The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper

you know my decision in due course.”

      He bustled out of the office, and Hugh sank into a chair with a sigh of relief.

      “The old boy’s clothes seem full of body this morning. Tum-tum,” he remarked as the door closed. “Indigestion—or don’t the elastic-sided boots fit?”

      “Do you know what we have been discussing, Hugh?” said the other quietly.

      “Not an earthly, old man. Was it that new one about the girl in the grocer’s shop?”

      “We’ve been discussing the leader of the Black Gang,” said Sir Bryan, with his eyes fixed on the man sprawling in the chair opposite.

      Not by the twitch of a muscle did Drummond’s face change: he seemed engrossed in the task of selecting a cigarette.

      “You’ve been in Deauville, haven’t you, Hugh—the last few days?”

      “Quite right old man. All among the fairies.”

      “You don’t know that a burglary has taken place at your house in London?”

      “A burglary!” Drummond sat up with a jerk. “Why the deuce hasn’t Denny told me?”

      “A very small one,” said Sir Bryan, “committed by myself, and perhaps he doesn’t know. I took—your typewriter.”

      For a few moments Hugh Drummond stared at him in silence: then his lips began to twitch. “I see,” he said at length. “I meant to have that defective ‘s’ repaired.”

      “You took me in, old boy,” continued Sir Bryan, “utterly and absolutely. If it hadn’t been for one of the men at Maybrick Hall turning King’s evidence, I don’t believe I should have found out now.”

      “Well, what are you going to do about it?” asked Drummond after a pause.

      “Nothing. I was discussing the matter with Sir John this morning, and we both agreed that you either deserved penal servitude or a seat in the Cabinet. And since neither course commends itself to us, we have decided to do nothing. There are reasons, which you will appreciate, against any publicity at the moment. But, Hugh, the Black Gang must cease.”

      Drummond nodded. “Carried, nem. con; Tum-tum. It shall automatically dissolve today.”

      “And further,” continued Sir Bryan, “will you relieve my curiosity and tell me what sent Charles Latter mad?”

      “I did,” said Drummond grimly, “as I told that ass McIver over a cocktail at the Regency. He was plotting to blow up three thousand men’s employment, Tum-tum, with gun-cotton. It was at his instigation that four men were killed in Manchester as the result of another outrage. So I lashed him to his bed, and underneath him I put what he thought was a slab of gun-cotton with fuse attached. It wasn’t gun-cotton: it was wood. And he went mad.” He paused for a moment, and then continued. “Now, one for you. Why did you let Carl Peterson escape? I nearly killed him that night, after I’d bayoneted the Russian.”

      “How did you know he had escaped?” demanded Sir Bryan.

      Hugh felt in his pocket and produced a note.

      “Read it,” he said, passing it across the desk.

      “It was a pity you forgot that there might be another key to the padlock, Captain Drummond,” it ran. “And Giuseppi is an old friend of mine. I quite enjoyed our single.”

      Sir Bryan returned the note without a word, and Drummond replaced it in his pocket.

      “That’s twice,” he said quietly, and suddenly the Director of Criminal Investigation, than whom no shrewder judge of men lived, saw and understood the real Drummond below the surface of inanity—the real Drummond, cool, resourceful, and inflexible of will—the real Drummond who was capable of organising and carrying through anything and everything once he had set his mind to it.

      “That’s twice,” he repeated, still in the same quiet tone. “Next time—I win.”

      “But no more Black Gang, Hugh,” said the other warningly.

      Drummond waved a huge hand. “I have spoken, Tum-tum. A rose by any other name, perhaps—but no more Black Gang.” He rose and grinned at his friend. “It’s deuced good of you, old man, and all that…”

      The eyes of the two men met.

      “If it was found out, I should be looking for another job,” remarked Sir Bryan dryly. “And perhaps I should not get the two thousand pounds which I understand the widow of the late lamented Ginger Martin has received anonymously.”

      “Shut up,” said Drummond awkwardly.

      “Delighted, old man,” returned the other. “But the police in that district are demanding a rise of pay. She has been drunk and disorderly five times in the last week.”

      To those strong-minded individuals who habitually read the entrancing chit-chat of Mrs. Tattle in The Daily Observer, there appeared the following morning a delightful description of the last big fancy-dress ball of the season held at the Albert Hall the preceding night. Much of it may be passed over as unworthy of perpetuation, but the concluding paragraph had its points of interest.

      “Half-way through the evening,” she wrote in her breezy way, “just as I was consuming an ice in one hand with the Duchess of Sussex, and nibbling the last of the asparagus in the other with the Princess of Montevideo, tastefully disguised as an umbrella-stand, we were treated to the thrill of the evening. It seemed as if suddenly there sprang up all round the room a mass of mysterious figures clothed from head to foot in black. The dear Princess grew quite hysterical, and began to wonder if it was a ‘hold up’ as she so graphically described it. In fact, for safety, she secreted the glass-headed parasol—the only remaining heirloom of the Royal House—and which formed a prominent part of her costume, behind a neighbouring palm. Whispers of the mysterious Black Gang were heard on all sides, but we were soon reassured. Belovedst, they all carried champagne bottles! Wasn’t it too, too thrilling!! And after a while they all formed up in a row, and at a word from the leader—a huge man, my dears, puffectly ’uge—they discharged the corks in a volley at one of the boxes, which sheltered no less than two celebrities—Sir Bryan Johnstone, the chief of all the policemen, and Sir John Haverton, the Home Secretary. It is rumoured that one of the corks became embedded in Sir John’s right eye—but rumour is a lying jade, is not she? Anyway loud sounds of revelry and mirth were heard proceeding from the box, and going a little later to powder my nose I distinctly saw Sir John being taught the intricacies of the fox-trot by the huge man in the passage. Presumably the cork had by then been removed from his eye, but one never knows, does one? Anything can happen at an Albert Hall ball, especially at the end of the season.”