Читать книгу Bulldog Drummond Strikes Back - Herman Cyril McNeile - Страница 4

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They crouched down in the shadow of some bushes, staring at the house.

"Three of 'em," said Drummond in a low voice. "The Lord has delivered them into our hands."

"Couldn't be the butler and your two friends, I suppose?" whispered McIver.

Standish shook his head.

"Most improbable," he answered. "And if they are, there's no harm done. The point is, how we're going to get into the house. The front door is bolted with a Yale lock, and if we ring the bell the element of surprise has gone. I've tackled the back door once tonight: what about trying it again?"

McIver grinned faintly but made no comment, and the three men, keeping close to the wall, tiptoed round the side of the house. As before, it was in darkness, and Standish frowned uneasily.

"Where are Perkins and his wife?" he whispered. "I don't like it."

For the second time he produced his peculiar-looking implement and inserted it in the keyhole, and once again McIver grinned faintly as the lock shot back.

"Quite a professional, Mr. Standish," he remarked. "I didn't know that that was one of your accomplishments."

They crept along the passage only to stop suddenly as they came opposite the kitchen door. For the fire had been made up, and by its light they could see the motionless figure of a woman sitting in a chair. She was lashed to it with rope, and a cloth had been tied tightly round her mouth. But her eyes were open, and as she saw them an ominous glitter shone in them. Clearly Mrs. Perkins was not in the best of tempers.

"We'll set you free in a moment, Mrs. Perkins," whispered Standish. "But the first thing to do is to catch the swine. My God! What's happened?"

For there had suddenly come from upstairs a hissing, crackling noise, and shadows began to dance fantastically on the stairs. Then a great cloud of smoke eddied towards them, followed by a strong smell of burning.

"They've fired the house," shouted Drummond, dashing up into the hall. The other two were just behind him, and the next moment they were all sprawling in a heap on the floor. They had tripped over something, and the something was the unconscious body of the butler. And as they scrambled to their feet there came a mocking laugh and the front door slammed.

"Get Perkins and his wife out of it," cried Drummond. "I'm after 'em."

But when he reached the road all that he saw was the red tail lamp of a car disappearing in the distance: the men had got clean away. Behind him the upper part of the house was like an inferno: flames were roaring out of the window of the room where Sanderson's body lay and were rapidly spreading all along the story. Then McIver appeared dragging Perkins, and a few moments later Standish came round the corner of the house supporting his wife.

"Petrol," said the inspector shortly. "The place reeks of it. If only we'd waited here a minute or two longer we'd have caught 'em."

"True, laddie," murmured Drummond. "But these two wretched souls would probably have been burned to death."

Windows had been flung up in the neighbouring houses, and McIver, going out into the road, hailed a man opposite and asked him to ring up the fire brigade. He had to shout, so great was the noise of the flames which, fanned by the wind, were now sending out showers of sparks into the night. And then at last from the distance came the clang of a bell and the fire engine arrived.

"I wonder what was the inducement that made them run such a risk?" said Standish thoughtfully. "We almost got 'em."

He was standing in the road with Drummond watching the firemen at work.

"Papers possibly," answered the other. "Don't forget the keys were in my pocket, and that was a very substantial desk. They may have decided it would take too long to force the drawers--they knew we must come back shortly--and so they fired the place."

"Doesn't quite work, old boy," said Standish. "Since they used petrol they must have gone there _with the intention_ of firing the house."

"That's true," admitted Drummond. "I wonder if Mrs. Perkins can throw any light on the matter?"

But that worthy woman was not much help. She and her husband had heard their hail as they left the house, and then very shortly afterwards had again heard voices upstairs. Thinking they had returned, Perkins had gone up to the hall, and the next thing she had heard was the sound of a fall. She had called out and, receiving no answer, had been on the point of going to see what had happened, when two men rushed into the kitchen and seized her.

"Would you recognize either of them?" cried Standish.

Once again they drew blank. The men had been masked, and save for the fact that one was tall and the other short she could give no further description of them.

"So it boils down to this," said Drummond thoughtfully. "The only one of the whole gang that we should know by sight again is the bloke who masqueraded as P. C. 005."

Nor was Perkins of any assistance: less, indeed, than his wife. He had gone into the hall, where he saw the outlines of three men. And he was on the point of switching on the light, when he received a stunning blow on the back of the head and remembered nothing more.

"All the more fun, old lad," said Drummond earnestly to Standish. "I don't like these little performances when they are too easy. And unless I'm much mistaken the next move will come from them."

"What makes you think that?" said Standish doubtfully.

"Because they can't be sure how much we know," answered the other.

The fire, by this time, was more or less under control. Some of the bottom story was still intact, but the whole of the upper part of the house was completely gutted. Naturally the end which had suffered most was the one in which Sanderson's room had been, and where the petrol had been poured. And even as they watched, the floor of his study gave way, and what was left of the desk and the rest of the furniture fell with a crash into the room below.

"Two hours at least, gentlemen, before anyone can get in," said McIver, joining them. "Are you going to wait?"

"I don't think there's much use," answered Standish. "Presumably we shall be wanted at the inquest, and you know where to find us. And if you come round and see me tomorrow I can give you full details, though I warn you they aren't very full."

"You said he'd been stabbed through the eye," said the inspector.

"That's right. And it was done in the middle of a telephone conversation with me."

"Most extraordinary," said McIver. "Well, the post-mortem may reveal something if there's anything left after that blaze to hold a post-mortem on. Good-night, gentlemen."

He turned away with a nod, and the two men pushed their way through the fringe of spectators that a fire alarm draws together no matter what the time or locality. And it was not until they had walked some way in silence that Drummond glanced sideways at his companion.

"Are you going to give him _full_ details?" he said quietly.

"Confound you, Drummond," laughed Standish. "I know what you're driving at. But you've got to bear in mind that I'm almost in a semi-official position."

"But not quite. That's just the point. And don't forget one thing: even the police have been known to suppress evidence at an inquest when they think it undesirable for it to be made public. Laddie," he continued earnestly, "it would be nothing short of a crime to run the slightest chance of spoiling this show. I may say that as a fairly good judge I have seldom known one to start more auspiciously."

"There are points about it, I agree, which promise well," conceded the other.

"Certain things, naturally, you will have to tell: the telephone conversation, the wound--all that does no harm. But as for his suspicions which he passed on to us concerning the existence of this organization, what is the use of mentioning anything about it? You know nothing more than that he had suspicions----"

"Which have now been amply justified," interrupted Standish.

"Exactly. Which is all the more reason why we shouldn't let the other side know that we know they're justified. Lull 'em, old lad, into a false sense of security. Then when we finally get onto 'em, we'll shake 'em to the marrow."

He waved a vast hand at a passing taxi.

"Let's go to your place," he remarked, "and have a spot while we talk it over."

Standish sat back in his corner and lit a cigarette. There was undoubtedly something in what Drummond said. The case would inevitably cause a tremendous sensation in the papers: the details were so bizarre and extraordinary. But it was possible that, if they kept their mouths shut over certain points, public interest would die down after a few days, and, as Drummond had said, the other side would be lulled into a sense of false security.

That the other side was not to be sneezed at was evident. Their actions that night proved that they were bold to a degree: also that there were several of them. But, however bold they were, he once again began to ask himself why they had run such a foolhardy risk in coming back to fire the house. It could not have been a question of papers, for another reason besides the one he had given Drummond. Whoever it was who had done the murder would have had ample time to go through all the drawers and get away at leisure. What, then, could have caused them to take such a well-nigh incredible chance? Was there some clue left behind in the room that he had overlooked, and which it was imperative for them to destroy: a clue which possibly the man masquerading as the policeman had spotted? One thing at any rate was certain. Whatever had been their reason for doing it, they had succeeded only too well. No vestige or shadow of evidence remained for investigation.

"Our last remaining hope, as far as I can see at the moment," he remarked as the taxi stopped, "is that P. C. 005 will be able to throw some light on the matter. Though," he added grimly, "I don't think it's likely. There is an atmosphere of thoroughness about these gentlemen that appeals to me."

"My dear fellow, they're the goods," cried Drummond. "And I sincerely hope you've seen the force of my arguments. Hullo! What's stung you?"

For Standish had paused in the doorway of his sitting room and was staring at his desk.

"Somebody has been at my papers," he said quietly.

Drummond raised his eyebrows.

"Are you quite sure?"

"Absolutely certain. They are none of them in the same position as I left them."

"Your man, perhaps."

"He knows it's as much as his life is worth," grunted Standish. "And confound 'em, whoever they are, they've forced all the drawers."

Drummond let out a bellow of laughter.

"Gorgeous!" he cried. "We very considerately gave them all our addresses and they've wasted no time."

"You'll probably find they've done the same to you," said the other.

"They're welcome to anything they can find in my rooms," grinned Drummond, "provided they don't take my book of stories. But they aren't going to worry about me--at any rate not at present. It was you he was ringing up when they got him, and it's you they're after at the moment."

Standish nodded thoughtfully.

"You're probably right there," he agreed. "Anyway, I see no vast reason against a drink."

He walked over to the cupboard and produced two glasses.

"You haven't perchance got a spot of ale, old lad?" said Drummond. "I'd sooner have it than whisky if it can be managed."

"Sure thing," cried Standish. "There are a dozen lager in the corner. Help yourself."

He mixed himself a stiff whisky and soda, whilst Drummond opened a bottle of beer.

"Poor old Sanderson!" Standish sat down with his drink. "I can't get over it. By Jove, he'll be a loss to the country."

"A loss for which payment is going to be extracted in full," said Drummond grimly. "We'll get 'em, Standish: you can stake your bottom dollar on that."

He took a long drink of beer, and the next moment choked violently as a hand clutched his arm so suddenly that the contents of his glass were spilled all over the carpet. He swung round: Standish was swaying beside him. His eyes were half closed, and he seemed to be trying to say something. Then with a grunt he pitched forward on the hearthrug.

For a while Drummond stared at the recumbent figure dazedly: what on earth had happened to the fellow? He was breathing stertorously: his cheeks were flushed, and at first it seemed to Drummond that he must have had some kind of fit. And then as he bent over him he distinctly smelt something strange about his breath--something that was certainly not entirely due to whisky.

He straightened up and stood looking thoughtfully across the room. Drugged, and the drug was evidently no weak one. And if he hadn't been drinking beer they'd both be lying unconscious on the floor.

The first shock over, his brain began to work at speed. As always in an emergency his head became ice cool, and though at the moment there was nothing to be done it was his course of action in the next half-hour or so that had to be decided and decided upon quickly.

He went to the door and opened it cautiously: there was no sound of movement in the house. Clearly, therefore, Standish's fall had not aroused anyone. Then he returned to the fireplace and once more bent over the unconscious figure. The breathing was easier; the colour in the cheeks more natural: he had been caught with the most ordinary of age-old tricks. But why? What was the good of drugging Standish, merely for the pleasure of drugging him? To shut his mouth at the inquest? Absurd. Standish was the principal witness, and if he was unfit to give evidence the proceedings would be adjourned till he was fit. There must be some other more cogent reason than that, and as far as he could see there was only one that held water. The other side was going to have a shot at kidnapping Standish altogether. They had gambled on the fact that he would have a drink before going to bed, and they proposed at their leisure to remove him that night.

A grim smile flickered round Drummond's lips: it was a situation after his own heart. One obvious line of action stood out: to call the nearest policeman and await further developments. But as a stealthy glance through the window showed him the figure of a man lurking on the other side of the street a difficulty at once arose if he took that line. There would be no further developments. And since the policeman would inevitably assume that Standish was drunk and not drugged, it might prove a little hard to keep him there the entire night. He would insist on putting Standish to bed and then departing about his lawful occasions. Besides, Drummond's every instinct rebelled against such a defensive policy. Here was a chance to get information, and not to miss it. The point to be decided was the best way to set about it.

The man outside knew that he was there. He must have been seen going in with Standish, and since there is no back exit from the houses in Clarges Street he could not have left. So would it be feasible to leave ostentatiously by the front door, call up some message from the pavement to Standish, and then return later? If the light continued for a couple of hours in the sitting room they would assume that the drug had worked, especially if he made some allusion from outside to Standish having a nightcap.

But here another difficulty arose. The street outside was almost deserted, and it would remain so for the rest of the night. It would be next door to impossible for him to return to the house, once he had left it, without being seen. Further, there was no hiding place where he could remain concealed and hope to find out anything worth knowing. So that scheme would not hold water.

What about going to ground somewhere in Standish's rooms: the bathroom or his bedroom? Again he dismissed the idea. The others, if they came at all, would be bound to search the place, when he would certainly be discovered. And though it might lead to a pleasing rough house, that was not what he wanted. It was information he was after: to see without being seen.

Suddenly the only possibility struck him. It was a risk, but taking risks was the main creed of his life. What made him hesitate temporarily was a doubt if he could pull it off, and if it was not successful he might get better results by one of the methods he had already discarded. Could he bluff them into thinking that he too was drugged? Remain in the room the whole time and see what took place: see who came; get a line on what they were up against? Could he act sufficiently well to deceive them? That was the crux of the matter.

Standish was now snoring peacefully, and he realized the decision must be made soon. And for a moment or two Drummond was even tempted to get a taxi and take him back to his own rooms. Then he dismissed the idea as unworthy of consideration: it was worse, if possible, than calling in the law. He would chance it.

Creeping on hands and knees lest his shadow should be seen from outside, he took his beer glass to the bathroom to wash it. Then, still on all fours, he returned and half-filled it with whisky and soda. He took the chair facing the door and placed the glass on the coal scuttle beside him. Then he suddenly noticed the empty beer bottle, and once more he crawled across the carpet to hide it amongst its full brethren. There was nothing more to be done now except to sit and wait.

The sound of the traffic from Piccadilly was growing less and less, and he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Nearly two: how much longer would it be? He dared not smoke for fear it might be noticed, and as the minutes dragged on he began to wonder if he was not making a fool of himself. Were they coming at all? Had he misjudged the whole situation completely?

Three o'clock, and his head began to nod. He pulled himself together: to be found asleep would wreck everything. The fire had died down, but to make it up would be fatal, though the room was getting cold. Everything must appear to be normally consistent with them both having been unconscious for a couple of hours at least.

And then suddenly there came a sound which made him wide awake in an instant. A car had drawn up just outside. He could hear the faint purring of the engine; the opening of a door; finally the noise of a key being inserted in the lock below. There was a muttered conversation on the pavement, and then the front door was quietly opened.

Now Hugh Drummond was about as free from nerves as any living man, but he felt his pulses quickening a little. Had he been able to meet these people--and every instinct told him they were coming to the room he was in--had he been able to meet them in the ordinary way as himself he would not have turned a hair. Two or four--numbers never mattered to him in the slightest. But to have to sit there pretending to be unconscious, unable to do anything, whatever happened, was a very unfamiliar rôle.

He let his head sprawl back on the chair in such a position that he could see with the minimum opening of his eyelids. Then, listening intently, he waited. The door was just ajar: the landing outside was in darkness. And through his almost closed eyes he watched the black opening.

A belated taxi travelling at speed passed in the distance, and then, as the noise died away, there came the sharp crack of a board from just outside. And the next instant he saw a man's face peering into the room. It was their friend of earlier on, who had impersonated P. C. 005, and who was now dressed in his ordinary clothes.

The door was pushed open, and he came into the room.

"All right," he whispered. "They're both here."

Two other men entered, and Drummond studied them cautiously. His breathing was heavy and regular: his limbs were relaxed; and after one searching glance through almost closed lids to insure that he would recognize them again, he shut his eyes completely. Were these the three, he wondered, who had fired Sanderson's house?

Of the two new ones, the first who came in was small and looked like a ferret. He had a sharp nose and prominent teeth: his hair was sandy, and his ears stuck out. Moreover, in sharp contrast to the other two, his clothes were shoddy. In fact he looked rather like a cheap bookmaker's tout.

The third man on the other hand was the exact contrary. A top hat was slightly tilted on the back of his head; his evening overcoat, complete with red carnation, was open, revealing a white waistcoat and boiled shirt. His features were aquiline: his eyes a strikingly vivid blue. But what might have been a very good-looking face was spoiled by thin lips and a sneering expression. His character was plain for all to read: cold and merciless to the last degree.

He approached Standish and turned him over with his foot, whilst the other two watched him: there was no doubt as to who was the leader. Then he crossed to Drummond, and lifting up one hand pinched it hard. But Drummond, who had anticipated something of the sort, gave no sign, and with a grunt the man turned away.

"They're both under," he said curtly. "Which is which?"

"The one on the hearthrug is Standish," answered the bogus policeman, while the man like a ferret went to the window and peered out.

"Who is the big guy in the chair?"

"His name is Drummond: I can't tell you more than that."

"You said there were four of them in Sanderson's house."

"So there were, sir. I suppose the other two have gone back to their rooms."

There came the scrape of a match, and the man in evening clothes lit a cigarette.

"You've been through all his papers?" he demanded.

"Every one, and found nothing," answered the other.

"I didn't think you would. What he knows is in his head--if he knows anything at all. You say Sanderson was actually telephoning to him at the time?"

"So Number Four told me."

"And that over the telephone at any rate no information was given?"

"That's so, sir."

The leader, having crossed to the desk, was going methodically through the papers on it, and once again Drummond cautiously opened one eye. Ferret Face was still by the window, the other two had their backs to him, and for a moment or two he was tempted to take them by surprise. There would not be much difficulty in laying the pair of them out, summon the police, and have the whole lot arrested. But he hesitated. As yet he had heard nothing of importance. Apparently some mysterious individual known as Number Four had murdered Sanderson, but obviously he was not one of these three. And there was still a possibility that some remark might be made which would give some valuable information.

Evidently the man in evening clothes was one of the louder noises in the gang: possibly even the loudest. Apart from the "sir," his whole demeanour placed him in a different class from the other two.

"When did you get your orders?" he demanded suddenly.

"Number Four gave them to me after he'd done the job," answered the other.

"Did they include laying out that policeman?"

"No. But it was necessary to get into the house somehow."

"You're a fool, Gulliver," said the man in evening clothes softly. "The last thing you want to do in this country is to monkey with the police."

"How else was I to get in?" muttered Gulliver suddenly. "And my orders were to get all names and addresses, and find out anything I could."

For a while the other made no reply but continued methodically going through the papers on the desk.

"Did you find out anything?" he demanded after a while.

Gulliver shook his head.

"Not a thing. But a man like Standish wouldn't be likely to say much to an ordinary policeman in any case."

"Where is Number Four now?"

"I can't tell you, sir: I don't know. He handed me my orders and then got straight into the car and drove off. A lady was with him."

"What's that? A lady? What sort of a lady?"

The man in evening clothes had swung round, and his voice had risen.

"Couldn't see very well: she was all muffled up. Young, I should think; anyway, she had a very good figure. Golden hair, too: I saw that."

"Good God! It's impossible."

The other had risen and was pacing excitedly up and down the room.

"She promised me," he muttered. "Damn it, she promised me. Look here, Gulliver, was she with Number Four when he did it?"

"I can't say, sir," answered Gulliver. "They were together when they came to the car, but whether she was with him when it happened I don't know. Do you know who she was by any chance?"

"Mind your own damned business," snarled the other. "What the devil has that got to do with you?"

He continued to pace the room, and when he next spoke his voice was calmer.

"It was completely successful, was it? Sanderson was killed instantaneously?"

"Clean through the eye, sir, just as if he'd been pole-axed."

"Good! I hadn't much faith in it myself, but evidently I was wrong."

The last remark was made almost to himself, and Drummond, half opening one eye, saw that the man called Gulliver was looking curious.

"What is it, sir?" he said. "Is it something new?"

"It strikes me, Gulliver," answered the man in evening clothes, "that you're going to get into pretty considerable trouble shortly. May I ask you to repeat Rule Number Three?"

"No member shall ask the business or question the orders of any other member," quoted Gulliver sullenly.

"Don't forget it, my friend," said the other softly. "You get your reward in strict proportion to how you do your work. How another member does his is nothing whatever to do with you. Curiosity is only one degree less dangerous than treachery. And lest you should doubt it, Gulliver, you will find if you search the papers tomorrow that there will be an account of a second murder in them. Not as important as Sanderson's: in fact, it will probably be tucked away in a back page somewhere. You remember Jean Picot, Gulliver?"

"Yes," said Gulliver, moistening his lips.

"Tomorrow you will read an account of his death in an East End brawl. Most regrettable, and I am sure that no one will trace any connection between it and the flamboyant headlines announcing Mr. Sanderson's. Which is where everyone will be wrong, Gulliver. Jean Picot was ill advised enough to try to run with the hare at the same time as he hunted with the hounds. So incredibly foolish," he continued even more softly, "as to give information to Mr. Sanderson. Well, he will give no more, and Mr. Sanderson will receive no more."

"You know I'd never split," muttered Gulliver.

"I don't think you will," said the other contemptuously. "You haven't the brains--or the guts. However--enough of this. Is the street clear, Jackson?"

"A peeler has just gone by, sir," answered the ferret-faced man at the window. "He's turned the corner into Curzon Street."

"All right. I'll just finish going through these papers, and then we'll get him into the car."

"What are you going to do with the big bloke, sir?" asked Gulliver.

"Leave him here," said the other indifferently. "He's not the sort of thing one wants as a pet."

Silence fell on the room save for the rustling of the papers on Standish's desk, and Drummond began to do some rapid thinking. He had got a certain amount of information, though nothing of much value. The existence of a criminal organization had been confirmed, if confirmation was necessary, and he knew the names of two of the members. Moreover, the features of the man in evening clothes were stamped indelibly on his memory, even though he was still in ignorance of his name. But the point that now arose was what he was going to do himself in the next few minutes.

The advantages of remaining apparently unconscious were obvious: he possessed knowledge which the other side did not know he possessed. But dare he allow them to remove Standish? Murder seemed to mean nothing in their young lives, and he could not run the risk of allowing them to kill him. On the other hand, if they intended to do him in why had they not done so at once?

Had he been in Standish's place he would have liked to chance it, in the hopes of finding out something really important. But in view of their very brief acquaintance he felt he was hardly justified in assuming that Standish would feel the same way. And yet it went against the grain to sacrifice the advantage he had got.

Once more he half opened one eye, and the next moment he almost gave himself away. For Standish was staring at him and had quite deliberately winked. He was still sprawling on the hearthrug breathing loudly, but since his face was turned towards the fireplace neither of the men at the desk could see him.

Now what was the line of action? The effects of the drug had evidently worn off, and Standish had been playing the same game--lying doggo and listening. But it completely altered matters, for now there were two of them and they were both armed. It would be the simplest thing in the world to capture the lot.

Again he glanced at Standish, and this time he saw his lips move. And even to one who had no knowledge of lip language the message was clear:

"Do nothing."

He closed his eyes: Standish had sized up the situation in the same way as he would have done. He deliberately intended to allow himself to be abducted on the chance of getting to the heart of things. So now they could both work from different ends.

"Nothing here at all."

The man in evening clothes pushed back his chair and rose.

"What's the time? Four o'clock. Get him below and don't make a sound. Then cart him across the pavement between you as if he was drunk. Just wait till I see it's all clear."

He went to the door and peered out.

"All right," he whispered. "Get on with it."

The two others picked Standish up, and Drummond could hear the soft creaking of their footsteps as they carried him down the stairs. Then the front door opened and he heard them cross the pavement: the engine was started, and a few seconds later the noise of the car died away in the distance.

He sat very still, conscious that the man in evening clothes had not gone himself. He was standing on the hearthrug close by, and after a while it required all the will power he possessed not to open his eyes. It was nerve-racking to a degree to feel the other man so near to him and not know what he was doing.

Suddenly he realized that the man was bending over him: he could feel his breath on his face. Was it possible he suspected? For if he did Drummond was at a terrible disadvantage. At any moment Sanderson's fate might be his.

He stirred a little and muttered foolishly: movement of some sort was imperative. And still the other man bent over him in silence, while the perspiration began to gather on Drummond's brow with the strain.

He rolled over with his head hanging across the side of the chair so that his forehead should not be seen, but he knew that he could not stand it much longer. What was the fellow doing? What was he waiting for?

And then he felt the man's hand on his arm, and only by the most monstrous effort of will did he avoid clenching his fist. The man was feeling his muscles, much as a butcher might feel a piece of meat. And all of a sudden he began to chuckle softly to himself.

The sweat was almost dripping on the floor, and yet Drummond made no movement. Never in his life had he heard such a diabolical sound. There was madness in it: a sort of gloating anticipation. But of what?

The man's fingers, like thin bars of steel, were travelling up and down his biceps, and still that evil chuckling continued. And Drummond felt he would willingly have given a thousand pounds to be able to jump up and catch him one straight between the eyes. But it would not do: he _must_ stick it. And then, at last, to his unspeakable relief the man moved away from him.

But he still remained in the room: Drummond could hear him moving quietly about. Once or twice he knew the man was behind him, but in the position he had rolled into it was impossible to see anything even if he opened his eyes. Five minutes--or was it five years--went by, and at length the ordeal was over. He heard the man go down the stairs; the front door shut, and his footsteps on the pavement died gradually away.

With a sigh of relief he sat up in the chair and stared round the room. The fire was out: he felt cramped and stiff. But the fearful tension of the last quarter of an hour was over, and the reaction was incredible. Never in his life had he been through a period of such unbelievable strain. And even now he was not quite certain whether he had bluffed him or not. He felt that the betting was that he had, but what had that devilish laughter meant? Had it been the idea in his mind? Why, if he believed Drummond was unconscious, should it afford him pleasure to find out what sort of condition he was in?

He went over to the window and, keeping behind the curtain, looked out. The man who earlier on had been on the other side of the road was no longer there: the street was deserted. He could go whenever he liked, and a desire for something stronger than beer was beginning to make itself felt.

At the same time it would not do to run any risk. It was possible that his own rooms were being watched, and if so a comparison of times would show that he had left Clarges Street very shortly after the man in evening clothes, a fact which would tend to confirm any doubts that gentleman might have with regard to his having been genuinely drugged. And so after due reflection he decided to wait at least another hour before leaving. Beer it would have to be, and worse fates have befallen man.

He poured himself out a glass and sat down at Standish's desk. There were one or two points that had to be decided in his mind, and the first was what he was going to say at the inquest concerning Standish's disappearance. One thing was obvious: he must stick consistently to the line he had started on. He had been unconscious the whole night, and knew nothing. Why had he been unconscious? He had been drugged through drinking Standish's whisky.

And at that stage in his reflections he happened to glance at the sideboard and his eyes narrowed. The tantalus was empty. He looked at the coal scuttle where he had placed his own half-empty glass: it had disappeared. So they had removed all traces of the drug whilst he had been in the chair with his eyes shut. Probably the man in evening clothes had done it after the others had gone: it would have been a simple thing to do without his hearing. Any proof, therefore, of having been drugged was gone as far as the authorities were concerned.

But did that matter? It was the opponents who were the principal factor to be considered. They _knew_ that a drug had been placed in the whisky: they would at once suspect if he did not mention it, even if it was incapable of proof. The essential thing as far as they were concerned was that everything should be consistent with the fact that he had been genuinely doped, and knew it.

A further point also arose: even when talking privately to McIver the fiction would have to be kept up. The inspector was a good fellow, but however tolerant he might be unofficially there was no getting away from it, their action that night was most reprehensible. They had had an easy chance of collaring three of the gang, one of whom at any rate had been guilty of a grave assault on a policeman. And they had not taken their opportunity, but had deliberately let it go. It was a bird in the hand with McIver, especially when, as in this case, the two in the bush were somewhat problematical.

However, rightly or wrongly they had done it, and having started on the line there was nothing for it but to carry on. On Standish's behalf he felt fairly confident: he struck him as being quite capable of looking after himself. It was a pity he had not been able to get the number of the car, but it could not be helped. It meant that Standish would have to play an absolutely lone hand unless he could trace him by some other means. And as he recalled the conversation he had listened to that night, he had to admit that so far he had no vestige of a clue as to where they had taken Standish.

One thing, of course, had come out: the man in evening clothes was not the head. There was a bigger man behind him--the man who had given the orders for Sanderson's death. And for the death of--what name had they said?--Jean Picot. A Frenchman presumably, and a low-class one if he had been killed in an East End brawl. And yet he had been in a position to give information to a man like Sanderson.

One thing it certainly tended to show: the gang was a large one with wide ramifications. People from all sections of society seemed to belong to it. The three who had been in the room that night were fairly typical of the upper, middle, and lower classes. What was it Sanderson had said to him: something which bore that out?

"I've been finding clues in all sorts of unsuspected spots: in the Ritz and in a doss house down in the docks. And they're connected, but I can't get the connection at the moment."

And now, poor devil, he would never get it. Or perhaps he had got it, and that was why they had done him in. There was some more of their conversation, too, that he recalled.

"The robbery of the Exminster pearls four months ago, and the pulling of Light Parade at Newmarket--not much resemblance between the two, is there? And yet I am as certain as I can be that the same brain planned both. One was big, the other comparatively small, though as a matter of fact a syndicate made a packet over pulling that horse. And there have been other crimes, just as widely divergent, where one gets a trace here or a trace there that points to one central control. The thing has been outside my scope up to date, but there are indications now that they are beginning to concern themselves with things political."

"You mean Communism?" Drummond had asked.

"Not exactly--though a bit of that may come in as a sideshow," Sanderson had answered. "Communism in this country is never likely to do much harm: we're too level-headed. But it's a pretty open secret that all is not too well with us financially, and that is a state of affairs which, under certain circumstances, can be exploited with great advantage by the individual."

Drummond rose and began to pace up and down the room. If only he had paid more attention at the time and taken Sanderson's words a bit more seriously, the old boy might be alive now. He had hinted in that last conversation that he knew he was in danger, but then someone else had come butting in and Drummond had drifted off. And now he was dead, and any information he had got had died with him. Something might perhaps be found in his office in Whitehall, but anything like that would be kept to themselves by the police.

Moreover, from what Standish had said to him he knew practically nothing either: they were both starting completely in the dark. And their opponents were evidently men who did not let the grass grow under their feet, or, when they deemed it necessary, stick at anything. It was going, in fact, to be a game of no mistakes, and it was not the first time he had played under those rules.

The faint grey streaks of dawn were beginning to show over the roofs opposite, and he decided that it would be safe to go. So once again he took his beer glass to the bathroom and washed it. And it was as he was returning to the sitting room that he saw a piece of paper lying on the floor of the passage.

He stooped and picked it up. It had been torn off a larger piece, and at first sight it seemed to be a mere jumble of capital letters. And then as he studied it closer he saw that there were two lines of writing--the top one in ink, neatly written, the bottom one scrawled roughly and almost illegibly in pencil:

"Go to Sanderson's house."

It was not hard to supply the three final letters and to realize what he held in his hand. Clearly it was part of the orders received by the man who had impersonated the policeman. He must have torn the paper up, put the pieces in his pocket, and accidentally dropped one on the floor.

Drummond sat down again at the desk and studied the message carefully. The ink letters had presumably been written by the giver of the order: the pencil ones had been added by the recipient. And he wondered if messages were always sent in cipher.

It was a subject of which he knew next to nothing. He had a vague idea that E was the commonest letter in the English language and that A, T, I, and O came next. And assuming that "house" was correct he had the cipher equivalent of four of the five vowels. A was Y; E was R; O was M, and U was T. Only I was lacking. In addition to that he held the clue to seven of the commonest consonants.

He lit a cigarette thoughtfully: this was a valuable find. Unskilled though he was in anything to do with decoding, even he could see that, with his knowledge of eleven frequently used letters, four of which were vowels, it should prove a comparatively simple matter to read any further message that might fall into his hands.

Presumably an expert would have been able to solve the thing without the pencilled solution below, though he dimly remembered having heard that even the simplest cipher could defeat a man unless there was a good deal of it. Now if E was the letter that was used most frequently the solver would almost certainly have started on the assumption that M stood for it.

Inspired with enthusiasm, it struck him that he might find out still more. Was there some regular sequence in the cipher letters? For instance G was represented by B. Now G was the seventh letter of the alphabet, and B was the second. Was the cipher letter always five in advance of the real one? But a moment's inspection caused him to scratch his head mournfully. By no possible method could S be regarded as five in advance of T, and it was worse still when the little matter of A and Y cropped up.

"Blank, old sport," he murmured sadly, "blank as be damned. Solving these blamed things ain't your _forte_."

He put the paper carefully in his pocketbook and took one final look round the room. McIver would almost certainly insist on coming to see it, and he wanted to leave nothing inconsistent with his story. He remembered of old that the inspector was a hard man to bluff, but he had done it in the past and he felt tolerably confident of doing it again. There was nothing, so far as he could see, to give the show away, so switching off the light he left the room.

He glanced searchingly both ways when he reached the street: no one was in sight. But Drummond was taking no chances, and the whole way to his house in Brook Street he walked as if he were slightly drunk. And when he finally let himself in he fumbled for an appreciable time with his latchkey. To the best of his knowledge only a watering cart was about, but there were one or two small mews where a man could stand concealed and watch.

He closed the door behind him: the game would begin in earnest shortly. But in the meantime he wanted sleep. And his last coherent thought after he fell into bed was to wish Standish luck.