by Sapper
‘I know he’d snatch both drumsticks and gnaw them simultaneously,’ he reflected, staring at him fascinated; ‘and then he’d throw the bones in your face.’
Peterson’s voice from just behind his shoulder roused him from his distressing reverie.
‘Permit me, gentlemen, to introduce to you Captain Drummond, DSO, MC, the originator of the little entertainment we have just had.’
Hugh bowed gravely.
‘My only regret is that it failed to function,’ he remarked. ‘As I told you outside, I’d quite forgotten your menagerie. In fact’ – his glance wandered slowly and somewhat pointedly from face to face at the table – ‘I had no idea it was such a large one.’
‘So this is the insolent young swine, is it?’ The bloodshot eyes of the man with the scarred face turned on him morosely. ‘What I cannot understand is why he hasn’t been killed by now.’
Hugh waggled an accusing finger at him.
‘I knew you were a nasty man as soon as I saw you. Now look at Henry up at the end of the table; he doesn’t say that sort of thing. And you do hate me, don’t you, Henry? How’s the jaw?’
‘Captain Drummond,’ said Lakington, ignoring Hugh and addressing the first speaker, ‘was very nearly killed last night. I thought for some time as to whether I would or not, but I finally decided it would be much too easy a death. So it can be remedied tonight.’
If Hugh felt a momentary twinge of fear at the calm, expressionless tone, and the half-satisfied grunt which greeted the words, no trace of it showed on his face. Already the realisation had come to him that if he got through the night alive he would be more than passing lucky, but he was too much of a fatalist to let that worry him unduly. So he merely stifled a yawn, and again turned to Lakington.
‘So it was you, my little one, whose fairy face I saw pressed against the window. Would it be indiscreet to ask how you got the dope into us?’
Lakington looked at him with an expression of grim satisfaction on his face.
‘You were gassed, if you want to know. An admirable invention of my friend Kauffner’s nation.’
A guttural chuckle came from one of the men, and Hugh looked at him grimly.
‘The scum certainly would not be complete,’ he remarked to Peterson, ‘without a filthy Boche in it.’
The German pushed back his chair with an oath, his face purple with passion.
‘A filthy Boche,’ he muttered thickly, lurching towards Hugh. ‘Hold him the arms of, and I will the throat tear out…’
The intimidated rabbit rose protestingly at this prospect of violence; the scarred sportsman shot out of his chair eagerly, the lust of battle in his bloodshot eyes. The only person save Hugh who made no movement was Peterson, and he, very distinctly, chuckled. Whatever his failings, Peterson had a sense of humour.
It all happened so quickly. At one moment Hugh was apparently intent upon selecting a cigarette, the next instant the case had fallen to the floor; there was a dull, heavy thud, and the Boche crashed back, overturned a chair, and fell like a log to the floor, his head hitting the wall with a vicious crack. The bloodshot being resumed his seat a little limply; the intimidated bunny gave a stifled gasp and breathed heavily; Hugh resumed his search for a cigarette.
‘After which breezy interlude,’ remarked Peterson, ‘let us to business get.’
Hugh paused in the act of striking a match, and for the first time a genuine smile spread over his face.
‘There are moments, Peterson,’ he murmured, ‘when you really appeal to me.’
Peterson took the empty chair next to Lakington.
‘Sit down,’ he said shortly. ‘I can only hope that I shall appeal to you still more before we kill you.’
Hugh bowed and sat down.
‘Consideration,’ he murmured, ‘was always your strong point. May I ask how long I have to live?’
Peterson smiled genially.
‘At the very earnest request of Mr Lakington you are to be spared until tomorrow morning. At least, that is our present intention. Of course, there might be an accident in the night: in a house like this one can never tell. Or’ – he carefully cut the end off a cigar – ‘you might go mad, in which case we shouldn’t bother to kill you. In fact, it would really suit our book better if you did: the disposal of corpses, even in these days of advanced science, presents certain difficulties – not insuperable – but a nuisance. And so, if you go mad, we shall not be displeased.’
Once again he smiled genially.
‘As I said before, in a house like this, you never can tell…’
The intimidated rabbit, still breathing heavily, was staring at Hugh, fascinated; and after a moment Hugh turned on him with a courteous bow.
‘Laddie,’ he remarked, ‘you’ve been eating onions. Do you mind deflecting the blast in the opposite direction?’
His calm imperturbability seemed to madden Lakington, who with a sudden movement rose from his chair and leaned across the table, while the veins stood out like whipcord on his usually expressionless face.
‘You wait,’ he snarled thickly; ‘you wait till I’ve finished with you. You won’t be so damned humorous then…’
Hugh regarded the speaker languidly.
‘Your supposition is more than probable,’ he remarked, in a bored voice. ‘I shall be too intent on getting into a Turkish bath to remove the contamination to think of laughing.’
Slowly Lakington sank back in his chair, a hard, merciless smile on his lips; and for a moment or two there was silence in the room. It was broken by the unkempt man on the sofa, who, without warning, exploded unexpectedly.
‘A truce to all this fooling,’ he burst forth in a deep rumble; ‘I confess I do not understand it. Are we assembled here tonight, comrades, to listen to private quarrels and stupid talk?’
A murmur of approval came from the others, and the speaker stood up waving his arms.
‘I know not what this young man has done: I care less. In Russia such trifles matter not. He has the appearance of a bourgeois, therefore he must die. Did we not kill thousands – aye, tens of thousands of his kidney, before we obtained the great freedom? Are we not going to do the same in this accursed country?’ His voice rose to the shrill, strident note of the typical tub-thumper. ‘What is this wretched man,’ he continued, waving a hand wildly at Hugh, ‘that he should interrupt the great work for one brief second? Kill him now – throw him in a corner, and let us proceed.’
He sat down again, amidst a further murmur of approval in which Hugh joined heartily.
‘Splendid,’ he murmured. ‘A magnificent peroration. Am I right, sir, in assuming that you are what is vulgarly known as a Bolshevist?’
The man turned his sunken eyes, glowing with the burning fires of fanaticism, on Drummond.
‘I am one of those who are fighting for the freedom of the world,’ he cried harshly, ‘for the right to live of the proletariat. The workers were the bottom dogs in Russia till they killed the rulers. Now – they rule, and the money they earn goes into their own pockets, not those of incompetent snobs.’ He flung out his arms. He seemed to shrivel up suddenly, as if exhausted with the violence of his passion. Only his eyes still gleamed with the smouldering madness of his soul.
Hugh looked at him with genuine curiosity; it was the first time he had actually met one of these wild visionaries in the flesh. And then the curiosity was succeeded by a very definite amazement; what had Peterson to do with such as he?
He glanced casually at his principal enemy, but his face showed nothing. He was quietly turning over some papers; his cigar glowed as evenly as ever. He seemed to be no whit surprised by the unkempt one’s outburst: in fact, it appeared to be quite in order. And once again Hugh stared at the man on the sofa with puzzled eyes.
For the moment his own deadly risk was forgotten; a growing excitement filled his mind. Could it be possible that here, at last, was the real object of the gang; could it be possible that Peterson was organising a deliberate plot to tr
y and Bolshevise England? If so, where did the Duchess of Lampshire’s pearls come in? What of the American, Hiram Potts? Above all, what did Peterson hope to make out of it himself? And it was as he arrived at that point in his deliberation that he looked up to find Peterson regarding him with a faint smile.
‘It is a little difficult to understand, isn’t it, Captain Drummond?’ he said, carefully flicking the ash off his cigar. ‘I told you you’d find yourself in deep water.’ Then he resumed the contemplation of the papers in front of him, as the Russian burst out again.
‘Have you ever seen a woman skinned alive?’ he howled wildly, thrusting his face forward at Hugh. ‘Have you ever seen men killed with the knotted rope; burned almost to death and then set free, charred and mutilated wrecks? But what does it matter provided only freedom comes, as it has in Russia. Tomorrow it will be England: in a week the world… Even if we have to wade through rivers of blood up to our throats, nevertheless it will come. And in the end we shall have a new earth.’
Hugh lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair.
‘It seems a most alluring programme,’ he murmured. ‘And I shall have much pleasure in recommending you as manager of a babies’ crèche. I feel certain the little ones would take to you instinctively.’
He half closed his eyes, while a general buzz of conversation broke out round the table. Tongues had been loosened, wonderful ideals conjured up by the Russian’s inspiring words; and for the moment he was forgotten. Again and again the question hammered at his brain – what in the name of Buddha had Peterson and Lakington to do with this crowd? Two intensely brilliant, practical criminals mixed up with a bunch of ragged-trousered visionaries, who, to all intents and purposes, were insane…
Fragments of conversation struck his ears from time to time. The intimidated rabbit, with the light of battle in his watery eye, was declaiming on the glories of Workmen’s Councils; a bullet-headed man who looked like a down-at-heels racing tout was shouting an inspiring battle cry about no starvation wages and work for all.
‘Can it be possible,’ thought Hugh grimly, ‘that such as these have the power to control big destinies?’ And then, because he had some experience of what one unbalanced brain, whose owner could talk, was capable of achieving; because he knew something about mob psychology, his half-contemptuous amusement changed to a bitter foreboding.
‘You fool,’ he cried suddenly to the Russian and everyone ceased talking. ‘You poor damned boob! You – and your new earth! In Petrograd today bread is two pounds four shillings a pound; tea, fifteen pounds a pound. Do you call that freedom? Do you suggest that we should wade to that, through rivers of blood?’ He gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘I don’t know which distresses me most, your maggoty brain or your insanitary appearance.’
Too surprised to speak, the Russian sat staring at him; and it was Peterson who broke the silence with his suave voice.
‘Your distress, I am glad to say, is not likely to be one of long duration,’ he remarked. ‘In fact, the time has come for you to retire for the night, my young friend.’
He stood up smiling; then walked over to the bell behind Hugh and rang it.
‘Dead or mad – I wonder which.’ He threw the end of his cigar into the grate as Hugh rose. ‘While we deliberate down here on various matters of importance we shall be thinking of you upstairs – that is to say, if you get there. I see that Lakington is even now beginning to gloat in pleasant anticipation.’
Not a muscle on the soldier’s face twitched; not by the hint of a look did he show the keenly watching audience that he realised his danger. He might have been an ordinary guest preparing to go to bed; and in Peterson’s face there shone for a moment a certain unwilling admiration. Only Lakington’s was merciless, with its fiendish look of anticipation, and Hugh stared at him with level eyes for a while before he turned towards the door.
‘Then I will say good night,’ he remarked casually. ‘Is it the same room that I had last time?’
‘No,’ said Peterson. ‘A different one – specially prepared for you. If you get to the top of the stairs a man will show you where it is.’ He opened the door and stood there smiling. And at that moment all the lights went out.
II
The darkness could be felt, as real darkness inside a house always can be felt. Not the faintest glimmer even of greyness showed anywhere, and Hugh remained motionless, wondering what the next move was going to be. Now that the night’s ordeal had commenced, all his nerve had returned to him. He felt ice cold; and as his powerful hands clenched and unclenched by his sides, he grinned faintly to himself.
Behind him in the room he could hear an occasional movement in one of the chairs, and once from the hall outside he caught the sound of whispering. He felt that he was surrounded by men, thronging in on him from all sides, and suddenly he gave a short laugh. Instantly silence settled – strain as he would he could not hear a sound. Then very cautiously he commenced to feel his way towards the door.
Outside a car went by honking discordantly, and with a sort of cynical amusement he wondered what its occupants would think if they knew what was happening in the house so near them. And at that moment someone brushed past him. Like a flash Hugh’s hand shot out and gripped him by the arm. The man wriggled and twisted, but he was powerless as a child, and with another short laugh Hugh found his throat with his other hand. And again silence settled on the room…
Still holding the unknown man in front of him, he reached the foot of the stairs, and there he paused. He had suddenly remembered the mysterious thing which had whizzed past his head that other night, and then clanged sullenly into the wall beside him. He had gone up five stairs when it had happened, and now with his foot on the first he started to do some rapid thinking.
If, as Peterson had kindly assured him, they proposed to try and send him mad, it was unlikely that they would kill him on the stairs. At the same time it was obviously an implement capable of accurate adjustment, and therefore it was more than likely that they would use it to frighten him. And if they did – if they did… The unknown man wriggled feebly in his hands, and a sudden unholy look came on to Hugh’s face.
‘It’s the only possible chance,’ he said to himself, ‘and if it’s you or me, laddie, I guess it’s got to be you.’
With a quick heave he jerked the man off his feet, and lifted him up till his head was above the level of his own. Then clutching him tight, he commenced to climb. His own head was bent down, somewhere in the regions of the man’s back, and he took no notice of the feebly kicking legs.
Then at last he reached the fourth step, and gave a final adjustment to his semi-conscious burden. He felt that the hall below was full of men, and suddenly Peterson’s voice came to him out of the darkness.
‘That is four, Captain Drummond. What about the fifth step?’
‘A very good-looking one as far as I remember,’ answered Hugh. ‘I’m just going to get on to it.’
‘That should prove entertaining,’ remarked Peterson. ‘I’m just going to switch on the current.’
Hugh pressed his head even lower in the man’s back and lifted him up another three inches.
‘How awfully jolly!’ he murmured. ‘I hope the result will please you.’
‘I’d stand quite still if I were you,’ said Peterson suavely. ‘Just listen.’
As Hugh had gambled on, the performance was designed to frighten. Instead of that, something hit the neck of the man he was holding with such force that it wrenched him clean out of his arms. Then came the clang beside him, and with a series of ominous thuds a body rolled down the stairs into the hall below.
‘You fool.’ He heard Lakington’s voice, shrill with anger. ‘You’ve killed him. Switch on the light…’
But before the order could be carried out Hugh had disappeared, like a great cat, into the darkness of the passage above. It was neck or nothing; he had at the most a minute to get clear. As luck would have it the first room he darted into was empty, and he f
lung up the window and peered out.
A faint, watery moon showed him a twenty-foot drop on to the grass, and without hesitation he flung his legs over the sill. Below a furious hubbub was going on; steps were already rushing up the stairs. He heard Peterson’s calm voice, and Lakington’s hoarse with rage, shouting inarticulate orders. And at that moment something prompted him to look upwards.
It was enough – that one look; he had always been mad, he always would be. It was a dormer window, and to an active man access to the roof was easy. Without an instant’s hesitation he abandoned all thoughts of retreat; and when two excited men rushed into the room he was firmly ensconced, with his legs astride of the ridge of the window, not a yard from their heads.
Securely hidden in the shadow he watched the subsequent proceedings with genial toleration. A raucous bellow from the two men announced that they had discovered his line of escape; and in half a minute the garden was full of hurrying figures. One, calm and impassive, his identity betrayed only by the inevitable cigar, stood by the garden door, apparently taking no part in the game; Lakington, blind with fury, was running round in small circles, cursing everyone impartially.
‘The car is still there.’ A man came up to Peterson, and Hugh heard the words distinctly.
‘Then he’s probably over at Benton’s house. I will go and see.’
Hugh watched the thick-set, massive figure stroll down towards the wicket gate, and he laughed gently to himself. Then he grew serious again, and with a slight frown he pulled out his watch and peered at it. Half-past one…two more hours before dawn. And in those two hours he wanted to explore the house from on top; especially he wanted to have a look at the mysterious central room of which Phyllis had spoken to him – the room where Lakington kept his treasures. But until the excited throng below went indoors, it was unsafe to move. Once out of the shadow, anyone would be able to see him crawling over the roof in the moonlight.
At times the thought of the helpless man for whose death he had in one way been responsible recurred to him, and he shook his head angrily. It had been necessary, he realised: you can carry someone upstairs in a normal house without him having his neck broken – but still… And then he wondered who he was. It had been one of the men who sat round the table – of that he was tolerably certain. But which…? Was it the frightened bunny, or the Russian, or the gentleman with the bloodshot eye? The only comfort was that whoever it had been, the world would not be appreciably the poorer for his sudden decease. The only regret was that it hadn’t been dear Henry… He had a distaste for Henry which far exceeded his dislike of Peterson.
