The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
to get bored.
About 4.30 he sat up and took notice again as someone left the house; but it was only the superbly dressed young man whom he had discovered already was merely a clothes-peg calling himself Darrell.
The sun was getting low and the shadows were lengthening when a taxi drove up to the door. Immediately the watcher drew closer, only to stop with a faint smile as he saw two men get out of it. One was the immaculate Darrell; the other was a stranger, and both were quite obviously what in the vernacular is known as “oiled”.
“You prisheless ole bean,” he heard Darrell say affectionately, “thish blinking cabsh my show.”
The other man hiccoughed assent, and leant wearily against the palings.
“Right,” he remarked, “ole friend of me youth. It shall be ash you wish.”
With a tolerant eye he watched them tack up the stairs, singing lustily in chorus. Then the door above closed, and the melody continued to float out through the open window.
Ten minutes later he was relieved. It was quite an unostentatious relief: another man merely strolled past him. And since there was nothing to report, he merely strolled away. He could hardly be expected to know that up in Peter Darrell’s sitting-room two perfectly sober men were contemplating with professional eyes an extremely drunk gentleman singing in a chair, and that one of those two sober young men was Peter Darrell.
Then further interior activity took place in Half Moon Street, and as the darkness fell, silence gradually settled on the house. Ten o’clock struck, then eleven—and the silence remained unbroken. It was not till eleven-thirty that a sudden small sound made Hugh Drummond sit up in his chair, with every nerve alert. It came from the direction of the kitchen—and it was the sound he had been waiting for.
Swiftly he opened his door and passed along the passage to where the motionless man lay still in bed. Then he switched on a small reading-lamp, and with a plate of semolina in his hand he turned to the recumbent figure.
“Hiram C. Potts,” he said in a low, coaxing tone, “sit up and take your semolina. Force yourself, laddie, force yourself. I know it’s nauseating, but the doctor said no alcohol and very little meat.”
In the silence that followed, a board creaked outside, and again he tempted the sick man with food.
“Semolina, Hiram—semolina. Makes bouncing babies. I’d just love to see you bounce, my Potts.”
His voice died away, and he rose slowly to his feet. In the open door four men were standing, each with a peculiar-shaped revolver in his hand.
“What the devil,” cried Drummond furiously, “is the meaning of this?”
“Cut it out,” cried the leader contemptuously. “These guns are silent. If you utter—you die. Do you get me?”
The veins stood out on Drummond’s forehead, and he controlled himself with an immense effort.
“Are you aware that this man is a guest of mine, and sick?” he said, his voice shaking with rage.
“You don’t say,” remarked the leader, and one of the others laughed. “Rip the bed-clothes off, boys, and gag the young cock-sparrow.”
Before he could resist, a gag was thrust in Drummond’s mouth and his hands were tied behind his back. Then, helpless and impotent, he watched three of them lift up the man from the bed, and, putting a gag in his mouth also, carry him out of the room.
“Move,” said the fourth to Hugh. “You join the picnic.”
With fury gathering in his eyes he preceded his captor along the passage and downstairs. A large car drove up as they reached the street, and in less time than it takes to tell, the two helpless men were pushed in, followed by the leader; the door was shut and the car drove off.
“Don’t forget,” he said to Drummond suavely, “this gun is silent. You had better be the same.”
* * * *
At one o’clock the car swung up to The Elms. For the last ten minutes Hugh had been watching the invalid in the corner, who was making frantic efforts to loosen his gag. His eyes were rolling horribly, and he swayed from side to side in his seat, but the bandages round his hands held firm and at last he gave it up.
Even when he was lifted out and carried indoors he did not struggle; he seemed to have sunk into a sort of apathy. Drummond followed with dignified calmness, and was led into a room off the hall.
In a moment or two Peterson entered, followed by his daughter. “Ah! my young friend,” cried Peterson affably. “I hardly thought you’d give me such an easy run as this.” He put his hand into Drummond’s pockets, and pulled out his revolver and a bundle of letters. “To your bank,” he murmured. “Oh! surely, surely not that as well. Not even stamped. Ungag him, Irma—and untie his hands. My very dear young friend—you pain me.”
“I wish to know, Mr. Peterson,” said Hugh quietly, “by what right this dastardly outrage has been committed. A friend of mine, sick in bed—removed; abducted in the middle of the night: to say nothing of me.”
With a gentle laugh Irma offered him a cigarette. “Mon Dieu!” she remarked, “but you are most gloriously ugly, my Hugh!”
Drummond looked at her coldly, while Peterson, with a faint smile, opened the envelope in his hand. And, even as he pulled out the contents, he paused suddenly and the smile faded from his face. From the landing upstairs came a heavy crash, followed by a flood of the most appalling language.
“What the—hell do you think you’re doing, you flat-faced son of a Maltese goat? And where the—am I, anyway?”
“I must apologise for my friend’s language,” murmured Hugh gently, “but you must admit he has some justification. Besides, he was, I regret to state, quite wonderfully drunk earlier this evening, and just as he was sleeping it off these desperadoes abducted him.” The next moment the door burst open, and an infuriated object rushed in. His face was wild, and his hand was bandaged, showing a great red stain on the thumb.
“What’s this—jest?” he howled furiously. “And this damned bandage all covered with red ink?”
“You must ask our friend here, Mullings,” said Hugh. “He’s got a peculiar sense of humour. Anyway, he’s got the bill in his hand.”
In silence they watched Peterson open the paper and read the contents, while the girl leant over his shoulder.
To Mr. Peterson, The Elms, Godalming.
To hire one demobilised soldier: £5.0s.0d
To making him drunk in this item (present strength and cost of drink and said soldier’s capacity must be allowed for) £5.0s.0d
To bottle of red ink: £0.0s.1d
To shock to system: £10.0s.0d
TOTAL: £20.0s.1d
It was Irma who laughed.
“Oh! but, my Hugh,” she gurgled, “que vous êtes adorable!”
But he did not look at her. His eyes were on Peterson, who with a perfectly impassive face was staring at him fixedly.
CHAPTER IV
In Which He Spends a Quiet Night at The Elms
I
“It is a little difficult to know what to do with you, young man,” said Peterson gently, after a long silence. “I knew you had no tact.”
Drummond leaned back in his chair and regarded his host with a faint smile.
“I must come to you for lessons, Mr. Peterson. Though I frankly admit,” he added genially, “that I have never been brought up to regard the forcible abduction of a harmless individual and a friend who is sleeping off the effects of what low people call a jag as being exactly typical of that admirable quality.”