by Sapper
Drummond studied her in silence.
“Now what precisely do you mean?” he enquired at length.
“Exactly what I say. Caesar holds the power of life or death. There is no appeal. If he says to me: ‘Go’ – I go. And lose my job. Which reminds me that you’ll have to stand me a bottle of champagne for the good of the house. Sorry about it, but there you are.”
Drummond beckoned to a waiter and glanced at the wine list.
“Number 35. Now tell me, Alice,” he said when the man had gone, “do you like this job?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, can they? And since secretaries are a drug on the market what is a poor girl to do?”
“Does he expect you to – ?”
“Sleep with him?” She gave a short laugh. “So far, Hugh, I have not been honoured.”
“And if you are?”
“I can think of nothing I should detest more. I hate the swine.”
“Steady, my dear.” For a moment he laid his hand on hers. “The ‘swine’ has just arrived. And I don’t think you’ll be honoured this evening at any rate.”
A sudden silence had fallen on the Golden Boot. Head waiters, waiters, under-waiters were prostrating themselves at the door. And assuredly the woman who had entered with Charles Burton was sufficient cause. Tall, with a perfect figure, she stood for a moment regarding the room with an arrogance so superb, that its insolence was almost staggering. Her shimmering black velvet frock was skin-tight; she wore no jewels save one rope of magnificent pearls. Her eyes were blue and heavy-lidded; her mouth a scarlet streak. And on one finger there glittered a priceless ruby.
As if unconscious of the effect she had created she swept across the room behind the obsequious manager, whilst Charles Burton followed in leisurely fashion, stopping at different tables to speak to friends. At length he reached Drummond’s and the eyes of the two men met.
“Surely…” began Burton doubtfully.
“We met at a cocktail party, Mr Burton,” said Drummond with a smile. “I trod on your foot and nearly broke it. Drummond is my name.”
“Of course, I remember perfectly. Ah! good evening, Miss Blackton.” He gave the girl a perfunctory bow: then turned back to Drummond. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“For the very good reason that it is the first time I’ve been. I’ve only just got back from the north.”
“Shooting?”
“Yes. I was stalking in Sutherland.”
“Well, now that you’ve been here once I hope you’ll come again. It’s my toy, you know.”
With a nod he moved on, and Drummond watched him as he joined the woman. Then he became aware that a waiter was standing by him with a note.
“From the gentleman with the eyeglass, sir.”
He opened it, and saw a few words scrawled in pencil.
Charlie B. He make whoopee. But what about poor
Molly C.
Drummond smiled and put the note in his pocket.
“From the idiot boy,” he said. “Commenting on Mr Burton’s girl friend.”
“She’s an extraordinarily striking woman,” said Alice Blackton. “I wonder if he picked her up at Nice.”
Drummond stared at her.
“Did you say Nice?”
“I did. He’s just come back from the Riviera, you know.”
“Has he indeed? That is rather interesting.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“I’m glad you find it so. I’m afraid that Mr Burton’s comings and goings leave me stone cold.”
“Tell me, Alice, why do you hate him?”
“Hate is perhaps too strong a word,” she said. “And yet I don’t know. I think it’s because I don’t trust him a yard. I don’t mean only over women, though that comes into it too. I wouldn’t trust him over anything. He’s completely and utterly unscrupulous.”
“Are you speaking from definite knowledge, or is that merely your private opinion?”
“If by definite knowledge you mean do I know that he’s ever robbed a church – then no. But you’ve only got to meet him in a subordinate capacity like I have, to get him taped.”
She looked at Drummond curiously.
“You seem very interested in him, Hugh.”
“I am,” said Drummond frankly. “Though the last thing I want is that he should know it.”
“You can be sure that I won’t pass it on. Why are you so interested, or is it a secret?”
“I’m afraid it is, my dear. All I can tell you is that I’m very anxious to find out everything that I can about the gentleman. And though I can’t say why, your little piece of information about his having been on the Riviera recently, is of the greatest value. Do you know how long he was there for?”
“I can tell you when he left England. It was exactly a fortnight ago, because he was in here the night before he flew over.”
“I gather he always flies,” said Drummond.
“He’s got his own machine,” remarked the girl. “And his own pilot.”
“Did he go over in it this time?”
“I suppose so. He always does.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Drummond. “I know,” he went on with a smile, “that this must seem very mysterious to you. Really, it isn’t a bit. But at the moment I just can’t tell you what it is all about. Your father was a soldier, wasn’t he?”
“He was. Though how did you know?”
“Algy told me. Now I can let you in to this much. It is the army that is interested in Mr Burton. I tell you that, because I’m going to ask you to do something for me.”
“What?” said the girl.
“Keep an eye on him – that’s all, and let me know anything about his movements that you can find out, however seemingly trivial.”
“My dear man, I can’t do much, I’m afraid.”
“You never know,” said Drummond quietly. “As I’ve already told you, that piece of information about Nice is most valuable. Another thing. Not only his movements, but also the people be brings here. Now would it be possible to discover the name of that woman?”
“Presumably he’s signed her in, but whether under her real name or not is another matter. I can find out if you like.”
“Do – like an angel.”
“All right. I’ll go and powder my nose.”
A good wench, reflected Drummond as he watched her threading her way through the tables. Definitely an asset. And though probably ninety per cent of what she could pass on would be valueless, the remaining ten might not. Witness the matter of Nice. True that would certainly have come out in the course of time – Burton’s visit there was clearly no secret. At the same time it was useful to have it presented free of charge, so to speak. But the really important thing was the installation in one of the enemy’s camps of a reliable friend.
“OK, baby?”
Algy had strolled over to his table.
“Very much so, old boy. A damned nice girl.”
“That’s a bit of mother’s ruin our Charlie has got with him.”
“Alice is just trying to find out who she is. Algy – Burton was at Nice, while Jimmy was at Cannes.”
Algy whistled.
“The devil he was. Have you told Alice anything about it?”
“No. Safer not to at present. She doesn’t like him, Algy.”
“None of the staff do, old lad. Alice – my life, my all – this revolting man hasn’t been making love to you, has he?”
“Not so that you’d notice, Algy,” laughed the girl, sitting down. “She is a Madame Tomesco, Hugh.”
“It has a Roumanian flavour,” said Drummond.
“And mark you, boys and girls, I could do with a bit of Roumanian flavouring myself,” de
clared Algy. “I could do that woman a kindness: yes, I could. Well, au revoir, my sweets. If he plucks at his collar, Alice, it’s either passion or indigestion, or possibly both. You have been warned.”
“Quite, quite mad,” said the girl. “But rather a dear. You must give me your address, Hugh, before you go, so that I can send along the doings.”
He scribbled it down on a piece of paper and his telephone number.
“Be careful, my dear,” he said gravely. “I have a feeling that if the gentleman got an inkling that you were spying on him he would not be amused. I’ll go further. If there is anything in what we suspect you’d be in grave danger.”
Her eyes opened wide.
“How perfectly thrilling! Promise you’ll tell me sometime what it’s all about?”
“Thumbs crossed. Waiter, let me have my bill. I’ve put my name on the whisky: keep it for me for next time.”
“Come again soon, Hugh,” said the girl.
“I sure will. Good night, dear. I really am infernally sleepy.”
The rain had ceased when he got outside, and refusing a taxi he started to walk to his flat. Though the Golden Boot was much better ventilated than the average night club, it was a relief to breathe fresh air again. The streets were wet and glistening in the glare of the arc lights: the pavements almost deserted. Every now and then some wretched woman appeared from seemingly nowhere, and it was while he was fumbling in his pocket for some money for one of them that his uncanny sixth sense began to assert itself.
“Bless you! You’re a toff,” said the girl, but Drummond hardly heard her. He was staring back the way he had come. What was that man doing loitering about, some fifty yards away?
He walked on two or three hundred yards: then on the pretext of doing up his shoe he stopped. The man was still there; he was being followed. With a puzzled frown he strode on; how in the name of all that was marvellous could he have incurred anybody’s suspicions?
He decided to make sure, and to do so he employed the old ruse. He swung round the corner from Piccadilly into Bond Street; then he stopped dead in his tracks. And ten seconds later the man shot round too, only to halt, in his turn, as he saw Drummond.
“Good evening,” said Drummond affably. “You are not, if I may say so, very expert at your game. Possibly you haven’t had much practice.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” muttered the other, and Drummond studied him curiously. He looked about thirty, and was decently dressed. His voice was refined: he might have been a bank clerk.
“Why are you following me?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m not following you.”
“Then why did you stop dead when you came round the corner and saw me? I fear that your powers of lying are about equivalent to your powers of tracking. Once again I wish to know why you are following me.”
“I refuse to say,” said the man.
“At any rate we advance,” said Drummond. “You no longer deny the soft impeachment. But as it’s confoundedly draughty here I suggest that we should stroll on together, chatting on this and that. And in case the point has escaped your notice, I will just remind you that I am a very much larger and more powerful man than you. And should the ghastly necessity of hitting you arise, it will probably be at least a week before you again take your morning Bengers.”
“You dare to lay a hand on me,” blustered the man, “and I’ll…”
“Yes,” said Drummond politely. “You’ll what? Call the police? Come on, little man: I would hold converse with you.”
With a grip of iron he took the man’s right arm above the elbow, and turning back into Piccadilly he walked him along.
“Who is employing you?”
“I refuse to say. God! you’ll break my arm.”
“Quite possibly.”
And at that moment a policeman came round Dover Street just in front of them.
“Officer,” cried the man. “Help!”
For a moment Drummond’s grip relaxed, and like a rabbit going down a bolt-hole the man was across the road and racing down St James’s Street.
“What’s all this, sir?” said the constable as Drummond began to laugh.
“A gentleman who has been following me, officer,” he said. “I’m afraid I was rather hurting him.”
“Oh! I see, sir.”
The constable looked at him significantly and winked. Then with a cheery “Good night, sir,” he resumed his beat.
But the smile soon faded from Drummond’s face, and it was with a very grave expression that he walked on. He had only got down from Scotland that day, so under what conceivable circumstances could he be being followed? That it was added confirmation that the Chief was right was indubitable: it could not be anything else than the Jimmy Latimer affair. There was literally nothing else that it could be. But how had they got on to him – Drummond? That was what completely defeated him. For one brief moment the possibility of Alice Blackton being a wrong ’un crossed his mind: then he dismissed it as absurd. What could be her object? She had his address: she knew his name, so what purpose would it serve to have him followed home? But if it was not her who could it be?
He reached his house and produced his latch-key. The road was deserted: there was no sign of the man who had bolted so precipitately. But as he mixed himself a final night-cap he was still frowning thoughtfully. For he had suddenly realised that all the arguments that applied to Alice applied equally to Charles Burton. He, too, knew Drummond’s name, and even if he did not know the address he could easily find it in the telephone directory. So again what was the object in having him followed? And the problem was still unsolved when he met Standish just before lunch next day.
“There can be only one solution, Hugh,” said that worthy when Drummond had finished telling him. “They picked us up at the Chief’s flat. It was he who was being watched, and anybody who went to see him.”
He sipped his sherry thoughtfully.
“We ought to have been more careful,” he went on. “However, the mischief is done now, so it can’t be helped. You see we gave the club address to the taxi driver, which made it easy to follow us here. Then you were shadowed to the Golden Boot: I was almost certainly traced to my flat. As a matter of fact there was a loafer hanging about to open the door of the taxi who could easily have heard the address. And, finally, your friend tried to follow you home.”
“But if Burton is at the bottom of it, why worry about me? You, I can understand, but he knows me.”
“True, old boy,” said Standish, “but he doesn’t know, or didn’t know then, that you were mixed up in the matter. Assuming for the moment that Burton is at the bottom of it, what happened, as I see it, is this. He issued orders for the Chief’s flat to be watched, and anything of interest to be reported to him today. So by this time he knows that I had an interview with the Colonel last night, and that a large man who left the Golden Boot in the early hours was also present at that interview. Which, I fear, points unerringly to you.”
“There were a lot of people there, Ronald.”
“Well, let’s hope for the best. But we mustn’t bank on it. We must play on the assumption that Burton knows we’re both in the game.”
“You are definitely converted to the Chief’s theory.”
“I am becoming more and more so. Would they have bothered to watch his flat if Jimmy’s death had been a natural one? No; the cumulative effect of all this evidence, to my mind, is that Jimmy was murdered. And if he was murdered there is a strong probability that Burton had something to do with it.”
“I hope to Heaven I’ve not put that girl in any danger,” said Drummond in a worried voice.
“Drop her a line and tell her to watch her step.”
“And this Tomesco woman means nothing in your life?”
“Did you find out anything this morning?” asked Drummond.
“Merely additional confirmation that there doesn’t seem to be anything to find out. Which in itself is suspicious. He has an office in Fenchurch Street with a small staff. Frequently for days on end he is not there. He doesn’t appear to have many clients, and nobody seems to know exactly what his business actually is. One line, apparently, consists of considerable speculation in foreign currencies.”
A page boy came up with a letter on a salver.
“From the Chief,” said Standish quietly. “Let’s see what he’s got to say.”
He read the letter through; then handed it to Drummond.
Dear Ronald [it ran],
I have been in touch with manager of the Metropole at Cannes. Jimmy died (?) on Wednesday night: he left the hotel most unexpectedly on the Tuesday and caught the Paris express. It came as a complete surprise to the manager as, only that very morning, he had booked his room for another week.
That was all I could get over the phone. Evidently something happened on Tuesday which caused this sudden change of plan. But there is another peculiar feature. He must have arrived in Paris early on Wednesday morning. Why did he not cross earlier, or fly over? What was he doing in Paris all that time? And if the matter was not so very urgent why didn’t he wait till Thursday and cross in comfort?
I can’t help thinking that one or both of you should go to Cannes, and see if you can pick up any threads there. Possibly also a few discreet enquiries at the Hotel Crillon might help.
Yours,
Henry Talbot.
PS. Am sending this from my club. I shall be here for the next hour.
“I agree,” said Drummond. “And since we know we’ve been shadowed, the objection to our being seen together no longer exists. I suggest that we both go.”
“OK by me,” answered Standish. “Just one moment, old boy: I’m going to drop a line to the Chief. Then we’ll discuss plans.”
He went to a writing-desk, whilst Drummond lit a cigarette and ordered another glass of sherry. Undoubtedly the Chief was right: they were at a dead end here in London. And in Cannes they might stumble on something.