The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
Very deliberately the Count pressed two concealed knobs, so sunk into the wall as to be invisible to a stranger, and the door of the safe swung open. And only then was it obvious that the safe was not a safe, but a second exit leading to a flight of stairs. For a moment or two he stood motionless, listening intently, while Latter fidgeted at his side. One hand was on a master switch which controlled all the lights, the other on a knob inside the second passage which, when turned, would close the great steel door noiselessly behind them.
He was frowning angrily, but gradually the frown was replaced by a look of puzzled surprise. Four rings from the shop below was the recognised signal for urgent danger, and everybody’s plan of action was cut and dried for such an emergency. In the other rooms every book and paper in the slightest degree incriminating was hurled pell-mell into secret recesses in the floor which had been specially constructed under every table. In their place appeared books carefully and very skillfully faked, purporting to record the business transactions of Mr. William Atkinson. And in the event of surprise being expressed at the size of Mr. Atkinson’s business considering the sort of office he possessed below, and the type of his clientele, it would soon be seen that Hoxton was but one of several irons which that versatile gentleman had in the fire. There were indisputable proofs in indisputable ledgers that Mr. Atkinson had organised similar enterprises in several of the big towns of England and Scotland, to say nothing of a large West End branch run under the name of Lewer Brothers. And surely he had the perfect right, if he so wished, to establish his central office in Hoxton…Or Timbuctoo…What the devil did it matter to anyone except himself?
In the big room at the end the procedure was even simpler. The Count merely passed through the safe door and vanished through his private bolt-hole, leaving everything in darkness. And should inconvenient visitors ask inconvenient questions—well, it was Mr. Atkinson’s private office, and a very nice office too, though at the moment he was away.
Thus the procedure—simple and sound; but on this occasion something seemed to have gone wrong. Instead of the industrious silence of clerks working overtime on affairs of financial import in Edinburgh and Manchester, a perfect babel of voices became audible in the passage. And then there came an agitated knocking on the door.
“Who is it?” cried the Count sharply. It may be mentioned that even the most influential members of his staff knew better than to come into the room without previously obtaining permission.
“It’s me, sir—Cohen,” came an agitated voice from outside.
For a moment the Count paused: then with a turn of the knob he closed the safe door silently. With an imperious hand he waved Latter to a chair, and resumed his former position at the desk.
“Come in,” he snapped.
It was a strange and unwholesome object that obeyed the order, and the Count sat back in his chair.
“What the devil have you been doing?”
A pair of rich blue-black eyes, and a nose from which traces of blood still trickled had not improved the general appearance of the assistant downstairs. In one hand he carried a pair of hobnail boots, in the other a piece of paper, and he brandished them alternately while a flood of incoherent frenzy burst from his lips.
For a minute or two the Count listened, until his first look of surprise gave way to one of black anger.
“Am I to understand, you wretched little worm,” he snarled, “that you gave the urgency danger signal, not once but half a dozen times, merely because a man hit you over the nose?”
“But he knocked me silly, sir,” quavered the other. “And when I came to, and saw the boots lying beside me and the till opened, I kind of lost my head. I didn’t know what had happened, sir—and I thought I’d better ring the bell—in case of trouble.”
He retreated a step or two towards the door, terrified out of his wits by the look of diabolical fury in the hunchback’s eyes. Three or four clerks, who had been surreptitiously peeping through the open door, melted rapidly away, while from his chair Mr. Latter watched the scene fascinated. He was reminded of a bird and a snake, and suddenly he gave a little shudder as he realised that his own position was in reality much the same as that of the unfortunate Cohen.
And then just as the tension was becoming unbearable there came the interruption. Outside in the passage, clear and distinct, there sounded twice the hoot of an owl. To Mr. Latter it meant nothing; to the frightened little Jew it meant nothing; but on the Count the effect was electrical. With a quickness incredible in one so deformed he was at the door, and into the passage, hurling Cohen out of his way into a corner. His powerful fists were clenched by his side: the veins in his neck were standing out like whipcord. But to Mr. Latter’s surprise he made no movement, and rising from his chair he too peered round the door along the passage, only to stagger back after a second or two with a feeling of sick fear in his soul, and a sudden dryness in the throat. For twenty yards away, framed in the doorway at the head of the stairs leading down to the office below, he had seen a huge, motionless figure. For a perceptible time he had stared at it, and it had seemed to stare at him. Then the door had shut, and on the other side a key had turned. And the figure had been draped from head to foot in black.…
CHAPTER V
In Which Charles Latter, M.P., Goes Mad
Drummond arrived at Drayton House just as the house-party was sitting down to tea in the hall. A rapid survey of the guests as the footman helped him out of his coat—convinced him that, with the exception of Latter, he didn’t know a soul: a second glance indicated that he could contemplate the fact with equanimity. They were a stodgy-looking crowd, and after a brief look he turned his attention to his hostess.
“Where is Lady Manton?” he asked the footman. “Pouring out tea, sir,” returned the man surprised. “Great Scott!” said Drummond, aghast. “I’ve come to the wrong house.”
“The wrong house, sir?” echoed the footman, and the sound of their voices made Lady Manton look up.
In an instant that astute woman spotted what had happened. The writer of the strange letter she had received at lunch-time had arrived, and had realised his mistake. Moreover, this was the moment for which she had been waiting ever since, and now to add joy to joy it had occurred when her whole party was assembled to hear every word of her conversation with Drummond. With suitable gratitude she realised that such opportunities are rare.
With a charming smile she advanced towards him, as he stood hesitating by the door. “Mr. Drummond?” she inquired.
“Yes,” he murmured, with a puzzled frown. “But—but I seem to have made some absurd mistake.”
She laughed, and drew him into the hall. “A perfectly natural one, I assure you,” she replied, speaking so that her guests could hear. “It must have been my sister-in-law that you met at Wiltshire Towers. My husband was not very fit at the time and so I had to refuse the Duchess’s invitation.” She was handing him a cup of tea as she spoke. “But, of course, I know your cousin. Lord Staveley, well. So we really know one another after all, don’t we?”
“Charming of you to put it that way, Lady Manton,” answered Drummond, with his infectious grin. “At the same time I feel a bit of an interloper—what! Sort of case of fools toddling in where angels fear to tread.”
“A somewhat infelicitous quotation,” remarked an unctuous-looking man with side whiskers, deprecatingly.
“Catches you too, does it, old bird?” boomed Hugh, putting down his empty cup.
“It was the second part of your quotation that I was alluding to,” returned the other acidly, when Lady Manton intervened.
“Of course, Mr. Drummond, my husband and I insist on your remaining with us until you have completed your business in Sheffield.”
“Extraordinarily kind of you both, Lady Manton,” answered Hugh.
“How long do you think you will be?”
“Three or four days. Perhaps a little more.”