II
Inside the Junior Sports Club, Hugh Drummond was burying his nose in a large tankard of the ale for which that cheery pot-house was still famous. And in the intervals of this most delightful pastime he was trying to make up his mind on a peculiarly knotty point. Should he or should he not communicate with the police on the matter? He felt that as a respectable citizen of the country it was undoubtedly his duty to tell somebody something. The point was who to tell and what to tell him. On the subject of Scotland Yard his ideas were nebulous; he had a vague impression that one filled in a form and waited—tedious operations, both.
“Besides, dear old flick,” he murmured abstractedly to the portrait of the founder of the club, who had drunk the cellar dry and then died, “am I a respectable citizen? Can it be said with any certainty, that if I filled in a form saying all that had happened in the last two days, I shouldn’t be put in quod myself?”
He sighed profoundly and gazed out into the sunny square. A waiter was arranging the first editions of the evening papers on a table, and Hugh beckoned to him to bring one. His mind was still occupied with his problem, and almost mechanically he glanced over the columns. Cricket, racing, the latest divorce case and the latest strike—all the usual headings were there. And he was just putting down the paper, to again concentrate on his problem, when a paragraph caught his eye.
“STRANGE MURDER IN BELFAST
“The man whose body was discovered in such peculiar circumstances near the docks has been identified as Mr. James Granger, the confidential secretary to Mr. Hiram Potts, the American multi-millionaire, at present in this country. The unfortunate victim of this dastardly outrage—his head, as we reported in our last night’s issue, was nearly severed from his body—had apparently been sent over on business by Mr. Potts, and had arrived the preceding day. What he was doing in the locality in which he was found is a mystery.
“We understand that Mr. Potts, who has recently been indisposed, has returned to the Carlton, and is greatly upset at the sudden tragedy.
“The police are confident that they will shortly obtain a clue, though the rough element in the locality where the murder was committed presents great difficulties. It seems clear that the motive was robbery, as all the murdered man’s pockets were rifled. But the most peculiar thing about the case is the extraordinary care taken by the murderer to prevent the identification of the body. Every article of clothing, even down to the murdered man’s socks, had had the name torn out, and it was only through the criminal overlooking the tailor’s tab inside the inner breast-pocket of Mr. Granger’s coat that the police were enabled to identify the body.”
Drummond laid down the paper on his knees, and stared a little dazedly at the club’s immoral founder.
“Holy smoke! laddie,” he murmured, “that man Peterson ought to be on the committee here. Verily, I believe, he could galvanise the staff into some semblance of activity.”
“Did you order anything, sir?” A waiter paused beside him.
“No,” murmured Drummond, “but I will rectify the omission. Another large tankard of ale.”
The waiter departed, and Hugh picked up the paper again.
“We understand,” he murmured gently to himself, “that Mr. Potts, who has recently been indisposed, has returned to the Carlton.... Now that’s very interesting....” He lit a cigarette and lay back in his chair. “I was under the impression that Mr. Potts was safely tucked up in bed, consuming semolina pudding, at Goring. It requires elucidation.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” remarked the waiter, placing the beer on the table beside him.
“You needn’t,” returned Hugh. “Up to date you have justified my fondest expectations. And as a further proof of my goodwill, I would like you to get me a trunk call—2 X Goring.”
A few minutes later he was in the telephone box.
“Peter, I have seldom been so glad to hear your voice. Is all well? Good. Don’t mention any names. Our guest is there, is he? Gone on strike against more milk puddings, you say. Coax him, Peter. Make a noise like a sturgeon, and he’ll think it’s caviare. Have you seen the papers? There are interesting doings in Belfast, which concern us rather intimately. I’ll be down later, and we’ll have a pow-wow.”
He hung up the receiver and stepped out of the box.
“If, Algy,” he remarked to a man who was looking at the tape machine outside, “the paper says a blighter’s somewhere and you know he’s somewhere else—what do you do?”
“Up to date in such cases I have always shot the editor,” murmured Algy Longworth. “Come and feed.”
“You’re so helpful, Algy. A perfect rock of strength. Do you want a job?”
“What sort of a job?” demanded the other suspiciously.
“Oh! not work, dear old boy. Damn it, man—you know me better than that, surely!”
“People are so funny nowadays,” returned Longworth gloomily. “The most unlikely souls seem to be doing things and trying to look as if they were necessary. What is this job?”
Together the two men strolled into the luncheon-room, and long after the cheese had been finished, Algy Longworth was still listening in silence to his companion.
“My dear old bean,” he murmured ecstatically as Hugh finished, “myverydear old bean. I think it’s the most priceless thing I ever heard. Enrol me as a member of the band. And, incidentally, Toby Sinclair is running round in circles asking for trouble. Let’s rope him in.”
“Go and find him this afternoon, Algy,” said Hugh, rising. “And tell him to keep his mouth shut. I’d come with you, but it occurs to me that the wretched Potts, bathed in tears at the Carlton, is in need of sympathy. I would have him weep on my shoulder awhile. So long, old dear. You’ll hear from me in a day or two.”
It was as he reached the pavement that Algy dashed out after him, with genuine alarm written all over his face.
“Hugh,” he spluttered, “there’s only one stipulation. An armistice must be declared during Ascot week.”
With a thoughtful smile on his face Drummond sauntered along Pall Mall. He had told Longworth more or less on the spur of the moment, knowing that gentleman’s capabilities to a nicety. Under a cloak of assumed flippancy he concealed an iron nerve which had never yet failed him; and, in spite of the fact that he wore an entirely unnecessary eyeglass, he could see farther into a brick wall than most of the people who called him a fool.
It was his suggestion of telling Toby Sinclair that caused the smile. For it had started a train of thought in Drummond’s mind which seemed to him to be good. If Sinclair—why not two or three more equally trusty sportsmen? Why not a gang of the boys?
Toby possessed a V.C., and a good one—for there are grades of the V.C., and those grades are appreciated to a nicety by the recipient’s brother officers if not by the general public. The show would fit Toby like a glove.... Then there was Ted Jerningham, who combined the roles of an amateur actor of more than average merit with an ability to hit anything at any range with every conceivable type of firearm. And Jerry Seymour in the Flying Corps.... Not a bad thing to have a flying man—up one’s sleeve.... And possibly some one versed in the ways of tanks might come in handy....
The smile broadened to a grin; surely life was very good. And then the grin faded, and something suspiciously like a frown took its place. For he had arrived at the Carlton, and reality had come back to him. He seemed to see the almost headless body of a man lying in a Belfast slum....
“Mr. Potts will see no one, sir,” remarked the man to whom he addressed his question. “You are about the twentieth gentleman who has been here already to-day.”
Hugh had expected this, and smiled genially.
“Precisely, my stout fellow,” he remarked, “but I’ll lay a small amount of money that they were newspaper men. Now, I’m not. And I think that if you will have this note delivered to Mr. Potts, he will see me.”
He sat down at a table, and drew a sheet of paper towards him. Two facts were certain: first, that the man upstairs was not the real Potts; second, that he was one of Peterson’s gang. The difficulty was to know exactly how to word the note. There might be some mystic pass-word, the omission of which would prove him an impostor at once. At length he took a pen and wrote rapidly; he would have to chance it.
“Urgent. A message from headquarters.”
He sealed the envelope and handed it with the necessary five shillings for postage to the man. Then he sat down to wait. It was going to be a ticklish interview if he was to learn anything, but the thrill of the game had fairly got him by now, and he watched eagerly for the messenger’s return. After what seemed an interminable delay he saw him crossing the lounge.
“Mr. Potts will see you, sir. Will you come this way?”
“Is he alone?” said Hugh, as they were whirled up in the lift.
“Yes, sir. I think he was expecting you.”
“Indeed,” murmured Hugh. “How nice it is to have one’s expectations realised.”
He followed his guide along a corridor, and paused outside a door while he went into a room. He heard a murmur of voices, and then the man reappeared.
“This way, sir,” he said, and Hugh stepped inside, to stop with an involuntary gasp of surprise. The man seated in the chair was Potts, to all intents and purposes. The likeness was extraordinary, and had he not known that the real article was at Goring he would have been completely deceived himself.
The man waited till the door was closed: then he rose and stepped forward suspiciously.
“I don’t know you,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Since when has everyone employed by headquarters known one another?” Drummond returned guardedly. “And, incidentally, your likeness to our lamented friend is wonderful. It very nearly deceived even me.”
The man, not ill-pleased, gave a short laugh.
“It’ll pass, I think. But it’s risky. These cursed reporters have been badgering the whole morning.... And if his wife or somebody comes over, what then?”
Drummond nodded in agreement.
“Quite so. But what can you do?”
“It wasn’t like Rosca to bungle in Belfast. He’s never left a clue before, and he had plenty of time to do the job properly.”
“A name inside a breast-pocket might easily be overlooked,” remarked Hugh, seizing the obvious clue.
“Are you making excuses for him?” snarled the other. “He’s failed, and failure is death. Such is our rule. Would you have it altered?”
“Most certainly not. The issues are far too great for any weakness....”
“You’re right, my friend—you’re right. Long live the Brotherhood.” He stared out of the window with smouldering eyes, and Hugh preserved a discreet silence. Then suddenly the other broke out again.... “Have they killed that insolent puppy of a soldier yet?”
“Er—not yet,” murmured Hugh mildly.
“They must find the American at once.” The man thumped the table emphatically. “It was important before—at least his money was. Now with this blunder—it’s vital.”
“Precisely,” said Hugh. “Precisely.”
“I’ve already interviewed one man from Scotland Yard, but every hour increases the danger. However, you have a message for me. What is it?”
Hugh rose and casually picked up his hat. He had got more out of the interview than he had hoped for, and there was nothing to be gained by prolonging it. But it struck him that Mr. Potts’s impersonator was a man of unpleasant disposition, and that tactically a flanking movement to the door was indicated. And, being of an open nature himself, it is possible that the real state of affairs showed for a moment on his face. Be that as it may, something suddenly aroused the other’s suspicions, and with a snarl of fury he sprang past Hugh to the door.
“Who are you?” He spat the words out venomously, at the same time whipping an ugly-looking knife out of his pocket.
Hugh replaced his hat and stick on the table and grinned gently.
“I am the insolent puppy of a soldier, dear old bird,” he remarked, watching the other warily. “And if I was you I’d put the tooth-pick away.... You might hurt yourself——”
As he spoke he was edging, little by little, towards the other man, who crouched snarling by the door. His eyes, grim and determined, never left the other’s face; his hands, apparently hanging listless by his sides, were tingling with the joy of what he knew was coming.
“And the penalty of failure is death, isn’t it, dear one?” He spoke almost dreamily; but not for an instant did his attention relax. The words of Olaki, his Japanese instructor, were ringing through his brain: “Distract his attention if you can; but, as you value your life, don’t let him distract yours.”
And so, almost imperceptibly, he crept towards the other man, talking gently.
“Such is your rule. And I think you have failed, haven’t you, you unpleasant specimen of humanity? How will they kill you, I wonder?”
It was at that moment that the man made his mistake. It is a mistake that has nipped the life of many a promising pussy in the bud, at the hands, or rather the teeth, of a dog that knows. He looked away; only for a moment—but he looked away. Just as a cat’s nerves give after a while and it looks round for an avenue of escape, so did the crouching man take his eyes from Hugh. And quick as any dog, Hugh sprang.
With his left hand he seized the man’s right wrist, with his right he seized his throat. Then he forced him upright against the door and held him there. Little by little the grip of his right hand tightened, till the other’s eyes were starting from his head, and he plucked at Hugh’s face with an impotent left arm, an arm not long enough by three inches to do any damage. And all the while the soldier smiled gently, and stared into the other’s eyes. Even when inch by inch he shifted his grip on the man’s knife hand he never took his eyes from his opponent’s face; even when with a sudden gasp of agony the man dropped his knife from fingers which, of a sudden, had become numb, the steady, merciless glance still bored into his brain.
“You’re not very clever at it, are you?” said Hugh softly. “It would be so easy to kill you now, and, except for the inconvenience I should undoubtedly suffer, it mightn’t be a bad idea. But they know me downstairs, and it would make it so awkward when I wanted to dine here again.... So, taking everything into account, I think——”
There was a sudden lightning movement, a heave and a quick jerk. The impersonator of Potts was dimly conscious of flying through the air, and of hitting the floor some yards from the door. He then became acutely conscious that the floor was hard, and that being winded is a most painful experience. Doubled up and groaning, he watched Hugh pick up his hat and stick, and make for the door. He made a frantic effort to rise, but the pain was too great, and he rolled over cursing, while the soldier, his hand on the door-knob, laughed gently.
“I’ll keep the tooth-pick,” he remarked, “as a memento.”
The next moment he was striding along the corridor towards the lift. As a fight it had been a poor one, but his brain was busy with the information he had heard. True, it had been scrappy in the extreme, and, in part, had only confirmed what he had suspected all along. The wretched Granger had been foully done to death, for no other reason than that he was the millionaire’s secretary. Hugh’s jaw tightened; it revolted his sense of sport. It wasn’t as if the poor blighter had done anything; merely because he existed and might ask inconvenient questions he had been removed. And as the lift shot downwards, and the remembrance of the grim struggle he had had in the darkness of The Elms the night before came back to his mind, he wondered once again if he had done wisely in not breaking Peterson’s neck while he had had the chance.
He was still debating the question in his mind as he crossed the tea-lounge. And almost unconsciously he glanced towards the table where three days before he had had tea with Phyllis Benton, and had been more than half inclined to believe that the whole thing was an elaborate leg-pull....
“Why, Captain Drummond, you look pensive.” A well-known voice from a table at his side made him look down, and he bowed a little grimly. Irma Peterson was regarding him with a mocking smile.
He glanced at her companion, a young man whose face seemed vaguely familiar to him, and then his eyes rested once more on the girl. Even his masculine intelligence could appreciate the perfection—in a slightly foreign style—of her clothes; and, as to her beauty, he had never been under any delusions. Nor, apparently, was her escort, whose expression was not one of unalloyed pleasure at the interruption to histête-à-tête.
“The Carlton seems rather a favourite resort of yours,” she continued, watching him through half-closed eyes. “I think you’re very wise to make the most of it while you can.”
“While I can?” said Hugh. “That sounds rather depressing.”
“I’ve done my best,” continued the girl, “but matters have passed out of my hands, I’m afraid.”
Again Hugh glanced at her companion, but he had risen and was talking to some people who had just come in.
“Is he one of the firm?” he remarked. “His face seems familiar.”
“Oh, no!” said the girl. “He is—just a friend. What have you been doing this afternoon?”
“That, at any rate, is straight and to the point,” laughed Hugh. “If you want to know, I’ve just had a most depressing interview.”
“You’re a very busy person, aren’t you, my ugly one?” she murmured.
“The poor fellow, when I left him, was quite prostrated with grief, and—er—pain,” he went on mildly.
“Would it be indiscreet to ask who the poor fellow is?” she asked.
“A friend of your father’s, I think,” said Hugh, with a profound sigh. “So sad. I hope Mr. Peterson’s neck is less stiff by now?”
The girl began to laugh softly.
“Not very much, I’m afraid. And it’s made him a little irritable. Won’t you wait and see him?”
“Is he here now?” said Hugh quickly.
“Yes,” answered the girl. “With his friend whom you’ve just left. You’re quick,mon ami—quite quick.” She leaned forward suddenly. “Now, why don’t you join us instead of so foolishly trying to fight us? Believe me, Monsieur Hugh, it is the only thing that can possibly save you. You know too much.”
“Is the invitation to amalgamate official, or from your own charming brain?” murmured Hugh.
“Made on the spur of the moment,” she said lightly. “But it may be regarded as official.”
“I’m afraid it must be declined on the spur of the moment,” he answered in the same tone. “And equally to be regarded as official. Well, au revoir. Please tell Mr. Peterson how sorry I am to have missed him.”
“I will most certainly,” answered the girl. “But then,mon ami, you will be seeing him again soon, without doubt....”
She waved a charming hand in farewell, and turned to her companion, who was beginning to manifest symptoms of impatience. But Drummond, though he went into the hall outside, did not immediately leave the hotel. Instead, he buttonholed an exquisite being arrayed in gorgeous apparel, and led him to a point of vantage.
“You see that girl,” he remarked, “having tea with a man at the third table from the big palm? Now, can you tell me who the man is? I seem to know his face, but I can’t put a name to it.”
“That, sir,” murmured the exquisite being, with the faintest perceptible scorn of such ignorance, “is the Marquis of Laidley. His lordship is frequently here.”
“Laidley!” cried Hugh, in sudden excitement. “Laidley! The Duke of Lampshire’s son! You priceless old stuffed tomato—the plot thickens.”
Completely regardless of the scandalised horror on the exquisite being’s face, he smote him heavily in the stomach and stepped into Pall Mall. For clear before his memory had come three lines on the scrap of paper he had torn from the table at The Elms that first night, when he had grabbed the dazed millionaire from under Peterson’s nose.
earl necklace and theare at presentchess of Lamp-
The Duchess of Lampshire’s pearls were world-famous; the Marquis of Laidley was apparently enjoying his tea. And between the two there seemed to be a connection rather too obvious to be missed.
III
“I’m glad you two fellows came down,” said Hugh thoughtfully, as he entered the sitting-room of his bungalow at Goring. Dinner was over, and stretched in three chairs were Peter Darrell, Algy Longworth, and Toby Sinclair. The air was thick with smoke, and two dogs lay curled up on the mat, asleep. “Did you know that a man came here this afternoon, Peter?”
Darrell yawned and stretched himself.
“I did not. Who was it?”
“Mrs. Denny has just told me.” Hugh reached out a hand for his pipe, and proceeded to stuff it with tobacco. “He came about the water.”
“Seems a very righteous proceeding, dear old thing,” said Algy lazily.
“And he told her that I had told him to come. Unfortunately, I’d done nothing of the sort.”
His three listeners sat up and stared at him.
“What do you mean, Hugh?” asked Toby Sinclair at length.
“It’s pretty obvious, old boy,” said Hugh grimly. “He no more came about the water than he came about my aunt. I should say that about five hours ago Peterson found out that our one and only Hiram C. Potts was upstairs.”
“Good Lord!” spluttered Darrell, by now very wide awake. “How the devil has he done it?”
“There are no flies on the gentleman,” remarked Hugh. “I didn’t expect he’d do it quite so quick, I must admit. But it wasn’t very difficult for him to find out that I had a bungalow here, and so he drew the covert.”
“And he’s found the bally fox,” said Algy. “What do we do, sergeant-major?”
“We take it in turns—two at a time—to sit up with Potts.” Hugh glanced at the other three. “Damn it—you blighters—wake up!”
Darrell struggled to his feet and walked up and down the room.
“I don’t know what it is,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “I feel most infernally sleepy.”
“Well, listen to me—confound you ... Toby!” Hugh hurled a tobacco-pouch at the offender’s head.
“Sorry, old man.” With a start Sinclair sat up in his chair and blinked at Hugh.
“They’re almost certain to try and get him to-night,” went on Hugh. “Having given the show away by leaving a clue on the wretched secretary, they must get the real man as soon as possible. It’s far too dangerous to leave the—leave the——” His head dropped forward on his chest: a short, half-strangled snore came from his lips. It had the effect of waking him for the moment, and he staggered to his feet.
The other three, sprawling in their chairs, were openly and unashamedly asleep; even the dogs lay in fantastic attitudes, breathing heavily, inert like logs.
“Wake up!” shouted Hugh wildly. “For God’s sake—wake up! We’ve been drugged!”
An iron weight seemed to be pressing down on his eyelids: the desire for sleep grew stronger and stronger. For a few moments more he fought against it, hopelessly, despairingly; while his legs seemed not to belong to him, and there was a roaring noise in his ears. And then, just before unconsciousness overcame him, there came to his bemused brain the sound of a whistle thrice repeated from outside the window. With a last stupendous effort he fought his way towards it, and for a moment he stared into the darkness. There were dim figures moving through the shrubs, and suddenly one seemed to detach itself. It came nearer, and the light fell on the man’s face. His nose and mouth were covered with a sort of pad, but the cold, sneering eyes were unmistakable.
“Lakington!” gasped Hugh, and then the roaring noise increased in his head; his legs struck work altogether. He collapsed on the floor and lay sprawling, while Lakington, his face pressed against the glass outside, watched in silence.
* * * * *
“Draw the curtains.” Lakington was speaking, his voice muffled behind the pad, and one of the men did as he said. There were four in all, each with a similar pad over his mouth and nose. “Where did you put the generator, Brownlow?”
“In the coal-scuttle.” A man whom Mrs. Denny would have had no difficulty in recognising, even with the mask on his face, carefully lifted a small black box out of the scuttle from behind some coal, and shook it gently, holding it to his ear. “It’s finished,” he remarked, and Lakington nodded.
“An ingenious invention is gas,” he said, addressing another of the men. “We owe your nation quite a debt of gratitude for the idea.”
A guttural grunt left no doubt as to what that nation was, and Lakington dropped the box into his pocket.
“Go and get him,” he ordered briefly, and the others left the room.
Contemptuously Lakington kicked one of the dogs; it rolled over and lay motionless in its new position. Then he went in turn to each of the three men sprawling in the chairs. With no attempt at gentleness he turned their faces up to the light, and studied them deliberately; then he let their heads roll back again with a thud. Finally, he went to the window and stared down at Drummond. In his eyes was a look of cold fury, and he kicked the unconscious man savagely in the ribs.
“You young swine,” he muttered. “Do you think I’ll forget that blow on the jaw?”
He took another box out of his pocket and looked at it lovingly.
“Shall I?” With a short laugh he replaced it. “It’s too good a death for you, Captain Drummond, D.S.O., M.C. Just to snuff out in your sleep. No, my friend, I think I can devise something better than that; something really artistic.”
Two other men came in as he turned away, and Lakington looked at them.
“Well,” he asked, “have you got the old woman?”
“Bound and gagged in the kitchen,” answered one of them laconically. “Are you going to do this crowd in?”
The speaker looked at the unconscious men with hatred in his eyes.
“They encumber the earth—this breed of puppy.”
“They will not encumber it for long,” said Lakington softly. “But the one in the window there is not going to die quite so easily. I have a small unsettled score with him....”
“All right; he’s in the car.” A voice came from outside the window, and with a last look at Hugh Drummond, Lakington turned away.
“Then we’ll go,” he remarked. “Au revoir, my blundering young bull. Before I’ve finished with you, you’ll scream for mercy. And you won’t get it....”
* * * * *
Through the still night air there came the thrumming of the engine of a powerful car. Gradually it died away and there was silence. Only the murmur of the river over the weir broke the silence, save for an owl which hooted mournfully in a tree near by. And then, with a sudden crack, Peter Darrell’s head rolled over and hit the arm of his chair.
CHAPTER VI
IN WHICH A VERY OLD GAME TAKES PLACE ON THE HOG’S BACK
I
A thick grey mist lay over the Thames. It covered the water and the low fields to the west like a thick white carpet; it drifted sluggishly under the old bridge which spans the river between Goring and Streatley. It was the hour before dawn, and sleepy passengers, rubbing the windows of their carriages as the Plymouth boat express rushed on towards London, shivered and drew their rugs closer around them. It looked cold ... cold and dead.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the vapour rose, and spread outwards up the wooded hills by Basildon. It drifted through the shrubs and rose-bushes of a little garden, which stretched from a bungalow down to the water’s edge, until at length wisps of it brushed gently round the bungalow itself. It was a daily performance in the summer, and generally the windows of the lower rooms remained shut till long after the mist had gone and the sun was glinting through the trees on to the river below. But on this morning there was a change in the usual programme. Suddenly the window of one of the downstair rooms was flung open, and a man with a white haggard face leant out drawing great gulps of fresh air into his lungs. Softly the white wraiths eddied past him into the room behind—a room in which a queer, faintly sweet smell still hung—a room in which three other men lay sprawling uncouthly in chairs, and two dogs lay motionless on the hearthrug.
After a moment or two the man withdrew, only to appear again with one of the others in his arms. And then, having dropped his burden through the window on to the lawn outside, he repeated his performance with the remaining two. Finally he pitched the two dogs after them, and then, with his hand to his forehead, he staggered down to the water’s edge.
“Holy smoke!” he muttered to himself, as he plunged his head into the cold water, “talk about the morning after.... Never have I thought of such a head.”
After a while, with the water still dripping from his face, he returned to the bungalow and found the other three in varying stages of partial insensibility.
“Wake up, my heroes,” he remarked, “and go and put your great fat heads in the river.”
Peter Darrell scrambled unsteadily to his feet. “Great Scott! Hugh,” he muttered thickly, “what’s happened?”
“We’ve been had for mugs,” said Drummond grimly.
Algy Longworth blinked at him foolishly from his position in the middle of a flower-bed.
“Dear old soul,” he murmured at length, “you’ll have to change your wine merchants. Merciful Heavens! is the top of my head still on?”
“Don’t be a fool, Algy,” grunted Hugh. “You weren’t drunk last night. Pull yourself together, man; we were all of us drugged or doped somehow. And now,” he added bitterly, “we’ve all got heads, and we have not got Potts.”
“I don’t remember anything,” said Toby Sinclair, “except falling asleep. Have they taken him?”
“Of course they have,” said Hugh. “Just before I went off I saw ’em all in the garden, and that swine Lakington was with them. However, while you go and put your nuts in the river, I’ll go up and make certain.”
With a grim smile he watched the three men lurch down to the water; then he turned and went upstairs to the room which had been occupied by the American millionaire. It was empty, as he had known it would be, and with a smothered curse he made his way downstairs again. And it was as he stood in the little hall saying things gently under his breath that he heard a muffled moaning noise coming from the kitchen. For a moment he was nonplussed; then, with an oath at his stupidity, he dashed through the door. Bound tightly to the table, with a gag in her mouth, the wretched Mrs. Denny was sitting on the floor, blinking at him wrathfully....
“What on earth will Denny say to me when he hears about this!” said Hugh, feverishly cutting the cords. He helped her to her feet, and then forced her gently into a chair. “Mrs. Denny, have those swine hurt you?”
Five minutes served to convince him that the damage, if any, was mental rather than bodily, and that her vocal powers were not in the least impaired. Like a dam bursting, the flood of the worthy woman’s wrath surged over him; she breathed a hideous vengeance on every one impartially. Then she drove Hugh from the kitchen, and slammed the door in his face.
“Breakfast in half an hour,” she cried from inside—“not that one of you deserves it.”
“We are forgiven,” remarked Drummond, as he joined the other three on the lawn. “Do any of you feel like breakfast? Fat sausages and crinkly bacon.”
“Shut up,” groaned Algy, “or we’ll throw you into the river. What I want is a brandy-and-soda—half a dozen of ’em.”
“I wish I knew what they did to us,” said Darrell. “Because, if I remember straight, I drank bottled beer at dinner, and I’m damned if I see how they could have doped that.”
“I’m only interested in one thing, Peter,” remarked Drummond grimly, “and that isn’t what they did to us. It’s what we’re going to do to them.”
“Count me out,” said Algy. “For the next year I shall be fully occupied resting my head against a cold stone. Hugh, I positively detest your friends....”
* * * * *
It was a few hours later that a motor-car drew up outside that celebrated chemist in Piccadilly whose pick-me-ups are known from Singapore to Alaska. From it there descended four young men, who ranged themselves in a row before the counter and spoke no word. Speech was unnecessary. Four foaming drinks were consumed, four acid-drops were eaten, and then, still in silence, the four young men got back into the car and drove away. It was a solemn rite, and on arrival at the Junior Sports Club the four performers sank into four large chairs, and pondered gently on the vileness of the morning after. Especially when there hadn’t been a night before. An unprofitable meditation evidently, for suddenly, as if actuated by a single thought, the four young men rose from their four large chairs and again entered the motor-car.
The celebrated chemist whose pick-me-ups are known from Singapore to Alaska gazed at them severely.
“A very considerable bend, gentlemen,” he remarked.
“Quite wrong,” answered the whitest and most haggard of the row. “We are all confirmed Pussyfoots, and have been consuming non-alcoholic beer.”
Once more to the scrunch of acid-drops the four young men entered the car outside; once more, after a brief and silent drive, four large chairs in the smoking-room of the Junior Sports Club received an occupant. And it was so, even until luncheon time....
“Are we better?” said Hugh, getting to his feet, and regarding the other three with a discerning eye.
“No,” murmured Toby, “but I am beginning to hope that I may live. Four Martinis and then we will gnaw a cutlet.”
II
“Has it struck you fellows,” remarked Hugh, at the conclusion of lunch, “that seated around this table are four officers who fought with some distinction and much discomfort in the recent historic struggle?”
“How beautifully you put it, old flick!” said Darrell.
“Has it further struck you fellows,” continued Hugh, “that last night we were done down, trampled on, had for mugs by a crowd of dirty blackguards composed largely of the dregs of the universe?”
“A veritable Solomon,” said Algy, gazing at him admiringly through his eyeglass. “I told you this morning I detested your friends.”
“Has it still further struck you,” went on Hugh, a trifle grimly, “that we aren’t standing for it? At any rate, I’m not. It’s my palaver this, you fellows, and if you like ... Well, there’s no call on you to remain in the game. I mean—er——”
“Yes, we’re waiting to hear what the devil you do mean,” said Toby uncompromisingly.
“Well—er,” stammered Hugh, “there’s a big element of risk—er—don’t you know, and there’s no earthly reason why you fellows should get roped in and all that. I mean—er—I’m sort of pledged to see the thing through, don’t you know, and——” He relapsed into silence, and stared at the tablecloth, uncomfortably aware of three pairs of eyes fixed on him.
“Well—er——” mimicked Algy, “there’s a big element of risk—er—don’t you know, and I mean—er—we’re sort of pledged to bung you through the window, old bean, if you talk such consolidated drivel.”
Hugh grinned sheepishly.
“Well, I had to put it to you fellows. Not that I ever thought for a moment you wouldn’t see the thing through—but last evening is enough to show you that we’re up against a tough crowd. A damned tough crowd,” he added thoughtfully. “That being so,” he went on briskly, after a moment or two, “I propose that we should tackle the blighters to-night.”
“To-night!” echoed Darrell. “Where?”
“At The Elms, of course. That’s where the wretched Potts is for a certainty.”
“And how do you propose that we should set about it?” demanded Sinclair.
Drummond drained his port and grinned gently.
“By stealth, dear old beans—by stealth. You—and I thought we might rake in Ted Jerningham, and perhaps Jerry Seymour, to join the happy throng—will make a demonstration in force, with the idea of drawing off the enemy, thereby leaving the coast clear for me to explore the house for the unfortunate Potts.”
“Sounds very nice in theory,” said Darrell dubiously, “but...”
“And what do you mean by a demonstration?” said Longworth. “You don’t propose we should sing carols outside the drawing-room window, do you?”
“My dear people,” Hugh murmured protestingly, “surely you know me well enough by now to realise that I can’t possibly have another idea for at least ten minutes. That is just the general scheme; doubtless the mere vulgar details will occur to us in time. Besides, it’s someone else’s turn now.” He looked round the table hopefully.
“We might dress up or something,” remarked Toby Sinclair, after a lengthy silence.
“What in the name of Heaven is the use of that?” said Darrell witheringly. “It’s not private theatricals, nor a beauty competition.”
“Cease wrangling, you two,” said Hugh suddenly, a few moments later. “I’ve got a perfect cerebral hurricane raging. An accident.... A car.... What is the connecting-link.... Why, drink. Write it down, Algy, or we might forget. Now, can you beat that?”
“We might have some chance,” said Darrell kindly, “if we had the slightest idea what you were talking about.”
“I should have thought it was perfectly obvious,” returned Hugh coldly. “You know, Peter, your worry is that you’re too quick on the uptake. Your brain is too sharp.”
“How do you spell connecting?” demanded Algy, looking up from his labours. “And, anyway, the damn pencil won’t write.”
“Pay attention, all of you,” said Hugh. “To-night, some time about ten of the clock, Algy’s motor will proceed along the Godalming-Guildford road. It will contain you three—also Ted and Jerry Seymour, if we can get ’em. On approaching the gate of The Elms, you will render the night hideous with your vocal efforts. Stray passers-by will think that you are all tight. Then will come the dramatic moment, when, with a heavy crash, you ram the gate.”
“How awfully jolly!” spluttered Algy. “I beg to move that your car be used for the event.”
“Can’t be done, old son,” laughed Hugh. “Mine’s faster than yours, and I’ll be wanting it myself. Now—to proceed. Horrified at this wanton damage to property, you will leave the car and proceed in mass formation up the drive.”
“Still giving tongue?” queried Darrell.
“Still giving tongue. Either Ted or Jerry or both of ’em will approach the house and inform the owner in heart-broken accents that they have damaged his gatepost. You three will remain in the garden—you might be recognised. Then it will be up to you. You’ll have several men all round you. Keep ’em occupied—somehow. They won’t hurt you; they’ll only be concerned with seeing that you don’t go where you’re not wanted. You see, as far as the world is concerned, it’s just an ordinary country residence. The last thing they want to do is to draw any suspicion on themselves—and, on the face of it, you are merely five convivial wanderers who have looked on the wine when it was red. I think,” he added thoughtfully, “that ten minutes will be enough for me....”
“What will you be doing?” said Toby.
“I shall be looking for Potts. Don’t worry about me. I may find him; I may not. But when you have given me ten minutes—you clear off. I’ll look after myself. Now is that clear?”
“Perfectly,” said Darrell, after a short silence. “But I don’t know that I like it, Hugh. It seems to me, old son, that you’re running an unnecessary lot of risk.”
“Got any alternative?” demanded Drummond.
“If we’re all going down,” said Darrell, “why not stick together and rush the house in a gang?”
“No go, old bean,” said Hugh decisively. “Too many of ’em to hope to pull it off. No, low cunning is the only thing that’s got an earthly of succeeding.”
“There is one other possible suggestion,” remarked Toby slowly. “What about the police? From what you say, Hugh, there’s enough in that house to jug the whole bunch.”
“Toby!” gasped Hugh. “I thought better of you. You seriously suggest that we should call in the police! And then return to a life of toping and ease! Besides,” he continued, removing his eyes from the abashed author of this hideous suggestion, “there’s a very good reason for keeping the police out of it. You’d land the girl’s father in the cart, along with the rest of them. And it makes it so devilish awkward if one’s father-in-law is in prison!”
“When are we going to see this fairy?” demanded Algy.
“You, personally, never. You’re far too immoral. I might let the others look at her from a distance in a year or two.” With a grin he rose, and then strolled towards the door. “Now go and rope in Ted and Jerry, and for the love of Heaven don’t ram the wrong gate.”
“What are you going to do yourself?” demanded Peter suspiciously.
“I’m going to look at her from close to. Go away, all of you, and don’t listen outside the telephone box.”