H.M. did not roar. He remained blinking steadily at me, turning over the jemmy in his hand.
"That's our second line of defence, son," he said, "in case anything goes wrong. I don't mean to minimize the risks. There's very, very nimble-minded people working against us, and the trouble is that we don't have a ghost of an idea what they're doin'. It's just possible they've laid some kind of trap. Out somewhere there're three people whose ideas or motives we don't know. First, there's Paul Hogenauer. Second, there's that apparently harmless professor of physics, Dr. Albert Keppel. Third, there's the elusive L. It may be that none of 'em has a dangerous purpose at all. Or, again, it's just possible that Hogenauer has laid some sort of trap for us — or whatever agent we send. It's just possible his goin' away to Bristol to-night is a blind. I don't say it's probable, but it's possible."
"And I may walk into this trap?"
H.M. grunted. "That's why I asked you to come here. There's plenty of smart lads who could do a neater job of jemmying a window or cavortin' on a drain-pipe, if that's all I wanted. But you met Hogenauer in the old days. You met him in the character of Robert Butler, a spy and a bitter enemy of England, and Hogenauer never forgets a face. So far as we know, he never knew any different about you. If by any chance this is a trap, you'll walk into it before you've done any damage. You can pretend to be an ally of his, you can pretend to be on his side — and you're the only one who can pretend that. You can get out of it before you're into it, if it is a trap. And you may be able to learn something."
"Or walk into a bullet," I said. "Hogenauer seems to know a whole lot about us. Has it occurred to you that he may know all about me as well, and that he knew about me in my `Butler role?"
"Uh-huh," said H.M., nodding rather vaguely. "Sure, Ken; it was the first thing I thought of. But somehow… I move in mysterious ways of cussedness. You may have noticed it. I got plans at the back of my head; I see a move and jump or two on funny gambits, as Charters can tell you; oh, yes. And somehow I don't think you're in as much danger as you might be. I know I seem to be askin' an awful lot of you, especially at a time like this; and you'd be quite right to tell me to go and jump in the bay. But will you trust the old man?"
"Right," I said. "Let's get on with it. When do I start?"
"Good," said Charters quietly. "You'd better have something to eat first. It won't be dark until close on ten o'clock, but you'd better start about nine and reconnoitre the neighbourhood. Sergeant Davis wrote down Hogenauer's address for me somewhere: I think it's `The Larches,' Valley Road, Moreton Abbot. The servant, as I told you, will be going to see a girl and you'll have a clear road. You'll take a car, of course, but I don't need to tell you to park it some distance away from the house. Take Merrivale's car: or mine if you prefer it, unless Serpos has got it out now…."
H.M. seemed mildly disturbed.
"This Serpos, now," he suggested. "That's your secretary, ain't it? Exceedingly limp feller I saw up here last night?"
Charters was sarcastic. "You always were a suspicious beggar, Merrivale. Sinister-sounding foreign name, eh, and the legend of the villainous secretary? Nonsense! Young Serpos is about as meek and mild as they make 'em. I knew his father quite well. Serpos is an Armenian: but educated in England, of course. He worked in a bank in London, but his health wasn't any too good, and I gave him easier work in a healthier climate. Rather amusing chap," Charters admitted grudgingly, "and an expert mimic when you get him started. He'd make money on the halls."
"It's a queer international stew all the same," muttered H.M. shaking his head. "And while we're on the subject, Charters, who's this Dr. Antrim?"
"No more foreigners. And," said the Chief Constable, "if you're looking for suspicious characters near at hand, I think you can safely forget it." He chuckled. "Antrim is a big Irishman. You'll like him. His wife is a dashed pretty girclass="underline" much too pretty to be a trained nurse, which I believe she was before they were married. She helps him with his work. Of course, the life of a country G.P. isn't very exciting, any more than the rest of our lives are…."
He stopped, rather guiltily, as we heard heavy footfalls clumping through the main hall of the house. H.M. swept up the kit of the Compleat Burglar, and had just snapped shut the catch of the little bag when a tall figure lumbered out on the veranda.
"I say, Charters-" the newcomer began excitedly, and stopped when he saw us. "Sorry," he added. "Didn't know you had visitors. Excuse me. Some other time."
I thought, correctly, that this must be Dr. Antrim. He was a lean, rather awkward young man with hair the colour of mahogany, some freckles, a long jaw, and a brown eye like a genial cow: but he conveyed, nevertheless, an impression of competence. His hands were quiet and strong if his man
ner was not. His dark clothes were neat to the point of primness, as though a woman had pulled at his tie and steadied all points like somebody putting up a tent, before he was allowed to go out. Evidently he had just come in from a round of calls, for there was the bulge of a stethoscope in his breast-pocket and he looked dusty. Also, something appeared to be worrying him badly. Charters called him back, and began to introduce us.
What prompted H.M. - whether it was his elephantine sense of humour, or some genuine purpose — I did not know. But H.M. cut in. "This," he said, pointing to me, "is Mr. Butler. He's drivin' back to London to-night."
"Yes, certainly," observed Antrim, without relevancy. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen — er — supper. I didn't get any tea to-day, and I'm pretty well starved. Yes." Then he spoke to Charters, smiling with a bad assumption of ease. "I seem to have mislaid my wife. You haven't seen Betty anywhere about, have you, Colonel?"
Charters looked at him curiously. "Betty? No: not since this morning. Why?"
"Mrs. Charters said she thought she saw her getting on a bus. Er "
"Look here," said Charters in a flat tone, "what the devil's the matter with you, man? Speak up! What's wrong?"
"Nothing wrong. I just wondered "
"Stop that confounded jumping," said Charters testily. "You're not usually like this because Betty gets on a bus."
Antrim pulled himself together. Another thought appeared to have occurred to him, which he wished to dispel in our minds. He gave a sidelong glance at us, and spoke more genially. "Oh, I don't think she's running away or anything like that. Fact is, there's been a slight mistake. Nothing important, of course, and it's easily rectified; but it 'ud be damned awkward-" He stopped. "I suppose I ought to tell you. Fact is, a couple of bottles seem to have been misplaced or got lost in my dispensary. I don't think they're missing, and they'll turn up, but it's "
"Bottles?" said H.M. sharply, and opened his eyes. "What bottles?"
"It looks like negligence, and it would be bad for me. The trouble is, they're both little bottles of about the same size. And, to look at 'em, you'd think they contained the same stuff. Of course, they're both labelled, so there's no harm done. One is potassium bromide, ordinary nerve sedative, in the crystalline form. But the other, worse luck, contains strychnine salts — very soluble stuff."
There was a pause. H.M.'s face remained wooden, but I saw that he was biting hard on the stem of his pipe.
CHAPTER THREE
The Shutters of Suburbia
It was a quarter past nine when I set out on my weird travels. I ate a plate of sandwiches and drank a bottle of beer while a route was mapped out for me to Moreton Abbot, some ten miles away. Things did not now look so bad: with luck, I should be able to get the business done and return to Charters's by midnight, with everything off my mind. I did not realize the nervous strain under which I was fuming, although the sandwiches seemed tasteless and the beer flat.