“What on earth do you mean?” I remarked, staring at him blankly.
“10 Ashworth Gardens,” he repeated, “wherever that may be. Shortly we will get into a taxi and follow Toby there.”
“I say, do you mind explaining?” I demanded. “Is that what that tout fellow told you?”
He laughed again, and hailed a passing taxi.
“Victoria Station, mate—Brighton Line. And ’op it. Now,” he continued, as the man turned his car, “I will endeavour to elucidate. Just before Mr. Joe Bloggs gave me a whisky shower-bath in the ear, and told me that my uncle’s horse, which was scratched late this afternoon, was the winner, our two friends on my right mentioned that address. They mentioned it again when I changed my position and stood next to them. Now my experience is that people don’t shout important addresses at one another in public—at least not people of that type. That’s why I said that it struck me as being a little too blatant. However, it may have been that they thought they were perfectly safe, so that it’s worth trying.”
He put his head through the window.
“I’ve changed my mind, mate. I want to go to Hashworth Gardens. Know ’em?”
“Know my face,” answered the other. “Of course I do. Up Euston way.”
“Well, stop afore you get there, and me and my pal will walk.”
“So that was what you wrote on the paper and showed Sinclair,” I exclaimed as he resumed his seat.
“Bright lad,” said Drummond, and relapsed into silence.
For a while I hesitated as to whether I should tell him of my suspicions, but I still felt a bit riled at what I regarded as his offhand manner. So I didn’t, and we sat in silence till Piccadilly Circus and Shaftesbury Avenue were left behind us.
“Look here, Stockton,” said Drummond suddenly, “this is your palaver principally, so you’d better decide. We’re being followed.”
He pointed at the little mirror in front of the driver.
“I rather expected we might be, and now I’m sure. So what do you propose to do? It’s only fair to warn you that we may be putting our noses into a deliberate and carefully prepared trap.”
“What would you do yourself if I wasn’t here?” I remarked.
“Put my nose there, of course,” he answered.
“Then mine goes too,” I said.
“Good man,” he cried. “You’ll be one of the firm in no time.”
“Tell me,” I said, laughing, “do you do this sort of thing often? I mean in this case, for no rhyme or reason as far as I can see, you are running the risk of certain death.”
“Oh! I dunno,” he answered casually. “Probably not as bad as that. Might lead to a scrap or something of that sort, which helps to pass away the time. And, really, when you come to think of it, Stockton, this show was positively asking for it. When a man whose lunch you have spoilt literally bawls an address in your ear, it’s not decent to disregard it. Incidentally, I wonder if little rat face will have the gall to come and demand his fiver tomorrow.”
The car pulled up and the driver stuck his head round the door.
“Second on the left up that road,” he said, and we watched his red tail lamp disappearing down the almost deserted street. At the far end just before a turn stood another stationary car, and Drummond gave a sudden little chuckle.
“Our followers, unless I’m much mistaken. Let’s get a move on, Stockton, and see what there is to be seen before they arrive.”
He swung off down the turning, and at the corner of Ashworth Gardens a figure detached itself from the shadows. It was Toby Sinclair.
“Fourth house down on the left, Hugh,” he said. “And there’s something damned funny going on there. I haven’t seen the sign of a soul, but there’s the most extraordinary sort of sound coming from a room on the first floor. Just as if a sack was swinging against the blind.”
It was an eerie sort of noise, such as you may hear sometimes in old houses in the country when the wind is blowing. Creak, shuffle, thud—creak, shuffle, thud, and every now and then a sort of drumming noise such as a man’s heels might make against woodwork. For a while we stood listening, and once it seemed to me that the blind bulged outwards with the pressure of something behind it.
“My God! you fellows,” said Drummond quietly, “that’s no sack. I’m going in, trap or no trap; there’s foul play inside that room.”
Without a second’s hesitation he walked up the steps and tried the front door. It was open, and Sinclair whistled under his breath.
“It is a trap, Hugh,” he whispered.
“Stop here, both of you,” he answered. “I’m going to see.”
We stood there waiting in the hall, and I have no hesitation in confessing that the back of my scalp was beginning to prick uncomfortably. The silence was absolute: the noise had entirely ceased. Just once a stair creaked above us, and then very faintly we heard the sound of a door opening. Simultaneously the noise began again—thud, shuffle, creak—thud, shuffle, creak, and the next moment we heard Drummond’s voice.
“Come up—both of you.”
We dashed up the stairs, and into the room with the open door. At first I could hardly see in the faint light from a street lamp outside, and then things became clearer. I made out Drummond holding something in his arms by the window, and then Toby flashed on his torch.
“Cut the rope,” said Drummond curtly. “I’ve freed him from the strain.”
It was Toby who cut it: I just stood there feeling dazed and sick. For the sack was no sack, but our rat-faced man of the morning. He was hanging from a hook in the ceiling, and his face was glazed and purple, while his eyes stared horribly. His hands were lashed behind his back and a handkerchief had been thrust into his mouth.
“Lock the door,” ordered Drummond, as he laid the poor devil down on the floor.
