eyes this morning—the suspicion of a glint—which recalled
old memories.
A moment or two later Hugh Drummond came in. Slightly under six feet in
height, he was broad in proportion. His best friend would not have
called him good-looking, but he was the fortunate possessor of that
cheerful type of ugliness which inspires immediate confidence in its
owner. His nose had never quite recovered from the final one year in
the Public Schools Heavy Weights; his mouth was not small. In fact, to
be strictly accurate, only his eyes redeemed his face from being what is
known in the vernacular as the Frozen Limit.
Deep-set and steady, with eyelashes that many a woman had envied, they
showed the man for what he was—a sportsman and a gentleman. And the
combination of the two is an unbeatable production.
He paused as he got to the table, and glanced at the rows of letters.
His servant, pretending to busy himself at the other end of the room,
was watching him surreptitiously, and noted the grin which slowly spread
over Drummond’s face as he picked up two or three and examined the
envelopes.
"Who would have thought it, James?" he remarked at length. "Great Scot!
I shall have to get a partner."
With disapproval showing in every line of her face, Mrs. Denny entered
the room, carrying the kidneys, and Drummond glanced at her with a
smile.
"Good morning, Mrs. Denny," he said. "Wherefore this worried look on
your face? Has that reprobate James been misbehaving himself?"
The worthy woman snorted. "He has not, sir—not yet, leastwise. And if
so be that he does"—her eyes travelled up and down the back of the
hapless Denny, who was quite unnecessarily pulling books off shelves and
putting them back again—"if so be that he does," she continued grimly,
"him and me will have words—as I’ve told him already this morning." She
stalked from the room, after staring pointedly at the letters in
Drummond’s hand, and the two men looked at one another.
"It’s that there reference to crime, sir, that’s torn it," said Denny in
a hoarse whisper.
"Thinks I’m going to lead you astray, does she, James?"
Hugh helped himself to bacon. "My dear fellow, she can think what she
likes so long as she continues to grill bacon like this. Your wife is a
treasure, James—a pearl amongst women; and you can tell her so with my
love." He was opening the first envelope, and suddenly he looked up
with a twinkle in his eyes. "Just to set her mind at rest," he remarked
gravely, "you might tell her that, as far as I can see at present, I
shall only undertake murder in exceptional cases."
He propped the letter up against the toast-rack and commenced his
breakfast. "Don’t go, James." With a slight frown he was studying the
typewritten sheet. "I’m certain to want your advice before long.
Though not over this one.... It does not appeal to me—not at all. To
assist Messrs. Jones & Jones, whose business is to advance money on note
of hand alone, to obtain fresh clients, is a form of amusement which
leaves me cold. The waste-paper basket, please, James. Tear the
effusion up and we will pass on to the next."
He looked at the mauve envelope doubtfully, and examined the postmark.
"Where is Pudlington, James? and one might almost ask—why is Pudlington?
No town has any right to such an offensive name." He glanced through
the letter and shook his head. "Tush! tush! And the wife of the bank
manager too—the bank manager of Pudlington, James! Can you conceive of
anything so dreadful? But I’m afraid Mrs. Bank Manager is a puss—a
distinct puss. It’s when they get on the soul-mate stunt that the
furniture begins to fly."
Drummond tore up the letter and dropped the pieces into the basket
beside him. Then he turned to his servant and handed him the remainder
of the envelopes.
"Go through them, James, while I assault the kidneys, and pick two or
three out for me. I see that you will have to become my secretary. No
man could tackle that little bunch alone."
"Do you want me to open them, sir?" asked Denny doubtfully.
"You’ve hit it, James—hit it in one. Classify them for me in groups.
Criminal; sporting; amatory—that means of or pertaining to love; stupid
and merely boring; and as a last resort, miscellaneous." He stirred his
coffee thoughtfully. "I feel that as a first venture in our new
career—ours, I said, James—love appeals to me irresistibly. Find me a
damsel in distress; a beautiful girl, helpless in the clutches of
knaves. Let me feel that I can fly to her succour, clad in my new grey
suiting."
He finished the last piece of bacon and pushed away his plate. "Amongst
all that mass of paper there must surely be one from a lovely maiden,
James, at whose disposal I can place my rusty sword. Incidentally, what
has become of the damned thing?"
"It’s in the lumber-room, sir—tied up with the old humbrella and the
niblick you don’t like."
"Great heavens! Is it?" Drummond helped himself to marmalade. "And to
think that I once pictured myself skewering Huns with it. Do you think
anybody would be mug enough to buy it, James?"
But that worthy was engrossed in a letter he had just opened, and
apparently failed to hear the question. A perplexed look was spreading
over his face, and suddenly he sucked his teeth loudly. It was a sure
sign that James was excited, and though Drummond had almost cured him of
this distressing habit, he occasionally forgot himself in moments of
stress.
His master glanced up quickly, and removed the letter from his hands.
"I’m surprised at you, James," he remarked severely. "A secretary
should control itself. Don’t forget that the perfect secretary is an
it: an automatic machine—a thing incapable of feeling...."
He read the letter through rapidly, and then, turning back to the
beginning, he read it slowly through again.
"My dear Box X10,—I don’t know whether your advertisement was a joke: I
suppose it must have been. But I read it this morning, and it’s just
possible, X10, just possible, that you mean it. And if you do, you’re
the man I want. I can offer you excitement and probably crime.
"I’m up against it, X10. For a girl I’ve bitten off rather more than I
can chew. I want help—badly. Will you come to the Carlton for tea
to-morrow afternoon? I want to have a look at you and see if I think
you are genuine. Wear a white flower in your buttonhole."
Drummond laid the letter down, and pulled out his cigarette-case.
"To-morrow, James," he murmured. "That is to-day—this very afternoon.
Verily I believe that we have impinged upon the goods." He rose and
stood looking out of the window thoughtfully. "Go out, my trusty
fellow, and buy me a daisy or a cauliflower or something white."
"You think it’s genuine, sir?" said James thoughtfully.
His master blew out a cloud of smoke. "I know it is," he answered
dreamily. "Look at that writing; the decision in it—the character.
She’ll be medium height, and dark, with the sweetest little nose and
mouth. Her colouring, James, will be——"
But James had discreetly left the room.
*II*
At four o’clock exactly Hugh Drummond stepped out of his two-seater at
the Haymarket entrance to the Carlton. A white gardenia was in his
button-hole; his grey suit looked the last word in exclusive tailoring.
For a few moments after entering the hotel he stood at the top of the
stairs outside the dining-room, while his eyes travelled round the
tables in the lounge below.
A brother-officer, evidently taking two country cousins round London,
nodded resignedly; a woman at whose house he had danced several times
smiled at him. But save for a courteous bow he took no notice; slowly
and thoroughly he continued his search. It was early, of course, yet,
and she might not have arrived, but he was taking no chances.
Suddenly his eyes ceased wandering, and remained fixed on a table at the
far end of the lounge. Half hidden behind a plant a girl was seated
alone, and for a moment she looked straight at him. Then with the
faintest suspicion of a smile, she turned away, and commenced drumming
on the table with her fingers.
The table next to her was unoccupied, and Drummond made his way towards
it and sat down. It was characteristic of the man that he did not
hesitate; having once made up his mind to go through with a thing, he
was in the habit of going and looking neither to the right hand nor to
the left. Which, incidentally, was how he got his D.S.O.; but that, as
Kipling would say, is another story.
He felt not the slightest doubt in his mind that this was the girl who
had written him, and, having given an order to the waiter, he started to
study her face as unobtrusively as possible. He could only see the
profile, but that was quite sufficient to make him bless the moment when
more as a jest than anything else he had sent his advertisement to the
paper.
Her eyes, he could see, were very blue; and great masses of golden brown
hair coiled over her ears, from under a small black hat. He glanced at
her feet—being an old stager; she was perfectly shod. He glanced at her
hands, and noted, with approval, the absence of any ring. Then he
looked once more at her face, and found her eyes were fixed on him.
This time she did not look away. She seemed to think that it was her
turn to conduct the examination, and Drummond turned to his tea while
the scrutiny continued. He poured himself out a cup, and then fumbled
in his waistcoat pocket. After a moment he found what he wanted, and
taking out a card he propped it against the teapot so that the girl
could see what was on it. In large block capitals he had written Box
X10. Then he added milk and sugar and waited.
She spoke almost at once. "You’ll do, X10," she said, and he turned to
her with a smile.
"It’s very nice of you to say so," he murmured. "If I may, I will return
the compliment. So will you."
She frowned slightly. "This isn’t foolishness, you know. What I said
in my letter is literally true."
"Which makes the compliment even more returnable," he answered. "If I
am to embark on a life of crime, I would sooner collaborate with you
than—shall we say—that earnest eater over there with the tomato in her
hat."
He waved vaguely at the lady in question and then held out his
cigarette-case to the girl. "Turkish on this side—Virginian on that,"
he remarked. "And as I appear satisfactory, will you tell me who I’m to
murder?"
With the unlighted cigarette held in her fingers she stared at him
gravely. "I want you to tell me," she said at length, and there was no
trace of jesting in her voice, "tell me, on your word of honour, whether
that advertisement was _bona fide_ or a joke."
He answered her in the same vein. "It started more or less as a joke.
It may now be regarded as absolutely genuine."
She nodded as if satisfied. "Are you prepared to risk your life?"
Drummond’s eyebrows went up and then he smiled. "Granted that the
inducement is sufficient," he returned slowly, "I think that I may say
that I am."
She nodded again. "You won’t be asked to do it in order to obtain a
halfpenny bun," she remarked. "If you’ve a match, I would rather like a
light."
Drummond apologised. "Our talk on trivialities engrossed me for the
moment," he murmured. He held the lighted match for her, and as he did
so he saw that she was staring over his shoulder at someone behind his
back.
"Don’t look round," she ordered, "and tell me your name quickly."
"Drummond—Captain Drummond, late of the Loamshires." He leaned back in
his chair, and lit a cigarette himself.
"And are you going to Henley this year?" Her voice was a shade louder
than before.
"I don’t know," he answered casually. "I may run down for a day
possibly, but——"
"My dear Phyllis," said a voice behind his back, "this is a pleasant
surprise. I had no idea that you were in London."
A tall, clean-shaven man stopped beside the table, throwing a keen
glance at Drummond.
"The world is full of such surprises, isn’t it?" answered the girl
lightly. "I don’t suppose you know Captain Drummond, do you? Mr.
Lakington—art connoisseur and—er—collector."
The two men bowed slightly, and Mr. Lakington smiled. "I do not
remember ever having heard my harmless pastimes more concisely
described," he remarked suavely. "Are you interested in such matters?"
"Not very, I’m afraid," answered Drummond. "Just recently I have been
rather too busy to pay much attention to art."
The other man smiled again, and it struck Hugh that rarely, if ever, had
he seen such a cold, merciless face.
"Of course, you’ve been in France," Lakington murmured. "Unfortunately
a bad heart kept me on this side of the water. One regrets it in many
ways—regrets it immensely. Sometimes I cannot help thinking how
wonderful it must have been to be able to kill without fear of
consequences. There is art in killing, Captain Drummond—profound art.
And as you know, Phyllis," he turned to the girl, "I have always been
greatly attracted by anything requiring the artistic touch." He looked
at his watch and sighed. "Alas! I must tear myself away. Are you
returning home this evening?"
The girl, who had been glancing round the restaurant, shrugged her
shoulders. "Probably," she answered. "I haven’t quite decided. I
might stop with Aunt Kate."
"Fortunate Aunt Kate." With a bow Lakington turned away, and through
the glass Drummond watched him get his hat and stick from the cloakroom.
Then he looked at the girl, and noticed that she had gone a little
white.
"What’s the matter, old thing?" he asked quickly. "Are you feeling
faint?"
She shook her head, and gradually the colour came back to her face.
"I’m quite all right," she answered. "It gave me rather a shock that
man finding us here."
"On the face of it, it seems a harmless occupation," said Hugh.
"On the face of it, perhaps," she said. "But that man doesn’t deal with
face values." With a short laugh she turned to Hugh. "You’ve stumbled
right into the middle of it, my friend, rather sooner than I
anticipated. That is one of the men you will probably have to kill...."
Her companion lit another cigarette. "There is nothing like
straightforward candour," he grinned. "Except that I disliked his face
and his manner, I must admit that I saw nothing about him to necessitate
my going to so much trouble. What is his particular worry?"
"First and foremost the brute wants to marry me," replied the girl.
"I loathe being obvious," said Hugh, "but I am not surprised."
"But it isn’t that that matters," she went on. "I wouldn’t marry him
even to save my life." She looked at Drummond quietly. "Henry
Lakington is the second most dangerous man in England."
"Only the second," murmured Hugh. "Then hadn’t I better start my new
career with the first?"
She looked at him in silence. "I suppose you think that I’m
hysterical," she remarked after a while. "You’re probably even
wondering whether I’m all there."
Drummond flicked the ash from his cigarette, then he turned to her
dispassionately. "You must admit," he remarked, "that up to now our
conversation has hardly proceeded along conventional lines. I am a
complete stranger to you; another man who is a complete stranger to me
speaks to you while we’re at tea. You inform me that I shall probably
have to kill him in the near future. The statement is, I think you will
agree, a trifle disconcerting."
The girl threw back her head and laughed merrily. "You poor young man,"
she cried; "put that way it does sound alarming." Then she grew serious
again. "There’s plenty of time for you to back out now if you like.
Just call the waiter, and ask for my bill. We’ll say good-bye, and the
incident will finish."
She was looking at him gravely as she spoke, and it seemed to her
companion that there was an appeal in the big blue eyes. And they were
very big: and the face they were set in was very charming—especially at
the angle it was tilted at, in the half-light of the room. Altogether,
Drummond reflected, a most adorable girl. And adorable girls had always
been a hobby of his. Probably Lakington possessed a letter of hers or
something, and she wanted him to get it back. Of course he would, even
if he had to thrash the swine to within an inch of his life.
"Well!" The girl’s voice cut into his train of thought and he hurriedly
pulled himself together.
"The last thing I want is for the incident to finish," he said
fervently. "Why—it’s only just begun."
"Then you’ll help me?"
"That’s what I’m here for." With a smile Drummond lit another
cigarette. "Tell me all about it."
"The trouble," she began after a moment, "is that there is not very much
to tell. At present it is largely guesswork, and guesswork without much
of a clue. However, to start with, I had better tell you what sort of
men you are up against. Firstly, Henry Lakington—the man who spoke to
me. He was, I believe, one of the most brilliant scientists who has
ever been up at Oxford. There was nothing, in his own line, which would
not have been open to him, had he run straight. But he didn’t. He
deliberately chose to turn his brain to crime. Not vulgar, common sorts
of crime—but the big things, calling for a master criminal. He has
always had enough money to allow him to take his time over any coup—to
perfect his details. And that’s what he loves. He regards a crime as
an ordinary man regards a complicated business deal—a thing to be looked
at and studied from all angles, a thing to be treated as a mathematical
problem. He is quite unscrupulous; he is only concerned in pitting
himself against the world and winning."
"An engaging fellah," said Hugh. "What particular form of crime does he
favour?"
"Anything that calls for brain, iron nerve, and refinement of detail,"
she answered. "Principally, up to date, burglary on a big scale, and
murder."
"My dear soul!" said Hugh incredulously. "How can you be sure? And why
don’t you tell the police?"
She smiled wearily. "Because I’ve got no proof, and even if I had..."
She gave a little shudder, and left her sentence unfinished. "But one
day, my father and I were in his house, and, by accident, I got into a
room I’d never been in before. It was a strange room, with two large
safes let into the wall and steel bars over the skylight in the ceiling.
There wasn’t a window, and the floor seemed to be made of concrete. And
the door was covered with curtains, and was heavy to move—almost as if
it was steel or iron. On the desk in the middle of the room lay some
miniatures, and, without thinking, I picked them up and looked at them.
I happen to know something about miniatures, and, to my horror, I
recognised them." She paused for a moment as a waiter went by their
table.
"Do you remember the theft of the celebrated Vatican miniatures
belonging to the Duke of Melbourne?"
Drummond nodded; he was beginning to feel interested.
"They were the ones I was holding in my hand," she said quietly. "I
knew them at once from the description in the papers. And just as I was
wondering what on earth to do, the man himself walked into the room."
"Awkward—deuced awkward." Drummond pressed out his cigarette and leaned
forward expectantly. "What did he do?"
"Absolutely nothing," said the girl. "That’s what made it so awful.
"’Admiring my treasures?’ he remarked. ’Pretty things, aren’t they?’ I
couldn’t speak a word: I just put them back on the table.
"’Wonderful copies,’ he went on, ’of the Duke of Melbourne’s lost
miniatures. I think they would deceive most people.’
"’They deceived me,’ I managed to get out.
"’Did they?’ he said. ’The man who painted them will be flattered.’
"All the time he was staring at me, a cold, merciless stare that seemed
to freeze my brain. Then he went over to one of the safes and unlocked
it. ’Come here, Miss Benton,’ he said. ’There are a lot more—copies.’
"I only looked inside for a moment, but I have never seen or thought of
such a sight. Beautifully arranged on black velvet shelves were ropes
of pearls, a gorgeous diamond tiara, and a whole heap of loose, uncut
stones. And in one corner I caught a glimpse of the most wonderful gold
chaliced cup—just like the one for which Samuel Levy, the Jew
moneylender, was still offering a reward. Then he shut the door and
locked it, and again stared at me in silence.
"’All copies,’ he said quietly, ’wonderful copies. And should you ever
be tempted to think otherwise—ask your father, Miss Benton. Be warned
by me; don’t do anything foolish. Ask your father first.’"
"And did you?" asked Drummond.
She shuddered. "That very evening," she answered. "And Daddy flew into
a frightful passion, and told me never to dare to meddle in things that
didn’t concern me again. Then gradually, as time went on, I realised
that Lakington had some hold over Daddy—that he’d got my father in his
power. Daddy—of all people—who wouldn’t hurt a fly: the best and dearest
man who ever breathed." Her hands were clenched, and her breast rose
and fell stormily.
Drummond waited for her to compose herself before he spoke again. "You
mentioned murder, too," he remarked.
She nodded. "I’ve got no proof," she said, "less even than over the
burglaries. But there was a man called George Dringer, and one evening,
when Lakington was dining with us, I heard him discussing this man with
Daddy.
"’He’s got to go,’ said Lakington. ’He’s dangerous!’
"And then my father got up and closed the door; but I heard them arguing
for half an hour. Three weeks later a coroner’s jury found that George
Dringer had committed suicide while temporarily insane. The same
evening Daddy, for the first time in his life, went to bed the worse for
drink."
The girl fell silent, and Drummond stared at the orchestra with troubled
eyes. Things seemed to be rather deeper than he had anticipated.
"Then there was another case." She was speaking again. "Do you
remember that man who was found dead in a railway-carriage at Oxhey
station? He was an Italian—Giuseppe by name; and the jury brought in a
verdict of death from natural causes. A month before, he had an
interview with Lakington which took place at our house: because the
Italian, being a stranger, came to the wrong place, and Lakington
happened to be with us at the time. The interview finished with a
fearful quarrel." She turned to Drummond with a slight smile. "Not
much evidence, is there? Only I _know_ Lakington murdered him. I _know_ it.
You may think I’m fanciful—imagining things; you may think I’m
exaggerating. I don’t mind if you do—because you won’t for long."
Drummond did not answer immediately. Against his saner judgment he was
beginning to be profoundly impressed, and, at the moment, he did not
quite know what to say. That the girl herself firmly believed in what
she was telling him, he was certain; the point was how much of it was—as
she herself expressed it—fanciful imagination.
"What about this other man?" he asked at length.
"I can tell you very little about him," she answered. "He came to The
Elms—that is the name of Lakington’s house—three months ago. He is
about medium height and rather thick-set; clean-shaven, with thick brown
hair flecked slightly with white. His forehead is broad, and his eyes
are a sort of cold grey-blue. But it’s his hands that terrify me.
They’re large and white and utterly ruthless." She turned to him
appealingly. "Oh! don’t think I’m talking wildly," she implored. "He
frightens me to death—that man: far, far worse than Lakington. He would
stop at nothing to gain his ends, and even Lakington himself knows that
Mr. Peterson is his master."
"Peterson!" murmured Drummond. "It seems quite a sound old English
name."
The girl laughed scornfully. "Oh! the name is sound enough, if it was
his real one. As it is, it’s about as real as his daughter."
"There is a lady in the case, then?"
"By the name of Irma," said the girl briefly. "She lies on a sofa in the
garden and yawns. She’s no more English than that waiter."
A faint smile flickered over her companion’s face; he had formed a
fairly vivid mental picture of Irma. Then he grew serious again.
"And what is it that makes you think there’s mischief ahead?" he asked
abruptly.
The girl shrugged her shoulders. "What the novelists call feminine
intuition, I suppose," she answered. "That—and my father." She said
the last words very low. "He hardly ever sleeps at night now; I hear
him pacing up and down his room—hour after hour, hour after hour. Oh!
it makes me mad.... Don’t you understand? I’ve just got to find out
what the trouble is. I’ve got to get him away from those devils, before
he breaks down completely."
Drummond nodded, and looked away. The tears were bright in her eyes,
and, like every Englishman, he detested a scene. While she had been
speaking he had made up his mind what course to take, and now, having
outsat everybody else, he decided that it was time for the interview to
cease. Already an early diner was having a cocktail, while Lakington
might return at any moment. And if there was anything in what she had
told him, it struck him that it would be as well for that gentleman not
to find them still together.
"I think," he said, "we’d better go. My address is 60A Half Moon
Street; my telephone 1234 Mayfair. If anything happens, if ever you want
me—at any hour of the day or night—ring me up or write. If I’m not in,
leave a message with my servant Denny. He is absolutely reliable. The
only other thing is your own address."
"The Larches, near Godalming," answered the girl, as they moved towards
the door. "Oh! if you only knew the glorious relief of feeling one’s
got someone to turn to...." She looked at him with shining eyes, and
Drummond felt his pulse quicken suddenly. Imagination or not, so far as
her fears were concerned, the girl was one of the loveliest things he
had ever seen.
"May I drop you anywhere?" he asked, as they stood on the pavement, but
she shook her head.
"No, thank you. I’ll go in that taxi." She gave the man an address,
and stepped in, while Hugh stood bareheaded by the door.
"Don’t forget," he said earnestly. "Any time of the day or night. And
while I think of it—we’re old friends. Can that be done? In case I
come and stay, you see."
She thought for a moment and then nodded her head. "All right," she
answered. "We’ve met a lot in London during the war."
With a grinding of gear wheels the taxi drove off, leaving Hugh with a
vivid picture imprinted on his mind of blue eyes, and white teeth, and a
skin like the bloom of a sun-kissed peach.
For a moment or two he stood staring after it, and then he walked across
to his own car. With his mind still full of the interview he drove
slowly along Piccadilly, while every now and then he smiled grimly to
himself. Was the whole thing an elaborate hoax? Was the girl even now
chuckling to herself at his gullibility? If so, the game had only just
begun, and he had no objection to a few more rounds with such an
opponent. A mere tea at the Carlton could hardly be the full extent of
the jest.... And somehow deep down in his mind, he wondered whether it
was a joke—whether, by some freak of fate, he had stumbled on one of
those strange mysteries which up to date he had regarded as existing
only in the realms of shilling shockers.
He turned into his rooms, and stood in front of the mantelpiece taking
off his gloves. It was as he was about to lay them down on the table
that an envelope caught his eye, addressed to him in an unknown
handwriting. Mechanically he picked it up and opened it. Inside was a
single half-sheet of notepaper, on which a few lines had been written in
a small, neat hand.
"There are more things in Heaven and Earth, young man, than a capability
for eating steak and onions, and a desire for adventure. I imagine that
you possess both: and they are useful assets in the second locality
mentioned by the poet. In Heaven, however, one never knows—especially
with regard to the onions. Be careful."
Drummond stood motionless for a moment, with narrowed eyes. Then he
leaned forward and pressed the bell.
"Who brought this note, James?" he said quietly, as his servant came
into the room.
"A small boy, sir. Said I was to be sure and see you got it most
particular." He unlocked a cupboard near the window and produced a
tantalus. "Whisky, sir, or cocktail?"
"Whisky, I think, James." Hugh carefully folded the sheet of paper and
placed it in his pocket. And his face as he took the drink from his man
would have left no doubt in an onlooker’s mind as to why, in the past,
he had earned the name of "Bull-dog" Drummond.
*CHAPTER II*
*IN WHICH HE JOURNEYS TO GODALMING AND THE
GAME BEGINS*
*I*
"I almost think, James, that I could toy with another kidney." Drummond
looked across the table at his servant, who was carefully arranging two
or three dozen letters in groups. "Do you think it will cause a
complete breakdown in the culinary arrangements? I’ve got a journey in
front of me to-day, and I require a large breakfast."
James Denny supplied the deficiency from a dish that was standing on an
electric heater.
"Are you going for long, sir?" he ventured.
"I don’t know, James. It all depends on circumstances. Which, when you
come to think of it, is undoubtedly one of the most fatuous phrases in
the English language. Is there anything in the world that doesn’t
depend on circumstances?"
"Will you be motoring, sir, or going by train?" asked James prosaically.
Dialectical arguments did not appeal to him.
"By car," answered Drummond. "Pyjamas and a tooth-brush."
"You won’t take evening clothes, sir?"
"No. I want my visit to appear unpremeditated, James, and if one goes
about completely encased in boiled shirts, while pretending to be merely
out for the afternoon, people have doubts as to one’s intellect."
James digested this great thought in silence.
"Will you be going far, sir?" he asked at length, pouring out a second
cup of coffee.
"To Godalming. A charming spot, I believe, though I’ve never been
there. Charming inhabitants, too, James. The lady I met yesterday at
the Carlton lives at Godalming."
"Indeed, sir," murmured James non-committally.
"You damned old humbug," laughed Drummond, "you know you’re itching to
know all about it. I had a very long and interesting talk with her, and
one of two things emerges quite clearly from our conversation. Either,
James, I am a congenital idiot, and don’t know enough to come in out of
the rain; or we’ve hit the goods. That is what I propose to find out by
my little excursion. Either our legs, my friend, are being pulled till
they will never resume their normal shape; or that advertisement has
succeeded beyond our wildest dreams."
"There are a lot more answers in this morning, sir." Denny made a
movement towards the letters he had been sorting. "One from a lovely
widow with two children."
"Lovely," cried Drummond. "How forward of her!" He glanced at the
letter and smiled. "Care, James, and accuracy are essential in a
secretary, The misguided woman calls herself lonely, not lovely. She
will remain so, as far as I am concerned, until the other matter is
settled."
"Will it take long, sir, do you think?"
"To get it settled?" Drummond lit a cigarette and leaned back in his
chair. "Listen, James, and I will outline the case. The maiden lives
at a house called The Larches, near Godalming, with her papa. Not far
away is another house called The Elms, owned by a gentleman of the name
of Henry Lakington—a nasty man, James, with a nasty face—who was also at
the Carlton yesterday afternoon for a short time. And now we come to
the point. Miss Benton—that is the lady’s name—accuses Mr. Lakington of
being the complete IT in the criminal line. She went even so far as to
say that he was the second most dangerous man in England."
"Indeed, sir. More coffee, sir?"
"Will nothing move you, James?" remarked his master plaintively. "This
man murders people and does things like that, you know."
"Personally, sir, I prefer a picture-palace. But I suppose there ain’t
no accounting for ’obbies. May I clear away, sir?"
"No, James, not at present. Keep quite still while I go on, or I shall
get it wrong. Three months ago there arrived at The Elms _the_ most
dangerous man in England—the IT of ITS. This gentleman goes by the name
of Peterson, and he owns a daughter. From what Miss Benton said, I have
doubts about that daughter, James." He rose and strolled over to the
window. "Grave doubts. However, to return to the point, it appears
that some unpleasing conspiracy is being hatched by IT, the IT of ITS,
and the doubtful daughter, into which Papa Benton has been unwillingly
drawn. As far as I can make out, the suggestion is that I should
unravel the tangled skein of crime and extricate papa."
In a spasm of uncontrollable excitement James sucked his teeth. "Lumme,
it wouldn’t ’alf go on the movies, would it?" he remarked. "Better than
them Red Indians and things."
"I fear, James, that you are not in the habit of spending your spare
time at the British Museum, as I hoped," said Drummond. "And your brain
doesn’t work very quickly. The point is not whether this hideous affair
is better than Red Indians and things—but whether it’s genuine. Am I to
battle with murderers, or shall I find a house-party roaring with
laughter on the lawn?"
"As long as you laughs like ’ell yourself, sir, I don’t see as ’ow it
makes much odds," answered James philosophically.
"The first sensible remark you’ve made this morning," said his master
hopefully. "I will go prepared to laugh."
He picked up a pipe from the mantelpiece, and proceeded to fill it,
while James Denny still waited in silence.
"A lady may ring up to-day," Drummond continued. "Miss Benton, to be
exact. Don’t say where I’ve gone if she does; but take down any
message, and wire it to me at Godalming Post Office. If by any chance
you don’t hear from me for three days, get in touch with Scotland Yard,
and tell ’em where I’ve gone. That covers everything if it’s genuine.
If, on the other hand, it’s a hoax, and the house-party is a good one, I
shall probably want you to come down with my evening clothes and some
more kit."
"Very good, sir. I will clean your small Colt revolver at once."
Hugh Drummond paused in the act of lighting his pipe, and a grin spread
slowly over his face. "Excellent," he said. "And see if you can find
that water-squirt pistol I used to have—a Son of a Gun they called it.
That ought to raise a laugh, when I arrest the murderer with it."
*II*
The 30 h.p. two-seater made short work of the run to Godalming. Under
the dickey seat behind lay a small bag, containing the bare necessaries
for the night; and as Drummond thought of the two guns rolled up
carefully in his pyjamas—the harmless toy and the wicked little
automatic—he grinned gently to himself. The girl had not rung him up
during the morning, and, after a comfortable lunch at his club, he had
started about three o’clock. The hedges, fresh with the glory of
spring, flashed past; the smell of the country came sweet and fragrant
on the air. There was a gentle warmth, a balminess in the day that made
it good to be alive, and once or twice he sang under his breath through
sheer lightheartedness of spirit. Surrounded by the peaceful beauty of
the fields, with an occasional village half hidden by great trees from
under which the tiny houses peeped out, it seemed impossible that crime
could exist—laughable. Of course the thing was a hoax, an elaborate
leg-pull, but, being not guilty of any mental subterfuge, Hugh Drummond
admitted to himself quite truly that he didn’t care a damn if it was.
Phyllis Benton was at liberty to continue the jest, wherever and
whenever she liked. Phyllis Benton was a very nice girl, and very nice
girls are permitted a lot of latitude.
A persistent honking behind aroused him from his reverie, and he pulled
into the side of the road. Under normal circumstances he would have let
his own car out, and as she could touch ninety with ease, he very rarely
found himself passed. But this afternoon he felt disinclined to race;
he wanted to go quietly and think. Blue eyes and that glorious
colouring were a dangerous combination—distinctly dangerous. Most
engrossing to a healthy bachelor’s thoughts.
An open cream-coloured Rolls-Royce drew level, with five people on
board, and he looked up as it passed. There were three people in the
back—two men and a woman, and for a moment his eyes met those of the man
nearest him. Then they drew ahead, and Drummond pulled up to avoid the
thick cloud of dust.
With a slight frown he stared at the retreating car; he saw the man lean
over and speak to the other man; he saw the other man look round. Then
a bend in the road hid them from sight, and, still frowning, Drummond
pulled out his case and lit a cigarette. For the man whose eye he had
caught as the Rolls went by was Henry Lakington. There was no mistaking
that hard-lipped, cruel face.
Presumably, thought Hugh, the other two occupants were Mr. Peterson and
the doubtful daughter, Irma; presumably they were returning to The Elms.
And incidentally there seemed no pronounced reason why they shouldn’t.
But, somehow, the sudden appearance of Lakington had upset him; he felt
irritable and annoyed. What little he had seen of the man he had not
liked; he did not want to be reminded of him, especially just as he was
thinking of Phyllis.
He watched the white dust-cloud rise over the hill in front as the car
topped it; he watched it settle and drift away in the faint breeze.
Then he let in his clutch and followed quite slowly in the big car’s
wake.
There had been two men in front—the driver and another, and he wondered
idly if the latter was Mr. Benton. Probably not, he reflected, since
Phyllis had said nothing about her father being in London. He
accelerated up the hill and swung over the top; the next moment he
braked hard and pulled up just in time. The Rolls, with the chauffeur
peering into the bonnet, had stopped in such a position that it was
impossible for him to get by.
The girl was still seated in the back of the car, also the passenger in
front, but the two other men were standing in the road apparently
watching the chauffeur, and after a while the one whom Drummond had
recognised as Lakington came towards him.
"I’m so sorry," he began—and then paused in surprise. "Why, surely it’s
Captain Drummond?"
Drummond nodded pleasantly. "The occupant of a car is hardly likely to
change in a mile, is he?" he remarked. "I’m afraid I forgot to wave as
you went past, but I got your smile all right." He leant on his
steering-wheel and lit a second cigarette. "Are you likely to be long?"
he asked; "because if so, I’ll stop my engine."
The other man was now approaching casually, and Drummond regarded him
curiously. "A friend of our little Phyllis, Peterson," said Lakington,
as he came up. "I found them having tea together yesterday at the
Carlton."
"Any friend of Miss Benton’s is, I hope, ours," said Peterson with a
smile. "You’ve known her a long time, I expect?"
"Quite a long time," returned Hugh. "We have jazzed together on many
occasions."
"Which makes it all the more unfortunate that we should have delayed
you," said Peterson. "I can’t help thinking, Lakington, that that new
chauffeur is a bit of a fool."
"I hope he avoided the crash all right," murmured Drummond politely.
Both men looked at him. "The crash!" said Lakington. "There was no
question of a crash. We just stopped."
"Really," remarked Drummond, "I think, sir, that you must be right in
your diagnosis of your chauffeur’s mentality." He turned courteously to
Peterson. "When something goes wrong, for a fellah to stop his car by
braking so hard that he locks both back wheels is no _bon_, as we used
to say in France. I thought, judging by the tracks in the dust, that you
must have been in imminent danger of ramming a traction engine. Or
perhaps," he added judicially, "a sudden order to stop would have
produced the same effect." If he saw the lightning glance that passed
between the two men he gave no sign. "May I offer you a cigarette?
Turkish that side—Virginian the other. I wonder if I could help your
man," he continued, when they had helped themselves. "I’m a bit of an
expert with a Rolls."
"How very kind of you," said Peterson. "I’ll go and see." He went over
to the man and spoke a few words.
"Isn’t it extraordinary," remarked Hugh, "how the eye of the boss
galvanises the average man into activity! As long, probably, as Mr.
Peterson had remained here talking, that chauffeur would have gone on
tinkering with the engine. And now—look, in a second—all serene. And
yet I daresay Mr. Peterson knows nothing about it really. Just the
watching eye, Mr. Lakington. Wonderful thing—the human optic."
He rambled on with a genial smile, watching with apparent interest the
car in front. "Who’s the quaint bird sitting beside the chauffeur? He
appeals to me immensely. Wish to Heaven I’d had a few more like him in
France to turn into snipers."
"May I ask why you think he would have been a success at the job?"
Lakington’s voice expressed merely perfunctory interest, but his cold,
steely eyes were fixed on Drummond.
"He’s so motionless," answered Hugh. "The bally fellow hasn’t moved a
muscle since I’ve been here. I believe he’d sit on a hornet’s nest, and
leave the inmates guessing. Great gift, Mr. Lakington. Shows a strength
of will but rarely met with—a mind which rises above mere vulgar
curiosity."
"It is undoubtedly a great gift to have such a mind, Captain Drummond,"
said Lakington. "And if it isn’t born in a man, he should most
certainly try to cultivate it." He pitched his cigarette away, and
buttoned up his coat. "Shall we be seeing you this evening?"
Drummond shrugged his shoulders. "I’m the vaguest man that ever lived,"
he said lightly. "I might be listening to nightingales in the country;
or I might be consuming steak and onions preparatory to going to a night
club. So long.... You must let me take you to Hector’s one night.
Hope you don’t break down again so suddenly."
He watched the Rolls-Royce start, but seemed in no hurry to follow suit.
And his many friends, who were wont to regard Hugh Drummond as a mass of
brawn not too plentifully supplied with brains, would have been puzzled
had they seen the look of keen concentration on his face, as he stared
along the white dusty road. He could not say why, but suddenly and very
certainly the conviction had come to him, that this was no hoax and no
leg-pull—but grim and sober reality. In his imagination he heard the
sudden sharp order to stop the instant they were over the hill, so that
Peterson might have a chance of inspecting him; in a flash of intuition
he knew that these two men were no ordinary people, and that he was
suspect. And as he slipped smoothly after the big car, now well out of
sight, two thoughts were dominant in his mind. The first was that there
was some mystery about the motionless, unnatural man who had sat beside
the driver; the second was a distinct feeling of relief that his
automatic was fully loaded.
*III*
At half-past five he stopped in front of Godalming Post Office. To his
surprise the girl handed him a wire, and Hugh tore the yellow envelope
open quickly. It was from Denny, and it was brief and to the point:
"Phone message received. AAA. Must see you Carlton tea day after
to-morrow. Going Godalming now. AAA. Message ends."
With a slight smile he noticed the military phraseology—Denny at one
time in his career had been a signaller—and then he frowned. "Must see
you." She should—at once.
He turned to the girl and inquired the way to The Larches. It was about
two miles, he gathered, on the Guildford road, and impossible to miss.
A biggish house standing well back in its own grounds.
"Is it anywhere near a house called The Elms?" he asked.
"Next door, sir," said the girl. "The gardens adjoin."
He thanked her, and having torn up the telegram into small pieces, he
got into his car. There was nothing for it, he had decided, but to
drive boldly up to the house, and say that he had come to call on Miss
Benton. He had never been a man who beat about the bush, and simple
methods appealed to him—a trait in his character which many a boxer,
addicted to tortuous cunning in the ring, had good cause to remember.
What more natural, he reflected, than to drive over and see such an old
friend?
He had no difficulty in finding the house, and a few minutes later he
was ringing the front-door bell. It was answered by a maidservant, who
looked at him in mild surprise. Young men in motor-cars were not common
visitors at The Larches.
"Is Miss Benton in?" Hugh asked with a smile which at once won the
girl’s heart.
"She has only just come back from London, sir," she answered doubtfully.
"I don’t know whether..."
"Would you tell her that Captain Drummond has called?" said Hugh as the
maid hesitated. "That I happened to find myself near here, and came on
chance of seeing her?"
Once again the smile was called into play, and the girl hesitated no
longer. "Will you come inside, sir?" she said. "I will go and tell
Miss Phyllis."
She ushered him into the drawing-room and closed the door. It was a
charming room, just such as he would have expected with Phyllis. Big
windows, opening down to the ground, led out on to a lawn, which was
already a blaze of colour. A few great oak trees threw a pleasant shade
at the end of the garden, and, partially showing through them, he could
see another house which he rightly assumed was The Elms. In fact, even
as he heard the door open and shut behind him, he saw Peterson come out
of a small summer-house and commence strolling up and down, smoking a
cigar. Then he turned round and faced the girl.
Charming as she had looked in London, she was doubly so now, in a simple
linen frock which showed off her figure to perfection. But if he
thought he was going to have any leisure to enjoy the picture
undisturbed, he was soon disillusioned.
"Why have you come here, Captain Drummond?" she said, a little
breathlessly. "I said the Carlton—the day after to-morrow."
"Unfortunately," said Hugh, "I’d left London before that message came.
My servant wired it on to the Post Office here. Not that it would have
made any difference. I should have come, anyway."
An involuntary smile hovered round her lips for a moment; then she grew
serious again. "It’s very dangerous for you to come here," she remarked
quietly. "If once those men suspect anything, God knows what will
happen."
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that it was too late to
worry about that; then he changed his mind. "And what is there
suspicious," he asked, "in an old friend who happens to be in the
neighbourhood dropping in to call? Do you mind if I smoke?"
The girl beat her hands together. "My dear man," she cried, "you don’t
understand. You’re judging those devils by your own standard. They
suspect everything—and everybody."
"What a distressing habit," he murmured. "Is it chronic, or merely due
to liver? I must send ’em a bottle of good salts. Wonderful thing—good
salts. Never without some in France."
The girl looked at him resignedly. "You’re hopeless," she
remarked—"absolutely hopeless."
"Absolutely," agreed Hugh, blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Wherefore
your telephone message? What’s the worry?"
She bit her lip and drummed with her fingers on the arm of her chair.
"If I tell you," she said at length, "will you promise me, on your word
of honour, that you won’t go blundering into The Elms, or do anything
foolish like that?"
"At the present moment I’m very comfortable where I am, thanks,"
remarked Hugh.
"I know," she said; "but I’m so dreadfully afraid that you’re the type
of person who ... who..." She paused, at a loss for a word.
"Who bellows like a bull, and charges head down," interrupted Hugh with
a grin. She laughed with him, and just for a moment their eyes met, and
she read in his something quite foreign to the point at issue. In fact,
it is to be feared that the question of Lakington and his companions was
not engrossing Drummond’s mind, as it doubtless should have been, to the
exclusion of all else.
"They’re so utterly unscrupulous," she continued hurriedly, "so
fiendishly clever, that even you would be like a child in their hands."
Hugh endeavoured to dissemble his pleasure at that little word "even,"
and only succeeded in frowning horribly.
"I will be discretion itself," he assured her firmly. "I promise you."
"I suppose I shall have to trust you," she said. "Have you seen the
evening papers to-day?"
"I looked at the ones that come out in the morning labelled six p.m.
before I had lunch," he answered. "Is there anything of interest?"
She handed him a copy of the _Planet_. "Read that little paragraph in
the second column." She pointed to it, as he took the paper, and Hugh
read it aloud.
"Mr. Hiram C. Potts—the celebrated American millionaire—is progressing
favourably. He has gone into the country for a few days, but is
sufficiently recovered to conduct business as usual." He laid down the
paper and looked at the girl sitting opposite. "One is pleased," he
remarked in a puzzled tone, "for the sake of Mr. Potts. To be ill and
have a name like that is more than most men could stand.... But I don’t
quite see..."
"That man was stopping at the Carlton, where he met Lakington," said the
girl. "He is a multi-millionaire, over here in connection with some big
steel trust; and when multi-millionaires get friendly with Lakington,
their health frequently does suffer."
"But this paper says he’s getting better," objected Drummond.
"’Sufficiently recovered to conduct business as usual.’ What’s wrong
with that?"
"If he is sufficiently recovered to conduct business as usual, why did
he send his confidential secretary away yesterday morning on an urgent
mission to Belfast?"
"Search me," said Hugh. "Incidentally, how do you know he did?"
"I asked at the Carlton this morning," she answered. "I said I’d come
after a job as typist for Mr. Potts. They told me at the inquiry office
that he was ill in bed and unable to see anybody. So I asked for his
secretary, and they told me what I’ve just told you—that he had left for
Belfast that morning and would be away several days. It may be that
there’s nothing in it; on the other hand, it may be that there’s a lot.
And it’s only by following up every possible clue," she continued
fiercely, "that I can hope to beat those fiends and get Daddy out of
their clutches."
Drummond nodded gravely, and did not speak.
For into his mind had flashed suddenly the remembrance of that sinister,
motionless figure seated by the chauffeur. The wildest guess-work
certainly—no vestige of proof—and yet, having once come, the thought
stuck. And as he turned it over in his mind, almost prepared to laugh
at himself for his credulity—millionaires are not removed against their
will, in broad daylight, from one of the biggest hotels in London, to
sit in immovable silence in an open car—the door opened and an elderly
man came in.
Hugh rose, and the girl introduced the two men. "An old friend, Daddy,"
she said. "You must have heard me speak of Captain Drummond."
"I don’t recall the name at the moment, my dear," he answered
courteously—a fact which was hardly surprising—"but I fear I’m getting a
little forgetful. I am pleased to meet you, Captain Drummond. You’ll
stop and have some dinner, of course."
Hugh bowed. "I should like to, Mr. Benton. Thank you very much. I’m
afraid the hour of my call was a little informal, but being round in
these parts, I felt I must come and look Miss Benton up."
His host smiled absent-mindedly, and walking to the window, stared
through the gathering dusk at the house opposite, half hidden in the
trees. And Hugh, who was watching him from under lowered lids, saw him
suddenly clench both hands in a gesture of despair.
It cannot be said that dinner was a meal of sparkling gaiety. Mr.
Benton was palpably ill at ease, and beyond a few desultory remarks
spoke hardly at all: while the girl, who sat opposite Hugh, though she
made one or two valiant attempts to break the long silences, spent most
of the meal in covertly watching her father. If anything more had been
required to convince Drummond of the genuineness of his interview with
her at the Carlton the preceding day, the atmosphere at this strained
and silent party supplied it.
As if unconscious of anything peculiar, he rambled on in his usual
inconsequent method, heedless of whether he was answered or not; but all
the time his mind was busily working. He had already decided that a
Rolls-Royce was not the only car on the market which could break down
mysteriously, and with the town so far away, his host could hardly fail
to ask him to stop the night. And then—he had not yet quite settled
how—he proposed to have a closer look at The Elms.
At length the meal was over, and the maid, placing the decanter in front
of Mr. Benton, withdrew from the room.
"You’ll have a glass of port, Captain Drummond," remarked his host,
removing the stopper, and pushing the bottle towards him. "An old
pre-war wine which I can vouch for."
Hugh smiled, and even as he lifted the heavy old cut glass, he stiffened
suddenly in his chair. A cry—half shout, half scream, and stifled at
once—had come echoing through the open windows. With a crash the
stopper fell from Mr. Benton’s nerveless fingers, breaking the
finger-bowl in front of him, while every vestige of colour left his
face.
"It’s something these days to be able to say that," remarked Hugh,
pouring himself out a glass. "Wine, Miss Benton?" He looked at the
girl, who was staring fearfully out of the window, and forced her to
meet his eye. "It will do you good."
His tone was compelling, and after a moment’s hesitation, she pushed the
glass over to him. "Will you pour it out?" she said, and he saw that
she was trembling all over.
"Did you—did you hear—anything?" With a vain endeavour to speak calmly,
his host looked at Hugh.
"That night-bird?" he answered easily. "Eerie noises they make, don’t
they? Sometimes in France, when everything was still, and only the
ghostly green flares went hissing up, one used to hear ’em. Startled
nervous sentries out of their lives." He talked on, and gradually the
colour came back to the other man’s face. But Hugh noticed that he
drained his port at a gulp, and immediately refilled his glass....
Outside everything was still; no repetition of that short, strangled cry
again disturbed the silence. With the training bred of many hours in No
Man’s Land, Drummond was listening, even while he was speaking, for the
faintest suspicious sound—but he heard nothing. The soft whispering
night-noises came gently through the window; but the man who had
screamed once did not even whimper again. He remembered hearing a
similar cry near the brickstacks at Guinchy, and two nights later he had
found the giver of it, at the edge of a mine-crater, with glazed eyes
that still held in them the horror of the final second. And more
persistently than ever, his thoughts centred on the fifth occupant of
the Rolls-Royce....
It was with almost a look of relief that Mr. Benton listened to his tale
of woe about his car.
"Of course you must stop here for the night," he cried. "Phyllis, my
dear, will you tell them to get a room ready?"
With an inscrutable look at Hugh, in which thankfulness and apprehension
seemed mingled, the girl left the room. There was an unnatural glitter
in her father’s eyes—a flush on his cheeks hardly to be accounted for by
the warmth of the evening; and it struck Drummond that, during the time
he had been pretending to look at his car, Mr. Benton had been
fortifying himself. It was obvious, even to the soldier’s
unprofessional eye, that the man’s nerves had gone to pieces; and that
unless something was done soon, his daughter’s worst forebodings were
likely to be fulfilled. He talked disjointedly and fast; his hands were
not steady, and he seemed to be always waiting for something to happen.
Hugh had not been in the room ten minutes before his host produced the
whisky, and during the time that he took to drink a mild nightcap, Mr.
Benton succeeded in lowering three extremely strong glasses of spirit.
And what made it the more sad was that the man was obviously not a heavy
drinker by preference.
At eleven o’clock Hugh rose and said good-night.
"You’ll ring if you want anything, won’t you?" said his host. "We don’t
have very many visitors here, but I hope you’ll find everything you
require. Breakfast at nine."
Drummond closed the door behind him, and stood for a moment in silence,
looking round the hall. It was deserted, but he wanted to get the
geography of the house firmly imprinted on his mind. Then a noise from
the room he had just left made him frown sharply—his host was continuing
the process of fortification—and he stepped across towards the
drawing-room. Inside, as he hoped, he found the girl.
She rose the instant he came in, and stood by the mantelpiece with her
hands locked.
"What was it?" she half whispered—"that awful noise at dinner?"
He looked at her gravely for a while, and then he shook his head.
"Shall we leave it as a night-bird for the present?" he said quietly.
Then he leaned towards her, and took her hands in his own. "Go to bed,
little girl," he ordered; "this is my show. And, may I say, I think
you’re just wonderful. Thank God you saw my advertisement!"
Gently he released her hands, and walking to the door, held it open for
her. "If by any chance you should hear things in the night—turn over
and go to sleep again."
"But what are you going to do?" she cried.
Hugh grinned. "I haven’t the remotest idea," he answered. "Doubtless
the Lord will provide."
The instant the girl had left the room Hugh switched off the lights, and
stepped across to the curtains which covered the long windows. He
pulled them aside, letting them come together behind him; then,
cautiously, he unbolted one side of the big centre window. The night
was dark, and the moon was not due to rise for two or three hours, but
he was too old a soldier to neglect any precautions. He wanted to see
more of The Elms and its inhabitants; he did not want them to see more
of him.
Silently he dodged across the lawn towards the big trees at the end, and
leaning up against one of them, he proceeded to make a more detailed
survey of his objective. It was the same type of house as the one he
had just left, and the grounds seemed about the same size. A wire fence
separated the two places, and in the darkness Hugh could just make out a
small wicket-gate, closing a path which connected both houses. He tried
it, and found to his satisfaction that it opened silently.
Passing through, he took cover behind some bushes from which he could
command a better view of Mr. Lakington’s abode. Save for one room on
the ground-floor the house was in darkness, and Hugh determined to have
a look at that room. There was a chink in the curtains, through which
the light was streaming out, which struck him as having possibilities.
Keeping under cover, he edged towards it, and, at length, he got into a
position from which he could see inside. And what he saw made him
decide to chance it, and go even closer.
Seated at the table was a man he did not recognise; while on either side
of him sat Lakington and Peterson. Lying on a sofa smoking a cigarette
and reading a novel was a tall dark girl, who seemed completely
uninterested in the proceedings of the other three. Hugh placed her at
once as the doubtful daughter Irma, and resumed his watch on the group
at the table.
A paper was in front of the man, and Peterson, who was smoking a large
cigar, was apparently suggesting that he should make use of the pen
which Lakington was obligingly holding in readiness. In all respects a
harmless tableau, save for one small thing—the expression on the man’s
face. Hugh had seen it before often—only then it had been called
shell-shock. The man was dazed, semi-unconscious. Every now and then he
stared round the room, as if bewildered; then he would shake his head
and pass his hand wearily over his forehead. For a quarter of an hour
the scene continued; then Lakington produced an instrument from his
pocket. Hugh saw the man shrink back in terror, and reach for the pen.
He saw the girl lie back on the sofa as if disappointed and pick up her
novel again; and he saw Lakington’s face set in a cold sneer. But what
impressed him most in that momentary flash of action was Peterson.
There was something inhuman in his complete passivity. By not the
fraction of a second did he alter the rate at which he was smoking—the
slow, leisurely rate of the connoisseur; by not the twitch of an eyelid
did his expression change. Even as he watched the man signing his name,
no trace of emotion showed on his face—whereas on Lakington’s there
shone a fiendish satisfaction.
The document was still lying on the table, when Hugh produced his
revolver. He knew there was foul play about, and the madness of what he
had suddenly made up his mind to do never struck him: being that manner
of fool, he was made that way. But he breathed a pious prayer that he
would shoot straight—and then he held his breath. The crack of the shot
and the bursting of the only electric-light bulb in the room were almost
simultaneous; and the next second, with a roar of "Come on, boys," he
burst through the window. At an immense advantage over the others, who
could see nothing for the moment, he blundered round the room. He timed
the blow at Lakington to a nicety; he hit him straight on the point of
the jaw and he felt the man go down like a log. Then he grabbed at the
paper on the table, which tore in his hand, and picking the dazed signer
up bodily, he rushed through the window on to the lawn. There was not
an instant to be lost; only the impossibility of seeing when suddenly
plunged into darkness had enabled him to pull the thing off so far. And
before that advantage disappeared he had to be back at The Larches with
his burden, no light weight for even a man of his strength to carry.
But there seemed to be no pursuit, no hue and cry. As he reached the
little gate he paused and looked back, and he fancied he saw outside the
window a gleam of white, such as a shirt-front. He lingered for an
instant, peering into the darkness and recovering his breath, when with
a vicious phut something buried itself in the tree beside him. Drummond
lingered no more; long years of experience left no doubt in his mind as
to what that something was.
"Compressed-air rifle—or electric," he muttered to himself, stumbling
on, and half dragging, half carrying his dazed companion.
He was not very clear in his own mind what to do next, but the matter
was settled for him unexpectedly. Barely had he got into the
drawing-room, when the door opened and the girl rushed in.
"Get him away at once," she cried. "In your car.... Don’t waste a
second. I’ve started her up."
"Good girl," he cried enthusiastically. "But what about you?"
She stamped her foot impatiently. "I’m all right—absolutely all right.
Get him away—that’s all that matters."
Drummond grinned. "The humorous thing is that I haven’t an idea who the
bird is—except that——" He paused, with his eyes fixed on the man’s left
thumb. The top joint was crushed into a red, shapeless pulp, and
suddenly the meaning of the instrument Lakington had produced from his
pocket became clear. Also the reason of that dreadful cry at dinner....
"By God!" whispered Drummond, half to himself, while his jaws set like a
steel vice. "A thumbscrew. The devils ... the bloody swine..."
"Oh! quick, quick," the girl urged in an agony. "They may be here at any
moment." She dragged him to the door, and together they forced the man
into the car.
"Lakington won’t," said Hugh with a grin. "And if you see him
to-morrow—don’t ask after his jaw.... Good-night, Phyllis."
With a quick movement he raised her hand to his lips; then he slipped in
the clutch and the car disappeared down the drive....
He felt a sense of elation and of triumph at having won the first round,
and as the car whirled back to London through the cool night air his
heart was singing with the joy of action. And it was perhaps as well
for his peace of mind that he did not witness the scene in the room at
The Elms.
Lakington still lay motionless on the floor; Peterson’s cigar still
glowed steadily in the darkness. It was hard to believe that he had
ever moved from the table; only the bullet imbedded in a tree proved
that somebody must have got busy. Of course, it might have been the
girl, who was just lighting another cigarette from the stump of the old
one.
At length Peterson spoke. "A young man of dash and temperament," he
said genially. "It will be a pity to lose him."
"Why not keep him and lose the girl?" yawned Irma. "I think he might
amuse me——"
"We have always our dear Henry to consider," answered Peterson.
"Apparently the girl appeals to him. I’m afraid, Irma, he’ll have to go
... and at once...."
The speaker was tapping his left knee softly with his hand; save for
that slight movement he sat as if nothing had happened. And yet ten
minutes before a carefully planned coup had failed at the instant of
success. Even his most fearless accomplices had been known to confess
that Peterson’s inhuman calmness sent cold shivers down their backs.
*CHAPTER III*
*IN WHICH THINGS HAPPEN IN HALF MOON STREET*
*I*
Hugh Drummond folded up the piece of paper he was studying and rose to
his feet as the doctor came into the room. He then pushed a silver box
of cigarettes across the table and waited.
"Your friend," said the doctor, "is in a very peculiar condition,
Captain Drummond—very peculiar." He sat down and, putting the tips of
his fingers together, gazed at Drummond in his most professional manner.
He paused for a moment, as if expecting an awed agreement with this
profound utterance, but the soldier was calmly lighting a cigarette.
"Can you," resumed the doctor, "enlighten me at all as to what he has
been doing during the last few days?"
Drummond shook his head. "Haven’t an earthly, doctor."
"There is, for instance, that very unpleasant wound in his thumb,"
pursued the other. "The top joint is crushed to a pulp."
"I noticed that last night," answered Hugh non-committally. "Looks as
if it had been mixed up between a hammer and an anvil, don’t it?"
"But you have no idea how it occurred?"
"I’m full of ideas," said the soldier. "In fact, if it’s any help to
you in your diagnosis, that wound was caused by the application of an
unpleasant mediaeval instrument known as a thumbscrew."
The worthy doctor looked at him in amazement. "A thumbscrew! You must
be joking, Captain Drummond."
"Very far from it," answered Hugh briefly. "If you want to know, it was
touch and go whether the other thumb didn’t share the same fate." He
blew out a cloud of smoke, and smiled inwardly as he noticed the look of
scandalised horror on his companion’s face. "It isn’t his thumb that
concerns me," he continued; "it’s his general condition. What’s the
matter with him?"
The doctor pursed his lips and looked wise, while Drummond wondered that
no one had ever passed a law allowing men of his type to be murdered on
sight.
"His heart seems sound," he answered after a weighty pause, "and I found
nothing wrong with him constitutionally. In fact, I may say, Captain
Drummond, he is in every respect a most healthy man. Except—er—except
for this peculiar condition."
Drummond exploded. "Damnation take it, man, what on earth do you
suppose I asked you to come round for? It’s of no interest to me to
hear that his liver is working properly." Then he controlled himself.
"I beg your pardon, doctor: I had rather a trying evening last night.
Can you give me any idea as to what has caused this peculiar condition?"
His companion accepted the apology with an acid bow. "Some form of
drug," he answered.
Drummond heaved a sigh of relief. "Now we’re getting on," he cried.
"Have you any idea what drug?"
"It is, at the moment, hard to say," returned the other. "It seems to
have produced a dazed condition mentally, without having affected him
physically. In a day or two, perhaps, I might be able to—er—arrive at
some conclusion...."
"Which, at present, you have not. Right; now we know where we are." A
pained expression flitted over the doctor’s face: this young man was
very direct. "To continue," Hugh went on, "as you don’t know what the
drug is, presumably you don’t know either how long it will take for the
effect to wear off."
"That—er—is, within limits, correct," conceded the doctor.
"Right; once again we know where we are. What about diet?"
"Oh! light.... Not too much meat.... No alcohol..." He rose to his
feet as Hugh opened the door; really the war seemed to have produced a
distressing effect on people’s manners. Diet was the one question on
which he always let himself go....
"Not much meat—no alcohol. Right. Good morning, doctor. Down the
stairs and straight on. Good morning." The door closed behind him, and
he descended to his waiting car with cold disapproval on his face. The
whole affair struck him as most suspicious—thumbscrews, strange
drugs.... Possibly it was his duty to communicate with the police....
"Excuse me, sir." The doctor paused and eyed a well-dressed man who had
spoken to him uncompromisingly.
"What can I do for you, sir?" he said.
"Am I right in assuming that you are a doctor?"
"You are perfectly correct, sir, in your assumption."
The man smiled: obviously a gentleman, thought the practitioner, with
his hand on the door of his car.
"It’s about a great pal of mine, Captain Drummond, who lives in here,"
went on the other. "I hope you won’t think it unprofessional, but I
thought I’d ask you privately, how you find him."
The doctor looked surprised. "I wasn’t aware that he was ill," he
answered.
"But I heard he’d had a bad accident," said the man, amazed.
The doctor smiled. "Reassure yourself, my dear sir," he murmured in his
best professional manner. "Captain Drummond, so far as I am aware, has
never been better. I—er—cannot say the same of his friend." He stepped
into his car. "Why not go up and see for yourself?"
The car rolled smoothly into Piccadilly, but the man showed no signs of
availing himself of the doctor’s suggestion. He turned and walked
rapidly away, and a few moments later—in an exclusive West End club—a
trunk call was put through to Godalming—a call which caused the
recipient to nod his head in satisfaction and order the Rolls-Royce.
Meanwhile, unconscious of this sudden solicitude for his health, Hugh
Drummond was once more occupied with the piece of paper he had been
studying on the doctor’s entrance. Every now and then he ran his
fingers through his crisp brown hair and shook his head in perplexity.
Beyond establishing the fact that the man in the peculiar condition was
Hiram C. Potts, the American multi-millionaire, he could make nothing
out of it.
"If only I’d managed to get the whole of it," he muttered to himself for
the twentieth time. "That dam’ fellah Peterson was too quick." The
scrap he had torn off was typewritten, save for the American’s scrawled
signature, and Hugh knew the words by heart.
plete paralysis
ade of Britain
months I do
the holder of
of five million
do desire and
earl necklace and the
are at present
chess of Lamp−
k no questions
btained.
AM C. POTTS.
At length he replaced the scrap in his pocket-book and rang the bell.
"James," he remarked as his servant came in, "will you whisper ’very
little meat and no alcohol’ in your wife’s ear, so far as the bird next
door is concerned? Fancy paying a doctor to come round and tell one
that!"
"Did he say nothing more, sir?"
"Oh! a lot. But that was the only thing of the slightest practical use,
and I knew that already." He stared thoughtfully out of the window.
"You’d better know," he continued at length, "that as far as I can see
we’re up against a remarkably tough proposition."
"Indeed, sir," murmured his servant. "Then perhaps I had better stop
any further insertion of that advertisement. It works out at six
shillings a time."
Drummond burst out laughing. "What would I do without you, oh! my
James," he cried. "But you may as well stop it. Our hands will be
quite full for some time to come, and I hate disappointing hopeful
applicants for my services."
"The gentleman is asking for you, sir." Mrs. Denny’s voice from the
door made them look round, and Hugh rose.
"Is he talking sensibly, Mrs. Denny?" he asked eagerly, but she shook
her head.
"Just the same, sir," she announced. "Looking round the room all dazed
like. And he keeps on saying ’Danger.’"
Hugh walked quickly along the passage to the room where the millionaire
lay in bed.
"How are you feeling?" said Drummond cheerfully.
The man stared at him uncomprehendingly, and shook his head.
"Do you remember last night?" Hugh continued, speaking very slowly and
distinctly. Then a sudden idea struck him and he pulled the scrap of
paper out of his case. "Do you remember signing that?" he asked,
holding it out to him.
For a while the man looked at it; then with a sudden cry of fear he
shrank away. "No, no," he muttered, "not again."
Hugh hurriedly replaced the paper. "Bad break on my part, old bean; you
evidently remember rather too well. It’s quite all right," he continued
reassuringly; "no one will hurt you." Then after a pause—"Is your name
Hiram C. Potts?"
The man nodded his head doubtfully and muttered "Hiram Potts" once or
twice, as if the words sounded familiar.
"Do you remember driving in a motor-car last night?" persisted Hugh.
But what little flash of remembrance had pierced the drug-clouded brain
seemed to have passed; the man only stared dazedly at the speaker.
Drummond tried him with a few more questions, but it was no use, and
after a while he got up and moved towards the door.
"Don’t you worry, old son," he said with a smile. "We’ll have you
jumping about like a two-year-old in a couple of days."
Then he paused: the man was evidently trying to say something. "What is
it you want?" Hugh leant over the bed.
"Danger, danger." Faintly the words came, and then, with a sigh, he lay
back exhausted.
With a grim smile Drummond watched the motionless figure.
"I’m afraid," he said half aloud, "that you’re rather like your medical
attendant. Your only contribution to the sphere of pure knowledge is
something I know already."
He went out and quietly closed the door. And as he re-entered his
sitting-room he found his servant standing motionless behind one of the
curtains watching the street below.
"There’s a man, sir," he remarked without turning round, "watching the
house."
For a moment Hugh stood still, frowning. Then he gave a short laugh.
"The devil there is!" he remarked. "The game has begun in earnest, my
worthy warrior, with the first nine points to us. For possession, even
of a semi-dazed lunatic, is nine points of the law, is it not, James?"
His servant retreated cautiously from the curtain and came back into the
room. "Of the law—yes, sir," he repeated enigmatically. "It is time,
sir, for your morning glass of beer."
*II*
At twelve o’clock precisely the bell rang, announcing a visitor, and
Drummond looked up from the columns of the _Sportsman_ as his servant
came into the room.
"Yes, James," he remarked. "I think we are at home. I want you to
remain within call, and under no circumstances let our sick visitor out
of your sight for more than a minute. In fact, I think you’d better sit
in his room."
He resumed his study of the paper, and James, with a curt "Very good,
sir," left the room. Almost at once he returned, and flinging open the
door announced Mr. Peterson.
Drummond looked up quickly and rose with a smile.
"Good morning," he cried. "This is a very pleasant surprise, Mr.
Peterson." He waved his visitor to a chair. "Hope you’ve had no more
trouble with your car."
Mr. Peterson drew off his gloves, smiling amiably. "None at all, thank
you, Captain Drummond. The chauffeur appears to have mastered the
defect."
"It was your eye on him that did it. Wonderful thing—the human optic,
as I said to your friend, Mr.—Mr. Laking. I hope that he’s quite well
and taking nourishment."
"Soft food only," said the other genially. "Mr. Lakington had a most
unpleasant accident last night—most unpleasant."
Hugh’s face expressed his sympathy. "How very unfortunate!" he
murmured. "I trust nothing serious."
"I fear his lower jaw was fractured in two places." Peterson helped
himself to a cigarette from the box beside him. "The man who hit him
must have been a boxer."
"Mixed up in a brawl, was he?" said Drummond, shaking his head. "I
should never have thought, from what little I’ve seen of Mr. Lakington,
that he went in for painting the town red. I’d have put him down as a
most abstemious man—but one never can tell, can one? I once knew a
fellah who used to get fighting drunk on three whiskies, and to look at
him you’d have put him down as a Methodist parson. Wonderful the amount
of cheap fun that chap got out of life."
Peterson flicked the ash from his cigarette into the grate. "Shall we
come to the point, Captain Drummond?" he remarked affably.
Hugh looked bewildered. "The point, Mr. Peterson? Er—by all manner of
means."
Peterson smiled even more affably. "I felt certain that you were a
young man of discernment," he remarked, "and I wouldn’t like to keep you
from your paper a minute longer than necessary."
"Not a bit," cried Hugh. "My time is yours—though I’d very much like to
know your real opinion of The Juggernaut for the Chester Cup. It seems
to me that he cannot afford to give Sumatra seven pounds on their form
up to date."
"Are you interested in gambling?" asked Peterson politely.
"A mild flutter, Mr. Peterson, every now and then," returned Drummond.
"Strictly limited stakes."
"If you confine yourself to that you will come to no harm," said
Peterson. "It is when the stakes become unlimited that the danger of a
crash becomes unlimited too."
"That is what my mother always told me," remarked Hugh. "She even went
farther, dear good woman that she was. ’Never bet except on a
certainty, my boy,’ was her constant advice, ’and then put your shirt
on!’ I can hear her saying it now, Mr. Peterson, with the golden rays
of the setting sun lighting up her sweet face."
Suddenly Peterson leant forward in his chair. "Young man," he remarked,
"we’ve got to understand one another. Last night you butted in on my
plans, and I do not like people who do that. By an act which, I must
admit, appealed to me greatly, you removed something I
require—something, moreover, which I intend to have. Breaking the
electric bulb with a revolver-shot shows resource and initiative. The
blow which smashed Henry Lakington’s jaw in two places shows strength.
All qualities which I admire, Captain Drummond—admire greatly. I should
dislike having to deprive the world of those qualities."
Drummond gazed at the speaker open-mouthed. "My dear sir," he protested
feebly, "you overwhelm me. Are you really accusing me of being a sort
of wild west show?" He waggled a finger at Peterson. "You know you’ve
been to the movies too much, like my fellah, James. He’s got revolvers
and things on the brain."
Peterson’s face was absolutely impassive; save for a slightly tired
smile it was expressionless. "Finally, Captain Drummond, you tore in
half a piece of paper which I require—and removed a very dear old friend
of my family, who is now in this house. I want them both back, please,
and if you like I’ll take them now."
Drummond shrugged his shoulders resignedly. "There is something about
you, Mr. Peterson," he murmured, "which I like. You strike me as being
the type of man to whom a young girl would turn and pour out her
maidenly secrets. So masterful, so compelling, so unruffled. I feel
sure—when you have finally disabused your mind of this absurd
hallucination—that we shall become real friends."
Peterson still sat motionless save for a ceaseless tapping with his hand
on his knee.
"Tell me," continued Hugh, "why did you allow this scoundrel to treat
you in such an offhand manner? It doesn’t seem to me to be the sort of
thing that ought to happen at all, and I suggest your going to the
police at once."
"Unfortunately a bullet intended for him just missed," answered Peterson
casually. "A pity—because there would have been no trace of him by
now."
"Might be awkward for you," murmured Hugh. "Such methods, Mr. Peterson,
are illegal, you know. It’s a dangerous thing to take the law into your
own hands. May I offer you a drink?"
Peterson declined courteously. "Thank you—not at this hour." Then he
rose. "I take it, then, that you will not return me my property here
and now."
"Still the same delusion, I see!" remarked Hugh with a smile.
"Still the same delusion," repeated Peterson. "I shall be ready to
receive both the paper and the man up till six o’clock to-night at 32A
Berners Street; and it is possible, I might even say probable, should
they turn up by then, that I shall not find it necessary to kill you."
Hugh grinned. "Your kindly forbearance amazes me," he cried. "Won’t
you really change your mind and have a drink?"
"Should they not arrive by then, I shall be put to the inconvenience of
taking them, and in that case—much as I regret it—you may have to be
killed. You’re such an aggressive young man, Captain Drummond—and, I
fear, not very tactful." He spoke regretfully, drawing on his gloves;
then as he got to the door he paused. "I’m afraid that my words will
not have much effect," he remarked, "but the episode last night _did_
appeal to me. I would like to spare you—I would really. It’s a sign of
weakness, my young friend, which I view with amazement—but nevertheless,
it is there. So be warned in time. Return my property to Berners
Street, and leave England for a few months." His eyes seemed to burn
into the soldier’s brain. "You are meddling in affairs," he went on
gently, "of the danger of which you have no conception. A fly in the
gear-box of a motor-car would be a sounder proposition for a life
insurance than you will be—if you continue on your present course."
There was something so incredibly menacing in the soft, quiet voice,
that Drummond looked at the speaker fascinated. He had a sudden feeling
that he must be dreaming—that in a moment or two he would wake up and
find that they had really been talking about the weather the whole time.
Then the cynical gleam of triumph in Peterson’s eyes acted on him like a
cold douche; quite clearly that gentleman had misinterpreted his
silence.
"Your candour is as refreshing," he answered genially, "as your similes
are apt. I shudder to think of that poor little fly, Mr. Peterson,
especially with your chauffeur grinding his gears to pieces." He held
open the door for his visitor, and followed him into the passage. At
the other end stood Denny, ostentatiously dusting a book-shelf, and
Peterson glanced at him casually. It was characteristic of the man that
no trace of annoyance showed on his face. He might have been any
ordinary visitor taking his leave.
And then suddenly from the room outside which Denny was dusting there
came a low moaning and an incoherent babble. A quick frown passed over
Drummond’s face, and Peterson regarded him thoughtfully.
"An invalid in the house?" he remarked. "How inconvenient for you!" He
laid his hand for a moment on the soldier’s arm. "I sadly fear you’re
going to make a fool of yourself. And it will be such a pity." He
turned towards the stairs. "Don’t bother, please; I can find my own way
out."
*III*
Hugh turned back into his own room, and lighting a particularly noisy
pipe, sat down in his own special chair, where James Denny found him
five minutes later, with his hands deep in his pockets, and his legs
crossed, staring out of the window. He asked him about lunch twice
without result, and having finally been requested to go to hell, he
removed himself aggrievedly to the kitchen. Drummond was under no
delusions as to the risks he was running. Under-rating his opponent had
never been a fault of his, either in the ring or in France, and he had
no intention of beginning now. The man who could abduct an American
millionaire, and drug him till he was little better than a baby, and
then use a thumbscrew to enforce his wishes, was not likely to prove
over-scrupulous in the future. In fact, the phit of that bullet still
rang unpleasantly in his ears.
After a while he began half-unconsciously to talk aloud to himself. It
was an old trick of his when he wanted to make up his mind on a
situation, and he found that it helped him to concentrate his thoughts.
"Two alternatives, old buck," he remarked, stabbing the air with his
pipe. "One—give the Potts bird up at Berners Street; two—do not.
Number one—out of court at once. Preposterous—absurd. Therefore—number
two holds the field." He recrossed his legs, and ejected a large
wineglassful of nicotine juice from the stem of his pipe on to the
carpet. Then he sank back exhausted, and rang the bell.
"James," he said, as the door opened, "take a piece of paper and a
pencil—if there’s one with a point—and sit down at the table. I’m going
to think, and I’d hate to miss out anything."
His servant complied, and for a while silence reigned.
"First," remarked Drummond, "put down—’They know where Potts is.’"
"Is, sir, or are?" murmured Denny, sucking his pencil.
"Is, you fool. It’s a man, not a collection. And don’t interrupt, for
Heaven’s sake. Two—’They will try to get Potts.’"
"Yes, sir," answered Denny, writing busily.
"Three—’They will not get Potts.’ That is as far as I’ve got at the
moment, James—but every word of it stands. Not bad for a quarter of an
hour, my trusty fellah—what?"
"That’s the stuff to give the troops, sir," agreed his audience, sucking
his teeth.
Hugh looked at him in displeasure. "That noise is not, James," he
remarked severely. "Now you’ve got to do something else. Rise and with
your well-known stealth approach the window, and see if the watcher
still watcheth without."
The servant took a prolonged survey, and finally announced that he
failed to see him.
"Then that proves conclusively that he’s there," said Hugh. "Write it
down, James: four—’Owing to the watcher without, Potts cannot leave the
house without being seen.’"
"That’s two withouts, sir," ventured James tentatively; but Hugh, with a
sudden light dawning in his eyes, was staring at the fireplace.
"I’ve got it, James," he cried. "I’ve got it.... Five—’Potts must leave
the house without being seen.’ I want him, James, I want him all to
myself. I want to make much of him and listen to his childish prattle.
He shall go to my cottage on the river, and you shall look after him."
"Yes, sir," returned James dutifully.
"And in order to get him there, we must get rid of the watcher without.
How can we get rid of the bird—how can we, James, I ask you? Why, by
giving him nothing further to watch for. Once let him think that Potts
is no longer within, unless he’s an imbecile he will no longer remain
without."
"I see, sir," said James.
"No, you don’t—you don’t see anything. Now trot along over, James, and
give my compliments to Mr. Darrell. Ask him to come in and see me for a
moment. Say I’m thinking and daren’t move."
James rose obediently, and Drummond heard him cross over the passage to
the other suite of rooms that lay on the same floor. Then he heard the
murmur of voices, and shortly afterwards his servant returned.
"He is in his bath, sir, but he’ll come over as soon as he’s finished."
He delivered the message and stood waiting. "Anything more, sir?"
"Yes, James. I feel certain that there’s a lot. But just to carry on
with, I’ll have another glass of beer."
As the door closed, Drummond rose and started to pace up and down the
room. The plan he had in his mind was simple, but he was a man who
believed in simplicity.