The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
dull, had not produced any really big results. A number of sprats and a few moderate-sized fish had duly been caught in the landing-net, and been sent to the private pool to meditate at leisure. But nothing really large had come their way. Zaboleff was a good haul, and the madness of Mr. Latter was all for the national welfare. But the Black Gang, which aimed merely at the repression of terrorism by terrorism, had found it too easy. The nauseating cowardice of the majority of their opponents was becoming monotonous, their strong aversion to soap and water, insanitary. They wanted big game—not the rats that emerged from the sewers.
Even Drummond had begun to feel that patriotism might be carried too far until the moment when the address in Hoxton had fallen into his hands. Then, with the optimism that lives eternal in the hunter’s breast, fresh hope had arisen in his mind. It had been held in abeyance temporarily owing to the little affair at Sheffield. Yet now that that was over he had determined on a bigger game. If it failed—if they drew blank—he had almost decided to chuck the thing up altogether. Phyllis, he knew, would be overjoyed if he did.
“Just this one final coup, old girl,” he said, as they sat waiting in the Carlton for the awe-inspiring relatives. “I’ve got it cut and dried, and it comes off tonight. If it’s a dud, we’ll dissolve ourselves—at any rate, for the present. If only—”
He sighed, and his wife looked at him reproachfully. “I know you want another fight with Petersen, you old goat,” she remarked. “But you’ll never see him again, or that horrible girl.”
“Don’t you think I shall, Phyl?” He stared despondently at his shoes. “I can’t help feeling myself that somewhere or other behind all this that cheery bird is lurking. My dear, it would be too ghastly if I never saw him again.”
“The next time you see him, Hugh,” she answered quietly, “he won’t take any chances with you.”
“But, my angel child,” he boomed cheerfully. “I don’t want him to. Not on your life! Nor shall I. Good Lord! Here they are. Uncle Timothy looks more like a mangel-wurzel than ever.”
And so at nine-thirty that evening, a party of five men sat waiting in a small sitting-room of a house situated in a remote corner of South Kensington. Some easels stood round the walls covered with half-finished sketches, as befitted a room belonging to a budding artist such as Toby Sinclair. Not that he was an artist or even a budding one, but he felt that a man must have some excuse for living in South Kensington. And so he had bought the sketches and put them round the room, principally to deceive the landlady. The fact that he was never there except at strange hours merely confirmed that excellent woman’s opinion that all artists were dissolute rascals. But he paid his rent regularly, and times were hard, especially in South Kensington. Had the worthy soul known that her second best sitting-room was the rendezvous of this Black Gang whose letter to the paper she and her husband had discussed over the matutinal kipper, it is doubtful if she would have been so complacent. But she didn’t know, and continued her weekly dusting of the sketches with characteristic zeal.
“Ted should be here soon,” said Drummond, glancing at his watch. “I hope he’s got the bird all right.”
“You didn’t get into the inner room, did you, Hugh?” said Peter Darrell.
“No. But I saw enough to know that it’s beyond our form, old lad. We’ve got to have a skilled cracksman to deal with one of the doors—and almost certainly anything important will be in a safe inside.”
“Just run over the orders again.” Toby Sinclair came back from drawing the blinds even more closely together.
“Perfectly simple,” said Hugh. “Ted and I and Ginger Martin—if he’s got him—will go straight into the house through the front door. I know the geography of the place all right, and I’ve already laid out the caretaker clerk fellow once. Then we must trust to luck. There shouldn’t be anybody there except the little blighter of a clerk. The rest of you will hang about outside in case of any trouble. Don’t bunch together, keep on the move; but keep the doors in sight. When you see us come out again, make your own way home. Can’t give you any more detailed instructions because I don’t know what may turn up. I shall rig myself out here, after Ted arrives. You had better go to your own rooms and do it, but wait first to make sure that he’s roped in Ginger Martin.”
He glanced up as the door opened and Jerry Seymour—sometime of the R.A.F.—put his head into the room.
“Ted’s here, and he got the bird all right. Unpleasant-looking bloke with a flattened face.”
“Right.” Drummond rose, and crossed to a cupboard. “Clear off, you fellows. Zero—twelve midnight.”
From the cupboard he pulled a long black cloak and mask, which he proceeded to put on, while the others disappeared with the exception of Jerry Seymour, who came into the room. He was dressed in livery like a chauffeur, and he had, in fact, been driving the car in which Ted had brought Ginger Martin.
“Any trouble?” asked Drummond.
“No. Once he was certain Ted was nothing to do with the police he came like a bird,” said Jerry. “The fifty quid did it.” Then he grinned. “You know Ted’s a marvel. I’ll defy anybody to recognise him.”
Drummond nodded, and sat down at the table facing the door.
“Tell Ted to bring him up. And I don’t want him to see you, Jerry, so keep out of the light.”
Undoubtedly Jerry Seymour was right with regard to Jerningham’s make-up. As he and Martin came into the room, it was only the sudden start and cry on the part of the crook that made Drummond certain as to which was which.
“Blimey!” muttered the man, shrinking back as he saw the huge figure in black confronting him. “Wot’s the game, guv’nor?”
“There’s no game, Martin,” said Drummond reassuringly. “You’ve been told what you’re wanted for, haven’t you? A little professional assistance tonight, for which you will be paid fifty pounds, is all we ask of you.”
But Ginger Martin still seemed far from easy in his mind. Like most of the underworld he had heard strange stories of the Black Gang long before they had attained the notoriety of print. Many of them were exaggerated, doubtless, but the general impression left in his mind was one of fear. The police were always with him: the police he understood. But this strange gang was beyond his comprehension, and that in itself was sufficient to frighten him.
“You’re one of this ’ere Black Gang,” he said sullenly, glancing at the door in front of which Jerningham was standing Should he chance it and make a dash to get away? Fifty pounds are fifty pounds, but—He gave a little shiver as his eyes came round again to the motionless figure on the other side of the table.
“Quite correct, Martin,” said the same reassuring voice. “And it’s only because I don’t want you to recognise me that I’m dressed up like this. We don’t mean you any harm.” The voice paused for a moment, and then went on again. “You understand that, Martin. We don’t mean you any harm, unless “—and once again there came a pause—”unless you try any monkey tricks. You are to do exactly as I tell you, without question and at once. If you do you will receive fifty pounds. If you don’t—well, Martin, I have ways of dealing with people who don’t do what I tell them.”
There was silence while Ginger Martin fidgeted about, looking like a trapped animal. How he wished now that he’d had nothing to do with the thing at all. But it was too late to bother about that; here he was, utterly ignorant of his whereabouts—trapped.
“What do yer want me to do, guv’nor?” he said at last.
“Open a safe amongst other things,” answered Drummond. “Have you brought your tools and things?”
“Yus—I’ve brought the outfit,” muttered the other. “Where is the safe? ’Ere?”
“No, Martin, not here. Some distance away in fact. We shall start in about an hour. Until then you will stop in this room. You can have a whisky-and-soda, and my friend