III
It was half an hour before Drummond decided that it was safe to start exploring. The moon still shone fitfully through the trees, but since the two car watchers were near the road on the other side of the house, there was but little danger to be apprehended from them. First he took off his shoes, and tying the laces together, he slung them round his neck. Then, as silently as he could, he commenced to scramble upwards.
It was not an easy operation; one slip and nothing could have stopped him slithering down and finally crashing into the garden below, with a broken leg, at the very least, for his pains. In addition, there was the risk of dislodging a slate, an unwise proceeding in a house where most of the occupants slept with one eye open. But at last he got his hands over the ridge of the roof, and in another moment he was sitting straddlewise across it.
The house, he discovered, was built on a peculiar design. The ridge on which he sat continued at the same height all round the top of the roof, and formed, roughly, the four sides of a square. In the middle the roof sloped down to a flat space from which stuck up a glass structure, the top of which was some five or six feet below his level. Around it was a space quite large enough to walk in comfort; in fact, on two sides there was plenty of room for a deck chair. The whole area was completely screened from view, except to anyone in an aeroplane. And what struck him still further was that there was no window that he could see anywhere on the inside of the roof. In fact, it was absolutely concealed and private. Incidentally, the house had originally been built by a gentleman of doubtful sanity, who spent his life observing the spots in Jupiter through a telescope, and having plunged himself and his family into complete penury, sold the house and observatory complete for what he could get. Lakington, struck with its possibilities for his own hobby, bought it on the spot; and from that time Jupiter spotted undisturbed.
With the utmost caution Hugh lowered himself to the full extent of his arms; then he let himself slip the last two or three feet on to the level space around the glass roof. He had no doubt in his mind that he was actually above the secret room, and, on tip-toe, he stole round looking for some spot from which he could get a glimpse below. At the first inspection he thought his time had been wasted; every pane of glass was frosted, and in addition there seemed to be a thick blind of some sort drawn across from underneath, of the same type as is used by photographers for altering the light.
A sudden rattle close to him made him start violently, only to curse himself for a nervous ass the next moment, and lean forward eagerly. One of the blinds had been released from inside the room, and a pale, diffused light came filtering out into the night from the side of the glass roof. He was still craning backwards and forwards to try and find some chink through which he could see, when, with a kind of uncanny deliberation, one of the panes of glass slowly opened. It was worked on a ratchet from inside, and Hugh bowed his thanks to the unseen operator below. Then he leant forward cautiously, and peered in....
The whole room was visible to him, and his jaw tightened as he took in the scene. In an armchair, smoking as unconcernedly as ever, sat Peterson. He was reading a letter, and occasionally underlining some point with a pencil. Beside him on a table was a big ledger, and every now and then he would turn over a few pages and make an entry. But it was not Peterson on whom the watcher above was concentrating his attention; it was Lakington—and the thing beside him on the sofa.
Lakington was bending over a long bath full of some light-brown liquid from which a faint vapour was rising. He was in his shirt sleeves, and on his hands he wore what looked like rubber gloves, stretching right up to his elbows. After a while he dipped a test-tube into the liquid, and going over to a shelf he selected a bottle and added a few drops to the contents of the tube. Apparently satisfied with the result, he returned to the bath and shook in some white powder. Immediately the liquid commenced to froth and bubble, and at the same moment Peterson stood up.
“Are you ready?” he said, taking off his coat and picking up a pair of gloves similar to those the other was wearing.
“Quite,” answered Lakington, abruptly. “We’ll get him in.”
They approached the sofa; and Hugh, with a kind of fascinated horror, forced himself to look. For the thing that lay there was the body of the dead Russian, Ivolsky.
The two men picked him up and, having carried the body to the bath, they dropped it into the fuming liquid. Then, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, they peeled off their long gloves and stood watching. For a minute or so nothing happened, and then gradually the body commenced to disappear. A faint, sickly smell came through the open window, and Hugh wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was too horrible, the hideous deliberation of it all. And whatever vile tortures the wretched man had inflicted on others in Russia, yet it was through him that his dead body lay there in the bath, disappearing slowly and relentlessly....
Lakington lit a cigarette and strolled over to the fireplace.
“Another five minutes should be enough,” he remarked. “Damn that cursed soldier!”
Peterson laughed gently, and resumed the study of his ledger.
“To lose one’s temper with a man, my dear Henry, is a sign of inferiority. But it certainly is a nuisance that Ivolsky is dead. He could talk more unmitigated drivel to the minute than all the rest of ’em put together.... I really don’t know who to put in the Midland area.”
He leaned back in his chair and blew out a cloud of smoke. The light shone on the calm, impassive face; and with a feeling of wonder that was never far absent from his mind when he was with Peterson, Hugh noted the high, clever forehead, the firmly moulded nose and chin, the sensitive, humorous mouth. The man lying back in the chair watching the blue smoke curling up from his cigar might have been a great lawyer or an eminent divine; some well-known statesman, perhaps, or a Napoleon of finance. There was power in every line of his figure, in every movement of his hands. He might have reached to the top of any profession he had cared to follow.... Just as he had reached to the top in his present one.... Some kink in the brain, some little cog wrong in the wonderful mechanism, and a great man had become a great criminal. Hugh looked at the bath: the liquid was almost clear.
“You know my feelings on the subject,” remarked Lakington, taking a red velvet box out of a drawer in the desk. He opened it lovingly, and Hugh saw the flash of diamonds. Lakington let the stones run through his hands, glittering with a thousand flames, while Peterson watched him contemptuously.
“Baubles,” he said, scornfully. “Pretty baubles. What will you get for them?”
“Ten, perhaps fifteen thousand,” returned the other. “But it’s not the money I care about; it’s the delight in having them, and the skill required to get them.”
Peterson shrugged his shoulders.
“Skill which would give you hundreds of thousands if you turned it into proper channels.”
Lakington replaced the stones, and threw the end of his cigarette into the grate.
“Possibly, Carl, quite possibly. But it boils down to this, my friend, that you like the big canvas with broad effects, I like the miniature and the well-drawn etching.”
“Which makes us a very happy combination,” said Peterson, rising and walking over to the bath. “The pearls, don’t forget, are your job. The big thing”—he turned to the other, and a trace of excitement came into his voice—“the big thing is mine.” Then with his hands in his pockets he stood staring at the brown liquid. “Our friend is nearly cooked, I think.”
“Another two or three minutes,” said Lakington, joining him. “I must confess I pride myself on the discovery of that mixture. Its only drawback is that it makes murder too easy....”
The sound of the door opening made both men swing round instantly; then Peterson stepped forward with a smile.
“Back, my dear. I hardly expected you so soon.”
Irma came a little way into the room, and stopped with a sniff of disgust.
“What a horrible smell!” she remarked. “What on earth have you been doing?”
“Disposing of a corpse,” said Lakington. “It’s nearly finished.”
The girl threw off her opera cloak, and coming forward, peered over the edge of the bath.
“It’s not my ugly soldier?” she cried.
“Unfortunately not,” returned Lakington grimly; and Peterson laughed.
“Henry is most annoyed, Irma. The irrepressible Drummond has scored again.”
In a few words he told the girl what had happened, and she clapped her hands together delightedly.
“Assuredly I shall have to marry that man,” she cried. “He is quite the least boring individual I have met in this atrocious country.” She sat down and lit a cigarette. “I saw Walter to-night.”
“Where?” demanded Peterson quickly. “I thought he was in Paris.”
“He was this morning. He came over especially to see you. They want you there for a meeting, at the Ritz.”
Peterson frowned.
“It’s most inconvenient,” he remarked with a shade of annoyance in his voice. “Did he say why?”
“Amongst other things I think they’re uneasy about the American,” she answered. “My dear man, you can easily slip over for a day.”
“Of course I can,” said Peterson irritably; “but that doesn’t alter the fact that it’s inconvenient. Things will be shortly coming to a head here, and I want to be on the spot. However——” He started to walk up and down the room, frowning thoughtfully.
“Your fish is hooked,mon ami,” continued the girl to Lakington. “He has already proposed three times; and he has introduced me to a dreadful-looking woman of extreme virtue, who has adopted me as her niece for the great occasion.”
“What great occasion?” asked Lakington, looking up from the bath.
“Why, his coming of age,” cried the girl. “I am to go to Laidley Towers as an honoured guest of the Duchess of Lampshire.” She threw back her head and laughed. “What do you think of that, my friend? The old lady will be wearing pearls and all complete, in honour of the great day, and I shall be one of the admiring house party.”
“How do you know she’ll have them in the house?” said Lakington.
“Because dear Freddie has told me so,” answered the girl. “I don’t think you’re very bright to-night, Henry. When the young Pooh-ba comes of age, naturally his devoted maternal parent will sport her glad rags. Incidentally the tenants are going to present him with a loving cup, or a baby giraffe or something. You might like to annex that too.” She blew two smoke rings and then laughed.
“Freddie is really rather a dear at times. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who is so nearly an idiot without being one. Still,” she repeated thoughtfully, “he’s rather a dear.”
Lakington turned a handle underneath the bath, and the liquid, now clear and still, commenced to sink rapidly. Fascinated, Hugh watched the process; in two minutes the bath was empty—a human body had completely disappeared without leaving a trace. It seemed to him as if he must have been dreaming, as if the events of the whole night had been part of some strange jumbled nightmare. And then, having pinched himself to make sure he was awake, he once more glued his eyes to the open space of the window.
Lakington was swabbing out the bath with some liquid on the end of a mop; Peterson, his chin sunk on his chest, was still pacing slowly up and down; the girl, her neck and shoulders gleaming white in the electric light, was lighting a second cigarette from the stump of the first. After a while Lakington finished his cleaning operations and put on his coat.
“What,” he asked curiously, “does he think you are?”
“A charming young girl,” answered Irma demurely, “whose father lost his life in the war, and who at present ekes out a precarious existence in a government office. At least, that’s what he told Lady Frumpley—she’s the woman of unassailable virtue. She was profoundly sentimental and scents a romance, in addition to being a snob and scenting a future duke, to say nothing of a future duchess. By the mercy of Allah she’s on a committee with his mother for distributing brown-paper underclothes to destitute Belgians, and so Freddie wangled an invite for her.Voilà tout.”
“Splendid!” said Lakington slowly. “Splendid! Young Laidley comes of age in about a week, doesn’t he?”
“Monday, to be exact, and so I go down with my dear aunt on Saturday.”
Lakington nodded his head as if satisfied, and then glanced at his watch.
“What about bed?” he remarked.
“Not yet,” said Peterson, halting suddenly in his walk. “I must see the Yank before I go to Paris. We’ll have him down here now.”
“My dear Carl, at this hour?” Lakington stifled a yawn.
“Yes. Give him an injection, Henry—and, by God, we’ll make the fool sign. Then I can actually take it over to the meeting with me.”
He strode to the door, followed by Lakington; and the girl in the chair stood up and stretched her arms above her head. For a moment or two Hugh watched her; then he too stood upright and eased his cramped limbs.
“Make the fool sign.” The words echoed through his brain, and he stared thoughtfully at the grey light which showed the approach of dawn. What was the best thing to do? “Make” with Peterson generally implied torture if other means failed, and Hugh had no intention of watching any man tortured. At the same time something of the nature of the diabolical plot conceived by Peterson was beginning to take a definite shape in his mind, though many of the most important links were still missing. And with this knowledge had come the realisation that he was no longer a free agent. The thing had ceased to be a mere sporting gamble with himself and a few other chosen spirits matched against a gang of criminals; it had become—if his surmise was correct—a national affair. England herself—her very existence—was threatened by one of the vilest plots ever dreamed of in the brain of man. And then, with a sudden rage at his own impotence, he realised that even now he had nothing definite to go on. Hemustknow more; somehow or other he must get to Paris; he must attend that meeting at the Ritz. How he was going to do it he hadn’t the faintest idea; the farthest he could get as he stood on the roof, watching the first faint streaks of orange in the east, was the definite decision that if Peterson went to Paris, he would go too. And then a sound from the room below brought him back to his vantage point. The American was sitting in a chair, and Lakington, with a hypodermic syringe in his hand, was holding his arm.
He made the injection, and Hugh watched the millionaire. He was still undecided as to how to act, but for the moment, at any rate, there was nothing to be done. And he was very curious to hear what Peterson had to say to the wretched man, who, up to date, had figured so largely in every round.
After a while the American ceased staring vacantly in front of him, and passed his hand dazedly over his forehead. Then he half rose from his chair and stared at the two men sitting facing him. His eyes came round to the girl, and with a groan he sank back again, plucking feebly with his hands at his dressing-gown.
“Better, Mr. Potts?” said Peterson suavely.
“I—I——” stammered the other. “Where am I?”
“At The Elms, Godalming, if you wish to know.”
“I thought—I thought——” He rose swaying. “What do you want with me? Damn you!”
“Tush, tush,” murmured Peterson. “There is a lady present, Mr. Potts. And our wants are so simple. Just your signature to a little agreement, by which in return for certain services you promise to join us in our—er—labours, in the near future.”
“I remember,” cried the millionaire. “Now I remember. You swine—you filthy swine, I refuse ... absolutely.”
“The trouble is, my friend, that you are altogether too big an employer of labour to be allowed to refuse, as I pointed out to you before. You must be in with us, otherwise you might wreck the scheme. Therefore I require your signature. I lost it once, unfortunately—but it wasn’t a very good signature; so perhaps it was all for the best.”
“And when you’ve got it,” cried the American, “what good will it be to you? I shall repudiate it.”
“Oh no! Mr. Potts,” said Peterson with a thoughtful smile; “I can assure you, you won’t. The distressing malady from which you have recently been suffering will again have you in its grip. My friend Mr. Lakington is an expert on that particular illness. It renders you quite unfit for business.”
For a while there was silence, and the millionaire stared round the room like a trapped animal.
“I refuse!” he cried at last. “It’s an outrage against humanity. You can do what you like.”
“Then we’ll start with a little more thumbscrew,” remarked Peterson, strolling over to the desk and opening a drawer. “An astonishingly effective implement, as you can see if you look at your thumb.” He stood in front of the quivering man, balancing the instrument in his hands. “It was under its influence you gave us the first signature, which we so regrettably lost. I think we’ll try it again....”
The American gave a strangled cry of terror, and then the unexpected happened. There was a crash as a pane of glass splintered and fell to the floor close beside Lakington; and with an oath he sprang aside and looked up.
“Peep-bo,” came a well-known voice from the skylight. “Clip him one over the jaw, Potts, my boy, but don’t you sign.”
CHAPTER VIII
IN WHICH HE GOES TO PARIS FOR A NIGHT
I
Drummond had acted on the spur of the moment. It would have been manifestly impossible for any man, certainly one of his calibre, to have watched the American being tortured without doing something to try to help him. At the same time the last thing he had wanted to do was to give away his presence on the roof. The information he had obtained that night was of such vital importance that it was absolutely essential for him to get away with it somehow; and, at the moment, his chances of so doing did not appear particularly bright. It looked as if it was only a question of time before they must get him.
But as usual with Drummond, the tighter the corner, the cooler his head. He watched Lakington dart from the room, followed more slowly by Peterson, and then occurred one of those strokes of luck on which the incorrigible soldier always depended. The girl left the room as well.
She kissed her hand towards him, and then she smiled.
“You intrigue me, ugly one,” she remarked, looking up, “intrigue me vastly. I am now going out to get a really good view of the Kill.”
And the next moment Potts was alone. He was staring up at the skylight, apparently bewildered by the sudden turn of events, and then he heard the voice of the man above speaking clearly and insistently.
“Go out of the room. Turn to the right. Open the front door. You’ll see a house through some trees. Go to it. When you get there, stand on the lawn and call ‘Phyllis.’ Do you get me?”
The American nodded dazedly; then he made a great effort to pull himself together, as the voice continued:
“Go at once. It’s your only chance. Tell her I’m on the roof here.”
With a sigh of relief he saw the millionaire leave the room; then he straightened himself up, and proceeded to reconnoitre his own position. There was a bare chance that the American would get through, and if he did, everything might yet be well. If he didn’t—Hugh shrugged his shoulders grimly and laughed.
It had become quite light, and after a moment’s indecision Drummond took a running jump, and caught the ridge of the sloping roof on the side nearest the road. To stop by the skylight was to be caught like a rat in a trap, and he would have to take his chance of being shot. After all, there was a considerable risk in using firearms so near a main road, where at any time some labourer or other early riser might pass along. Notoriety was the last thing which Peterson desired, and if it got about that one of the pastimes at The Elms was potting stray human beings on the roof, the inquiries might become somewhat embarrassing.
It was as Hugh threw his leg over the top of the roof, and sat straddle-ways, leaning against a chimney stack, that he got an idea. From where he was he could not see The Larches, and so he did not know what luck the American had had. But he realised that it was long odds against his getting through, and that his chief hope lay in himself. Wherefore, as has just been said, he got an idea—simple and direct; his ideas always were. It occurred to him that far too few unbiased people knew where he was: it further occurred to him that it was a state of affairs which was likely to continue unless he remedied it himself. And so, just as Peterson came strolling round a corner of the house followed by several men and a long ladder, Hugh commenced to sing. He shouted, he roared at the top of his very powerful voice, and all the time he watched the men below with a wary eye. He saw Peterson look nervously over his shoulder towards the road, and urge the men on to greater efforts, and the gorgeous simplicity of his manoeuvre made Hugh burst out laughing. Then, once again, his voice rose to its full pitch, as he greeted the sun with a bellow which scared every rook in the neighbourhood.
It was just as two labourers came in to investigate the hideous din that Peterson’s party discovered the ladder was too short by several yards.
Then with great rapidity the audience grew. A passing milkman; two commercial travellers who had risen with the lark and entrusted themselves and their samples to a Ford car; a gentleman of slightly inebriated aspect, whose trousers left much to the imagination; and finally more farm labourers. Never had such a tit-bit of gossip for the local pub. been seen before in the neighbourhood; it would furnish a topic of conversation for weeks to come. And still Hugh sang and Peterson cursed; and still the audience grew. Then, at last, there came the police with notebook all complete, and the singer stopped singing to laugh.
The next moment the laugh froze on his lips. Standing by the skylight, with his revolver raised, was Lakington, and Hugh knew by the expression on his face that his finger was trembling on the trigger. Out of view of the crowd below he did not know of its existence, and, in a flash, Hugh realised his danger. Somehow Lakington had got up on the roof while the soldier’s attention had been elsewhere; and now, his face gleaming with an unholy fury, Lakington was advancing step by step towards him with the evident intention of shooting him.
“Good morrow, Henry,” said Hugh quietly. “I wouldn’t fire if I were you. We are observed, as they say in melodrama. If you don’t believe me,” his voice grew a little tense, “just wait while I talk to Peterson, who is at present deep in converse with the village constable and several farm labourers.”
He saw doubt dawn in Lakington’s eyes, and instantly followed up his advantage.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t like the notoriety attendant upon a funeral, Henry dear; I’m sure Peterson would just hate it. So, to set your mind at rest, I’ll tell him you’re here.”
It is doubtful whether any action in Hugh Drummond’s life ever cost him such an effort of will as the turning of his back on the man standing two yards below him, but he did it apparently without thought. He gave one last glance at the face convulsed with rage, and then with a smile he looked down at the crowd below.
“Peterson,” he called out affably, “there’s a pal of yours up here—dear old Henry. And he’s very annoyed at my concert. Would you just speak to him, or would you like me to be more explicit? He is so annoyed that there might be an accident at any moment, and I see that the police have arrived. So—er——”
Even at that distance he could see Peterson’s eyes of fury, and he chuckled softly to himself. He had the whole gang absolutely at his mercy, and the situation appealed irresistibly to his sense of humour.
But when the leader spoke, his voice was as suave as ever: the eternal cigar glowed evenly at its normal rate.
“Are you up on the roof, Lakington?” The words came clearly through the still summer air.
“Your turn, Henry,” said Drummond. “Prompter’s voice off—‘Yes, dear Peterson, I am here, even upon the roof, with a liver of hideous aspect.’”
For one moment he thought he had gone too far, and that Lakington, in his blind fury, would shoot him then and there and chance the consequences. But with a mighty effort the man controlled himself, and his voice, when he answered, was calm.
“Yes, I’m here. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” cried Peterson, “but we’ve got quite a large and appreciative audience down here, attracted by our friend’s charming concert, and I’ve just sent for a large ladder by which he can come down and join us. So there is nothing that you can do—nothing.” He repeated the word with a faint emphasis, and Hugh smiled genially.
“Isn’t he wonderful, Henry?” he murmured. “Thinks of everything; staff work marvellous. But you nearly had a bad lapse then, didn’t you? It really would have been embarrassing for you if my corpse had deposited itself with a dull thud on the corns of the police.”
“I’m interested in quite a number of things, Captain Drummond,” said Lakington slowly, “but they all count as nothing beside one—getting even with you. And when I do...” He dropped the revolver into his coat pocket, and stood motionless, staring at the soldier.
“Ah! when!” mocked Drummond. “There have been so many ‘whens,’ Henry dear. Somehow I don’t think you can be very clever. Don’t go—I’m so enjoying my heart-to-heart talk. Besides, I wanted to tell you the story about the girl, the soap, and the bath. That’s to say, if the question of baths isn’t too delicate.”
Lakington paused as he got to the skylight.
“I have a variety of liquids for bathing people in,” he remarked. “The best are those I use when the patient is alive.”
The next instant he opened a door in the skylight which Hugh had failed to discover during the night, and, climbing down a ladder inside the room, disappeared from view.
“Hullo, old bean!” A cheerful shout from the ground made Hugh look down. There, ranged round Peterson, in an effective group, were Peter Darrell, Algy Longworth, and Jerry Seymour. “Birds’-nestin’?”
“Peter, old soul,” cried Hugh joyfully, “I never thought the day would come when I should be pleased to see your face, but it has! For Heaven’s sake get a move on with that blinking ladder; I’m getting cramp.”
“Ted and his pal, Hugh, have toddled off in your car,” said Peter, “so that only leaves us four and Toby.”
For a moment Hugh stared at him blankly, while he did some rapid mental arithmetic. He even neglected to descend at once by the ladder which had at last been placed in position. “Ted and us four and Toby” made six—and six was the strength of the party as it had arrived. Adding the pal made seven; so who the deuce was the pal?
The matter was settled just as he reached the ground. Lakington, wild-eyed and almost incoherent, rushed from the house, and, drawing Peterson on one side, spoke rapidly in a whisper.
“It’s all right,” muttered Algy rapidly. “They’re half-way to London by now, and going like hell if I know Ted.”
It was then that Hugh started to laugh. He laughed till the tears poured down his face, and Peterson’s livid face of fury made him laugh still more.
“Oh you priceless pair!” he sobbed. “Right under your bally noses. Stole away! Yoicks!” There was another interlude for further hilarity. “Give it up, you two old dears, and take to knitting. Miss one and purl three, Henry my boy, and Carl in a nightcap can pick up the stitches you drop.” He took out his cigarette-case. “Well,au revoir. Doubtless we shall meet again quite soon. And, above all, Carl, don’t do anything in Paris which you would be ashamed of my knowing.”
With a friendly wave he turned on his heel and strolled off, followed by the other three. The humour of the situation was irresistible; the absolute powerlessness of the whole assembled gang to lift a finger to stop them in front of the audience, which as yet showed no sign of departing, tickled him to death. In fact, the last thing Hugh saw, before a corner of the house hid them from sight, was the majesty of the law moistening his indelible pencil in the time-honoured method, and advancing on Peterson with his notebook at the ready.
“One brief interlude, my dear old warriors,” announced Hugh, “and then we must get gay. Where’s Toby?”
“Having his breakfast with your girl,” chuckled Algy. “We thought we’d better leave someone on guard, and she seemed to love him best.”
“Repulsive hound!” cried Hugh. “Incidentally, boys, how did you manage to roll up this morning?”
“We all bedded down at your girl’s place last night,” said Peter, “and then this morning, who should come and sing carols outside but our one and only Potts. Then we heard your deafening din on the roof, and blew along.”
“Splendid!” remarked Hugh, rubbing his hands together, “simply splendid! Though I wish you’d been there to help with that damned gorilla.”
“Help with what?” spluttered Jerry Seymour.
“Gorilla, old dear,” returned Hugh, unmoved. “A docile little creature I had to kill.”
“The man,” murmured Algy, “is indubitably mad. I’m going to crank the car.”
II
“Go away,” said Toby, looking up as the door opened and Hugh strolled in. “Your presence is unnecessary and uncalled for, and we’re not pleased. Are we, Miss Benton?”
“Can you bear him, Phyllis?” remarked Hugh, with a grin. “I mean lying about the house all day?”
“What’s the notion, old son?” Toby Sinclair stood up, looking slightly puzzled.
“I want you to stop here, Toby,” said Hugh, “and not let Miss Benton out of your sight. Also keep your eye skinned on The Elms, and let me know by ’phone to Half Moon Street anything that happens. Do you get me?”
“I get you,” answered the other, “but I say, Hugh, can’t I do something a bit more active? I mean, of course, there’s nothing I’d like better than to...” He broke off in mild confusion as Phyllis Benton laughed merrily.
“Do something more active!” echoed Hugh. “You bet your life, old boy. A rapid one-step out of the room. You’re far too young for what’s coming now.”
With a resigned sigh Toby rose and walked to the door.
“I shall have to listen at the keyhole,” he announced, “and thereby get earache. You people have no consideration whatever.”
“I’ve got five minutes, little girl,” whispered Hugh, taking her into his arms as the door closed.
“Five minutes of Heaven.... By Jove! But you look great—simply great.”
The girl smiled up at him.
“It strikes me, Master Hugh, that you have failed to remove your beard this morning.”
Hugh grinned.
“Quite right, kid. They omitted to bring me my shaving water on the roof.”
After a considerable interval, in which trifles such as beards mattered not, she smoothed her hair and sat down on the arm of a chair.
“Tell me what’s happened, boy,” she said eagerly.
“Quite a crowded night.” With a reminiscent smile he lit a cigarette. And then quite briefly he told her of the events of the past twelve hours, being, as is the manner of a man, more interested in watching the sweet colour which stained her cheeks from time to time, and noticing her quickened breathing when he told her of his fight with the gorilla, and his ascent of the murderous staircase. To him it was all over now and finished, but to the girl who sat listening to the short, half-clipped sentences, each one spoken with a laugh and a jest, there came suddenly the full realisation of what this man was doing for her. It was she who had been the cause of his running all these risks; it was her letter that he had answered. Now she felt that if one hair of his head was touched, she would never forgive herself.
And so when he had finished, and pitched the stump of his cigarette into the grate, falteringly she tried to dissuade him. With her hands on his coat, and her big eyes misty with her fears for him, she begged him to give it all up. And even as she spoke, she gloried in the fact that she knew it was quite useless. Which made her plead all the harder, as is the way of a woman with her man.
And then, after a while, her voice died away, and she fell silent. He was smiling, and so, perforce, she had to smile too. Only their eyes spoke those things which no human being may put into words. And so, for a time, they stood....
Then, quite suddenly, he bent and kissed her.
“I must go, little girl,” he whispered. “I’ve got to be in Paris to-night. Take care of yourself.”
The next moment he was gone.
“For God’s sake take care of her, Toby!” he remarked to that worthy, whom he found sitting disconsolately by the front door. “Those blighters are the limit.”
“That’s all right, old man,” said Sinclair gruffly. “Good huntin’!”
He watched the tall figure stride rapidly to the waiting car, the occupants of which were simulating sleep as a mild protest at the delay; then, with a smile, he rose and joined the girl.
“Some lad,” he remarked. “And if you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Benton, I wouldn’t change him if I was you. Unless, of course,” he added, as an afterthought, “you’d prefer me!”
III
“Have you got him all right, Ted?” Hugh flung the question eagerly at Ted Jerningham, who was lounging in a chair at Half Moon Street, with his feet on the mantelpiece.
“I’ve got him right enough,” answered that worthy, “but he don’t strike me as being Number One value. He’s gone off the boil. Become quite gugga again.” He stood up and stretched himself. “Your worthy servant is with him, making hoarse noises to comfort him.”
“Hell!” said Hugh, “I thought we might get something out of him. I’ll go and have a look at the bird. Beer in the corner, boys, if you want it.”
He left the room, and went along the passage to inspect the American. Unfortunately Jerningham was only too right: the effects of last night’s injection had worn off completely, and the wretched man was sitting motionless in a chair, staring dazedly in front of him.
“’Opeless, sir,” remarked Denny, rising to his feet as Hugh came into the room. “He thinks this ’ere meat juice is poison, and he won’t touch it.”
“All right, Denny,” said Drummond. “Leave the poor blighter alone. We’ve got him back, and that’s something. Has your wife told you about her little adventure?”
His servant coughed deprecatingly.
“She has, sir. But, Lor’ bless you, she don’t bear no malice.”
“Then she’s one up on me, Denny, for I bear lots of it towards that gang of swine.” Thoughtfully he stood in front of the millionaire, trying in vain to catch some gleam of sense in the vacant eyes. “Look at that poor devil; isn’t that enough by itself to make one want to kill the whole crowd?” He turned on his heel abruptly, and opened the door. “Try and get him to eat that if you can.”
“What luck?” Jerningham looked up as he came back into the other room.
“Dam’ all, as they say in the vernacular. Have you blighters finished the beer?”
“Probably,” remarked Peter Darrell. “What’s the programme now?”
Hugh examined the head on his glass with a professional eye before replying.
“Two things,” he murmured at length, “fairly leap to the eye. The first is to get Potts away to a place of safety; the second is to get over to Paris.”
“Well, let’s get gay over the first, as a kick-off,” said Jerningham, rising. “There’s a car outside the door; there is England at our disposal. We’ll take him away; you pad the hoof to Victoria and catch the boat-train.”
“It sounds too easy,” remarked Hugh. “Have a look out of the window, Ted, and you’ll see a man frightfully busy doing nothing not far from the door. You will also see a racing-car just across the street. Put a wet compress on your head, and connect the two.”
A gloomy silence settled on the assembly, to be broken by Jerry Seymour suddenly waking up with a start.
“I’ve got the stomach-ache,” he announced proudly.
His listeners gazed at him unmoved.
“You shouldn’t eat so fast,” remarked Algy severely. “And you certainly oughtn’t to drink that beer.”
To avert the disaster he immediately consumed it himself, but Jerry was too engrossed with his brainstorm to notice.
“I’ve got the stomach-ache,” he repeated, “and she ought to be ready by now. In fact I know she is. My last crash wasn’t a bad one. What about it?”
“You mean...?” said Hugh, staring at him.
“I mean,” answered Jerry, “that I’ll go off to the aerodrome now, and get her ready. Bring Potts along in half an hour, and I’ll take him to the Governor’s place in Norfolk. Then I’ll take you over to Paris.”
“Great!—simply great!” With a report like a gun Hugh hit the speaker on the back, inadvertently knocking him down. Then an idea struck him. “Not your place, Jerry; they’ll draw that at once. Take him to Ted’s; Lady Jerningham won’t mind, will she, old boy?”
“The mater mind?” Ted laughed. “Good Lord, no; she gave up minding anything years ago.”
“Right!” said Hugh. “Off you get, Jerry. By the way, how many will she hold?”
“Two beside me,” spluttered the proud proprietor of the Stomach-ache. “And I wish you’d reserve your endearments for people of your own size, you great, fat, hulking monstrosity.”
He reached the door with a moment to spare, and Hugh came back laughing.
“Verily—an upheaval in the grey matter,” he cried, carefully refilling his glass. “Now, boys, what about Paris?”
“Is it necessary to go at all?” asked Peter.
“It wouldn’t have been if the Yank had been sane,” answered Drummond. “As it is, I guess I’ve got to. There’s something going on, young fellahs, which is big; and I can’t help thinking one might get some useful information from the meeting at the Ritz to-night. Why is Peterson hand-in-glove with a wild-eyed, ragged-trousered crowd of revolutionaries? Can you tell me that? If so, I won’t go.”
“The great point is whether you’ll find out, even if you do,” returned Peter. “The man’s not going to stand in the hall and shout it through a megaphone.”
“Which is where Ted comes in,” said Hugh affably. “Does not the Stomach-ache hold two?”
“My dear man,” cried Jerningham, “I’m dining with a perfectly priceless she to-night!”
“Oh, no, you’re not, my lad. You’re going to do some amateur acting in Paris. Disguised as a waiter, or a chambermaid, or a coffee machine or something—you will discover secrets.”
“But good heavens, Hugh!” Jerningham waved both hands in feeble protest.
“Don’t worry me,” cried Drummond, “don’t worry me; it’s only a vague outline, and you’ll look great as a bath-sponge. There’s the telephone.... Hullo!” He picked off the receiver. “Speaking. Is that you, Toby? Oh! The Rolls has gone, has it? With Peterson inside. Good! So long, old dear.”
He turned to the others.
“There you are, you see. He’s left for Paris. That settles it.”
“Conclusively,” murmured Algy mildly. “Any man who leaves a house in a motor-car always goes to Paris.”
“Dry up!” roared Hugh. “Was your late military education so utterly lacking that you have forgotten the elementary precept of putting yourself in the enemy’s place? If I was Peterson, and I wanted to go to Paris, do you suppose that fifty people knowing about it would prevent me? You’re a fool, Algy—and leave me some more beer.”
Resignedly Algy sat down, and after a pause for breath, Drummond continued:
“Now listen—all of you. Ted—off you go, and raise a complete waiter’s outfit, dicky and all complete. Peter—you come with me to the aerodrome, and afterwards look up Mullings, at 13 Green Street, Hoxton, and tell him to get in touch with at least fifty demobilised soldiers who are on for a scrap. Algy—you hold the fort here, and don’t get drunk on my ale. Peter will join you, when he’s finished with Mullings, and he’s not to get drunk either. Are you all on?”
“On,” muttered Darrell weakly. “My head is playing an anthem.”
“It’ll play an oratorio before we’re through with this job, old son,” laughed Hugh. “Let’s get gay with Potts.”
Ten minutes later he was at the wheel of his car with Darrell and the millionaire behind. Algy, protesting vigorously at being, as he said, left out of it, was endeavouring to console himself by making out how much he would have won if he’d followed his infallible system of making money on the turf; Jerningham was wandering along Piccadilly anxiously wondering at what shop he could possibly ask for a dicky, and preserve his hitherto blameless reputation. But Hugh seemed in no great hurry to start. A whimsical smile was on his face, as out of the corner of his eye he watched the man who had been busy doing nothing feverishly trying to crank his car, which, after the manner of the brutes, had seized that moment to jib.
“Get away, man—get away,” cried Peter. “What are you waiting for?”
Hugh laughed.
“Peter,” he remarked, “the refinements of this game are lost on you.”
Still smiling, he got out and walked up to the perspiring driver.
“A warm day,” he murmured. “Don’t hurry; we’ll wait for you.” Then, while the man, utterly taken aback, stared at him speechlessly, he strolled back to his own car.
“Hugh—you’re mad, quite mad,” said Peter resignedly, as with a spluttering roar the other car started, but Hugh still smiled. On the way to the aerodrome he stopped twice after a block in the traffic to make quite sure that the pursuer should have no chance of losing him, and, by the time they were clear of the traffic and spinning towards their destination, the gentleman in the car behind fully agreed with Darrell.
At first he had expected some trick, being a person of tortuous brain; but as time went on, and nothing unexpected happened, he became reassured. His orders were to follow the millionaire, and inform headquarters where he was taken to. And assuredly at the moment it seemed easy money. In fact, he even went so far as to hum gently to himself, after he had put a hand in his pocket to make sure his automatic revolver was still there.
Then, quite suddenly, the humming stopped and he frowned. The car in front had swung off the road, and turned through the entrance of a small aerodrome. It was a complication which had not entered his mind, and with a curse he pulled up his car just short of the gates. What the devil was he to do now? Most assuredly he could not pursue an aeroplane on a motor—even a racer. Blindly, without thinking, he did the first thing that came into his head. He left his car standing where it was, and followed the others into the aerodrome on foot. Perhaps he could find out something from one of the mechanics; someone might be able to tell him where the ’plane was going.
There she was with the car beside her, and already the millionaire was being strapped into his seat. Drummond was talking to the pilot, and the sleuth, full of eagerness, accosted a passing mechanic.
“Can you tell me where that aeroplane is going to?” he asked ingratiatingly.
It was perhaps unfortunate that the said mechanic had just had a large spanner dropped on his toe, and his answer was not helpful. It was an education in one way, and at any other time the pursuer would have treated it with the respect it deserved. But, as it was, it was not of great value, which made it the more unfortunate that Peter Darrell should have chosen that moment to look round. And all he saw was the mechanic talking earnestly to the sleuth.... Whereupon he talked earnestly to Drummond....
In thinking it over after, that unhappy man, whose job had seemed so easy, found it difficult to say exactly what happened. All of a sudden he found himself surrounded by people—all very affable and most conversational. It took him quite five minutes to get back to his car, and by that time the ’plane was a speck in the west. Drummond was standing by the gates when he got there, with a look of profound surprise on his face.
“One I have seen often,” remarked the soldier; “two sometimes; three rarely; four never. Fancy four punctures—all at the same time! Dear, dear! I positively insist on giving you a lift.”
He felt himself irresistibly propelled towards Drummond’s car, with only time for a fleeting glimpse at his own four flat tyres, and almost before he realised it they were away. After a few minutes, when he had recovered from his surprise, his hand went instinctively to his pocket, to find the revolver had gone. And it was then that the man he had thought mad laughed gently.
“Didn’t know I was once a pickpocket, did you?” he remarked affably. “A handy little gun too. Is it all right, Peter?”
“All safe,” came a voice from behind.
“Then dot him one!”
The sleuth had a fleeting vision of stars of all colours which danced before his eyes, coupled with a stunning blow on the back of the head. Vaguely he realised the car was pulling up—then blackness. It was not till four hours later that a passing labourer, having pulled him out from a not over-dry ditch, laid him out to cool. And incidentally, with his further sphere of usefulness we are not concerned....