I glanced at Drummond: his hand was feeling for the window-catch. With a little click it went back, and once more he crouched motionless. Again the stair creaked, and yet again, and I thought I heard men whispering outside the door. Suddenly with a crash that almost startled me out of my senses Drummond flung up the sash and the whispering ceased.
“Stand by to jump, when I give the word,” muttered Drummond, “and then run like hell. There’s about a dozen of ’em.”
He was crouching below the level of the windowsill; dimly on his other side I could see Toby Sinclair. And then the whispering started again; men were coming into the room. There was a stifled curse as someone stumbled against a chair, and at that moment Drummond shouted “Jump.”
Just for a second I almost obeyed him, for my leg was over the sill. And then I heard him fighting desperately in the room behind. He was covering our retreat, a thing which no man could allow.
There may have been a dozen in all: I know there were three of them on me. Chairs went over as we fought on in the dark, and all the time I was thinking of the liquid on the floor and the dead man’s face and what would happen if we touched it. And as if in answer to my thoughts there came Drummond’s voice.
“I have one of you here powerless,” he said. “In this room is a dead man who died you know how. Unless my other two friends are allowed to go at once I will put this man’s hand against the dead man’s cheek. And that means death.”
“Who is that speaking?” came another voice out of the darkness.
“Great Scott!” Drummond’s gasp of surprise was obvious. “Is that you, MacIver?”
“Switch on the lights,” returned the other voice angrily.
And there stood my burly thickset man of the Three Cows.
“What is the meaning of this damned foolishness?” he snarled. He glared furiously at Drummond and then at me. “Why are you masquerading in that rig, Mr. Stockton?” he went on suspiciously. And then his eyes fell on the dead man. “How did this happen?”
But Drummond sprawling in a chair was laughing helplessly.
“Rich,” he remarked, “extremely rich. Not to say ripe and fruity, old friend of my youth. Sorry, Mac”—the detective was glowering at him furiously—“but my style of conversation has become infected by a gent with whom I dallied awhile earlier in the evening.”
“I didn’t recognise you at the Three Cows, Captain Drummond,” said MacIver ominously.
“Nor I you,” conceded Drummond. “Otherwise we’d have had a spot together.”
“But I think it’s only right to warn you that you’re mixing yourself up in a very serious matter. Into Mr. Stockton’s conduct I propose to inquire later.” Once again he looked at me suspiciously. “Just at the moment, however, I should like to know how this man died.”
Drummond nodded and grew serious.
“Quite right, MacIver. We were in the next room—all three of us … Good Lord! I wonder what’s happened to rat face. You see, an unfortunate little bloke had been hanged in the next room. …”
“What?” shouted MacIver, darting out into the passage. We followed, crowding after him, only to stand in amazement at the door. The light was still burning; the rope still lay on the carpet, but of the man we had cut down from the ceiling there was no sign. He had absolutely disappeared.
“Well, I’m damned,” muttered Drummond. “This beats cockfighting. Wouldn’t have missed it for a thousand. Look out! Don’t go near that pool on the floor. That’s some of the juice.”
He stared round the room, and then he lit a cigarette.
“There’s no good you looking at me like that, MacIver,” he went on quietly. “There’s the hook, my dear fellow; there’s the rope. I’m not lying. We cut him down, and we laid him on the floor just there. He was nearly dead, but not quite. For ten minutes or so I put him through artificial respiration—then Mr. Stockton took it on. And it was while he was doing it—kneeling down beside him—that that bit of curtain stuff moved. I’d be careful how you touch it; there may be some of that liquid on it.”
He drew it back, covering his hand with the tablecloth.
“You see there’s a hole in the wall communicating with the next room. Through that hole the man who is now lying dead next door let drive with his diabolical liquid at Mr. Stockton. By the mercy of Allah he rolled over in time, and the stuff hit the carpet—you can see it there, that dark stain. So then it was my turn, and I let drive with my revolver.”
“We heard a shot,” said MacIver.
“That’s his syringe, or whatever you like to call the implement,” continued Drummond.
“And it obviously wasn’t empty, for some of the contents splashed back in his face. The result you see in the next room, and I can’t say I regret it.”
“But this man whom you say was hanging? What on earth has become of him?”
“Search me,” said Drummond. “The only conclusion I can come to is that he recovered after we had left the room, and decided to clear out. When all is said and done he can’t have had an overpowering affection for the house, and he probably heard the shindy in the next room and did a bolt.”
MacIver grunted: he was obviously in an extremely bad temper. And the presence of his large group of stolid subordinates, who were evidently waiting for orders in a situation that bewildered them, did not tend to soothe him.
“Go and search the house,” he snapped. “Every room. And if you find anything suspicious, don’t touch it, but call me.”
He waited till they had all left the room; then he turned to Drummond.
“Now, sir,” he said. “I want to get to the bottom of this. In the first place, what brought you to this
