Challenge

by Sapper

  “Sounds promising. Near Pulborough?”

  “About two miles from Pulborough on the Arundel road.”

  “What’s happened, Algy, about that girl you said he was keen on – Molly Castledon?”

  “Nothing so far as I know. But she’ll certainly give him the raspberry. And from what you tell me it’ll be a darned good thing if she does.”

  Drummond looked at him thoughtfully.

  “What sort of a wench is she, Algy?”

  “Very nice. Charming girl. Why?”

  “Reliable?”

  “In what way?”

  “Supposing she didn’t give him the raspberry. At least, not yet. Supposing she played with him gently, and wangled an invitation to Birchington Towers.”

  “Hold ’ard, old man. Is it safe?”

  “My dear boy, Burton is not going to be such a congenital half-wit as to hurt her. What possible object could he have in so doing?”

  “Well, I can ask her. I can ring her up now and suggest a spot of alcohol. But I shall have to give her some reason.”

  “Why shouldn’t you? You needn’t tell her the whole thing. Just say that Charles is not all he seems on the surface, and that we are very anxious for any information we can collect about him. You can hint that it’s a big thing, and that the country itself may be in danger.”

  “He’s not likely to breathe a word of anything to her.”

  “Perhaps not. But a girl with her eyes open can frequently find out things. Especially if Burton has entered for the matrimonial stakes. Any scrap of news, Algy, might prove of value.”

  “Well, as I said, I can but ask her.”

  “Her people won’t mind, will they?”

  “Good Lord! My dear fellow, the old woman will swallow her false teeth in her excitement.”

  “Then get on with it,” said Drummond rising. “Do you know where Burton is now?”

  “No. But it’s possible Alice might.”

  “Do you know her number?”

  “I do.”

  “Then give her a ring on chance.”

  Drummond crossed the room, and peered cautiously out of the window, as Algy went into the hall. There on the opposite side of the road was a man rather obviously doing nothing. He was an inconspicuous individual, of much the same type as the man who had followed him in Piccadilly, but his occupation shouted itself aloud. And once again Drummond was struck with the extreme amateurishness of so many of the smaller fry on the other side. The man could never have shadowed anyone before in his life.

  “She believes he’s down in Sussex,” said Algy coming back into the room. “In any case she knows he’s going there for the weekend.”

  “Good. I’ve been watching your sleuth, old boy.”

  “Still there, is he? Let’s have a look at the blighter. Ah! yes, I see him. A respectable looking fellow too, you know. Shall I go out and push his face?”

  “No. But I’m going to let you leave the flat before me. I want to be quite sure that it is you and not me he’s after. You barge on round to the club, old boy, and get busy.”

  “Suppose we want to get in touch with you, Hugh?”

  “Agony column, Morning Post. Make it cryptic; address it to HUD and sign it P for Peter.”

  “It’s a date. Well, so long, old man. I wish to God I could think who the knock-kneed girl is I’m supposed to be lunching with at the Ritz.”

  A faint smile twitched round Drummond’s lips as he heard the front door slam, and a moment or two later Algy appeared on the pavement, and began to saunter slowly along the street. Sure enough the man followed him at a decent interval, and Drummond gave a sigh of relief. So far as he could see he had successfully lost himself. And how long that state of affairs continued would depend entirely on his own skill.

  He poured himself out some more beer, and sat down in an easy chair. For the first time since the beginning of his hectic rush from Nice he really had leisure to review the situation; up till now his own getaway had occupied his whole mind.

  The thing that worried him most was the failure of Standish and Gasdon to reach England. Particularly Gasdon; Standish, assuming he had returned to Cannes, would barely have had time. But that Gasdon, who should have been in England two days ago, was still in France was ominous. However, they were both men well able to look after themselves, and in any case there was nothing that he could do. His immediate job was to follow the advice he had given Algy and get busy.

  The first thing to do was to have a talk with Ginger Lawson. But here a difficulty presented itself. They would almost certainly be shadowing him, and that meant running the risk of Drummond himself being picked up again. Especially as Ginger, though an excessively stout-hearted officer, was not very adept at work of that sort. As against that, to judge by the previous performers, nor were the other side.

  “Marsh,” he called out, “ring up the War Office and ask for Major Lawson.”

  A simple plan had suggested itself to his mind, and simplicity was advisable with Ginger.

  “On the line, sir.”

  Marsh put his head in at the door, and Drummond went to the telephone.

  “That you, Ginger? Drummond again. I’ve got to have a talk with you.”

  “Delighted, old boy. Come round now.”

  “Not on your life,” said Drummond with a short laugh. “Things are much too serious for that. You’ve got to come and see me, but I don’t want you followed. When you go to the club for lunch go in as usual by the entrance in St James’s Square. Walk straight through and leave the club at once by the ladies’ entrance in Pall Mall. Get into a taxi and drive to Heppel Street – Number 10.”

  “Where the hell is Heppel Street?”

  “Behind the British Museum. I’ll be waiting for you, and I’ll have a lunch of sorts ready.”

  “All right,” came Ginger’s resigned voice.

  “And should the necessity arise don’t forget that my name is Johnson and I’m a plumber.”

  “May Allah help the drains. Right ho! old lad. I’ll be there. About one.”

  Drummond replaced the receiver; so far so good. His next move must be to find out if his own house was being watched. It was almost a waste of time, but it was just possible that if they still believed him to be in France, they might not have bothered to do so. And if so, there were several things he would have liked to get hold of; in particular, a revolver, having left his other in Cannes.

  “I’m off now, Marsh,” he said picking up his bag of tools. “See that Mr Longworth behaves himself. No, don’t open the door. I’m the plumber.”

  He let himself out, and standing on the doorstep, he proceeded to fill a singularly offensive pipe. His eyes darted this way and that; there was no sign of anyone suspicious. Then once more picking up his bag, he slouched off down the street.

  One glance was sufficient as he neared his own house: they had not neglected the obvious precaution. But Drummond feeling perfectly secure in his disguise, determined on a bold move. He walked up the steps and rang the bell.

  “Is this Mrs Rowbotham’s ’ouse?” he demanded as Denny opened the door.

  “No, it ain’t.” Came a pause. “Good Lord! sir, I’d never have known you.”

  “Dry up, you fool. I was told to come to Number 94… Mrs Rowbotham. Bring my revolver to 10, Heppel Street tonight… Where is ’er blinking ’ouse?”

  “And watch that bloke opposite.”

  Drummond consulted a dirty note-book.

  “There you are, see, Rowbotham. 94, Clarges Street. Bring some money too: twenty pounds.”

  “This ain’t Clarges Street: it’s Half Moon Street. Very good, sir. Next street along there.”

  “Thanks, mate.”

  At the bottom of the steps he paused to relight his pipe and t
ake stock of the man on the other side of the road. It was a tougher-looking specimen this time, who might have been a professional bruiser. But he evinced not the smallest interest in the passing plumber, and he was still on sentry go when Drummond boarded a bus in Piccadilly.

  As a residential quarter Heppel Street is not to be recommended. A row of dingy houses mournfully confronts another row of even dingier ones. At each end was traffic and life, but nothing ever came through that stagnant backwater. The arrival of a taxi was an event: the only wheeled traffic was the milkman’s cart and an occasional tradesman’s van.

  Number 10 differed only from Nos. 11 and 12 in one respect: it was owned by Mrs Penny. And Mrs Penny had been in the service of the Drummond family for many years in days gone by. Why, when she was pensioned off, she had decided to live in such a repulsive locality, was one of these mysteries which he had long given up trying to solve. It remained that she had done so, and the fact had proved very useful to him in the past.

  A better hiding-place it would have been impossible to find. Mrs Penny worshipped him with that touching and dog-like devotion so often displayed by old retainers on the children they have looked after. Torture would not have made her speak if she thought she was giving Master Hugh away. And though she sometimes expressed mild disapproval of his goings-on, as she called them, it was with a twinkle in her eye which quite belied her words.

  One room in the house was permanently set aside for him. In it he kept half a dozen different disguises, and though he might not go near the place for a year he knew he would always find them in perfect condition whenever he wanted them.

  So far as is known there had never been a Mr Penny. It was a courtesy title which lent, as Drummond always assured her, an air of respectability to their relations. But though he used to pull her leg about it in private, should a neighbour come in he was punctilious in his reference to the late lamented. On one evening it is true he had made a slight break by mentioning the grave at Wandsworth, and ten minutes later changing the venue to Hampstead, but in the wild hilarity of high tea the lapse had passed unnoticed.

  “Darling,” he called out as he entered the house, “put on your bonnet and shawl and trot off to the market. Get me two juicy, succulent steaks, and a nice bit of cheese. A gentleman is coming to lunch at one o’clock.”

  “That beard, Master Hugh!” The old lady emerged from the kitchen. “Can’t you shave it off, lovey?”

  “Not yet, Jane. Soon I hope it may be but a fantastic dream, but not yet. Let’s have some onions and fried potatoes, and if you can get some celery I’ll give you a kiss. And if any strange woman offers you a chocolate tell her she’s a hussy. You can’t be too careful these days.”

  “Will you be wanting some more beer, Master Hugh?”

  “How many bottles are there left?”

  “I ordered a dozen, dearie, last night. But I can only find four.”

  “Strange, Jane – very strange. How I can possibly have left as many as that is beyond me. Another dozen, darling.”

  “Who’s the gentleman, Master Hugh? Do I know him?”

  “No, Jane – you’ve never met him. He’s a Major Lawson.”

  “Are you going on one of them wild pranks of yours again?”

  “I am, my angel.”

  “Do be careful, dearie. You know what bad colds you used to have as a baby. And if you get your feet wet–”

  Drummond burst into a roar of laughter.

  “I shall borrow your elastic-sided boots, you old darling. Now pop along, and don’t forget the celery.”

  He watched her waddle down the street: then picking up the morning paper he glanced through it. It was duller than usual, and he was on the point of throwing it down when a small paragraph caught his eye.

  MYSTERY MILLIONAIRE

  ARRIVAL IN LONDON

  M. Serge Menalin, sometimes alluded to as the mystery millionaire, has arrived in London, accompanied by his beautiful wife. They have taken a suite at the Ritz-Carlton, and it is understood that they are staying there for two or three weeks. They have recently been in the South of France.

  Drummond’s eyes narrowed: so Menalin had appeared on the scene in person, complete with lady. Did that mean that things were coming to a head?

  He lit a cigarette and began to pace up and down the little room. If only there was some ray of light in the darkness, some pointer to act as a guide. He heard Mrs Penny come in, and shortly after the wonderful smell of frying onions swept through room and house. But he was barely conscious of it; round and round in his brain turned the same unanswered question – what was at the bottom of it all?

  A taxi drawing up outside brought him to the window; it was Ginger Lawson arriving, and he went out into the hall to let him in.

  “Heavens above! old man,” cried that outraged officer, pointing a finger at his chin, “why the grouse moor?”

  “All in good time, Ginger. I want to make quite sure you haven’t been followed.”

  Drummond was peering through the curtains, but there was no one in sight. And at length he came back into the room.

  “I carried out your instructions,” said Lawson. “Though what the devil anyone should want to follow me for is beyond me.”

  “They followed the Chief all right, didn’t they?”

  “The swine,” cried Lawson savagely. “If I could catch those devils…”

  “From what I read in the papers you’re never likely to. When was the funeral?”

  “The day before yesterday. What on earth is it all about, Hugh?”

  Mrs Penny came bustling in with the steaks.

  “Jane,” cried Drummond, “this is Major Lawson. Short for antimacassar Jane, old boy. She has a passion for antimacassars which oversteps the bounds of decency. Put everything down, darling, and half a dozen bottles of beer and I’ll shout when we’re ready for the cheese.”

  “I got the celery, Master Hugh.”

  “Very good girl. Now, Ginger,” he went on seriously as the old lady left the room. “Let’s get down to things. Young Cranmer has, of course, told you about the show at the villa. Now have you made anything out of that mechanical device?”

  “I sent it to an expert at the Yard,” said Lawson. “And the utmost he could say was that as the thing stood it could fulfil no purpose at all. But that with the insertion of a spring it could be wound up just as a clock is wound up. Further, that it contained the additional mechanism which you only find in an alarum clock – that’s to say it could be set to go off at a given time.”

  “Strange,” said Drummond thoughtfully. “In conjunction with that fruit tin. And Jimmy’s cryptic utterance.”

  “Are you playing with the idea that it is some sort of bomb that is intended?”

  “Impossible to do otherwise.”

  “Then why go to all the bother of obtaining a proprietary brand of fruit tin? Any old tin would do.”

  “There’s one very good reason, Ginger, so it seems to me. It’s a stock size. There can be no mistake about its dimensions. And if these bombs are being manufactured in large quantities, possibly in different parts of the country, it might be most important to ensure that they were identical.”

  “But, good Lord! man–” began Lawson incredulously and Drummond held up his hand.

  “I don’t know if Ronald put it in his letter, but there was one remark that poor old Jimmy made to his girl friend out there that sticks in my memory. He said it was a plot which out-Vernes Jules Verne. And Jimmy was not an alarmist.”

  “That’s true,” agreed Lawson.

  “You saw, didn’t you, that Menalin has arrived in London complete with wife?”

  “I did.” Lawson pushed away his plate and stared thoughtfully at the fire. “By the way,” he said suddenly, “who is this man Gasdon you were talking about on the phone?
”

  “An Englishman we met in Nice, again after Ronald wrote that letter. And full value, Ginger. He advanced a very remarkable theory. He suggested the possibility of a sudden devastating attack on England, financed, controlled and directed by the Reds.”

  “Rot, old boy: rot. We have accurate information of the whole of their movement here in England. It’s blah, blah, and talk from the word ‘go’.”

  “Here in England – perhaps. Gasdon’s theory is that the thing might be engineered from outside, and be under the control of this man Menalin.”

  “He hates us, of course. We know that. But what could be his object?”

  Drummond shrugged his shoulders.

  “Ask me another. There I’m out of my depth. But it seems to me that there are quite a number of people in Europe who would not be sorry to see us down and out.”

  “That is perfectly true. At the same time, old boy, the whole idea seems most terribly far-fetched.”

  “That was my first reaction, but I’ve been thinking it over since. And now I’m not so sure. We’re in a pretty helpless condition, Ginger.”

  “Absolutely helpless, I agree. True at long last we’re re-arming, but most of our ships are antiquated, and as far as planes are concerned we’re swamped for numbers.”

  “It’s a funny thing,” said Drummond thoughtfully, “but the very first night the Chief put me on to this job, when I was round at the Golden Boot, I had a most extraordinary experience. I suppose it only lasted a second or two, but it was the most vivid thing I have ever known. For a space I was actually back in France, with the flares lobbing up close to and the stink of death all round. The room had gone, the band had ceased. I heard the phit of a bullet; I heard the drone of a crump. And then as suddenly as it had come, it went.”

  “An omen?” Lawson looked at him curiously.

  Drummond shrugged his shoulders again.

  “I’m not a fanciful sort of bloke,” he said, “but I wonder. Something pretty damnable is in the wind, Ginger. And the trouble, as I said to Algy, is that, officially, we haven’t got a leg to stand on.”