The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
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 good will, 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 powwow.”
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, “my very dear 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 someone 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 today.”
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