The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
you remember that Italian toxicologist—Fransioli?” he remarked. “We met him in Naples three years ago, and he obligingly told me that he had in his possession the secret of one of the real Borgia poisons. I remember I had a most interesting discussion with him on the subject. The internal application is harmless; the external application is what matters. That acts alone, but if the victim can be induced to take it internally as well it acts very much better.”
“Fransioli?” She frowned thoughtfully. “Wasn’t that the name of the man who had the fatal accident on Vesuvius?”
“That’s the fellow,” answered the Reverend Theodosius, arranging a siphon and some glasses on a tray. “He persuaded me to ascend it with him, and on the way up he was foolish enough to tell me that the bottles containing this poison had been stolen from his laboratory. I don’t know whether he suspected me or not—I was an Austrian Baron at the time, if I remember aright—but when he proceeded to peer over the edge of the crater at a most dangerous point I thought it better to take no risks. So—er—the accident occurred. And I gathered he was really a great loss to science.”
He glanced at his watch, and the girl laughed delightedly. “It will be interesting to see if his claims for it are true,” he continued thoughtfully. “I have only used it once, but on that occasion I inadvertently put too much into the wine, and the patient died. But with the right quantities it produces—so he stated, and I saw him experiment on a dog—a type of partial paralysis, not only of the body, but of the mind. You can see, you can hear, but you can’t speak and you can’t move. What ultimately happens with a human being I don’t know, but the dog recovered.”
A quick double knock came at the door, and with a final glance round the room the Reverend Theodosius crossed to his desk and sat down.
“Come in,” he called, and a small dapper-looking man entered.
“Number 13, sir,” said the newcomer briefly, and the other nodded.
“I am expecting a man here shortly, 13,” remarked the clergyman, “whose voice I shall want you to imitate over the telephone.
“Only over the telephone, sir?”
“Only over the telephone. You will not be able to be in this room, but there is a bathroom adjoining in which you can hear every word that is spoken.” The other nodded as if satisfied. “For how long will you require to hear him talk?”
“Five or ten minutes, sir, will be ample.”
“Good. You shall have that. There’s the bathroom. Go in, and don’t make a sound.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And wait. Have Giuseppi and Number 10 come yet?”
“They left headquarters, sir, just after I did. They should be here by now.”
The man disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and once again the Reverend Theodosius glanced at his watch.
“Our young friend should be here shortly,” he murmured. “And then the single which he seems so anxious to play can begin in earnest.”
The benign expression which he had adopted as part of his role disappeared for an instant to be replaced by a look of cold fury.
“The single will begin in earnest,” he repeated softly, “and it’s the last one he will ever play.”
The girl shrugged her shoulders. “He has certainly asked for it,” she remarked, “but it strikes me that you had better be careful. You may bet on one thing—that he hasn’t kept his knowledge about you and me to himself. Half those young idiots that run about behind him know everything by this time, and if they go to Scotland Yard it will be very unpleasant for us, mon cheri. And that they certainly will do if anything should happen to dear Hugh.”
The clergyman smiled resignedly. “After all these years, you think it necessary to say that to me! My dear, you pain me—you positively wound me to the quick. I will guarantee that all Drummond’s friends sleep soundly in their beds tonight, harbouring none but the sweetest thoughts of the kindly and much-maligned old clergyman at the Ritz.”
“And what of Drummond himself?” continued the girl.
“It may be tonight, or it may be tomorrow. But accidents happen at all times—and one is going to happen to him.” He smiled sweetly, and lit a cigar. “A nasty, sticky accident which will deprive us of his presence. I haven’t worried over the details yet—but doubtless the inspiration will come. And here, if I mistake not, is our hero himself.”
The door swung open and Drummond entered. “Well, Carl, old lad,” he remarked breezily, “here I am on the stroke of time with the bag of nuts all complete.”
“Excellent,” murmured the clergyman, waving a benevolent hand towards the only free chair. “But if you must call me by my Christian name, why not make it Theo?” Drummond grinned delightedly.
“As you wish, my little one. Theo it shall be in future, and Janet.” He bowed to the girl as he sat down. “There’s just one little point I want to mention, Theo, before we come to the laughter and games. Peter Darrell, whom you may remember of old, and who lunched with us today, is sitting on the telephone in my house. And eight o’clock is the time limit. Should his childish fears for my safety and my wife’s not be assuaged by that hour, he will feel compelled to interrupt Tum-tum at his dinner. I trust I make myself perfectly clear.”
“You are the soul of lucidity,” beamed the clergyman.
“Good! Then first of all, there are the diamonds. No, don’t come too near, please, you can count them quite easily from where you are.” He tumbled them out of the bag, and they lay on the table like great pools of liquid light. The girl’s breath came quickly as she saw them, and Drummond turned on her with a smile.
“To one given up to good works and knitting, Janet, doubtless, such things do not appeal. Tell me, Theo,” he remarked as he swept them back into the bag—”who was the idiot who put them in Snooks’ desk? Don’t answer if you’d rather not give away your maidenly secrets; but it was a pretty full-sized bloomer on his part, wasn’t it—pooping off the old bomb?”
He leaned back in his chair, and for a moment a gleam shone in the other’s eyes, for the nape of Drummond’s neck came exactly against the centre of the impregnated linen cover.
“Doubtless, Captain Drummond, doubtless,” he murmured politely. “But if you will persist in talking in riddles, don’t you think we might choose a different subject until Mrs. Drummond arrives?”
“Anything you like, Theo,” said Drummond. “I’m perfectly happy talking about you. How the devil do you do it?” He sat up and stared at the other man with genuine wonder on his face. “Eyes different—nose—voice—figure—everything different. You’re a marvel—but for that one small failing of yours.”
“You interest me profoundly,” said the clergyman. “What is this one small failing that makes you think I am other than what I profess to be?”
Drummond laughed genially.
“Good heavens, don’t you know what it is? Hasn’t Janet told you? It’s that dainty little trick of yours of tickling the left ear with the right big toe that marks you every time. No man can do that, Theo, and blush unseen.”
He leaned back again in his chair, and passed his hand over his forehead.
“By Jove, it’s pretty hot in here, isn’t it?”
“It is close everywhere today,” answered the other easily, though his eyes behind the spectacles were fixed intently on Drummond. “Would you care for a drink?”
Drummond smiled; the sudden fit of muzziness seemed to have passed as quickly as it had come.
“Thank you—no,” he answered politely. “In your last incarnation, Theo, you may remember that I did not drink with you.