The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
House, and you’re too young for that sort of thing.”
With a resigned look on his face, Denny left the room, closing the door gently behind him. But Drummond, left to himself, did not at once continue his letter to Lady Manton. With his pen held loosely in his hand he sat at his desk staring thoughtfully at the wall opposite. Gone completely was his customary inane look of good humour: in its place was an expression of quiet, almost grim, determination. He had the air of a man faced with big decisions, and to whom, moreover, such an experience was no novelty. For some five minutes he sat there motionless; then with a short laugh he came out of his reverie.
“We’re getting near the motto, my son,” he muttered—”deuced near. If we don’t draw the badger in a few weeks, I’ll eat my hat.”
With another laugh he turned once more to his half-finished letter. And a minute or two later, having stamped and addressed the envelope, he slipped it into his pocket and rose. He crossed the room and unlocked a small safe which stood in the corner. From it he took a small automatic revolver which he dropped into his coat pocket, also a tiny bundle of what looked like fine black silk. Then, having relocked the safe he picked up his hat and stick and went into the hall.
“Denny,” he called, pausing by the front door.
“Sir,” answered that worthy, appearing from the back premises.
“If Mr. Darrell or any of them ring up I shall be tearing a devilled bone tonight at the Savoy grill at eleven o’clock.”
CHAPTER IV
In Which Count Zadowa Gets a Shock
Number 5, Green Street, Hoxton, was not a prepossessing abode. A notice on one of the dingy downstair windows announced that Mr. William Atkinson was prepared to advance money on suitable security: a visit during business hours revealed that this was no more than the truth, even if the appearance of Mr. Atkinson’s minion caused the prospective borrower to wonder how he had acquired such an aggressively English name.
The second and third floors were apparently occupied by his staff, which seemed unduly large considering the locality and quality of his business. Hoxton is hardly in that part of London where large sums of money might be expected to change hands, and yet there was no doubt that Mr. William Atkinson’s staff was both large and busy. So busy indeed were his clerks that frequently ten and eleven o’clock at night found them still working hard, though the actual business of the day downstairs concluded at six o’clock—eight Saturdays.
It was just before closing time on the day after the strange affair down at Barking that a large, unkempt-looking individual presented himself at Mr. Atkinson’s office. His most pressing need would have seemed to the casual observer to be soap and water, but his appearance apparently excited no surprise in the assistant downstairs. Possibly Hoxton is tolerant of such trifles.
The clerk—a pale, anaemic-looking man with an unhealthy skin and a hook nose—rose wearily from his rest.
“What do you want?” he demanded morosely.
“Wot d’yer think!” retorted the other. “Cat’s meat?”
The clerk recoiled, and the blood mounted angrily to his sallow face. “Don’t you use that tone with me, my man,” he said angrily. “I’d have you to know that this is my office.”
“Yus,” answered the other. “Same as it’s your nose sitting there like a lump o’ putty stuck on to a suet pudding. And if I ’ave any o’ your lip, I’ll pull it off—see. Throw it outside, I will, and you after it—you parboiled lump of bad tripe. Nah, then—business.” With a blow that shook the office he thumped the desk with a huge fist. “I ain’t got no time to waste—even if you ’ave. ’Ow much?” He threw a pair of thick hobnailed boots on to the counter, and stood glaring at the other.
“Two bob,” said the clerk indifferently, throwing down a coin and picking up the boots.
“Two bob!” cried the other wrathfully. “Two bob, you miserable Sheenie.” For a moment or two he spluttered inarticulately as if speech was beyond him; then his huge hand shot out and gripped the clerk by the collar. “Think again, Archibald,” he continued quietly, “think again and think better.”
But the assistant, as might be expected in one of his calling, was prepared for emergencies of this sort. Very gently his right hand slid along the counter towards a concealed electric bell which communicated with the staff upstairs. It fulfilled several purposes, that bell: it acted as a call for help or as a warning, and according to the number of times it was pressed, the urgency of the matter could be interpreted by those who heard it. Just now the clerk decided that two rings would meet the case: he disliked the appearance of the large and angry man in whose grip he felt absolutely powerless, and he felt he would like help—very urgently. And so it was perhaps a little unfortunate for him that he should have allowed an ugly little smirk to adorn his lips a second or two before his hand found the bell. The man facing him across the counter saw that smirk and lost his temper in earnest. With a grunt of rage he hit the other square between the eyes, and the clerk collapsed in a huddled heap behind the counter with the bell still unrung.
For a few moments the big man stood motionless, listening intently. From upstairs came the faint tapping of a typewriter; from outside the usual street noises of London came softly through the two closed doors. Then, with an agility remarkable in one so big, he vaulted the counter and inspected the recumbent assistant with a professional eye. A faint grin spread over his face as he noted that gentleman’s condition, but after that he wasted no time. So quickly and methodically in fact did he set about things, that it seemed as if the whole performance must have been cut and dried beforehand, even to the temporary indisposition of the clerk. In half a minute he was bound and gagged and deposited under the counter. Beside him the big man placed the pair of boots, attached to which was a piece of paper which he took from his pocket. On it was scrawled in an illiterate hand—
“Have took a fare price for the boots, yer swine.” Then quite deliberately the big man forced the till and removed some money, after which he once more examined the unconscious man under the counter.
“Without a hitch,” he muttered. “Absolutely according to Cocker. Now, old lad of the village, we come to the second item on the programme. That must be the door I want.”
He opened it cautiously, and the subdued hum of voices from above came a little louder to his ears. Then like a shadow he vanished into the semi-darkness of the house upstairs.
It was undoubtedly a house of surprises, was Number 5, Green Street. A stranger passing through the dingy office on the ground floor where Mr. Atkinson’s assistant was wont to sit at the receipt of custom, and then ascending the stairs to the first story would have found it hard to believe that he was in the same house. But then, strangers were not encouraged to do anything of the sort.
There was a door at the top of the flight of stairs, and it was at this door that the metamorphosis took place. On one side of it the stairs ran carpetless and none too clean to the ground floor, on the other side the picture changed. A wide passage with rooms leading out of it from either side confronted the explorer—a passage which was efficiently illuminated with electric lights hung from the ceiling, and the floor of which was covered with a good plain carpet. Along the walls ran rows of bookshelves stretching, save for the gaps at the doors, as far as a partition which closed the further end of the passage. In this partition was another door, and beyond this second door the passage continued to a window tightly shuttered and bolted. From this continuation only one room led off—a room which would have made the explorer rub his eyes in surprise. It was richly, almost luxuriously, furnished. In the centre stood a big roll-top writing-desk, while scattered about were several arm-chairs upholstered in green leather. A long table almost filled one side of the room; a table covered with every imaginable newspaper. A huge safe flush with the wall occupied the other side, while the window, like the one outside, was almost hermetically sealed. There was a fireplace in the corner, but there was no sign of any fire having been lit, or of any preparations for lighting one. Two electric heaters attached by long lengths of flex to plugs in the wall comprised the heating arrangements, while