The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
the party beckoned to a passing waiter. “Say, Mr. Longmoor, will you drink a cocktail with me? And your daughter, too?”
“It is very good of you, sir,” answered the clergyman, with a courteous bow. “My little girl has never even tasted one and I think perhaps she had better not. What do you think, my child?”
“I’d love to try. Daddy, dear,” she said coaxingly. “Do you think I might? Or would it make my head go funny?”
They all laughed.
“That settles it. Miss Longmoor,” cried the man. “I’ve ordered one for you, and if you don’t drink it your father will have to drink two.”
Undoubtedly a charming couple had been the verdict of these chance acquaintances—so simple, so fresh, so unassuming in these days of complexity and double-dealing. The only pity of it was, as the square-jawed man remarked to his wife at dinner, that the very quality of child-like simplicity which made them so charming was the one which laid them open to the most barefaced swindling if they ever came up against blackguards.
After dinner they had all drunk coffee together, and then, because his little Janet was tired, the Reverend Theodore and his daughter had retired after accepting an invitation to dinner the next day.
“Who are they?” asked Janet, as they entered their sitting-room.
“That square-jawed man is John Pendel,” answered her father, thoughtfully lighting a cigar. “Worth about three million. He’s good for dining with, though I’m not over here on any sideshows.”
And then for two hours until he got up and rang the bell, the Reverend Theodosius remained engrossed in work; while his little Janet, lying on the sofa, displayed considerably more leg than one would have expected a vicar’s daughter even to possess. And occasional gurgles of laughter seemed to prove that Guy de Maupassant appeals to a more catholic audience than he would have suspected.
She was knitting decorously when the waiter came in, and her father ordered a little supper to be sent up.
“Some chicken, please, and a little foie gras. I am expecting a friend very soon—so lay for three. Some champagne—yes. Perrier Jouet ’04 will do. I’m afraid I don’t know much about wine. And a little Vichy water for my daughter.”
The waiter withdrew, and the Reverend Theodosius chuckled.
“There’s a very good bath you can empty it down, my dear,” he said. “But I don’t think my little Janet should drink champagne so late. It might make her head go funny.”
She smiled and then grew serious.
“What time do you expect Zadowa?”
“He should have been here by now. I don’t know why he’s late.”
“Did you see him this afternoon?”
“No. I was down at the office, but only for a short while.” The sound of voices outside the door caused Janet to resume her knitting, and the next moment Count Zadowa was announced. For an appreciable time after the waiter had withdrawn he stood staring at them: then a smile crossed his face.
“Magnificent,” he murmured. “Superb. Madame, I felicitate you. Well though I know your powers, this time you have excelled yourself.”
“Cut that out, and get to business,” returned little Janet shortly, “I’m tired.”
“But should we be interrupted,” remarked the Reverend Theodosius, “we have just returned from an extensive tour in the famine-stricken area round Vienna.” The Count bowed and smiled again.
“C’est entendu,” he said quietly. “And now we will certainly get to business. For I have the most wonderful news for you, mes amis.”
A warning gesture from the girl announced the arrival of supper, and for a while the conversation turned on the rival merits of different types of soup kitchen. And it was not until the outer door finally closed behind the waiter that the Reverend Theodosius bit the end off another cigar and stared at his visitor with eyes from which every trace of kindliness had vanished.
“It’s about time you did have some good news, Zadowa,” he snapped. “Anything more damned disgraceful than the way you’ve let this so—called Black Gang do you in, I’ve never heard of.”
But the other merely smiled quietly.
“I admit it,” he murmured. “Up to date they have scored a faint measure of success—exaggerated, my friends, greatly exaggerated by the papers. Tonight came the reckoning, which incidentally is the reason why I am a little late. Tonight “—he leaned forward impressively—”the leader of the gang himself honoured me with a visit. And the leader will lead no more.”
“You killed him,” said the girl, helping herself to champagne.
“I did,” answered the Count. “And without the leader I think we can ignore the gang.”
“That’s all right as far as it goes,” said the Reverend Theodosius in a slightly mollified tone. “But have you covered all your traces? In this country the police get peevish over murder.”
The Count gave a self-satisfied smile. “Not only that,” he remarked, “but I have made it appear as if he had killed himself. Listen, my friends, and I will give you a brief statement of the events of the past few days. It was the day before the affair at Sheffield which caused such a commotion in the papers that I suddenly found out that the leader of this gang had discovered my headquarters in Hoxton. I was actually talking to that wretched man Latter in my office at the time, when I heard outside the call of an owl. Now from information I had received, that was the rallying call of their gang, and I dashed into the passage. Sure enough, standing by the door at the end was a huge man covered from head to foot in black. Whether it was bravado that made him give the cry, or whether it was a ruse to enable him to see me, is immaterial now. As I say—he is dead. But—and this is the point—it made me decide that the office there, convenient though it was, would have to be given up. There were far too many incriminating documents to allow me to run the risk of a police raid; and since I frankly admit now that I was not at all sure what were the relations between this gang and the police, I decided to move my headquarters.”
Count Zadowa helped himself to a sandwich before continuing, with a pleasant feeling that the motionless attention of the Reverend Theodosius was a compliment to his powers as a raconteur. And as the hunchback reflected complacently, there was no falling off in this story—no anticlimax.
“Tonight,” he continued, sipping his glass, “I was completing the final sorting out of my papers with my secretary, when the electric warning disc on my desk glowed red. Now the office was empty, and the red light meant that someone had opened the door outside. I heard nothing, which only made it all the more suspicious. So between us we gathered up every important paper, switched off all lights, and went out through the secret door. Then we waited.”
He turned to the clergyman, still motionless save for a ceaseless tapping of his left knee with his hand.
“As you know, monsieur,” he proceeded, “there is an opening in that door through which one can see into the room. And through that opening I watched developments. After a while a torch was switched on at the farther door, and I heard voices. And then the man holding the torch came cautiously in. He was turning it into every corner, but finally he focused it on the desk. I heard him speak to one of his companions, who came into the beam of light and started to pick the lock. And it was then that I switched on every light, and closed the door electrically. They were caught—caught like rats in a trap.”
The hunchback paused dramatically, and drained his champagne. If he was expecting any laudatory remarks on the part of his audience he was disappointed. But the Reverend Theodosius and his little Janet might have been carved out of marble, save for that ceaseless tapping by the man of his left knee. In fact, had Count Zadowa been less pleased with himself and less sure of the effect he was about to cause he might have had a premonition of coming danger. There was something almost terrifying