CHALLENGE (1937) [Part 1]

CHAPTER I

THE GAME BEGINS

Colonel Henry Talbot, C.M.G., D.S.O., pushed back his chair and rose from the dinner table. His wife had gone to the theatre, so that he was alone. And on that particular evening the fact caused him considerable relief. The lady of his bosom was no believer in the old tag that silence is golden.

He crossed the hall and entered his study. There he lit a cigar, and threw his long, spare form into an easy chair. From the dining-room came the faint tinkle of glass as the butler cleared the table; save for that and the ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece the flat was silent.

For perhaps ten minutes he sat motionless staring into the fire. Then he pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and studied the contents thoughtfully, while a frown came on his forehead. And quite suddenly he spoke out loud.

“It can’t be coincidence.”

A coal fell into the grate, and as he bent over to replace it, the flames danced on his thin aquiline features.

“It can’t be,” he muttered.

The clock chimed nine, and as the final echo died Sway a bell shrilled out. Came a murmur of voices from the hall; then the butler opened the door.

“Captain Drummond and Mr. Standish, sir.”

Colonel Talbot rose, as the two men came into the room.

“Bring the coffee and port in here, Mallows,” he said. “I take it you two fellows have had dinner?”

“We have, Colonel,” said Drummond, coming over to the fire. “And we’re very curious to know the reason of the royal command.”

“I hope it wasn’t inconvenient to either of you?” asked the colonel.

“Not a bit,” answered Standish. “Not only are we curious, but we’re hopeful.”

The colonel laughed; then he grew serious again.

“You’ve seen the evening papers, I suppose.”

“As a matter of fact I haven’t,” said Drummond. “Have you, Ronald?”

“I only got back to London at eight,” cried Standish. “What’s in ’em?”

There was a short pause; then Colonel Talbot spoke deliberately.

“Jimmy Latimer is dead.”

“What!” The word burst simultaneously from both his listeners. “Jimmy—dead! How? When?”

“Put the tray on my desk, Mallows,” said the colonel. “We’ll help ourselves.”

He waited until the butler had left the room; then standing with his back to the fire he studied the faces of the two men who were still staring at him incredulously.

“A month ago,” he began, “Jimmy put in for leave. Well, you two know what our leave frequently covers, but in this case it was the genuine article. He was going to the South of France, and there was no question of work. I got a letter from him about a fortnight ago, saying he was having a damned good time, and that he’d made a spot of cash at Monte. He also implied that there was a pretty helping him to spend it.

“Last night, about ten o’clock, I got a call through here to my flat from Paris. Jimmy was at the other end. He told me he was on the biggest thing he’d ever handled—so big that he could hardly believe it himself. He was catching the eight-fifty-seven from the St. Lazare Station and crossing via Newhaven. It arrives at Victoria at six o’clock in the morning, and he was coming direct to me here. Couldn’t even wait till I got to the office.

“As you can imagine, I wondered a bit. Jimmy was not a man who went in off the deep end without a pretty good cause. So I ordered Mallows to have some breakfast ready, and to call me the instant jimmy arrived. He never did; when the boat reached Newhaven he was dead in his cabin.”

“Murdered?” asked Standish quietly.

“My first thought, naturally, when I heard the news,” said the colonel. “Since then we’ve obtained all the information available. He got on board the boat at midnight, and had a whisky and soda at the bar. Then he turned in. He was, apparently, in perfect health and spirits, though the steward in the bar seems to have noticed that he kept on glancing towards the door while he was drinking. Ordinarily that is a piece of evidence which I should discount very considerably. It is the sort of thing that, with the best will in the world, a man might imagine after the event. But in this case he actually mentioned the fact to his assistant last night. So there must have been something in it. And the next thing that was heard of the poor old boy was when his cabin steward called him this morning. He was partially undressed in his bunk, and quite dead.

“When the boat berthed, the police were of course notified. Inspector Dorman, who is an officer of great ability, was in charge of the investigation, and very luckily he knew Jimmy and Jimmy’s job. So the possibility of foul play at once occurred to him. But nothing that he could discover pointed to it. There was no sign of any wound, no trace of any weapon. His kit was, apparently, untouched; his money and watch were in the cubby-hole beside the bunk. In fact, everything seemed to indicate death from natural causes.

“But Dorman was not satisfied; there still remained poison. But since that would necessitate a post-mortem, and it was clearly impossible to keep the passengers waiting while that was done, he sent one of his men up in the boat-train with instructions to get everybody’s name and address. Meanwhile he had the body taken ashore, and got in touch with a doctor. Then he went on board again, and cross-examined everybody who could possibly throw any light on it.

“He drew blank. Save for the one piece of evidence of the bar steward which I have already told you, no one could tell him anything. One sailor thought he had seen someone leaving Jimmy’s cabin at about one o’clock, but when pressed he was so vague as to be useless. And so finally Dorman gave it up, and taking all the kit out of the cabin, he sat down to await the doctor’s report.”

The colonel pitched the stub of his cigar into the fire.

“Once again, blank. There was no trace of any poison whatsoever. The contents of the stomach were analysed; all the usual tests were done. Result—nothing. The doctor was prepared to swear that death was natural, though he admitted that every organ was in perfect condition.”

“I was just going to say,” remarked Drummond, “that I’ve seldom met anybody who seemed fitter than Jimmy.”

“Precisely,” said the colonel.

“What do you think yourself, sir?” asked Standish quietly.

“I’m not satisfied, Ronald. I know that the idea of poisons that leave no trace is novelist’s gup; I admit that on the face of it the doctor must be right. And still I’m not satisfied. If what that barman said is the truth Jimmy was afraid of being followed. We know that he was on to something big; we know that his health was perfect. And yet he dies. It can’t be coincidence, you fellows.”

“If it is it’s a very strange one,” agreed Standish.

“And if it isn’t it must be murder. And if it was murder, the murderer was on board. Have you a copy of the list of the passengers?”

Colonel Talbot walked over to his desk and handed Standish a paper.

“As you will see,” he remarked, “the boat was very empty. Most of the passengers were third class.”

“It’s not a particularly popular boat, I should imagine,” said Drummond. “I mean I can’t see anybody who hadn’t got to, for economy or some other reason, crossing by that route.”

“Precisely,” remarked the colonel gravely, and the two men looked at him.

“Something bitten you, Colonel?” cried Drummond. “Something so fantastic, Hugh, that I almost hesitate to mention it. But it was because what you have just said had struck me also that this wild idea occurred to me. Run your eye down the list of first class passengers—there are only eight—and see if one name doesn’t strike you.”

“Alexander; Purvis; Reid; Burton…Charles Burton. The millionaire bloke who throws parties in Park Lane…Is that what you mean?”

Colonel Talbot nodded.

“That is what I mean.”

“But, damn it, Colonel, what on earth should he want to murder Jimmy for?”

“Not quite so fast, Hugh,” said the other. “As I said, the idea may be fantastically wrong. But we’ve all heard of Charles Burton. We all know that even if he isn’t a millionaire he’s extremely well off. But who is Charles Burton?”

“I’ll buy it,” said Drummond.

“So would most people. Where does Charles Burton get his money from?”

“I gathered he was something in the City.”

“Which covers a multitude of sins. But to cut the cackle, his name jumped at me out of that list. Why on earth should a man of his position and wealth choose one of the most uncomfortable Channel crossings to come over by?”

“It’s a goodish step from that to murder,” said Standish.

“Agreed, my dear fellow. But sitting in my office this afternoon, the question went on biting me. And at length I could stand it no longer. So I rang up the Sûreté in Paris, and asked them if they could find out in what hotel he was staying. Of course I knew he’d left, but that didn’t matter. A short while after they got back to me to say that he had been staying at the Crillon, but had left for England last night. So I got through to the Crillon, where I discovered that Mr. Charles Burton had intended to fly over today, but that he had suddenly changed his mind yesterday evening, and decided to go via Newhaven and Dieppe.”

“Strange,” said Standish thoughtfully. “But it’s still a goodly step, Colonel.”

“Again agreed. But having started I went on. And by dint of discreet enquiries one or two small but interesting facts came to light. For instance, I gathered that on his frequent journeys to the Continent, he always flies. He loathes trains. I further gathered, or rather failed to gather, from various men I rang up, what his business was. He has an office, and the nearest I could get to it was that he was something in the nature of a financial adviser, whatever that may be. No one seemed to know who he was or where he came from. It seems he just blossomed suddenly about two years ago. One day he was not; the next day he was. But the most interesting point of all was a casual remark I heard in the club this evening. His name cropped up and somebody said: ‘I sometimes wonder if that man is English.’ I docketed that for future reference.”

“Look here, Colonel,” cried Drummond. “Let’s get this straight. You started off by saying your idea was fantastic, but unless I’m suffering from senile decay, you’re playing with the theory that Jimmy was murdered by Charles Burton.”

“You could not have expressed it better. Playing with the theory.”

“And you want us to play too?”

“If you’ve got nothing better to do. I haven’t a leg to stand on; I know that. But Jimmy, who was in possession of very important information, died. Travelling in the same boat was a man whose origin is, to say the least, not an open book. Further, a man who, if he did change his habitual method of transport, would surely choose the Golden Arrow. I remember what you two did,” he continued, “when that Kalinsky affair was on, over Waldron’s gas and Graham Caldwell’s aeroplane. You were invaluable, and this may be a case of the same type. You both of you go everywhere in London; all I’m asking you to do is to—”

“Cultivate Mr. Charles Burton,” said Drummond with a grin.

“Exactly, Hugh. For if there is anything in my suspicions, I think you two, acting unofficially, are far more likely to get to the bottom of the matter—or at any rate to get on the trail—than I am through official channels.”

“It’s a date, Colonel,” cried Standish. “But before we push off there are one or two points I want to get clear. In the letter you got from Jimmy a fortnight ago was there any hint he was on to something?”

“None at all.”

“Have you heard from him since?”

“Not until he telephoned yesterday.”

“So you don’t know when he left the Riviera?”

“Not got the ghost of an idea. But we could find that out by wiring the hotel.”

“Which was?”

“The Metropole at Cannes.”

“I wish you would find out, Colonel. In your position you can do so more easily than we can, and it’s information that may prove important.”

“I’ll wire or phone tomorrow, Ronald.”

“Just one thing more. I assume some reliable person has gone through his kit and papers with a fine-tooth comb?”

“Dorman himself. There was nothing; nothing at all. But if our wild surmise is correct that is what one would have expected, isn’t it? The murderer had plenty of time to examine all the kit himself.”

“True,” agreed Standish. “And yet a wary bird like poor old Jimmy has half a dozen tricks up his sleeve. Shaving soap; tooth paste…”

“I know Dorman. He’s up to every trick himself. And if he says there’s nothing there—then there is nothing.”

“By the way,” put in Drummond, “was Jimmy engaged?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard of.”

“Who is his next of kin?”

“His father—Major John Latimer. Lives at his club—the Senior Army and Navy.”

“A widower?”

“Yes. His wife died about three years ago.” Drummond rose and stretched himself.

“Well, Ronald, old son, it seems to me that we’ve been handed out what dope there is. Let us go and kiss dear Charles good night.”

“One second, Hugh,” said Standish. “I suppose you’ve got no idea, Colonel, what tree Jimmy was barking up?”

“Absolutely none. It may be a spy organisation; it may be a drug gang; it may be anything. But whatever it is, it’s something big or Jimmy wouldn’t have said so.”

“No hint, of course, of the possibility of foul play will appear in the papers?”

“Good Heavens! no,” cried Colonel Talbot. “No hint, in fact, that he was anything but an ordinary army officer with a job at the War Office.”

He strolled into the hall with the two men.

“I’ll let you know what I hear from Cannes,” he said. “And you have my number here and at the office. Because I’ve got a sort of hunch, boys, that the less we actually see of one another in the near future the better. And my final word—watch your step.”

A slight drizzle was falling as Drummond and Standish reached the street, and they hailed a passing taxi.

“United Sports Club,” said Drummond. “We may as well get down to this over a pint, Ronald.” Standish lit a cigarette.

“A rum show,” he remarked. “Damned rum. And the annoying part of it is that it’s impossible to find out from Burton whether he had a good and perfectly genuine reason for crossing by that service. He may have had, and in that case the Chief’s theory goes up in a cloud of steam. But if he didn’t have—”

“In any event he’d manufacture one,” Drummond cut in.

“If it wasn’t true it might be possible to discover the fact. But the trouble is that it would immediately arouse all Burton’s suspicions.”

The taxi pulled up at the club, and they went inside. The smoking-room was practically empty, and drawing two easy chairs up to the fire they sat down.

“Let’s pool resources, Hugh,” said Standish. “What, if anything, do you know of Charles Burton?”

“I have seen him in all about six times,” answered Drummond. “I accidentally trod on his foot at some ghastly cocktail party old Mary Wetherspoon threw at the Ritz, and we had a drink over the catastrophe. Save for that I don’t think I’ve addressed three sentences to the man in my life. He seems a reasonable sort of individual though he ain’t the type I’d choose to be shipwrecked on a desert island with.”

“How did that remark about his not being English strike you?”

“It didn’t—particularly. So far as I remember he speaks without the faintest trace of accent. In fact he must do, or the point would have occurred to me. But to be perfectly candid, Ronald, I do not feel that I know the man nearly well enough to form any opinion of him. He is the most casual of casual acquaintances.”

“Have you ever been to his house in Park Lane?”

“Once—with some wench. Another cocktail party. I don’t think I even spoke to him.”

“But the flesh-pots of Egypt all right?”

“Very much so. Though the whole turnout rather gave one the impression that he had issued an ultimatum—’Let there be furniture; rich, rare furniture. Let there be pictures; rich, rare pictures.’”

“Precisely the criticism I heard,” said Standish. “And it rather confirms what the Chief was saying about one day he was not—the next day he was.”

“Yes,” agreed Drummond doubtfully. “But I don’t see that it takes us much further. I can think of three or four men who have suddenly made money, and promptly bought a large house with instructions to furnish regardless of cost.”

“Do you know when he bought that house?”

“The time I went there was about a year ago, and so far as I know he’d been in it several months then.”

“So presumably he took it when he first blossomed out in the City.”

“Presumably.”

“It would be interesting to know his history before then.”

“That, I take it, he would say was nobody’s business.”

“D’you see what I’m getting at, Hugh? If by some lucky speculation he made a packet in the City before he burst on society, it is one thing. If on the contrary he just arrived out of the blue, it is another. In the first event Talbot’s question as to where he got his money is answered; in the second it isn’t.”

“It should be easy to find out,” said Drummond.

“It doesn’t seem as if the Chief has been able to do so, and he can ferret out information from a closed oyster. Of course, he’s had a very short time. But I can’t help feeling that our first line is Mr. Charles Burton’s past. Did he have a father who left him money? Did he make it himself, and if so where? Or…”

“Or what?” asked Drummond curiously.

“Has he been installed there for some purpose which at the moment is beyond us?

“And Jimmy was on the track.”

“Exactly. I believe that is what was at the bottom of the Chief’s mind. And if so the sorest man in England was our Charles when his name was taken going up in the boat-train.”

Hugh Drummond lay back in his chair and lit a cigarette.

“First line settled,” he remarked. “But it is the second that contains the snags, I’m thinking. I hardly know the blighter; you, I gather, don’t know him at all. How do we set about attaching ourselves to his person with a view to extracting his maidenly secrets? Charlie is going to smell a rodent of that size pretty damn’ quick.”

“Sufficient unto the day, old boy. It’ll have to be worked through mutual friends. By the way, has he got any other house besides the one in Park Lane?”

“Ask me another. Not that I know of, but that means nothing.”

Drummond sat up suddenly.

“An idea, by Jove! Algy. Algy Longworth. He knows Burton fairly well. Waiter! Go and telephone to Mr. Longworth and tell him to come round to the club at once under pain of my severe displeasure.

“I remember now,” he continued, as the waiter left the room. “Burton has got a house in the country somewhere. Algy went and stayed there last summer. Crowds of fairies; swimming-pool; peacocks in the grounds type of thing.”

“However he got it the money is evidently there,” said Standish dryly.

“Mr. Longworth is coming round at once, sir.” The waiter paused by Drummond’s chair.

“Good. Then repeat this dose and bring one for Mr. Longworth. A drivelling idiot is our Algy,” he went on as the man moved away, “but there is a certain shrewdness concealed behind that eyeglass of his which may prove useful.”

“At any rate he gives us a point of contact with Burton,” said Standish. “And that’s all to the good.”

Ten minutes later Algy Longworth arrived and Drummond swung round his chair.

“Come here, you pop-eyed excrescence. What the devil are you all dressed up like that for? And you’ve dribbled on your white waistcoat. You look awful.”

“Thank you, my sweet one. Evening, Ronald.” The newcomer adjusted his eyeglass, and smiled benignly.

“Evening, Algy. Take a pew.”

“You wish to confer with me—yes? To suck my brain on some deep point of international import? Gentlemen—if I may be permitted so to bastardise the word—I am at your service.”

“Look here, Algy,” said Drummond, “there may be a spot of bother in the air. Only may; we don’t know yet. So this conversation is not to go beyond you. What do you know about Charles Burton?”

“Charles Burton!” Algy Longworth stared at him. “What’s he been doing? Watering the Worcester sauce? As a matter of fact it’s darned funny you should ask that, Hugh; I’m going to that place of his tonight. Hence the glad rags.”

“What place? His house in Park Lane?”

“No; no. The Golden Boot.”

“The new Club that’s just opened? It’s Burton behind it, is it?”

“Entirely. He found all the others so ghastly boring that he decided to have one run on his own lines. More than likely he’ll be there himself. However, what is it you want to know about him?”

“Everything you can tell. What sort of a bloke is he?”

“He’s all right. Throws a damned good party. Stinks of money. Clean about the house and all that kind of thing.”

“D’you know where he got his money?”

“Haven’t an earthly, old boy. Cornering lights for cats, or something of that sort, I suppose. Why?”

“Where is his house in the country?”

“West Sussex. Not far from Pulborough. I went and stayed there last July.”

“I remember you telling me about it,” said Drummond. “Algy, would you say he was English?”

Algy stared at him, his glass half-way to his mouth.

“I’ve never really thought about it,” he said at length. “I’ve always assumed he was, especially with that name. He speaks the language perfectly, but for that matter he speaks about six others equally well. I’d put it this way—he isn’t obviously not English.”

“That I know,” said Drummond.

“And I should think Sir George would have satisfied himself on that point,” continued Algy. “You know old Castledon—the most crashing bore in Europe?”

“His wife is the woman with a face like a cablose, isn’t she?”

“That’s it. Well, Molly, their daughter, is an absolute fizzer. When you see the three of ’em together you feel that you require the mysteries of parenthood explained to you again. However, Burton met Molly at some catch-’em-alive-’o dance in Ascot week, and as our society writers would say, paid her marked attention. So marked that Lady Castledon who was attending the parade as Molly’s chaperon had a fit in a corner of the room, and was finally carried out neighing. She already heard the Burton doubloons jingling in the Castledon coffers, which by all accounts sadly need ’em.”

“What’s the girl’s reaction?” asked Drummond. “Definitely anti-click. After all, she’s young; she’s one of this year’s brood of debs. But what I was getting at is, that though Sir George can clear a room quicker than an appeal for charity, he’s a darned fine old boy. And he’s not the sort of man who’d let his daughter marry merely for money, or get tied up with anyone he wasn’t satisfied about.”

Algy drained his glass.

“Look here, chaps,” he said, “it seems to me I’ve done most of the turn up to date. Why this sudden interest in Charles Burton?”

“We’ve got your word you’ll keep it to yourself, Algy?”

“Of course,” was the quiet answer.

“Good. Then listen.”

He did—in absolute silence—whilst they put him wise.

“Seems a bit flimsy,” he remarked when they had finished. “Though I agree that it’s not like Burton to cross via Newhaven.”

“Of course it’s flimsy,” said Drummond. “There’s not a shred of evidence to connect Burton with Jimmy’s death. It’s just a shot in the dark on the Chief’s part. And if we find out nothing, no harm is done. On the other hand it is just possible we may discover that it was a bull’s-eye.”

“I must say that he’s not a man I’d like to fall foul of,” remarked Algy thoughtfully. “I don’t think he’d show one much mercy. He sacked the first manager he put into the Golden Boot at a moment’s notice for the most trivial offence. But murder is rather a tall order.”

“My dear Algy,” said Standish, “the tallness of the order is entirely dependent on the largeness of the stake. And if Jimmy was on to something really big…”

He shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette.

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Algy. “Well, boys, I’m afraid I haven’t been of much assistance, but I really know very little about the fellow myself. Why don’t you come round to the Golden Boot with me now?”

“Short coats all right?”

“Good Lord! yes. Though he insists on evening clothes. Of course, I can’t guarantee that he’ll be there, and even if he is I don’t see that it will do any good. But you might stumble on something, and you’re bound to find a lot of people there that you know.”

“What about it, Ronald?” said Drummond. “It can’t do any harm.”

“It can’t. But I don’t think we’ll both go, Hugh. If anything comes out of this show it would be well to have one completely unknown bloke on our side—unknown to Burton, I mean. Now he knows you and he knows Algy; he does not know me. So for the present, at any rate, we won’t connect you and me. You toddle off with Algy; as he says, you might find out something. Let’s meet here for lunch tomorrow, and I’ll put out a few feelers in the City during the morning.”

Drummond nodded.

“Sound idea. You’ve got a wench with you, I suppose, Algy?”

“I’m with a party. Why don’t you join up too?”

“I’ll see. It’s one of these ordinary bottle places, I take it?”

“That’s right. Same old stunt in rather better setting than usual—that’s all. Night-night, Ronald.”

CHAPTER II

THE GOLDEN BOOT

As Algy Longworth had said, it was the same old stunt. After a slight financial formality at the door, Drummond became a guest of the management for the evening with all the privileges appertaining to such an honoured position. Though unable to order a whisky and soda, he was allowed—nay, expected—to order a bottle. To consume one drink was a crime comparable to murdering the Archbishop of Canterbury; to consume the entire bottle was a great and meritorious action.

Accustomed, however, as he was to these interesting sidelights on our legal system he gave the necessary order, and then glanced round the room. Being only just midnight there were still many empty tables, though he saw several faces he recognised. It was a long, narrow building, and a band, in a fantastic red and green uniform, was playing at the far end. But the whole get-up of the place was, as Algy had said, distinctly better than usual.

Algy’s party had not yet arrived, so they sat down at an empty table, near the microscopic dancing-floor, and Drummond ordered a kipper.

“I’ll wait, old boy,” said Algy, and at that moment a girl paused by their table.

“Hullo! darling.” He scrambled to his feet. “You look absolutely ravishing. Hugh, you old stiff—this is Alice. Around her rotates the whole place; she is our sun, our moon, our stars. Without her we wilt; we die. Hugh; Alice.”

“You blithering imbecile,” said the girl with a particularly charming smile. “Are you his keeper, Hugh?”

Drummond grinned—that slow, lazy grin of his, which made so many people wonder why they had ever thought him ugly.

“Lions I have shot, Alice; tigers, even field mice; but there is a limit to my powers. When this palsied worm joins his unfortunate fellow guests will you come and kipper with me?”

“I’d love to,” she answered simply, and with a nod moved on.

“I’m glad you did that, Hugh,” said Algy. “She’s an absolute topper, that girl. Name of Blackton. Father was a soldier.”

“What’s she doing this job for?”

“He lost all his money in some speculation. But you’ll really like her. There’s no nonsense about her, and she dances like an angel.” He lowered his voice. “No sign of C. B. so far.”

“The night is yet young,” said Drummond. “And even if he does come I’m not likely to get anything out of him. It’s more the atmosphere of this place that I want, and sidelights from other people.”

“Alice might help you there,” remarked Algy. “She’s been here since it opened. Hullo! here come my crowd. So long, old boy, and don’t forget if anything does emerge the bunch are in on it.”

He drifted away and a smile twitched round Drummond’s lips. How many times in the past had not the bunch been in on things? And they were all ready again if and when the necessity arose.

If and when…The smile had gone, and he was conscious of a curious sensation. Suddenly the room seemed strangely unreal; the band, the women, the hum of conversation faded and died. In its place was a deserted cross-roads with the stench of death lying thick like a fetid pall. Against the darkening sky green pencil lines of light shot ceaselessly up, to turn into balls of fire as the flares lobbed softly into no-man’s-land. In the distance the mutter of artillery; the sudden staccato burst of a machine-gun. And in the ditch close by, a motionless figure in khaki, with chalk white face and glazed staring eyes, that seemed to be mutely asking why its legs should be lying two yards away being gnawed by rats.

“A penny, Hugh.”

With a start he glanced up; Alice was looking at him curiously.

“For the moment I thought of other things,” he said quietly. “I was back across the water, Alice; back in the days of the madness. I almost seemed to be there in reality—it was so vivid. Funny, isn’t it, the tricks one’s mind plays?”

“You seemed to me, Hugh, to be staring into the future—not into the past.” She sat down opposite him. “The world was on your shoulders and you found it heavy. This is the first time you’ve been here, isn’t it?” she continued lightly.

“The future.” He stared at her gravely. “I wonder. However, a truce to this serious mood. Yes, it is the first time I’ve been here; I’ve been up in Scotland since it opened. And as such places go it seems good to me. I gather that one Charles Burton is behind it?”

“Do you know the gentleman?” Her tone was non-committal, but he glanced at her quickly.

“Very slightly,” he said. “You do, of course.”

“Yes, I know him. He is in here most nights when he’s in London.”

“Do you like him?”

“My dear Hugh, girls in my position neither like nor dislike the great man. We exist by virtue of his tolerance.”

Drummond studied her in silence.

“Now what precisely do you mean?” he enquired at length.

“Exactly what I say. Caesar holds the power of life or death. There is no appeal. If he says to me, ‘Go’—I go. And lose my job. Which reminds me that you’ll have to stand me a bottle of champagne for the good of the house. Sorry about it, but there you are.”

Drummond beckoned to a waiter and glanced at the wine list.

“Number 35. Now tell me, Alice,” he said when the man had gone, “do you like this job?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, can they? And since secretaries are a drug on the market what is a poor girl to do?”

“Does he expect you to—?”

“Sleep with him?” She gave a short laugh. “So far, Hugh, I have not been honoured.”

“And if you are?”

“I can think of nothing I should detest more. I hate the swine.”

“Steady, my dear.” For a moment he laid his hand on hers. “The’ swine’ has just arrived. And I don’t think you’ll be honoured this evening at any rate.”

A sudden silence had fallen on the Golden Boot. Head waiters, waiters, under waiters were prostrating themselves at the door. And assuredly the woman who had entered with Charles Burton was sufficient cause. Tall, with a perfect figure, she stood for a moment regarding the room with an arrogance so superb, that its insolence was almost staggering. Her shimmering black velvet frock was skin-tight; she wore no jewels save one rope of magnificent pearls. Her eyes were blue and heavy lidded; her mouth a scarlet streak. And on one finger there glittered a priceless ruby.

As if unconscious of the effect she had created she swept across the room behind the obsequious manager, whilst Charles Burton followed in leisurely fashion, stopping at different tables to speak to friends. At length he reached Drummond’s and the eyes of the two men met.

“Surely…” began Burton doubtfully.

“We met at a cocktail party, Mr. Burton,” said Drummond with a smile. “I trod on your foot and nearly broke it. Drummond is my name.”

“Of course, I remember perfectly. Ah! good evening, Miss Blackton.” He gave the girl a perfunctory bow; then turned back to Drummond. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“For the very good reason that it is the first time I’ve been. I’ve only just got back from the north.”

“Shooting?”

“Yes. I was stalking in Sutherland.”

“Well, now that you’ve been here once I hope you’ll come again. It’s my toy, you know.”

With a nod he moved on, and Drummond watched him as he joined the woman. Then he became aware that a waiter was standing by him with a note.

“From the gentleman with the eyeglass, sir.”

He opened it, and saw a few words scrawled in pencil.

“Charlie B. He make whoopee. But what about poor Molly C.”

Drummond smiled and put the note in his pocket.

“From the idiot boy,” he said. “Commenting on Mr. Burton’s girl friend.”

“She’s an extraordinarily striking woman,” said Alice Blackton. “I wonder if he picked her up at Nice.”

Drummond stared at her.

“Did you say Nice?”

“I did. He’s just come back from the Riviera, you know.”

“Has he indeed? That is rather interesting.” She raised her eyebrows.

“I’m glad you find it so. I’m afraid that Mr. Burton’s comings and goings leave me stone cold.”

“Tell me, Alice, why do you hate him?”

“Hate is perhaps too strong a word,” she said. “And yet I don’t know. I think it’s because I don’t trust him a yard. I don’t mean only over women, though that comes into it too. I wouldn’t trust him over anything. He’s completely and utterly unscrupulous.”

“Are you speaking from definite knowledge, or is that merely your private opinion?”

“If by definite knowledge you mean do I know that he’s ever robbed a church—then no. But you’ve only got to meet him in a subordinate capacity like I have, to get him taped.”

She looked at Drummond curiously.

“You seem very interested in him, Hugh.”

“I am,” said Drummond frankly. “Though the last thing I want is that he should know it.”

“You can be sure that I won’t pass it on. Why are you so interested, or is it a secret?”

“I’m afraid it is, my dear. All I can tell you is that I’m very anxious to find out everything that I can about the gentleman. And though I can’t say why, your little piece of information about his having been on the Riviera recently, is of the greatest value. Do you know how long he was there for?”

“I can tell you when he left England. It was exactly a fortnight ago, because he was in here the night before he flew over.”

“I gather he always flies,” said Drummond.

“He’s got his own machine,” remarked the girl. “And his own pilot.”

“Did he go over in it this time?”

“I suppose so. He always does.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Drummond. “I know,” he went on with a smile, “that this must seem very mysterious to you. Really, it isn’t a bit. But at the moment I just can’t tell you what it is all about. Your father was a soldier, wasn’t he?”

“He was. Though how did you know?”

“Algy told me. Now I can let you in to this much. It is the army that is interested in Mr. Burton. I tell you that, because I’m going to ask you to do something for me.”

“What?” said the girl.

“Keep an eye on him—that’s all, and let me know anything about his movements that you can find out, however seemingly trivial.”

“My dear man, I can’t do much, I’m afraid.”

“You never know,” said Drummond quietly. “As I’ve already told you, that piece of information about Nice is most valuable. Another thing. Not only his movements, but also the people he brings here. Now would it be possible to discover the name of that woman?”

“Presumably he’s signed her in, but whether under her real name or not is another matter. I can find out if you like.”

“Do—like an angel.”

“All right. I’ll go and powder my nose.”

A good wench, reflected Drummond as he watched her threading her way through the tables. Definitely an asset. And though probably ninety percent of what she could pass on would be valueless, the remaining ten might not. Witness the matter of Nice. True that would certainly have come out in the course of time—Burton’s visit there was clearly no secret. At the same time it was useful to have it presented free of charge, so to speak. But the really important thing was the installation in one of the enemy’s camps of a reliable friend.

“O.K., baby?”

Algy had strolled over to his table.

“Very much so, old boy. A damned nice girl.”

“That’s a bit of mother’s ruin our Charlie has got with him.”

“Alice is just trying to find out who she is. Algy—Burton was at Nice, while Jimmy was at Cannes.” Algy whistled.

“The devil he was. Have you told Alice anything about it?”

“No. Safer not to at present. She doesn’t like him, Algy.”

“None of the staff do, old lad. Alice—my life, my all—this revolting man hasn’t been making love to you, has he?”

“Not so that you’d notice, Algy,” laughed the girl, sitting down. “She is a Madame Tomesco, Hugh.”

“It has a Roumanian flavour,” said Drummond.

“And mark you, boys and girls, I could do with a bit of Roumanian flavouring myself,” declared Algy. “I could do that woman a kindness; yes, I could. Well, au revoir, my sweets. If he plucks at his collar, Alice, its either passion or indigestion, or possibly both. You have been warned.”

“Quite, quite mad,” said the girl. “But rather a dear. You must give me your address, Hugh, before you go, so that I can send along the doings.”

He scribbled it down on a piece of paper and his telephone number.

“Be careful, my dear,” he said gravely. “I have a feeling that if the gentleman got an inkling that you were spying on him he would not be amused. I’ll go further. If there is anything in what we suspect you’d be in grave danger.”

Her eyes opened wide.

“How perfectly thrilling! Promise you’ll tell me sometime what it’s all about?”

“Thumbs crossed. Waiter, let me have my bill. I’ve put my name on the whisky; keep it for me for next time.”

“Come again soon, Hugh,” said the girl.

“I sure will. Good night, dear. I really am infernally sleepy.”

The rain had ceased when he got outside, and refusing a taxi he started to walk to his flat. Though the Golden Boot was much better ventilated than the average night club, it was a relief to breathe fresh air again. The streets were wet and glistening in the glare of the arc lights; the pavements almost deserted. Every now and then some wretched woman appeared from seemingly nowhere, and it was while he was fumbling in his pocket for some money for one of them that his uncanny sixth sense began to assert itself.

“Bless you! You’re a toff,” said the girl, but Drummond hardly heard her. He was staring back the way he had come. What was that man doing loitering about, some fifty yards away?

He walked on two or three hundred yards; then on the pretext of doing up his shoe he stopped. The man was still there; he was being followed. With a puzzled frown he strode on; how in the name of all that was marvellous could he have incurred anybody’s suspicions?

He decided to make sure, and to do so he employed the old ruse. He swung round the corner from Piccadilly into Bond Street; then he stopped dead in his tracks. And ten seconds later the man shot round too, only to halt, in his turn, as he saw Drummond.

“Good evening,” said Drummond affably. “You are not, if I may say so, very expert at your game. Possibly you haven’t had much practice.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” muttered the other, and Drummond studied him curiously. He looked about thirty, and was decently dressed. His voice was refined; he might have been a bank clerk.

“Why are you following me?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m not following you.”

“Then why did you stop dead when you came round the corner and saw me? I fear that your powers of lying are about equivalent to your powers of tracking. Once again I wish to know why you are following me.”

“I refuse to say,” said the man.

“At any rate we advance,” said Drummond. “You no longer deny the soft impeachment. But as it’s confoundedly draughty here I suggest that we should stroll on together, chatting on this and that. And in case the point has escaped your notice, I will just remind you that I am a very much larger and more powerful man than you. And should the ghastly necessity of hitting you arise, it will probably be at least a week before you again take your morning Bengers.”

“You dare to lay a hand on me,” blustered the man, “and I’ll…”

“Yes,” said Drummond politely. “You’ll what? Call the police? Come on, little man; I would hold converse with you.”

With a grip of iron he took the man’s right arm above the elbow, and turning back into Piccadilly he walked him along.

“Who is employing you?”

“I refuse to say. God! you’ll break my arm.”

“Quite possibly.”

And at that moment a policeman came round Dover Street just in front of them.

“Officer,” cried the man. “Help!”

For a moment Drummond’s grip relaxed, and like a rabbit going down a bolt-hole the man was across the road and racing down St. James’s Street.

“What’s all this, sir?” said the constable as Drummond began to laugh.

“A gentleman who has been following me, officer,” he said. “I’m afraid I was rather hurting him.”

“Oh! I see, sir.”

The constable looked at him significantly and winked. Then with a cheery “Good night, sir,” he resumed his beat.

But the smile soon faded from Drummond’s face, and it was with a very grave expression that he walked on. He had only got down from Scotland that day, so under what conceivable circumstances could he be being followed? That it was added confirmation that the Chief was right was indubitable; it could not be anything else than the Jimmy Latimer affair. There was a literally nothing else that it could be. But how had they got on to him—Drummond? That was what completely defeated him. For one brief moment the possibility of Alice Blackton being a wrong ’un crossed his mind; then he dismissed it as absurd. What could be her object? She had his address; she knew his name, so what purpose would it serve to have him followed home? But if it was not her who could it be?

He reached his house and produced his latch-key. The road was deserted; there was no sign of the man who had bolted so precipitately. But as he mixed himself a final night-cap he was still frowning thoughtfully. For he had suddenly realised that all the arguments that applied to Alice applied equally to Charles Burton. He, too, knew Drummond’s name, and even if he did not know the address he could easily find it in the telephone directory. So again what was the object in having him followed? And the problem was still unsolved when he met Standish lust before lunch next day.

“There can be only one solution, Hugh,” said that worthy when Drummond had finished telling him. “They picked us up at the Chief’s flat. It was he who was being watched, and anybody who went to see him.”

He sipped his sherry thoughtfully.

“We ought to have been more careful,” he went on. “However, the mischief is done now, so it can’t be helped. You see we gave the club address to the taxi-driver, which made it easy to follow us here. Then you were shadowed to the Golden Boot; I was almost certainly traced to my flat. As a matter of fact there was a loafer hanging about to open the door of the taxi who could easily have heard the address. And, finally, your friend tried to follow you home.”

“But if Burton is at the bottom of it, why worry about me? You, I can understand, but he knows me.”

“True, old boy,” said Standish, “but he doesn’t know, or didn’t know then, that you were mixed up in the matter. Assuming for the moment that Burton is at the bottom of it, what happened, as I see it, is this. He issued orders for the Chief’s flat to be watched, and anything of interest to be reported to him today. So by this time he knows that I’ had an interview with the Colonel last night, and that a large man who left the Golden Boot in the early hours was also present at that interview. Which, I fear, points unerringly to you.”

“There were a lot of people there, Ronald.”

“Well, let’s hope for the best. But we mustn’t bank on it. We must play on the assumption that Burton knows we’re both in the game.”

“You are definitely converted to the Chief’s theory.”

“I am becoming more and more so. Would they have bothered to watch his flat if Jimmy’s death had been a natural one? No; the cumulative effect of all this evidence, to my mind, is that Jimmy was murdered. And if he was murdered there is a strong probability that Burton had something to do with it.”

“I hope to Heaven I’ve not put that girl in any danger,” said Drummond in a worried voice.

“Drop her a line and tell her to watch her step.”

“And this Tomesco woman means nothing in your life?”

“Not a thing. But a name is a matter of small moment.”

“Did you find out anything this morning?” asked Drummond.

“Merely additional confirmation that there doesn’t seem to be anything to find out. Which in itself is suspicious. He has an office in Fenchurch Street with a small staff. Frequently for days on end he is not there. He doesn’t appear to have many clients, and nobody seems to know exactly what his business actually is. One line, apparently, consists of considerable speculation in foreign currencies.”

A page boy came up with a letter on a salver.

“From the Chief,” said Standish quietly. “Let’s see what he’s got to say.”

He read the letter through; then handed it to Drummond.

“DEAR RONALD” [it ran],

“I have been in touch with manager of the Metropole at Cannes. Jimmy died (?) on Wednesday night; he left the hotel most unexpectedly on the Tuesday and caught the Paris express. It came as a complete surprise to the manager as, only that very morning, he had booked his room for another week.

“That was all I could get over the phone, Evidently something happened on Tuesday which caused this sudden change of plan. But there is another peculiar feature, He must have arrived in Paris early on Wednesday morning. Why did he not cross earlier, or fly over? What was he doing in Paris all that time? And if the matter was not so very urgent why didn’t he wait till Thursday and cross in comfort?

“I can’t help thinking that one or both of you should go to Cannes, and see if you can pick up any threads there. Possibly also a few discreet enquiries at the Hotel Crillon might help.

“Yours,

“HENRY TALBOT.

“PS. Am sending this from my club. I shall be here for the next hour.”

“I agree,” said Drummond. “And since we know we’ve been shadowed, the objection to our being seen together no longer exists. I suggest that we both go.”

“O.K. by me,” answered Standish, “just one moment, old boy; I’m going to drop a line to the Chief. Then we’ll discuss plans.”

He went to a writing-desk, whilst Drummond lit a cigarette and ordered another glass of sherry. Undoubtedly the Chief was right; they were at a dead end here in London. And in Cannes they might stumble on something.

“Read what I’ve said, Hugh. I’ll send it round by hand to his club.”

“DEAR COLONEL,

“We will both go as you suggest. Do you know that Burton was in Nice while Jimmy was at Cannes?

“Your flat is being watched; we were both shadowed last night when we left you. Hugh caught his sportsman who admitted the fact. This looks to me to be strong confirmation of your theory that Jimmy was murdered.

“Have you a line on a Madame Tomesco? She was with Burton last night, and according to Hugh she knocked even the habitués of the Golden Boot—which is financed by Burton—quite flat.

“Yours sincerely,

“RONALD STANDISH.”

“PS. The messenger will wait for an answer.”

It came in five minutes, scribbled characteristically On the back of the note itself.

“Good. Was he, now? That’s interesting.

“I’m not surprised. But if it continues they will be! Of course he was murdered.

“Afraid not. Will make enquiries.

“H. T.”

“How shall we go?” said Standish as they sat down to lunch.

“Since there are no papers or triptyques required for France, I suggest we go by car,” remarked Drummond. “It takes a little longer, I know, but once we’re there it gives us much more freedom. Shall we do Paris before or after Cannes?”

“After,” said Standish decidedly. “Let’s begin at the beginning if we can, and work forward.”

“And when shall we cross?”

“As soon as possible. What about the four-thirty service via Folkestone? The boat leaves at six-thirty. We can be alongside by a quarter to six.”

“On our heads,” said Drummond. “What’s the distance from Boulogne to Cannes?”

“Seven hundred miles odd.”

“We can do that tomorrow driving turn and turn about if we start early.”

“Right. All settled. And I for one, old boy, am taking a gun.”

“You stagger me,” grinned Drummond, as he inspected the Stilton. “Personally, I think a piece of this would be just as efficacious.”

CHAPTER III

Midnight Interview

The lounge in the Metropole was full of middle-aged women knitting incomprehensible garments when they arrived there at ten o’clock the following night.

“What a galaxy!” muttered Drummond. “I wonder why Jimmy stopped here.”

“I shouldn’t think he was in much,” laughed Standish.

They were standing by the concierge’s desk registering. The management had been enchanted to give them rooms on the third floor facing the sea, and as they signed their names, the manager himself approached with the air of a high priest.

“You are staying long, gentlemen?” he enquired.

“Probably three or four days,” said Standish.

The manager sighed. Extras were his life, and these two Englishmen did not look of the type who made a small bottle of vin ordinaire last a week, like most of his visitors.

“I wonder if we could have a little private talk in your office,” continued Standish. “Perhaps you will join us in a bottle of wine, and we could have it sent in there.”

“But certainly,” cried the Frenchman. “Henri! la carte des vins. Messieurs; vous permettez? Une bouteille de dix neuf, et trois verres. Au bureau. Follow me, gentlemen.”

He led the way along a passage, and opening a frosted glass door, he gave a brief order to a girl who was immersed in a vast ledger. She left the room, and, having sat down at his desk, the manager waved Drummond and Standish to two chairs.

“Now, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

“You have recently had staying here, m’sieur,” said Standish, “an English officer called Latimer—Major Latimer.”

The Frenchman nodded.

“I had guessed, gentlemen, that that was your business. Only yesterday I was on the telephone to London about him.”

“You know, of course, that he is dead.”

“Dead!” The manager sat up with an amazed jerk. “Dead! Ce n’ est pas possible. How did he die?”

“We can rely on your discretion, m’sieur?”

A superb gesture indicated that they could.

“Major Latimer was found dead in his cabin in the Dieppe-Newhaven boat on Wednesday night. And we are not quite sure what caused his death. On the face of it, it appears to have been natural, but he was a singularly healthy man. We know that he was in possession of certain information which he was bringing back to England, and we are very anxious to find out what that information was. Now, in view of what you said over the telephone to London we cannot help thinking that his abrupt departure from this hotel has some vital bearing on the case. What we, therefore, would like to find out is what Major Latimer’s movements were on Tuesday last, after he had renewed his room for another week. Because it seems clear that it must have been then, that whatever it was took place.”

The waiter paused in the act of pouring out the wine.

“Pardon, m’sieu. Vous dites mardi? M’sieur le majeur a accompagné Madame Pélain en auto. Ils sont sortis à onze heures.”

“Merci, Henri.”

He dismissed the man, and himself handed the wine to his guests.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, “I go—how do you say it—wool gathering. One must be of a discretion, naturellement, but since the poor fellow is dead one may be permitted to speak. As you will understand, most things in an hotel like this come to my ear sooner or later, and it would not be an exaggeration to say that the major and Madame Pélain saw much of each other during his stay here. He seemed to prefer her company to that of the other charming ladies whom you saw in the lounge as you passed through.”

His mouth twitched behind his moustache, and with one accord Drummond and Standish burst out laughing.

“Precisely, messieurs,” continued the manager, laughing himself. “In fact, though perhaps I should not say it, if Madame had not been here, I fear your poor friend would not have remained. It was reported to me by Henri that at dinner the first night he did nothing but call ceaselessly upon the good God to deliver him.”

“Do we understand,” said Standish, “that Madame Pekin is still in your hotel?”

“Mais oui, m’sieu. It is for that I say I go wool gathering. For it is she who can tell you far more than I. But almost certainly will she be at the casino now. It will be a great shock to her. I will swear that she has no idea that he is dead.”

He lit a cigarette and looked curiously at the two men.

“Is it permitted to ask, gentlemen, what it is that you think has happened? Is it that you fear he was the victim of foul play?”

“You have struck it, m’sieur,” said Drummond. “We think it more than possible that he was murdered.”

“Mon Dieu! c’est terrible.”

“But please keep that to yourself,” said Standish. “All that has appeared in the papers is that he died in his sleep on board the boat. Have you any idea when Madame is likely to return?”

The manager shrugged his shoulders.

“A minuit, peut-être. You would wish to talk to her tonight?”

“The sooner the better, Hugh, don’t you think?”

“Certainly. Unless she is too tired. Tell me, m’sieur, of what—er—type is Madame?”

“Très chic; très élégante.”

“Is there a Monsieur Pélain?”

“I understand Monsieur Pélain resides in Paris,” said the manager diplomatically.

“And you think we can rely on anything she may tell us?”

Once again the manager shrugged his shoulders.

“If I knew enough about women, m’sieur, to be able to tell that concerning any member of their sex, I would be President of France. She has a sitting-room; if she consents to receive you—as I am sure she will—you must judge for yourselves. You are not, are you, from Scotland Yard?”

“No. We are just two friends of Major Latimer’s.”

“And what would you wish me to tell Madame? That he is dead?”

“No,” said Standish decidedly. “Just that we are two friends. And please impress upon her that if she is at all tired we would much prefer to wait till tomorrow morning.”

A telephone rang on the desk, and the manager picked up the receiver.

“Certainement, Madame. Tout de suite. Madame has returned,” he went on as he replaced the instrument. “She orders Evian. I will go to her at once and enquire if she will receive you.”

“A nice little man,” said Drummond as the door dosed behind him. “Very helpful and obliging.”

“I wonder if we’ll get anything out of this woman,” remarked Standish thoughtfully. “I shall be interested to see her reaction when she hears that Jimmy is dead. Who’s going to do the talking—you or I?”

“You do it,” said Drummond. “You’re better at it than I am.”

The door opened and the manager returned.

“Madame will receive you, gentlemen. I have told her nothing save that you are two friends of Major Latimer. Will you come this way? Her rooms are an the same floor as yours.”

The lounge was deserted as they crossed it to go to the lift, and Drummond glanced at his watch. It was just half-past eleven, and he was beginning to wish that the interview had been postponed till the following morning. They had started from Boulogne at five o’clock, and though each of them had had an occasional doze while the other drove, he was feeling distinctly weary. At the same time he was conscious of a little tingle of excitement; would they find out anything worth while, or would they draw blank?

The manager knocked at the door, and a woman’s voice called “Entrez.”

Madame Pélain was standing by a table in the centre of the room, with the fingers of one hand lightly resting on it. She had not yet removed her cloak, which was open, revealing her evening frock underneath. Her hair was dark and beautifully coiffured; her nails were red though not outrageously so. Attractive, decided Drummond; more attractive than pretty. But, emphatically, a charming woman to look at.

As the manager introduced the two men she gave each of them a keen searching glance; then sinking gracefully into an easy chair she lit a cigarette.

“Do smoke,” she said. “Monsieur Lidet tells me that you are friends of Major Latimer.”

Her voice was musical; her English almost devoid of accent.

“That is our excuse, Madame,” said Standish, “for intruding on you at this hour.”

With a murmured apology the manager left the room, and she leaned forward in her chair.

“You have a message for me from him?” she asked.

“I fear, Madame,” answered Standish gravely, “that you must prepare yourself for a shock. Jimmy Latimer is dead.”

She sat staring at him speechlessly, her cigarette half-way to her lips. And it was obvious to both men that the news had come as a complete shock to her.

“Dead,” she stammered at length. “Mais c’est incroyable. How did he die, m’sieur?”

Briefly Standish told her and she listened in silence. And when he had finished she still did not speak; she sat in a sort of frozen immobility with her eyes on the carpet. At length she drew a deep breath.

“I wonder,” she whispered.

“Yes, Madame?” said Standish quietly.

“You think poor Jimmy was murdered?”

“I think nothing, Madame. But something must have happened on Tuesday to make him change his plans so suddenly, and since you were with him all that day we think you might know what that something was.”

For a space she stared at them without speaking.

“How am I to know that you are what you profess to be?” she said at length. “How can I be sure that you are Major Latimer’s friends?”

“I fear, Madame,” said Standish frankly, “that you can only take our word for it.”

Once again she studied them thoughtfully; then, rising, she began to pace up and down the room.

“I’ll trust you,” she said suddenly; “I will tell you all I know, though I fear it is not very much. On Tuesday Jimmy and I lunched Chez Paquay, a restaurant on the Corniche road between here and St. Raphael. Our table was laid in a covered balcony with no window. Almost was it a room from which the window had been removed, with a red brick wall along the side that faced the sea. Another table was laid, but it was empty, and so we had the place to ourselves.

“Suddenly there came a gust of wind. The dust outside swirled in eddies; we gripped the tablecloth to save it blowing away, for it was fierce, that gust. And even as it died away two sheets of paper blew in and settled on the floor. Quite casually Jimmy bent down and picked them up. He glanced at them, and in an instant, m’sieurs, his face changed. To my amazement he crammed them in his pocket, and, even as he did so, we heard footsteps rushing down the stairs.

“‘Not a word,’ said Jimmy to me.

“The glass door was flung open, and a man dashed in.

“‘Pardon,’ he cried, ‘but have you seen two pieces of paper? They blew out of my bedroom window in the wind and fluttered in here.’

“Jimmy made a pretence of helping him to look.

“‘I’m afraid they must have fluttered out again,’ he said. ‘What sort of size were they?’

“‘The size of a piece of note-paper,’ answered the man, and he was staring hard at Jimmy. ‘And they did not flutter out again.’

“‘Then they must still be here,’ said Jimmy indifferently.

“He sat down and poured me out some more wine, whilst the man stood hovering by the other table in a state of the most obvious indecision. He was, of course, in a quandary. It was clear to me that the papers were important, otherwise Jimmy would not have acted as he had; it was clear also that the man was convinced that they had not blown away. But what was he to do? Twice he made a step forward as if to speak; twice he drew back. And then he made up his mind.

“‘As a mere matter of form, sir,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you would mind turning out your pockets? The papers are of the utmost importance, and—’

“‘What the devil do you mean, sir,’ remarked Jimmy, slowly getting up. ‘Your suggestion is the most monstrous piece of impertinence I have ever heard. Emphatically I will not turn out my pockets. Why, damn it, it’s tantamount to accusing me of having taken your two confounded pieces of paper! Get to hell out of it.’

“And then the lobster arrived, and Jimmy resumed his seat, the picture of righteous indignation, while the man, with one last vindictive look at both of us, left the room.

“‘Jimmy,’ I said, when we were once more alone, ‘that was very naughty of you. Why have you stolen the poor man’s papers?’”

“He looked at me, and I had never seen him so serious.

“‘I’ve only had one fleeting glimpse at them,’ he said, ‘and I don’t propose to do more than that here. But that glimpse was enough to make me wish I could steal all his other papers as well.’

“And it was then, m’sieurs, he told me that he was in your Secret Service, and not, as I had thought, just an army officer en permission.”

“Just one moment, Madame,” said Standish. “This man—was he English?”

“No. He spoke it well, but with a strong accent.”

“I see. Please go on, Madame, you are interesting as profoundly.”

“We finished our lunch,” she continued, “but Jimmy was distrait. All the time I could see that he was itching to be gone so that he could examine the papers at his leisure. But he was far too clever to appear to he in a hurry.

“‘When one comes,’ he said, ‘to a restaurant where the food is as famous as here, one takes one’s time. It is over little things like that, that mistakes are made. And mistakes in my trade are apt to be dangerous.’

“So we had our coffee and liqueurs, and it was while we were drinking them that the man again came in, this time with a woman of most striking appearance. They took the other table, so that I had ample opportunity to study her. She was tall, slender, and very made-up, with an expression of insolent arrogance. But her expression did not ring true. It was a pose, a mask. The woman was bourgeoise.

“They talked in French, but again that was not their native language. The man’s was better than his English; the woman’s very good. But they were neither of them French. I tried to listen, but could hear nothing of any interest. Just banalities on food and wine and the beauty of the coast.

“When our bill was brought, the man came over to our table. I saw Jimmy stiffen, but this time it was only to apologise for his apparent rudeness. He again stressed the importance of the papers as his excuse, and there the matter ended, except that as we got into the car escorted by the patron Jimmy enquired their name. It was Pilofsky.”

Madame Pélain paused and took a sip of Evian water.

“On the way back,” she continued, “we examined the papers. The first was covered with writing in a foreign language which Jimmy told me was Russian. It was numbered three, and was evidently one of a series. I couldn’t read a word of it, and was more interested in the second which, at any rate, was intelligible. It was a map of England and Scotland in outline. Jimmy said it was what you would give to children to fill in the counties. On it were a large number of red dots; I should say thirty or forty. In some places they were closely grouped together; in others they were scattered. And against each dot was a number.

“These numbers varied considerably. The lowest I saw was 50, the highest 2,500. But you will understand, m’sieurs, that it was difficult to read in the jolting car. However, one thing I did notice. It was in your manufacturing districts that the dots were close together, whereas in the agricultural areas they were few and far between.

“I asked Jimmy what he made of it, and he shrugged his shoulders.

“‘When I get back to the hotel,’ he said, ‘I’ll try and make a rough translation of this other document. I know a certain amount of Russian, and I may be able to get the gist of it.’

“He left me the instant we got back, and went to his room, whilst I awaited him here. One hour passed, two—and then he came.”

Once again she paused and the two men craned forward eagerly.

“M’sieurs,” she said deliberately, “I have never seen anyone in such a state of suppressed excitement. He was like a man in a fever; he paced up and down the room like a maniac.

“‘God!’ he exclaimed again and again, ‘if only I could get the rest of those papers.’

“At length he calmed down a little, and threw himself into a chair.

“‘A plot,’ he said, ‘the like of which out-Vernes Jules Verne himself. And I’m only on the fringe of it. Or is it the wild fantasy of a diseased brain?’

“Once more he began pacing up and down, talking half to himself.

“‘It’s possible…Given the organisation it’s possible…And the will to carry it through…Listen, Marie, I have made a rough translation of that paper. I cannot tell even you what it is; the whole thing is too gigantic—too incredible. It might put you in peril yourself. But I must leave for Paris tonight, and then return to England.’

“Naturally,” she continued, “I was very disappointed, but I made no effort to dissuade him. To do so would have been wrong, for with a man duty must always come first. But I went with him to the station to see him off. And as he was stowing his baggage in the sleeper I happened to look along the train. Getting into another coach were the Pilofskys; there was no mistaking that woman even at a distance. So I told Jimmy, and his face became grave.

“‘I wonder if that means he still suspects me,’ he said.

“‘I don’t see how he can,’ I answered, though I was wondering the same thing myself.

“And then just as the train was starting, he leant out of the window.

“‘If by any chance something happens to me,’ he said, ‘will you remember one thing? Sealed fruit tins.’”

“Sealed how much?” ejaculated Drummond incredulously.

“Sealed fruit tins,” she repeated. “M’sieur, I was as amazed as you. I stared at him with my mouth open, almost wondering if he’d taken leave of his senses. And then the train steamed out, and I returned here. Which is all, messieurs, that I can tell you.” She sighed. “Poor Jimmy!”

For a space there was silence, whilst Drummond stared at Standish, and Standish stared at Drummond. The same thought was in both their minds; was the woman trying to pull their legs? All the first part of her story had the genuine ring of truth; but the climax was so utterly bizarre, so apparently fatuous that it had acted like a douche of cold water.

“You have no idea what he meant by this strange remark, Madame?” said Standish after a while.

“Mais non, m’sieu,” she cried. “It was as incomprehensible to me then as it is to you now.”

“There was no little joke that had arisen between you during your acquaintanceship that could account for it,” he persisted.

“Monsieur Standish,” she said with a certain hauteur, “is this the moment I would choose to mention little jokes?”

“I apologise, Madame. But you will, I am sure, agree that the remark seems so meaningless that I was trying to exhaust the possibilities of there being some commonplace explanation. But if there is none then it is quite certain that the words have a definite significance. And what that significance is, it must be our job to find out.”

Madame Pélain lit a cigarette.

“Both of you are also in the Secret Service?” she asked quietly.

“Something of the sort,” admitted Standish with a smile.

“Then you realise that it is tantamount to signing your death-warrant if you proceed.”

“Our death-warrants have been signed so often in the past, Madame,” said Drummond cheerfully, “that we keep carbon copies to save trouble. As a matter of interest, however, why are you so very pessimistic?”

She looked at him gravely.

“If it was worth while murdering one man because he was in possession of certain information, it is worth while murdering two. And the fact that in reality you have not got that information won’t help you, if it becomes known that you have met me. So far as the other side is concerned, they have no idea what Jimmy told me. He might have told me everything, and I might have passed it on to you.”

“That is true, Madame,” agreed Standish. “What alarms me, however, far more than that, is the possibility that you may be in danger.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Fortunately, m’sieur, I am a fatalist. I don’t know if you have been out East; if so you will understand. Tid apa. Nothing matters. Jimmy was a dear; I liked him immensely. And if I can do anything to bring his murderer to book, you can count on me.”

“Good for you, Madame,” cried Drummond approvingly. “At the same time, speaking on behalf of all my sex, please be careful.”

She flashed him a swift smile.

“Merci, m’sieu,” she murmured. “Vous êtes gentil. But what,” she continued, becoming practical again, “do you propose to do now?”

“That requires a little thought,” said Standish. “At the moment, it doesn’t seem to me that there is much more to be found out here.”

“I suppose, Madame,” put in Drummond suddenly, “that you have never met a man called Charles Burton on the Riviera? He was staying at Nice recently.”

She shook her head.

“I do not recall the name,” she said. “Burton; no. Do you know at what hotel he put up?”

“I have no idea,” answered Drummond. “Though one should have no difficulty in finding that out. He is a gentleman of great wealth, who would certainly stop at one of the best.”

“Is he involved in this matter?”

“We do not know,” said Drummond. “We think that possibly he may be. He was at Nice while Jimmy was here.”

“Jimmy never mentioned him to me.”

“There was no reason why he should. I doubt if he even knew the man. Well, Ronald,” he went on, “I think we have kept Madame up quite long enough. What about a spot of bed?”

The two men rose.

“One minute before you go,” she said. “With regard to this Mr. Burton. There is a man in Nice—an Englishman—who has made it his headquarters for years. He is a strange character; very intelligent; very cultured; very cosmopolitan. But if anybody can give you information about any well-known visitor, he can. His name is Humphrey Gasdon, and he lives at the Negresco. If you like you can easily meet him.”

“It must be done with great discretion, Madame,” said Standish. “The last thing we want is even a hint that Charles Burton is anything but what he professes to be.”

“But why should there be any hint? Go, tomorrow, and lunch at the Negresco. Humphrey is invariably in the bar before lunch. Equally invariably does he talk to all and sundry whom he meets there. Mention that you come from this hotel in the most casual manner, and he will almost certainly ask if you know me…”

“Which we don’t, Madame,” cut in Standish. “Don’t forget that. So far as is humanly possible we wish to keep you out of this. Tomorrow we meet as strangers.”

He paused suddenly, staring at Drummond.

“What is it, Hugh?”

Moving with the silence of a cat, Drummond was crossing towards the door that led to Madame Pélain’s bedroom. Crouched double, he flung it open, and even as he did so, there came the sound of the door leading into the corridor being closed.

He darted across the room, and opened it. The corridor was empty, but just opposite the splash of water proclaimed that someone was turning on a late bath.

He returned to the sitting-room and his face was grave.

“Too late for that pretence, Ronald,” he said. “Someone has been listening.”

“Their espionage system is certainly efficient,” remarked Standish after a pause, watching Drummond who had gone to the sitting-room door and was peering out.

“Still running the water,” he said. “This complicates matters,” he continued, coming back into the room.

“It’s obviously a guest or an employee of the hotel,” said Standish thoughtfully. “Have you noticed anyone particularly these last two or three days, Madame?”

She shook her head.

“Because it is clearly you who are being watched. The same as in London, Hugh. They got on to us there through the Chief; they’ve got on to us here through Madame.”

“But, m’sieur,” she cried, “have you no inkling at all as to who ‘they’ are?”

“Not the faintest, Madame,” he answered. “But they are thorough in their methods, to put it mildly.”

“In any case it simplifies one thing,” she said quietly. “Since they know you have met me I shall come with you openly to Nice tomorrow for lunch. I do not like being spied upon from my bedroom.”

She rose and held out her hand.

“Good night, messieurs. You must assuredly be tired after your long run.”

With a nod and a charming smile she dismissed them, and for a moment or two they stood talking in low tones outside her door. The bath was still occupied and Drummond eyed the door longingly.

“I would greatly like to see the occupant,” he muttered.

“So would I,” agreed Standish. “What do you make of her, Hugh?”

“Genuine,” said Drummond promptly. “I believe every word she said. I hope to Heaven she’s in no danger.”

“She is sure to lock her door,” answered Standish. “Anyway, old boy, I’m practically asleep as it is. We’ll make discreet enquiries from Monsieur Lidet tomorrow, and see if we can get a line on the listener. Night-night.”

He opened his door, and Drummond went on to his own room, where he unpacked his bag. Then he undressed and got into bed, to find that all desire for sleep had left him. Light was streaming into his room through a frosted glass window over the door, and he grew more and more wide awake. And then the light went out; save for a faint glimmer from a street lamp outside, the room was in darkness.

From across the road came the low murmur of the sea; except for that the night was silent as the tomb. Occasionally the leaves of an acacia tree outside his window rustled in a fitful eddy of wind, and once a belated motor passed the hotel at speed. Cannes slept; at length he began to feel drowsy himself.

Suddenly he sat up in bed; a dim, flickering light was illuminating the glass above the door. It moved jerkily, increasing in power; then it died away again, and in a flash Drummond was putting on his dressing-gown. Somebody was moving in the passage outside carrying a torch or a candle.

He crossed to the door, and with infinite care he opened it and peered out. And what he saw made him draw in his breath sharply. Some way along the corridor a circle of light was shining on a keyhole—a keyhole into which a hand was inserting a key. And the keyhole was that of Madame Pélain’s bedroom.

Not for an instant did he hesitate. The possibility of his appearance on the scene proving embarrassing he dismissed as absurd; if Madame was entertaining anyone she would hardly expect him to pick the lock. And so it transpired that the owner of the hand, though blissfully unconscious of the fact, had behind him, two seconds later, a foe more dangerous far than anything he had ever imagined in his wildest dreams.

At length the key turned, and inch by inch the hand pushed the door open. Then the torch illuminated the bed, and there came a sigh of relief. Madame, breathing a trifle heavily, was fast asleep.

The torch moved forward; still she did not stir, even when it halted by the bed. And then things happened quickly. For the hand that had held the key now held a stiletto, and even as it was raised to strike, a scream like a rabbit caught by a stoat, came from its owner’s throat.

The dagger and torch dropped from nerveless fingers and still Madame slept. Came a crack and a howl of agony, and the room was flooded with light. And the owner of the hand, the arm of which was now broken, stared fascinated at the terror which had come on him out of the night—a terror which had just been joined by a companion.

“I heard the commotion, Hugh,” said Standish. “What’s the trouble?”

“Attempted murder,” answered Drummond, picking up an empty tumbler from beside the bed and sniffing it. “Drugged,” he said laconically.

“Who is this little swine?”

“The would-be murderer. I’ve just broken his arm. Well, you rat, who and what are you?”

The man scowled and said nothing.

“Ring the bell, Ronald,” said Drummond. “Presumably there’s a night porter about. We must get Lidet up.”

At length a sleepy-eyed individual came padding along the corridor in carpet slippers, and he was promptly despatched to rouse the manager. Fortunately no one else seemed to have been awakened by the noise, and when Monsieur Lidet arrived a few minutes later he found the two Englishmen leaning up against the door smoking.

“I fear, monsieur,” said Drummond, with a smile, “that we are rather stormy petrels.”

“But what has happened?” cried the little man.

“That engaging feller over there endeavoured to murder Madame Pélain, having previously drugged her, with the stiletto you see on the floor.”

“Murder Madame,” stammered the manager. “But it is Louis—one of the floor waiters.”

“Nice pleasant manners he’s got,” said Drummond. “Very suitable for bringing one’s breakfast.”

“You vile scoundrel,” cried Monsieur Lidet in a frenzy. “Have you nothing to say?”

“I should think he’s got a lot,” remarked Drummond. “But he doesn’t seem to want to say it.”

“Villain, dastardly villain.” The manager was almost beside himself with rage. “What did you want to murder Madame for?”

The man shook his head sullenly, and then a groan burst from his lips.

“I broke his arm for him,” explained Drummond. “Well, m’sieur, I suggest that you send for the police. Perhaps they will loosen his tongue. And since Madame may wake at any moment, I suggest also that we await their arrival somewhere else. It might embarrass her to find cohorts of men in the room.” They went down to the lounge, where he turned to the waiter. “And if you try to bolt, you scum, I’ll break your other arm.”

But there was no fight left in the would-be murderer; he sat dejectedly in a chair with his eyes fixed on the ground awaiting the gendarmes.

“What do you make of it, Ronald?” said Drummond in a low voice.

“It’s clear that the motive was not robbery,” answered Standish. “Having drugged her, there was no need to murder her if that was the case. I’m inclined to think, old boy, that it was an attempt to kill two birds with one stone.”

“You mean—”

“I mean that if Madame Pélain had been found dead when she was called tomorrow morning, you and I would have been in a very awkward position. We were the last people to be with her; our arrival at the hotel and our whole interview with her was unusual. And I think we should have found ourselves very seriously inconvenienced by enquiries.”

“I’m afraid we still shall,” said Drummond.

“Not if we can persuade Lidet to keep his mouth shut. There is no doubt, of course, that it was Louis you heard in her bedroom, and there is no doubt that it is our arrival here and our interview with her that has caused the whole thing. But I don’t see why we should tell the police all that—at any rate, at present.”

“He may speak.” Drummond jerked his thumb at the waiter.

“On the other hand he may not. If, as seems fairly obvious, we are up against some powerful organisation, he may be frightened to tell the truth. Here is Lidet.”

“The police are coming at once,” said the manager as he joined them. “It is a terrible thing this, gentlemen.”

“It might have been very much worse, m’sieur,” answered Standish. “Thanks to Captain Drummond no harm has actually been done. Which brings me to a request I am going to make to you. Had Madame Pélain been murdered it would, of course, have been impossible to keep back anything. But since she is unharmed I am going to ask you not to mention what we told you last night about Major Latimer.”

“You think there is a connection between the two things?”

“Undoubtedly. Otherwise the coincidence would be too incredible. We are moving in deep waters, M’sieur Lidet; how deep neither Captain Drummond nor I have at present any idea. But it will seriously hinder our enquiries if what we have told you is made public.”

The manager looked doubtful.

“But is it fair to Madame?”

“Let us leave that until Madame can answer the question herself,” suggested Standish.

“What then will you say?”

“The truth—so far as it goes. That Captain Drummond being wakeful, heard a sound in the corridor and looked out of his room. He saw Madame’s door being opened, and fearing foul play he dashed along just in time to avert a brutal crime. Believe me, m’sieur,” he continued earnestly, “there is much at stake. We are only on the fringe of things at the moment, and it is vital that we should remain free to carry on our investigations. As I said to Captain Drummond, I am sure that one object of the attempted crime was to incriminate us. Had it succeeded he and I would have been in a nasty hole. And that is why I don’t want a word said which will enlarge the scope of the police enquiry. Let it remain what it appears to be on the surface—an inexplicable attempt at murder.”

“Very good, gentlemen,” said the manager. “I will do as you ask. But only on the condition that Madame, when she recovers from the effect of the drug, must be consulted.”

“Certainly,” answered Standish. “I quite agree with you. And now,” he continued to Drummond as the manager went forward to greet the police who had just arrived, “all we can hope for is that that little worm of a waiter keeps his mouth shut.”

Which was precisely what he did do. No amount of cross-questioning—an art at which the French police are adept—had the smallest effect. He maintained an air of sullen silence, which even threats could not shake. And at length he was removed in custody by the two gendarmes, while the sergeant remained behind at the hotel to make a search through his belongings. This, too, proved abortive; nothing of the smallest interest was discovered. In fact the only information of any value came from the head waiter who had been fetched from his bed. According to him the man, Louis Fromac was a good and reliable waiter in every way: he would have to be so in order to be promoted to a floor, which was always regarded as a prize. But, though he never talked of such things in the hotel, he spent most of his leisure in a small inn, situated in the old part of the town, which was the headquarters of a revolutionary club. So far as he knew the members did no harm; they drank much wine and talked interminably.

“I, too, know that club,” said the sergeant. “It is the headquarters of the Communists in Cannes.” He shrugged his shoulders. “They shout at one another without waiting for an answer, and think they are rebuilding the world. No, gentlemen, the more I think of it the more do I believe that this is one of those strange sex crimes of which one hears from time to time. It is more a matter for a doctor than for the police. But I will return tomorrow morning when Madame is recovered, and see if perchance she can throw any light on his motive.”

He bowed to the three men, and left the hotel.

“His theory suits us, Hugh,” said Standish as they walked up the stairs. “And the one thing we’ve got to do is to get Madame’s ear before the worthy sergeant does his stuff.”

“Anything in this Communist business?” remarked Drummond thoughtfully.

“It seems to me to be the one ray in the darkness,” said Standish. “Though what the links are between Charles Burton, millionaire, and Louis Fromac, waiter, is a bit obscure.”

“Think so, Ronald? I don’t. The links are two sleepy Englishmen, one of whom, at any rate, is now going to bed. Night-night.”

CHAPTER IV

FAIR WARNING

Their luck was in next day. It seemed to Drummond that his head had only touched the pillow when he was awakened by a waiter with a note. It was from Madame Pélain.

“Please come to my sitting-room at once.”

The sun was pouring in at the window as he shaved rapidly, and then scrambled into his clothes. And as he stepped into the corridor he ran into Standish evidently bound on the same errand.

Madame was in a peignoir, and though pale she was completely self-possessed.

“There is no time to lose,” she began at once. “The sergeant of police is waiting below to see me. I have heard what has happened from Monsieur Lidet; I have heard, Captain Drummond, that I owe you my life. But the immediate point is, what am I to say to the sergeant? Lidet has told me the line you took up last night; is that what you want me to stick to?”

“It is, Madame,” said Standish promptly.

The telephone jangled on the table, and she picked up the receiver.

“En cinq minutes,” she said.

“You wish me to profess complete ignorance as to the reason of this waiter’s action?

“Please, Madame.”

“It was, of course, connected with Jimmy’s death and our interview last night.”

“I see no other possibility,” said Standish. “But with all due deference to the worthy sergeant, I think we are more likely to progress if he knows nothing about it.”

“Very good, messieurs. I will do as you say. It will be well now if you return to your rooms. We must not let the sergeant think that we have been arranging things. Come back in half an hour.”

They bowed and left her.

“A worth-while ally, Ronald,” said Drummond. “I liked that prompt, unquestioning acquiescence. Come and bite a roll in my room.”

Standish poured himself out a cup of coffee and strolled over to the window.

“Worth while she may be, old boy,” he agreed, “but it complicates matters. I don’t quite know what we’re going to do about her. There are other Louis Fromacs, and next time you may not be awake.”

“You think they’ll have another dip at her?”

“We dare not risk them not doing so. Though everything depends, of course, on the motive behind the attempt on her life. If it was merely to involve us with the police, and keep us tied by the heels here for some days, then she would be safe the instant we leave Cannes. But if there was any question of revenge in the matter, or if they have decided that she knows too much, she won’t be safe wherever we are.”

“If it was a question of her knowing too much, why did they wait to strike? They could have doped her two nights ago.”

“That’s perfectly true.” Standish lit a cigarette. “And yet there is a certain Machiavellian cunning in getting at us through her which I should have said was a bit above a waiter’s form.”

“But, my dear fellow, Fromac is very small beer. He was only carrying out instructions.”

“When did he get ’em? No one knew we were coming here till we arrived.”

“Not you and I personally, I grant you. But they must have guessed that somebody would arrive here to pump the lady. At any rate they took precautions in case anybody did come. If they were wrong, and no one came, then she was safe. There was no point in murdering her unnecessarily. What is more,” continued Drummond, “it seems to me that there is no object in murdering her at all now. So far as they know we two are in possession of all the dope, so that getting her out of the way is merely bolting the stable door after the horse has hopped it. It’s you and I, old son, who will have to watch our step.”

“That’s nothing new,” said Standish with a grin. “I wonder who this man Gasdon is she wants us to meet,” he went on thoughtfully.

“What I wonder a darned sight more,” remarked Drummond, “is what poor old Jimmy meant by sealed fruit tins.”

There came a knock at the door, and Monsieur Lidet entered.

“None the worse, I trust, gentlemen,” he asked solicitously, “for your disturbed night?”

“Not a bit, thank you,” answered Drummond.

“Since the matter was bound to come out, I have let it be understood that the whole thing was an attempt on Madame’s jewels,” continued the manager. “It is as good a story as any other and it will satisfy the visitors. By the way, the sergeant is interrogating Madame now.”

“We have already seen Madame,” said Standish. “She has agreed to follow our suggestion as to what she tells him.”

“Then the condition I made is fulfilled, gentlemen. And as for me, my lips are sealed. But I confess to an overwhelming curiosity.”

“Which I can assure you we would gratify if we knew the answer ourselves,” said Standish frankly. “But we are every bit as much in the dark as you are. There is, perhaps, one thing you could do for us,” he added as an afterthought. “A Mr. Charles Burton was stopping at Nice about a week or ten days ago. Could you find out at what hotel he was staying and when he left? He is a man of considerable wealth, and so it would probably be one of the biggest.”

“I will do so at once,” cried Monsieur Lidet. “I have below the listes des etrangers of the past month.”

He bustled out of the room, and a few moments later the telephone rang. Drummond answered it.

“Thank you, m’sieur,” he said when the voice ceased. “That is just what we wanted to know.”

He replaced the receiver.

“Burton stayed at the Ruhl for the inside of a fortnight,” he said. “He left last Friday.”

“Before the Pilofsky episode at Chez Paquay.”

“Exactly. Before that episode. It is, therefore, clear that Burton’s departure was quite unconnected with Jimmy getting those papers.”

“So that if Burton murdered him it was because of what he learned from Pilofsky.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Drummond. “Pilofsky followed Jimmy to Paris, and there told Burton what had happened. My hat! old man, those papers must have been important. Remember Pilofsky had no proof that Jimmy had got them. And yet the bare chance of his having them was enough for murder.”

“Jimmy’s sudden change of plan was suspicious. Pilofsky would have had no difficulty in tracing him to this hotel. He could have made enquiries from the driver of the car the instant he first suspected anything at Chez Paquay. Then it was easy money to discover that Jimmy, after taking on his room that very morning, had suddenly decided to leave. And a bloke who’s running round with a delightful woman like Madame Pélain doesn’t do that without a mighty good reason.”

Once again the telephone rang; this time it was the lady herself to say that the police had gone and that she would like to see them.

“First and foremost,” she said as they entered her sitting-room, “I want to thank you, Captain Drummond, for what you did.”

“It was nothing, Madame,” said Drummond lightly. “The astounding piece of luck was that I happened to be awake, in view of how infernally sleepy I’d felt a bit earlier on.”

“Even so, mon ami, not everyone would have troubled to get out of bed in the middle of the night as you did. However,” she added with a smile, “it is not difficult to see that you are the type of man who would loathe any further allusion to the subject.”

“You’re quite right there, Madame,” laughed Standish. “He might even blush.”

“And so,” she continued, “let’s come to the next point. What do we do now?”

The laugh faded; Standish looked at her gravely.

“Madame,” he said, “there is no good in beating about the bush. Last night’s events prove conclusively that we are up against a powerful and dangerous organisation. What that organisation is it is Captain Drummond’s and my job to try and find out. With you, however, it is a different matter altogether. You have become mixed up in it by a sheer accident, and to be perfectly frank I do not see that you can help us any more. You have told us all you know, and it merely means that you are running an unnecessary risk by remaining here.”

“What then do you suggest that I should do?” she asked quietly.

“Disappear, at any rate temporarily,” answered Standish. “Go on a motor tour; anything you like. It will be necessary for us to remain here for a day or two over this Fromac affair, but then we shall be returning to England ourselves. And I know that we shall both feel easier in our minds if we know you are safe.”

“What about Humphrey Gasdon?” she asked.

“The main object in meeting him has gone,” said Standish. “We have found out from Lidet about Charles Burton. He left the Ruhl in Nice last Friday. From there he went to Paris.”

“Nevertheless,” she said thoughtfully, “I would like you to meet Humphrey. I have a feeling, Mr. Standish, that he can help you. As I told you last night he is a strange man, with an almost uncanny knowledge of all sorts of strange things.”

“Well, Madame,” remarked Standish, “from what you said there should be no difficulty in making his acquaintance at the bar.”

“None. For all that, I think I will come too.”

“Stop, please,” she said with a smile as Standish started to protest. “Your solicitude for my safety is very sweet and I appreciate it. But I am not going to run away from here because a miserable waiter tries to stab me. And that being the case I, personally, shall lunch with Humphrey today. I want his opinion on this strange attempt on my life. You and Captain Drummond must, of course, please yourselves. But should you happen to be in the bar of the Negresco at twelve o’clock today we could doubtless all lunch together.”

“We capitulate, Madame,” laughed Standish. “So may we have the pleasure of taking you over?”

“Enchantée, m’ sieu. I will be in the lounge at eleven thirty.”

“What about a leg-stretcher?” said Drummond as they went down the stairs, but Standish shook his head.

“Not for me, old boy. Developments in this affair are so rapid that a full report to the Chief is indicated.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Drummond. “Thank God! no one can read my writing, so get to it, my trusty old comrade.”

He strolled through the open door and across the promenade. The sea was at its bluest, and for a while he stood, with eyes half closed, accustoming himself to the glare. To the right behind the Casino lay the harbour full of yachts of all sizes, and after a time he sauntered in that direction. How often, he reflected savagely, must Jimmy have taken the same stroll!

By the door of the Casino he paused; should he go in and have a look at the papers? He decided he would and, after getting the Continental Daily Mail from the reading-room, he threw himself into an easy chair by the big window in the bar.

The place was almost empty, and beckoning to the barman he ordered some beer. And it was while he was consuming it, resignedly—in Drummond’s estimation, French beer was an outrage on public decency, and a probable cause of civil riot—that he noticed two men standing by the door in earnest conversation. And suddenly one of them glanced at him, only to look away immediately on catching his eye.

A faint smile twitched round his lips; some more developments for Standish. Then from behind his paper he waited the next move.

It came shortly. One man left the place; the other having given an order to the barman, came over to the window and took the easy chair next to his.

“Captain Drummond, I believe,” he began without any preamble.

“Your belief is correct,” said Drummond. “Though I fear you have the advantage of me.”

“My name is quite immaterial,” remarked the stranger lighting a cigarette. “From what happened at the hotel last night I gather that you are a man of prompt action. Am I right?”

Drummond stared at him thoughtfully.

“Let us proceed on that assumption,” he said.

“Good. I am going to suggest a very prompt action to you now.”

Drummond raised his eyebrows.

“Very kind of you,” he drawled. “I am agog with excitement.”

“It is,” continued the man calmly, “that you quit this place, and go on quitting. That you disappear entirely from the haunts of men, you and your friend—and hide yourselves, where not even your wife, if you have one, can find you.”

“Splendid,” cried Drummond, pouring out some more beer. “May I ask why you suggest those somewhat drastic manoeuvres?”

“For the simple reason that if you don’t do what I say you will be killed as surely as night follows day. You laugh, but I can assure you, Captain Drummond, that it is no laughing matter. I myself am running a grave risk in talking to you. But I disapprove of life being taken unless it is unavoidable. And so I am warning you; disappear. For you have no more chance of escaping, if you continue on your present line, than a moth has of coming alive out of a killing-bottle.”

“My dear fellow, your solicitude for my safety is as touching as your simile is apt. What, precisely, may I ask, is my present line?”

“You are out here in connection with the death of Major Latimer,” answered the man quietly. “Further enquiries on that subject can only result in your own. So if you take my advice you will beat it while the going is good.”

The man drained his glass and rose to his feet.

“I can assure you,” he went on, “that I am not exaggerating. I am speaking honest, unvarnished truth. You are meddling in things of the magnitude of which even I have only a hazy idea. And if you go on doing so you will die with the utmost certainty. Good morning.”

“It would be a much better one if this beer wasn’t so foul,” said Drummond. “However, I’m much obliged to you for our entertaining little chat.”

He watched the man till he was out of sight; then he beckoned to the bar-tender.

“Have you any idea who that gentleman was?” he asked.

“None at all, sir,” said the barman. “I’ve never seen him before.”

Drummond lit a cigarette, and lay back in his chair. That the man had been in earnest he had no doubt. The quiet way in which he had spoken, the complete absence of any truculence or threats, proved that. And the calm assurance with which he had mentioned Jimmy Latimer showed that he had reliable inside information.

It was very decent of the man, reflected Drummond. What he had said about the risk he ran himself was in all probability correct. And he had done it for an absolute stranger. The point to be decided, however, was what notice, if any, should be taken of the warning.

All through his long and troublous career, there was one mistake Drummond had never committed; he had never underestimated his opponents. And the extreme efficiency of the staff work on the other side, in this case, showed that it was doubly important not to do so now. The difficulty lay in the fact that neither Standish nor he knew who those opponents were, whereas they themselves were marked down. As things stood at the moment, the dice were heavily loaded against them. Moreover, he failed to see how that state of affairs could be rectified unless they actually did what the stranger had recommended—disappear.

Suddenly he saw Standish strolling along the road outside, and knocking on the window he beckoned him in.

“I’ve had a little chat since I left you, Ronald.” he said. “With a stranger of kindly disposition.”

Standish listened in silence, though his face became more and more grave.

“It’s not the threat of death that I mind,” he said when Drummond had finished. “We’re used to that. It’s the infernal quickness of their information bureau.”

“Have you got that letter off to the Chief?”

“Yes. But I’ll send along a postscript about this. In any event one thing is now absolutely proved. Jimmy was murdered.”

“That’s so.” Drummond glanced at his watch. “What about this lunch?”

“I’m still for going. It won’t compromise Madame Pélain more than she is compromised already, and the whole thing is so incredibly obscure that any chance of a ray of light ought not to be missed. But we’d better watch our step with the gentleman.”

“You bet your life,” said Drummond. “Let’s get the bus.”

They walked in silence through the drifting crowd of loiterers, each busy with his own thoughts. It was a perfect Riviera day, and the sun had brought the antiques from their lairs in droves. Vendors of tinted spectacles proffered their wares hopefully; it seemed impossible that there could be anything dark and sinister under the surface. And when they brought the car round to the hotel to find Madame Pélain waiting for them, completely surrounded by the knitting brigade, it seemed more impossible still. Nothing more nerve-shattering than a dropped stitch could ever happen in such an atmosphere.

She seemed in no way surprised when Drummond told her of his encounter in the Casino. But her reaction to it was very definite.

“It is what you must both do, my friends. I have been thinking things over since I saw you. When you leave Cannes you must vanish into thin air. If, as we think, big things are afoot, you must become the hunters and not the hunted. It is they who must be in ignorance of where you are going to strike; not the other way round, as it is at the moment.”

“There is a lot in what you say, Madame,” said Standish. “And my own inclination would be to get away at once. The trouble is the police formalities over last night.”

“I think,” she said, “that I can probably arrange matters over that. For I, too, have come to the conclusion that Cannes is not the only place in the world. And if I announce my intention of not pressing the charge against the wretched man, there should not be much bother.”

She smiled slightly.

“Our police are very amenable at times.”

“I am glad you have decided that,” remarked Drummond. “We shall both feel easier in our minds And even though I think that as soon as we have gone you will be safe, don’t relax your guard, Madame. I am beginning to have a very healthy respect for these gentlemen, whoever they may be.”

They swung into the Promenade des Anglais and a few minutes later pulled up outside the Negresco.

“Now let us see if we are in luck,” she said, as they entered the hotel. “We are; the man himself.”

A tall, hatchet-faced man was standing by the concierge’s desk glancing through a bundle of letters. On one cheek was the scar of an old wound, and his hands were the hands of a man on whose face such a mark would cause no surprise. His hair was greying; his age, the early fifties. And both Drummond and Standish, than whom no better judges of a man existed, metaphorically put their thumbs up.

“Good morning, Humphrey.”

With a start he looked up.

“Marie!” he cried, and bending over kissed her hand—an action which only one Englishman in a hundred can do without looking a fool. “This is delightful. You will join me in an aperitif?”

“Humphrey, I want you to meet two friends of mine—Captain Drummond and Mr. Standish.”

“Delighted. Let us become further acquainted in the bar. My mail seems more unbelievably dull than usual. And now”—when they were settled in a corner—”tell me what fortunate chance has brought you here?”

“Easily told,” she laughed. “The fact that Captain Drummond couldn’t sleep last night.”

“I fear I may seem dense,” he said with a smile, “but I think you must admit that your remark requires a little elucidation.”

He listened in silence, and when she had finished, he lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

“I congratulate you, Captain Drummond,” he said at length. “Though you hardly look the sort of bloke with whom congratulations cut much ice. What a very remarkable story.”

“Can you throw any light on the darkness, Humphrey?” And then she gave a sudden exclamation. “Look, Captain Drummond,” she whispered. “Just coming into the bar now. Madame Pilofsky.”

Drummond glanced up, and as quickly looked away again.

“Pilofsky,” he muttered. “Ronald, it’s Madame Tomesco.”

“Pilofsky!” drawled Humphrey Gasdon, as she went back into the hall. “Tomesco! A rose by any name, etc. What seems more to the point, however, than the name, is the rose itself.”

“Do you know the lady?” asked Drummond.

“By sight—well.”

“Who is she?”

“The mistress of one of the most dangerous men in Europe—Menalin.”

“Good God!” cried Standish. “The Russian financier.”

“Is he Russian? Who knows? He is cosmopolitan. He knows no country; he cares for no country. He cares for nothing in this world save himself. And he is mad.”

“Mad!” echoed Standish.

“Not in the sense of a man who thinks he is a poached egg and calls for toast to sit down on. But in an infinitely more dangerous way. He is the worlds supreme megalomaniac, and the main driving passion of his life is his hatred of Britain and things British—a sentiment which he does not share alone.”

“Now, Humphrey.” Madame Pélain shook an admonitory finger at him.

“It’s no good doing that, Marie. I know you think I’ve got a bee in my bonnet over it, but I know also that you know I’m right.”

“You think as a nation we are disliked?” said Standish.

“My dear sir, we always have been. But in days gone by we were, at any rate, feared and respected. Now we are neither. How the devil can we expect to be when our armed strength might just cope with a three years’ defensive war against Guatemala?”

“A slight exaggeration,” smiled Standish.

“But with a very nasty element of truth in it. To me, living abroad, the thing is simply unbelievable as it is to every intelligent foreigner. Quem Deus vult perdere, prius dementat. One or two men at home have the courage to proclaim the truth; but the vast majority don’t care.”

“You’ve got the League of Nations, Humphrey,” said Madame Pélain.

“League of Fiddlesticks, my dear,” he answered. “If that damned hot air factory was anything resembling what it set out to be originally, there would be something in what you say. But we’re not dealing with what might have been; we’re dealing with reality. And it is my considered opinion that as it stands the League of Nations is the greatest menace to peace that exists in the world today. It is the sand into which, ostrich-like, England has stuffed her great fat head, and believing it to be a safeguard against future war has proceeded to disarm. Sorry,” he continued with a short laugh, “but it makes me hot under the collar. Look, you people, on this picture and on that.”

From his pocket-book he extracted two cuttings.

“If I may, I will read them to you. Here is the first;

“‘BROADCAST TO SIX MILLION.

“‘Six million Hitler boys and girls listened to this new version of the creed broadcast by all German stations from Leipzig, where a harvest festival of the Hitler Youth Organisation was celebrated (reported Reuter yesterday).

“‘I believe in the community of all Germans, in a life of service to this community; I believe in the revelation of the God-given creative force, in pure blood shed in war and peace by the sons of the community of the German people buried in the earth, hallowed by it, resurrected and living in all for whom the sacrifice was made.

“‘I believe in an eternal life of this shed and resurrected blood on earth in all who acknowledge the means of this sacrifice and are prepared to bow themselves down. Therefore, I believe in an eternal God, in an eternal Germany, and in an eternal life.’

“And here is the other;

“‘BISHOP CONDEMNS PACIFISTS.

“‘The Bishop of Sussex strongly disapproves of the Oxford Union’s decision that “in no circumstances will its members fight for King and country.”’”

“More power to his Grace’s elbow! But does he really imagine his disapproval will make ’em fight? Not on your life. They’ll be lining the streets hopefully throwing red, red flowers at the great, blonde, fascinating brutes as they march in.”

He replaced the two cuttings in his pocket.

“Comment is unnecessary. You may not like the first, but, by Heaven above, it doesn’t produce a strong desire to vomit like the second.”

“Mr. Gasdon,” said Standish, who had been whispering to Drummond, “it seems fairly obvious that you are, so to speak, one of the boys. And so with Drummond’s approval, I am going to take you fully into our confidence. Madame Pélain has not told you everything. So if you can spare half an hour I would like to put you wise. Only I must have your word that you won’t pass it on.”

“You have it,” said Gasdon briefly.

He listened with half-closed eyes as Standish told him the whole story, omitting nothing And on its conclusion he lay back in his chair.

“How extraordinarily interesting,” he remarked. “Let us get one or two things straight. It is, of course, obvious that the Madame Pilofsky of Chez Paquay would recognise you, Marie. What about the Madame Tomesco of the Golden Boot? Would she recognise you, Captain Drummond?”

“Hard to say,” said Drummond. “She had no cause to look at me that night, and my back was towards her. But I wouldn’t bank on it.”

“And this Charles Burton. Is he a dark swarthy man?”

“The very reverse.”

“Then he can’t be Menalin under an assumed name. But since he was in the company of Menalin’s mistress, it seems probable the two men know each other. And that throws a pretty sinister light on Mr. Charles Burton. Surely our police—for, whatever I may have said about our country as a whole, they are still the finest in the world—surely, they can get a line on him.”

“Don’t forget,” said Standish, “that it was only on Jimmy Latimer’s death that the gentleman came into the limelight at all. And, but for Colonel Talbot’s long shot, he wouldn’t have done so even then.”

“That’s true,” agreed Gasdon.

“And now that we know, from what you’ve told us, that he wants watching, he will certainly be watched.”

“You say, Marie, that Major Latimer was greatly excited by the contents of the papers,” said Gasdon. “Very excited indeed. Gigantic; incredible; those were the words he used.”

“And he was a man on whose judgment you would rely?”

“Emphatically,” said Standish.

“I wonder if it’s possible that they’re going to have a dip at us before our so-called rearmament takes place.”

“Who?” cried Standish.

Gasdon shrugged his shoulders.

“France hates us, and only the fact that she is terrified of Germany prevents her showing it. Italy frankly detests us, and small blame to her. Germany is an armed camp. Russia—well, Russia is a problem.”

“Not the Communist bogey, surely,” said Drummond.

“Are you quite sure it is such a bogey?” asked Gasdon quietly. “What about France recently, and Belgium? And Spain? They’re fanatics, you know, and fanatics are dangerous men. Moreover they’ve always looked on us and our empire as the principle stronghold of all that they’re up against.”

“Jimmy said, given the organisation, it is possible,” said Madame Pélain. “And the will to carry it through.”

“Both could come from Menalin,” remarked Gasdon. “Mark you, I don’t say I’m right, but clearly it is something very much out of the ordinary, and Menalin is mixed up in it. And since Latimer was hurrying home it seems probable that England is involved.”

“The idea seems almost fantastic,” said Standish thoughtfully.

Gasdon gave a short laugh.

“Why? Fantastic perhaps when judged by the standards of even ten years ago. But is it fantastic now? We’ve got the biggest orchard in the world to rob, and one of the smallest forces to defend it with. We should, of course, regard it as a distinctly caddish action on the aggressor’s part, and in the intervals of talking about the old school tie we should ask Honduras to apply sanctions. Damn it, man! When will our people begin to understand that because we don’t want to go to war with anyone, having got all we want already, it doesn’t follow that other nations feel the same about us. Lead me to alcohol; I get heated.”

He beckoned to a waiter.

“What are those immortal lines of Sir William Watson?” he continued.

“‘Time and the ocean, and some fostering star,

In high cabal have made us what we are.’

“Would he—could he—have written that today? At the present moment our fostering star is ‘the voice that breathed o’er Eden’: the ocean is as much use as a sick headache compared with the air, and in the next war we shan’t have any time. However, I’ve been talking out of my turn. A desire for food is upon me. You will, I hope, all lunch with me, and we will forget such trifling matters in the joys of the chef’s excellent bouillabaisse.”

CHAPTER V

GLOVES OFF

Throughout the meal they discussed the matter from every angle, and the more Drummond and Standish saw of Humphrey Gasdon the more did they like him. From casual remarks he made it was evident that he had travelled not only widely but intelligently. Moreover he knew people as well as places, which was what was wanted in their present investigation. And towards the end of lunch his audience was more than half converted.

“There are two main questions to be answered,” was his argument. “First—is it worth while? To that my answer is—yes, if it can be done rapidly; no, if it can’t. Another war, such as the last one, dragging on for four years, would be sheer madness. But will it drag on for four years? Will there be time for us laboriously to build up our fighting forces after it has begun? We have it on the authority of Ludendorff himself that next time there will be no declaration of war beforehand. Which brings us to the other main point. Is it possible to knock us out in the first few weeks? That obviously only the experts can answer. But one does not require to be an expert to see that if it is possible, it may be worth while trying.”

“Out-Vernes Jules Verne,” said Standish half to himself. “I wonder if you’re right, Gasdon.”

“Lord knows!” The other drained his fin champagne. “But I’m certainly coming over to with you to see. That is if we ever get there,” he added with a laugh.

“As bad as that, you think?” said Drummond.

Gasdon nodded.

“It is clear from what happened to you, Marie, that the Reds are mixed up in it. Which means rather more over here than, at present, it does in England. There, up to date, they’ve stopped short of murder. Here it’s a common occurrence. And really it’s not surprising. When you remember that the casualty list for the first four years of the U.S.S.R. was one million, eight hundred thousand dead, a few more thousand don’t cut much ice.”

“Is that really so?” cried Drummond.

“Certainly it is so. There it was the direct doing of the big men; here, as last night, it is an isolated job delegated by someone at the top to a local branch which obeys blindly. Do you remember the case of that White general in Paris who was reputed to have disappeared? Disappear my foot t He was murdered in broad daylight. An ambulance drove up behind him as he was strolling along, and the man beside the driver shot him from point-blank range with a gun fitted with a silencer. Before anybody had realised what had happened they had thrown the body inside and were off. That’s how he disappeared. Another case I know of was that of the editor of a very anti-Red paper. He was reputed to have died of a heart attack when drinking an aperitif at his favourite café. He certainly had a heart attack, but it was brought on by having his drink poisoned. One man engaged him in conversation, his accomplice slipped the stuff into his glass. No, no, friends; do not, I beg of you, be under any delusions. As I say it has not got so far as that in England yet, but it is only a question of time. They’ve got all the necessary organisation there. And when you are dealing with a fanatic who is prepared to sacrifice his own life, if need be, provided he gets yours, and who, in addition, knows you while you don’t know him, the thing becomes a little difficult.”

Standish lit a cigarette; then, with his elbows on the table, he leaned forward.

“Let us work on the assumption, Gasdon, that you are right. What is to be our plan of campaign? First of all, who is on the marked list on our side? Drummond and I, naturally; Madame; and since we’ve lunched with you I’m afraid you must join the happy band.”

“Don’t let that give you indigestion,” said Gasdon with a grin.

“Is there anyone else?”

“Not over here,” said Drummond. “But in England there’s the Chief.”

“Right. Add him in. Now, exactly what do we want to do, and how do we propose to do it?”

“First part easy,” answered Drummond. “Get over to England.”

“And miss out Paris?”

“I think so,” said Drummond. “Now that we know what we do I see no object in going there. What more is there to find out in France? It doesn’t matter how Burton got on Jimmy’s tracks; all that matters is that he did. Our job is to reverse proceedings and get on to Burton. He’s the key to the situation.”

“Make it so,” said Standish. “And now, Madame, the next point is your charming self. What are you going to do?”

“I beg of you, Mr. Standish, not to worry about me. Concentrate entirely on your own plans.”

“My dear Marie, that is impossible,” said Gasdon seriously. “It is essential that we should feel that you are safe. And I do most solemnly assure you that the danger is very real.”

“Well, what do you suggest, Humphrey?”

“Have you any friends with a villa near here?”

“Yes; at Mentone.”

“Excellent. Now it is most unlikely that you were followed here. Since all your kit is still at the Metropole, they will assume that you are returning there. My suggestion, therefore, is this. That you let me drive you to your friend’s villa direct from here. I am fairly adept at the game, and I think I can spot at once if we are followed. From there you will telephone to Monsieur Lidet, but you will not give your address even to him. You will say that you will be returning in a week or a fortnight to the hotel, and give instructions for your room to be left intact. To your friends you can say as much or as little of the truth as you like. What necessaries you require your friend can obtain for you, but you yourself will lie low in the villa. Should the police make further enquiries with regard to last night, instruct Lidet to say that you are ill, and that he does not know where you are.”

For a while she sat in silence, then; “You think that is best?”

“We all do, Madame,” said Drummond.

“Very well, mes amis; I will do it. And you—what of you?”

“I would not presume to suggest a plan to you two fellows,” said Gasdon. “But if you take my most earnest advice you, too, will not return to the Metropole.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing myself,” remarked Standish. “I am certainly prepared to sacrifice my kit, such as it is.”

“Same here,” said Drummond. “And we can post a five-hundred-franc note to Lidet from somewhere en route. Were you serious when you said you were coming over to England, Gasdon?”

“Perfectly. If you have no objections I would like to come with you. Otherwise I will travel alone.”

Drummond glanced at Standish, who nodded.

“Of course we have no objections,” he said. “And it will certainly be easy to see on the run north if we are being followed.”

“I’m afraid, Drummond, that your kit is not the only thing you’ll have to sacrifice temporarily,” said Gasdon. “What is the object in following us? Just as Latimer’s goal was England, they’ll know that yours is. And when you don’t return to the hotel, they’ll warn every port, if they haven’t done so already, to watch out, not for you, but for your car. They’re not the sort of people who would neglect such an obvious precaution as taking its number. And on the chance of your going to Paris they’ll have spies at the Porte d’Italie, and the Porte de la Gare. No, old boy, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave her in la belle France for the time. At some such place as Orleans. You see,” he went on, “what Standish said is perfectly correct. They got you taped in Cannes through Madame. But if you, or rather we, now vanish into space they must lose the trail unless we throw the car at their heads. Their spies at Boulogne or Calais don’t know us personally.”

“Quite right,” agreed Standish. “The man speaks sense. Well, I suggest, Gasdon, that the sooner we get on with it the better. Madame, I am not going to say an obvious good-bye. In case there is anybody watching us it’s better that he should think we are just parting after lunch. But may I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all that you have done and told us.”

“It was nothing,” she said sadly, “if it has helped to revenge Jimmy. Good-bye; good-bye, Captain Drummond. I won’t thank you again.”

“And we will wait for you here, Gasdon,” said Standish.

“Right. Sit in the bar, and keep your backs to the wall.”

They sauntered across the room—a typical lunch party breaking up. And in the hall they paused.

“So we dine together tonight, Madame,” said Drummond. “I will see that Monsieur Lidet excels himself.”

“And after that the Casino,” she cried. “Au revoir.”

“A damned plucky little woman,” said Standish as they walked into the bar.

“And I hope a fortunate remark of mine,” said Drummond. “Did you see the gentleman in the hall who half rose as we left the dining-room, and then sat down again?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“He was behind you, but I marked him down. Strikes me, old boy, that their staff work is marvellous, but that the actual performers are not so good.”

“Full marks, I think, to Mr. Humphrey Gasdon.”

“Yes. Definitely good value. And a bloke of decided views. I wonder if he’s right about this Communist stunt.”

“He’s right over one thing,” said Standish. “They’ve got the necessary organisation in the country. That I know for a certainty: factory cells, street cells, the necessary instructors, street newspapers. All of which is well known to the police. But taking it by and large, they have so far failed to make much headway. Our fellows in the main have too much common sense, I suppose. Hullo Here’s the girl friend once again. I wonder who the lucky boy is this time.”

Madame Tomesco, alias Pilofsky, had entered the bar accompanied by a man.

“Dark and swarthy,” muttered Drummond. “Perhaps it’s Menalin himself.”

As the two passed their table the lady’s escort paused slightly and gave them each a cool and deliberate stare from under a pair of bushy eyebrows. He was clean-shaven with the high cheek-bones of the Slay. His nose was thick; his mouth both sensual and cruel. Not a very big man, yet he gave the impression of great physical strength. And there was a sort of feline grace in his walk as he followed the woman.

“Menalin for a fiver,” said Standish. “And seemingly interested in our unworthy selves. I don’t know that I want him as a pet. What do you want, Johnny?”

A small page with a newspaper on a salver had come up to the table.

“Vous avez commande ze Daily Express, m’sieu?” said the boy.

“I have not commanded it,” answered Standish. “Nevertheless I should hate to disappoint you, laddie.”

He took the paper, and started fumbling in his pocket for a coin. And suddenly he stiffened; his eye had caught one of the headlines. He instantly recovered himself, tossed a coin on to the salver and put the paper on the table.

“Show no interest, Hugh,” he said quietly. “We are being watched. They’ve got the Chief.”

“My God!” muttered Drummond under his breath. “Let’s see.”

Standish spread out the paper, and to all outward appearances two bored men bent forward to read it. And from a few tables away came a woman’s low laugh…

MURDER OF ARMY OFFICER.
AMAZING CRIME IN BROAD DAYLIGHT.
COLONEL HENRY TALBOT SHOT IN HYDE PARK.

One of the most sensational crimes of modern times of a nature recalling the dastardly murder of the late Field-Marshal Sir Henry Wilson, took place yesterday afternoon in Hyde Park.

Colonel Henry Talbot, C.M.G., D.S.O., a highly-placed officer at the War Office, left Whitehall rather earlier than usual and started to walk home to his flat in Orme Square. This was his invariable custom if the weather was fine. His route was always the same; up Constitution Hill, into Hyde Park, and thence to Lancaster Gate.

It would appear that the unfortunate officer paused on the outskirts of a crowd gathered round one of the inevitable orators near Marble Arch. Suddenly he was seen to fall to the ground. At first those near him thought he was ill, when, to their horror, they perceived blood flowing from his head.

A constable was on the spot immediately, and it was obvious at once that the Colonel had been brutally murdered. He had been shot through the head from behind at point-blank range.

That such a thing could happen in broad daylight, in such a place, is wellnigh inconceivable. No shot was heard, but this, of course, would be accounted for by the use of a silencer. None of the people in the vicinity had seen or heard anything suspicious, though one man—Mr. John Herbert, of Islington—said that he thought he had noticed two men getting hurriedly into a waiting taxi just after Colonel Talbot fell to the ground. But he had paid no attention and could give no description of them.

What happened seems clear. The deceased officer, whose habit of walking home was evidently known to the murderer, must have been followed from his office. The man or men had a taxi in readiness behind them. When Colonel Talbot paused on the edge of the crowd they seized their opportunity to commit their atrocious crime, trusting to the shifting listeners to make a safe get-away. And this, unfortunately, they seem to have done.

The crime is an inexplicable one. So far as is known Colonel Talbot had no enemies. His military record was a brilliant one. He served throughout the Egyptian campaign and the South African War, in the latter of which he was awarded the D.S.O. for conspicuous gallantry at Magersfontein. In the Great War he was twice wounded, receiving the C.M.G. and being five times mentioned in despatches.

He leaves a widow and one son, Captain Edward Talbot, who is at present serving at Aldershot with his regiment, the Royal West Sussex.

And once again came the low mocking laugh of a woman…

It failed conspicuously if, by it, she hoped to make them display any emotion; she was dealing with far too old hands for that. But inwardly both men were raging with anger. That she and the man with her were responsible for the paper being brought to them was a trifle; it was the filthy murder of one of the finest men in England, and a great friend into the bargain, that got them.

Particularly Drummond. Similar though they were in many ways there was a streak of the primitive in him that Standish lacked. And though both of them had liked Jimmy Latimer, the murder of Colonel Talbot seemed more personal He was their Chief whom they were actually serving under at the time.

One thing, however, it emphasised—the power of the organisation they were up against. Murder in the Park in broad daylight was not a matter to be undertaken lightly. It showed an almost incredible disregard for ordinary values. As Gasdon had said, England was not France; London was not Paris.

“It would seem,” said Drummond quietly, “that when we get back to England there will be several scores to settle.”

“When,” remarked Standish with a short laugh. “We’ve been in many tight corners before, old boy, but we’ve never been in such danger as we are at the present moment seated in this bar. There is an efficient ruthlessness about our opponents that I find most refreshing. And it piles proof upon proof that the issue is big.

“You’re right there, by Jove!” Drummond’s jaw was sticking out. “So much the better. For after this”—he tapped the paper—”it’s war to the knife. No quarter given and none asked.”

“That’ll be grand when we’re in a position to give it,” said Standish grimly. “Just at the moment I’m afraid the mouse has to be rather tight before he says it to the cat. Everything depends on whether we can do a get-away from here. And it’s not going to be so easy as those swine found it at Marble Arch.”

The bar gradually filled, but of Gasdon there was no sign. Menalin—if it was Menalin—and the woman had gone shortly after the episode of the paper, but they neither of them felt any the easier for that. They were marked men, and they knew it. There was not the remotest chance of their leaving the hotel unnoticed.

At last they saw Gasdon coming towards them, and he looked worried.

“Madame Pélain is safe,” he said as he sat down. “I am tolerably certain we were not followed. But she rang up Lidet while I was there. And the police have been round asking for you two, over last night’s effort. At my instigation she said you were both returning to the Metropole for dinner, but that she did not know where you were at the moment. Now it is essential that you should not go back. There will be delays; possibly engineered delays…”

“Not possibly, but certainly,” said Standish. “Read that.”

“Good God!” said Gasdon as he put the paper down.

“Worse still,” continued Standish, and told him of the woman and her companion.

“That’s Menalin right enough,” said Gasdon. “And he’ll fix the police. You’ll be kept there hanging about till there is a suitable opportunity to murder you.”

“The only chance,” said Drummond, “is to walk calmly out of the hotel as if we were going back to Cannes—all three of us. We can talk as we go for the benefit of anyone in the hall. And it is just possible that if they think we are going to Cannes they will not bother to follow us.”

“I doubt it.” Gasdon shook his head. “But it’s the only thing to try. And at once. If that was Menalin, and from your description I’m sure it was, it is more than likely that he will put a call through to the police to say you’re here. And if that happens you’re done. Come on. We’ve got to make plans as we go.”

They rose and strolled into the hall, and a man studying some travel brochures drew slightly nearer.

“Let’s go back to the Metropole now and order the dinner,” said Drummond. “Though personally I would sooner feed at the Reserve at Beaulieu.”

“Too far afterwards, old boy,” objected Gasdon. “It’s only a step to the Casino from the Metropole.”

“All right, have it your own way,” said Drummond languidly. “En voiture.”

They sauntered outside, three care-free Englishmen, and got into the car. And the brochure studier sauntered also, at the same time giving the faintest perceptible nod to two men in a low-bodied, powerful racing car whose bonnet was almost touching the tail of Drummond’s car.

“Actual performers are poor,” drawled Drummond.

“That nod was quite unnecessary and settles things. We have equerries in attendance.”

He was fumbling in the cubby-hole in front of him as he spoke.

“Stupid of me, Ronald,” he cried. “I never put a lashing on that luggage grid. Do you remember how it rattled like hell?”

“Hardly could hear yourself speak, old boy,” agreed Standish, lighting a cigarette, and watching Drummond out of the corner of his eye as he got out of the car.

The brochure studier had disappeared; the light was failing, and Gasdon was fidgeting.

“What the devil does it matter about the luggage grid?” he muttered. “Every second is precious.”

“My dear Gasdon,” said Standish quietly, “you can take it from me that there is generally a reason for everything that Drummond does. In due course you will find that out for yourself—perhaps sooner than you think. There was no squeak in the luggage grid.”

Gasdon’s lips twitched into a grin.

“I’m beginning to like you two blokes,” he remarked. “You’re going to wake me up. I was getting fat and lazy.”

“Lucky they were so close to us,” said Drummond, getting back into the car. “And now, my loved ones, hey—nonnie—no, for the great open spaces.”

“What on earth have you been doing?” asked Gasdon curiously as Drummond let in the clutch.

“Adjusting my maiden’s helps,” answered Drummond. “Never known to fail. Entirely my own invention. If the little pretty wants to escape with boy friend from parents in attendant car so that she may daily awhile in leafy glades, she puts one of these under the front wheel of said parents’ car after lunch. The most infallible puncture producer of this or any other age. I am never without ’em.”

Gasdon was shaking helplessly as he looked at the maiden’s help. It consisted of a very sharp three-inch nail which, instead of possessing the usual head, was fitted with a small triangular stand so that the nail would stand upright in the road.

“Placed so that the point of the nail just touches the tyre,” explained Drummond, “and it’s through Pop’s reinforced Dunlop before the old boy has begun to digest the salmon mayonnaise. What’s happened to our escort?”

“They’re about a hundred yards behind us,” said Standish. “Yes…yes…O.K., boy. They’re pulling up. They’re out. By Jove! they’ve got two punctures. Both front wheels…”

“Excellent,” remarked Drummond calmly. “And they have only one spare. It would, I feel, be vulgar to wave. Now what’s the plan; to Cannes or not to Cannes?”

“I think not,” said Gasdon, grown serious again. “We could, of course, go by the Rue d’Antibes, miss the hotel, and head for Brignoles. But if they do warn the police to stop the car that route will be watched for an absolute certainty. And we’ve got to run the gauntlet of every gendarme between here and Cannes. Our best hope is Grasse. Swing right-handed when we get to Cagnes golf course.”

“Your slightest word is law, dear boy,” said Drummond. “You know this country a deuced sight better than we do, so we are in your hands. The car, I am glad to say, is fast.”

“Very fast,” agreed Gasdon. “The trouble is that there is something which is a damned sight faster—the telephone. Drummond, we’ve got to abandon car mighty soon, I’m afraid. I know of a by-road by which we can skirt round Grasse, but after that the trouble begins. We get up into the mountains, and roads are few and far between.”

“What do you suggest?” asked Drummond. “As I said, you know the geography.”

“We’ve got to concentrate, chaps, on getting out of France. Now let us assume the worst. When it is discovered that we have bolted, the first thing the police will do is to issue a general warning to look out for the car. Therefore, as we have already agreed, the car must be abandoned, though possibly it might be safe to drive through tonight.”

“I doubt it,” said Standish, “but go on.”

“What is the next thing the police will do? They know our names, and when no information of the car comes to hand, they will assume we have taken to the railway. Which is what, incidentally, I suggest we should do at the earliest possible moment. And here comes the vital difference between our cases. Whatever Menalin and Co. may think of me, the police don’t want me. You two are all that count in their young lives. And so I propose that we separate. I’ll go to Paris and cross to England in the ordinary way, but what are you going to do? Let’s work it out. Every railway frontier will be watched for you two by name. It is just possible, and it seems to me to be your only hope, that the road frontiers will be watched for by car.”

“My God!” cried Drummond, “you don’t suggest we should walk across France, do you?”

Gasdon laughed.

“Not quite. I suggest that we should all make for the Grenoble line. That I should go to Paris, and that you should make for Geneva. Go to Aix-les-Bains. There hire a car and drive to Evian on the Lake Geneva, where you can pick up one of the steamers. And once you’ve done that you’re in the straight run home.”

“It sounds feasible,” said Standish. “The only drawback to my mind is that if we are caught, such a very elaborate scheme makes us look infernally guilty.”

“You’ll have to chance that,” answered Gasdon. “Don’t forget you can always tell the police the real reason for what you’ve done.”

“That’s so. Just now, however, the pressing need is the immediate future. It is almost dark, and, I take it, that’s Grasse in front of us.”

“Go slow,” said Gasdon. “Here is the turning to the left. It’s a bad road, but we can skirt the town and come out beyond it on the Digne road. Then we’re safe as far as Castellane.”

“Thank the Lord you know the old terrain,” laughed Drummond. “What a fun, boys, what a fun! But could little Hugh do with a pint? The answer, jolly old speaker, is in the affirmative.”

“It is definitely a sound idea, Gasdon,” said Standish after they had driven in silence for some time. “If we can make Switzerland, we’re on velvet. Through Germany to either the Hook or Ostend.”

“Just so,” said Gasdon. “And before we separate we’ll agree where we meet in England.”

“Sure bill,” cried Standish. “But since you will certainly be there first, get in touch at once with Lawson—Major Lawson—at the War House, and tell him the whole story.”

Once more silence fell. By now it was quite dark, and the road was rising rapidly, though the car made light of the gradient. Mile after mile fell away behind them, and soon the lights of Castellane appeared ahead. And it was then that Drummond had a brain-storm.

“What’s wrong with you taking the car on, Gasdon?” he exclaimed. “As you said, the police don’t want you. Standish and I will get out now and walk to the town. It goes to my heart to leave her in some wretched little garage here. If the police should stop you, you are merely driving the car to Paris at my request, and we are still, as far as you know, on the Riviera.”

He stopped the car and lit a cigarette.

“If the police don’t stop you, you might even take her on to Boulogne,” he continued. “But if you think that’s unwise park her in some good garage in Paris.”

“I’m not sure you’re not right,” said Gasdon. “It might help to throw ’em still off the scent. What do you think, Standish?”

“I think it’s a good idea. Where’s our nearest station?”

“Hire a car and make for Sisteron. It’s about sixty miles. And now about England. Where do we meet?”

“Keep in touch with Lawson. We’ll get at you through him.”

“Right. Well, so long, chaps. And good luck.”

“Little did I think, old boy,” said Drummond resignedly as the lights of the car vanished round a bend, “that I should ever be marooned amongst the virgin snows in the middle of the night. Come on, I could do with a spot of solids.”

Ten minutes’ walk brought them to the bridge over the river Verdon, that marks the entrance to the town; another five and they were in the main square. And there with a gendarme on each side, stood the car.

Matters had evidently reached a deadlock. One gendarme was scratching his head, the other was sucking a pencil. And Gasdon, a picture of outraged innocence, was haranguing them from the driver’s seat in fluent French.

“It is monstrous,” he cried. “It is of an imbecility incredible. Is it the car that is required for these formalities at Cannes? The owner, my great friend, knowing he must await the police investigation, lends me his car to go to Paris. Is not that sufficient proof, you fatheads, that he is still there? If he had wished to go himself, would he not have been in the car? And in any case, why should he go? He was not accused of anything. It is merely a question of his evidence.”

“Our instructions are that there are three men in the car.” The pencil sucker had produced his notebook. “Le Capitaine Drummond; M’sieur Standish and M’sieur Gasdon. And the M’sieur Gasdon has a scar on his face.”

“Name of a name,” cried Gasdon. “Regard the scar. Obtained, mon brave, at Fricourt. I am Monsieur Gasdon, and when I left Nice le Capitaine Drummond and Monsieur Standish were with me in the car. But I dropped them near Cagnes.”

“At what house, m’sieur?” demanded the gendarme.

“The house of a lady friend.” Gasdon dug the pencil sucker in the ribs, and they all laughed. “And now since you are both satisfied that neither of them are in the car, I must get on.”

He let in the clutch and drove off, and after a while the two gendarmes went indoors. Assuredly very peculiar; if three men were reported to be in the car, it was obviously most irregular that there should only be one. And, as they disappeared the two onlookers did likewise in the opposite direction.

“They lose no time,” said Standish gravely. “And I have my doubts if Gasdon gets through.”

“Which makes it the more imperative that we should,” answered Drummond. “There’s a garage on the other side of the road. Let’s see if we can raise a car.”

They could—an incredibly ancient Renault. And three hours later they bumped into Sisteron. The first part of their journey was over.

“And now, old boy,” said Drummond as they paid off the car, “we separate. It gives us two chances instead of one. Make for the Hotel les Bergues at Geneva.”

CHAPTER VI

DRUMMOND ALONE

During the season Evian-les-Bains is a charming spot. On the high ground behind the town there are tennis courts and golf links set in delightful surroundings, for those who will to use. A tiny harbour filled with gaily coloured boats abuts the casino; beautiful women and brave men lounge gracefully over their “five o’clock.” That is during the season.

Out of the season Evian-les-Bains resembles a town of the dead. The links are shut; holland covers encase the casino furniture. The beautiful women have departed long since; the inhabitants appear to have fallen into a coma. And it was out of the season when Drummond, paying off his taxi on the outskirts of the town, proceeded to enter it on foot.

The time was midday, and the boat, so he had discovered from the concierge at Aix, arrived at two-thirty. Which left him two and a half hours to put through, and made him regret that he had left his hotel quite so early. Not that he hankered after Evian in gala mood, but because, if the police were on the look-out, he was so much more conspicuous in the deserted streets.

Strolling towards the harbour he espied a sports shop, in the window of which some rucksacks were hanging. And it struck him that it might help to account for his presence if he pretended to be on a walking tour. So he purchased one, and a long stick with an embossed handle. A hunting horn he refused; likewise a little green hat with feathers in it. To overdo a part is bad art…

Leaving the shop he walked on towards the lake. And then, finding a small café within sight of the landing-stage, he entered and enquired about lunch. It seemed that an omelette and a bottle of wine was all that Madame could run to, so he ordered it and lit a cigarette.

Since the morning before he had practically not seen Standish. They had travelled in the same train from Sisteron to Aix, but in different compartments, whilst at Aix they had stayed at different hotels. And now Drummond began wondering where he was. The two-thirty was the only boat he could catch, since the service was greatly curtailed as soon as the summer tourist season ceased.

Slowly the time went by, until suddenly Madame pointed over the lake.

“Voilà, m’sieu; le bateau.”

The paddle boat had just heaved in sight coming from St. Gingolph, and he frowned a little. Standish was cutting it fine. Faint human stirrings in the square outside began to manifest themselves; evidently this was the event of the day. He could hear the thresh of the paddles now, so, paying his bill, he rose to go. And at that moment a car drove up with Standish inside.

From the doorway Drummond watched. The engines of the boat were in reverse; cables fore and aft were being flung ashore. And then he saw them. Advancing majestically towards the shore end of the gangway were two gendarmes in gorgeous uniforms. Moreover it appeared that they wished to see Standish’s passport.

Drummond’s eyes narrowed; rapid thought was necessary. They were stopping Standish in spite of his indignant protestations. And if they stopped Standish they would also stop him. Madame was adjuring him to hurry if he wished to catch the boat, but he only smiled at her and came back into the café. It would not do to arouse her suspicions in any way, so he told her that he had decided to continue walking, and ordered another bottle of wine. From outside came again the sound of paddle wheels; the boat was leaving. And in a few minutes peace once more reigned in Evian.

Convinced by now that the large Englishman was more than usually mad, Madame had retired into some inner fastness, leaving Drummond alone in the café. What was the best thing to do? Any attempt to rescue Standish or even to communicate with him would be madness. The police were merely doing their duty, and the only result would be that he would be stopped as well.

Equally would it be madness to wait on with the idea of catching the boat on the following day; the police would still be on the look-out. In fact any idea of leaving France by Evian must be abandoned. Where, then, could he go?

A map was hanging on the wall, and he rose and studied it. There, just across the water—so near and yet so far—lay Lausanne and safety. Should he wait for darkness, steal one of the boats in the harbour, and row across the lake? But after a few moments’ reflection he dismissed the idea as too dangerous. The police headquarters were too close; the risk of being seen or heard too great. So the only alternative was to cross the frontier by land.

To the east lay St. Gingolph only about twelve miles away. But to reach that he had to cross the square in front of the police station, and moreover do so fairly soon. For it had dawned on him that this café was not too safe. The gendarmes, exhausted by their labours, might decide to recuperate their strength with alcohol at any moment, and the café was very handy.

So there was only one course open. He would strike westward towards Geneva and cross at Hermance. That they would be on the look-out for him there, was obvious, but the same thing applied to every douane. So the only thing was to hope for the best when he got there.

He slipped into the street, and heaved a sigh of relief when he was out of sight of the police station. He had twenty-five miles to cover, and the prospect of walking did not amuse him. On the other hand if he hired a car and arrived in broad daylight, the attempt was foredoomed to failure.

He strode along thinking things over, and wishing that he knew the country he would have to negotiate when he came to the frontier. For it had soon occurred to him that by far the best, if not the only, chance of getting through would be to cross between douanes. That would entail leaving the road before he got to the frontier: skirting round the village and rejoining the road again farther on when he was safe in Switzerland. What difficulties there would be he had no idea: as a performance it was a new one on him. But he assumed that in peace time any system of patrols between posts would be of a very perfunctory nature.

And so, when it came to the point, it proved to be. Save for falling into a wet ditch the whole thing passed off without incident. As soon as the lights of the douane showed up in the distance he struck off left-handed across the fields. Once a dog began barking furiously, but, except for that, the night was still. Hardly a light was showing; the whole countryside was asleep. And at 11.41 p.m. Drummond stepped back on to the road with France a kilometre behind him. In the distance glittered the lights of Geneva; a far more welcome sight, however, was a faint chink filtering through the wooden shutters of an inn just ahead. A room was available, and ten minutes later Drummond, having taken off his shoes and coat, was fast asleep.

It was past ten when he awoke next morning and the sun was streaming in through the window. So at peace with the world, and no longer feeling that at any moment he might feel a gendarme’s hand on his shoulder, he drank two large cups of coffee. Then, having hired a taxi, he drove into Geneva over the Pont de Mont Blanc.

It was his first visit to the Hotel les Bergues and the concierge eyed him a little doubtfully. With a certain amount of excuse let it be admitted; Hugh Drummond’s general appearance was not such as is generally to be observed in that hotel. He wanted a shave, and his shoes still bore record to yesterday’s walk. But at that moment an exquisite individual came sauntering down the stairs, who paused, stared, then with a cry of amazement held out his hand.

“What in the name of all that’s fortunate are you doing here, old boy? And why this strange garb with rucksacks and things?”

“Hullo! potato face,” said Drummond. “Glad to see you. I didn’t know any of you blokes ever got up before midday.”

The Honourable James Tagley grinned amiably. A younger son of old Lord Storrington, he had drifted peacefully into the Foreign Office, where he remained a monument of beauty and a joy for ever.

“We do every second Friday,” he remarked. “But joking apart, Hugh, what does bring you here?”

“A desire to study Swiss architecture first-hand,” said Drummond with a smile.

“Are you up to some of your games?” demanded the Honourable James.

“My dear potato face, I don’t understand you. I am now a respectable member of society.”

“You’re a damned old liar,” said the other. “I say, what a shocking thing that was—those swines murdering Talbot.”

“You’re right,” agreed Drummond. “Any inside information come through to this centre of gossip?”

“No. But the motive must have been political.”

Drummond raised his eyebrows.

“I shouldn’t have said that he was much mixed up in politics. However, doubtless you know best, James. Tell me; how stands the international barometer?”

The other lowered his voice.

“Officially, old boy, set fair. Unofficially—not quite so good. There are vague mutterings and signs and portents.”

“Are you allowed to tell?”

“The devil of it is that there’s nothing to tell. Nothing definite, that’s to say. But in some ways, you know, this place is as sensitive as the Stock Exchange. Whispers go round in the most incredible fashion, and when you’ve been here some time it’s amazing how quickly you become aware of them. There’s something in the air, Hugh; there has been for some time.”

“What sort of thing?”

“I don’t know; I can’t tell you.”

“Do you mean there’s a possibility of war?”

“My dear fellow, that possibility is always there—League of Nations, or no League of Nations. But I don’t mean war this time. It’s something else, and”—his voice sank to a whisper—”we are involved.”

Drummond lit a cigarette.

“You interest me profoundly, James,” he remarked. “Mind you, Hugh,” said Tagley, “this is not to go beyond you. Good morning, sir.”

A well-known figure in English public life nodded as he passed through the hall.

“Do you want a lift?” he called out.

“Thank you, sir. I must go, Hugh. Shall I see you at lunch?”

“Perhaps, potato face. I don’t know.”

For a moment or two Drummond stood motionless as Tagley hurried after the great man to a waiting car. Then he turned to the concierge.

“I want a call to London,” he said. “How long will it take?”

“It depends, sir. But if you will give me the number I will get through for you. It would be well to remain at hand. Sometimes one connects almost at once.”

Taking a pencil Drummond wrote down Ginger Lawson’s number at the War Office. Then he sat down on a chair near-by. So James Tagley confirmed the fact that something was in the wind…Strange—very strange…

“God!” he muttered to himself. “If only Latimer had put those papers in an envelope and posted them in Paris!”

For perhaps ten minutes he sat there, idly watching the people as they passed in and out of the hotel. Every nationality; every colour…Every nationality, that is to say, except three…What a farce; what a roaring farce.

Suddenly he saw the concierge approaching him. “M’sieur’s call to London.”

He entered the box and picked up the receiver. “Hullo! Ginger: that you?”

With remarkable clearness he heard Lawson’s voice from the other end.

“Drummond speaking from Geneva.”

“Geneva! What on earth are you doing there?

“Too long to tell you now, Ginger. I’m writing you a full report this morning, but it will be two or three days before I’m back. For reasons I can’t go into at the moment I’m not going through France. I shall either fly from Brussels or cross via Ostend or the Hook.”

“Postpone it for a day or two, old boy,” came Lawson’s voice. “It’s providential you’re in Switzerland. Do you know young Cranmer—Archie Cranmer?”

“Vaguely. He’s with you, isn’t he?”

“That’s right. But he’s new on the game. At the moment he is in Territet at the Grand Hotel. Will you go over and get in touch with him? I’ll wire him to expect you.”

“All right, Ginger. It’s urgent, is it? Because I want to get back to England as soon as possible.”

“It is urgent, Hugh. It concerns the Chief’s murder. And I’d feel easier if you were helping Archie.”

“’Nough said, Ginger. I’ll get off my report to you, and then go straight to Territet. By the way you have Ronald’s from Cannes, haven’t you?”

“Yes. I recognised the writing and opened it. We are keeping an eye on the gentleman he mentions from here. Is Ronald with you?”

“No. I’ll explain everything in my report. So long, Ginger.”

He rang off, and having paid for the call he wandered upstairs in search of the writing-room. It was the part of the job that he disliked most, but he dared not bank on the fact that Standish would get another report off from France. And so for an hour he toiled laboriously; then with a sigh of relief he addressed the envelope and slipped it in his pocket. A shave; a drink; Territet—that was the programme as he proposed it. And that was the programme as he carried it out.

He arrived at Territet at three o’clock, having lunched at Lausanne Station, and went straight to the Grand Hotel. And the first person he saw sitting in the glassed-in verandah was Archie Cranmer.

“How are you, young feller!” he said. “I don’t know if you remember me. My name is Drummond.”

“Of course I do,” answered Cranmer getting up. “But it almost seemed as if you expected to find me here.”

“I did,” laughed Drummond. “I’ve come over from Geneva especially to see you at Ginger Lawson’s request. Have you had a wire from him?”

“No.”

“It’ll come. And in the meantime let’s hear all about it.”

Cranmer shook his head.

“Very sorry, Drummond. I’m sure it’s all right, but…”

And once again he shook his head deliberately.

“Good for you,” said Drummond with a grin. “I was only trying you out. In our game, Cranmer, a man ought not to trust his own mother. However, I don’t think we’ll have long to wait. This page boy has the appearance of one who bringeth news. A telegram, my lad? There’s the gentleman.”

Cranmer opened it; then with a smile passed it over to Drummond.

“WORK WITH HUGH DRUMMOND.—LAWSON.”

“So that’s that,” he said. “Sorry if I seemed suspicious, but your appearance was rather unexpected. How much do you know already?”

“Merely that you are here in connection with the Chief’s murder,” answered Drummond.

“I see. Then I’d better begin at the beginning. You remember, don’t you, that he always used to walk to and from the office?”

Drummond nodded.

“On the morning of his murder it so happened that for some reason or other he did not walk, but took a taxi. Incidentally both Lawson and I are convinced that if he had walked they’d have got him then. However, that is beside the point. The instant he reached the office he sent for both of us.

“‘I had a visitor last night,’ he began. At my flat. A peculiar card.’

“You remember that funny sort of clipped way he had of talking.

“‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘a very peculiar card. At first I thought he wasn’t all there. Mallows showed him into the study, and he kept looking round as if he expected a trap. Little, short, dark man with a whacking great moustache. Obviously not English, though he spoke it quite well.

“‘It transpired that he kept a barber’s shop down Elephant and Castle way, which he ran under the name of Timpson. Further, that he was naturalised.

“‘I always believe,’ continued the Chief, ‘in letting a man tell his story in his own way, but after a bit I got a trifle bored.’

“‘“Get down to it, Mr. Timpson,” I said. “I assume you haven’t come here merely to tell me you cut hair.”

“‘He leaned forward impressively.

“‘“Colonel,” he said, “I have very valuable information for you.”

“‘“Good,” I answered. “Fire ahead.”

“‘Then one got his real character in his cunning, greedy eyes.

“‘“How much is it worth?”

“‘“That,” I said, “depends entirely on what it is. If it really is valuable you won’t have any cause for complaint.”

“‘“Very good. I will trust you. Now you will understand, sir, that many foreigners come to my shop, as well as English. And frequently I overhear their conversations. This afternoon there came two. They were speaking French, but it was not the French of Frenchmen. And as I listened to what they said I realised what they were. They were Swiss. After a while they were joined by two Englishmen, and they all talked together in low tones. Much of what they said I could not hear, but one or two things I did catch.”

“‘The little man’s voice sank to a blood-curdling whisper.

“‘“And one of them was your name often repeated.’”

“Apparently,” continued Cranmer, the Chief sat up at this. Why four scallywags should be discussing him in a cheap barber’s shop was not easy to follow. He pressed this man Timpson as to how he knew it was him, since Talbot was not a particularly uncommon name. Answer was that Orme Square had been mentioned, which seemed fairly conclusive, and the Chief waited for more. He soon got it. The two Englishmen were known to Timpson as thoroughly dangerous characters, though he knew nothing about the Swiss. And it, therefore, seemed obvious that the conversation was not likely to have concerned a presentation of silver plate to the Chief.

“‘Not that that worries me in the slightest,’ he went on. ‘In the ordinary course of events I should take no notice at all. But coming so soon after Jimmy’s death I have notified the Yard, and I expect to hear from them at any moment. Why I’ve sent for you two fellows concerns the one other item of interest that Mr. Timpson gave me. It’s an address which he heard the Swiss mention two or three times: Villa Bon Ciel, Veytaux.’

“‘Where’s Veytaux?’ asked Ginger.

“‘Just what I wanted to know myself,’ said the Chief. ‘It’s apparently a sort of continuation of Montreaux and Territet going towards Chinon Castle. And that’s where you two boys are bound for. A nice holiday in beautiful Switzerland.’

“‘At that moment the telephone rang, and the Chief answered it. And when he put down the receiver his face was grave.

“‘Mr. Timpson has not yet returned to his shop,’ he said. ‘His bed has not been slept in. I very much fear that he has more than earned the fiver I gave him.’”

“‘You think they’ve got him?’ said Ginger.

“‘My flat was probably being watched?’ he said. ‘Of course he may have gone on the binge and is sleeping it off, but…’

“The shrug of his shoulders was eloquent; it was obvious what he thought. And then for a time he sat there drumming on the desk with his fingers.

“‘I don’t like it,’ he said at length. There’s something going on I can’t understand. Anyway you two had better keep your eyes skinned before, during, and after your visit to Veytaux.’

“With that he dismissed us, and it was the last time I saw him alive. Those swine got him, as you know, when he was walking home that afternoon.”

“What of this man Timpson?” asked Drummond after a pause.

“There was no trace of him up to the time I left. You see, the Chief’s death altered things. Ginger had to stop on in London, so I came over here alone.”

“Quite,” said Drummond absently. “Quite. When did you get here?”

“Early this morning by the Orient express.”

“Have you done anything as yet?”

“I took a walk towards Chinon Castle, and located the villa.”

“Good,” said Drummond. “What sort of a place is it?”

“An ordinary sort of shanty standing way back up the hill, overlooking the lake. It’s got a glassed in verandah much like this one, only very much smaller, of course.”

“Any other houses near it?”

“Nothing, I should say, within a hundred yards.”

“How close did you get to it?”

“I didn’t. I saw it from the main road down below. That’s this one that goes past the hotel.”

“And what were you proposing to do next?”

“To tell the truth, Drummond,” said Cranmer with an apologetic laugh. “I wasn’t quite sure what to do next.”

“I don’t wonder. The problem is not a very easy one.”

“I thought I might make enquiries of the concierge as to who lives there.”

Drummond shook his head.

“Certainly not that. In a place of this sort things get round in an incredibly short time. And if it came out that two Englishmen were interesting themselves in the owner of the Bon Ciel the pitch is queered at once. No, my boy; nothing so direct as that. You didn’t get near enough to find out if the owner kept a dog.”

Cranmer shook his head.

“In any event it would probably have been inside the house,” he said.

“Not of necessity,” said Drummond. “A lot of these people here keep a dog on a long chain, simply as a watchdog. Then they don’t have to pay a licence. However, we can but find out. Got any rubber-soled shoes?”

“No.”

“Nor have I. Now look here, Cranmer, we’ll split this job to start with. I will go down the town and buy two pairs of rubber shoes—your size looks about the same as mine. You will get hold of a telephone book, remembering that under no circumstances must you let the concierge know why you want it. You will then go laboriously down the list on the chance of finding that the villa is on the phone. If it is we shall get the name of the owner, though not of necessity the present tenant. It may help; it may not. Then when I return we will both take a walk past the villa to ensure that we can find it tonight.”

“And tonight?”

“We will take another walk,” said Drummond with a grin. “And then we will be guided by circumstances.”

“Good Lord!” cried the other, “you don’t intend to break in, do you?”

Drummond’s grin grew more pronounced.

“Let us call it a tour of investigation,” he remarked. “Get busy with the telephone book.”

He left Cranmer settling down to his monotonous task, and walking down to the station stood waiting for a tram. On the opposite side of the lake rose the mountains of Haute Savoie culminating in the giant Dent du Midi, golden crested in the westering sun. A thin wisp of fog lay like a serpent against the dark massif, and in the distance the same steamer that Standish had missed the day before was pursuing its lawful occasions.

A tram came grinding to a standstill and he boarded it. Facing him, two very English old ladies were discussing church affairs with interest; he gathered that all was not going as it should do with regard to the approaching sale of work. And just for a second a faint smile twitched round his lips. They were so very earnest about it, and the ever-amazing contrasts that go to form this thing called life tickled his sense of humour.

He found a shoe shop without difficulty, and made his purchases. Then, strolling through the empty market-place, he started to walk back to the hotel along the lake front. Gulls, shrieking discordantly, rose from the railings as he approached, only to resume their perches when he had gone by. And at one corner a man of unbelievable antiquity, who was fishing with the longest rod Drummond had ever seen, had just landed a fish nearly two inches long.

He arrived back in the hotel, and told the concierge to have the parcel sent up to his room. Then he went through to the bar to find Cranmer who held up his thumbs as soon as he saw him.

“Luck’s in up to a point,” he said. “The house belongs to a man called Maier, but since Maier is about as common here as Smith is in England it doesn’t seem to help us much.”

“Still, it’s something,” answered Drummond. “Your shoes are in my room.”

“I’ll get ’em after dinner,” said Cranmer. “Shall we do a spot of scouting now?”

Drummond nodded, and Cranmer rose.

“We go out by the other door,” he went on. “My hat’s in the hall.”

In silence the two men strode along the main street until they came to a road branching off left-handed and leading up into the hills. Below them, about half a mile away, sombre and grim, Chillon Castle jutted out into the lake, whilst above it, far off in the distance, the peaks of the Dent du Midi had turned to purple.

There was a nip in the air, and they walked briskly. At first the houses were continuous, small ones of the working-man type. But shortly they ceased, and scattered villas took their place—villas which were approached by drives of varying length.

“There it is,” said Cranmer. “The next one on the right.”

“Good,” cried Drummond. “Don’t pause; we’ll walk straight past.”

It stood about thirty yards back from the road and below it. Though obviously inhabited there was no sign of any inmates. Nor was there any indication of a dog. An upstair window was open, and the curtains were stirring in the faint breeze. And as they passed a light was suddenly switched on in the room, and a man leant out. His back was to the light, so that all they could see was the silhouette of a broad-shouldered figure. Then he disappeared.

They walked on another hundred yards when Drummond stopped.

“About turn,” he said. “There’s nothing more to be found out now. Let’s go back to the pub. Two things, old boy, which may help us. There’s undergrowth on each side of the drive, and from the road one can see into the upstair window. Let us hope that the night may bring us luck.”

“Probably bring us jug,” laughed Cranmer “However, the Swiss are a humane race. I don’t suppose they torture their prisoners.”

The bar had filled up when they returned, and having ordered two drinks they stood by it. In an adjoining room four people were playing bridge, and in one corner of the bar itself a large cosmopolitan party was drinking cocktails. They were talking French, but some were obviously Germans, and the remainder Americans.

“You see the very tall gentleman facing you, sir,” said the barman in an undertone to Drummond. “That is your consul here—M’sieur Lénod.”

“The devil it is,” murmured Drummond. “He is a Swiss?”

“Mais oui, m’sieu. But he has spent much of his time in England. He speaks it perfectly.”

“Thank you,” said Drummond and turned to Cranmer. “I wonder if he could help us over Maier,” he went on in a low voice.

“No harm in trying,” answered the other. “By Jove! he’s coming over here.”

It was true; Monsieur Lénod was crossing to the bar to give an order.

“Excuse me, m’sieur,” said Drummond when he had finished his instructions, “but I understand you are the British consul here.”

“That is so,” returned the tall man.

“I wonder if I could have a few minutes’ conversation with you this evening?”

“If you wish to see me on business,” said Monsieur Lénod, “you will find me at my office tomorrow morning.”

“I’m afraid tomorrow morning will be too late,” said Drummond. “I should esteem it a very great favour if you could waive professional etiquette on this occasion. I can assure you that it is very important.”

“Under those circumstances, gentlemen, I will join you as soon as I can get away from my party.”

With a courteous bow he moved back to his table, and Drummond turned to Cranmer.

“It may come to nothing,” he said, “but as you say, it’s worth trying. There’s a vacant table over there. Let’s go and sit down.”

Ten minutes later the consul joined them.

“Well, gentlemen,” he remarked. “What can I do for you?”

“In the first place,” said Drummond, “we had better introduce ourselves. My name is Drummond, Captain Drummond, and this is Cranmer We are over here, M’sieur Lénod, in connection with the murder of Colonel Talbot in Hyde Park, which you have doubtless read about in the papers.”

The consul raised his eyebrows.

“Police?” he murmured.

“No, not police. Shall we say—Secret Service!”

Drummond paused for a moment and lit a cigarette.

“It has come to our knowledge,” he continued, “that there is a certain villa in Veytaux which is in some way connected with the crime. In what way we don’t know, but this villa was mentioned by men who are believed to be implicated in the murder.”

“And the name of it?” asked the consul.

“The Bon Ciel.”

The consul nodded thoughtfully.

“Monsieur Carl Maier,” he said. “Well, gentlemen, I am not altogether surprised. Why he should be concerned in the murder of Colonel Talbot is completely beyond me, but if anybody here is concerned in it he would be the man I should pick on.”

“So you know something about Maier,” remarked Drummond quietly.

“Quite a lot. To begin with—though this is hardly relevant to the present matter—his villa was one of the centres of espionage during the war. As you can imagine all this shore of the lake was a happy hunting-ground for spies, who could enter the country from Germany, and find France just across the water. And though we could never prove it and, in fact, could do nothing even if we did prove it, Maier’s villa was one of their principal rendezvous.”

“What sort of a man is he?” asked Drummond.

“He is a German Swiss, born not far from Basle. His age is about sixty. By profession he is a clock-maker, though he has long given up actual work. He is, however, extremely clever with his fingers, at any form of mechanical contrivance. It is his hobby—messing about with springs and cogged wheels. So much for one aspect of the man.”

The consul paused as if to weigh his words, and the others did not interrupt him.

“Now for another and possibly more important one,” continued Monsieur Lénod. “In his early days he was a red hot revolutionary—practically an anarchist. I gather that he has mellowed somewhat with advancing years, but up till long after the war he was a fanatical extremist. Incidentally, Captain Drummond, the actual chair in which you are sitting is the one in which Lenin sat—night after night—before he went to Russia, and I have often seen Maier in here talking to him.”

“How very interesting,” said Drummond.

“But once again hardly relevant,” said the consul with a smile. “However, I really don’t know that I can tell you any more about him. I must say I would be interested to know how he can possibly be mixed up in that Hyde Park affair.”

“So would we, M’sieur Lénod,” remarked Drummond drily. “By the way, is he married?”

“He was, but his wife died some years ago.”

“Does he live alone?”

“Yes. Though sometimes a married daughter comes to stay with him, I believe.”

“Has he any servants?”

The consul put down his glass.

“Captain Drummond,” he said quietly, “may I ask the purport of your last few questions?”

Drummond’s eyes twinkled.

“Officially or unofficially, M’sieur Lénod?”

“Well—I’m not in my office.”

“A very good answer,” laughed Drummond. “But even a better one is what the Governor of North Carolina said to the Governor of South Carolina.”

He beckoned to the barman.

“M’sieur Lénod,” he said quietly, “we are infinitely obliged to you for what you have told us. But I think in view of your position here it would be better if we now discussed the prospects of winter sport.”

The consul gave a little chuckle.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he murmured. “Er—with reference to your last question—one old woman and she’s deaf.”

“Our friend the consul was very helpful,” remarked Drummond ten minutes later, as they watched the tall figure passing through the swing doors. “Only one old woman, my boy, and she’s deaf.”

Cranmer looked a bit uneasy.

“You know, it’s all right for you,” he said. “You’re a blinking civilian. Don’t forget I’m a H’army H’orficer. Do you really intend to break in?”

Drummond lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

“I take your meaning, Cranmer,” he answered. “And I can assure you, my dear fellow, that civilian or no civilian, I don’t intend to spend the next few months sampling Swiss prison diet. But there can be no drawing back now. The whole matter has gone far beyond us and our little affairs. And if there’s the slightest chance of our finding even the smallest ray of light in that villa it’s our obvious duty to go there.”

“And you think there is a chance?”

“Most certainly. Once again, you see, we come up against a man of pronounced red tendencies.”

“Don’t forget that I’m still very much in the dark.” said Cranmer.

“I’ll put you wise over dinner,” remarked Drummond glancing at his watch. “And then we’ll have to put through time till about midnight. It won’t be safe to leave before.”

“Won’t it look rather peculiar—our sneaking out of here in rubber shoes?”

“We’ll have to chance that, unless…”

He turned to the barman.

“Is there any haunt of vice in this delightful town?” he asked. “A night club, or something really dashing like that?”

“There’s the Kursaal, sir. They have classical concerts there.”

Drummond’s face paled.

“No, no. Nothing quite so immoral as that. I mean some place where my friend and I could go in safety after dinner tonight.”

“There’s the Perroquet, sir. They dance there.”

“That sounds more our form, Cranmer. The Perroquet. Delightful. We will repair to this sink of iniquity and have a look at the pretties. And with us,” he continued in a lower voice, “we will take my rucksac mit rubber shoes complete, into which we will change just before reaching the villa. It is goot—yes?”

Cranmer grinned.

“You seem in devilish high spirits,” he said. You’re used to little escapades of this sort; I’m not. And by the time it comes to midnight they won’t need any castanets in the Perroquet band; I’ll lend ’em my knees.”

Drummond roared with laughter.

“Let’s go and have some food,” he cried. “You’ll take to it like a duck does to water. And fortunately for us there’s no moon.”

CHAPTER VII

DEATH AT THE VILLA

It was just after mid-night when they once again approached the villa Bon Ciel. During their walk from the Perroquet they had hardly met a soul; Montreux is not a late town. One or two belated cars had passed them, and once, in the distance, under the light of a lamp they had seen the stocky form of a policeman.

The night was dark and overcast. Not a star was showing, and there was a damp, raw feeling in the air. But the conditions, though unpleasant, were perfect for their purpose, and Drummond whistled cheerfully under his breath as they left the main road and started to climb.

Two hundred yards from the villa they changed their shoes, and hid the rucksac under a bush. Then they stole forward towards a shaft of light which lay across the road, and which proved that someone was still up in Monsieur Maier’s household. From far away came the ceaseless murmur of a mountain stream; otherwise the night was silent.

At length they reached the line of light, and paused under cover of some shrubs to reconnoitre. It came from the room in which they had seen the man that afternoon—a bright bar of yellow shining out underneath the blind which had not been quite pulled down.

The window was open, and the blind was moving gently in the faint night breeze. But from where they were standing it was impossible to see right into the room. They were too low down, and Drummond was just on the point of hoisting Cranmer up on his shoulders when a shadow appeared on the blind. It was that of a man standing with his hands in his pockets close to the window; they could actually see a strip of his legs through the chink.

They crouched down waiting and after a few seconds the shadow moved across the window and vanished.

“Our friend is evidently awake,” whispered Drummond. “I fear, old boy, our vigil may be a long one.”

“What do you propose to do?” muttered Cranmer.

“Wait till he goes to bed, and then sample one of the downstair windows.”

Slowly, interminably the time passed, but there was no sign of the light being put out. Nor was there any further reappearance of the shadow. And at length Drummond stooped down.

“Get your knees on my shoulders,” he whispered, “and hold on to my hands. And for the love of Mike don’t fall off in the bushes, or we’re stung.”

He straightened up, and a moment later heard Cranmer’s whispered—”All right.”

“What did you see?” he muttered as he put him down.

“He’s sprawling over the table asleep,” said Cranmer. “Hell!” answered Drummond. “That’s a nuisance. We’ll have to chance it—that’s all.”

And even as he spoke came the sound of the front door opening, and footsteps on the gravel.

“Still as death,” he breathed in Cranmer’s ear. “If he comes this way I’ll deal with him.”

The gate opened, and a man came out on to the road not three yards from where they were standing. He paused to shut the gate quietly; then he strode off away from them in the direction of Montreux.

“Thank the Lord for that,” said Drummond. “It would have complicated things if I’d had to dot him one. Get up on my shoulders again and see if that other bloke is still asleep.”

“Yes.”

From above his head came Cranmer’s monosyllable.

“Good. Then we’ll chance it now, before the other bird has time to return. Let’s try the front door.”

Cautiously Drummond pushed open the gate, and, followed by Cranmer crept towards the house. From above them came the tapping of the blind against the window sill as it oscillated to and fro. And once their shadows, distorted eerily, were flung on the bushes from the headlights of a car on the main road below.

They reached the door and Drummond flashed his torch on it.

“In luck,” he whispered. “Not a Yale.”

He turned the handle, and a moment later they were both standing in the hall. The house was absolutely silent; even the sound of the stream had ceased. But to Cranmer it seemed as if the beating of his heart must be audible in Montreux. His hands were shaking; his mouth felt curiously dry. And he started like a frightened colt as Drummond laid a hand on his arm.

“Steady, old boy,” muttered Drummond with a little chuckle. “Just follow me, and don’t make a noise.”

Once again the beam of the torch explored the darkness; in front of them were the stairs. And almost before Cranmer had moved he heard an impatient whisper from the landing above, though of Drummond’s movement there had been no sound.

“Come on, Cranmer; there’s no time to lose.”

The stairs bent round at right angles, and as he joined his leader they could both see the light shining under the door of the occupied room.

Step by step they mounted till they reached the top. And there Drummond bent down and peered through the keyhole.

“I don’t like it, Cranmer,” he said quietly as he straightened up. “I can’t quite see, but no man has ever slept in that position. Be prepared for something.”

He turned the handle, and gently pushed open the door. And Cranmer, standing behind him, heard his breath come in a sharp hiss, and saw his body stiffen. Then he peered over his shoulder, and felt violently sick.

Seated at the desk, which was more like a working bench, was a man whose head had literally been battered in. His injuries could only have been caused by an attack of wellnigh inconceivable ferocity. The blood which had formed a great pool on the table had welled over and was dripping sluggishly on to the wooden floor. One hand hung limply down; the other, still clutching a small hammer, was on the bench. And in the dead man’s eyes there seemed to linger an expression of mortal terror.

“For God’s sake—let’s go,” said a voice and Cranmer realised it was his own.

Once more he felt that firm, reassuring pressure on his arms; once again he heard that quiet voice.

“Steady, old boy. The poor devil’s not a pretty sight, but we’ve got to go through with it. Stand here by the door, and don’t under any circumstances let your shadow fall on the blind.”

Crouching down, Drummond moved over to the body, while Cranmer, still feeling faint and sick, watched him, fascinated. Watched him as he went swiftly through the dead man’s pockets; watched him glancing through the letters he found. Saw him open drawer after drawer of a cupboard that stood against the wall, and rummage through their contents; saw him pause and stand motionless as he stared at the last one.

For a moment what was in it conveyed nothing to Drummond; then, like a blinding flash there came back to his memory those last cryptic words of Jimmy Latimer to Madame Pélain as the train steamed out of Cannes Station. “Sealed fruit tins.”

And there in the drawer were two fruit tins. True, they were not sealed; they had been opened, and their contents had been removed. In fact they were just two empty tins, and only by the pictures of fruit on the paper wrapper that was pasted round each of them was it possible to know what their contents had been.

Thoughtfully Drummond picked one up and examined it. It stood about four inches high; the diameter was approximately the same. The label proclaimed that it had contained Fancy Quality Fruit Salad, prepared by a firm called Petworth, who had packed it in their own orchard factory in Gloucestershire.

He looked inside; nothing. And then a peculiar point struck him. Under ordinary circumstances when a top is removed with a tin-opener, the resulting cut has ragged edges. But in the tin which he held in his hand the top edge was perfectly smooth. And when he looked at it more closely he could plainly see in places the marks of a file. Why had the owner of the tin taken the trouble to do such a thing?

He put it back and picked up the other one. And at once things became more interesting. To outward appearances the two tins were identical, but the interior revealed a striking difference. Soldered into the side, about an inch below the top, were three tiny metal cubes, each the size of a small die. Their positions formed the corners of an equilateral triangle.

For a long while he stared at them trying to think what possible object they could fulfil. In view of the fact that the dead man’s hobby had been playing about with springs and things, he might have assumed that the tin was the outer case for some patent model he was inventing. But Jimmy’s remark could not be ignored, so that that simple solution would not hold water.

He looked at the outside more carefully; no sign of the soldering appeared there. And a moment’s reflection told him that even if any mark had shown on the metal, the paper wrapper would have concealed it.

He glanced up; Cranmer was standing beside him looking curiously at the tin.

“I told you about Jimmy’s remark,” said Drummond. “What’s your reaction to this? You see the edge has been carefully filed down where the opener has been used.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Cranmer, “you don’t use an ordinary opener with this brand. I happen to know, because I had to open one the other night. They have a key with a slot at the end into which you put a tongue of the metal fastening. Then you roll the key round and round…”

“I know,” interrupted Drummond. “Still that doesn’t explain those studs.”

“It does not,” agreed Cranmer. “My God! what’s that?”

Both men stood rigid; the gate had shut and steps could be heard on the gravel. Worse still—voices.

“Quick,” snapped Drummond. “Out on the landing and into some other room.”

Like a flash they were through the door, closing it after them. And as they were on the landing, the newcomers entered the hall below.

“I tell you it’s all right,” came a guttural voice with a pronounced accent. “The woman is stone deaf. Almost as deaf”—he laughed harshly—”as he is.”

Like shadows Drummond and Cranmer faded into a bedroom opposite as the footsteps came up the stairs.

“It is absurd,” said another voice, “returning here at all. You have all that matters. Mother of Mercy!” The voice rose to a scream.

Cautiously Drummond opened the door a little and peered out. Two men were standing in the room they had just left. One was a big fellow; the other was short and rather fat. And it was he who was covering his face with his hands, as if to shut out the dreadful thing at the desk.

“Squeamish,” sneered the big man. “When a man gets hit with a coal hammer he doesn’t generally look as if he’d died of old age. Now then…”

The words died away, and Drummond saw him take a spring forward. And then there came from the room a flood of the most fearful blasphemy.

“It’s gone, I tell you,” cried the big man when he could again speak coherently. “It’s gone.”

“It can’t have gone,” said his companion in a trembling voice. “You must have made a mistake.”

“I tell you, it’s gone,” snarled the other. “Here is the one without the studs, but the other is gone. Moreover”—into his voice there crept a note of fear—”this drawer was shut. He shut it himself.”

“Well, assuredly, he could not have opened it again. Let us go. For God’s sake, let us go. You have all that really matters in your pocket.”

“How did that drawer come open?”

The big man came into sight again and stood staring at his trembling companion.

“I know it was shut,” he went on. “When he became foolish he got up and he shut it. I can see him doing it now. He crossed and he shut it; then he returned to the chair and laughed at me.”

“It is a little thing anyway whether it was open or shut. Let us go.”

“But it is not a little thing that the tin has gone, you fool. Tins do not walk on their own. He could not have touched it. So who has?”

“Who, indeed?” whispered Drummond, and Cranmer could feel his grin of pure joy. “Put the tin on the bed, old boy; we’ll each want both our hands shortly. I’ll take the big ’un.”

Again he peered out; the fat man was speaking in a quavering voice.

“What does it matter? If we are found here all is lost. It means prison.”

“Shut up, you cur.” His companion regarded him with contempt. “You haven’t got the nerves of a louse. Don’t you realise that someone has been here since I left?”

“All the more reason for us to go at once.”

“It couldn’t have been the police or they would still have been here.”

“No. But whoever it was may inform the police.”

The big man continued as if the other had not spoken.

“Yes. They’d still have been here. Now why should this unknown visitor take such an apparently useless thing as that tin? Answer me that.”

But the fat man was beyond speech; rivers of perspiration were pouring down his face which he was endeavouring to mop up with a shaking hand.

“Is there any other number in Montreux? Speak, you worm!”

“Not that I know of,” stuttered the fat man.

“Then it’s an enemy…An enemy who knows…Come on…we’ll go.”

“Our cue,” muttered Drummond, flinging open the door.

His appearance was so utterly unexpected that for a moment or two the big man stood staring dumbfounded across the passage. Which was unwise on his part. He had a fleeting vision of a man as big as himself materialising from nowhere; then something that seemed like a steam hammer hit him on the jaw. He crashed over backwards and his head hit the edge of the bench with a crack like the impact of two billiard balls. And it was perhaps poetic justice that, as he lay unconscious on the floor, a little rivulet of the blood of the man he had murdered welled over and splashed on his face.

“So much for you,” grunted Drummond and turned to a corner from which a series of squeaks were issuing, reminiscent of a rabbit caught by a stoat. They came from the little fat man who was on his knees in prayer before Cranmer.

At any other time Drummond would have laughed—the sight was so ludicrous. But speed was the order of the day, and his quick eye had spotted a length of rope in some lumber behind the door.

“Bring him here, Cranmer,” he said curtly. “Put him in that chair. Gag him with his own handkerchief…No, no. In his mouth, man, and knot it behind his head. Like a snaffle on a horse. That’s right…Now his legs; there’s some more rope over there.”

They worked in silence, and the result was creditable to all concerned. It would have been hard to imagine a more scientifically trussed and gagged gentleman than the one who gazed at them fearfully from the chair.

“Go through his pockets, old boy,” said Drummond. “I’ll tackle the other.”

He crossed to the unconscious man and felt his pulse; it was beating evenly and steadily. Fortunate; it would have complicated matters if he had killed him. Then he ran over him with skilled hands, and at once found a prize.

In one pocket was a piece of mechanism that looked like the inside of a clock. For a moment or two he studied it; evidently this was what had been alluded to as “all that really matters.” He put it on the bench and continued his search. Two private letters; a pocket book which he went through; some money.

“Found anything on yours?” he asked.

“Not a thing,” said Cranmer.

“Then we’ll hop it. Get the tin.”

And with one last look at the room—at the little fat man whose terrified eyes were roving incessantly; at the dead man whose terrified eyes were fixed and staring; at the unconscious man sprawling on the floor—Drummond shut the door. And a few minutes later with sighs of relief they felt the night breeze cool on their faces, and heard from afar off the ceaseless murmur of the mountain stream.

“I suppose I shall wake up in a moment,” said Cranmer as they retrieved the rucksac and changed their shoes.

Drummond gave a short laugh.

“It’s been a bit hectic for a first try out,” he agreed. “But you did very well, my lad—very well indeed. Now everything depends on Monsieur Lénod.”

Cranmer glanced at him.

“How do you make that out?”

“When the deaf servant wakes up tomorrow morning, it will not be long before she enters that room. Then the fat will be in the fire. By ten o’clock it will be all over the place. And after our conversation with Lénod tonight it would, under ordinary circumstances, be his bounden duty to tell the police.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. What do you propose to do about it?”

“Persuade him that the circumstances are not ordinary It’s our only hope. If he tells the police, the delay will be interminable. And we can’t afford delay, Cranmer. We’ve got to get back to England at the first possible moment.”

“The fat little man may squeal.”

“He may. On the other hand fear of vengeance may prevent him. Anyway we’ve got to chance that. He doesn’t know who we are, which is the main point.”

They turned into the hotel, where a sleepy night porter wished them good-night.

“Come into my room for a moment,” said Drummond. “I want to look at this machine a little more closely.”

He took it and the fruit tin out of the rucksack, and placed them on the table. And the object of the studs inside the tin at once became obvious. For the diameter of the machine was such that it would just slip inside the tin and then come to rest on the studs.

“So far so good,” remarked Drummond. “But what the deuce happens next?”

Cranmer yawned.

“Ask me another,” he said. “What feels like happening next to me is going to bed.”

“Then you push off, old boy. If I can square Lénod I’ll want you to fly from Zurich tomorrow. And you’ll have to take this machine with you. The tin doesn’t matter; we can get dozens in England.”

“And what will you do?”

“Go via Basle through Germany, and probably fly from Brussels.”

Cranmer yawned again.

“Well—I’ll hit the hay. Good night.”

“Night-night,” said Drummond absently, and the last Cranmer saw of him as he closed the door was peering earnestly into the bowels of the machine.

Sick with weariness Archie Cranmer stumbled into his room, and almost before his head touched the pillow he was asleep. And it seemed to him only the next moment that he was awakened by someone shaking his shoulder.

The daylight was streaming into the room as he opened his eyes to find Drummond standing beside the bed.

“I’ve been to the consul,” said that worthy, “and may Heaven be praised the man’s a sportsman. When he’d got over his very natural wrath at being dragged from his bed at such an ungodly hour, he listened to what I had to say. I told him the whole story from A to Z; pointed out to him that if we’d had anything to do with the murder we should hardly have talked to him as we did last night; and finally appealed to his patriotism. And though he’s a Swiss there’s no doubt about that latter commodity. However, to cut a long story short, he has agreed to forget our conversation here last night.”

“Stout feller,” said Cranmer.

“If the fat man spills the beans sufficiently for us to be identified Lénod, of course, can do nothing. But if we are detained here he has agreed to see personally that that machine gets back to London, even if he has to take it himself, and to tell Ginger Lawson what happened last night. So that side of it is settled, so far as anything can be settled in this affair.”

Cranmer jumped out of bed and began to shave.

“Do you want to borrow my razor?” he asked with a glance at Drummond’s chin.

“No, old boy, I don’t,” said Drummond with a grin. “I have long had a fancy to see what I should look like with a beard. And I think it may prove useful in England.”

“When do we start?”

“I’ve been looking up trains, and there seems a good one at eleven-fifteen. Part of it goes to Zurich and part to Basle. If we can get that I think we’re safe.”

And suddenly Drummond began to laugh.

“It seems funny, after my long career of singing in the village choir, that the only two occasions on which I’ve been really frightened of the police, are the two when I haven’t done anything.”

CHAPTER VIII

ALGY INTERVENES

Algy Longworth was singing in his bath. It was not a pleasant sound, but his servant, though a little white about the gills was hardened to it, and continued to lay the breakfast. He even survived the sudden appearance of his master clad only in a bath towel, and proceeded to hand him his letters.

“We are in voice this morning, Marsh, are we not?” remarked Algy glancing through them. “Which, my trusty varlet, is surprising, because beneath this outer husk conditions are poor—very poor. Marsh, I could do with a horse’s neck.”

“Very good, sir. How much brandy?”

“Just as you take it yourself, Marsh. Or is it your considered opinion that half a pint of champagne would meet the case better?”

“I prefer it myself, sir. I find a horse’s neck a trifle sweet at this hour of the morning.”

“Spoken like a man. Champagne let it be. What are we doing today, Marsh?”

“Your engagement book states, sir, that you are lunching at the Ritz with a tow-haired filly—name unknown, and slightly knock-kneed.”

“Impossible, Marsh. Impossible. How could a man of my exalted moral standing know anything about her knees. I wonder who the deuce she can be.”

“That, sir, I fear is beyond me. The entry was made two or three days ago, after an evening you spent at the Golden Boot.”

“I was there last night, Marsh. Tell me, old friend of my youth,” he went on, lighting a cigarette, “have you noticed anything particularly attractive about me lately? Have I recently developed some hitherto latent charm of manner which endears me to the world at large?”

“I have noticed no change, sir.”

“Last night, for instance, Marsh, I became conscious of an air of solicitude about my goings and comings, so to speak, which touched me greatly, but at the same time a little surprised me. Maiden and men concerned themselves with my poor affairs in a way which, I confess, astonished me. It removed, I am glad to say, any lingering doubts that I was one of the people aimed at in those delightful advertisements of ‘What she said and ‘What she really thought.’ But apart from that, Marsh, there was, as I say, an interest displayed in me which I really cannot account for.”

His servant crossed to the window and glanced out.

“I wonder if it’s part of the same things, sir. This flat is being watched.”

“Watched! Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, sir. There’s the bloke on the other side now. Same man who was here for a time yesterday.”

“Come away from the window.”

Algy Longworth sat down at the table, and his eyes had suddenly grown thoughtful.

“When did we last hear from Captain Drummond, Marsh?”

“He rang you up from his club, sir, about eight days ago. I took the message, and you went round to see him.”

“And I rang him up two days after that and found he’d gone to France. It’s funny, Marsh, all this. Mr. Burton was asking me about him the night before last. He, too, seems to have become popular. Ring up his house, and find out if he’s back in London.”

“No, sir,” said Marsh returning a few moments later. “He has not come back. I took the liberty, sir, of asking his man Denny if anyone was watching his house. He had not noticed it up to date, but he is going to keep a look-out in future.”

“Good. I’m inclined to think, Marsh, that we may be finding ourselves on the warpath once again. And if so I must go into training. No more late nights; no more knock-kneed dames. Hullo! who’s that?”

The front door bell had rung.

“Get me a dressing-gown, and go and see. And don’t forget, the cautionary period has started.”

“Very good, sir.”

Came a murmur of voices from outside, and then suddenly a well-known laugh.

“It’s all right, Marsh. I’m glad you didn’t recognise me.”

“Good Lord!” cried Algy, going to the door. “Talk of the devil! My dear old boy—what a magnificent make-up! I wouldn’t have known you myself.”

Hugh Drummond was standing in the hall, though only by his voice would anyone have known him. A master of disguise at any time, on this occasion he had excelled himself. A four-days’ growth of beard adorned his chin; a greasy cap was pulled down over one eye. And by some extraordinary method he had managed to alter his actual features; slightly, but enough to deceive anyone. Round his neck was knotted a coloured handkerchief in place of a collar; his clothes were in keeping with his cap. And in his hand he carried a carpet bag of plumber’s tools which he put down on the floor.

“How are you, Algy?” he cried. “I’m just going to get through to Ginger Lawson and then I want a drink.”

He dialled the machine, whilst Algy Longworth went back to get dressed. And when he returned to his sitting-room it was to find Drummond sitting in an easy chair with his face buried in a tankard of ale.

“What’s the great idea?” he demanded.

“Are you all ready for the road, Algy?”

“Sure thing,” said the other.

“Because we’ll want all the boys. Something damned funny is on foot, old lad. You know I went over to France?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll just tell you briefly what happened in that delectable country. You’d better make a few notes, because I’ll want you to tell the others.”

Algy Longworth listened in silence, except for putting in an occasional question.

“And you slipped out of Switzerland all right,” he said, as Drummond paused for more beer.

“No difficulty there. Young Cranmer flew from Zurich and has duly arrived. I went through Germany and caught the afternoon boat yesterday from Ostend. Strong men shrank from me, appalled at the sight of my beard, but that couldn’t be helped. And having suitably disguised myself this morning the game begins on this side.”

He put down his tankard and his eyes were grim.

“They’ve been scoring, Algy, in a way that must cease. First, Jimmy Latimer; then the Chief. And from what Ginger Lawson said over the phone neither Ronald nor Gasdon have rung him up. Which means that they are still detained in France—if not worse.”

Algy Longworth shouted for his servant.

“Clear these things away, Marsh. Look here, are you absolutely sure about that man outside?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Rather a jolt, Hugh. This flat is being watched.”

“The devil it is,” said Drummond. “That’s a nuisance.”

“And last night at the Golden Boot several people were infernally inquisitive about you and me.”

“Was Burton there?”

“Not last night. But little Alice Blackton told me that the day after you went there he tried to pump her about you.”

“I know they’ve got me taped all right. And they’re on to you because of me.”

“You’re sure you weren’t spotted at Dover?”

“My dear feller, with this crowd one can’t be sure of anything. And I took one or two precautions on leaving the boat-train at Victoria, which ensured that I wasn’t followed. But I must say that had I thought for an instant that they were favouring you with their attentions I should not have come here.”

“No one would spot you in that rig.”

“No,” agreed Drummond, “I don’t think they would. But although they’re clumsy in their methods, there seems to be such an infernal number of them that one can’t afford to take any chances. Moreover,” he added savagely, “their manners if crude are drastic. When I think of poor old Talbot shot in cold blood, and in broad daylight in the Park, it fairly gets my goat.”

“Same here,” said Algy. “Well, old boy, what are orders?”

“First of all warn in the boys—Peter, Ted, the whole bunch. None of them are on the suspect list as yet. Get ’em to the club, Algy, and tell ’em the whole tale. They must cancel every engagement, and literally live at the end of a telephone wire.”

“Interrupting you for a moment, Hugh, since the affair seems to be so damned serious, can’t you get Scotland Yard straight on to this swine Burton?”

“Lawson has put them wise, of course. But at the moment there is nothing to go on. The mere fact that he took Menalin’s girl friend to the Golden Boot, and that she jeered at us in Nice over the Chief’s death, is not enough to hang a fly on. No, old boy, we’ve got to get something far more definite than that. And we’re going to get it.”

“Right ho! Go ahead.”

“Warn ’em that this is no jest, but the grimmest thing we’ve ever been up against. I’ll phone orders to Peter—not to you, since you are suspect. So under no circumstances must you be seen with Peter, or go to his flat. In fact, except for the meeting at the club, none of you must be seen together. When you get my orders you will come separately to the rendezvous I’ll give Peter. Clear so far?”

“Perfectly.”

“Where that rendezvous will be, I have no idea. When you will get the summons, I have no idea. But this matter is serious, Algy, and everything else must go by the board. Impress that on the boys.”

“I will.”

“If anything happens to me leadership devolves on Peter. Tell him that.”

“O.K.”

“As an additional precaution if it is easier to send orders by wire, I will sign the telegram Hud. Not Drummond; not Hugh. Just Hud. Over the telephone I will say ‘Hud speaking.’”

“I get you. I’ll warn everyone in. What are you going to do yourself?”

“Try and get on to Charles Burton’s trail. What’s the name of his house in Sussex?”

“Birchington Towers. It’s a biggish place standing on a bit of a hill, and surrounded by trees.”

“Sounds promising. Near Pulborough?”

“About two miles from Pulborough on the Arundel road.”

“What’s happened, Algy, about that girl you said he was keen on—Molly Castledon?”

“Nothing so far as I know. But she’ll certainly give him the raspberry. And from what you tell me it’ll be a darned good thing if she does.”

Drummond looked at him thoughtfully.

“What sort of a wench is she, Algy?”

“Very nice. Charming girl. Why?”

“Reliable?”

“In what way?”

“Supposing she didn’t give him the raspberry. At least, not yet. Supposing she played with him gently, and wangled an invitation to Birchington Towers.”

“Hold ’ard, old man. Is it safe?”

“My dear boy, Burton is not going to be such a congenital half-wit as to hurt her. What possible object could he have in so doing?”

“Well, I can ask her. I can ring her up now and suggest a spot of alcohol. But I shall have to give her some reason.”

“Why shouldn’t you? You needn’t tell her the whole thing. Just say that Charles is not all he seems on the surface, and that we are very anxious for any information we can collect about him. You can hint that it’s a big thing, and that the country itself may be in danger.”

“He’s not likely to breathe a word of anything to her.”

“Perhaps not. But a girl with her eyes open can frequently find out things. Especially if Burton has entered for the matrimonial stakes. Any scrap of news, Algy, might prove of value.”

“Well, as I said, I can but ask her.”

“Her people won’t mind, will they?”

“Good Lord! My dear fellow, the old woman will swallow her false teeth in her excitement.”

“Then get on with it,” said Drummond rising. “Do you know where Burton is now?”

“No. But it’s possible Alice might.”

“Do you know her number?”

“I do.”

“Then give her a ring on chance.”

Drummond crossed the room, and peered cautiously out of the window, as Algy went into the hall There on the opposite side of the road was a man rather obviously doing nothing. He was an inconspicuous individual, of much the same type as the man who had followed him in Piccadilly, but his occupation shouted itself aloud. And once again Drummond was struck with the extreme amateurishness of so many of the smaller fry on the other side. The man could never have shadowed anyone before in his life.

“She believes he’s down in Sussex,” said Algy coming back into the room. “In any case she knows he’s going there for the weekend.”

“Good. I’ve been watching your sleuth, old boy.”

“Still there, is he? Let’s have a look at the blighter. Ah! yes, I see him. A respectable looking fellow too, you know. Shall I go out and push his face?”

“No. But I’m going to let you leave the flat before me. I want to be quite sure that it is you and not me he’s after. You barge on round to the club, old boy, and get busy.”

“Suppose we want to get in touch with you, Hugh?”

“Agony column, Morning Post. Make it cryptic; address it to Hud and sign it P. for Peter.”

“It’s a date. Well, so long, old man. I wish to God I could think who the knock-kneed girl is I’m supposed to be lunching with at the Ritz.”

A faint smile twitched round Drummond’s lips as he heard the front door slam, and a moment or two later Algy appeared on the pavement, and began to saunter slowly along the street. Sure enough the man followed him at a decent interval, and Drummond gave a sigh of relief. So far as he could see he had successfully lost himself. And how long that state of affairs continued would depend entirely on his own skill.

He poured himself out some more beer, and sat down in an easy chair. For the first time since the beginning of his hectic rush from Nice he really had leisure to review the situation; up till now his own getaway had occupied his whole mind.

The thing that worried him most was the failure of Standish and Gasdon to reach England. Particularly Gasdon; Standish, assuming he had returned to Cannes, would barely have had time. But that Gasdon, who should have been in England two days ago, was still in France was ominous. However, they were both men well able to look after themselves, and in any case there was nothing that he could do. His immediate job was to follow the advice he had given Algy and get busy.

The first thing to do was to have a talk with Ginger Lawson. But here a difficulty presented itself. They would almost certainly be shadowing him, and that meant running the risk of Drummond himself being picked up again. Especially as Ginger, though an excessively stout-hearted officer, was not very adept at work of that sort. As against that, to judge by the previous performers, nor were the other side.

“Marsh,” he called out, “ring up the War Office and ask for Major Lawson.”

A simple plan had suggested itself to his mind, and simplicity was advisable with Ginger.

“On the line, sir.”

Marsh put his head in at the door, and Drummond went to the telephone.

“That you, Ginger? Drummond again. I’ve got to have a talk with you.”

“Delighted, old boy. Come round now.”

“Not on your life,” said Drummond with a short laugh. “Things are much too serious for that. You’ve got to come and see me, but I don’t want you followed. When you go to the club for lunch go in as usual by the entrance in St. James’s Square. Walk straight through and leave the club at once by the ladies’ entrance in Pall Mall. Get into a taxi and drive to Heppel Street—Number 10.”

“Where the hell is Heppel Street?”

“Behind the British Museum. I’ll be waiting for you, and I’ll have a lunch of sorts ready.”

“All right,” came Ginger’s resigned voice.

“And should the necessity arise don’t forget that my name is Johnson and I’m a plumber.”

“May Allah help the drains. Right ho! old lad. I’ll be there. About one.”

Drummond replaced the receiver; so far so good. His next move must be to find out if his own house was being watched. It was almost a waste of time, but it was just possible that if they still believed him to be in France, they might not have bothered to do so. And if so, there were several things he would have liked to get hold of; in particular, a revolver, having left his other in Cannes.

“I’m off now, Marsh,” he said picking up his bag of tools. “See that Mr. Longworth behaves himself. No, don’t open the door. I’m the plumber.”

He let himself out, and standing on the doorstep, he proceeded to fill a singularly offensive pipe. His eyes darted this way and that; there was no sign of anyone suspicious. Then once more picking up his bag, he slouched off down the street.

One glance was sufficient as he neared his own house; they had not neglected the obvious precaution. But Drummond feeling perfectly secure in his disguise, determined on a bold move. He walked up the steps and rang the bell.

“Is this Mrs. Rowbotham’s ’ouse?” he demanded as Denny opened the door.

“No, it ain’t.” Came a pause. “Good Lord! sir, I’d never have known you.”

“Dry up, you fool. I was told to come to Number 94…Mrs. Rowbotham. Bring my revolver to 10, Heppel Street tonight…Where is ’er blinking ’ouse?”

“And watch that bloke opposite.”

Drummond consulted a dirty note-book.

“There you are, see, Rowbotham. 94, Clarges Street. Bring some money too: twenty pounds.”

“This ain’t Clarges Street; it’s Half Moon Street. Very good, sir. Next street along there.”

“Thanks, mate.”

At the bottom of the steps he paused to relight his pipe and take stock of the man on the other side of the road. It was a tougher-looking specimen this time, who might have been a professional bruiser. But he evinced not the smallest interest in the passing plumber, and he was still on sentry go when Drummond boarded a bus in Piccadilly.

As a residential quarter Heppel Street is not to be recommended. A row of dingy houses mournfully confronts another row of even dingier ones. At each end was traffic and life, but nothing ever came through that stagnant backwater. The arrival of a taxi was an event; the only wheeled traffic was the milkman’s cart and an occasional tradesman’s van.

Number 10 differed only from Nos. 11 and 12 in one respect; it was owned by Mrs. Penny. And Mrs. Penny had been in the service of the Drummond family for many years in days gone by. Why, when she was pensioned off, she had decided to live in such a repulsive locality, was one of these mysteries which he had long given up trying to solve. It remained that she had done so, and the fact had proved very useful to him in the past.

A better hiding-place it would have been impossible to find. Mrs. Penny worshipped him with that touching and dog-like devotion so often displayed by old retainers on the children they have looked after. Torture would not have made her speak if she thought she was giving Master Hugh away. And though she sometimes expressed mild disapproval of his goings-on, as she called them, it was with a twinkle in her eye which quite belied her words.

One room in the house was permanently set aside for him. In it he kept half a dozen different disguises, and though he might not go near the place for a year he knew he would always find them in perfect condition whenever he wanted them.

So far as is known there had never been a Mr. Penny. It was a courtesy title which lent, as Drummond always assured her, an air of respectability to their relations. But though he used to pull her leg about it in private, should a neighbour come in he was punctilious in his reference to the late lamented. On one evening it is true he had made a slight break by mentioning the grave at Wandsworth, and ten minutes later changing the venue to Hampstead, but in the wild hilarity of high tea the lapse had passed unnoticed.

“Darling,” he called out as he entered the house, “put on your bonnet and shawl and trot off to the market. Get me two juicy, succulent steaks, and a nice bit of cheese. A gentleman is coming to lunch at one o’clock.”

“That beard, Master Hugh!” The old lady emerged from the kitchen. “Can’t you shave it off, lovey?”

“Not yet, Jane. Soon I hope it may be but a fantastic dream, but not yet. Let’s have some onions and fried potatoes, and if you can get some celery I’ll give you a kiss. And if any strange woman offers you a chocolate tell her she’s a hussy. You can’t be too careful these days.”

“Will you be wanting some more beer, Master Hugh?”

“How many bottles are there left?”

“I ordered a dozen, dearie, last night. But I can only find four.”

“Strange, Jane—very strange. How I can possibly have left as many as that is beyond me. Another dozen, darling.”

“Who’s the gentleman, Master Hugh? Do I know him?”

“No, Jane—you’ve never met him. He’s a Major Lawson.”

“Are you going on one of them wild pranks of yours again?”

“I am, my angel.”

“Do be careful, dearie. You know what bad colds you used to have as a baby. And if you get your feet wet—”

Drummond burst into a roar of laughter.

“I shall borrow your elastic-sided boots, you old darling. Now pop along, and don’t forget the celery.”

He watched her waddle down the street; then picking up the morning paper he glanced through it. It was duller than usual, and he was on the point of throwing it down when a small paragraph caught his eye.

MYSTERY MILLIONAIRE ARRIVAL IN LONDON

M. Serge Menalin, sometimes alluded to as the mystery millionaire, has arrived in London, accompanied by his beautiful wife. They have taken a suite at the Ritz-Carlton, and it is understood that they are staying there for two or three weeks. They have recently been in the South of France.

Drummond’s eyes narrowed; so Menalin had appeared on the scene in person, complete with lady. Did that mean that things were coming to a head?

He lit a cigarette and began to pace up and down the little room. If only there was some ray of light in the darkness, some pointer to act as a guide. He heard Mrs. Penny come in, and shortly after the wonderful smell of frying onions swept through room and house. But he was barely conscious of it; round and round in his brain turned the same unanswered question—what was at the bottom of it all?

A taxi drawing up outside brought him to the window; it was Ginger Lawson arriving, and he went out into the hall to let him in.

“Heavens above! old man,” cried that outraged officer, pointing a finger at his chin, “why the grouse moor?”

“All in good time, Ginger. I want to make quite sure you haven’t been followed.”

Drummond was peering through the curtains, but there was no one in sight. And at length he came back into the room.

“I carried out your instructions,” said Lawson. “Though what the devil anyone should want to follow me for is beyond me.”

“They followed the Chief all right, didn’t they?”

“The swine,” cried Lawson savagely. “If I could catch those devils…”

“From what I read in the papers you’re never likely to. When was the funeral?”

“The day before yesterday. What on earth is it all about, Hugh?”

Mrs. Penny came bustling in with the steaks.

“Jane,” cried Drummond, “this is Major Lawson. Short for antimacassar Jane, old boy. She has a passion for antimacassars which oversteps the bounds of decency. Put everything down, darling, and half a dozen bottles of beer and I’ll shout when we’re ready for the cheese.”

“I got the celery, Master Hugh.”

“Very good girl. Now, Ginger,” he went on seriously as the old lady left the room. “Let’s get down to things. Young Cranmer has, of course, told you about the show at the villa. Now have you made anything out of that mechanical device?”

“I sent it to an expert at the Yard,” said Lawson. “And the utmost he could say was that as the thing stood it could fulfil no purpose at all. But that with the insertion of a spring it could be wound up just as a clock is wound up. Further, that it contained the additional mechanism which you only find in an alarum clock—that’s to say it could be set to go off at a given time.”

“Strange,” said Drummond thoughtfully. “In conjunction with that fruit tin. And Jimmy’s cryptic utterance.”

“Are you playing with the idea that it is some sort of bomb that is intended?”

“Impossible to do otherwise.”

“Then why go to all the bother of obtaining a proprietary brand of fruit tin? Any old tin would do.”

“There’s one very good reason, Ginger, so it seems to me. It’s a stock size. There can be no mistake about its dimensions. And if these bombs are being manufactured in large quantities, possibly in different parts of the country, it might be most important to ensure that they were identical.”

“But, good Lord! man—” began Lawson incredulously and Drummond held up his hand.

“I don’t know if Ronald put it in his letter, but there was one remark that poor old Jimmy made to his girl friend out there that sticks in my memory. He said it was a plot which out-Vernes Jules Verne. And Jimmy was not an alarmist.”

“That’s true,” agreed Lawson.

“You saw, didn’t you, that Menalin has arrived in London complete with wife?”

“I did.” Lawson pushed away his plate and stared thoughtfully at the fire. “By the way,” he said suddenly, “who is this man Gasdon you were talking about on the phone?”

“An Englishman we met in Nice, again after Ronald wrote that letter. And full value, Ginger. He advanced a very remarkable theory. He suggested the possibility of a sudden devastating attack on England, financed, controlled and directed by the Reds.”

“Rot, old boy; rot. We have accurate information of the whole of their movement here in England. It’s blah, blah, and talk from the word ‘go.’”

“Here in England—perhaps. Gasdon’s theory is that the thing might be engineered from outside, and be under the control of this man Menalin.”

“He hates us, of course. We know that. But what could be his object?”

Drummond shrugged his shoulders.

“Ask me another. There I’m out of my depth. But it seems to me that there are quite a number of people in Europe who would not be sorry to see us down and out.”

“That is perfectly true. At the same time, old boy, the whole idea seems most terribly far-fetched.”

“That was my first reaction, but I’ve been thinking it over since. And now I’m not so sure. We’re in a pretty helpless condition, Ginger.”

“Absolutely helpless, I agree. True at long last we’re re-arming, but most of our ships are antiquated, and as far as planes are concerned we’re swamped for numbers.”

“It’s a funny thing,” said Drummond thoughtfully, “but the very first night the Chief put me on to this job, when I was round at the Golden Boot, I had a most extraordinary experience. I suppose it only lasted a second or two, but it was the most vivid thing I have ever known. For a space I was actually back in France, with the flares lobbing up close to and the stink of death all round. The room had gone, the band had ceased. I heard the phit of a bullet; I heard the drone of a crump. And then as suddenly as it had come, it went.”

“An omen?” Lawson looked at him curiously. Drummond shrugged his shoulders again.

“I’m not a fanciful sort of bloke,” he said, “but I wonder. Something pretty damnable is in the wind, Ginger. And the trouble, as I said to Algy, is that, officially, we haven’t got a leg to stand on.”

“Certainly not enough for the police to act.”

“It would be fatal, Ginger, absolutely fatal. This has got to be done privately. The last thing we want to do is to arouse their suspicions. I’m hoping they think I’m still in France, but I’m not banking on it.”

“Well, old boy, what do you want me to do?”

“Be the link, Ginger, between me and officialdom. And if anything happens to me—act immediately. I’ll keep you posted in whatever I may find out. If Ronald or Gasdon ring you up tell ’em how matters stand, but be very sure that you’re speaking to the right man. You know Ronald’s voice, but you don’t know Gasdon’s, and they are quite capable of supplying a substitute. And don’t forget that you’re probably a marked man yourself.”

Mrs. Penny appeared at the door.

“Are you ready for the cheese, Master Hugh?”

“We are, my pet. And the steak was delicious.” The old lady beamed all over her face.

“Would you like a glass of red currant wine with your cheese?” she demanded.

“Jane darling,” said Drummond. “I hate to hurt your feelings, but I cannot tell a lie. I can think of nothing I should abominate more.”

“You used to be very fond of it when you were small,” she cried indignantly.

“There you are, Ginger. There you see the woman who first set my toddling footsteps on the slippery path of drink. Away, temptress, and produce the celery.”

Lawson glanced at his watch.

“I must be getting back, old boy. But I understand the position, and I’ll do just what you’ve suggested. Anyway—here’s luck.”

He raised his tankard and drained it, then he rose to his feet.

“No, I won’t have any cheese. I’m late already, and this is a day’s march from the War House. Goodbye, Mrs. Penny, and thank you so much for a delightful lunch. So long, Hugh, I’ll let myself out.”

“A good fellow, Jane,” said Drummond as the front door banged. “And now, my love, I am going upstairs to sleep. I have a premonition that during the next week or so I’ll have to go a bit short of that commodity.”

“When are you going, dearie?”

“Tomorrow, Jane. Denny is bringing one or two trifles round for me tonight, and you can give him some of your red currant wine. I wonder,” he added half to himself, “what luck Algy has had.”

He was to find out next morning. For at that very moment Algy Longworth was handing in an advertisement for the Agony column of the Morning Post. And it ran as follows:

“HUD. Filly agrees postpone raspberry. Will be there strong beginning. P.”

Which was not difficult to interpret. Evidently Molly Castledon was going to play the game, and further would be at Birchington Towers for the week-end.