The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
gang that came into existence to exterminate things like you. Ever since the war you poisonous reptiles have been at work stirring up internal trouble in this country. Not one in ten of you believe what you preach: your driving force is money and your own advancement. And as for your miserable dupes—those priceless fellows who follow you blindly because—God help them, they’re hungry and their wives are hungry—what do you care for them, Mr. Latter? You just laugh in your sleeve and pocket the cash.”
With a heave he jerked the other on to the floor, and proceeded to lash him to the foot of the bed.
“I have had my eye on you, Mr. Latter, since the Manchester effort when ten men were killed, and you were the murderer. But other and more important matters have occupied my time. You see, my information is very good—better than Delmorlick’s selection of friends. The new devoted adherent to your cause this afternoon happens to be an intimate, personal friend of mine.”
He was busying himself with something that he had taken from his pocket—a thick, square slab with a hole in the centre.
“I admit that your going to the police with my note surprised me. And it really was extraordinarily lucky that I happened to be in the office at the time. But it necessitated a slight change of plan on my part. If dear old McIver and his minions are outside the house, it’s much simpler for me to be in. And now, Mr. Latter—to come to business.”
He stood in front of the bound man, whose eyes were rolling horribly.
“We believe in making the punishment fit the crime. This afternoon you planned to destroy the livelihood of several thousand men with explosive, simply that you might make money. Here,” he held up the square slab, “is a pound of the actual gun-cotton, which was removed from Delmorlick himself before he started on a journey to join my other specimens. I propose to place this slab under you, Mr. Latter, and to light this piece of fuse which is attached to it. The fuse will take about three minutes to burn. During that three minutes if you can get free, so much the better for you; if not—well, it would be a pity not to have any explosion at all in Sheffield, wouldn’t it?”
For a moment or two Drummond watched the struggling, terrified man, and his eyes were hard and merciless. Then he went to the door, and Latter heard it opened and shut and moaned horribly. His impotent struggles increased: out of the corner of his eye he could see the fire burning nearer and nearer. And then all of a sudden something seemed to snap in his brain.…
Four minutes later Drummond came out from the screen behind which he had been standing. He picked up the burnt-out fuse and the block of wood to which it had been attached. Then he undid the ropes that bound the other man, removed the gag and put him back into bed. And after a while he nodded thoughtfully.
“Poetic justice,” he murmured. “And it saves a lot of trouble.”
Then, after one searching look round the room, he turned out the light and stepped quietly into the passage.
“An extraordinary thing, McIver,” said Sir Bryan Johnstone, late on the afternoon of the following day. “You say that when you saw Mr. Latter this morning he was mad.”
“Mad as a hatter, sir,” answered McIver, turning for confirmation to Drummond, who was sprawling in a chair.
“Absolutely up the pole. Tum-tum,” agreed Drummond.
“Gibbered like a fool,” said McIver, “and struggled wildly whenever he got near the foot of the bed. Seemed terrified of it, somehow. Did you notice that, Mr. Drummond?”
“My dear old lad, it was only ten o’clock, and I was barely conscious,” yawned that worthy, lighting a cigarette.
“Well, anyway, you had no trouble with the gang, McIver,” said his chief.
“None, sir,” agreed the Inspector. “I thought they wouldn’t try it on with me twice. I heard some fool story just before I caught the train, about one of the night-watchmen at a big works who swears he saw a sort of court-martial—he was an old soldier—being held on three men by a lot of black-masked figures. But a lot of these people have got this yarn on the brain. Sir Bryan. It’s spread a good deal farther than I thought.”
Sir Bryan nodded thoughtfully. “I must say I’d like to know what sent Charles Latter mad!”
Drummond sat up lazily. “Good heavens! Tumkins, don’t you know? The house-party, old son—the house-party, they had to be seen to be believed.”
CHAPTER VI
In Which an Effusion Is Sent to the Newspapers
Take a garrulous night-watchman and an enterprising journalist; mix them together over one, or even two glasses of beer, and a hard-worked editor feels safe for a column every time. And since the night-watchman at Greystone’s Steel Works was very garrulous, and the journalist was young and ambitious, the result produced several columns of the sort of stuff that everybody likes to read, and pretends he doesn’t.
Mr. Day was the night-watchman’s name, and Mr. Day was prepared to tell his story at a pint a time to anyone who cared to listen. It differed in detail, the difference depending entirely on the number of payments received during the day, but the essential part remained the same. And it was that essential part that was first published in one of the local Sheffield papers, and from there found its way into the London Press.
Mr. Day, it appeared, had, according to his usual custom, been making his hourly tour of the works. It was about midnight, or perhaps a little after, that he thought he heard the sound of voices coming from the central power-station. As he approached, it had seemed to him that it was more lit up than it had been on his previous round, when only one electric light had been burning. He was on the point of opening the door to go in and investigate, when he heard at least half a dozen voices speaking angrily, and one in particular had stood out above the others. It was loud and convulsed with passion, and on hearing it Mr. Day, remembering his wife and four children, had paused.
“You damned traitor, as sure as there’s a God above, I’ll kill you for this some day.”
Such were the words which it appeared had given Mr. Day cause for reflection. At any time, and in any place, they would be apt to stand out from the ordinary level of bright chat; but as Mr. Day remarked succinctly, “they fair gave me the creeps, coming out o’ that there place, which was hempty, mind you, not ’alf an hour before.”
And there are few, I think, who can blame him for his decision not to open the door, but to substitute for such a course a strategic move to a flank. There was an outside flight of steps leading to a door which opened on to the upstairs platform where stood the indicator board. And half-way up that flight of stairs was a window—a window through which Mr. Day was peering a few seconds afterwards.
It was at this point in the narrative that Mr. Day was wont to pause, while his listeners drew closer. Standing between the four huge dynamos which supplied the whole of the power necessary for the works were ten or a dozen men. Three of them had their hands lashed behind their backs, and these were the only three whose faces he could see. The others—and here came a still more impressive pause—were completely covered in black from head to foot. Black masks—black cloaks, the only difference between them being in height. He couldn’t hear what was being said: ever since the Boer War Mr. Day had been a little hard of hearing. But what it reminded him of was a drum-head court-martial. The three men whose hands were lashed behind them were the prisoners; the men in black, standing motionless round them, their judges. He heard vaguely the sound of a voice which went on speaking for some time. And since the three bound men seemed to be staring at one of the masked figures, he concluded that that must be the speaker. Then he saw the masked men surround the other three closely, and when they stood back again Mr. Day noticed that the prisoners had been gagged as well as bound. It was at this moment, apparently, that a hazy idea of going for the police penetrated his brain for the first time, but it was too late. Powerless in the hands of their captors, the three men were forced to the door, and shortly afterwards Mr. Day affirmed that he heard the sound of a car driving off. But he was unable to swear to it; he was still flattening a fascinated nose against the window; for two of the masked