THE GATHERING OF THE SPIES
Action, or the promise of action, always acted on Desmond Okewood like a nerve tonic. His visit to the inn, followed by the fencing with Mortimer at dinner, had galvanized his nerves jaded with the inaction of the preceding days. He averted his eyes from the future, he put the past resolutely away. He bent his whole attention on the problem immediately before him--how to carry off the role of Bellward in front of four strangers, one of whom, at least, he thought, must know the man he was impersonating; how to extract as much information as possible about the gang and its organization before uncovering his hand; finally, how to overpower the four men and the one woman when the moment had come to strike.
Mortimer and he were in the library. By Desmond's direction old Martha had put out two bridge tables and cards. A tantalus stand with siphons and glasses, an assortment of different colored liqueurs in handsome cut-glass carafes and some plates of sandwiches stood on a side-table. At Mortimer's suggestion Desmond had told the housekeeper that, once the guests had arrived, she might go to bed.
The library was very still. There was no sound except for the solemn ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece or the occasional rustle of the evening paper in Mortimer's hand as he stood in front of the fire. Desmond was sitting on the settee, tranquilly smoking, studying Mortimer and thinking out the problem before him.
He measured Mortimer with his eye. The latter was a bigger man than Desmond in every way and Desmond suspected that he was even stronger than he looked. Desmond wondered whether he should try and overpower him then and there. The other was almost certain to carry a revolver, he thought, while he was unarmed. Failure, he knew, would ruin everything. The gang would disperse to the four winds of heaven while as for Mr. Bellward--well, he would certainly be "for it," as the soldiers say.
No, he must hold his hand until the meeting had taken place. This was the first conference that Mortimer had summoned, and Desmond intended to see that it should be the last. But first he meant to find out all there was to know about the working of the gang.
He resolved to wait and see what the evening would bring forth.
The telephone was "a washout": the motor-cycle was now his only chance to summon aid for he knew it was hopeless to think of tackling single-handed odds of four to one (to say nothing of the lady in the case). It must be his business to make an opportunity to slip away on the motor-bike to Stanning. Ten minutes to get there, five minutes to deliver his message at the police station (if the Chief's people made their headquarters there), and ten minutes to get back if they had a car. Could he leave the meeting for 25 minutes without arousing suspicions? He doubted it; but it must be. There was no other way. And then with a shock that made him cold with fear he remembered Mortimer's motor-car.
If, during his absence, anything occurred to arouse their suspicions, the whole crowd could pile into the car and be away long before Desmond could be back with help. The fog had lifted and it was a clear night outside. The car would have to be got rid of before he left the house, that was all about it. But how?
A means to that end must also be discovered as the evening progressed. By the way, what had Mortimer done with his car?
A very faint throbbing somewhere outside answered Desmond's unspoken question.
Mortimer flung aside his paper.
"Isn't that a car?" he asked, "that'll be they. I sent Max to Wentfield station to meet our friends!"There was the sound of voices, of bustle in the hall. Then the door opened and a man came in. Desmond had a brief moment of acute suspense. Was he supposed to know him?
He was a short, ugly fellow with immensely broad shoulders, a heavy puffy face, a gross, broad nose, and a tooth-brush moustache. He might have been a butcher to look at. In the top edge of his coat lapel, he wore a small black pin with a glass head.
"Well, Max," said Mortimer. "Have you brought them all?"The man was mustering Desmond with a suspicious, unfriendly stare.
"My friend, Bellward!" said Mortimer, clapping Desmond on the shoulder. "You've heard of Bellward, Max!"And to Desmond's surprise he made some passes in the air.
The man's mien underwent a curious change. He became cringing;almost overawed.
"Reelly," he grunted, "reelly now! You don't siy! Glad to know yer, mister, I'm shore!"He spoke with a vile snuffing cockney accent, and thrust out his hand to Desmond. Then he added to Mortimer:
"There's three on 'em. That's the count, ain't it? I lef' the car outside on the drive!"At this moment two more of the guests entered: One was a tall, emaciated looking man of about fifty who seemed to be in the last stages of consumption; the other a slightly built young fellow with a shock of black hair brushed back and an olive complexion.
He wore pince-nez and looked like a Russian revolutionary. They, too, wore the badge of the brotherhood--the black pin in the coat lapel.
"Goot efening, Mr. Mortimer," said the tall man in a guttural voice, "this is Behrend"--he indicated the young man by his side--"you haft not meet him no?"Then, leaving Behrend to shake hands with Mortimer, he literally rushed at Desmond and shook him by the hand exactly as though he were working a pump handle.
"My tear Pellward," he cried, "it is a hondred year since I haf see you, not? And how are the powers!"He lowered his voice and gazed mysteriously at him.
Desmond, at a loss what to make of this extraordinary individual, answered at random:
"The powers? Still fighting, I believe!"
The tall man stared open-mouthed at him for a moment. Then, clapping his hands together, he burst into a high-pitched cackle of laughter.
"A joke," he yelled, "a mos' excellent joke! I must tell this to Minna. My vriend, I haf not mean the great Powers."He looked dramatically about him, then whispered:
"I mean, the oggult!"