The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
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 round 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 destested 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 out 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 tonight.”
“Tonight!” 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 your’re too quick on the uptake. Your brain is too sharp.”
“How do you spell connecting?” demanded Alp, looking up from his labours. “And, anyway, the damn pencil won’t write.”
“Pay attention, all of you,” said Hugh. “Tonight, 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 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?” queries 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 gate-post. 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