“Swelp me, guvnor,” said the taller of the two hoarsely, “we’ve turned the whole bloody place upside down and inside out. It’s not there.”
“It must be here,” snarled the other. “It isn’t on him. And there’s no other place it can be.”
As he spoke he turned, and to Tommy’s utter amazement he saw that the last speaker was none other than Inspector Dymchurch. The latter grinned when he saw Tommy’s astonished face.
“So our young friend is awake again,” he said. “And a little surprised-yes, a little surprised. But it was so simple. We suspect that all is not as it should be with the International Detective Agency. I volunteer to find out if that is so, or not. If the new Mr. Blunt is indeed a spy, he will be suspicious, so I send first my dear old friend Carl Bauer. Carl is told to act suspiciously and pitch an improbable tale. He does so, and then I appear on the scene. I use the name of Inspector Marriot to gain confidence. The rest is easy.”
He laughed.
Tommy was dying to say several things, but the gag in his mouth prevented him. Also, he was dying to do several things -mostly with his hands and feet-but alas, that too had been attended to. He was securely bound.
The thing that amazed him most was the astounding change in the man standing over him. As Inspector Dymchurch, the fellow had been a typical Englishman. Now, no one could have mistaken him for a moment for anything but a well educated foreigner who talked English perfectly without trace of accent.
“Coggins, my good friend,” said the erstwhile Inspector, addressing his ruffianly looking associate. “Take your life preserver and stand by the prisoner. I am going to remove the gag. You understand, my dear Mr. Blunt, do you not, that is would be criminally foolish on your part to cry out? But I am sure you do. For your age, you are quite an intelligent lad.”
Very deftly he removed the gag, and stepped back.
Tommy eased his stiff jaws, rolled his tongue round his mouth, swallowed twice-and said nothing at all.
“I congratulate you on your restraint,” said the other. “You appreciate the position, I see. Have you nothing at all to say?”
“What I have to say will keep,” said Tommy. “And it won’t spoil by waiting.”
“Ah! What I have to say will not keep. In plain English, Mr. Blunt, where is that letter?”
“My dear fellow, I don’t know,” said Tommy cheerfully. “I haven’t got it. But you know that as well as I do. I should go on looking about if I were you. I like to see you and friend Coggins playing Hide and Seek together.”
The other’s face darkened.
“You are pleased to be flippant, Mr. Blunt. You see that square box over there. That is Coggins’ little outfit. In it there is vitriol . . . yes, vitriol . . . and irons that can be heated in the fire, so that they are red hot and burn . . .”
Tommy shook his head sadly.
“An error in diagnosis,” he murmured. “Tuppence and I labelled this adventure wrong. It’s not a Clubfoot story. It’s a Bull Dog Drummond, and you are the inimitable Carl Peterson.”
“What is this nonsense you are talking?” snarled the other.
“Ah!” said Tommy. “I see you are unacquainted with the Classics. A pity.”
“Ignorant fool? Will you do what we want or will you not? Shall I tell Coggins to get out his tools and begin?”
“Don’t be so impatient,” said Tommy. “Of course I’ll do what you want, as soon as you tell me what it is. You don’t suppose I want to be carved up like a filleted sole and fried on a gridiron? I loathe being hurt.”
Dymchurch looked at him in contempt.
“Gott! What cowards are these English.”
“Common sense, my dear fellow, merely common sense. Leave the vitriol alone, and let us come down to brass tacks.”
“I want the letter.”
“I’ve already told you I haven’t got it.”
“We know that-we also know who must have it. The girl.”
“Very possibly you’re right,” said Tommy. “She may have slipped it into her handbag when your pal Carl startled us.”