Bulldog Drummond · I · Chapter 1 2 (2/2)

“I can tell you very little about him,” she answered. “He came to The Elms⁠—that is the name of Lakington’s house⁠—three months ago. He is about medium height and rather thickset; clean-shaven, with thick brown hair flecked slightly with white. His forehead is broad, and his eyes are a sort of cold grey-blue. But it’s his hands that terrify me. They’re large and white and utterly ruthless.” She turned to him appealingly. “Oh! don’t think I’m talking wildly,” she implored. “He frightens me to death⁠—that man: far, far worse than Lakington. He would stop at nothing to gain his ends, and even Lakington himself knows that Mr. Peterson is his master.”

“Peterson!” murmured Drummond. “It seems quite a sound old English name.”

The girl laughed scornfully. “Oh! the name is sound enough, if it was his real one. As it is, it’s about as real as his daughter.”

“There is a lady in the case, then?”

“By the name of Irma,” said the girl briefly. “She lies on a sofa in the garden and yawns. She’s no more English than that waiter.”

A faint smile flickered over her companion’s face; he had formed a fairly vivid mental picture of Irma. Then he grew serious again.

“And what is it that makes you think there’s mischief ahead?” he asked abruptly.

The girl shrugged her shoulders. “What the novelists call feminine intuition, I suppose,” she answered. “That⁠—and my father.” She said the last words very low. “He hardly ever sleeps at night now; I hear him pacing up and down his room⁠—hour after hour, hour after hour. Oh! it makes me mad.⁠ ⁠… Don’t you understand? I’ve just got to find out what the trouble is. I’ve got to get him away from those devils, before he breaks down completely.”

Drummond nodded, and looked away. The tears were bright in her eyes, and, like every Englishman, he detested a scene. While she had been speaking he had made up his mind what course to take, and now, having outsat everybody else, he decided that it was time for the interview to cease. Already an early diner was having a cocktail, while Lakington might return at any moment. And if there was anything in what she had told him, it struck him that it would be as well for that gentleman not to find them still together.

“I think,” he said, “we’d better go. My address is 60A Half Moon Street; my telephone 1234 Mayfair. If anything happens, if ever you want me⁠—at any hour of the day or night⁠—ring me up or write. If I’m not in, leave a message with my servant Denny. He is absolutely reliable. The only other thing is your own address.”

“The Larches, near Godalming,” answered the girl, as they moved towards the door. “Oh! if you only knew the glorious relief of feeling one’s got someone to turn to.⁠ ⁠…” She looked at him with shining eyes, and Drummond felt his pulse quicken suddenly. Imagination or not, so far as her fears were concerned, the girl was one of the loveliest things he had ever seen.

“May I drop you anywhere?” he asked, as they stood on the pavement, but she shook her head.

“No, thank you. I’ll go in that taxi.” She gave the man an address, and stepped in, while Hugh stood bareheaded by the door.

“Don’t forget,” he said earnestly. “Any time of the day or night. And while I think of it⁠—we’re old friends. Can that be done? In case I come and stay, you see.”

She thought for a moment and then nodded her head. “All right,” she answered. “We’ve met a lot in London during the war.”

With a grinding of gear wheels the taxi drove off, leaving Hugh with a vivid picture imprinted on his mind of blue eyes, and white teeth, and a skin like the bloom of a sun-kissed peach.

For a moment or two he stood staring after it, and then he walked across to his own car. With his mind still full of the interview he drove slowly along Piccadilly, while every now and then he smiled grimly to himself. Was the whole thing an elaborate hoax? Was the girl even now chuckling to herself at his gullibility? If so, the game had only just begun, and he had no objection to a few more rounds with such an opponent. A mere tea at the Carlton could hardly be the full extent of the jest.⁠ ⁠… And somehow deep down in his mind, he wondered whether it was a joke⁠—whether, by some freak of fate, he had stumbled on one of those strange mysteries which up to date he had regarded as existing only in the realms of shilling shockers.

He turned into his rooms, and stood in front of the mantelpiece taking off his gloves. It was as he was about to lay them down on the table that an envelope caught his eye, addressed to him in an unknown handwriting. Mechanically he picked it up and opened it. Inside was a single half-sheet of notepaper, on which a few lines had been written in a small, neat hand.

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, young man, than a capability for eating steak and onions, and a desire for adventure. I imagine that you possess both: and they are useful assets in the second locality mentioned by the poet. In Heaven, however, one never knows⁠—especially with regard to the onions. Be careful.”

Drummond stood motionless for a moment, with narrowed eyes. Then he leaned forward and pressed the bell.

“Who brought this note, James?” he said quietly, as his servant came into the room.

“A small boy, sir. Said I was to be sure and see you got it most particular.” He unlocked a cupboard near the window and produced a tantalus. “Whisky, sir, or cocktail?”

“Whisky, I think, James.” Hugh carefully folded the sheet of paper and placed it in his pocket. And his face as he took the drink from his man would have left no doubt in an onlooker’s mind as to why, in the past, he had earned the name of “Bulldog” Drummond.