“And if we neither hear nor see anything?” asked Jerningham. “How long are we to give you?”
They had resumed their normal positions, and Drummond thoughtfully lit a cigarette.
“I think, old boy,” he remarked, “that half-an-hour should be long enough. In fact,” he added, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, “I’m not at all certain it won’t be twenty-nine minutes too long. Let’s get on with it.”
We pocketed our masks and gauntlets and went downstairs. There was no turning back for me now: I was definitely committed to go through with it. But I have no hesitation in admitting that our taxi-drive seemed to me the shortest on record. We had two cars, and Drummond stopped them several hundred yards short of our objective. Then leading the way with me we walked in pairs to Jersey Street.
Number 13 was typical of all the houses in the neighbourhood—an ordinary drab London lodging-house of the cheaper type. But the landlady, when she finally emerged, was affability itself. The strong odour of gin that emerged with her showed that the rent had not been wasted, and led us to hope that sleep would shortly overcome her. At the moment it had merely made her thoroughly garrulous, and only the timely advent of an acute attack of hiccups stemmed the reminiscences of her girlhood’s happy days. But at last she went, and instantly Drummond was at the window peering through a chink in the blind.
“Lower the light, someone, and then come and reconnoitre. There’s the house facing you: there’s the wall. No lights: I wonder if the birds have flown. No, by Jove! I saw a gleam then from that upstairs window. There it is again.”
Sure enough a light was showing in one of the rooms, and I thought I saw a shadow move across the blind. Downstairs all was dark, and after a few moments’ inspection Drummond stepped back into the room.
“Come on, Stockton,” he said. “We’ll go round by the front door. Don’t forget I’m an Australian, and you’re a pal of mine whom I met unexpectedly in London today. And if I pretend to be a little blotto—pugnaciously so—back me up. Ted—half-an-hour; but keep your eye glued on the house in case we want you sooner.”
“Right ho! old man. Good luck.”
We walked through the hall cautiously, but the door leading to our landlady’s quarters was shut. And in three minutes we were striding down Ashworth Gardens. A figure detached itself from the shadows outside the scene of last night’s adventure, and glanced at us suspiciously. But Drummond was talking loudly as we passed him of his voyage home, and the man made no effort to detain us.
“One of MacIver’s men,” he muttered to me as we turned into Number 12. “Now, old man, we’re for it. If I can I’m going to walk straight in.”
But the front door was bolted, and perforce we had to ring. Once more he started talking in the aggressive way of a man who has had something to drink, and I noticed that the detective was listening.
“I tell you my Aunt Amelia will just be charmed to see you, boy. Any pal of mine is a pal of hers. And I haven’t come twelve thousand miles to be told that my father’s sister isn’t well enough to see Wallie. No, sir—I have not.”
The door suddenly opened and a man stood there looking at us angrily.
“What do you want?” he snapped. “Are you aware, sir, that there is an invalid in this house?”
“I’m perfectly well aware of it,” said Drummond loudly. “But what I’m not aware of—and what I’m going to be aware of—is how that invalid, who is my aunt, is being treated. I’m not satisfied with the attention she is receiving”—out of the corner, of my eyes I saw the detective drawing closer—“not at all satisfied. And I and my friend here are not going to leave this house until Aunt Amelia tells me that she’s being well looked after. There’s such a thing as the police, sir, I tell you …”
“What on earth are you talking about?” said the man savagely, and I noticed he was looking over our shoulders at the detective, who was now listening openly. “However, you’d better come inside, and I’ll consult the doctor in charge.”
He closed the door behind us, and Drummond gave me an imperceptible wink. Then he went on again aggressively:
“How many doctors are there in this house? I saw a man this afternoon with a face like a hearthrug—is he here? And do you all live here? I tell you I’m not satisfied. And until I see my Aunt Amelia …”
A door opened and the man whom Drummond had described to me in my office came out into the hall.
“How dare you return here, sir?” he shouted. “You’re the insolent, interfering young swine who was here this afternoon, and if you aren’t out of this house in two seconds I’ll throw you out.”
“You’d better try,” answered Drummond calmly. “And why don’t you let your face out as a grouse moor? I’m your patient’s nephew and I want to know what all you ugly-looking swabs are doing in this house?”
With a quick movement he stepped past the man into the room beyond, and I followed him. Three other men were there sitting round a table, and they rose as we entered. Two packed suitcases lay on the floor waiting to be strapped up, and on the table were five glasses and a half-empty bottle of whisky.
“Five of you,” continued Drummond. “I suppose you’ll be telling me next that my aunt runs a boys’ school. Now then, face fungus, what the hell
