Below he could still hear Jerry hiccuping gently, and explaining to the pro … pro … pritor that he pershonally would repair … inshisted on repairing … any and every gateposht he posshessed. … And then he reached the garden. …
Everything had fallen out exactly as he had hoped, but had hardly dared to expect. He heard Peterson’s voice, calm and suave as usual, answering Jerry. From the garden in front came the dreadful sound of a duet by Algy and Peter. Not a soul was in sight; the back of the house was clear. All that he had to do was to walk quietly through the wicket-gate to The Larches with his semiconscious burden, get to his car, and drive off. It all seemed so easy that he laughed. …
But there were one or two factors that he had forgotten, and the first and most important one was the man upstairs. The window was thrown up suddenly, and the man leaned out waving his arms. He was still gasping with the strength of the ammonia, but Hugh saw him clearly in the light from the room behind. And as he cursed himself for a fool in not having tied him up, from the trees close by there came the sharp clang of metal.
With a quick catch in his breath he began to run. The two men who had rushed past him before he had entered the house, and whom, save for a passing thought, he had disregarded, had become the principal danger. For he had heard that clang before; he remembered Jem Smith’s white horror-struck face, and then his sigh of relief as the thing—whatever it was—was shut in its cage. And now it was out, dodging through the trees, let loose by the two men.
Turning his head from side to side, peering into the gloom, he ran on. What an interminable distance it seemed to the gate … and even then … He heard something crash into a bush on his right, and give a snarl of anger. Like a flash he swerved into the undergrowth on the left.
Then began a dreadful game. He was still some way from the fence, and he was hampered at every step by the man slung over his back. He could hear the thing blundering about searching for him, and suddenly, with a cold feeling of fear, he realised that the animal was in front of him—that his way to the gate was barred. The next moment he saw it. …
Shadowy, indistinct, in the darkness, he saw something glide between two bushes. Then it came out into the open and he knew it had seen him, though as yet he could not make out what it was. Grotesque and horrible it crouched on the ground, and he could hear its heavy breathing, as it waited for him to move.
Cautiously he lowered the millionaire to the ground, and took a step forward. It was enough; with a snarl of fury the crouching form rose and shambled towards him. Two hairy arms shot out towards his throat, he smelt the brute’s foetid breath, hot and loathsome, and he realised what he was up against. It was a partially grown gorilla.
For a full minute they fought in silence, save for the hoarse grunts of the animal as it tried to tear away the man’s hand from its throat, and then encircle him with his powerful arms. And with his brain cold as ice Hugh saw his danger and kept his head. It couldn’t go on: no human being could last the pace, whatever his strength. And there was only one chance of finishing it quickly, the possibility that the grip taught him by Olaki would serve with a monkey as it did with a man.
He shifted his left thumb an inch or two on the brute’s throat, and the gorilla, thinking he was weakening, redoubled its efforts. But still those powerful hands clutched its throat; try as it would, it failed to make them budge. And then, little by little, the fingers moved, and the grip which had been tight before grew tighter still.
Back went its head; something was snapping in its neck. With a scream of fear and rage it wrapped its legs round Drummond, squeezing and writhing. And then suddenly there was a tearing snap, and the great limbs relaxed and grew limp.
For a moment the man stood watching the still quivering brute lying at his feet; then, with a gasp of utter exhaustion, he dropped on the ground himself. He was done—utterly cooked; even Peterson’s voice close behind scarcely roused him.
“Quite one of the most amusing entertainments I’ve seen for a long time.” The calm, expressionless voice made him look up wearily, and he saw that he was surrounded by men. The inevitable cigar glowed red in the darkness, and after a moment or two he scrambled unsteadily to his feet.
“I’d forgotten your damned menagerie, I must frankly confess,” he remarked. “What’s the party for?” He glanced at the men who had closed in round him.
“A guard of honour, my young friend,” said Peterson suavely, “to lead you to the house. I wouldn’t hesitate … it’s very foolish. Your friends have gone, and, strong as you are, I don’t think you can manage ten.”
Hugh commenced to stroll towards the house.
“Well, don’t leave the wretched Potts lying about. I dropped him over there.” For a moment the idea of making a dash for it occurred to him, but he dismissed it at once. The odds were too great to make the risk worth while, and in the centre of the group he and Peterson walked side by side.
“The last man whom poor Sambo had words with,” said Peterson reminiscently, “was found next day with his throat torn completely out.”
“A lovable little thing,” murmured Hugh. “I feel quite sorry at having spoilt his record.”
Peterson paused with his hand on the sitting-room
