The British Mysteries Edition: 14 Novels & 70+ Short Stories. Sapper
ain't the word for it, Captain," said the other. "Have you got him now?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes," answered Hugh, beckoning to a passing waiter. "Three Martinis."
"Where is he?" snapped the detective eagerly.
Hugh laughed.
"Being wrapped up in cottonwool by somebody else's wife and daughters. You were a little too quick, Mr. Green; you may be all you say—on the other hand, you may not. And these days I trust no one."
The American nodded his head in approval.
"Quite right," he remarked. "My motto—and yet I'm going to trust you. Weeks ago we heard things on the other side, through certain channels, as to a show which was on the rails over here. It was a bit vague, and there were big men in it; but at the time it was no concern of ours. You run your own worries, Captain, over this side."
Hugh nodded.
"Go on," he said curtly.
"Then Hiram Potts got mixed up in it; exactly how, we weren't wise to. But it was enough to bring me over here. Two days ago I got this cable." He produced a bundle of papers, and handed one to Drummond. "It's in cipher, as you see; I've put the translation underneath."
Hugh took the cablegram and glanced at it. It was short and to the point:
"Captain Hugh Drummond, of Half Moon Street, London, is your man."
He glanced up at the American, who drained his cocktail with the air of a man who is satisfied with life.
"Captain Hugh Drummond, of Half Moon Street, London, is my man," he chuckled. "Well, Captain, what about it now? Will you tell me why you've come to Paris? I guess it's something to do with the business I'm on."
For a few moments Hugh did not reply, and the American seemed in no hurry for an answer. Some early arrivals for dinner sauntered through the lounge, and Drummond watched them idly as they passed. The American detective certainly seemed all right, but ... Casually, his glance rested on a man sitting just opposite, reading the paper. He took in the short, dark beard—the immaculate, though slightly foreign evening clothes; evidently a wealthy Frenchman giving a dinner party in the restaurant by the way the head waiter was hovering around. And then suddenly his eyes narrowed, and he sat motionless.
"Are you interested in the psychology of gambling, Mr. Green?" he remarked, turning to the somewhat astonished American. "Some people cannot control their eyes or their mouth if the stakes are big; others cannot control their hands. For instance, the gentleman opposite. Does anything strike you particularly with regard to him?"
The detective glanced across the lounge.
"He seems to like hitting his knee with his left hand," he said, after a short inspection.
"Precisely," murmured Hugh. "That is why I came to Paris."
CHAPTER IX
IN WHICH HE HAS A NEAR SHAVE
I
"Captain, you have me guessing." The American bit the end off another cigar, and leaned back in his chair. "You say that swell Frenchman with the waiters hovering about like fleas round a dog's tail is the reason you came to Paris. Is he kind of friendly with Hiram C. Potts?"
Drummond laughed.
"The first time I met Mr. Potts," he remarked, "that swell Frenchman was just preparing to put a thumbscrew on his second thumb."
"Second?" The detective looked up quickly.
"The first had been treated earlier in the evening," answered Drummond quietly. "It was then that I removed your millionaire pal."
The other lit his cigar deliberately.
"Say, Captain," he murmured, "you ain't pulling my leg by any chance, are you?"
"I am not," said Drummond shortly. "I was told, before I met him, that the gentleman over there was one of the boys.... He is, most distinctly. In fact, though up to date such matters have not been much in my line, I should put him down as a sort of super-criminal. I wonder what name he is passing under here?"
The American ceased pulling at his cigar.
"Do they vary?"
"In England he is clean-shaven, possesses a daughter, and answers to Carl Peterson. As he is at present I should never have known him, but for that little trick of his."
"Possesses a daughter!" For the first time the detective displayed traces of excitement. "Holy Smoke! It can't be him!"
"Who?" demanded Drummond.
But the other did not answer. Out of the corner of his eye he was watching three men who had just joined the subject of their talk, and on his face was a dawning amazement. He waited till the whole party had gone into the restaurant, then, throwing aside his caution, he turned excitedly on Drummond.
"Are you certain," he cried, "that that's the man who has been monkeying with Potts?"
"Absolutely," said Hugh. "He recognised me; whether he thinks I recognised him or not, I don't know."
"Then what," remarked the detective, "is he doing here dining with Hocking, our cotton trust man; with Steinemann, the German coal man; and with that other guy whose face is familiar, but whose name I can't place? Two of 'em at anyrate, Captain, have got more millions than we're ever likely to have thousands."
Hugh stared at the American.
"Last night," he said slowly, "he was foregathering with a crowd of the most atrocious ragged-trousered revolutionaries it's ever been my luck to run up against."
"We're in it, Captain, right in the middle of it," cried the detective, slapping his leg. "I'll eat my hat if that Frenchman isn't Franklyn—or Libstein—or Baron Darott—or any other of the blamed names he calls himself. He's the biggest proposition we've ever been up against on this little old earth, and he's done us every time. He never commits himself, and if he does, he always covers his tracks. He's a genius; he's the goods. Gee!" he whistled gently under his breath. "If we could only lay him by the heels."
For a while he stared in front of him, lost in his dream of pleasant anticipation; then, with a short laugh, he pulled himself together.
"Quite a few people have thought the same, Captain," he remarked, "and there he is—still drinking high-balls. You say he was with a crowd of revolutionaries last night. What do you mean exactly?"
"Bolshevists, Anarchists, members of the Do-no-work-and-have-all-the-money Brigade," answered Hugh. "But excuse me a moment. Waiter."
A man who had been hovering round came up promptly.
"Four of 'em, Ted," said Hugh in a rapid undertone. "Frenchman with a beard, a Yank, and two Boches. Do your best."
"Right-o, old bean!" returned the waiter, "but don't hope for too much."
He disappeared unobtrusively into the restaurant, and Hugh turned with a laugh to the American, who was staring at him in amazement.
"Who the devil is that guy?" asked the detective at length.
"Ted Jerningham—son of Sir Patrick Jerningham, Bart., and Lady Jerningham, of Jerningham Hall, Rutland, England," answered Hugh, still grinning. "We may be crude in our methods, Mr. Green, but you must admit we do our best. Incidentally, if you want to know, your friend Mr. Potts is at present tucked between the sheets at that very house. He went there by aeroplane this morning." He waved a hand towards Jerry. "He was the pilot."
"Travelled like a bird, and sucked up a plate of meat-juice at the end," announced that worthy, removing his eyes with difficulty from a