“Three and two make five,” said Phyllis, half laughing and half crying, “and one makes six. I worked it out tonight, and it all came right.”
She went on aimlessly for a while in the same strain, till the Russian swung round on her with a snarl, and told her to shut her mouth. He was talking in low tones to Peterson, and, with one searching look at Hugh, she relapsed into silence. There was no hysteria in that look, and his heart began to pound suddenly in his excitement. For 3256 Mayfair was the number of Peter Darrell’s telephone, and she could only mean one thing—that she had got through to Peter before she stopped the car. And if that was so there was still hope, if only he could gain time. Time was the essential factor: time he must have somehow. And how was he to get it? Not by the quiver of an eyelid did the expression on his face change: he still smoked placidly on, looking with resigned boredom at the three men who were now conferring earnestly together. But his mind was racing madly, as he turned things over this way and that. Time: he must gain time.
If his supposition was right, Carl Peterson was in ignorance of the fact that a message had been got through. And in that lay the only chance. Just as in Bridge there comes a time when to win the game one must place a certain card with one of the opponents and play accordingly—so that card must be placed in Peterson’s hand. If the placing has been done correctly you take your only chance of winning: if the placing is wrong you lose anyway. And so, starting with that as a foundation, he tried to work out the play of the hand. Peter Darrell knew, and Peterson was in ignorance of the fact.
First—how long did he want? Two hours at least: three if possible. To round up all the gang and get cars in the middle of the night would take time—two hours at the very least. Secondly—and there was the crux—how was he going to get such a respite? For this time he could not hope for another mistake. It was the end, and he knew it.
No trace of mercy showed in the faces of the three men opposite him. He caught occasional remarks, and after a while he realized what the matter under discussion was. Evidently the redheaded Russian was in favour of killing him violently, and at once—and it was Count Zadowa who was advocating caution, while Peterson sat between them listening impassively, with his eyes fixed on Drummond.
“Bayonet the pair of them,” snarled Yulowski at length, as if tired of arguing the point. “I’ll do the job if you’re too squeamish, and will bury ’em both with the rest of the bodies in the grounds somewhere. Who’s to know: who’s to find out?”
But Count Zadowa shook his head vigorously.
“That’s just where you’re wrong, my friend. No one would see you do it more willingly than I—but you’ve got to remember the rest of his gang.”
His voice died away to a whisper, and Drummond could only catch disjointed fragments.
“I know the Black Gang,” Zadowa was saying. “You don’t. And they know me.” Then he heard the word “accident” repeated several times, and at length Yulowski shrugged his shoulders and leaned back in his chair.
“Have it your own way,” he remarked. “I don’t care how they’re killed, as long as they are killed. If you think it’s necessary to pretend there has been an accident, we’ll have an accident. The only point is what sort of an accident.”
But Count Zadowa had apparently not got as far as that, and relapsed into silence. His powers of imagination were not sufficiently great to supply the necessary details, and it was left to Carl Peterson to decide matters.
“Nothing is easier,” he remarked suavely, and his eyes were still fixed on Drummond. “We are discussing, my young friend,” he continued, raising his voice slightly, “the best way of getting rid of you and your charming wife. I regret that she must share your fate, but I see no way out of it. To keep her permanently about the premises would be too great an inconvenience; and since we can’t let her go without involving ourselves in unpleasant notoriety, I fear—as I said—that she must join you. My friend Yulowski wishes to bayonet you both, and bury you in the grounds. He has done a lot of that sort of thing in his time, and I believe I am right in stating that his hand has not lost its cunning since leaving Russia. A little out of practice, perhaps, but the result is the same. On the other hand Count Zadowa, whom you know of old, quite rightly points out that there are the members of your ridiculous gang, who know about him, and might very easily find out about me. And when in a few days your motorcar is hoisted out of the water, and is traced by the registration number as being yours, he fears that not only may he find things very awkward, but that a certain amount of unenviable and undesirable limelight may be thrown on this part of the country, and incidentally on this house. You follow our difficulties so far?”
“With the utmost clarity, Theo,” answered Drummond pleasantly.
“It’s always such a pleasure talking to you,” continued Peterson. “You’re so unexpectedly quick on the uptake. Well then—to proceed. Though it will not interfere with me personally—as I leave England in four hours—it will interfere considerably with my plans if the police come poking their noses into this house. We like to hide our light under a bushel, Captain Drummond: we prefer to do our little bit unnoticed.
