The British Mysteries Edition: 14 Novels & 70+ Short Stories. Sapper
bore the postmark of Amsterdam. It stated merely: "I am coming," and was signed X. And had anyone been present when Count Zadowa opened that letter in his private office, he would have seen an unexpected sight. He would have seen him tear the letter into a thousand pieces, and then wipe his forehead with a hand that trembled a little. For Count Zadowa, who terrified most men, was frightened himself.
The second person who viewed this sudden notoriety with dislike was Inspector McIver. And in his case, too, the reason was largely personal. He was caught on the horns of a dilemma, as Sir Bryan Johnstone, who was not too pleased with the turn of events, pointed out to him a little caustically. Either the entire thing was a hoax, in which case why had McIver himself taken such elaborate precautions to prevent anything happening? or it was not a hoax, in which case McIver had been made a complete fool of.
"I'll stake my reputation on the fact that no one got into or left the house that night. Sir Bryan," he reiterated again and again. "That the Black Gang was at work in the town, I admit; but I do not believe that Mr. Latter's condition is anything more that a strange coincidence."
It was an interview that he had with Mr. Latter's brother that caused him to go round to Drummond's house in Brook Street. Much as he disliked having to do so, he felt he must leave no stone unturned if he was to get to the bottom of the affair, and Mr. Latter's brother had said one or two things which he thought might be worth following up. If only Hugh Drummond wasn't such a confounded fool, he reflected savagely, as he turned into Bond Street, it would have been possible to get some sane information. But that was his chief's fault; he entirely washed his hands of the responsibility of roping in such a vast idiot; And it was at that stage in his meditations that a Rolls-Royce drew silently up beside him, and the cheerful voice of the subject of his thoughts hailed him delightedly.
"The very man, and the very spot!"
McIver turned round and nodded briefly. "Morning, Captain Drummond! I was just going round to your house to see you."
"But, my dear old top," cried Hugh, "don't you see where you are? The portals of the Regency positively beckon us. Behind those portals a cocktail apiece, and you shall tell me all your troubles." He gently propelled the Inspector through the doors of the celebrated club, still babbling cheerfully.
"After profound experience, old lad," he remarked, coming to anchor by the bar, "I have come to the conclusion that there is only one thing in this world better than having a cocktail at twelve o'clock."
"What's that?" said McIver perfunctorily.
"Having two," answered Drummond triumphantly.
The Inspector smiled wanly. After his profound experience he had come to the conclusion that there could exist no bigger ass in the world than Drummond, but he followed a trade where at times it is necessary to suffer fools gladly. And this was one of them.
"Is there any place where we could have a little private talk, Captain Drummond?" he asked, as the other pushed a Martini towards him.
"What about that corner over there?" said Drummond, after glancing round the room.
"Excellent!" agreed the Inspector, and, picking up his cocktail, he crossed over to it and sat down. It took his host nearly five minutes to do the same short journey, and McIver chafed irritably at the delay. He was a busy man, and it seemed to him that Drummond knew everyone in the room. Moreover, he insisted on talking to them at length. And once again a feeling of anger against his chief filled his mind. What had Drummond except his great strength to distinguish him from this futile crowd of cocktail-drinking men? All of them built on the same pattern; all of them fashioned along the same lines. Talking a strange jargon of their own—idle, perfectly groomed, bored. As far as they were concerned, he was non-existent save as the man who was with Drummond. He smiled a little grimly; he, who did more man's work in a week than the whole lot of them put together got through in a year. A strange caste, he reflected, as he sipped his drink; a caste which does not aim at, because it essentially is, good form; a caste which knows only one fetish—the absolute repression of all visible emotion; a caste which incidentally pulled considerably more than its own weight in the war. McIver gave them credit for that.
"Sorry to be so long." Drummond lowered himself into a chair. "The place is always crowded at this hour. Now, what's the little worry?"
"It's about the affair up at Sheffield," said the Inspector. "I suppose you've seen this communication in the papers, purporting to come from the leader of the Black Gang."
"Rather, old lad," answered Drummond. "Waded through it over the eggs the other morning. Pretty useful effort, I thought."
"The public at large regard it as a hoax," continued McIver. "Now, I know it isn't! The typewriter used in the original document is the same as was used in their previous communications."
"By Jove, that's quick!" said Drummond admiringly. "Deuced quick."
McIver frowned. "Now please concentrate. Captain Drummond. The concluding sentence of the letter would lead one to suppose that there was some connection between the activities of this gang and Mr. Charles Latter's present condition. I, personally, don't believe it. I think it was mere coincidence. But whichever way it is, I would give a great deal to know what sent him mad."
"Is he absolutely up the pole?" demanded Drummond.
"Absolutely! His brother has seen him, and after he had seen him he came to me. He tells me that the one marked symptom is an overmastering terror of something which he seems to see at the foot of the bed. He follows this thing round with his eyes—I suppose he thinks it's coming towards him—and then he screams. His brother believes that someone or something must have been in his room that night—a something so terrifying that it sent him mad. To my mind, of course, the idea is wildly improbable, but strange things do occur."
"Undoubtedly!" agreed Drummond.
"Now you were in the house," went on the Inspector; "you even examined his room, as you told Sir Bryan. Now, did you examine it closely?"
"Even to looking under the bed," answered Drummond brightly.
"And there was nothing there? No place where anybody or anything could hide?"
"Not a vestige of a spot. In fact, my dear old police hound," continued Drummond, draining his glass, "if the genial brother is correct in his supposition, the only conclusion we can come to is that I sent him mad myself."
McIver frowned again.
"I wish you'd be serious. Captain Drummond. There are other things in life beside cocktails and—this." He waved an expressive hand round the room. "The matter is an important one. You can give me no further information? You heard no sounds during the night?"
"Only the sheep-faced man snoring," answered Drummond with a grin. And then, of a sudden, he became serious and, leaning across the table, he stared fixedly at the Inspector.
"I think we must conclude, McIver, that the madness of Mr. Latter is due to the ghosts of the past, and perhaps the spectres of the present. A punishment, McIver, for things done which it is not good to do—a punishment which came to him in the night. That's when the ghosts are abroad." He noted McIver's astonished face and gradually his own relaxed into a smile. "Pretty good, that—wasn't it, after only one cocktail. You ought to hear me after my third."
"Thanks very much. Captain Drummond," laughed the Inspector, "but that was quite good enough for me. We don't deal in ghosts in my service."
"Well, I've done my best," sighed Drummond, waving languidly at a waiter to repeat the dose. "It's either that or me. I know my face is pretty bad, but—"
"I don't think we need worry about either alternative," said McIver, rising.
"Right oh, old lad," answered Drummond. "You know best. You'll have another?"
"No more, thanks. I have to work sometimes."
The inspector picked up his hat and stick, and Drummond strolled across the room with him. "Give my love to Tum-tum."
"Sir Bryan is not at the office to-day. Captain Drummond," answered McIver coldly.