The British Mysteries Edition: 14 Novels & 70+ Short Stories. Sapper
guv'nor, so that it shines on the blinkin' key-'ole!" said Ginger Martin impatiently. "I'll get this open as easy as kiss yer 'and."
Without a sound, the cracksman set to work; his coarse features outlined in the circle of the torch, his ill-kept fingers handling his instruments as deftly as any surgeon. A little oil here and there; a steady pressure with a short pointed steel tool; a faint click.
"There you are, guv'nor," he muttered, straightening up. "Easy as kiss yer 'and. And if yer waits till I find me glove I'll open it for yer; but Ginger Martin's finger-prints are too well known to run any risks."
Still no sound came from anywhere, though the click as the lock shot back had seemed horribly loud in the silence. And then, just as Martin cautiously turned the handle and pushed open the door, Drummond stiffened suddenly and switched off his torch. He could have sworn that he heard the sound of voices close by.
Only for a second—they were instantly silenced; but just for that fraction of time as the door opened he felt certain he had heard men speaking.
"Wot's the matter?" he heard Martin's hoarse whisper come out of the darkness.
"Did you hear voices?" he breathed in reply. "I thought I did as you opened the door."
Once again the three men stood motionless, listening intently, but the sound was not repeated. Absolute silence reigned, broken only by the noise of their own breathing. And at last, after what seemed an interminable pause, Drummond switched on his torch again. The passage was empty; the door of the inner office was just in front of them. Almost he was persuaded that he must have made a mistake—that it had been his imagination. He peered through the keyhole: the room was in darkness. He turned the handle cautiously; the door gave to him; and still with his torch held well in front of him, he stepped into the room, turning the light into every corner. Not a trace of anyone; the inner office was absolutely empty. He flashed the light all round the walls, as far as he could see there was no other door—not even a window. Consequently the only way out was by the door through which they had just entered, which was obviously impossible for anyone to have done without his knowledge.
"It is all right!" he muttered, turning round to the other two. "Must have been my mistake. Let's get on with it."
"There's a mighty strong smell of cigar smoke," said Jerningham dubiously.
"No ventilation, old man," returned Drummond. "Hangs about for hours. No other door, no window. Now then. Ginger, let's tackle the big desk first. It looks pretty easy, even to me."
As he spoke he moved into the centre of the room, his torch lighting up the big roll-top desk.
"Right-ho, guv'nor. Keep the beam on the keyhole—"
The crook bent over his task, only to straighten up suddenly as all the lights went on.
"Yer damned fool!" he snarled. "Switch 'em off! It ain't safe."
"I didn't put 'em on!" snapped Drummond.
"Nor I," said Jerningham.
For a moment or two no one spoke; then Ginger Martin made a wild dive for the door. But the door which had opened so easily a few moments before now refused to budge, though he tugged at it, cursing horribly. And after a while he gave it up, and turned on Drummond like a wild beast.
"You've trapped me, yer—swine. I'll get even with you over this if I swing for it!"
But Drummond, to whom the presence of actual danger was as meat and drink, took not the slightest notice. His brain, ice-cold and clear, was moving rapidly. It had not been a mistake, he had heard voices—voices which came from that very room in which they now were. Men had been there—men who had got out by some other way. And Ginger Martin was trapped—all of them. More out of thoughtlessness than anything else, he brushed the swearing crook aside with the back of his hand—much as one brushes away a troublesome fly. And Martin, feeling as if he'd been kicked in the mouth by a horse, ceased to swear....
It was uncanny—devilish. The room was empty, save for them, suddenly flooded with light. But by whom? Drummond felt they were being watched. But by whom? And then suddenly he heard Ted Jerningham's voice, low and tense.
"There's a man watching us, Hugh. I can see his eyes. In that big safe door."
Like a flash, Drummond swung round, and looked at the safe. Ted was right; he could see the eyes himself, and they were fixed on him with an expression of malignant fury through a kind of opening that looked like the slit in a letter box. For a moment or two they remained there, staring at him, then they disappeared, and the opening through which he had seen them disappeared also, and seemed to become part of the door. And it was just as he was moving towards this mysterious safe to examine it closer that with a sudden clang, another opening appeared—one much larger than the first. He stopped involuntarily as something was thrown through into the room— something which hissed and spluttered.
For a moment he gazed at it uncomprehendingly as it lay on the floor; then he gave a sudden, tense order.
"On your faces—for your lives!" His voice cut through the room like a knife. "Behind the desk, you fools! It's a bomb!"
VIII. — IN WHICH THE BAG OF NUTS
IS FOUND BY ACCIDENT
It was the desk that saved Drummond, and with him Ted Jerningham. Flat on their faces, their arms covering their heads, they lay on the floor waiting, as in days gone by they had waited for the bursting of a too-near crump. They heard Ginger Martin, as he blundered round the room, and then—suddenly it came.
There was a deafening roar, and a sheet of flame which seemed to fill the room. Great lumps of the ceiling rained down and the big roll-top desk, cracked in pieces and splintered into matchwood, fell over on top of them. But it had done its work: it had borne the full force of the explosion in their direction. As a desk its day was past; it had become a series of holes roughly held together by fragments of wood.
So much Drummond could see by the aid of his torch. With the explosion all the lights had gone out, and for a while he lay pressed against Ted Jerningham trying to recover his wits. His head was singing like a bursting kettle: his back felt as if it was broken where a vast lump of ceiling had hit him. But after moving his legs cautiously and then his arms, he decided that he was still alive. And having arrived at that momentous conclusion the necessity for prompt action became evident. A bomb bursting in London is not exactly a private affair.
"Are you all right, Ted?" he muttered hoarsely, his mouth full of plaster and dust.
"I think so, old man," answered Jerningham, and Drummond heaved a sigh of relief. "I got a whack on the back of the head from something."
Drummond scrambled to his feet, and switched on his torch. The wreckage was complete, but it was for the third member of the party that he was looking. And after a moment or two he found him, and cursed with a vigorous fury that boded ill for the person who had thrown the bomb, if he ever met him.
For Ginger Martin, being either too frightened or too ignorant, had not done as he was told. There had been no desk between him and the bomb when it burst, and what was left of him adorned a corner. There was nothing to be done: the unfortunate crook would never again burgle a safe. And the only comfort to Drummond was that death must have been absolutely instantaneous.
"Poor devil," he muttered. "Someone is going to pay for this."
And then he felt Ted Jerningham clutching his arm.
"It's blown a hole in the wall, man. Look."
It was true: he could see the light of a street lamp shining through a great jagged hole.
"Some bomb," he muttered. "Let's clear."
He gave a final flash of his torch round the floor, as they moved towards the shattered wall, and then suddenly stopped.
"What's