The British Mysteries Edition: 14 Novels & 70+ Short Stories. Sapper
ragged beard. At the end of the table was a vacant chair, on the right of which sat Lakington regarding him with malevolent fury. Along the table on each side there were half a dozen men, and he glanced at their faces. Some were obviously foreigners; some might have been anything from murderers to Sunday-school teachers. There was one with spectacles and the general appearance of an intimidated rabbit, while his neighbour, helped by a large red scar right across his cheek, and two bloodshot eyes, struck Hugh as being the sort of man with whom one would not share a luncheon basket.
"I know he'd snatch both drumsticks and gnaw them simultaneously," he reflected, staring at him fascinated; "and then he'd throw the bones in your face."
Peterson's voice from just behind his shoulder roused him from his distressing reverie.
"Permit me, gentlemen, to introduce to you Captain Drummond, D.S.O., M.C., the originator of the little entertainment we have just had."
Hugh bowed gravely.
"My only regret is that it failed to function," he remarked. "As I told you outside, I'd quite forgotten your menagerie. In fact"—his glance wandered slowly and somewhat pointedly from face to face at the table—"I had no idea it was such a large one."
"So this is the insolent young swine, is it?" The bloodshot eyes of the man with the scarred face turned on him morosely. "What I cannot understand is why he hasn't been killed by now."
Hugh waggled an accusing finger at him.
"I knew you were a nasty man as soon as I saw you. Now look at Henry up at the end of the table; he doesn't say that sort of thing. And you do hate me, don't you, Henry? How's the jaw?"
"Captain Drummond," said Lakington, ignoring Hugh and addressing the first speaker, "was very nearly killed last night. I thought for some time as to whether I would or not, but I finally decided it would be much too easy a death. So it can be remedied to-night."
If Hugh felt a momentary twinge of fear at the calm, expressionless tone, and the half-satisfied grunt which greeted the words, no trace of it showed on his face. Already the realisation had come to him that if he got through the night alive he would be more than passing lucky, but he was too much of a fatalist to let that worry him unduly. So he merely stifled a yawn, and again turned to Lakington.
"So it was you, my little one, whose fairy face I saw pressed against the window. Would it be indiscreet to ask how you got the dope into us?"
Lakington looked at him with an expression of grim satisfaction on his face.
"You were gassed, if you want to know. An admirable invention of my friend Kauffner's nation."
A guttural chuckle came from one of the men, and Hugh looked at him grimly.
"The scum certainly would not be complete," he remarked to Peterson, "without a filthy Boche in it."
The German pushed back his chair with an oath, his face purple with passion.
"A filthy Boche," he muttered thickly, lurching towards Hugh. "Hold him the arms of, and I will the throat tear out...."
The intimidated rabbit rose protestingly at this prospect of violence; the scarred sportsman shot out of his chair eagerly, the lust of battle in his bloodshot eyes. The only person save Hugh who made no movement was Peterson, and he, very distinctly, chuckled. Whatever his failings, Peterson had a sense of humour....
It all happened so quickly. At one moment Hugh was apparently intent upon selecting a cigarette, the next instant the case had fallen to the floor; there was a dull, heavy thud, and the Boche crashed back, overturned a chair, and fell like a log to the floor, his head hitting the wall with a vicious crack. The bloodshot being resumed his seat a little limply; the intimidated bunny gave a stifled gasp and breathed heavily; Hugh resumed his search for a cigarette.
"After which breezy interlude," remarked Peterson, "let us to business get."
Hugh paused in the act of striking a match, and for the first time a genuine smile spread over his face.
"There are moments, Peterson," he murmured, "when you really appeal to me."
Peterson took the empty chair next to Lakington.
"Sit down," he said shortly. "I can only hope that I shall appeal to you still more before we kill you."
Hugh bowed and sat down.
"Consideration," he murmured, "was always your strong point. May I ask how long I have to live?"
Peterson smiled genially.
"At the very earnest request of Mr. Lakington you are to be spared until to-morrow morning. At least, that is our present intention. Of course, there might be an accident in the night: in a house like this one can never tell. Or"—he carefully cut the end off a cigar—"you might go mad, in which case we shouldn't bother to kill you. In fact, it would really suit our book better if you did: the disposal of corpses, even in these days of advanced science, presents certain difficulties—not insuperable—but a nuisance. And so, if you go mad, we shall not be displeased."
Once again he smiled genially.
"As I said before, in a house like this, you never can tell...."
The intimidated rabbit, still breathing heavily, was staring at Hugh, fascinated; and after a moment Hugh turned to him with a courteous bow.
"Laddie," he remarked, "you've been eating onions. Do you mind deflecting the blast in the opposite direction?"
His calm imperturbability seemed to madden Lakington, who with a sudden movement rose from his chair and leaned across the table, while the veins stood out like whipcord on his usually expressionless face.
"You wait," he snarled thickly; "you wait till I've finished with you. You won't be so damned humorous then...."
Hugh regarded the speaker languidly.
"Your supposition is more than probable," he remarked, in a bored voice. "I shall be too intent on getting into a Turkish bath to remove the contamination to think of laughing."
Slowly Lakington sank back in his chair, a hard, merciless smile on his lips; and for a moment or two there was silence in the room. It was broken by the unkempt man on the sofa, who, without warning, exploded unexpectedly.
"A truce to all this fooling," he burst forth in a deep rumble; "I confess I do not understand it. Are we assembled here to-night, comrades, to listen to private quarrels and stupid talk?"
A murmur of approval came from the others, and the speaker stood up waving his arms.
"I know not what this young man has done: I care less. In Russia such trifles matter not. He has the appearance of a bourgeois, therefore he must die. Did we not kill thousands—aye, tens of thousands of his kidney, before we obtained the great freedom? Are we not going to do the same in this accursed country?" His voice rose to the shrill, strident note of the typical tub-thumper. "What is this wretched man," he continued, waving a hand wildly at Hugh, "that he should interrupt the great work for one brief second? Kill him now—throw him in a corner, and let us proceed."
He sat down again, amidst a further murmur of approval, in which Hugh joined heartily.
"Splendid," he murmured. "A magnificent peroration. Am I right, sir, in assuming that you are what is vulgarly known as a Bolshevist?"
The man turned his sunken eyes, glowing with the burning fires of fanaticism, on Drummond.
"I am one of those who are fighting for the freedom of the world," he cried harshly, "for the right to live of the proletariat. The workers were the bottom dogs in Russia till they killed the rulers. Now—they rule, and the money they earn goes into their own pockets, not those of incompetent snobs." He flung out his arms wildly. "It is freedom; it is the dawn of the new age." He seemed to shrivel up suddenly, as if exhausted with the violence of his passion. Only his eyes still gleamed with the smouldering madness of his soul.
Hugh looked at him with genuine