Meanwhile, unconscious of this sudden solicitude for his health, Hugh Drummond was once more occupied with the piece of paper he had been studying on the doctor’s entrance. Every now and then he ran his fingers through his crisp brown hair and shook his head in perplexity. Beyond establishing the fact that the man in the peculiar condition was Hiram C. Potts, the American multimillionaire, he could make nothing out of it.
“If only I’d managed to get the whole of it,” he muttered to himself for the twentieth time. “That darn’ fellah Peterson was too quick.” The scrap he had torn off was typewritten, save for the American’s scrawled signature, and Hugh knew the words by heart.
plete paralysis
ade of Britain
months I do
the holder of
of five million
do desire and
earl necklace and the
are at present
chess of Lamp-
k no questions
btained.
AM C. Purrs.
At length he replaced the scrap in his pocket-book and rang the bell.
“James,” he remarked as his servant came in, “will you whisper ‘very little meat and no alcohol’ in your wife’s ear, so far as the bird next door is concerned? Fancy paying a doctor to come round and tell one that!”
“Did he say anything more, sir?”
“Oh! A lot. But that was the only thing of the slightest practical use, and I knew that already.” He stared thoughtfully out of the window. “You’d better know,” he continued at length, “that as far as I can see we’re up against a remarkably tough proposition.”
“Indeed, sir,” murmured his servant. “Then perhaps I had better stop any further insertion of that advertisement. It works out at six shillings a time.”
Drummond burst out laughing. “What would I do without you, oh! my James,” he cried. “But you may as well stop it. Our hands will be quite full for some time to come, and I hate disappointing hopeful applicants for my services.”
“The gentleman is asking for you, sir.” Mrs. Denny’s voice from the door made them look round, and Hugh rose.
“Is he talking sensibly, Mrs. Denny?” he asked eagerly, but she shook her head.
“Just the same, sir,” she announced. “Looking round the room all dazed like. And he keeps on saying ‘Danger.’”
Hugh walked quickly along the passage to the room where the millionaire lay in bed.
“How are you feeling?” said Drummond cheerfully.
The man stared at him uncomprehendingly, and shook his head. “Do you remember last night?” Hugh continued, speaking very slowly and distinctly. Then a sudden idea struck him and he pulled the scrap of paper out of his case. “Do you remember signing that?” he asked, holding it out to him.
For a while the man looked at it; then with a sudden cry of fear he shrank away. “No, no,” he muttered, “not again.”
Hugh hurriedly replaced the paper. “Bad break on my part, old bean; you evidently remember rather too well. It’s quite all right,” he continued reassuringly; “no one will hurt you.” Then after a pause: “Is your name Hiram C. Potts?”
The man nodded his head doubtfully and muttered “Hiram Potts” once or twice, as if the words sounded familiar.
“Do you remember driving in a motor-car last night?” persisted Hugh.
But what little flash of remembrance had pierced the drug-clouded brain seemed to have passed; the man only stared dazedly at the speaker. Drummond tried him with a few more questions, but it was no use, and after a while he got up and moved towards the door.
“Don’t you worry, old son,” he said with a smile. “We’ll have you jumping about like a two-year-old in a couple of days.” Then he paused: the man was evidently trying to say something. “What is it you want?” Hugh leant over the bed.
“Danger, danger.” Faintly the words came, and then, with a sigh, he lay back exhausted.
With a grim smile Drummond watched the motionless figure. “I’m afraid,” he said half aloud, “that you’re rather like your medical attendant. Your only contribution to the sphere of pure knowledge is something I know already.”
He went out and quietly closed the door. And as he re-entered his sitting-room he found his servant standing motionless behind one of the curtains watching the street below.
“There’s a man, sir,” he remarked without turning round, “watching the house.”
For a moment Hugh stood still, frowning. Then he gave a short laugh. “The devil there is!” he remarked. “The game has begun in earnest, my worthy warrior, with the first nine points to us. For possession, even of a semi-dazed lunatic, is nine points of the law, is it not, James?”
His servant retreated cautiously from the curtain, and came back into the room. “Of the law—yes, sir,” he repeated enigmatically. “It is time, sir, for your morning glass of beer.”
II
At twelve o’clock precisely the bell rang, announcing a visitor, and Drummond looked up from the columns of the Sportsman as his servant came into the room.
“Yes, James,” he remarked. “I think we are at home. I want you to remain within call, and under no circumstances let our sick visitor out of your sight for more than a minute. In fact, I think you’d better sit in his room.”
He resumed his study of the paper, and James, with a curt “Very good, sir,” left the room. Almost at once he returned, and flinging open the door announced Mr. Peterson.
Drummond looked up quickly and rose with a smile.
“Good morning,” he cried. “This is a very pleasant surprise, Mr. Peterson.” He waved his visitor to a chair. “Hope you’ve had no more trouble with your car.”
Mr. Peterson drew off his gloves, smiling amiably. “None at all, thank you, Captain Drummond. The chauffeur appears to have mastered the defect.”
“It was your eye on him that did it. Wonderful thing—the human optic, as I said to your friend, Mr.—Mr. Laking. I hope that he’s quite well and taking nourishment.”
“Soft food only,” said the other genially. “Mr. Lakington had a most unpleasant accident last night—most unpleasant.”
Hugh’s face expressed his sympathy. “How very unfortunate!” he murmured. “I trust nothing serious.”
“I fear his lower jaw was fractured in two places.” Peterson helped himself to a cigarette from the box beside him. “The man who hit him must have been a boxer.”
“Mixed up in a brawl, was he?” said Drummond, shaking his head. “I should never have thought, from what little I’ve seen of Mr. Lakington, that he went in for painting the town red. I’d have put him down as a most abstemious man—but one never can tell, can one? I once knew a fellah who used to get fighting drunk on three whiskies, and to look at him you’d have put him down as a Methodist parson. Wonderful the amount of cheap fun that chap got out of life.”
Peterson flicked the ash from his cigarette into the grate. “Shall we come to the point, Captain Drummond?” he remarked affably.
Hugh looked bewildered. “The point, Mr. Peterson? Er—by all manner of means.”
Peterson smiled even more affably. “I felt certain that you were a young man of discernment,” he remarked, “and I wouldn’t like to keep you from your paper a minute longer than necessary.”
“Not a bit,” cried Hugh. “My time is yours—though I’d very much like to know your real opinion of The Juggernaut for the Chester Cup. It seems to me that he cannot afford to give Sumatra seven pounds on their form up to date.”
“Are you interested in gambling?” asked Peterson politely.
“A mild flutter, Mr. Peterson, every now and then,” returned Drummond. “Strictly limited stakes.”
“If you confine yourself to that you will come to no harm,” said Peterson. “It is when the stakes become unlimited that the danger of a crash becomes unlimited too.”
“That is what my mother always told me,” remarked Hugh. “She even went farther, dear good woman that she
was. ‘Never bet except on a certainty, my boy,’ was her constant advice, ‘and then put your shirt on!’ I can hear her saying it now, Mr. Peterson, with the golden rays of the setting sun lighting up her sweet face.”
Suddenly Peterson leant forward in his chair. “Young man,” he remarked, “we’ve got to understand one another. Last night you butted in on my plans, and I do not like people who do that. By an act which, I must admit, appealed to me greatly, you removed something I require—something, moreover, which I intend to have. Breaking the electric bulb with a revolver-shot shows resource and initiative. The blow which smashed Henry Lakington’s jaw in two places shows strength. All qualities which I admire, Captain Drummond—admire greatly. I should dislike having to deprive the world of those qualities.”
Drummond gazed at the speaker open-mouthed. “My dear sir,” he protested feebly, “you overwhelm me. Are you really accusing me of being a sort of wild west show?” He waggled a finger at Peterson. “You know you’ve been to the movies too much, like my fellah, James. He’s got revolvers and things on the brain.”
Peterson’s face was absolutely impassive; save for a slightly tired smile it was expressionless. “Finally, Captain Drummond, you tore in half a piece of paper which I require—and removed a very dear old friend of my family, who is now in this house. I want them both back, please, and if you like I’ll take them now.”
Drummond shrugged his shoulders resignedly. “There is something about you, Mr. Peterson,” he murmured, “which I like. You strike me as being the type of man to whom a young girl would turn and pour out her maidenly secrets. So masterful, so compelling, so unruffled. I feel sure—when you have finally disabused your mind of this absurd hallucination—that we shall become real friends.”
Peterson still sat motionless save for a ceaseless tapping with his hand on his knee.
“Tell me,” continued Hugh, “why did you allow this scoundrel to treat you in such an off-hand manner? It doesn’t seem to me to be the sort of thing that ought to happen at all, and I suggest your going to the police at once.”
“Unfortunately a bullet intended for him just missed,” answered Peterson casually. “A pity—because there would have been no trace of him by now.”
“Might be awkward for you,” murmured Hugh. “Such methods, Mr. Peterson, are illegal, you know. It’s a dangerous thing to take the law into your own hands. May I offer you a drink?”
Peterson declined courteously. “Thank you—not at this hour.” Then he rose. “I take it, then, that you will not return me my property here and now.”
“Still the same delusion, I see!” remarked Hugh with a smile.
“Still the same delusion,” repeated Peterson. “I shall be ready to receive both the paper and the man up till six o’clock tonight at 32A, Berners Street; and it is possible, I might even say probable, should they turn up by then, that I shall not find it necessary to kill you.”
Hugh grinned. “Your forbearance amazes me,” he cried. “Won’t you really change your mind and have a drink?”
“Should they not arrive by then, I shall be put to the inconvenience of taking them, and in that case—much as I regret it—you may have to be killed. You’re such an aggressive young man, Captain Drummond—and, I fear, not very tactful.” He spoke regretfully, drawing on his gloves; then as he got to the door he paused. “I’m afraid that my words will not have much effect,” he remarked, “but the episode last night did appeal to me. I would like to spare you—I would really. It’s a sign of weakness, my young friend, which I view with amazement—but nevertheless, it is there. So be warned in time. Return my property to Berners Street, and leave England for a few months.” His eyes seemed to burn into the soldier’s brain. “You are meddling in affairs,” he went on gently, “of the danger of which you have no conception. A fly in the gear-box of a motor-car would be a sounder proposition for a life insurance than you will be—if you continue on your present course.”
There was something so incredibly menacing in the soft, quiet voice, that Drummond looked at the speaker fascinated. He had a sudden feeling that he must be dreaming—that in a moment or two he would wake up and find that they had really been talking about the weather the whole time. Then the cynical gleam of triumph in Peterson’s eyes acted on him like a cold douche; quite of clearly that gentleman had misinterpreted his silence.
“Your candour is as refreshing,” he answered genially, “as your similes are apt. I shudder to think of that poor little fly, Mr. Peterson, especially with your chauffeur grinding his gears to pieces.” He held open the door for his visitor, and followed him into the passage. At the other end stood Denny, ostentatiously dusting a book-shelf, and Peterson glanced at him casually. It was characteristic of the man that no trace of annoyance showed on his face. He might have been any ordinary visitor taking his leave.
And then suddenly from the room outside which Denny was dusting there came a low moaning and an incoherent babble. A quick frown passed over Drummond’s face, and Peterson regarded him thoughtfully.
“An invalid in the house?” he remarked. “How inconvenient for you!” He laid his hand for a moment on the soldier’s arm. “I sadly fear you’re going to make a fool of yourself. And it will be such a pity.” He turned towards the stairs. “Don’t bother, please; I can find my own way out.”
III
Hugh turned back into his own room, and lighting a particularly noisy pipe, sat down in his own special chair, where James Denny found him five minutes later, with his hands deep in his pockets, and his legs crossed, staring out of the window. He asked him about lunch twice without result, and having finally been requested to go to hell, he removed himself aggrievedly to the kitchen. Drummond was under no delusions as to the risks he was running. Underrating his opponent had never been a fault of his, either in the ring or in France, and he had no intention of beginning now. The man who could abduct an American millionaire, and drug him till he was little better than a baby, and then use a thumbscrew to enforce his wishes, was not likely to prove overscrupulous in the future. In fact, the phut of that bullet still rang unpleasantly in his ears.
After a while he began half unconsciously to talk aloud to himself. It was an old trick of his when he wanted to make up his mind on a situation, and he found that it helped him to concentrate his thoughts.
“Two alternatives, old buck,” he remarked, stabbing the air with his pipe. “One—give the Potts bird up at Berners Street; two—do not. Number one—out of court at once. Preposterous—absurd. Therefore—number two holds the field.” He recrossed his legs, and ejected a large wineglassful of nicotine juice from the stem of his pipe on to the carpet. Then he sank back exhausted, and rang the bell.
“James,” he said, as the door opened, “take a piece of paper and a pencil—if there’s one with a point—and sit down at the table. I’m going to think, and I’d hate to miss out anything.”
His servant complied, and for a while silence reigned.
“First,” remarked Drummond, “put down—‘They know where Potts is.’”
“Is, sir, or are?” murmured Denny, sucking his pencil.
“Is, you fool. It’s a man, not a collection. And don’t interrupt, for Heaven’s sake. Two—‘They will try to get Potts.’”
“Yes, sir,” answered Denny, writing busily.
“Three—‘They will not get Potts.’ That is as far as I’ve got at the moment, James—but every word of it stands. Not bad for a quarter of an hour, my trusty fellah—what?”
“That’s the stuff to give the troops, sir,” agreed his audience, sucking his teeth.
Hugh looked at him in displeasure. “That noise is not, James,” he remarked severely. “Now you’ve got to do something else. Rise and with your well-known stealth approach the window, and see if the watcher still watcheth without.”
The servant took a prolonged survey, and finally announced that he failed to see him.
“Then that proves conclusively that he’s there,” said
Hugh. “Write it down, James: Four—‘Owing to the watcher without, Potts cannot leave the house without being seen.’”
“That’s two withouts, sir,” ventured James tentatively; but Hugh, with a sudden light dawning in his eyes, was staring at the fire-place.
“I’ve got it, James,” he cried. “I’ve got it… Five—@Potts must leave the house without being seen.@ I want him, James, I want him all to myself. I want to make much of him and listen to his childish prattle. He shall go to my cottage on the river, and you shall look after him.”
“Yes, sir,” returned James dutifully.
“And in order to get him there, we must get rid of the watcher without. How can we get rid of the bird—how can we, James, I ask you? Why, by giving him nothing further to watch for. Once let him think that Potts is no longer within, unless he’s an imbecile he will no longer remain without.”
“I see, sir,” said James.
“No, you don’t—you don’t see anything. Now trot along over, James, and give my compliments to Mr. Darrell. Ask him to come in and see me for a moment. Say I’m thinking and daren’t move.”
James rose obediently, and Drummond heard him cross over the passage to the other suite of rooms that lay on the same floor. Then he heard the murmur of voices, and shortly afterwards his servant returned.
“He is in his bath, sir, but he’ll come over as soon as he’s finished.” He delivered the message and stood waiting. “Anything more, sir?”
“Yes, James. I feel certain that there’s a lot. But just to carry on with, I’ll have another glass of beer.”
As the door closed, Drummond rose and started to pace up and down the room. The plan he had in mind was simple, but he was a man who believed in simplicity.
“Peterson will not come himself—nor will our one and only Henry. Potts has not been long in the country, which is all to the good. And if it fails—we shan’t be any worse off than we are now. Luck—that’s all; and the more you tempt her, the kinder she is.” He was still talking gently to himself when Peter Darrell strolled into the room.
The Bulldog Drummond Megapack Page 7