“There it is,” said Drummond, pointing to a heavy steel door flush with the wall, on the opposite side of the room to the big one containing Lakington’s ill-gotten treasure. “And it doesn’t seem to me that you’re going to open that one by pressing any buttons in the wall.”
“Then, Captain,” drawled the American, “I guess we’ll open it otherwise. It’s sure plumb easy. I’ve been getting gay with some of the household effects, and this bar of soap sort of caught my eye.”
From his pocket he produced some ordinary yellow soap, and the others glanced at him curiously.
“I’ll just give you a little demonstration,” he continued, “of how our swell cracksmen over the water open safes when the owners have been so tactless as to remove the keys.”
Dexterously he proceeded to seal up every crack in the safe door with the soap, leaving a small gap at the top unsealed. Then round that gap he built what was to all intents and purposes a soap dam.
“If any of you boys,” he remarked to the intent group around him, “think of taking this up as a means of livelihood, be careful of this stuff.” From another pocket he produced an india-rubber bottle. “Don’t drop it on the floor if you want to be measured for your coffin. There’ll just be a boot and some bits to bury.”
The group faded away, and the American laughed.
“Might I ask what it is?” murmured Hugh politely from the neighbourhood of the door.
“Sure thing, Captain,” returned the detective, carefully pouring some of the liquid into the soap dam. “This is what I told you I’d got—gelignite: or, as the boys call it, the oil. It runs right round the cracks of the door inside the soap.” He added a little more, and carefully replaced the stopper in the bottle. “Now a detonator and a bit of fuse, and I guess we’ll leave the room.”
“It reminds one of those dreadful barbarians the Sappers, trying to blow up things,” remarked Toby, stepping with some agility into the garden; and a moment or two later the American joined them.
“It may be necessary to do it again,” he announced, and as he spoke the sound of a dull explosion came from inside the house. “On the other hand,” he continued, going back into the room and quietly pulling the safe door open, “it may not. There’s your book, Captain.”
He calmly relit his cigar as if safe opening was the most normal undertaking, and Drummond lifted out the heavy ledger and placed it on the table.
“Go out in relays, boys,” he said to the group of men by the door, “and get your breakfasts. I’m going to be busy for a bit.”
He sat down at the table and began to turn the pages. The American was amusing himself with the faked Chinese cabinet; Toby and Peter sprawled in two chairs, unashamedly snoring. And after a while the detective put down the cabinet, and coming over, sat at Drummond’s side.
Every page contained an entry—sometimes half a dozen—of the same type, and as the immensity of the project dawned on the two men their faces grew serious.
“I told you he was a big man, Captain,” remarked the American, leaning back in his chair and looking at the open book through half-closed eyes.
“One can only hope to Heaven that we’re in time,” returned Hugh. “Damn it, man,” he exploded, “surely the police must know of this!”
The American closed his eyes still more.
“Your English police know most things,” he drawled, “but you’ve sort of got some peculiar laws in your country. With us, if we don’t like a man—something happens. He kind o’ ceases to sit up and take nourishment. But over here, the more scurrilous he is, the more he talks bloodshed and riot, the more constables does he get to guard him from catching cold.”
The soldier frowned.
“Look at this entry here,” he grunted. “That blighter is a Member of Parliament. What’s he getting four payments of a thousand pounds for?”
“Why, surely, to buy some nice warm underclothes with,” grinned the detective. Then he leaned forward and glanced at the name. “But isn’t he some pot in one of your big Trade Unions?”
“Heaven knows,” grunted Hugh. “I only saw the blighter once, and then his shirt was dirty.” He turned over a few more pages thoughtfully. “Why, if these are the sums of money Peterson has blown, the man must have spent a fortune. Two thousand pounds to Ivolsky. Incidentally, that’s the bloke who had words with the whatnot on the stairs.”
In silence they continued their study of the book. The whole of England and Scotland had been split up into districts, regulated by population rather than area, and each district appeared to be in charge of one director. A varying number of sub-districts in every main division had each their sub-director and staff, and at some of the names Drummond rubbed his eyes in amazement. Briefly, the duties of every man were outlined: the locality in which his work lay, his exact responsibilities, so that overlapping was reduced to a minimum. In each case the staff was small, the work largely that of organisation. But in each district there appeared ten or a dozen names of men who were euphemistically described as lecturers; while at the end of the book there appeared nearly fifty names—both of men and women—who were proudly denoted as first-class general lecturers. And if Drummond had rubbed his eyes at some of the names on the organising staffs, the first-class general lecturers deprived him of speech.
“Why,” he spluttered after a moment, “a lot of these people’s names are absolute household words in the country. They may be swine—they probably are. Thank God! I’ve very rarely met
