“I don’t know your pals, as I said before,” I put in, “but that’s exactly what did happen.”
“If I’m right, Stockton, you’ll know ’em soon enough. And furthermore, if I’m right my debt of gratitude to you for putting me in the way of this little show will be increased a thousandfold.”
His voice was almost solemn, and I began to laugh.
“Mrs. Drummond’s debt of gratitude will wilt a bit when she sees your face,” I said. “Don’t you think you’d better get home and have it attended to?”
“Not on your life,” he remarked. “My face can wait: examining this house can’t. So let us, with due care as befits five blinking cripples, see what we can find. Then a bottle of Elliman’s Embrocation and bed.”
“Damnation!” roared a furious voice from the door. “What the devil are you doing here again?”
“MacIver’s little twitter,” said Drummond. “I would know that fairy voice anywhere.”
He rose cautiously and turned round.
“Mac, we have all taken it in the neck, not only metaphorically but literally. Any sudden movement produces on the spot an immediate desire for death. So be gentle with us, and kind and forbearing. Otherwise you will see the heartrending spectacle of six men bursting into tears.”
“What on earth has happened to your face?” demanded the detective.
“Aunt Amelia sprayed it with ammonia from point-blank range,” said Drummond. “A darned unfriendly act I think you’ll agree. And then a nasty man covered with black hair took advantage of my helpless condition to sandbag me. Mac, my lad, in the course of a long and blameless career I’ve never been so badly stung as I was last night.”
“What do you mean by Aunt Amelia?” growled the other.
“The official occupant of this house, Mac.”
“Miss Simpson. Where is she?”
“I know not. But somehow I feel that the sweet woman I interviewed in bed last night was not Miss Amelia.” Then with a sudden change of tone—“Have you found the communication between the two houses?”
“How do you know there is one?”
“Because I’m not a damned fool,” said Drummond. “It was principally to find it that I came here.”
He glanced at the detective’s suspicious face and began to laugh.
“Lord! man: it’s obvious. That fellow the other night was dead, so how did the body disappear? It couldn’t have gone out by the window in broad daylight, and unless your men were liars or asleep it couldn’t have gone out by the door. So there must have been some way of communication.”
“I found it by accident a few minutes ago from the next house,” said MacIver. “It opens into the bedroom above.”
“I thought it must,” said Drummond. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if dear Aunt Amelia’s bed was up against the opening.”
“There was a woman here, was there?”
“There was.” For a moment or two Drummond hesitated. “Look here, MacIver,” he said slowly, “we’ve had one or two amusing little episodes together in the past, and I’m going to tell you something. After they knocked me out last night, Mr. Stockton, who was only bound and gagged, heard one or two very strange things. This woman who was here masquerading as Miss Simpson evidently knew me. She further evinced a strong wish to have me killed then and there. Now who can she have been? MacIver, I believe—and mark you, there is nothing inherently improbable in it—I believe that once more we are up against Peterson. He wasn’t here; but the girl—his mistress—was. I may be wrong, but here and now I’d take an even pony on it.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” acknowledged the other. “We’ve heard nothing of the gentleman for two or three years.”
“And if we are, MacIver,” continued Drummond gravely, “this whole show, serious as it is at the moment, becomes ten times more so.”
“If only I could begin to understand it,” said the detective angrily. “The whole thing seems so utterly disconnected and pointless.”
“And it will probably remain so until we reach the end, if we ever do reach the end,” said Drummond. “One thing is pretty clear: this house was evidently the headquarters of that part of the gang which lived in London.”
“I’m getting into touch with Miss Simpson at once,” said MacIver.
Drummond nodded.
“She may or may not be perfectly innocent.”
“And two of my fellows are searching this house now,” went on the detective. “But damn it, Captain Drummond, I’m defeated—absolutely defeated. If whoever is running this show wanted to get away with Gaunt’s secret—why all this? Why didn’t they go at once? Why waste time?”
He swung round as one of his men came into the room. He was carrying in his arms a metal tank of about four gallons capacity, which was evidently intended to be strapped to a man’s back. To the bottom was attached a length of rubber tubing, at the end of which was fixed a long brass nozzle with a little tap attached. On one side of the tank a small pump was placed, and we crowded round to examine it as he placed it on the table.
“Two or three more of them in the cellar below, sir,” said the man.
“Pretty clear what they are intended for,” said Drummond gravely. “It’s nothing more nor less than a glorified fruit sprayer. And with that liquid of theirs inside …”
“There is this too that I found,” went on the man. “I’d like you to come yourself, sir, and see. There was blood on the walls and on the floor—and this—”
From his pocket he took a handkerchief, and it was stained an ominous red. It was quite dry, and MacIver opened it out and laid it beside the tank.
“Hullo!” he muttered, “what’s this mean?”
Scrawled over part of the material were some red letters. The ink used had been blood: the pen might have been the writer’s finger.
3 P 7 A N T
A smear completed it:
