The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
of a skeleton lying on the floor in one of the upstair rooms with a mildewed rope fixed to one of the beams in the ceiling. And then it had been empty for twenty years.
Even now when the wind lay in the east or north-east and the tide was setting in, there were those who said that you could see a light shining through the cracks in the shutters in that room upstairs, and that, should a man climb up and look in, he’d see no skeleton, but a body with purple face and staring eyes swinging gently to and fro, and tied by the neck to a beam with a rope which showed no trace of mildew. Ridiculous, of course; but then so many of these local superstitions are. Useful, too, in some cases; they afford a privacy from the prying attentions of local gossips far more cheaply and effectively than high walls and bolts and bars.
So, at any rate, one of the two men who were walking briskly along the rough track seemed to think.
“Admirable,” he remarked, as he paused for a moment at the entrance of the weed-grown drive. “Quite admirable, my friend. A house situated as this one is, is an acquisition, and when it is haunted in addition it becomes a godsend.”
He spoke English perfectly with a slight foreign accent, and his companion nodded abruptly.
“From what I heard about it I thought it would do,” he answered. “Personally I think it’s a damnable spot, but since you were so set against coming to London, I had to find somewhere in this neighbourhood.”
The two men started to walk slowly up the drive. Branches dripping with moisture brushed across their faces, and involuntarily they both turned up the collars of their coats.
“I will explain my reasons in due course,” said the first speaker shortly. “You may take it from me that they were good. What’s that?”
He swung round with a little gasp, clutching his companion’s arm.
“Nothing,” cried the other irritably. For a moment or two they stood still, peering into the dark undergrowth. “What did you think it was?”
“I thought I heard a bush creaking as if—as if someone was moving,” he said, relaxing his grip. “It must have been the wind, I suppose.”
He still peered fearfully into the gloomy garden, until the other man dragged him roughly towards the house.
“Of course it was the wind,” he muttered angrily. “For heaven’s sake, Zaboleff, don’t get the jumps. If you will insist on coming to an infernal place like this to transact a little perfectly normal business you must expect a few strange noises and sounds. Let’s get indoors; the others should be here by now. It oughtn’t to take more than an hour, and you can be on board again long before dawn.”
The man who had been addressed as Zaboleff ceased looking over his shoulder, and followed the other through a broken-down lattice-gate to the rear of the house. They paused in front of the back door, and on it the leader knocked three times in a peculiar way. It was obviously a prearranged signal, for almost at once stealthy steps could be heard coming along the passage inside. The door was cautiously pulled back a few inches, and a man peered out, only to throw it open wide with a faint sigh of relief.
“It’s you, Mr. Waldock, is it?” he muttered. “Glad you’ve got ’ere at last. This place is fair giving us all the ’ump.”
“Evening, Jim.” He stepped inside, followed by Zaboleff, and the door closed behind them. “Our friend’s boat was a little late. Is everyone here?”
“Yep,” answered the other. “All the six of us. And I reckons we’d like to get it over as soon as possible. Has he “—his voice sank to a hoarse undertone—”has he brought the money?”
“You’ll all hear in good time,” said Waldock curtly. “Which is the room?”
“’Ere it is, guv’nor.” Jim flung open a door. “And you’ll ’ave to sit on the floor, as the chairs ain’t safe.”
Two candles guttered on a square table in the centre of the room, showing up the faces of the five men who sat on the floor, leaning against the walls. Three of them were nondescript specimens of humanity of the type that may be seen by the thousand hurrying into the City by the early business trains. They were representative of the poorer type of clerk—the type which Woodbines its fingers to a brilliant orange; the type that screams insults at a football referee on Saturday afternoon. And yet to the close observer something more might be read on their faces: a greedy, hungry look, a shifty untrustworthy look—the look of those who are jealous of everyone better placed than themselves, but who are incapable of trying to better their own position except by the relative method of dragging back their more fortunate acquaintances; the look of little men dissatisfied not so much with their own littleness as with the bigness of other people. A nasty-faced trio with that smattering of education which is the truly dangerous thing; and—three of Mr. Waldock’s clerks.
The two others were Jews; a little flashily dressed, distinctly addicted to cheap jewellery. They were sitting apart from the other three, talking in low tones, but as the door opened their conversation ceased abruptly and they looked up at the newcomers with the keen, searching look of their race. Waldock they hardly glanced at; it was the stranger Zaboleff who riveted their attention. They took in every detail of the shrewd, foreign face—the olive skin, the dark, piercing eyes, the fine-pointed beard; they measured him up as a boxer measures up his opponent, or a business-man takes stock of the second party in a deal; then once again they conversed together in low tones which were barely above a whisper.
It was Jim who broke the silence—Flash Jim, to give him the full name to which he answered in the haunts he frequented.
“Wot abaht getting on with it, guv’nor?” he remarked with an attempt at a genial smile. “This ’ere ’ouse ain’t wot I’d choose for a blooming ’oneymoon.”
With an abrupt gesture Waldock silenced him and advanced to the table.
“This is Mr. Zaboleff, gentlemen,” he said quietly. “We are a little late, I am afraid, but it was unavoidable. He will explain to you now the reason why you were asked to come here, and not meet at our usual rendezvous in Soho.”
He stepped back a couple of paces and Zaboleff took his place. For a moment or two he glanced round at the faces turned expectantly towards him, then resting his two hands on the table in front of him, he leaned forward towards them.
“Gentlemen,” he began, and the foreign accent seemed a little more pronounced, “I have asked you to come here tonight through my good friend, Mr. Waldock, because it has come to our ears—no matter how—that London is no longer a safe meeting-place. Two or three things have occurred lately the significance of which it is impossible to disregard.”
“Wot sort of things?” interrupted Flash Jim harshly.
“I was about to tell you,” remarked the speaker suavely, and Flash Jim subsided, abashed. “Our chief, with whom I spent last evening, is seriously concerned about these things.”
“You spent last night with the chief?” said Waldock, and his voice held a tremor of excitement, while the others leaned forward eagerly. “Is he, then, in Holland?”
“He was at six o’clock yesterday evening,” answered Zaboleff with a faint smile. “Today—now—I know no more than you where he is.”
“Who is he—this man we’re always hearing about and never seeing?” demanded one of the three clerks aggressively.
“He is—the Chief,” replied the other, while his eyes seemed to bore into the speaker’s brain. “Just that—and no more. And that is quite enough for you.” His glance travelled round the room, and his audience relaxed. “By the way, is not that a chink in the shutter there?”
“All the safer,” grunted Flash Jim. “Anyone passing will think the ghost is walking.”
“Nevertheless, kindly cover it up,” ordered Zaboleff, and one of the Jews rose and wedged his pocket-handkerchief into the crack. There was silence in the room while he did so, a silence