Knock Out

by Sapper

  “I have,” said Drummond calmly. “So put that in the old meerschaum and set fire to it, Penturtle.”

  “And they, I imagine, treated your demented ravings with the contempt they deserve,” said the doctor, but to Drummond’s keen ear there was fear in his voice.

  “But I wasn’t demented,” explained Drummond cheerfully. “Scotland Yard has known all about you two for a week.”

  Corinne Moxton caught her breath with a sharp hiss.

  “I don’t believe you,” said Pendleton contemptuously. “If you had really gone with these incredible stories to the police, Miss Moxton and I would have heard from them by now.”

  “Not of necessity,” remarked Drummond. “Rightly or wrongly, Standish and I came to the conclusion that you and Miss Moxton were very small beer. In fact, except for your repulsive habits, you cut no ice at all. The man we want to lay our hands on is that strange individual with a head like a pumpkin, who apparently answers to the name of Demonico, and who I last had the pleasure of meeting at the squash-court entertainment. By the way, I hope you enjoyed it: you had excellent seats.”

  Pendleton turned to Corinne Moxton.

  “It’s all right, my dear,” he said reassuringly. “I have met cases like this before, though this is a very remarkable one. I don’t know what hospital he has been in, but the doctor in charge deserves the gravest censure for allowing him out so soon. And I warn you seriously, Mr Darrell I believe your name is, that unless you take the greatest care of him his reason may be irreparably impaired. As you see for yourself, the poor fellow is talking gibberish.”

  “My fee is three guineas,” remarked Drummond. “Stick to a light diet of porterhouse steak and onions, and don’t trip over the mat as you go. No, Pendleton, it won’t do: I’m as sane as you are, and you know it.”

  “May I have a word with you in private, Mr Darrell?” said Sir Richard, ignoring Drummond completely.

  “You may not,” said Darrell decidedly.

  “Then I must say it in front of him. The symptoms are clearly defined, but if proper care is taken of him there is no reason why in a month, or perhaps less, he should not make a complete recovery, and these delusions, which are the direct outcome of his concussion, will disappear like the morning mist. But I again emphasise – proper care. You must get him home, keep him very quiet, and get his doctor to see him. And for everybody’s sake, in view of the bent his particular delusions have taken, it would be as well if he saw as few people as possible.”

  “Peter, hasn’t he got a charming bedside manner?” said Drummond admiringly. “A voice at once soothing and firm. Well, Pendleton, as I said before, I thought it probable you would take up this line: when one comes to think of it, it would be impossible for you to take up any other. And yet I am quite prepared to admit that, as far as other people are concerned, it’s a very good one. To them it would seem more likely that I was suffering from delusions than that a celebrated surgeon and a well-known film star are a pair of devils incarnate. But I warn you that you are in very dangerous waters, because, as I have already told you, there can be no question of my having had the jimjams at the time when the police were notified that you were in Standish’s room on the night of Sanderson’s murder. I was not drugged, though you thought I was, and I saw you there.”

  “And you expect the police to believe such a preposterous statement on your uncorroborated word? I’d never heard of Standish in my life till I saw his name mentioned with yours in connection with the bomb outrage. And I haven’t an idea where his rooms are. If you thought you saw me there it was a case of mistaken identity.”

  “This is beginning to bore me,” said Drummond. “So I will deliver my ultimatum, Pendleton, and then go. I have the best of reasons for knowing that some big crime is planned early this coming week. What it is I don’t know. But unless the police are informed anonymously as to what it is going to be, in time for them to prevent it, my depositions to them with regard to you will stand. And since they connect you intimately with the gang who murdered Sanderson they will not do you much good. If, however, the police are informed, it is conceivable that I might come to the conclusion that it was a case of mistaken identity. So choose, you damned swine – choose. Come on, Peter.”

  The front door closed behind them, and then the tension broke.

  “Richard,” screamed Corinne Moxton, “ring up Scotland Yard now and tell them. It’s our only hope.”

  “Hush, my dear, hush: I must think.” His face was grey: his hands were shaking. “God! how did they find out?”

  “Find out what?”

  Mrs Merridick was standing by the door.

  “Drummond has been here, and he knows all about us,” said Pendleton. “He wasn’t drugged at all that night, and he saw me.”

  “My dear Sir Richard, for a doctor that seems singularly stupid of you. What do you propose to do about it? Did I hear Corinne say something about ringing up Scotland Yard?”

  She bit her lip, as Pendleton flashed her a warning glance.

  “No, no,” she cried. “Of course not.”

  “Let us all have a drink and consider the matter carefully,” said Mrs Merridick, going to the sideboard, and picking up the cocktail shaker. “You say that Drummond knows all about us. I don’t think he can know much about me.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Pendleton. “But there are other people besides you in the world. And he knows that something is going to happen early this week.”

  “Something. So he doesn’t know what that something is?”

  “No; he doesn’t know that.”

  “Then am I right in supposing that the object of his visit here was to try to threaten you into telling him what it was?”

  “More or less.”

  “Naturally you didn’t.”

  “Of course not,” said Pendleton. “How could you imagine such a thing for an instant?”

  A faint smile twitched round Mrs Merridick’s mouth; then she turned round with three drinks on a tray.

  “Then I don’t think we need worry,” she remarked. “Let us drink a toast to the successful issue of our plans.”

  They all drained their glasses, and Mrs Merridick lit a cigarette. And then, quite suddenly it happened. Sir Richard, his face convulsed with agony, clutched at his side.

  “You devil,” he croaked. “You’ve poisoned us.”

  On the floor writhed Corinne Moxton, and Mrs Merridick watched them in silence.

  “I have,” she said at length. “Your intentions with regard to Scotland Yard did not appeal to me.”

  A few moments later, without a backward glance at the two motionless figures, she left the room. And it was only when her hand was on the latch of the front door that she remembered something and went back. Into her bag she placed her own glass: to stage what would inevitably be taken for a suicide pact three glasses would be a mistake. Then once again the door closed behind her, and Mrs Merridick went downstairs to her waiting car.

  Chapter 10

  With a frown Hugh Drummond lit a cigarette: then he picked up his morning paper from the floor where he had thrown it. Not that they really deserved any other fate: it was the complete unexpectedness of the thing that had upset him for the moment.

  “Tragedy in West-End Flat

  Death of Well-Known Surgeon

  and Film Star

  “A shocking tragedy occurred last night at Number 4A Barton Mews, the charming residence of the beautiful film star Corinne Moxton. The discovery was made by her chauffeur, who had been ordered to call for her at seven o’clock. When he had waited till eight he began to fear that something was amiss, since he could see the light shining from her sitting-room. At nine o’clock he decided to summon a policeman, and between them they forced the front door. To their horror they discovered the actress lying dead on the floor, and by her sid
e was the body of a man, also dead. This man the chauffeur at once recognised as Sir Richard Pendleton, the celebrated Harley Street surgeon. Their faces were convulsed with agony, showing that they had died in great pain.

  “A doctor was at once summoned, who gave it as his opinion that they had been dead between two and three hours. It appears that two empty glasses were on the table; also a cocktail shaker half-filled with liquid. The contents were immediately analysed, and were found to contain a high percentage of a very rare and deadly poison, barely known outside the medical profession. The inquest will be held today.”

  Drummond put the paper down: so they had taken that way out. And he was just finishing his coffee when the door opened and Peter Darrell came in.

  “Morning, Hugh. I didn’t think they’d do that, did you?”

  “I didn’t, Peter. Certainly not her. He must have gone away and got this poison, and then put it in the drink.”

  “Well, old boy, I don’t think you need feel any guilt on the matter,” said Darrell.

  “I don’t. If ever a couple richly deserved to die, they did. But it’s a bit of a shock all the same.”

  “Have you seen the other thing in the paper?”

  “No. Anything interesting?”

  Darrell turned to the front page, and pointed half-way down the agony column.

  AOYSLKEJSSCQOOIEHORJKQSC

  AHOSDCVKQSCXJEJOLISTORNY

  XDKYDCQOYQATSKJOXYDCSH

  XEJBKMMVOXIKTSC.

  “A long one,” said Drummond. “Hell! if only Standish was conscious!”

  “You can make nothing out of it?” asked Darrell.

  “Not a letter, old boy. He hadn’t time even to give me a hint. And you know what a hopeless fool I am at anything like that.”

  “We might be able to find someone in London who could do it,” said Darrell. “If Ronald could solve the bally thing, there must be someone else who can.”

  “We’ll have a dart at it,” agreed Drummond. “But who the deuce does one go to? Is there a cipher department at Scotland Yard?”

  “Must be, I should think. Let’s go and find out. The sooner we give it in the better.”

  But the expert they eventually ran to ground held out but little hope. Having at last persuaded him that it was not a betting code, but something really serious, he consented to do his best if he had time. And at that they had to leave it, returning to their club to kick their heels and get through time as best they could.

  The late evening papers contained the result of the inquest. Evidence was given to show that the two deceased persons had been on unusually friendly terms, and that Sir Richard Pendleton had frequently visited her in her flat, and not leaving till the early hours of the morning. Further, the chauffeur stated that on the very night of the tragedy his orders had been to take them both out to dinner at a house not far from Henley.

  “It is almost certain,” said the Coroner in his summing-up, “that the poison must have been obtained by Sir Richard, as a drug of such a rare kind would be hardly procurable by a woman. It is therefore clear that it was he who was primarily responsible for the tragedy. Indeed, we have no evidence before us to show whether the deceased woman knew that the drug had been added to the cocktail ingredients, a point the jury must bear in mind when arriving at their verdict.”

  Which when given and reduced to plain English was to the effect that Sir Richard Pendleton had committed suicide while temporarily insane; and that Corinne Moxton had either done the same or been murdered by him. But the motives for such an amazing crime were naturally a profound mystery.

  “And will doubtless always remain so,” said Drummond. “What about ringing up this wench of yours, Peter, and getting her round for a bite of food? She’ll be interested to know the truth.”

  And though it was not the truth, she was: profoundly interested.

  “I’ve been puzzling my brains the whole day, Captain Drummond,” she said, “as to what could have made them do it. And even now it is almost incredible, because from what you say you promised them they would get off if they told the police.”

  “Incredible or not, they did it, and I don’t think I shall lose an hour’s sleep over the fact. Two nasty pieces of work. Well, I’ll join you after dinner. Peter’s expression indicates either indigestion or suppressed love, and I can’t run any risks after that recent round of mine with a bomb.”

  He left them in the ladies’ side of the club and went into thesmoking-room. The conversation was confined almost exclusively to the Pendleton affair, and as he listened to all sorts of fantastic theories being advanced he smiled cynically to himself. And then he suddenly heard a phrase which caught his attention.

  “Undoubtedly Pendleton was one of the syndicate.”

  Hervey, a stockbroker whom he knew slightly, was talking to two or three other men, and Drummond joined the group.

  “And it’s a damned dangerous syndicate too,” Hervey continued, “as far as this country is concerned. They’ve been selling sterling short by the million abroad this last week.”

  “Do you know who the others are?” asked Drummond.

  “Hullo! old boy,” said Hervey. “I heard you’d been blown to bits in the New Forest. Are you all right again?”

  “Quite,” said Drummond. “Feel a bit stiff still, but otherwise no harm done. But this syndicate Pendleton was in – was it a big one?”

  “Did you know the man?”

  “Slightly,” answered Drummond with a faint smile.

  “Never had a vestige of use for him myself, though I believe he was a very fine surgeon. And as far as I know, he was the only Englishman in this crowd. Daly is an Irish-American, Legrange is a Frenchman, and there’s another somewhat mysterious individual in it who no one seems to have ever seen. Calls himself Demonico, and I should imagine he might be a Greek. But whoever he is, he’s in with this bunch, and if they go on as they have been doing and the country’s credit drops they’ll get a packet.”

  Drummond strolled away: would it be possible, he wondered, to get at Demonico through Daly or Legrange? He could almost certainly get their addresses from Scotland Yard, and he was just pondering on the advisability of ringing up McIver and putting the matter to him when another man he knew came up and spoke to him. He was an eccentric individual named Jellaby, whose little peculiarity was that he was always in possession of some secret which had just been passed on to him by some highly placed official, and which only he knew. He had always heard it in strict confidence: with equal regularity he ran round the club imparting it to everyone in even stricter confidence. Generally Drummond avoided him like the plague, but on this occasion he was fairly and squarely buttonholed, and escape was impossible.

  “Heard a most amazing thing this afternoon, Drummond.” Jellaby’s voice sank to a hoarse whisper. “Straight from the horse’s mouth. For Heaven’s sake don’t pass it on: it’s a profound secret. It’s about the Ardington train disaster.”

  Drummond’s half-suppressed yawn ceased abruptly.

  “You remember the evidence given by that labourer, George Streeter, to the effect that he had seen a yellow flash in front of the engine wheels?” Jellaby rarely waited for any answer to his questions. “Now I am in a position to tell you definitely – I got it direct from one of Colonel Mayhew’s staff – that that evidence was correct. After exhaustive examination of the torn-up rails, they have discovered one place where the break, according to the experts, must have been caused by an explosive. The disaster therefore was not an accident at all, but a deliberately planned outrage.”

  “With what object?” said Drummond.

  “The very question I myself at once asked,” said Jellaby, his voice becoming even more confidential. “And the answer was an amazing one. This country, as you know, is going through a very severe financial crisis, and anything which might
help to spread the idea abroad that our reputation for law and order no longer held good would tend to increase the gravity of that crisis. If then it was thought that the condition in England had become such that train wrecking was taking place, confidence abroad would be still further reduced, a state of affairs which would be most advantageous to certain speculators.”

  “I get you,” said Drummond. “Is this new development going to appear in the newspapers?”

  “Not at present, at any rate,” said Jellaby. “Sooner or later I suppose it will have to, but just at the moment it would be playing straight into their hands. Don’t forget – not a word to a soul.”

  Drummond smiled faintly as he watched Jellaby stalk his next victim: then he lit a cigarette thoughtfully. Things were becoming clearer: what had seemed to Peter Darrell so amazing because of its senselessness had taken to itself a meaning. He went back tothe ladies’ side of the club and found them still over their cocktails.

  “I’ve been hearing things, souls,” he said, “things which have thrown considerable light on matters. And I can summarise them for you in a nutshell.”

  “So now it is proved that it wasn’t an accident,” said the girl as he finished.

  “According to my friend Jellaby it is,” answered Drummond.

  “It’s almost incredible,” said Darrell.

  “Not so incredible, Peter, as it was before. Then, if you like, it was unbelievable that anyone who wasn’t a maniac should have derailed an express for the fun of it. But now we have got a reason.”

  “But would a thing like that affect us abroad?” asked the girl.

  Drummond shrugged his shoulders.

  “On matters of international finance I’m an infant,” he said. “But I do know that it’s a very delicately balanced affair, and I suppose as Jellaby said that it isn’t going to help a country if its neighbours come to the conclusion, rightly or wrongly, that it’s got into such a condition of lawlessness that train wrecking is taking place. At any rate it is clear that that is what did happen, and the point now arises as to what we are going to do. Because, as I see things, we, at the present moment, are the only people who are in a position to link things up. Hervey and others in the City know that Demonico’s gang of financiers are selling sterling short, and that it is to their advantage to force down our credit abroad. The Home Office, according to Jellaby, know that the Ardington accident was a case of train wrecking. But literally the only thing that could connect and does connect the two together is that Miss Frensham heard what she did through the keyhole. And now the speaker has killed himself.”