Knock Out

by Sapper

  Aaronstein bowed obsequiously.

  “Pleased to meet any friend of yours, Captain,” he said.

  “About tonight,” continued Drummond to Standish. “Disguise or not?”

  “Not,” said Standish. “If by chance they catch us a disguise is no good, and if they don’t it isn’t wanted.”

  “Make it so,” said Drummond. “Sam, send out that young scoundrel of a son of yours for a gallon of ale. I’ve got a mouth like a lime-kiln. Here’s the card,” he continued as the Jew left the room. “‘Mrs Charles Dingle – to meet Corinne Moxton. Do come – angel man,’ written in the corner. ‘6.30–9.’ Ever heard of her?”

  “No, thank God,” said Standish. “By Jove! old boy,” he cried in genuine admiration as Drummond peeled off his shirt and vest, “you have got some muscle on you.”

  “Not bad,” said Drummond modestly. “I keep pretty fit, this way and that.”

  He paused, struck by a sudden thought. Standish’s words had brought back those ghastly minutes that morning when the man he now knew to be Pendleton had run his fingers up and down his arm, and he heard again that devilish chuckling laugh of gloating anticipation.

  He retailed it, and Standish listened in silence.

  “Interesting,” he remarked after a while. “It may be that he hopes you will be involved in some trial of strength at which he will be a spectator. It bears out that Jekyll and Hyde theory.”

  Drummond continued dressing as young Joseph entered with the beer.

  “And there’s another thing I haven’t told you about,” he said, “which will keep you amused while you’re waiting here. Are you an expert on ciphers?”

  “Pretty fair,” said Standish.

  “Then have a dip at this,” cried Drummond. “The torn-off scrap was dropped by Gulliver in your rooms, translation and all complete. The other came out of the Telegraph this morning, and it struck me that it might be the same code. Unfortunately it makes absolute gibberish.”

  “I’ll have a look at it when you’ve gone,” said Standish. “What we’ve got to fix now is where we meet tonight. We’ll want a car, and mine is in the garage close by my rooms.”

  “Which are being watched for a certainty,” remarked Drummond. “We’ll take mine: the garage is a quarter of a mile from my house. But I don’t think it’s wise to bring her down here: she’s one of those super-charged Mercédès and might seem a bit out of place in Whitechapel. Tell you what, old boy: you and I will go independently by train to Epsom – it’s on our road. We’ll dine at the Crown, and I’ll ’phone my warrior to take her there. How does that strike you?”

  “OK, baby,” said Standish. “I’ll be there about eight.”

  “Good. I doubt if I’ll manage it by then, but I’ll make it as soon as I can.”

  Drummond sank a final pint of beer, and sighed.

  “Now for Dingle’s pestilential party,” he remarked. “If the cursed woman ‘angel man’s’ me in a corner Charles will be a widower. I only hope I recognise her.”

  And had it not been for the fact that she was standing just inside the door as he entered the drawing-room he certainly would not have done so.

  “My dear,” she cried, “how utterly toothsome of you to come. I expect you know everybody, but it doesn’t matter if you don’t. Do keep an eye for me on young Henry over there: I think he’s going to be sick.”

  “Is he the pale-green thing in the corner?” asked Drummond languidly. “If so, the catastrophe seems imminent.”

  “Corinne hasn’t come yet,” she continued. “Don’t you think she’s too utterly ravishing?”

  “Incredibly utterly,” murmured Drummond, drifting away and leaving a new arrival in the place of honour. In a far corner he had espied a man he knew slightly and he now proceeded to join him.

  “Evening, Rogers,” he remarked. “What an infernal crush.”

  “Didn’t know you patronised this type of entertainment,” said the other. “I don’t myself as a general rule, but my wife was crazy to see this Moxton woman, and dragged me along.”

  “What’s she like to look at?”

  “I’ve only seen her on the films, but she looks a fizzer on them. By the way, what an extraordinary affair this Sanderson business in Hampstead is, isn’t it?”

  “Amazing,” said Drummond, and at that moment a sudden stir by the door saved him the necessity of further elaboration. The guest of the evening was arriving.

  She was a strikingly beautiful woman, with a well-nigh perfect figure, and she moved with an unconscious grace that was one of her principal charms. In one hand she carried the smallest Pekingese he had ever seen, and he was on the point of remarking on it when Rogers chuckled.

  “I thought as much,” he said. “He’s never out of her pocket.”

  Drummond glanced at the door: Sir Richard Pendleton had just come in.

  “Who is never out of her pocket?” he said indifferently as he lit a cigarette. A bit of acting was going to be required in a few moments, and until then casual conversation with Rogers would help.

  “Pendleton – the surgeon. That thin-faced blighter who has just come in. Charges you a thousand quid to do the simplest thing, and from what I hear he’ll want it all. The lady has somewhat expensive tastes.”

  “Is there a Lady Pendleton?” asked Drummond.

  “Not so that one would notice,” said Rogers with a grin. “I believe there is one, but one never sees her. Hullo! you seem to have attracted the gentleman’s notice: he was staring quite hard at you, but he’s looked away again now. Do you know him?”

  “Never met him in my life,” answered Drummond, taking a cocktail from a tray which a footman was presenting to him.

  He looked casually across the room: Pendleton was whispering something in the actress’ ear. And a moment later her glance travelled slowly round the people present: met his indifferently and passed on. But she had spotted him, and he wondered what the next move was going to be.

  It came fairly quickly in the shape of his hostess.

  “My dear,” she cried, coming up to him, “Corinne wishes to meet you. Come and be introduced.”

  A bit blatant, he reflected, as he followed her across the room, but presumably Pendleton regarded himself as perfectly safe. And the next moment he was bowing over the film-star’s hand.

  “An honour,” he murmured, “which I have often dreamed of in the silent watches of the night, but never imagined would come true.”

  “Say, big boy,” she said, “you’re talking boloney. Have you two never met? Sir Richard Pendleton – Captain Drummond.”

  “Good evening,” said Drummond. “Charmed to meet you, Sir Richard – unprofessionally.”

  The other smiled.

  “From what I can see of you, Captain Drummond, I don’t think you’re ever likely to meet me in any other capacity.”

  “Say, Cora’s thrown a swell party,” said the actress, and for an instant or two Drummond studied her face. Beautiful: more than that, lovely: hair the colour of spun gold. Her eyes had a strange tint in them that was almost green. Her complexion was flawless; her skin perfect. But – there was something: something he could not put his finger on that was wrong. And suddenly he realised that she was looking at him, and in spite of himself he felt his pulses quicken a little. There was no mistaking the message in those extraordinary green eyes, though it was only there for the fraction of a second, and for a moment he almost forgot the part she had played in Sanderson’s murder. For Standish was right: she must be the woman in the case.

  “They certainly seem to be making whoopee all right,” he remarked, putting down his empty glass. “Personally I’m not very fond of crowds of this sort. Two seems to me to be the maximum number for pleasure.”

  “Come and see me some time, you big man,” she murmured, “an
d we might fix one of your parties.”

  Again came the invitation direct and unmistakable: then she moved away as Sir Richard came up.

  “Extraordinary, this case of poor Sanderson, isn’t it?” he remarked. “I see they’ve got a lot of fresh evidence in the evening papers.”

  “And they’ll have some more tomorrow,” said Drummond, “when I’ve given mine.”

  “Yours!” echoed the surgeon, amazed. “Why, what do you know about it?”

  “A lot, Sir Richard,” answered Drummond quietly. “I was up there when it all happened.”

  “My dear fellow, you don’t say so,” cried the other. “Were you one of those four unknown men the butler talks about?”

  “Sure,” said Drummond. “There was a lot of fun and merriment last night, I assure you. And not content with murdering Sanderson, I’m damned if the blighters didn’t drug the whisky in the rooms of a pal of mine who was also there. I know I drank some, and passed out till six o’clock this morning.”

  “Astounding,” cried the surgeon. “And what took you up there in the first place, Captain Drummond?”

  “Vulgar curiosity, Sir Richard,” said Drummond quietly, “which is always reprehensible.”

  A footman was again bringing round a tray of drinks, and if Pendleton appreciated the snub he showed no sign of it as he took a glass.

  “Was your pal also drugged?” he asked.

  “I should imagine so. At any rate, he had disappeared when I recovered.”

  “Amazing: quite amazing. One doesn’t expect to hear of things of that sort in England. I wonder who the miscreants are. Is this for me?”

  The butler had come up to him with a letter on a salver.

  “It’s just been brought, Sir Richard,” he said. “Urgent, the messenger said.”

  “Of such is a doctor’s life,” remarked Pendleton. “Will you excuse me?”

  “Of course,” said Drummond, moving away a little. How very sure the man was of his own safety, and of the efficacy of the drug in the whisky! And at that moment, happening to glance at the surgeon’s face, he realised that the note contained news that had upset its recipient pretty considerably. Every drop of blood had left his face, and his teeth were bared into a snarl. Then in a second the mask was replaced, as he put the note in his pocket.

  “No answer, thank you,” he said, and the butler moved away.

  “Not an urgent call for your professional services, I trust,” said Drummond affably.

  “No: not this time, fortunately,” answered the surgeon.

  His voice was completely normal: it was the look in his eyes that gave the show away. For they were fixed almost questioningly on the other’s face, and Drummond knew, as surely as if he had read it, that the note referred to the Sanderson affair even if not to him personally.

  “Fascinating job yours, Sir Richard,” he remarked. “I’ve always envied people who can use their hands for such delicate work.”

  “There is a fascination in it,” agreed the surgeon. “But we can’t all be constructed alike. Your métier, for instance, I imagine is more of the sledge-hammer variety. To use a fishing metaphor, you would go after tarpon where I go after trout with a dry fly.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Drummond. “Though, talking of fly fishing, I remember on one occasion going out with an expert. He was one of those merchants who could cast backwards and sideways between his legs, whereas when I wield a rod I generally connect with the next bloke’s ear.”

  “And what was the result of your day?”

  “I caught the fish.”

  “Beginner’s luck?”

  “Possibly: or perhaps the value of the unexpected. The crack of my line behind me so amazed the little fellows that they came to the surface to see what had happened, and I then stunned them with the fly.”

  “I fear you would not repeat the performance,” remarked the surgeon.

  “Once is sufficient for so many things in life, Sir Richard. The means of achieving one’s end cease to be unexpected the second time.”

  “A philosopher, I perceive, Captain Drummond.”

  “In a mild way. But principally a believer in straightforward hitting as opposed to guile. I stunned my fish: the poor little thing couldn’t believe I was such a fool as to throw a fly so badly. Whereas my wily companion was so full of cunning that he defeated his own ends.”

  “Almost might one think that you speak in metaphors,” said Sir Richard softly.

  “Good Lord! my dear chap,” cried Drummond affably, “you flatter me. I’m not nearly clever enough for that. Ah! Miss Moxton, here’s Sir Richard telling me that I’m a brainy fellah, whereas my strong point is pushing a bloke’s face in.”

  The actress who had joined them smiled.

  “I guess it’s a very useful accomplishment, Captain Drummond,” she drawled. “Some day you must let me see you do it. Don’t forget that little party we’re going to throw together.”

  “It is graven on my heart,” said Drummond.

  He bowed and went in search of his hostess.

  “I trust young Henry has succeeded in keeping his lunch down,” he murmured. “A wonderful party, my dear – but forgive me if I run away.”

  He lounged through the room, and Corinne Moxton’s eyes followed him.

  “If you don’t fix that, Richard,” she said quietly, “I’ll never forgive you.”

  And had Drummond seen her face at that moment he would have known what that something was that was wrong. For it might have been used as a model for the quintessence of cruelty.

  The expression faded and she looked at her companion sharply.

  “Say – what’s stung you? You’ve got a dial like an English Sunday.”

  “Standish has got away,” he said briefly. “I’ve just had a note to say so. And with him was a big man dressed as a commercial traveller. A big man,” he repeated thoughtfully, his eyes on the door by which Drummond had just left.

  “You don’t mean,” she began.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “I mean that I would very much like to be able to read Captain Drummond’s mind,” he answered softly. “Very much indeed.”

  Chapter 5

  Standish was half-way through his dinner when Drummond arrived at the Crown.

  “I didn’t wait for you, old boy,” he cried as Drummond joined him, “because I began to feel deuced peckish. What luck?”

  “It’s the fair Corinne all right,” said Drummond, after he had given his order to the waiter. “And what is more, she has extended to me the order of the glad eye. Why, I don’t know, but she was very much come hither.”

  “Was Pendleton there?”

  “He was. And I had a long talk to him. He struck me as being a nasty bit of work. He pointed me out to her just after they arrived.”

  Standish looked at him thoughtfully.

  “He pointed you out, did he? And after that she got friendly.”

  “Mine hostess took me up specially to be introduced to the little dear.”

  “So that it is just possible,” said Standish with a faint grin, “that the fact that she has apparently fallen for you might have some ulterior motive.”

  “Laddie,” remarked Drummond gravely, “your intellect staggers me. And so in order to assist her I suggested a little party à deux at some future date.”

  “And you don’t think that Pendleton has the slightest idea that we know about him.”

  “I don’t think he can have; in fact, I’m convinced he hasn’t. He may have nerve: he must have to be playing the game he is. But surely he couldn’t have the unspeakable gall to have a long conversation with me in the middle of a large party if he thought I was wise to his movements last night. Oh no. He is absolutely confident in his own mind that we
know nothing about him personally; but he is not so confident as to what we know about other things. He got a note while I was talking to him which upset him considerably. And it struck me that he began to look at me in quite a different way after he’d read it. I probably shouldn’t have spotted it if I hadn’t known about him, but that note concerned me or you or both of us.”

  Standish lit a cigarette, and was silent for a few moments: then he leaned across the table.

  “Look here, old man, do you know what we ought to do?”

  “Of course I do,” said Drummond cheerfully. “Tell the police. Tell ’em I was lying when I said I was drugged last night; tell ’em all about Pendleton; put ’em wise to your doings this morning. But we ain’t agwine to do it, boy.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you want little Willie to die of a broken heart? Do you want my last feebly breathed curses to ring in your ears through the long years to come?”

  “You blithering ass,” laughed Standish. And then he grew serious again. “You mustn’t forget, old boy, that it’s a question of murder.”

  “I don’t,” said Drummond. “But telling the police won’t bring Sanderson back to life, and as far as finding the murderer is concerned, and other little points about our opponents, we are just as capable of functioning as old McIver.”

  “Confound you,” said Standish with a grin, “it’s all wrong. I admit quite freely that I’m of your way of thinking, but what’s going to happen if we get scuppered tonight?”

  “My dear old lad, it’s all in the day’s work. Must run the odd spot chance now and then.”

  “That’s not quite the point. The devil of a lot of information is scuppered with us. And that really won’t do.”

  “I get you, Steve,” said Drummond thoughtfully. “And I quite agree with you. I’ve got an idea,” he cried suddenly. “I’ll go and ’phone Peter. He’ll be mad as hell when he finds we’re going without him, but that can’t be helped.”

  “What are you going to say to him?”

  “Tell him about Pendleton, and that we’re going to do a bit of creeping in Sussex tonight. I’ll tell him to stand by for a message, and say I’ll use the word ‘Cuckoo.’”