The British Mysteries Edition: 14 Novels & 70+ Short Stories. Sapper
"I don't seem to know the name, sir."
"Nor did I, Denny, until about an hour ago. But I have it on reliable authority that she exists."
"But how, sir..." began the bewildered Denny.
"At the moment the way is dark," admitted Drummond. "The fog of war enwraps me. Beer, fool, beer."
Accustomed to the little vagaries of his master, Denny left the room to return shortly with a large jug of beer which he placed on a small table beside Drummond's chair. Then he waited motionless behind his chair with a pencil and writing-block in his hand.
"A snob, Denny; a snob," said Drummond at length, putting down his empty glass. "How does one best penetrate into the life and home of a female snob whom one does not even know by sight? Let us reason from first principles. What have we in our repertoire that would fling wide the portals of her house, revealing to our awestruck gaze all the footmen ranged in a row?" He rose suddenly. "I've got it, Denny; at least some of it. We have old Turnip- top. Is he not a cousin of mine?"
"You mean Lord Stavely, sir," said Denny diffidently.
"Of course I do, you ass. Who else?" Clasping his replenished glass of beer, Hugh strode up and down the room. "Somehow or other we must drag him in."
"He's in Central Africa, sir," reminded Denny cautiously.
"What the devil does that matter? Julia—I mean Dorothy—won't know. Probably never heard of the poor old thing. Write, fool; take your pen and write quickly.
"'Dear Lady Manton,
"'I hope you have not forgotten the pleasant few days we spent together at Wiltshire Towers this spring.'"
"But you didn't go to the Duke's this spring, sir," gasped Denny.
"I know that, you ass—but no more did she. To be exact, the place was being done up, only she won't know. Go on, I'm going to overflow again."
"'I certainly have not forgotten the kind invitation you gave to my cousin Staveley and myself to come and stop with you. He, at the moment, is killing beasts in Africa: whereas I am condemned to this unpleasant country. To- morrow I have to go to Sheffield...'"
He paused. "Why, Denny—why do I have to go to Sheffield? Why in Heaven's name does anyone ever go to Sheffield?"
"They make knives there, sir."
"Do they? But you needn't go there to buy them. And anyway, I don't want knives."
"You might just say on business, sir," remarked his servant.
"Gad! you're a genius, Denny. Put that in. 'Sheffield on business, and I wondered if I might take you at your word and come to...' Where's the bally woman live? Look it up in Who's Who."
"Drayton House, sir," announced Denny.
"'To Drayton House for a day or two. Yours very sincerely.' That'll do the trick, Denny. Give it to me, and I'll write it out. A piece of the best paper with the crest and telephone number embossed in blue, and the victory is ours."
"Aren't you giving her rather short notice, sir?" said Denny doubtfully.
Drummond laid down his pen and stared at him sadly.
"Sometimes, Denny, I despair of you," he answered. "Even after four years of communion with me there are moments when you relapse into your pristine brain wallow. If I gave her any longer it is just conceivable—though I admit not likely—that I might get my answer from her stating that she was completely unaware of my existence, and that she'd sent my letter to the police. And where should we be then, my faithful varlet? As it is, I shall arrive at Drayton House just after the letter, discover with horror that I have made a mistake, and be gracefully forgiven by my charming hostess as befits a man with such exalted friends. Now run away and get me a taxi."
"Will you be in to dinner, sir?"
"Perhaps—perhaps not. In case I'm not, I shall go up to Sheffield in the Rolls to-morrow. See that everything is packed."
"Will you want me to come with you, sir?"
"No, Denny—not this time. I have a sort of premonition that I'm going to enjoy myself at Drayton House, and you're too young for that sort of thing."
With a resigned look on his face, Denny left the room, closing the door gently behind him. But Drummond, left to himself, did not at once continue his letter to Lady Manton. With his pen held loosely in his hand he sat at his desk staring thoughtfully at the wall opposite. Gone completely was his customary inane look of good humour: in its place was an expression of quiet, almost grim, determination. He had the air of a man faced with big decisions, and to whom, moreover, such an experience was no novelty. For some five minutes he sat there motionless; then with a short laugh he came out of his reverie.
"We're getting near the motto, my son," he muttered—"deuced near. If we don't draw the badger in a few weeks, I'll eat my hat."
With another laugh he turned once more to his half-finished letter. And a minute or two later, having stamped and addressed the envelope, he slipped it into his pocket and rose. He crossed the room and unlocked a small safe which stood in the corner. From it he took a small automatic revolver which he dropped into his coat pocket, also a tiny bundle of what looked like fine black silk. Then, having relocked the safe he picked up his hat and stick and went into the hall.
"Denny," he called, pausing by the front door.
"Sir," answered that worthy, appearing from the back premises.
"If Mr. Darrell or any of them ring up I shall be tearing a devilled bone to-night at the Savoy grill at eleven o'clock."
IV. — IN WHICH COUNT ZADOWA GETS A SHOCK
Number 5, Green Street, Hoxton, was not a prepossessing abode. A notice on one of the dingy downstair windows announced that Mr. William Atkinson was prepared to advance money on suitable security: a visit during business hours revealed that this was no more than the truth, even if the appearance of Mr. Atkinson's minion caused the prospective borrower to wonder how he had acquired such an aggressively English name.
The second and third floors were apparently occupied by his staff, which seemed unduly large considering the locality and quality of his business. Hoxton is hardly in that part of London where large sums of money might be expected to change hands, and yet there was no doubt that Mr. William Atkinson's staff was both large and busy. So busy indeed were his clerks that frequently ten and eleven o'clock at night found them still working hard, though the actual business of the day downstairs concluded at six o'clock—eight Saturdays.
It was just before closing time on the day after the strange affair down at Barking that a large, unkempt-looking individual presented himself at Mr. Atkinson's office. His most pressing need would have seemed to the casual observer to be soap and water, but his appearance apparently excited no surprise in the assistant downstairs. Possibly Hoxton is tolerant of such trifles.
The clerk—a pale, anaemic-looking man with an unhealthy skin and a hook nose—rose wearily from his rest.
"What do you want?" he demanded morosely.
"Wot d'yer think!" retorted the other. "Cat's meat?"
The clerk recoiled, and the blood mounted angrily to his sallow face. "Don't you use that tone with me, my man," he said angrily. "I'd have you to know that this is my office."
"Yus," answered the other. "Same as it's your nose sitting there like a lump o' putty stuck on to a suet pudding. And if I 'ave any o' your lip, I'll pull it off—see. Throw it outside, I will, and you after it—you parboiled lump of bad tripe. Nah, then—business." With a blow that shook the office he thumped the desk with a huge fist. "I ain't got no time to waste—even if you 'ave. 'Ow much?" He threw a pair of thick hob- nailed boots on to the counter, and stood glaring at the other.