The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
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 sauve 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 sky-light 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 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 eyes 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,”