The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
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 Jeningham. “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 Jouet 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 be a fitting end, worthy of the chase itself—theatrical, perhaps, but at the same time impressive. Something for the Ditchlings of the party to ponder on in the silent watches of the night… Then the police—it would have to be the police, he admitted sorrowfully—and after that, Phyllis.
And he was just on the point of ringing up his flat to tell her that he loved her, when the door opened and a man came in. Hugh recognised him at once as Vallance Nestor, an author of great brilliance—in his own eyes—who had lately devoted himself to the advancement of revolutionary labour.
“Good afternoon,” murmured Drummond affably. “Mr. Peterson will be a little late. I am his private secretary.”
The other nodded and sat down languidly.
“What did you think of my last little effort in the Midlands?” he asked, drawing off his gloves.
“Quite wonderful,” said Hugh. “A marvellous help to the great Cause.”
Valiance Nestor yawned slightly and closed his eyes, only to open them again as Hugh turned the pages of the ledger on the table.
“What’s that?” he demanded.
“This is the book,” replied Drummond carelessly, “where Mr. Peterson records his opinions of the immense value of all his fellow-workers. Most interesting reading.”
“Am I in it?” Valiance Nestor rose with alacrity.
“Why, of course,” answered Drummond. “Are you not one of the leaders? Here you are.” He pointed with his finger, and then drew back in dismay. “Dear, dear! there must be some mistake.”
But Valiance Nestor, with a frozen and glassy eye, was staring fascinated at the following choice description of himself:
“Nestor, Valiance. Author—so-called. Hot-air factory, but useful up to a point. Inordinately conceited and a monumental ass. Not fit to be trusted far.”
“What,’ he spluttered at length, “is the meaning of this abominable insult?”
But Hugh, his shoulders shaking slightly, was welcoming the next arrival—a rugged, beetle-browed man, whose face seemed vaguely familiar, but whose name he was unable to place.
“Crofter,” shouted the infuriated author, “look at this as a description of me.”
And Hugh watched the man, whom he now knew to be one of the extremist members of Parliament, walk over and glance at the book. He saw him conceal a smile, and then Valiance Nestor carried the good work on.
“We’ll see what he says about you—impertinent blackguard.” Rapidly he turned the pages, and Hugh glanced over Crofter’s shoulder at the dossier.
He just had time to read: “Crofter, John. A consummate blackguard. Playing entirely for his own hand. Needs careful watching,” when the subject of the remarks, his face convulsed with fury, spun round and faced him.
“Who wrote that?” he snarled.
“Must have been Mr. Peterson,” answered Hugh placidly. “I see you had five thousand out of him, so perhaps he considers himself privileged. A wonderful judge of character, too,” he murmured, turning away to greet Mr. Ditchling, who arrived somewhat opportunely, in company with a thin pale man—little more than a youth—whose identity completely defeated Drummond.
“My God!” Crofter was livid with rage. “Me and Peterson will have words this afternoon. Look at this, Ditchling.” On second thoughts he turned over some pages. “We’ll see what this insolent devil has to say about you.”
“Drinks!” Ditchling thumped the table with a heavy fist. “What the hell does he mean? Say you, Mr. Secretary—what’s the meaning of this?”
“They represent Mr. Peterson’s considered opinions of you all,” said Hugh genially. “Perhaps this other gentleman…”
He turned to the pale youth, who stepped forward with a surprised look. He seemed to be not quite clear what had upset the others, but already Nestor had turned up his name.
“Terrance, Victor. A wonderful speaker. Appears really to believe that what he says will benefit the working-man. Consequently very valuable; but indubitably mad.”
“Does he mean to insult us deliberately?” demanded Crofter, his voice still shaking with passion.
“But