The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
Drummond, to whom the presence of actual danger was as meat and drink, took not the slightest notice. His brain, ice-cold and clear, was moving rapidly. It had not been a mistake, he had heard voices—voices which came from that very room in which they now were. Men had been there—men who had got out by some other way. And Ginger Martin was trapped—all of them. More out of thoughtlessness than anything else, he brushed the swearing crook aside with the back of his hand—much as one brushes away a troublesome fly. And Martin, feeling as if he’d been kicked in the mouth by a horse, ceased to swear.…
It was uncanny—devilish. The room was empty, save for them, suddenly flooded with light. But by whom? Drummond felt they were being watched. But by whom? And then suddenly he heard Ted Jerningham’s voice, low and tense.
“There’s a man watching us, Hugh. I can see his eyes. In that big safe door.”
Like a flash, Drummond swung round, and looked at the safe. Ted was right; he could see the eyes himself, and they were fixed on him with an expression of malignant fury through a kind of opening that looked like the slit in a letter box. For a moment or two they remained there, staring at him, then they disappeared, and the opening through which he had seen them disappeared also, and seemed to become part of the door. And it was just as he was moving towards this mysterious safe to examine it closer that with a sudden clang, another opening appeared—one much larger than the first. He stopped involuntarily as something was thrown through into the room—something which hissed and spluttered.
For a moment he gazed at it uncomprehendingly as it lay on the floor; then he gave a sudden, tense order.
“On your faces—for your lives!” His voice cut through the room like a knife. “Behind the desk, you fools! It’s a bomb!”
CHAPTER VIII
In Which the Bag of Nuts Is Found by Accident
It was the desk that saved Drummond, and with him Ted Jerningham. Flat on their faces, their arms covering their heads, they lay on the floor waiting, as in days gone by they had waited for the bursting of a too-near crump. They heard Ginger Martin, as he blundered round the room, and then—suddenly it came.
There was a deafening roar, and a sheet of flame which seemed to fill the room. Great lumps of the ceiling rained down and the big roll-top desk, cracked in pieces and splintered into matchwood, fell over on top of them. But it had done its work: it had borne the full force of the explosion in their direction. As a desk its day was past; it had become a series of holes roughly held together by fragments of wood.
So much Drummond could see by the aid of his torch. With the explosion all the lights had gone out, and for a while he lay pressed against Ted Jerningham trying to recover his wits. His head was singing like a bursting kettle: his back felt as if it was broken where a vast lump of ceiling had hit him. But after moving his legs cautiously and then his arms, he decided that he was still alive. And having arrived at that momentous conclusion the necessity for prompt action became evident. A bomb bursting in London is not exactly a private affair.
“Are you all right, Ted?” he muttered hoarsely, his mouth full of plaster and dust.
“I think so, old man,” answered Jerningham, and Drummond heaved a sigh of relief. “I got a whack on the back of the head from something.”
Drummond scrambled to his feet, and switched on his torch. The wreckage was complete, but it was for the third member of the party that he was looking. And after a moment or two he found him, and cursed with a vigorous fury that boded ill for the person who had thrown the bomb, if he ever met him.
For Ginger Martin, being either too frightened or too ignorant, had not done as he was told. There had been no desk between him and the bomb when it burst, and what was left of him adorned a corner. There was nothing to be done: the unfortunate crook would never again burgle a safe. And the only comfort to Drummond was that death must have been absolutely instantaneous.
“Poor devil,” he muttered. “Someone is going to pay for this.”
And then he felt Ted Jerningham clutching his arm.
“It’s blown a hole in the wall, man. Look.”
It was true: he could see the light of a street lamp shining through a great jagged hole.
“Some bomb,” he muttered. “Let’s clear.”
He gave a final flash of his torch round the floor, as they moved towards the shattered wall, and then suddenly stopped.
“What’s that?”
Right in the centre of the beam, lying in the middle of the floor, was a small chamois-leather bag. It seemed unhurt, and, without thinking, Hugh picked it up and put it in his pocket. Then, switching off the torch, they both clambered through the hole, dropped on to a lean-to roof, and reached the ground.
They were at the back of the house in some deserted mews, and rapidity of movement was dearly indicated. Already a crowd was hurrying to the scene of the explosion, and slipping quietly out of the dark alley, they joined in themselves.
“Go home, Ted,” said Drummond. “I must get the others.”
“Right, old man.” He made no demur, but just vanished quietly, while his leader slouched on towards the front door of Number 5, Green Street. The police were already beating on it, while a large knot of interested spectators giving gratuitous advice stood around them. And in the crowd Drummond could see six of his gang: six anxious men who had determined—police or no police—to get upstairs and see what had happened. In one and all their minds was a sickening fear, that the man they followed had at last bitten off more than he could chew—that they’d find him blown to pieces in the mysterious room upstairs.
And then, quite clear and distinct above the excited comments of the crowd, came the hooting of an owl. A strange sound to hear in a London street, but no one paid any attention. Other more engrossing matters were on hand, more engrossing that is to all except the six men who instantaneously swung half round as they heard it. For just a second they had a glimpse of a huge figure standing in the light of a lamp-post on the other side of the street—then it disappeared. And with astonishing celerity they followed its example. Whoever had been hurt it was not Drummond; and that, at the moment, was all they were concerned with.
By devious routes they left the scene of the explosion—each with the same goal in his mind. The owl had only hooted once, which meant that they were to reassemble as soon as possible: the second call, which meant disperse, had not been given. And so within an hour six young men, shorn of all disguise and clad in immaculate evening clothes, were admitted to Drummond’s house in Brook Street by a somewhat sleepy Denny.
They found Hugh arrayed in a gorgeous dressing-gown with a large tankard of beer beside him, and his wife sitting on the arm of his chair.
“Beer, souls,” he grunted. “In the corner, as usual.”
“What happened, old lad?” asked Peter Darrell.
“I got handed the frozen mitten. I asked for bread, and they put across a half-brick. To be absolutely accurate we got into the room all right, and having got in we found we couldn’t get out. Then someone switched on the light, and bunged a bomb at us through a hole in the door. Quite O.K., old girl “—he put a reassuring arm round Phyllis’s waist—”I think we’d be still there if they hadn’t.”
“Is Ted all right?” asked Toby Sinclair.
“Yes. Ted’s all right. Got a young load of bricks in his back when the ceiling came down—but he’s all right. It’s the other poor devil—Ginger Martin.” His face was grim and stern, and the others waited in silence for him to continue.
“There was a big desk in the room, and the bomb fell on one side of it. Ted and I gave our well-known impersonation of an earthworm on the other, which saved us. Unfortunately, Ginger Martin elected to run round in small circles and curse. And he will curse no more.”
“Dead?” Peter Darrell’s voice was low.
“Very,”