John Buchan - JOHN BUCHAN Ultimate Collection - Spy Classics, Thrillers, Adventure Novels & Short Stories, Including Historical Works and Essays (Illustrated)

“Pretty fair, sir. Pretty fair. Able to do my day’s work like an honest man.”

“And what brings you here?”

“A little job I’m on. Some friends of mine wants you out of the road for a bit and they’ve sent me to fetch you. It’s a bit of luck for you that you’ve struck a friend. We needn’t ‘ave no unpleasantness seein’ we’re both what you might call men of the world.”

“I appreciate the compliment,” I said. “But where do you propose to take me?”

“Dunno. It’s some lay near the Docks. I’ve got a motor-car waitin’ at the back of the ‘ouse.”

“But supposing I don’t want to go?”

“My orders admits no excuse,” he said solemnly. “You’re a sensible chap, and can see that in a scrap I could down you easy.”

“Very likely,” I said. “But, man, you must be mad to talk like that. Downstairs there is a dining-room full of people. I have only to lift my voice to bring the police.”

“You’re a kid,” he said scornfully. “Them geysers downstairs are all in the job. That was a flat-catching rig to get you up here so as you wouldn’t suspect nothing. If you was to go down now—which you ain’t going to be allowed to do—you wouldn’t find a blamed soul in the place. I must say you’re a bit softer than I ‘oped after the ‘andsome way you talked over yon old juggins with the wig at Maidstone.”

Mr Docken took the bottle from the wine-cooler and filled himself another glass.

It sounded horribly convincing. If I was to be kidnapped and smuggled away, Lumley would have scored half a success. Not the whole; for, as I swiftly reflected, I had put Felix on the track of Tuke, and there was every chance that Tommy and Pitt-Heron would be saved. But for myself it looked pretty black. The more my scheme succeeded the more likely the Power-House would be to wreak its vengeance on me once I was spirited from the open-air world into its dark labyrinths.

I made a great effort to keep my voice even and calm.

“Mr Docken,” I said, “I once did you a good turn. But for me you might be doing time now instead of drinking champagne like a gentleman. Your pals played you a pretty low trick and that was why I stuck out for you. I didn’t think you were the kind of man to forget a friend.”

“No more I am,” said he. “The man who says Bill Docken would go back on a pal is a liar.”

“Well, here’s your chance to pay your debts. The men who employ you are my deadly enemies and want to do me in. I’m not a match for you. You’re a stronger fellow and can drag me off and hand me over to them. But if you do I’m done with. Make no mistake about that. I put it to you as a decent fellow. Are you going to go back on the man who has been a good friend to you?”

He shifted from one foot to another with his eyes on the ceiling. He was obviously in difficulties. Then he tried another glass of champagne.

“I dursn’t, guv’nor. I dursn’t let you go. Them I work for would cut my throat as soon as look at me. Besides it ain’t no good. If I was to go off and leave you there’d be plenty more in this ‘ouse as would do the job. You’re up against it, guv’nor. But take a sensible view and come with me. They don’t mean you no real ‘arm. I’ll take my Bible oath on it. Only to keep you quiet for a bit, for you’ve run across one of their games. They won’t do you no ‘urt if you speak ‘em fair. Be a sport and take it smiling-like—”

“You’re afraid of them,” I said.

“Yuss. I’m afraid. Black afraid. So would you be if you knew the gents. I’d rather take on the whole Rat Lane crowd—you know them as I mean—on a Saturday night when they’re out for business than go back to my gents and say as ‘ow I had shirked the job.”

He shivered. “Good Lord, they’d freeze the ‘eart out of a bull-pup.”

“You’re afraid,” I said slowly. “So you’re going to give me up to the men you’re afraid of to do as they like with me. I never expected it of you, Bill. I thought you were the kind of lad who would send any gang to the devil before you’d go back on a pal.”

“Don’t say that,” he said almost plaintively. “You don’t ‘alf know the ‘ole I’m in.” His eye seemed to be wandering, and he yawned deeply.

Just then a great noise began below. I heard a voice speaking, a loud peremptory voice. Then my name was shouted: “Leithen! Leithen! Are you there?”

There could be no mistaking that stout Yorkshire tongue. By some miracle Chapman had followed me and was raising Cain downstairs.

My heart leaped with the sudden revulsion. “I’m here,” I yelled. “Upstairs. Come up and let me out!”

Then I turned with a smile of triumph to Bill.

“My friends have come,” I said. “You’re too late for the job. Get back and tell your masters that.”

He was swaying on his feet, and he suddenly lurched towards me. “You come along. By God, you think you’ve done me. I’ll let you see.”

His voice was growing thick and he stopped short. “What the ‘ell’s wrong with me?” he gasped. “I’m goin’ all queer. I… ‘

He was like a man far gone in liquor, but three glasses of champagne would never have touched a head like Bill’s. I saw what was up with him. He was not drunk, but drugged.

“They’ve doped the wine,” I cried. “They put it there for me to drink it and go to sleep.”

There is always something which is the last straw to any man. You may insult and outrage him and he will bear it patiently, but touch the quick in his temper and he will turn. Apparently for Bill drugging was the unforgivable sin. His eye lost for a moment its confusion. He squared his shoulders and roared like a bull.

“Doped, by God!” he cried. “Who done it?”

“The men who shut me in this room. Burst that door and you will find them.”

He turned a blazing face on the locked door and hurled his huge weight on it. It cracked and bent, but the lock and hinges held. I could see that sleep was overwhelming him and that his limbs were stiffening, but his anger was still strong enough for another effort. Again he drew himself together like a big cat and flung himself on the woodwork. The hinges tore from the jambs and the whole outfit fell forward into the passage in a cloud of splinters and dust and broken plaster.

It was Mr Docken’s final effort. He lay on the top of the wreckage he had made, like Samson among the ruins of Gaza, a senseless and slumbering hulk.

I picked up the unopened bottle of champagne—it was the only weapon available—and stepped over his body. I was beginning to enjoy myself amazingly.

As I expected, there was a man in the corridor, a little fellow in waiter’s clothes with a tweed jacket instead of a dress-coat. If he had a pistol I knew I was done, but I gambled upon the disinclination of the management for the sound of shooting.

He had a knife, but he never had a chance to use it. My champagne bottle descended on his head and he dropped like a log.

There were men coming upstairs—not Chapman, for I still heard his hoarse shouts in the dining-room. If they once got up they could force me back through that hideous room by the door through which Docken had come, and in five minutes I should be in their motor-car.

There was only one thing to do. I jumped from the stair-head right down among them. I think there were three, and my descent toppled them over. We rolled in a wild whirling mass and cascaded into the dining-room, where my head bumped violently on the parquet.

I expected a bit of a grapple, but none came. My wits were pretty woolly, but I managed to scramble to my feet. The heels of my enemies were disappearing up the staircase. Chapman was pawing my ribs to discover if there were any bones broken. There was not another soul in the room except two policemen who were pushing their way in from the street.