The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
didn’t: he became spiteful. And a spiteful coward is a nasty thing.
It was just about that time that he met Count Zadowa. It was at dinner at a friend’s house, and after the ladies had left he found himself sitting next to the hunchback with the strange, piercing eyes. He wasn’t conscious of having said very much: he would have been amazed had he been told that within ten minutes this charming foreigner had read his unpleasant little mind like a book, and had reached a certain and quite definite decision. In fact, looking back on the past few months, Mr. Latter was at a loss to account as to how things had reached their present pass. Had he been told when he stood for Parliament, flaunting all the old hackneyed formula, that within two years he would be secretly engaged in red-hot Communist work, he would have laughed the idea to scorn. Anarchy, too: a nasty word, but the only one that fitted the bomb outrage in Manchester, which he had himself organised. Sometimes in the night, he used to wake and lie sweating as he thought of that episode.…
And gradually it had become worse and worse. Little by little the charming Count Zadowa, realising that Mr. Latter possessed just those gifts which he could utilise to advantage, had ceased to be charming. There were many advantages in having a Member of Parliament as chief liaison officer.
There had been that first small slip when he signed a receipt for money paid him to address a revolutionary meeting in South Wales during the coal strike. And the receipt specified the service rendered. An unpleasant document in view of the fact that his principal supporters in his constituency were coal-owners. And after that the descent had been rapid.
Not that even now Mr. Latter felt any twinges of conscience: all he felt was occasional twinges of fear that he might be found out. He was running with the hare and hunting with the hounds with a vengeance, and at times his cowardly little soul grew sick within him. And then, like a dreaded bolt from the blue, had come the letter of warning from the Black Gang.
Anyway, he reflected, as he turned out his light after getting into bed that night, the police knew nothing of his double life. They were all round him, and there was this big fool in the house…For a moment his heart stopped beating: was it his imagination or was that the figure of a man standing at the foot of the bed?
The sweat poured off his forehead as he tried to speak: then he sat up in bed, plucking with trembling hands at the collar of his pyjamas. Still the shape stood motionless: he could swear there was something there now—he could see it outlined against the dim light of the window. He reached out fearfully for the switch: fumbled a little, and then with a click the light went on. His sudden scream of fear died half-strangled in his throat: a livid anger took the place of terror. Leaning over the foot of the bed and regarding him with solicitous interest, lounged Hugh Drummond.
“All tucked up and comfy, old bean,” cried Drummond cheerfully. “Bed socks full of feet and all that sort of thing?”
“How dare you,” spluttered Latter, “how dare you come into my room like this.…”
“Tush, tush,” murmured Drummond, “don’t forget my orders, old Latter, my lad. To watch over you as a crooning mother crooneth over the last batch of twins. By the way, my boy, you skimped your teeth pretty badly tonight. You’ll have to do better tomorrow. Most of your molars must be sitting up and begging for Kolynos if that’s your normal effort.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you were in here while I was undressing?” said Latter angrily. “You exceed your instructions, sir: and I shall report your unwarrantable impertinence to Sir Bryan Johnstone when I return to London.”
“Exactly, Mr. Latter. But when will you return to London?” Drummond regarded him dispassionately. “To put some, if not all, of the cards on the table, the anonymous letter of warning which you received was not quite so anonymous as you would have liked. In other words, you know exactly whom it came from.”
“I don’t,” replied the other. “I know that it came from an abominable gang who have been committing a series of outrages lately. And that is why I applied for police protection.”
“Quite so, Mr. Latter. And as—er—Fate would have it, I am here to help carry out that role.”
“What did you mean when you gave me that warning before dinner? That man is one of the leading citizens of Sheffield.”
“That was just a little jest, Mr. Latter, to amuse you during the evening. The danger does not lie there.”
“Where does it lie?”
“Probably where you least expect it,” returned Drummond with an enigmatic smile.
“I shall be going tomorrow,” said Latter with attempted nonchalance. “Until then I rely on you.”
“Precisely,” murmured Drummond. “So you have completed your business here quicker than you anticipated.”
“Yes. To be exact, this afternoon before you arrived.”
“And was that the business which brought you to Sheffield?”
“Principally. Though I really don’t understand this catechism, Mr. Drummond. And now I wish to go to sleep.…”
“I’m afraid you can’t, Mr. Latter. Not quite yet.” For a moment or two Charles Latter stared at the imperturbable face at the foot of his bed: it seemed to him that a strange tension was creeping into the conversation—a something he could not place which made him vaguely alarmed.
“Do you think this mysterious Black Gang would approve of your business this afternoon?” asked Drummond quietly.
Mr. Latter started violently.
“How should I know of what the scoundrels would approve?” he cried angrily. “And anyway, they can know nothing about it.”
“You feel quite confident in Mr. Delmorlick’s discretion with regard to the friends he selects?”
And now a pulse was beginning to hammer in Mr. Latter’s throat, and his voice when he spoke was thick and unnatural.
“How do you know anything about Delmorlick?”
Drummond smiled. “May I reply by asking a similar question, Mr. Latter? How do you?”
“I met him this afternoon on political business,” stammered the other, staring fascinated at the man opposite, from whose face all trace of buffoonery seemed to have vanished, to be replaced by a grim sternness the more terrifying because it was so utterly unexpected. And he had thought Drummond a fool.…
“Would it be indiscreet to inquire the nature of the business?”
“Yes,” muttered Latter. “It was private.”
“That I can quite imagine,” returned Drummond grimly. “But since you’re so reticent I will tell you. This afternoon you made arrangements, perfect in every detail, to blow up the main power station of the Greystone works.” The man in the bed started violently. “The result of that would have been to throw some three thousand men out of work for at least a couple of months.”
“It’s a lie,” said Latter thickly.
“Your object in so doing was obvious,” continued Drummond. “Money. I don’t know how much, and I didn’t know who from—until last night.” And now Latter was swallowing hard, and clutching the bedclothes with hands that shook like leaves.
“You saw me last night, Mr. Latter, didn’t you? And I found out your headquarters.…”
“In God’s name—who are you?” His voice rose almost to a scream. “Aren’t you the police?”
“No—I am not.” He was coming nearer, and Latter cowered back, mouthing. “I am not the police, you wretched thing: I am the leader of the Black Gang.”
Latter felt the other’s huge hands on him, and struggled like a puny child, whimpering, half sobbing. He writhed and squirmed as a gag was forced into his mouth: then he felt a rope cut his wrists as they were lashed behind his back. And all the while the