The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
up close to the desk was no less a person than Charles Latter, M.P., and it was he who was doing most of the talking. But it was the other man who riveted attention: the man who presumably was Mr. Atkinson himself. He was seated in a swivel chair which he had slewed round so as to face the speaker, and it was his appearance which caught the eye and then held it fascinated.
At first he seemed to be afflicted with an almost phenomenal stoop, and it was only when one got nearer that the reason was clear. The man was a hunchback, and the effect it gave was that of a huge bird of prey. Unlike most hunchbacks, his legs were of normal length, and as he sat motionless in his chair, a hand on each knee, staring with unwinking eyes at his talkative companion, there was something menacing and implacable in his appearance. His hair was grey; his features stern and hard; while his mouth reminded one of a steel trap. But it was his eyes that dominated everything—grey-blue and piercing, they seemed able to probe one’s innermost soul. A man to whom it would be unwise to lie—a man utterly unscrupulous in himself, who would yet punish double dealing in those who worked for him with merciless severity. A dangerous man.
“So you went to the police, Mr. Latter,” he remarked suavely. “And what had our friend Sir Bryan Johnstone to say on the matter?”
“At first, Count, he didn’t say much. In fact he really said very little all through. But once he looked at the note his whole manner changed. I could see that instantly. There was something about the note which interested him.…”
“Let me see it,” said the Count, holding out his hand.
“I left it with Sir Bryan,” answered the other. “He asked me to let him keep it. And he promised that I should be all right.”
The Count’s lips curled.
“It would take more than Sir Bryan Johnstone’s promise, Mr. Latter, to ensure your safety. Do you know whom that note was from?”
“I thought, Count,” said the other a little tremulously—”I thought it might be from this mysterious Black Gang that one has heard rumours about.”
“It was,” replied the Count tersely.
“Heavens!” stammered Latter. “Then it’s true; they exist.”
“In the last month,” answered the hunchback, staring fixedly at his frightened companion, “nearly twenty of our most useful men have disappeared. They have simply vanished into thin air. I know, no matter how, that it is not the police: the police are as mystified as we are. But the police, Mr. Latter, whatever views they may take officially, are in all probability unofficially very glad of our friends’ disappearance. At any rate until last night.”
“What do you mean?” asked the other.
“Last night the police were baulked of their prey, and McIver doesn’t like being baulked. You know Zaboleff was sent over?”
“Yes, of course. That is one of the reasons I came round tonight. Have you seen him?”
“I have not,” answered the Count grimly. “The police found out he was coming.”
Mr. Latter’s face blanched: the thought of Zaboleff in custody didn’t appeal to him. It may be mentioned that his feelings were purely selfish—Zaboleff knew too much.
But the Count was speaking again. A faint sneer was on his face; he had read the other’s mind like an open book.
“And so,” he continued, “did the Black Gang. They removed Zaboleff and our friend Waldock from under the very noses of the police, and, like the twenty others, they have disappeared.”
“My God!” There was no doubt now about Mr. Latter’s state of mind. “And now they’ve threatened me.”
“And now they’ve threatened you,” agreed the Count. “And you, I am glad to say, have done exactly what I should have told you to do, had I seen you sooner. You have gone to the police.”
“But—but,” stammered Latter, “the police were no good to Zaboleff last night.”
“And it is quite possible,” returned the other calmly, “that they will be equally futile in your case. Candidly, Mr. Latter, I am completely indifferent on the subject of your future. You have served our purpose, and all that matters is that you happen to be the bone over which the dogs are going to fight. Until last night the dogs hadn’t met—officially; and in the rencontre last night, the police dog, unless I’m greatly mistaken, was caught by surprise. McIver doesn’t let that happen twice. In your case he’ll be ready. With luck this cursed Black Gang, who are infinitely more nuisance to me than the police have been or ever will be, will get bitten badly.”
Mr. Latter was breathing heavily.
“But what do you want me to do, Count?”
“Nothing at all, except what you were going to do normally,” answered the other. He glanced at a notebook on his desk. “You were going to Lady Manton’s near Sheffield, I see. Don’t alter your plans—go. In all probability it will take place at her house.” He glanced contemptuously at the other’s somewhat green face, and his manner changed abruptly. “You understand, Mr. Latter,” his voice was deadly smooth and quiet, “you understand, don’t you, what I say? You will go to Lady Manton’s house as arranged, and you will carry on exactly as if you had never received this note. Because if you don’t, if you attempt any tricks with me, whatever the Black Gang may do or may not do to you, however much the police may protect you or may not protect you—you will have us to reckon with. And you know what that means.”
“Supposing the gang gets me and foils the police,” muttered Latter through dry lips. “What then?”
“I shall deal with them personally. They annoy me.”
There was something so supremely confident in the tone of the Count’s voice, that the other man looked at him quickly.
“But have you any idea who they are?” he asked eagerly.
“None—at present. Their leader is clever—but so am I. They have deliberately elected to fight me, and now I have had enough. It will save trouble if the police catch them for me: but if not…”
The Count shrugged his shoulders, and with a gesture of his hand dismissed the matter. Then he picked up a piece of paper from the desk and glanced at it.
“I will now give you your orders for Sheffield,” he continued. “It has been reported to me that in Sir John Manton’s works there is a red-hot madman named Delmorlick. He has a good job himself, but he spends most of his spare time inciting the unemployed—of which I am glad to say there are large numbers in the town—to absurd deeds of violence. He is a very valuable man to us, and appears to be one of those extraordinary beings who really believe in the doctrines of Communism. He can lash a mob, they tell me, into an absolute frenzy with his tongue. I want you to seek him out, and give him fifty pounds to carry on with. Tell him, of course, that it comes from the Great Master in Russia, and spur him on to renewed activity.
“You will also employ him, and two or three others whom you must leave him to choose, to carry out a little scheme of which you will find full details in this letter.” He handed an envelope to Latter, who took it with a trembling hand. “You personally will make arrangements about the necessary explosives. I calculate that, if successful, it should throw at least three thousand more men out of work. Moreover, Mr. Latter, if it is successful your fee will be a thousand pounds.”
“A thousand!” muttered Latter. “Is there much danger?”
The Count smiled contemptuously. “Not if you do your work properly. Hullo! What’s up?”
From a little electric bell at his elbow came four shrill rings, repeated again and again.
The Count rose and with systematic thoroughness swept every piece of paper off the desk into his pocket. Then he shut down the top and locked it, while the bell, a little muffled, still rang inside.
“What’s the fool doing?” he cried angrily,