by Sapper
“I’ve been drugged,” he muttered, and pitched forward on his face.
The men sat down again, leaving him where he lay.
“That’ll keep him quiet,” said one of them. “It was in his tea.”
“If I had my way I’d put a bucket of it into the swab on the bed,” answered the other. “It’s him that wants keeping quiet.”
The first speaker laughed brutally.
“He won’t give much trouble. Once we’ve got him on board, it’ll be just pure joy to watch the fun. Freyder’s like a man that’s sat on a hornet’s nest this morning.”
And at that moment Freyder himself entered the room. His face was still swathed in bandages, and Drummond beamed happily at him. The sight of him provided the one bright spot in an otherwise gloomy horizon, though the horrible blow which he received on the mouth rather obscured the brightness, and gave him a foretaste of what he could expect from the gentleman. But true to his role, Drummond still grinned on, though he turned his head away to hide the smouldering fury in his eyes. In the past he had been fairly successful with Peterson’s lieutenants, and he registered a mental vow that Mr Julius Freyder would not be an exception.
He watched him go from the room kicking the sprawling body of the Professor contemptuously as he passed, and once again he was left to his gloomy thoughts. It was all very well to register vows of vengeance, but to carry them out first of all entailed getting free. And then a sudden ray of hope dawned in his mind. How were they going to be got on board? Stretchers presumably, and that would be bound to attract attention if the yacht was lying in any harbour. But was she? She might be lying out to sea somewhere, and send a boat ashore for them in some deserted stretch of coast. That was the devil of it, he hadn’t the faintest idea where he was. He might be in Essex; he might be on the South Coast; he might even be down on the Bristol Channel.
A little wearily he gave it up; after all, what was the good of worrying? He was bound and the Professor was drugged, and as far as he could see any self-respecting life insurance would hesitate at a ninety-five per cent premium for either of them. His principal desire at the moment was for breakfast, and as that was evidently not in the programme, all he could do was to inhale the aroma of eggs and bacon, and wonder why he’d been such a damned fool as to take that telephone call.
The tramp of footsteps on the stairs roused him from his lethargy, and he half-turned his head to look at the door. Two men were there with a stretcher, on which they were placing the Professor. Then they disappeared, to return again a few moments later with another, which they put down beside his bed. It was evidently his turn now, but, even bound as he was, they showed no inclination to treat him as unceremoniously as the Professor. His reputation seemed to have got abroad, and, though he smiled at them inanely and burbled foolishly, they invoked the assistance of the other two men, who had just finished their breakfast, before lifting him up and putting him on the stretcher.
In the hall stood Mr Robinson, who again peered at him intently as he passed, and then Drummond found himself hoisted into the back of a car which seemed to be a cross between an ambulance and a caravan. The back consisted of two doors instead of the conventional ambulance curtains, and on each side was a window covered with a muslin blind. Two bunks, one on each side, stretched the full length of the car and a central gangway, which had a little wash-basin at the end nearest the engine, separated them.
On one of these bunks lay Professor Goodman, breathing with the heavy, stertorous sounds of the drugged. The men pitched him on to the other, as Mr Robinson, who had followed them out, appeared.
“You have your orders,” he remarked curtly. “If Drummond makes a sound – gag him. I shall be on board myself in about two hours.”
He closed the doors, leaving the two men inside, and the car started. It was impossible to see out of either window owing to the curtains, and the ostentatious production of a revolver by one of the men removed any thought Drummond might have had of trying to use the razor-blade. “Mad or not, take no chances,” was the motto of his two guards, and when on top of everything else, though he hadn’t made a sound, they crammed a handkerchief half-down his throat, he almost laughed.
He judged they had been going for about an hour, when the diminished speed of the car and the increased sounds of traffic indicated a town. It felt as if they were travelling over cobbles, and once they stopped at what was evidently a level crossing, for he heard a train go by. And then came the sound of a steamer’s siren, to be followed by another and yet a third.
A seaport town obviously, he reflected, though that didn’t help much. The only comfort was that a seaport town meant a well-used waterway outside. And if he could get free, if he could go overboard with the Professor, there might be a shade more of a chance of being picked up. Also there would almost certainly be curious loungers about as they were carried on board.
The car had stopped; he could hear the driver talking to someone. Then it ran forward a little and stopped again. And a moment or two later a curious swaying motion almost pitched him off the bunk. Surely they couldn’t be at sea yet. The car dropped suddenly, and with a sick feeling of despair he realised what had happened. The car had been hoisted bodily on board; his faint hope of being able to communicate with some onlooker had gone.
Once again the car became stationary, save for a very faint and almost imperceptible movement. From outside came the sounds of men heaving on ropes, and the car steadied again. They were actually on board, and the car was being made fast.
Still the two men sat there with the doors tight shut, and the windows hermetically sealed by the blinds of them. They seemed to be waiting for something, and suddenly, with a sigh of relief, one spoke.
“She’s off.”
It was true: Drummond could feel the faint throb of the propeller.
“The specimens are aboard,” laughed the other man, “and I guess it will be safe to open the doors in about a quarter of an hour or so, and get a bit of air. This damned thing is like a Turkish bath.”
He rose and peered cautiously through a slit in the curtain, but he made no movement to open the door until the throbbing of the propeller had ceased, and the harsh rattle of a chain showed that they were anchoring. Then and not till then did he open the doors with a sigh of relief.
Cautiously Drummond raised his head, and stared out. Where were they? He had followed every movement in his mind since he had come on board, but he was still as far as ever from knowing where they were. And luckily one glance was enough. It didn’t even need the glimpse he got of a huge Cunarder about a half-mile away: he recognised the shore. They were in Southampton Water, and though the knowledge didn’t seem to help very much, at any rate it was something to have one definite fact to start from.
Southampton Water! He managed to shift the sodden pocket-handkerchief into a more comfortable position, and his train of thought grew pessimistic. Why would men invent processes for making diamonds? he reflected morosely. If only the dear old blitherer still peacefully sleeping in the opposite bunk had stuck to albumenised food, he wouldn’t have been lying trussed up like a Christmas turkey. Far from it: he would have been disporting himself on Ted Jerningham’s governor’s yacht at Cowes. Had not Ted expressly invited him – Ted, who had hunted Peterson with him in the past, and asked for nothing better than to hunt him again?
The irony of it! To think that Ted might even see the yacht go by; might remark on the benevolence of the appearance of mutton-chop whiskers, if by chance he should be on deck. And he would never know. In all ignorance he would return to one of his habitual spasms of love, which always assailed him when afloat, with anyone who happened to be handy.
It was a distressing thought, and, after a while, he resolutely tried to banish it from his mind. But it refused to be banished. Absurd, of course, but suppose – just suppose he could communicate with Ted. Things were so d
esperate that he could not afford to neglect even the wildest chance. Ted’s father’s yacht generally lay, as he knew, not far from the outgoing waterway; he remembered sitting on deck with Phyllis and watching a Union Castle boat go by so close that he could see the passengers’ faces on deck. What if he could shout or something? But Ted might not be on deck.
Eagerly he turned the problem over in his mind, and the more he thought of it the more it seemed to him to be the only possible way out. How to do it, he hadn’t an idea – but at any rate it was something to occupy his thoughts. And when the benevolent face of Mr Robinson appeared at the door some hours later, he was still wrestling with the problem, though the vacant look in his eyes left nothing to be desired.
“Any difficulty getting on board?” asked Mr Robinson.
“None at all, boss,” answered the man who was still on guard. “We gagged the madman to be on the safe side.”
Mr Robinson beamed.
“Take the old man below,” he remarked. “He’ll be coming round soon. I will stay with our friend here till you return.”
Thoughtfully he pulled the handkerchief out of Drummond’s mouth and sat down on the opposite bunk.
“Still suffering from concussion,” he said gently. “Still, we have plenty of time, Captain Drummond – plenty of time.”
“Gug-gug,” answered Drummond happily.
“Precisely,” murmured the other. “I believe that men frequently say that when they drown. But I promise you we won’t drown you at once. As I say – there is plenty of time.”
Chapter 11
In which Drummond leaves the s.y. “Gadfly”
Still smiling benevolently, Mr Robinson strolled away, and shortly afterwards a series of sharp orders followed by a faint throbbing announced that the voyage of the s.y. Gadfly had commenced. The Cunarder receded into the distance, and still Drummond lay on the bunk wrestling with the problem of what to do. He judged the time as being about six, so they would pass Ted Jerningham’s yacht in daylight.
Apparently no guard was considered necessary for him now that the yacht was under way; after all, to watch a completely bound madman is a boring and uninteresting pastime. And with a feeling of impotent rage Drummond realised how easy it would be to cut the ropes and go quietly overboard. A swim of a mile or so meant nothing to him. If only it hadn’t been for the Professor!…
No; the last hope – the only hope – lay in Ted Jerningham. Once that failed, it seemed to Drummond that nothing could save them. And it was perfectly clear that by no possibility could he hope to communicate with Ted from his present position. He must be free to use his limbs. And during the next ten minutes he discovered that the blade of a safety-razor is an unpleasant implement with which to cut half-inch rope, especially when one’s wrists are bound.
But at last it was done, and he was free. No one had interrupted him, though once some footsteps outside had made him sweat with fear. But he was still no nearer to the solution of the problem. At any moment someone might come in and find him, and there would be no mistake about binding him the second time. Moreover, it would prove fairly conclusively that he was not as mad as he pretended.
Quickly he arranged the ropes with the cut ends underneath, so that to a cursory glance they appeared intact. Then he again lay still. That the glance would have to be very cursory for anyone to be deceived he realised, but it was the best he could do. And anyway he was free, even if only for the time. If the worst came to the worst he had no doubt as to his ability to fight his way to the side and go overboard; gun work is impossible in Southampton Water. But unless he did it near another ship, he feared that the delay before he could do anything would be fatal to the Professor. Peterson would take no chances in this case; he would murder the old man out of hand, instead of postponing the event.
And then, suddenly, came the idea – Ted’s motor-boat. How it was going to help he didn’t see; he had no coherent plan. But with a sort of subconscious certainty he felt that in Ted’s motor-boat lay the key to the problem. She was a wonderful machine, capable of doing her forty knots with ease, and she was the darling of Ted’s heart. Her method of progress in the slightest swell resembled a continuous rush down the waterchute at Earl’s Court; and her owner was wont to take whoever occupied his heart for the moment for what he termed “a bit of a breather” on most evenings after dinner.
Ted’s motor-boat was their hope, he decided; but how? How to get at Ted, how to tell him, was the problem. Methodically he thought things out; now that he had something definite in his mind to go on, his brain was cool and collected. And it seemed to him that the only way would be to go overboard as they passed Ted’s yacht, and then follow the Gadfly at once while she was still close to land. There would be men on Ted’s yacht, and they could board the Gadfly and hold her up. That there were difficulties he realised. It meant leaving the Professor for at least an hour even under the most favourable conditions. Further it would be getting dark when they overtook the Gadfly, and to board a yacht steaming her twelve to fifteen knots is not a simple matter when the crew of the yacht do not desire your presence, and await you with marline-spikes on deck. Besides, the guests on Ted’s yacht might feel that as an evening’s amusement “hunt the slipper” won on points. Still, it seemed the only chance, and he decided on it unless something better turned up. Anyway, it was a plan with a chance of success, which was something.
He glanced through the open door to try to spot his position, and estimated that another half-hour at the rate they were going would just about bring them opposite Ted’s yacht. Still no one came near him, though periodically he could see one of the sailors moving about the deck. As far as he could tell, he had been slung just aft of the funnel, though he dared not raise himself too much for fear of being seen.
The minutes passed, and his hopes began to rise. Could it be that luck was going to be on his side? Could it be that no one would come, and that in the failing light he might be able to slip over the side unperceived? If so, he might gain an invaluable half-hour; more – he might be able to get the motor-boat alongside the Gadfly later without the crew suspecting anything. It seemed too good to be true, and yet a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed, and he was still alone.
He peered out again; they were getting very close. The deck was deserted, and suddenly he felt he could bear the strain no longer. He rose from the bunk and cautiously peered out of the door. And the sight he saw almost staggered him with his good fortune. If he had been walking about the deck instead of being cooped up under cover he could not have timed it more exactly. Not a hundred yards away to port lay Jerningham’s yacht, with the motor-boat alongside the gangway.
Drummond glanced round; he could see no one. The structure in which he had been hoisted on board effectively screened him from the bridge; the sailors were apparently having their evening meal. And taking a quick breath he prepared to make a sprint for the side when he saw something which completely altered his plans. Leaning over the side of the yacht he was watching were a man and a woman. And the man was Ted Jerningham himself.
Drummond saw him focus a pair of field-glasses and turn them on the Gadfly. And then clear and distinct across the water he heard the amazed shout of “Hugh.” Jerningham had seen him; the supreme chance had come, if only he wasn’t interrupted. And it is safe to say that during the next minute a very astonished girl stood beside a man whom she almost failed to recognise as the Ted Jerningham of normal life.
“A pencil,” he snapped. “Write as I spell out. Get a move on. Look out: he’s beginning.
D.A.N.G.E.R. F.O.L.L.O.W. I.N. M.O.T.O.R. B.O.A.T. P.E.T.E.R.S.O.N. U.R.G.E.N.T. That’s all.”
She looked up: the huge man on board the passing yacht who had been standing outlined against the sky waving his arms had disappeared.
“What on earth was he doing?” she cried.
“Semaphoring,” answered Jern
ingham briefly.
“But I don’t understand,” she said.
“Nor do I,” returned her companion. “But that was Hugh Drummond. And what Hugh says – goes, if we follow for the whole night. Coming?”
“Rather. Who’s Peterson?”
“A very dear old friend,” said Jerningham with a grim smile. “But how the deuce…” He broke off, and stared after the retreating yacht. “He loves me, because I emptied the entire sauce-boat over his shirt-front one night in Paris, when disguised as a waiter at the Ritz.”
“My dear Ted, are you mad?” laughed the girl, following him down the gangway into the waiting motor-boat.
“Oh! no – just fun and laughter. You wouldn’t believe what a humorist old man Peterson is.”
A terrific explosion rent the air, followed by a cloud of blue exhaust smoke, and Jerningham took the tiller.
“Warm enough, Pat?” he asked. “It may be a long show.”
“Quite, thanks,” she answered. “Ted, why do you look so grave?”
“I’m just wondering, my dear, if I ought to take you.” His hand was still on the gangway, and he looked at her irresolutely.
“Why on earth not?”
“Because there may be very grave danger.”
The girl laughed.
“Get on with it while the going’s good,” she said. “That yacht will be past the Needles if you delay much longer.”
And so it came about that Drummond, watching feverishly from his bunk in the Gadfly, saw with a sigh of intense relief the motor-boat shoot out across the water. It was nearly a mile astern, but a mile was nothing to a boat of its great speed. Moreover, the distance was lessening, and he breathed a prayer that Ted wouldn’t come too close. With the amount of traffic round and about Cowes at that time of year an odd motor-boat could raise no suspicion, but if he settled down to follow steadily at a hundred yards or so astern he would be bound to draw attention to himself.