The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile "Sapper". Sapper
"What do you know about Peterson, little man?" said Hugh, paying not the slightest attention to his protests.
"Nothing, save that he is the man whom we have been looking for, for years," cried the other. "The man of stupendous organising power, who has brought together and welded into one the hundreds of societies similar to mine, who before this have each, on their own, been feebly struggling towards the light. Now we are combined, and our strength is due to him."
Hugh exchanged glances with the American.
"Things become clearer," he murmured. "Tell me, little man," he continued, "now that you're all welded together, what do you propose to do?"
"That you shall see in good time," cried the other triumphantly. "Constitutional methods have failed—and, besides, we've got no time to wait for them. Millions are groaning under the intolerable bonds of the capitalist: those millions we shall free, to a life that is worthy of a man. And it will all be due to our leader—Carl Peterson."
A look of rapt adoration came into his face, and the American laughed in genuine delight.
"Didn't I tell you, Captain, that that guy was the goods?" But there was no answering smile on Hugh's face.
"He's the goods right enough," he answered grimly. "But what worries me is how to stop their delivery."
At that moment Darrell's voice came up from the hall.
"The whole bunch are stowed away, Hugh. What's the next item?"
Hugh walked to the top of the stairs.
"Bring 'em both below," he cried over his shoulder, as he went down. A grin spread over his face as he saw half a dozen familiar faces in the hall, and he hailed them cheerily.
"Like old times, boys," he laughed. "Where's the driver of the lorry?"
"That's me, sir." One of the men stepped forward. "My mate's outside."
"Good," said Hugh. "Take your bus ten miles from here: then drop that crowd one by one on the road as you go along. You can take it from me that none of 'em will say anything about it, even when they wake up. Then take her back to your garage; I'll see you later."
"Now," went on Hugh, as they heard the sound of the departing lorry, "we've got to set the scene for to-morrow morning." He glanced at his watch. "Just eleven. How long will it take me to get the old buzz-box to Laidley Towers?"
"Laidley Towers," echoed Darrell. "What the devil are you going there for?"
"I just can't bear to be parted from Henry for one moment longer than necessary," said Hugh quietly. "And Henry is there, in a praiseworthy endeavour to lift the Duchess's pearls.... Dear Henry!" His two fists clenched, and the American, looking at his face, laughed softly.
But it was only for a moment that Drummond indulged in the pleasures of anticipation; all that could come after. And just now there were other things to be done—many others, if events next morning were to go as they should.
"Take those two into the centre room," he cried. "Incidentally there's a dead Boche on the floor, but he'll come in very handy in my little scheme."
"A dead Boche!" The intimidated rabbit gave a frightened squeak. "Good Heavens! you ruffian, this is beyond a joke."
Hugh looked at him coldly.
"You'll find it beyond a joke, you miserable little rat," he said quietly, "if you speak to me like that." He laughed as the other shrank past him. "Three of you boys in there," he ordered briskly, "and if either of them gives the slightest trouble clip him over the head. Now let's have the rest of the crowd in here, Peter."
They came filing in, and Hugh waved a cheery hand in greeting.
"How goes it, you fellows," he cried with his infectious grin. "Like a company pow-wow before popping the parapet. What! And it's a bigger show this time, boys, than any you've had over the water." His face set grimly for a moment; then he grinned again, as he sat down on the foot of the stairs. "Gather round, and listen to me."
For five minutes he spoke, and his audience nodded delightedly. Apart from their love for Drummond—and three out of every four of them knew him personally—it was a scheme which tickled them to death. And he was careful to tell them just enough of the sinister design of the master-criminal to make them realise the bigness of the issue.
"That's all clear, then," said Drummond rising. "Now I'm off. Toby, I want you to come too. We ought to be there by midnight."
"There's only one point, Captain," remarked the American, as the group began to disperse. "That safe—and the ledger." He fumbled in his pocket, and produced a small india-rubber bottle. "I've got the soup here—gelignite," he explained, as he saw the mystified look on the other's face. "I reckoned it might come in handy. Also a fuse and detonator."
"Splendid!" said Hugh, "splendid! You're an acquisition, Mr. Green, to any gathering. But I think—I think—Lakington first. Oh! yes—most undoubtedly—Henry first!"
And once again the American laughed softly at the look on his face.
CHAPTER XI
IN WHICH LAKINGTON PLAYS HIS LAST "COUP"
I
"Toby, I've got a sort of horrid feeling that the hunt is nearly over."
With a regretful sigh Hugh swung the car out of the sleeping town of Godalming in the direction of Laidley Towers. Mile after mile dropped smoothly behind the powerful two-seater, and still Drummond's eyes wore a look of resigned sadness.
"Very nearly over," he remarked again. "And then once more the tedium of respectability positively stares us in the face."
"You'll be getting married, old bean," murmured Toby Sinclair hopefully.
For a moment his companion brightened up.
"True, O King," he answered. "It will ease the situation somewhat; at least, I suppose so. But think of it, Toby: no Lakington, no Peterson—nothing at all to play about with and keep one amused."
"You're very certain, Hugh." With a feeling almost of wonder Sinclair glanced at the square-jawed, ugly profile beside him. "There's many a slip..."
"My dear old man," interrupted Drummond, "there's only one cure for the proverb-quoting disease—a dose of salts in the morning." For a while they raced on through the warm summer's night in silence, and it was not till they were within a mile of their destination that Sinclair spoke again.
"What are you going to do with them, Hugh?"
"Who—our Carl and little Henry?" Drummond grinned gently. "Why, I think that Carl and I will part amicably—unless, of course, he gives me any trouble. And as for Lakington—we'll have to see about Lakington." The grin faded from his face as he spoke. "We'll have to see about our little Henry," he repeated softly. "And I can't help feeling, Toby, that between us we shall find a method of ridding the earth of such a thoroughly unpleasing fellow."
"You mean to kill him?" grunted the other non-committally.
"Just that, and no more," responded Hugh. "To-morrow morning as ever is. But he's going to get the shock of his young life before it happens."
He pulled the car up silently in the deep shadows of some trees, and the two men got out.
"Now, old boy, you take her back to The Elms. The ducal abode is close to—I remember in my extreme youth being worse than passing sick by those bushes over there after a juvenile bun-worry..."
"But confound it all," spluttered Toby Sinclair. "Don't you want me to help you?"
"I do: by taking the buzz-box