The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
come off better than many a carefully-thought-out scheme. If it hadn’t been for that he would never have come to Peterson’s sitting-room at all; he would never have been doped; he wouldn’t have been sitting helpless as a log while Peterson put down his cards one after the other in cold triumph.
“Yes, it could have waited. Captain Drummond—that second object of mine. I assure you that it was a great surprise to me when I realised who the leader of the Black Gang was—a great surprise and a great pleasure. To kill two birds, so to speak, with one stone, saves trouble; to accomplish two objects in one accident is much more artistic. So the Black Gang loses its leader, the leader loses his life, and I regain my diamonds. Eminently satisfactory, my friend, eminently. And when your dear wife returns from the country—if she does—well, Captain Drummond, it will be a very astute member of Scotland Yard who will associate her little adventure with that benevolent old clergyman, the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor, who recently spent two or three days at the Ritz. Especially in view of your kindly telephone message to Mr.—what’s his name?—Mr. Peter Darrell?” He glanced at his watch and rose to his feet.
“I fear that that is all the spiritual consolation that I can give you this evening, my dear fellow,” he remarked benignly. “You will understand, I’m sure, that there are many calls on my time. Janet, my love “—he raised his voice—”our young friend is leaving us now. I feel sure you’d like to say good-bye to him.”
She came into the room, walking a little slowly and for a while she stared in silence at Hugh. And it seemed to him that in her eyes there was a gleam of genuine pity. Once again he made a frantic effort to speak—to beg, beseech, and implore them not to hurt Phyllis—but it was useless. And then he saw her turn to Peterson.
“I suppose,” she said regretfully, “that it is absolutely necessary.”
“Absolutely,” he answered curtly. “He knows too much, and he worries us too much.”
She shrugged her shoulders and came over to Drummond. “Well, good-bye, mon ami,” she remarked gently. “I really am sorry that I shan’t see you again. You are one of the few people that make this atrocious country bearable.”
She patted him on his cheek, and again the feeling that he was dreaming came over Drummond. It couldn’t be real—this monstrous nightmare. He would wake up in a minute and find Denny standing beside him, and he registered a vow that he would go to an indigestion specialist. And then he realised that the two men had come back into the room, and that it wasn’t a dream, but hard, sober fact. The Italian was putting a hat on his head and wrapping the scarf round his neck while Peterson gave a series of curt instructions to the other man. And then he was being wheeled along the passage towards the lift, while the Reverend Theodosius walked solicitously beside him, murmuring affectionately in his ear.
“Good-bye, my dear friend—good-bye,” he remarked, after the chair had been wheeled into the lift. “It was good of you to come. Be careful, liftman, won’t you?”
He waved a kindly hand, and the last vision Drummond had of him before the doors closed was of a benevolent old clergyman beaming at him solicitously from behind a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles.
And now came his only chance. Surely there would be someone who would recognise him below; surely the hall porter, who in the past had received many a tip from him, must realise who he was in spite of the hat pulled down over his eyes. But even that hope failed. The elderly party in the invalid’s chair who had come half an hour ago was now going, and there was no reason why the hall porter should suspect anything. He gave the two men a hand lifting the chair into a big and very roomy limousine car which Drummond knew was certainly not his, and the next instant they were off.
He could see nothing—the hat was too far over his eyes. For a time he tried to follow where they were going by noting the turns, but he soon gave that up as hopeless. And then, after driving for about half an hour, the car stopped and the two men got out, leaving him alone. He could hear a lot of talking going on, but he didn’t try to listen. He was resigned by this time—utterly indifferent; his only feeling was a mild curiosity as to what was going to happen next.
The voices came nearer, and he found himself being lifted out of the car. In doing so his hat was pulled back a little so that he could see, and the first thing he noticed was his own new Rolls-Royce. They couldn’t have brought it to the Ritz, he reflected, where it might have been recognised—and an unwilling admiration for the master brain that had thought out every detail, and the wonderful organisation that allowed of them being carried out, took hold of his mind.
The men wheeled him alongside his own car; then they lifted him out of his chair and deposited him on the back seat. Then the Italian and the other man who had been at the Ritz sat down one on each side of him, while a third man took the wheel.
“Look slippy, Bill,” said the big man beside him. “A boat will be coming through about half-past nine.”
A boat! What was that about a boat? Were they going to send him out to sea, then, and let him drown? If so, what was the object of getting his own car? The hat slipped forward again, but he guessed by some of the flaring lights he could dimly see that they were going through slums. Going eastward Essex way, or perhaps the south side of the river towards Woolwich. But after a time he gave it up: it was no good wondering—he’d know for certain soon enough. And now the speed was increasing as they left London behind them. The headlights were on, and Hugh judged that they were going about thirty-five miles an hour. And he also guessed that it was about forty-five minutes before they pulled up, and the engine and lights were switched off. The men beside him got out, and he promptly rolled over into a corner, where they left him lying.
“This is the place to wait,” he heard the Italian say. “You go on, Franz, to the corner, and when it’s ready flash your torch. You’ll have to stand on the running-board. Bill, and steer till he’s round the corner into the straight. Then jump off—no one will see you behind the headlights. I’m going back to Maybrick Tower.”
And then he heard a sentence which drove him impotent with fury, and again set him struggling madly to move.
“The girl’s there. We’ll get orders about her in the morning.” There was silence for a while; then he heard Bill’s voice. “Let’s get on with it. There’s Franz signalling. We’ll have to prop him up on the steering-wheel somehow.”
They pulled Drummond out of the back of the car, and put him in the driver’s seat.
“Doesn’t matter if he does fall over at the last moment. It will look as if he’d fainted, and make the accident more probable,” said the Italian, and Bill grunted.
“Seems a crime,” he muttered, “to smash up this peach of a car.” He started the engine and switched on the headlights; then he slipped her straight into third speed and started. He was on the running-board beside the wheel, steering with one hand and holding on to Drummond with the other. As they rounded the corner he straightened the car up and opened the throttle. Then he jumped off, and Drummond realised the game at last.
A river was in front—a river spanned by a bridge which swung open to let boats go through. And it was open now. He had a dim vision of a man waving wildly; he heard the crash as the car took the guarding gate, and then he saw the bonnet dip suddenly; there was a rending, scraping noise underneath him as the framework hit the edge; an appalling splash—and silence.
CHAPTER XV
In Which Hugh Drummond Arrives at Maybrick Hall
Two things saved Drummond from what was practically certain death—the heavy coat he was wearing, and the fact that he rolled sideways clear of the steering-wheel as soon as the man let go of him with his hand. Had he remained behind the wheel he must infallibly have gone to the bottom with the car, and at that point where the river narrowed to come through the piers of the bridge the water was over twenty feet deep. He had sufficient presence of mind to take a deep breath as the car shot downwards; then he felt the water close over his head. And if before his struggles to move had been fierce—now that the end seemed at hand they became desperate. The desire to get clear—to give