by Sapper
“Just lighting me pipe, guv’nor,” he said. “Got to get ’old of a bit o’ four by three for that there wing.”
He walked on towards a dump of timber, and busied himself turning over the wood. Who were they alluding to that it was risky to bring to the studio? He was conscious that Hardcastle was still watching him, but when, having found a suitable strut, he sauntered back again, the American had gone. And on re-entering the studio he saw him watching the work.
“Now, Sir Edward, get a good hold of the situation.”
Haxton was speaking, and, in accordance with his invariable custom, he was giving the millionaire as full instructions as if he intended to use the result. It saved time in the afternoon with Travers, and helped to foster the illusion for Sir Edward.
“You’re putting up your proposal to the girl. If she will dispense with the trifling formality of a wedding ring, you will be prepared to see that the letters are returned to her fiancé. He need never know: for her sake you will pretend to him that pity has softened your heart. But there has got to be no mistake about her side of the bargain. Now you have sent for her to come to you at your hotel: you are waiting for her to arrive. You pace up and down the room, gloating anticipation in your expression. Try that.”
“Hell’s bells,” he muttered under his breath, “he looks as if he had a fish-bone stuck in his false teeth.”
“Now then, Lettice, darling,” he continued, “in you come. Register dawning hope: after all, he’s not as hard as you thought him. Then you see his face: you realise the truth: you stand aghast.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult,” he whispered to Hardcastle, “unless it sends her into hysterics.”
For a while Drummond watched; then at the other end of the studio he saw Algy Longworth and Tredgold in earnest conversation. And as unobtrusively as possible he edged his way towards them. But before he reached them their talk had ended, and Algy had joined Laura Mainwaring.
He touched his forehead with his forefinger.
“’Morning, Miss,” he said. “A fair bit of orl rite, Sir Hedward, ain’t ’e, in that scene?”
“Good morning, Mr Johnson,” cried the girl with a smile.
“’Morning, Johnson,” said Algy. “Look here, my dear,” he went on urgently, “I must get hold of Hugh somehow.” He lowered his voice. “It’s tonight, according to what Tredgold says.”
For a moment or two Drummond hesitated: should he reveal his identity to them or not?
“I can’t make out where the old blighter has disappeared to.” Algy was speaking again. “Three times have I tried to get him and failed. Damn it! here’s our scene. Come on.”
They both went off, and Drummond made up his mind. It was better not to give his disguise away: it was possible it would come in useful later on. And so, having sought out the foreman, and developed an agonising and quite imaginary toothache, he obtained leave of absence for the rest of the day.
Three hours later, having done certain things to his appearance in an old second-hand clothes shop in Whitechapel, he entered his flat in Queen Anne’s Mansions.
“Yes, sir: quite a number of people have rung up,” said Denny, in answer to his question. “Mr Longworth some three or four times, and two ladies who would not give their names. I answered them as you told me.”
“Good! And now I want you to ring up Blackwater studio and ask for Mr Wentworth, which is the name Mr Longworth is acting under. Don’t say who you are, above all don’t say I want him; but as soon as you hear his voice at the other end I’ll take the receiver.”
He waited, and five minutes later his servant beckoned to him.
“Don’t mention my name, Algy,” he said. “It’s Hugh speaking. I’m very anxious to see you.”
“Same here, old boy,” answered Algy eagerly. “In fact, it’s imperative that I should talk to you today, and I can’t over the ’phone.”
“Meet me at the Plough at Witham tonight at seven-thirty,” said Drummond.
“Right,” said Algy. “Did you get my letter?”
“I did.”
“What I said in it has been confirmed today. Bring” – came a pause, and Drummond realised he was looking round for fear of being overheard – “bring a gun.”
“Right oh, Algy!” he cried. “Seven-thirty – sharp.”
He rang off, and told Denny to mix him a cocktail. Then he lit a cigarette, and once more turned his mind to the problem that had worried him ever since he had overheard Penton’s remark that morning. Who was the ‘him’ he had alluded to? Natalie – Irma – had insisted on it, whatever ‘it’ was, so could it be that the person referred to was himself? And if so, what did it mean? So far as he knew, no effort had been made to get him to the studio.
“Denny,” he called. “Those ladies that rang up – did they seem to want anything in particular?”
“No, sir,” said his servant. “They wanted to know when you were likely to be in, and I simply said I couldn’t tell them.”
Drummond lit another cigarette: the thing was beyond him at the moment. And he was still feeling just as much in the dark when he met Algy Longworth at the Plough that evening.
Chapter 9
Laura Mainwaring was with him, and Drummond was formally introduced.
“She insisted on coming, old bean,” said Algy, “and we’ve both got to be back at the studio in an hour.”
“Right,” cried Drummond. “Heaven knows if the dinner here will poison us, but let’s get down to it.”
“I’ve ordered some gin and vermouth,” said the other. “We might have ’em here. Hugh, unless I’m much mistaken, we’re on a big thing.”
“Fire ahead, old boy,” remarked Drummond. “I’m all at sea myself.”
“It’s as I told you over the ’phone – confirmation of my letter.”
“You mean you’ve found out for certain that they’re using one end of the building as a distributing centre for dope?”
“I can’t think what else it can be. There’s certainly something damned mysterious going on there. Moreover, according to Tredgold it’s coming to a head very shortly. I’ll just give you the story as briefly as I can. We’re doing scenes tonight, and consequently there will be a lot of activity going on round the studio. The centre of it will be at the genuine end of the place, and his theory is that that is the sort of occasion when it is safest for them to carry on at the other.”
“Sound on the face of it,” agreed Drummond.
“Now you remember I told you that he was going to get a wax impression of the key of the inside door. Well, he’s done better than that. He’s got one of the outside door, and here” – he produced a large key from his pocket – “is the result. Now Laura and I are acting tonight, and he will have to be on hand too. And his suggestion is that you should take this key – ”
“Hold hard, Algy,” cried Drummond quickly. “How does this man Tredgold know anything about me?”
“He doesn’t. He merely said to me this morning, ‘Do you know anyone on whom you can absolutely rely who could explore the place while the main scene is being taken?’ I told him I did, though I didn’t tell him your name.”
“You didn’t? Good! Go on.”
“Well, his suggestion is this. When that scene is being taken tonight – it’s a scene where a small lorry is used – Sir Edward will be watching it. I told you in my letter about the understudy, didn’t I? And Travers – that’s the bloke’s name – will be doubling him in the lorry scene with his full knowledge and consent. Of course he has no idea at all that it’s been done all the way through: it’s the one thing that he’s not been allowed to find out. But, because this is a rough-house bit, he has been persuaded not to do it himself for fear of getting hurt. And so, as I said before, he will be watching it. Now when he’s around, Hardcastle and Co. simply sit in his pocket, and Tredgo
ld’s idea is that that is the most favourable moment for the place to be explored. They will all be out of the way, almost for certain, and he can think of no other time when the same thing is likely to occur. Tomorrow night, for instance, when all the scenes except the lorry one will be taken again, Sir Edward won’t be there: Travers will be playing. So there will be nothing to keep them at the other end of the building. In fact, I agree with him, Hugh, that it’s a gorgeous opportunity, and one that is much too good to be missed. And Laura thinks so too.”
“I do, Captain Drummond,” said the girl. “It does seem to me that it’s the best chance we’re ever likely to get of finding out what really is going on there.”
“Well, chaps, you seem to have settled my evening for me,” said Drummond, with a grin. “I have no objection to having a look round. One point, though, Algy, you haven’t made clear. What is the additional evidence that has come to light since you wrote me that letter?”
“Principally what Tredgold has overheard,” said the other. “He’s a foxy little blighter, with ears a yard long, and he keeps ’em open. And up to date it has really been more the cumulative effect of a lot of small things than anything specific. But this morning, just as he was going into the office, he heard Penton say to Hardcastle, ‘The stuff is all there: we shan’t have time for more.’ And he was convinced by the way they both shut up on seeing him that they were not talking film business.”
“Right oh!” cried Drummond. “I’ll have a dart at it. Though what the deuce one does when one finds oneself completely surrounded by cocaine is at the moment a little beyond me.”
“Get in touch with the police,” said the girl.
“My dear soul, what a ghastly conclusion to the performance! Things going to the bow-wows, Algy, when the old firm have to rope in the minions of the law. However, I’d like to do that bunch down, I must say: that murder was a bit too cold-blooded to be funny.”
He turned to the waitress.
“Sweet maiden, bring mugs of port, I pray thee. Because I take it, Algy, that you will shortly have to be getting back?”
“That’s so, old boy. Do you know the way to the studio?”
“I do,” said Drummond, with a faint smile.
“Well, we thought that nine o’clock would be a good sort of hour for you to get there. There’s a track that leads up to it from behind, and there’s a turning about a quarter of a mile away where you can leave your car. Hullo! here’s Tredgold himself: I told him I was dining here.”
“Good evening, Miss Mainwaring,” said Tredgold, coming up to the table. “Is it all right, Mr Wentworth? Is your friend on?”
“Absolutely. Let me introduce you to Captain Drummond. Hugh – this is Mr Tredgold, who I’ve been telling you about.”
“Draw up and put your nose inside a beaker of port,” cried Drummond. “Anything new from the seat of war?”
“Quite a lot, Captain Drummond,” said the other knowingly. “And it’s most favourable. Penton and Slingsby left in a car for London about half an hour ago, which means that only Hardcastle will be there when they start work. Which further means that you’re bound to have a free run. If the three of them had been there they might not all have remained with Sir Edward, but with only one of them it’s a cinch Hardcastle won’t leave his side till he goes back to London.”
“And when is that likely to be?”
“Let me think,” said Tredgold. “The drugging scene is being taken at nine-fifteen; the lorry one, which Sir Edward will be watching, comes after it. I should think you can rely on being undisturbed from nine-thirty to ten.”
“That should give me plenty of time,” said Drummond.
“More than enough,” cried the other. “But they’re cunning, don’t forget. Just look and see what there is to be seen, but don’t disturb anything. They may spot it, and if they did they’d have the stuff away in an instant. And we want tomorrow: we don’t propose to ring up Scotland Yard tonight. And pretty fools we should look if the police arrived and found nothing at all.”
“Admirable advice,” murmured Drummond. “Well, you people had better push off: I’ll come on later.”
Gloomily he ordered himself some more port. What a ghastly fiasco the whole thing had turned out! He felt bored stiff, and though he tried to assure himself that he was acting as a worthy and God-fearing citizen in unmasking such villainy, his boredom only increased. There was no sport in it. No humour of any sort whatever. He was simply doing a common or garden spying job for a nasty-looking specimen of humanity who wanted the notoriety without incurring the risk.
At last he rose: the sooner he got down to it, the sooner he could get back to London. And having paid his bill, he drove off towards the studio. It was nearly dusk, and as he passed by it on the main road he could just see that activity outside was beginning. Cameras were being wheeled into position, lights put into their proper places; and he wondered cynically if they were missing Henry Johnson.
He reached the turning and parked his car; then, pulling out his cigarette case, he sat and waited. It was a little early yet to approach the studio, even though everyone was at the other end. Some parties of villagers attracted by the novelty went past him towards the fun, but nobody took any notice of the big man moodily smoking by the side of the track.
At last he decided it was safe to start, though he would have to wait till the sightseers were out of the way before entering. And the spot he was making for was a small clump of bushes where he could remain under cover till the road was clear. From his hiding-place he could see them acting in the distance, and Haxton’s voice came distinctly through the air. Standing by one of the flares was Sir Edward Greatorex, talking to Hardcastle and Gardini; in the centre of the beam Algy and Jack Montrevor were waiting to run through their scene.
Suddenly he saw Sir Edward’s two companions both turn to him solicitously, and the next moment Gardini hurried away to return with an overcoat. Evidently the great man was feeling chilly, and it instantly occurred to Drummond that it might precipitate his return to London, in which case Hardcastle would be free. And so, though he would have preferred to give it another ten minutes, he decided to act at once. With a quick glance round, he left his cover, and skirting cautiously out of sight of the acting, he reached the door.
The bolt slipped back smoothly, and he stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind him. The darkness was intense, but he could feel the rough walls on each side of him as he cautiously moved forward along the passage. He did not want to use his torch until he was further into the building for fear of the gleam being seen from the outside, and so his progress was slow. Every now and then he paused and listened, but he could hear nothing save an occasional faint shout from outside. And after a while even that ceased.
The passage was sloping downwards, and at length he decided it was safe to have some light. He flashed his torch on cautiously: in front of him a flight of steps led down to a very solid-looking door – a door which, somewhat to his surprise, proved to be unlocked. He found himself in a fair-sized room. The walls were of stone, and high up in one of them was a small barred window encrusted in dirt. A few old sacks lay about the floor: otherwise it was empty. And opposite him was another door similar to the one he had come in by, which also, on inspection, proved to be open. A further flight of steps led down to yet a third door, beyond which was a much smaller room. And as the light of his torch travelled round it, he realised with a sudden thrill that his quest was over. Neatly arranged around the walls were scores of small brown-paper parcels, and he was on the point of picking up one of them to examine it, when from behind him there came a metallic click. He swung round, gun in hand: the door had shut.
For a moment he stared at it in bewilderment; then his mouth set grimly. For there was no handle on this side of it – only a keyhole. And he had no key. The door was evidently fitted with an automatic shutting
device, and he was trapped.
He became conscious of a faint ticking noise coming from somewhere – a clock, presumably, which meant the room was used fairly constantly. But that did not alter the predicament he found himself in. Sooner or later he was bound to be discovered unless he could find some method of escape.
He flashed his torch around the walls: there was no trace of any window. He was in a central strong room well below ground level – caught as securely as a rat in a trap. And so, having satisfied himself by an inspection of the door that there was no fear of suffocation, he lit a cigarette and proceeded to size up the situation.
Algy was the first hope. He would almost certainly go to the place where the car had been left, and, finding it there, he would know that Drummond was still in the building. But he would not be able to get in, as he had no key to the outside door. All he could do would be to hang about outside.
The next possibility was Hardcastle. Was he likely to come? If so, it was easy money: Hardcastle wouldn’t have an earthly. If the other two were with him it would be different: Penton was a singularly powerful individual. And he couldn’t hope to lay out the three of them. So clearly his best chance lay in Hardcastle coming alone.
He went to the door and listened intently, but everything was silent except for the monotonous ticking of the clock. And he was idly flashing his torch round in an endeavour to locate it when a sudden rasping noise started in one corner, and the next instant, to his utter amazement, he heard Irma speaking.
“Good evening, mon ami.”
Completely dumbfounded, he turned his torch in the direction of the voice, and the mystery was solved. Partially hidden behind some of the packages was a gramophone which had just been turned on.
“I am more than sorry,” continued the voice, “that I was not there personally to receive you. And before I go any further I will say at once that I quite realise you may now smash the record and terminate the entertainment. I hope you won’t, for two reasons. First, I took a lot of trouble over making it; second, there is a very important message for you that comes right at the end. In that hope, therefore, I will proceed.
