THE COMPLETE BULLDOG DRUMMOND SERIES (10 Novels in One Edition). H. C. McNeile / Sapper
again. "Their gang is dispersed, and Lakington is dead. We're all friends here now. You're quite safe. This is Mr. Green, who has come over from New York especially to find you and take you back to your family."
The millionaire stared in silence at the detective, who rolled his cigar round in his mouth.
"That's right, Mr. Potts. There's the little old sign." He threw back his coat, showing the police badge, and the millionaire nodded. "I guess you've had things humming on the other side, and if it hadn't been for the Captain here and his friends they'd be humming still."
"I am obliged to you, sir," said the American, speaking for the first time to Hugh. The words were slow and hesitating, as if he was not quite sure of his voice. "I seem to remember your face," he continued, "as part of the awful nightmare I've suffered the last few days—or is it weeks? I seem to remember having seen you, and you were always kind."
"That's all over now, Mr. Potts," said Hugh gently. "You got into the clutches of the most infernal gang of swine, and we've been trying to get you out again." He looked at him quietly. "Do you think you can remember enough to tell us what happened at the beginning? Take your time," he urged. "There's no hurry."
The others drew nearer eagerly, and the millionaire passed his hand dazedly over his forehead.
"I was stopping at the Carlton," he began, "with Granger, my secretary. I sent him over to Belfast on a shipping deal and——" He paused and looked round the group. "Where is Granger?" he asked.
"Mr. Granger was murdered in Belfast, Mr. Potts," said Drummond quietly, "by a member of the gang that kidnapped you."
"Murdered! Jimmy Granger murdered!" He almost cried in his weakness. "What did the swine want to murder him for?"
"Because they wanted you alone," explained Hugh. "Private secretaries ask awkward questions."
After a while the millionaire recovered his composure, and with many breaks and pauses the slow, disjointed story continued.
"Lakington! That was the name of the man I met at the Carlton. And then there was another ... Peter ... Peterson. That's it. We all dined together, I remember, and it was after dinner, in my private sitting-room, that Peterson put up his proposition to me.... It was a suggestion that he thought would appeal to me as a business man. He said—what was it?—that he could produce a gigantic syndicalist strike in England—revolution, in fact; and that as one of the biggest shipowners—the biggest, in fact—outside this country, I should be able to capture a lot of the British carrying trade. He wanted two hundred and fifty thousand pounds to do it, paid one month after the result was obtained.... Said there were others in it...."
"On that valuation," interrupted the detective thoughtfully, "it makes one million pounds sterling," and Drummond nodded. "Yes, Mr. Potts; and then?"
"I told him," said the millionaire, "that he was an infernal scoundrel, and that I'd have nothing whatever to do with such a villainous scheme. And then—almost the last thing I can remember—I saw Peterson look at Lakington. Then they both sprang on me, and I felt something prick my arm. And after that I can't remember anything clearly. Your face, sir"—he turned to Drummond—"comes to me out of a kind of dream; and yours, too," he added to Darrell. "But it was like a long, dreadful nightmare, in which vague things, over which I had no power, kept happening, until I woke up late last night in this gentleman's house." He bowed to Ted Jerningham, who grinned cheerfully.
"And mighty glad I was to hear you talking sense again, sir," he remarked. "Do you mean to say you have no recollection of how you got there?"
"None, sir; none," answered the millionaire. "It was just part of the dream."
"It shows the strength of the drug those swine used on you," said Drummond grimly. "You went there in an aeroplane, Mr. Potts."
"An aeroplane!" cried the other in amazement. "I don't remember it. I've got no recollection of it whatever. There's only one other thing that I can lay hold of, and that's all dim and muzzy.... Pearls.... A great rope of pearls.... I was to sign a paper; and I wouldn't.... I did once, and then there was a shot and the light went out, and the paper disappeared...."
"It's at my bank at this moment, Mr. Potts," said Hugh; "I took that paper, or part of it, that night."
"Did you?" The millionaire looked at him vaguely. "It was to promise them a million dollars when they had done what they said.... I remember that.... And the pearl necklace.... The Duchess of..." He paused and shook his head wearily.
"The Duchess of Lampshire's?" prompted Hugh.
"That's it," said the other. "The Duchess of Lampshire's. It was saying that I wanted her pearls, I think, and would ask no questions as to how they were got."
The detective grunted.
"Wanted to incriminate you properly, did they? Though it seems to me that it was a blamed risky game. There should have been enough money from the other three to run the show without worrying you, when they found you weren't for it."
"Wait," said the millionaire, "that reminds me. Before they assaulted me at the Carlton, they told me the others wouldn't come in unless I did."
For a while there was silence, broken at length by Hugh.
"Well, Mr. Potts, you've had a mouldy time, and I'm very glad it's over. But the person you've got to thank for putting us fellows on to your track is a girl. If it hadn't been for her, I'm afraid you'd still be having nightmares."
"I would like to see her and thank her," said the millionaire quickly.
"You shall," grinned Hugh. "Come to the wedding; it will be in a fortnight or thereabouts."
"Wedding!" Mr. Potts looked a little vague.
"Yes! Mine and hers. Ghastly proposition, isn't it?"
"The last straw," remarked Ted Jerningham. "A more impossible man as a bridegroom would be hard to think of. But in the meantime I pinched half a dozen of the old man's Perrier Jonet 1911 and put 'em in the car. What say you?"
"Say!" snorted Hugh. "Idiot boy! Does one speak on such occasions?"
And it was so....
III
"What's troubling me," remarked Hugh later, "is what to do with Carl and that sweet girl Irma."
The hour for the meeting was drawing near, and though no one had any idea as to what sort of a meeting it was going to be, it was obvious that Peterson would be one of the happy throng.
"I should say the police might now be allowed a look in," murmured Darrell mildly. "You can't have the man lying about the place after you're married."
"I suppose not," answered Drummond regretfully. "And yet it's a dreadful thing to finish a little show like this with the police—if you'll forgive my saying so, Mr. Green."
"Sure thing," drawled the American. "But we have our uses, Captain, and I'm inclined to agree with your friend's suggestion. Hand him over along with his book, and they'll sweep up the mess."
"It would be an outrage to let the scoundrel go," said the millionaire fiercely. "The man Lakington you say is dead; there's enough evidence to hang this brute as well. What about my secretary in Belfast?"
But Drummond shook his head.
"I have my doubts, Mr. Potts, if you'd be able to bring that home to him. Still, I can quite understand your feeling rattled with the bird." He rose and stretched himself; then he glanced at his watch. "It's time you all retired, boys; the party ought to be starting soon. Drift in again with the lads, the instant I ring the bell."
Left alone Hugh made certain once again that he knew the right combination of studs on the wall to open the big door which concealed the stolen store of treasure—and other things as well; then, lighting a cigarette, he sat down and waited.
The end of the chase was in sight, and he had determined it should