“The point is—” said Emanuel, and at that moment Johnny took a long sip from the glass.
The liquid had hardly reached his throat when he strove vainly to reject it. The harsh tang of it he recognised, and, flinging the glass to the floor, jerked out his gun.
And then some tremendous force within him jerked at his brain, and the pistol dropped from his paralysed hand.
Peter was on his feet, staring from one to the other.
“What have you done?”
He leapt forward, but before he could make a move, Emanuel sprang at him like a cat. He tried to fight clear, but he was curiously lethargic and weak. A vicious fist struck him on the jaw, and he went down like a log.
“Got you!” hissed Emanuel, glaring down at his enemy. “Got you, Peter, my boy! Never been in boob, have you? I’ll give you a taste of it!”
Jeffrey Legge stooped and jerked open the door of the cupboard, and a man came stooping into the light. It was a catlike Pietro, grinning from ear to ear in sheer enjoyment of the part he had played. Emanuel dropped his hand on his shoulder.
“Good boy,” he said. “The right stuff for the right man, eh? To every man his dope, Jeff. I knew that this Johnny Gray was going to be the hardest, and if I’d taken your advice and given them both a knockout, we’d have only knocked out one. Now they know why the lights went out. Pick ’em up.”
The little half-caste must have been enormously strong, for he lifted Peter without an effort and propped him into an armchair. This done, he picked up the younger man and laid him on the sofa, took a little tin box from his pocket, and, filling a hypodermic syringe from a tiny phial, looked round for instructions.
Jeffrey nodded, and the needle was driven into the unfeeling flesh. This done, he lifted the eyelid of the drugged man and grinned again.
“He’ll be ready to move in half an hour,” he said. “My knockout doesn’t last longer.”
“Could you get him down the fire-escape into the yard?” asked Emanuel anxiously. “He’s a pretty heavy fellow, that Peter. You’ll have to help him, Jeff, boy. The car’s in the yard. And, Jeff, don’t forget you’ve an engagement at two o’clock.”
His son nodded.
Again the half-caste swung up Peter Kane, and Jeffrey, holding the door wide, helped him to carry the unconscious man through the open window and down the steel stairway, though he needed very little help, for the strength of the man was enormous.
He came back, apparently unmoved by his effort, and hoisted Johnny on to his back. Again unassisted, he carried the young man to the waiting car below, and flung him into the car.
He was followed this time by Jeffrey, wrapped from head to foot in a long waterproof, a chauffeur’s cap pulled down over his eyes. They locked both doors of the machine, and Peitro opened the gate and glanced out. There were few people about, and the car swung out and sped at full speed toward Oxford Street.
Closing and locking the gate, the half-caste went up the stairs of the fire-escape two at a time and reported to his gratified master.
Emanuel was gathering the coats and hats of his two guests into a bundle. This done, he opened a cupboard and flung them in, and they immediately disappeared.
“Go down and burn them,” he said laconically. “You’ve done well, Pietro. There’s fifty for you tonight.”
“Good?” asked the other laconically.
Emanuel favoured him with his benevolent smile. He took the two glasses from which the men had drunk, and these followed the clothes. A careful search of the room brought to light no further evidence of their presence. Satisfied, Emanuel sat down and lit a long, thin cigar. His night’s work was not finished. Jeff had left to him what might prove the hardest of all the tasks.
From a small cupboard he took a telephone, and pushed in the plug at the end of a long flex. He had some time to wait for the number, but presently he heard a voice which he knew was Marney’s.
“Is that you, Marney?” he asked softly, disguising his voice so cleverly that the girl was deceived.
“Yes, daddy. Are you all right? I’ve been so worried about you.”
“Quite all right, darling. Johnny and I have made a very interesting discovery. Will you tell Barney to go to bed, and will you wait up for me – open the door yourself?”
“Is Johnny coming back with you?”
“No, no, darling; I’m coming alone.”
“Are you sure everything is all right?” asked the anxious voice.
“Now, don’t worry, my pet. I shall be with you at two o’clock. When you hear the car stop at the gate, come out. I don’t want to come into the house. I’ll explain everything to you.”
“But—”
“Do as I ask you, darling,” he said, and before she could reply had rung off.
But could Jeff make it? He would like to go himself, but that would mean the employment of a chauffeur, and he did not know one he could trust. He himself was not strong enough to deal with the girl, and, crowning impossibility, motorcar driving was a mystery – that was one of the accomplishments which a long stay in Dartmoor had denied to him.
But could Jeff make it? He took a pencil from his pocket and worked out the times on the white tablecloth. Satisfied, he put away his pencil, and was pouring out a glass of champagne when there was a gentle tap-tap-tap at the door. He looked up in surprise. The man had orders not under any circumstances to come near Room 13, and it was his duty to keep the whole passage clear until he received orders to the contrary.
Tap-tap-tap.
“Come in,” he said.
The door opened. A man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in shabby evening clothes; his bow was clumsily tied; one stud was missing from his white shirt-front.
“Am I intruding upon your little party?” he asked timidly.
Emanuel said nothing. For a long time he sat staring at this strange apparition. As if unconscious of the amazement and terror he had caused, the visitor sought to read just his frayed shirt-cuffs, which hung almost to the knuckles of his hands. And then:
“Come in, Mr. Reeder,” said Emanuel Legge a little breathlessly.
Chapter XXVII
Mr. Reeder sidled into the room apologetically, closing the door behind him.
“All alone, Mr. Legge?” he asked. “I thought you had company?”
“I had some friends, but they’ve gone.”
“Your son gone, too?” Reeder stared helplessly from one corner of the room to the other. “Dear me, this is a disappointment, a great disappointment.”
Emanuel was thinking quickly. In all probability the shabby detective had been watching the front of the house, and would know that they had not left that way. He took a bold step.
“They left a quarter of an hour ago. Peter and Johnny went down the fire-escape – my boy’s car was in the yard. We never like to have a car in front of the club premises; people talk so much. And after the publicity we’ve had—”
Mr. Reeder checked him with a mild murmur of agreement.
“That was the car, was it? I saw it go and wondered what it was all about – Number XC. 9712, blue-painted limousine – Daimler – I may be wrong, but it seemed