Array Sapper - The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile Sapper

"I shall be going to-morrow," said Latter with attempted nonchalance. "Until then I rely on you."

"Precisely," murmured Drummond. "So you have completed your business here quicker than you anticipated."

"Yes. To be exact, this afternoon before you arrived."

"And was that the business which brought you to Sheffield?"

"Principally. Though I really don't understand this catechism, Mr. Drummond. And now I wish to go to sleep...."

"I'm afraid you can't, Mr. Latter. Not quite yet." For a moment or two Charles Latter stared at the imperturbable face at the foot of his bed: it seemed to him that a strange tension was creeping into the conversation—a something he could not place which made him vaguely alarmed.

"Do you think this mysterious Black Gang would approve of your business this afternoon?" asked Drummond quietly.

Mr. Latter started violently.

"How should I know of what the scoundrels would approve?" he cried angrily. "And anyway, they can know nothing about it."

"You feel quite confident in Mr. Delmorlick's discretion with regard to the friends he selects?"

And now a pulse was beginning to hammer in Mr. Latter's throat, and his voice when he spoke was thick and unnatural.

"How do you know anything about Delmorlick?"

Drummond smiled. "May I reply by asking a similar question, Mr. Latter? How do you?"

"I met him this afternoon on political business," stammered the other, staring fascinated at the man opposite, from whose face all trace of buffoonery seemed to have vanished, to be replaced by a grim sternness the more terrifying because it was so utterly unexpected. And he had thought Drummond a fool....

"Would it be indiscreet to inquire the nature of the business?"

"Yes," muttered Latter. "It was private."

"That I can quite imagine," returned Drummond grimly. "But since you're so reticent I will tell you. This afternoon you made arrangements, perfect in every detail, to blow up the main power station of the Greystone works." The man in the bed started violently. "The result of that would have been to throw some three thousand men out of work for at least a couple of months."

"It's a lie," said Latter thickly.

"Your object in so doing was obvious," continued Drummond. "Money. I don't know how much, and I didn't know who from—until last night." And now Latter was swallowing hard, and clutching the bedclothes with hands that shook like leaves.

"You saw me last night, Mr. Latter, didn't you? And I found out your headquarters...."

"In God's name—who are you?" His voice rose almost to a scream. "Aren't you the police?"

"No—I am not." He was coming nearer, and Latter cowered back, mouthing. "I am not the police, you wretched thing: I am the leader of the Black Gang."

Latter felt the other's huge hands on him, and struggled like a puny child, whimpering, half sobbing. He writhed and squirmed as a gag was forced into his mouth: then he felt a rope cut his wrists as they were lashed behind his back. And all the while the other went on speaking in a calm, leisurely voice.

"The leader of the Black Gang, Mr. Latter: the gang that came into existence to exterminate things like you. Ever since the war you poisonous reptiles have been at work stirring up internal trouble in this country. Not one in ten of you believe what you preach: your driving force is money and your own advancement. And as for your miserable dupes—those priceless fellows who follow you blindly because—God help them, they're hungry and their wives are hungry—what do you care for them, Mr. Latter? You just laugh in your sleeve and pocket the cash."

With a heave he jerked the other on to the floor, and proceeded to lash him to the foot of the bed.

"I have had my eye on you, Mr. Latter, since the Manchester effort when ten men were killed, and you were the murderer. But other and more important matters have occupied my time. You see, my information is very good— better than Delmorlick's selection of friends. The new devoted adherent to your cause this afternoon happens to be an intimate, personal friend of mine."

He was busying himself with something that he had taken from his pocket—a thick, square slab with a hole in the centre.

"I admit that your going to the police with my note surprised me. And it really was extraordinarily lucky that I happened to be in the office at the time. But it necessitated a slight change of plan on my part. If dear old McIver and his minions are outside the house, it's much simpler for me to be in. And now, Mr. Latter—to come to business."

He stood in front of the bound man, whose eyes were rolling horribly.

"We believe in making the punishment fit the crime. This afternoon you planned to destroy the livelihood of several thousand men with explosive, simply that you might make money. Here," he held up the square slab, "is a pound of the actual gun-cotton, which was removed from Delmorlick himself before he started on a journey to join my other specimens. I propose to place this slab under you, Mr. Latter, and to light this piece of fuse which is attached to it. The fuse will take about three minutes to burn. During that three minutes if you can get free, so much the better for you; if not—well, it would be a pity not to have any explosion at all in Sheffield, wouldn't it?"

For a moment or two Drummond watched the struggling, terrified man, and his eyes were hard and merciless. Then he went to the door, and Latter heard it opened and shut and moaned horribly. His impotent struggles increased: out of the corner of his eye he could see the fire burning nearer and nearer. And then all of a sudden something seemed to snap in his brain....

Four minutes later Drummond came out from the screen behind which he had been standing. He picked up the burnt-out fuse and the block of wood to which it had been attached. Then he undid the ropes that bound the other man, removed the gag and put him back into bed. And after a while he nodded thoughtfully.

"Poetic justice," he murmured. "And it saves a lot of trouble."

Then, after one searching look round the room, he turned out the light and stepped quietly into the passage.

"An extraordinary thing, McIver," said Sir Bryan Johnstone, late on the afternoon of the following day. "You say that when you saw Mr. Latter this morning he was mad."

"Mad as a hatter, sir," answered McIver, turning for confirmation to Drummond, who was sprawling in a chair.

"Absolutely up the pole. Tum-tum," agreed Drummond.

"Gibbered like a fool," said McIver, "and struggled wildly whenever he got near the foot of the bed. Seemed terrified of it, somehow. Did you notice that, Mr. Drummond?"

"My dear old lad, it was only ten o'clock, and I was barely conscious," yawned that worthy, lighting a cigarette.

"Well, anyway, you had no trouble with the gang, McIver," said his chief.

"None, sir," agreed the Inspector. "I thought they wouldn't try it on with me twice. I heard some fool story just before I caught the train, about one of the night-watchmen at a big works who swears he saw a sort of court- martial—he was an old soldier—being held on three men by a lot of black-masked figures. But a lot of these people have got this yarn on the brain. Sir Bryan. It's spread a good deal farther than I thought."

Sir Bryan nodded thoughtfully. "I must say I'd like to know what sent Charles Latter mad!"

Drummond sat up lazily. "Good heavens! Tumkins, don't you know? The house- party, old son—the house-party, they had to be seen to be believed."

Table of Content

Take a garrulous night-watchman and an enterprising journalist; mix them together over one, or even two glasses of beer, and a hard-worked editor feels safe for a column every time. And since the night-watchman at Greystone's Steel Works was very garrulous, and the journalist was young and ambitious, the result produced several columns of the sort of stuff that everybody likes to read, and pretends he doesn't.