The Return Of Bulldog Drummond (17 page)

One ‘t’ had certainly been crossed as a result of the interview: the men were an ugly bunch of customers. His bluff concerning the policeman had worked all right this time, but he was under no delusions with regard to the future. Up to date they had not been sure as to what he knew: now that uncertainty was over. And he realised that if an opportunity arose they would have no scruples whatever in putting him out of the way if they could.

However, that aspect of the matter troubled him not at all: he had always preferred to have the gloves off. What did annoy him was that, as a result of his impetuosity in entering the room when he did, he was fighting in the dark. And as he let himself into his flat he was cursing himself wholeheartedly.

A light was shining under the sitting-room door: Darrell and Jerningham were inside waiting for him.

“Chaps,” he remarked, “you here perceive the most triple-distilled damned fool in London.”

They listened in silence while he told them what had happened, and then Ted Jerningham spoke.

“It’s certainly not your brightest effort, old boy,” he remarked. “In fact, it seems to me you’ve completely queered our pitch. We don’t know where to begin.”

“We begin in the studio, Ted, if only we can get inside the bally place.”

“Look here,” said Darrell, “Algy answers to that advertisement just as well as I do. And they don’t know him.”

“Irma does,” said Drummond.

“We’ll have to chance her not being there. I saw him this evening, as it happens, beetling round at Ciro’s. It’s a late night there: let’s ring up and see if we can get hold of him.”

“Right you are, Peter: it’s worth trying. Tell him to come round here.”

They caught him just as he was leaving, and a quarter of an hour later he arrived.

“I have met,” he remarked on entering, “the only woman in the world. Her charm is as of an exotic orchid, her eyes are as mountain violets. And, straight from her arms, I come to you three horrible thugs. Give me rare wine, or I swoon at the contrast.”

“Sit down, wart-face,” said Drummond, “and cease talking such unmitigated bilge. You’re going on the films tomorrow.”

“I’m going on the what?” cried the other, a cigarette halfway to his lips.

“Listen, Algy,” said Drummond, “the game is afoot. Who do you think we’ve butted into once more?”

Algy Longworth stared at him in amazement.

“Not Irma,” he burst out at length. “Don’t tell me that, old lad.”

“Just her, and no one else,” answered Drummond. “How much are you round the chest, Algy?”

“Look here,” said the other feebly, “are you fellows tight, or am I?”

“Put your nose into that,” cried Darrell, throwing the copy of
Film Echoes
at him. “It’s the paragraph marked with a blue pencil.”

“But what the deuce has this got to do with Irma?” he demanded after he had read it.

“Get outside some beer, Algy, and listen,” said Drummond. “We’ve been having a bit of fun lately.”

“I saw you were getting mixed up in something or other down in Devonshire,” said the other. “In fact, I very nearly came down to see what was up. Tell me all about it.”

Briefly Drummond ran over the events of the past few days, and when he had finished, Algy Longworth nodded thoughtfully.

“I get you,” he said. “Rightly or wrongly, you believe that the key of the mystery lies in Blackwater studio, and you want me to see if I can spot anything.”

“That’s the notion, old lad. It’s a forlorn hope, and if by chance Irma is there and sees you, you’ll probably get bunged into the river. But that won’t do you any harm: it’s an awfully jolly sort of river.”

“Oh! yeah – Cuthbert,” grunted the other. “But, joking apart, old boy, it is, as you say, a mighty forlorn hope. I mean if there is any dirty work going on down there, it’s not going to be where anyone walking in casual like is going to see it. The blokes will probably take one look at my face, burst into floods of tears, and that will end the interview.”

“Can’t help it, Algy: we’ve got to try it. It’s the only hope. Why, dash it all, old boy, you might even get taken on, in which case you’d have the run of the studio.”

“And get thrown daily into the Blackwater,” said Longworth gloomily. “Damn it! I don’t want to act in a film, Hugh. I am sick with love: every moment of my life is occupied.”

“You haven’t started to quote Ella Wheeler Wilcox at her, have you?” demanded Drummond suspiciously.

“Only one or two chosen fragments,” said the other.

“Then it’s high time, for the poor girl’s sake, that you vanished from her sight. The last wretched woman you treated in that way had to go into a mental home. You’re a menace, Algy, when you’re in that condition. What is she like, this new wench of yours?”

With a howl of anguish, Darrell leaped from his seat.

“Are you mad, Hugh? You’ll start him off.”

“I find you rather offensive, Peter,” said Longworth with dignity. “She is dark–”

“We’ll take that for granted,” cut in Drummond hurriedly. “What I want to know is whether she has a face at which an ordinary man can look without using smoked glasses. Yes or no.”

“Most emphatically yes,” spluttered Longworth indignantly.

“Right. Then take her down with you tomorrow,” said Drummond. “When you’re in love, your brain is more microscopic than usual, and she might very likely notice one or two things that you wouldn’t. Tell her a certain amount, but not everything. Leave out all the Devonshire part of the show: just tell her to keep her eyes open and see if she can spot anything suspicious. She might even apply for a part herself. What is the matter with you, Algy? Are you in pain?”

“Listen, chaps,” he said thoughtfully. “Two days ago, when I first met her at a cocktail party, and we talked awhile on the drama and bi-metallism, she said something about films.”

He frowned horribly at the mental strain.

“Was it that she adored Charlie Chaplin, or was it that she herself had once played a part at Elstree?”

“There would seem to be a trifling difference,” said Drummond mildly.

“At any rate, I think it’s a deuced good idea,” went on Longworth happily. “We will have a healthy day in Kent tomorrow.”

“Essex, you damned fool! And no dallying on the road. If you want to quote Wilcox at her, you’ll quote it in the studio. Now, push off: I want to go to bed.”

But for a long time after the others had gone Hugh Drummond sat on smoking. And when at last he got up and switched off the light, there was a glint in his eyes which those who knew him well could have interpreted at once. He had evolved a plan, and the plan seemed to him to be good.

Moreover, it still seemed good to him when his servant Denny arrived the next morning with tea and the daily papers. Many an idea conceived overnight fails to stand the remorseless logic of the following day, but this one did. It was simple, and more or less foolproof, and for the space of two cigarettes he cogitated over it; then he opened
The Times
, more from habit than from any desire to see the news. And as he glanced down the Court Circular one item caught his eye.

“Sir Edward Greatorex arrived at the Ritz Carlton yesterday afternoon from Berlin. He expects to remain in London about a fortnight.”

The name seemed vaguely familiar, and for a while he lay in bed trying to remember where he had heard it. And then suddenly it came to him: Greatorex was the man the Comtessa had mentioned overnight as lunching with Hardcastle that day. A well-known business man, was how she described him, in which case he presumably was quite capable of looking after himself. For his sake, at any rate, reflected Drummond as he went into the bathroom, he hoped so.

Breakfast over, he proceeded to ring up Algy Longworth.

“Look here, old boy,” he said, “there’s a point that occurred to me after you’d gone last night. If Irma is down at the studio you’re stung anyway. But if she isn’t it would be better for you not to give your real name. For if by any chance they do take you, she will certainly get to hear of it, and then the fat will be in the fire and you’ll get the push.”

“Right you are, Hugh,” came the answer. “I’ve just rung up Laura, and she’s all on for coming. And she has acted in a small part.”

“You didn’t say anything about what I told you last night over the ’phone, did you?”

“Not a word. I’m lunching with her, and we’ll push down afterwards. Where shall I find you this evening to report the doings?”

“Come to the club, Algy, about nine.”

He rang off, and lit a cigarette thoughtfully; then he shouted for Denny.

“We’re on the warpath again, old warrior,” he said as his servant came in. “And for the next few days I shall be here, and I shall not be here. Do you get me?”

“You mean, sir, that you wish to be thought within when in reality you are without.”

“More or less, Denny. There will probably be a caller or two, and almost certainly some telephone messages. You will have to deal with them, and either I have just gone out or I am just coming in. If at luncheon-time, I am feeding at a private house – not an hotel: don’t forget that. Dinner the same thing. In short, I want you to give the impression that I am leading my ordinary normal life in London. Do you get me?”

“Perfectly, sir. I am to be vague as to your actual movements, but definite that movement is taking place.”

“You’ve hit it. I shall sleep here tonight: after that it’s doubtful. Look up my small automatic some time today, and see that it is oiled and pulling light.”

“Very good, sir. And in case of necessity where can I get hold of you?”

Drummond thought for a moment or two.

“Post Office, Colchester,” he said. “Address me as Henry Johnson, and use a common envelope.”

“Exactly, sir,” said Denny, making a note on his cuff. “Is that all, sir?”

“Yes, Denny, it is. Give me my hat and stick: the club will find me for the next hour or so. Should anyone ring up, you can tell ’em so.”

Refusing a taxi, he started to stroll across the Park. The birds were singing: the morning was perfect, and as he turned into his club, he felt at peace with the world.

Two men whom he knew slightly were in the smoking-room, and he nodded to them as he passed. And he was just going to sit down when a sentence from one of them caught his ear.

“I see that fellow Greatorex has arrived in London.”

The speaker was a stockbroker, and, acting on a sudden impulse, Drummond crossed over to where they were sitting.

“I couldn’t help over-hearing your remark, Blackton,” he said. “Who is this man Greatorex? Somebody mentioned him last night, and seemed surprised I’d never heard of him. Business bird of sorts, isn’t he?”

“I don’t think he’d be particularly flattered at that description,” answered the other, with a laugh. “Sir Edward Greatorex is a man before whom Governments tremble. He’s an international financier with a finger in innumerable pies.”

“Is he wealthy?”

“Wealthy! My dear fellow, he’s one of the three richest men in the world. He
is
the richest, save for one or two Indian Maharajahs, outside America.”

“What is he doing over here?”

“Ask me another: I’m not on dining terms with him. And he is one of the hardest men to get near there is. Making a few more millions, I suppose.”

“I see,” said Drummond. “No wonder people were surprised last night at my ignorance.”

He lounged back to his own chair thoughtfully. What was a man like that doing in the Hardcastle galaxy? True, Hardcastle was reputed to be wealthy, but Greatorex seemed pretty high game for him to have a business lunch with. He glanced at his watch: a sudden idea had come to him. It was just half-past eleven: the bar at the Ritz Carlton would be open. Charlie, the barman, was an old friend: he would go round there and have a cocktail. With luck he might see the man himself: anyway, Charlie was a positive fountain of gossip.

The bar was empty when he got there, save for the barman polishing glasses, who hailed him delightedly.

“Good morning, sir,” he cried. “It’s a long while since you’ve been here.”

“’Morning, Charlie,” said Drummond. “Your drinks are too damned expensive for anyone short of a millionaire to come here often. But since I am here, I’ll gargle with a Bronx.”

“How are you, sir?” continued the other. “You’re looking as fit as ever.”

“Just living from hour to hour. Anyone interesting stopping in the pub?”

Charlie shook his head.

“Business very slack, sir. We’ve had a good season on the whole, but it’s pretty well over. Sir Edward Greatorex is here for a fortnight, but he’s no help to me.”

“Even he can’t afford to pay your prices, I suppose?”

The barman grinned.

“Strict teetotaler, sir.”

“What sort of a fellow is he, Charlie?”

“Well, sir,” said the other confidentially, “the last time he was here he stayed for three weeks. He had the royal suite, and most of his meals were served in it. And when he left he tipped the floor waiter a quid in mistake for a ten-bob note, and then wanted change when he found out what he’d done.”

“Mean as that, is he?”

“Mean, sir! Why, if people write him enclosing stamped envelopes for his reply, he first of all floats the stamps off, and then he borrows the hotel gum to stick ’em on his own letters.”

“That’s a good ’un, Charlie,” laughed Drummond.

“I wouldn’t be that poor bloke of a secretary of his – not if you paid me five thousand a year,” went on the other. “Treats him like a dog, he does.”

He gave a sudden cough, and, with a warning look at Drummond, turned to greet a man who had just entered the bar.

“Good morning, sir. The usual, I suppose?”

“Please, Charlie.”

And Drummond, happening to glance at the newcomer, gave a little start of surprise. It was the man who had asked him the way to South Audley Street the previous night. He knew him immediately, though the other showed no sign of recognition. And then he remembered that during the few seconds they had talked his back had been to the street lamp, leaving his face in shadow.

For a moment or two he debated whether he should remind him of their meeting and ask him if he had found his destination all right: then he decided not to. He had no desire to drink with him, which the other would probably suggest if he spoke. So he picked up a midday paper and ran his eye down the racing news, until the man, having finished his drink, left the bar.