by Sapper
“Come in,” shouted Drummond. “I shan’t be long.”
“Will the bulldog bite?” asked a very delightful feminine voice.
The chef paused in his work. Who the deuce could this be?
“Jerry – come here, you blighter!” he cried as he went to the front door. “How dare you…”
He paused again. Confronting him was a charming-looking girl of about twenty-five. What she was dressed in his masculine eye somewhat naturally failed to notice, except that it seemed the goods. Also it most certainly was not the raiment one would expect to see at that hour of the morning in the middle of the fen country.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, “I was expecting a dear old lady whose dimensions are somewhat similar to those of a steam-roller, and your sudden appearance rather shook me. Won’t you come in?”
The girl stared at him in silence for a moment or two, and it seemed to him that a look of surprise flashed across her face.
“My car has broken down,” she said at length. “It is just a few yards up the road. I wondered if you had a telephone here, so that I could ring up a garage.”
“I’m afraid that’s beyond me,” he confessed. “The telephone is a rara avis in these parts. But perhaps I might be able to help, and if I can’t my own car is being brought here shortly by a bloke from a garage. He’ll do the necessary if it defeats me. Let’s go and have a look.”
“So you have a car, have you?” she said. “I should have thought that was even more of a rara avis round here than a telephone.”
They were strolling along the road towards a small two-seater, which, with its back towards them, was standing motionless a couple of hundred yards away.
“Amongst the inhabitants, you’re right,” he agreed. “I am only a visitor.”
“Are you in that little cottage all by yourself?”
“Until Nanny comes back,” he said with a grin. “She is the steamroller I told you I was expecting.”
She stared at him with a slightly puzzled frown.
“I don’t quite understand,” she said. “Where do you live usually?”
“In London – where, I trust, I shall have the pleasure of renewing your acquaintance.”
“But why on earth do you come to a place like this?”
“For excitement,” he told her, “when London gets too dull. One would never find anyone like you on the doorstep along with the morning milk in the old metropolis.”
But her frown was still there, though she smiled faintly.
“You’re rather an extraordinary individual,” she remarked. “Have you been here long?”
“Two days,” he answered. “Now let’s have a look at the bus.”
He opened the bonnet, and even as he did so he heard a little gasp. He glanced up: the girl, with her eyes closed, was holding on to the door.
“What is it?” he cried. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
“Would you get me some water?” she muttered. “My head is all swimming.”
“Of course I will. I won’t be a second. Get into the car and sit down.”
He raced back towards the cottage and got a glass of cold water. Pray Allah she was not going to throw a faint, he reflected. Hugh Drummond’s ideas of first aid were most sketchy. But when he got back to the car she seemed to have partially recovered, though she sipped the water gratefully.
“Sorry to be so silly,” she said apologetically, “but I have not had any breakfast.”
“My dear soul,” he cried, “that must be remedied at once. If you can bear a boiled egg, or, better still, can do something in the bacon line, we will do the trick at my cottage.”
“I ought to be getting on,” she answered doubtfully.
“That’s out of the question until you’ve had some food. Breakfast first; then we’ll tackle the car.”
She allowed herself to be persuaded, and they walked back to the cottage together.
“Where are you off to that makes a start at such an ungodly hour necessary?” he asked.
“To a house not far from Cambridge,” she answered. “My uncle’s place. And he wanted me there early to get some wretched tennis tournament fixed up for this afternoon. Good heavens! What have you been doing to the windows? I didn’t notice them before.”
“A merry Norfolk pastime,” he said with a smile. “Some blighter wished it on me last night.”
“What do you mean?” she cried.
“A fact,” he assured her. “Someone threw a brick through the window and nearly hit little Willie in the tummy.”
“What on earth did he do that for?”
“The ways of drunks are passing strange,” he answered. “But I don’t know what the proud owner will say when she sees it.”
It was the story he had decided to tell Mrs Eskdale, and since the two women were likely to overlap it saved bother to spin the same yarn to both.
“Are you expecting her back soon?”
“At any moment. And then, providing we’ve got your car right, I’m off to London.”
“Country getting too exciting?”
“That’s the idea.”
He poured out the tea and went into the kitchen to get the eggs.
“Put some milk in mine, like an angel,” he called out. “And two lumps of sugar.”
For the fraction of a second he had paused as he spoke; for the fraction of a second he had stood motionless, his eyes glued to the mirror which hung above the little range. For in it he had seen the reflection of the girl seated at the table. And she was putting something into his tea which most certainly was not milk.
He forced himself to continue speaking mechanically, but his brain was racing overtime. He knew his eyes had not deceived him, and the shock was a considerable one. It was such a complete surprise. That the girl was anything but what she seemed on the surface had never entered his mind for an instant. But now as he went on talking he was trying to adjust himself to this new development.
If – and there was no doubt about it – she had put dope in his tea she must be mixed up with the bunch of last night. And at once the reason for the look of surprise on her face when she first saw him was clear. She had been expecting a man of the labourer type, and instead she had met him.
The point to be decided, however, was what to do next. He was convinced that she had not the slightest suspicion that he had seen her, and the essential thing was that she should continue in the same state of ignorance. At the same time the little matter of the tea had to be settled. And so, being a direct person, he disposed of it at once. He tackled the loaf and the knife slipped. Thence his elbow took the cup: his trousers took the tea, and the thing was done save for some mild and suitable blasphemy.
“I am a clumsy devil,” he cried. “And, ye gods! that tea is hot. Will you excuse me while I go and remove these garments?”
“Of course,” she said. “You poor man! How it must have hurt.”
She was all anxious commiseration: not by the flicker of an eyelid did she show any annoyance at the failure of her scheme. And as he changed he wondered what her next move was going to be. Sleep dope – at least he hoped it had been no worse than that; she was such an astoundingly attractive filly. Just something to drug him while she once more searched the house for that paper. It surely must be important – that message that had been wrapped round the stone – for them to take all this trouble to find it. And they could not be looking for anything else.
They were thorough, too, sending this girl as a follow up; they left nothing to chance. So thorough, in fact, that he removed the paper which he had placed for safety in the lining of his hat, and having finally and definitely committed it to memory, he put a match to one corner and watched it flare away to ashes. Not that he saw any possibility of her getting hold of it, but young women who were prepared to dope drink on sight, so to speak, wanted watching. And once again he wondered what to expect next.
The noise of the gate closing made him look out of the window: the girl was strolling up
the road towards her car. And for a while he watched her through narrowed eyes. She walked with a graceful swing which met with his entire approval, and the more he thought of the thing, the harder did he find it to reconcile her appearance with what had taken place downstairs. In fact, he tried to persuade himself that the mirror was distorted and that he had made a mistake. Unfortunately the mirror was not distorted, and he knew he had not done anything of the sort, but it was a valiant and praiseworthy attempt.
The sound of wheels greeted him as he went downstairs; Mrs Eskdale was descending from the local carrier’s cart.
“Master Hugh,” she cried as she saw his clothes, “you’re not going away?”
“Afraid I am, my pet,” he answered, “but perhaps it will only be for today. Anyway, I’m leaving the dogs with you.”
She waddled up the path, to pause aghast at the sight of the parlour window.
“An accident, Nannie,” he continued, with his arm round her waist, “caused by a passing drunk last night, from whom I removed two perfectly good Bradburys to repair the damage. And this is a delightful lady whose car has broken down, and who has been having breakfast with me.”
The girl had joined them, and the old nurse looked at her suspiciously. Delightful ladies in the proximity of her Master Hugh did not fit into her scheme of things. But the girl smiled so charmingly that she partly relented.
“It was such a mercy that it happened here: I don’t know what I’d have done without that cup of tea. And what a sweet cottage you’ve got.”
Mrs Eskdale relented still more: a sure way to her good graces was through her garden or her house. And when, an hour later, Drummond’s car drew up outside she had quite taken the unexpected visitor to her heart. Moreover, the hour had mostly been spent in the cottage. As Drummond unblushingly admitted, his knowledge of a car’s anatomy was confined to adding petrol periodically and oil when he remembered, and a very brief survey of the derelict was enough to convince him that the matter was far beyond his attainments.
But not beyond those of the mechanic from Sheringham. Briefly, Drummond explained to him what had happened as they walked up the road, and he grunted dispassionately.
“Suddenly conked out, did she? Looks as though she’s run out of petrol.”
But on that point Drummond was firm; he, personally, with an air of great impressiveness, had performed evolutions and had looked in the tank. Shortage there, at any rate, was not the cause of the disaster.
“Well – we’ll see,” said the mechanic, removing his coat and bending over the engine. And it was not until half an hour later that the mechanic, with a grunt of astonishment, proceeded to scratch his head and gaze at something in his hand.
“You say, sir,” he said at length, “that she was going all right and then she suddenly stopped?”
“That’s what the lady told me,” said Drummond.
“Most extraordinary thing I’ve ever known,” remarked the man.
“Can’t you find out why she stopped?”
“I know now why she stopped, sir,” said the mechanic. “But what I can’t make out is how under the sun she ever went. Look here, sir – this thing in my hand is the top of the distributor, the thing what’s used in the electric circuit.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” remarked Drummond courteously.
“Well, sir, in a motorcar everything depends on the contact points being clean and dry; otherwise you don’t get any connection. Now, if you look at these you’ll see they’re swimming in oil. The whole thing is swimming in oil. And what I can’t understand is how the oil ever got here.”
“Something must have leaked somewhere?” said Drummond vaguely.
“You couldn’t have a sudden leak here, sir; there’s no oil pipe anywhere near it. Besides, there’s no trace of a leak. Now, from what the lady says, the car was going all right to start with. Well, if she was firing properly this oil couldn’t have been here. Stands to reason. Then she stops firing because this oil is here. Stands to reason again. But what don’t stand to reason is how the oil got here. It couldn’t have come of itself.”
And with that illuminating phrase light dawned on Drummond. If the oil could not have come there by itself, someone must have put it there. That sudden faint became clearer. And as he watched the girl playing with the dogs outside the cottage a slight smile twitched round his lips.
“How long will it take you to put it right?” he demanded.
“Not very long, sir. I’ll just have to take this to pieces and thoroughly clean it and dry it.”
Drummond glanced down the road: the girl was coming towards them.
“Put it back,” he said quietly, “and follow my lead. I’ll make it worth your while. You haven’t been able to find out what’s the matter. Well, this is a black business,” he cried as the girl joined them. “Up to date the expert has failed.”
“What am I going to do?” she said disconsolately. “Poor old uncle! He’ll get every handicap wrong, bless his heart.”
“Not on your life,” laughed Drummond. “What’s the matter with my bus? I can easily drop you at your uncle’s house on my way to London.”
The girl looked at him doubtfully, whilst the mechanic hurriedly concealed a grin. So that was how the land lay.
“I couldn’t think of troubling you,” she said. “It’s miles out of your way.”
“It’s nothing of the sort,” he answered. “In any case, the day is yet young. We will leave this warrior here to delve still deeper into the villainies of your machine, and we will push off.”
“Well, if you’re quite sure it’s not a frightful bother,” she said gratefully. “It’s most awfully good of you.”
“Say no more.” Drummond waved a vast hand. “The matter is settled save for one trifling detail. Where is he to take the car when he’s got it to go? To your uncle’s house?”
She hesitated for a moment.
“Let me think,” she said. “I think it would be better if he left it in Cambridge. Do you know Cannaby’s garage?”
“I don’t, miss, but I can find it.”
“You see,” she explained to Drummond, “my uncle has only just gone there, and it’s difficult to describe where his house is. So leave it at Cannaby’s garage,” she told the mechanic, “and I will ring them up and tell them to pay you whatever it comes to.”
He touched his cap.
“All right, miss. I’ll leave her there.”
He watched the two of them as they strolled back to the cottage, and the grin was no longer hidden. The exact refinements of the case were beyond his ken, but the main basic idea was obvious. And it struck him that the large bloke was no bad judge either, an opinion he had no desire to retract when Drummond returned alone and gave him a ten-shilling note. To bring the car along in an hour or so, and keep his mouth shut at Cannaby’s garage were his instructions and easy to understand. What was a little harder to follow was the meaning of the cryptic telegram he had in his pocket. His orders were to send it if the writer had not arrived at the garage by midday.
Darrell. Senior Sports Club, London. Spider. Parlour. Cambridge. Hugh.
It did not seem to make sense to him. It was not a racing code, so far as he could make out; it had but little to do with love. In fact it defeated him. And not the least perplexing part of the matter was that there seemed to be no reason to prevent the bloke sending it himself.
Chapter 3
That he was deliberately walking into the parlour and playing the part of the fly did not trouble Hugh Drummond in the slightest. Too often in the past had he done the same thing for it to worry him. And even when the girl asked him to stop in a village so that she could ostensibly telephone her uncle to say that she would be late, but in reality to warn in about his arrival, he rather welcomed the opportunity for getting things straightened out in his mind.
Her name he had discovered was Venables; and the more he had talked to her the more he had wondered at her being mixed up with his visitors of t
he previous evening. So much so that he had once again begun to wonder if his eyes had deceived him over the tea-cup incident. Against that however, he had to put the matter of the car. If what the mechanic had said was correct, she must have deliberately put the oil in herself. She had done it the first instant she could after finding out that his overnight guests had made a mistake in putting him down as a local product. And as one who was used to acting on the spur of the moment himself he could only admire her technique.
Without doubt had he tried the self-starter when he first got to the car the engine would have gone perfectly; believing that she had to deal with a labourer who knew nothing about motors she would not have troubled to put the machine out of commission. And then quite unexpectedly she found out her error, and rectified it in a way that showed she was no inexpert driver. But with what object? Answer obvious. So that she could dope his tea and again search the house for the message. There she had backed a loser, and had taken it without turning a hair.
He lit a cigarette as he sat idly at the wheel; the telephone call was a lengthy one. What had been her next move? He recalled her growing anxiety over her uncle’s tennis party; her apparent impatience to get started. She had naturally not suggested it, but was she hoping all along that he would take her in his own car? If so it must have seemed to her that he had played right into her hands.
Again, however, came the question: with what object? Why did she want him to meet her uncle? And this time the answer was not so obvious. The idea that it was anything to do with getting her there quickly because of a tennis party he dismissed as absurd. If it was only that, she, having done the damage to her own car herself, could very easily and oh! so cleverly have discovered it herself. Why then did she want him to go to her uncle’s house at Cambridge? Could it be possible that certain arrangements were even now being made to greet him in a suitable fashion? Could it be possible that such an unladylike thing as a rough house was looming in the offing?