The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
it essentially is, good form; a caste which knows only one fetish—the absolute repression of all visible emotion; a caste which incidentally pulled considerably more than its own weight in the war. McIver gave them credit for that.
“Sorry to be so long.” Drummond lowered himself into a chair. “The place is always crowded at this hour. Now, what’s the little worry?”
“It’s about the affair up at Sheffield,” said the Inspector. “I suppose you’ve seen this communication in the papers, purporting to come from the leader of the Black Gang.”
“Rather, old lad,” answered Drummond. “Waded through it over the eggs the other morning. Pretty useful effort, I thought.”
“The public at large regard it as a hoax,” continued McIver. “Now, I know it isn’t! The typewriter used in the original document is the same as was used in their previous communications.”
“By Jove, that’s quick!” said Drummond admiringly. “Deuced quick.”
McIver frowned. “Now please concentrate. Captain Drummond. The concluding sentence of the letter would lead one to suppose that there was some connection between the activities of this gang and Mr. Charles Latter’s present condition. I, personally, don’t believe it. I think it was mere coincidence. But whichever way it is, I would give a great deal to know what sent him mad.”
“Is he absolutely up the pole?” demanded Drummond.
“Absolutely! His brother has seen him, and after he had seen him he came to me. He tells me that the one marked symptom is an overmastering terror of something which he seems to see at the foot of the bed. He follows this thing round with his eyes—I suppose he thinks it’s coming towards him—and then he screams. His brother believes that someone or something must have been in his room that night—a something so terrifying that it sent him mad. To my mind, of course, the idea is wildly improbable, but strange things do occur.”
“Undoubtedly!” agreed Drummond.
“Now you were in the house,” went on the Inspector; “you even examined his room, as you told Sir Bryan. Now, did you examine it closely?”
“Even to looking under the bed,” answered Drummond brightly.
“And there was nothing there? No place where anybody or anything could hide?”
“Not a vestige of a spot. In fact, my dear old police hound,” continued Drummond, draining his glass, “if the genial brother is correct in his supposition, the only conclusion we can come to is that I sent him mad myself.”
McIver frowned again.
“I wish you’d be serious. Captain Drummond. There are other things in life beside cocktails and—this.” He waved an expressive hand round the room. “The matter is an important one. You can give me no further information? You heard no sounds during the night?”
“Only the sheep-faced man snoring,” answered Drummond with a grin. And then, of a sudden, he became serious and, leaning across the table, he stared fixedly at the Inspector.
“I think we must conclude, McIver, that the madness of Mr. Latter is due to the ghosts of the past, and perhaps the spectres of the present. A punishment, McIver, for things done which it is not good to do—a punishment which came to him in the night. That’s when the ghosts are abroad.” He noted McIver’s astonished face and gradually his own relaxed into a smile. “Pretty good, that—wasn’t it, after only one cocktail. You ought to hear me after my third.”
“Thanks very much. Captain Drummond,” laughed the Inspector, “but that was quite good enough for me. We don’t deal in ghosts in my service.”
“Well, I’ve done my best,” sighed Drummond, waving languidly at a waiter to repeat the dose. “It’s either that or me. I know my face is pretty bad, but—”
“I don’t think we need worry about either alternative,” said McIver, rising.
“Right oh, old lad,” answered Drummond. “You know best. You’ll have another?”
“No more, thanks. I have to work sometimes.”
The inspector picked up his hat and stick, and Drummond strolled across the room with him. “Give my love to Tum-tum.”
“Sir Bryan is not at the office today. Captain Drummond,” answered McIver coldly. “Good morning.”
With a faint smile Drummond watched the square, sturdy figure swing through the doors into Bond Street, then he turned and thoughtfully made his way back to the table.
“Make it seven, instead of two,” he told the waiter, who was hovering round.
And had McIver returned at that moment he would have seen six of these imperturbable, bored men rise unobtrusively from different parts of the room, and saunter idly across to the corner where he had recently been sitting. It would probably not have struck him as an unusual sight—Drummond and six of his pals having a second drink; in fact, it would have struck him as being very usual. He was an unimaginative man, was the Inspector.
“Well,” said Peter Darrell, lighting a cigarette. “And what had he got to say?”
“Nothing of interest,” answered Drummond. “I told him the truth, and he wouldn’t believe me. Algy back yet?”
“This morning,” said Ted Jerningham. “He’s coming round here. Had a bit of trouble, I gather. And, talk of the devil—here he is.”
Algy Longworth, his right arm in a sling, was threading his way towards them.
“What’s happened, Algy?” said Hugh as he came up.
“That firebrand Delmorlick stuck a knife into me,” grinned Algy. “We put him on a rope and dropped him overboard, and towed him for three hundred yards. Cooled his ardour. I think he’ll live all right.”
“And how are all the specimens?”
“Prime, old son—prime! If we leave ’em long enough, they’ll all have murdered one another.”
Drummond put down his empty glass with a laugh.
“The first British Soviet. Long life to ’em! Incidentally, ten o’clock tonight. Usual rendezvous. In view of your arm, Algy—transfer your instructions to Ted. You’ve got ’em?”
“In my pocket here. But, Hugh, I can easily—”
“Transfer to Ted, please. No argument! We’ve got a nice little job—possibly some sport. Read ’em, Ted—and business as usual. So long, boys! Phyllis and I are lunching with some awe-inspiring relatives.”
The group broke up as casually as it had formed, only Ted Jerningham remaining behind. And he was reading what looked like an ordinary letter. He read it through carefully six or seven times; then he placed it in the fire, watching it until it was reduced to ashes. A few minutes later he was sitting down to lunch with his father. Sir Patrick Jerningham, Bart., at the latter’s club in Pall Mall. And it is possible that that worthy and conscientious gentleman would not have eaten such a hearty meal had he known that his only son was detailed for a job that very night which, in the event of failure, would mean either prison or a knife in the back—probably the latter.
CHAPTER VII
In Which a Bomb Bursts at Unpleasantly Close Quarters
It was perhaps because the thought of failure never entered Hugh Drummond’s head that such a considerable measure of success had been possible up to date—that, and the absolute, unquestioning obedience which he demanded of his pals, and which they accorded him willingly. As they knew, he laid no claims to brilliance; but as they also knew, he hid a very shrewd common sense beneath his frivolous manner. And having once accepted the sound military truism that one indifferent general is better than two good ones, they accepted his leadership with unswerving loyalty. What was going to be the end of their self-imposed fight against the pests of society did not worry them