The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  For a full minute they fought in silence, save for the hoarse grunts of the animal as it tried to tear away the man’s hand from its throat, and then encircle him with its powerful arms. And with his brain cold as ice Hugh saw his danger and kept his head. It couldn’t go on: no human being could last the pace, whatever his strength. And there was only one chance of finishing it quickly, the possibility that the grip taught him by Olaki would serve with a monkey as it did with a man.

  He shifted his left thumb an inch or two on the brute’s throat, and the gorilla, thinking he was weakening, redoubled his efforts. But still those powerful hands clutched its throat; try as it would, it failed to make them budge. And then, little by little, the fingers moved, and the grip which had been tight before grew tighter still.

  Back went its head; something was snapping in its neck. With a scream of fear and rage it wrapped its legs round Drummond, squeezing and writhing. And then suddenly there was a tearing snap, and the great limbs relaxed and grew limp.

  For a moment the man stood watching the still quivering brute lying at his feet; then, with a gasp of utter exhaustion, he dropped on the ground himself. He was done—utterly cooked; even Peterson’s voice close behind scarcely roused him.

  “Quite one of the most amusing entertainments I’ve seen for a long time.” The calm, expressionless voice made him look up wearily, and he saw that he was surrounded by men. The inevitable cigar glowed red in the darkness, and after a moment or two he scrambled unsteadily to his feet.

  “I’d forgotten your damned menagerie, I must frankly confess,” he remarked. “What’s the party for?” He glanced at the men who had closed in round him.

  “A guard of honour, my young friend,” said Peterson suavely, “to lead you to the house. I wouldn’t hesitate…it’s very foolish. Your friends have gone, and, strong as you are, I don’t think you can manage ten.”

  Hugh commenced to stroll towards the house.

  “Well, don’t leave the wretched Potts lying about. I dropped him over there.” For a moment the idea of making a dash for it occurred to him, but he dismissed it at once. The odds were too great to make the risk worth while, and in the centre of the group he and Peterson walked side by side.

  “The last man whom poor Sambo had words with,” said Peterson reminiscently, “was found next day with his throat torn completely out.”

  “A lovable little thing,” murmured Hugh. “I feel quite sorry at having spoilt his record.”

  Peterson paused with his hand on the sitting-room door, and looked at him benevolently.

  “Don’t be despondent, Captain Drummond. We have ample time at our disposal to ensure a similar find tomorrow morning.”

  BULLDOG DRUMMOND [Part 2]

  CHAPTER VII

  In Which He Spends an Hour or Two on a Roof

  I

  Drummond paused for a moment at the door of the sitting-room, then with a slight shrug he stepped past Peterson. During the last few days he had grown to look on this particular room as the private den of the principals of the gang. He associated it in his mind with Peterson himself, suave, impassive, ruthless; with the girl Irma, perfectly gowned, lying on the sofa, smoking innumerable cigarettes, and manicuring her already faultless nails; and in a lesser degree, with Henry Lakington’s thin, cruel face, and blue, staring eyes.

  But tonight a different scene confronted him. The girl was not there: her accustomed place on the sofa was occupied by an unkempt-looking man with a ragged beard. At the end of the table was a vacant chair, on the right of which sat Lakington regarding him with malevolent fury. Along the table on each side there were half a dozen men, and he glanced at their faces. Some were obviously foreigners; some might have been anything from murderers to Sunday-school teachers. There was one with spectacles and the general appearance of an intimidated rabbit, while his neighbour, helped by a large red scar right across his cheek, and two bloodshot eyes, struck Hugh as being the sort of man with whom one would not share a luncheon basket.

  “I know he’d snatch both drumsticks and gnaw them simultaneously,” he reflected, staring at him fascinated; “and then he’d throw the bones in your face.”

  Peterson’s voice from just behind his shoulder roused him from his distressing reverie.

  “Permit me, gentlemen, to introduce to you Captain Drummond, D.S.O., M.C., the originator of the little entertainment we have just had.”

  Hugh bowed gravely.

  “My only regret is that it failed to function,” he remarked. “As I told you outside, I’d quite forgotten your menagerie. In fact”—his glance wandered slowly and somewhat pointedly from face to face at the table—“I had no idea it was such a large one.”

  “So this is the insolent young swine, is it?” The bloodshot eyes of the man with the scarred face turned on him morosely. “What I cannot understand is why he hasn’t been killed by now.” Hugh waggled an accusing finger at him.

  “I knew you were a nasty man as soon as I saw you. Now look at Henry up at the end of the table; he doesn’t say that sort of thing. And you do hate me, don’t you, Henry? How’s the jaw?”

  “Captain Drummond,” said Lakington, ignoring Hugh and addressing the first speaker, “was very nearly killed last night. I thought for some time as to whether I would or not, but I finally decided it would be much too easy a death. So it can be remedied tonight.”

  If Hugh felt a momentary twinge of fear at the calm, expressionless tone, and the half-satisfied grunt which greeted the words, no trace of it showed on his face. Already the realisation had come to him that if he got through the night alive he would be more than passing lucky, but he was too much of a fatalist to let that worry him unduly. So he merely stifled a yawn, and again turned to Lakington.

  “So it was you, my little one, whose fairy face I saw pressed against the window. Would it be indiscreet to ask how you got the dope into us?”

  Lakington looked at him with an expression of grim satisfaction on his face.

  “You were gassed, if you want to know. An admirable invention of my friend Kauffner’s nation.”

  A guttural chuckle came from one of the men, and Hugh looked at him grimly.

  “The scum certainly would not be complete,” he remarked to Peterson, “without a filthy Boche in it.”

  The German pushed back his chair with an oath, his face purple with passion.

  “A filthy Boche,” he muttered thickly, lurching towards Hugh. “Hold him the arms of, and I will the throat tear out…”

  The intimidated rabbit rose protestingly at this prospect of violence; the scarred sportsman shot out of his chair eagerly, the lust of battle in his bloodshot eyes. The only person save Hugh who made no movement was Peterson, and he, very distinctly, chuckled. Whatever his failings, Peterson had a sense of humour…

  It all happened so quickly. At one moment Hugh was apparently intent upon selecting a cigarette, the next instant the case had fallen to the floor; there was a dull, heavy thud, and the Boche crashed back, overturned a chair, and fell like a log to the floor, his head hitting the wall with a vicious crack. The bloodshot being resumed his seat a little limply; the intimidated bunny gave a stifled gasp and breathed heavily; Hugh resumed his search for a cigarette.

  “After which breezy interlude,” remarked Peterson, “let us to business get.”

  Hugh paused in the act of striking a match, and for the first time a genuine smile spread over his face.

  “There are moments, Peterson,” he murmured, “when you really appeal to me.”

  Peterson took the empty chair next to Lakington.

  “Sit down,” he said shortly. “I can only hope that I shall appeal to you still more before we kill you.”

  Hugh bowed and sat down.

  “Consideration,” he murmured, “was always your strong point. May I ask how long I have to live?”

  Peterson smiled genially.

  “At the very earnest request of Mr. Lakington you are to be spared until tomorrow morning. At le
ast, that is our present intention. Of course, there might be an accident in the night: in a house like this one can never tell. Or”—he carefully cut the end off a cigar—“you might go mad, in which case we shouldn’t bother to kill you. In fact, it would really suit our book better if you did: the disposal of corpses, even in these days of advanced science, presents certain difficulties—not insuperable—but a nuisance. And so, if you go mad, we shall not be displeased.”

  Once again he smiled genially.

  “As I said before, in a house like this, you never can tell…”

  The intimidated rabbit, still breathing heavily, was staring at Hugh, fascinated; and after a moment Hugh turned on him with a courteous bow.

  “Laddie,” he remarked, “you’ve been eating onions. Do you mind deflecting the blast in the opposite direction?”

  His calm imperturbability seemed to madden Lakington, who with a sudden movement rose from his chair and leaned across the table, while the veins stood out like whipcord on his usually expressionless face.

  “You wait,” he snarled thickly; “you wait till I’ve finished with you. You won’t be so damned humorous then…”

  Hugh regarded the speaker languidly.

  “Your supposition is more than probable,” he remarked, in a bored voice. “I shall be too intent on getting into a Turkish bath to remove the contamination to think of laughing.”

  Slowly Lakington sank back in his chair, a hard, merciless smile on his lips; and for a moment or two there was silence in the room. It was broken by the unkempt man on the sofa, who, without warning, exploded unexpectedly.

  “A truce to all this fooling,” he burst forth in a deep rumble; “I confess I do not understand it. Are we assembled here tonight, comrades, to listen to private quarrels and stupid talk?”

  A murmur of approval came from the others, and the speaker stood up waving his arms.

  “I know not what this young man has done: I care less. In Russia such trifles matter not. He has the appearance of a bourgeois, therefore he must die. Did we not kill thousands—aye, tens of thousands of his kidney, before we obtained the great freedom? Are we not going to do the same in this accursed country?” His voice rose to the shrill, strident note of the typical tub-thumper. “What is this wretched man,” he continued, waving a hand wildly at Hugh, “that he should interrupt the great work for one brief second? Kill him now—throw him in a corner, and let us proceed.”

  He sat down again, amidst a further murmur of approval in which Hugh joined heartily.

  “Splendid,” he murmured. “A magnificent peroration. Am I right, sir, in assuming that you are what is vulgarly known as a Bolshevist?”

  The man turned his sunken eyes, glowing with the burning fires of fanaticism, on Drummond.

  “I am one of those who are fighting for the freedom of the world,” he cried harshly, “for the right to live of the proletariat. The workers were the bottom dogs in Russia till they killed the rulers. Now—they rule, and the money they earn goes into their own pockets, not those of incompetent snobs.” He flung out his arms. He seemed to shrivel up suddenly, as if exhausted with the violence of his passion. Only his eyes still gleamed with the smouldering madness of his soul.

  Hugh looked at him with genuine curiosity; it was the first time he had actually met one of these wild visionaries in the flesh. And then the curiosity was succeeded by a very definite amazement; what had Peterson to do with such as he?

  He glanced casually at his principal enemy, but his face showed nothing. He was quietly turning over some papers; his cigar glowed as evenly as ever. He seemed to be no whit surprised by the unkempt one’s outburst: in fact, it appeared to be quite in order. And once again Hugh stared at the man on the sofa with puzzled eyes.

  For the moment his own deadly risk was forgotten; a growing excitement filled his mind. Could it be possible that here, at last, was the real object of the gang; could it be possible that Peterson was organising a deliberate plot to try and Bolshevise England? If so, where did the Duchess of Lampshire’s pearls come in? What of the American, Hiram Potts? Above all, what did Peterson hope to make out of it himself? And it was as he arrived at that point in his deliberation that he looked up to find Peterson regarding him with a faint smile.

  “It is a little difficult to understand, isn’t it, Captain Drummond?” he said, carefully flicking the ash off his cigar. “I told you you’d find yourself in deep water.” Then he resumed the contemplation of the papers in front of him, as the Russian burst out again.

  “Have you ever seen a woman skinned alive?” he howled wildly, thrusting his face forward at Hugh. “Have you ever seen men killed with the knotted rope; burned almost to death and then set free, charred and mutilated wrecks? But what does it matter provided only freedom comes, as it has in Russia. Tomorrow it will be England: in a week the world… Even if we have to wade through rivers of blood up to our throats, nevertheless it will come. And in the end we shall have a new earth.”

  Hugh lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair.

  “It seems a most alluring programme,” he murmured. “And I shall have much pleasure in recommending you as manager of a babies’ crèche. I feel certain the little ones would take to you instinctively.”

  He half closed his eyes, while a general buzz of conversation broke out round the table. Tongues had been loosened, wonderful ideals conjured up by the Russian’s inspiring words; and for the moment he was forgotten. Again and again the question hammered at his brain—what in the name of Buddha had Peterson and Lakington to do with this crowd? Two intensely brilliant, practical criminals mixed up with a bunch of ragged-trousered visionaries, who, to all intents and purposes, were insane…

  Fragments of conversation struck his ears from time to time. The intimidated rabbit, with the light of battle in his watery eye, was declaiming on the glories of Workmen’s Councils; a bullet-headed man who looked like a down-at-heels racing tout was shouting an inspiring battle-cry about no starvation wages and work for all.

  “Can it be possible,” thought Hugh grimly, “that such as these have the power to control big destinies?” And then, because he had some experience of what one unbalanced brain, whose owner could talk, was capable of achieving; because he knew something about mob psychology, his half-contemptuous amusement changed to a bitter foreboding.

  “You fool,” he cried suddenly to the Russian and everyone ceased talking. “You poor damned boob! You—and your new earth! In Petrograd today bread is two pounds four shillings a pound; tea, fifteen pounds a pound. Do you call that freedom? Do you suggest that we should wade to that, through rivers of blood?” He gave a contemptuous laugh. “I don’t know which distresses me most, your maggoty brain or your insanitary appearance.”

  Too surprised to speak, the Russian sat staring at him; and it was Peterson who broke the silence with his suave voice.

  “Your distress, I am glad to say, is not likely to be one of long duration,” he remarked. “In fact, the time has come for you to retire for the night, my young friend.”

  He stood up smiling; then walked over to the bell behind Hugh and rang it.

  “Dead or mad—I wonder which.” He threw the end of his cigar into the grate as Hugh rose. “While we deliberate down here on various matters of importance we shall be thinking of you upstairs—that is to say, if you get there. I see that Lakington is even now beginning to gloat in pleasant anticipation.”

  Not a muscle on the soldier’s face twitched; not by the hint of a look did he show the keenly watching audience that he realised his danger. He might have been an ordinary guest preparing to go to bed; and in Peterson’s face there shone for a moment a certain unwilling admiration. Only Lakington’s was merciless, with its fiendish look of anticipation, and Hugh stared at him with level eyes for a while before he turned towards the door.

  “Then I will say good night,” he remarked casually. “Is it the same room that I had last time?”

  “No,” said Peterson. “A different
one—specially prepared for you. If you get to the top of the stairs a man will show you where it is.” He opened the door and stood there smiling. And at that moment all the lights went out.

  II

  The darkness could be felt, as real darkness inside a house always can be felt. Not the faintest glimmer even of greyness showed anywhere, and Hugh remained motionless, wondering what the next move was going to be. Now that the night’s ordeal had commenced, all his nerve had returned to him. He felt ice cold; and as his powerful hands clenched and unclenched by his sides, he grinned faintly to himself.

  Behind him in the room he could hear an occasional movement in one of the chairs, and once from the hall outside he caught the sound of whispering. He felt that he was surrounded by men, thronging in on him from all sides, and suddenly he gave a short laugh. Instantly silence settled—strain as he would he could not hear a sound. Then very cautiously he commenced to feel his way towards the door.

  Outside a car went by honking discordantly, and with a sort of cynical amusement he wondered what its occupants would think if they knew what was happening in the house so near them. And at that moment someone brushed past him. Like a flash Hugh’s hand shot out and gripped him by the arm. The man wriggled and twisted, but he was powerless as a child, and with another short laugh Hugh found his throat with his other hand. And again silence settled on the room…

  Still holding the unknown man in front of him, he reached the foot of the stairs, and there he paused. He had suddenly remembered the mysterious thing which had whizzed past his head that other night, and then clanged sullenly into the wall beside him. He had gone up five stairs when it had happened, and now with his foot on the first he started to do some rapid thinking.

  If, as Peterson had kindly assured him, they proposed to try and send him mad, it was unlikely that they would kill him on the stairs. At the same time it was obviously an implement capable of accurate adjustment, and therefore it was more than likely that they would use it to frighten him. And if they did—if they did… The unknown man wriggled feebly in his hands, and a sudden unholy look came on to Hugh’s face.