THE COMPLETE BULLDOG DRUMMOND SERIES (10 Novels in One Edition). H. C. McNeile / Sapper

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СКАЧАТЬ the car was pulling up—then blackness. It was not till four hours later that a passing labourer, having pulled him out from a not over-dry ditch, laid him out to cool. And incidentally, with his further sphere of usefulness we are not concerned....

      IV

      "My dear fellow, I told you we'd get here somehow." Hugh Drummond stretched his legs luxuriously.

      "The fact that it was necessary to crash your blinking bus in a stray field in order to avoid their footling passport regulations is absolutely immaterial. The only damage is a dent in Ted's dicky, but all the best waiters have that. They smear it with soup to show their energy.... My God! Here's another of them."

      A Frenchman was advancing towards them down the stately vestibule of the Ritz waving protesting hands. He addressed himself in a voluble crescendo to Drummond, who rose and bowed deeply. His knowledge of French was microscopic, but such trifles were made to be overcome.

      "Mais oui, Monsieur mon Colonel," he remarked affably, when the gendarme paused for lack of breath, "vous comprenez que notre machine avait crashé dans un field des turnipes. Nous avons lost notre direction. Nous sommes hittés dans l'estomacs.... Comme ci, comme ca.... Vous comprenez, n'est-ce-pas, mon Colonel?" He turned fiercely on Jerry. "Shut up, you damn fool; don't laugh!"

      "Mais, messieurs, vous n'avez pas des passeports." The little man, torn between gratification at his rapid promotion and horror at such an appalling breach of regulations, shot up and down like an agitated semaphore. "Vous comprenez; c'est defendu d'arriver en Paris sans des passeports?"

      "Parfaitement, mon Colonel," continued Hugh, unmoved. "Mais vous comprenez que nous avons crashé dans un field des turnipes—non; des rognons.... What the hell are you laughing at, Jerry?"

      "Oignons, old boy," spluttered the latter. "Rognons are kidneys."

      "What the dickens does that matter?" demanded Hugh. "Vous comprenez, mon Colonel, n'est-ce-pas? Vive la France! En-bas les Boches! Nous avons crashé."

      The gendarme shrugged his shoulders with a hopeless gesture, and seemed on the point of bursting into tears. Of course this large Englishman was mad; why otherwise should he spit in the kidneys? And that is what he continued to state was his form of amusement. Truly an insane race, and yet he had fought in the brigade next to them near Montauban in July '16—and he had liked them—those mad Tommies. Moreover, this large, imperturbable man, with the charming smile, showed a proper appreciation of his merits—an appreciation not shared up to the present, regrettable to state, by his own superiors. Colonel—parbleu; eh bien! Pourquoi non? ...

      At last he produced a notebook; he felt unable to cope further with the situation himself.

      "Votre nom, M'sieur, s'il vous plait?"

      "Undoubtedly, mon Colonel," remarked Hugh vaguely. "Nous crashons dans——"

      "Ah! Mais oui, mais oui, M'sieur." The little man danced in his agitation. "Vous m'avez déjà dit que vous avez craché dans les rognons, mais je desiré votre nom."

      "He wants your name, old dear," murmured Jerry weakly.

      "Oh, does he?" Hugh beamed on the gendarme. "You priceless little bird! My name is Captain Hugh Drummond."

      And as he spoke, a man sitting close by, who had been an amused onlooker of the whole scene, stiffened suddenly in his chair and stared hard at Hugh. It was only for a second, and then he was once more merely the politely interested spectator. But Hugh had seen that quick look, though he gave no sign; and when at last the Frenchman departed, apparently satisfied, he leaned over and spoke to Jerry.

      "See that man with the suit of reach-me-downs and the cigar," he remarked. "He's in this game; I'm just wondering on which side."

      He was not left long in doubt, for barely had the swing doors closed behind the gendarme, when the man in question rose and came over to him.

      "Excuse me, sir," he said, in a pronounced nasal twang, "but I heard you say you were Captain Hugh Drummond. I guess you're one of the men I've come across the water to see. My card."

      Hugh glanced at the pasteboard languidly.

      "Mr. Jerome K. Green," he murmured. "What a jolly sort of name."

      "See here, Captain," went on the other, suddenly displaying a badge hidden under his coat. "That'll put you wise."

      "Far from it, Mr. Green. What's it the prize for—throwing cards into a hat?"

      The American laughed.

      "I guess I've sort of taken to you," he remarked. "You're real fresh. That badge is the badge of the police force of the United States of America; and that same force is humming some at the moment." He sat down beside Hugh, and bent forward confidentially. "There's a prominent citizen of New York City been mislaid, Captain; and, from information we've got, we reckon you know quite a lot about his whereabouts."

      Hugh pulled out his cigarette-case.

      "Turkish this side—Virginian that. Ah! But I see you're smoking." With great deliberation he selected one himself, and lit it. "You were saying, Mr. Green?"

      The detective stared at him thoughtfully; at the moment he was not quite certain how to tackle this large and self-possessed young man.

      "Might I ask why you're over here?" he asked at length, deciding to feel his way.

      "The air is free to everyone, Mr. Green. As long as you get your share to breathe, you can ask anything you like."

      The American laughed again.

      "I guess I'll put my cards down," he said, with sudden decision. "What about Hiram C. Potts?"

      "What, indeed?" remarked Hugh. "Sounds like a riddle, don't it?"

      "You've heard of him, Captain?"

      "Few people have not."

      "Yes—but you've met him recently," said the detective, leaning forward. "You know where he is, and"—he tapped Hugh on the knee impressively—"I want him. I want Hiram C. Potts like a man wants a drink in a dry state. I want to take him back in cottonwool to his wife and daughters. That's why I'm over this side, Captain, just for that one purpose."

      "There seem to me to be a considerable number of people wandering around who share your opinion about Mr. Potts," drawled Hugh. "He must be a popular sort of cove."

      "Popular ain't the word for it, Captain," said the other. "Have you got him now?"

      "In a manner of speaking, yes," answered Hugh, beckoning to a passing waiter. "Three Martinis."

      "Where is he?" snapped the detective eagerly.

      Hugh laughed.

      "Being wrapped up in cottonwool by somebody else's wife and daughters. You were a little too quick, Mr. Green; you may be all you say—on the other hand, you may not. And these days I trust no one."

      The American nodded his head in approval.

      "Quite right," he remarked. "My motto—and yet СКАЧАТЬ