The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  With a gesture of annoyance he waved his arm. It was hot—insufferably hot, and he was beginning to regret that he had followed the earnest advice of the American to sleep with his windows shut and bolted. What on earth could Peterson do to him in a room at the Ritz? But he had promised the detective, and there it was—curtains drawn, window bolted, door locked. Moreover, and he smiled grimly to himself as he remembered it, he had even gone so far as to emulate the hysterical maiden lady of fiction and peer under the bed…

  The next moment the smile ceased abruptly, and he lay rigid, with every nerve alert. Something had moved in the room…

  It had only been a tiny movement, more like the sudden creak of a piece of furniture than anything else—but it was not quite like it. A gentle, slithering sound had preceded the creak; the sound such as a man would make who, with infinite precaution against making a noise, was moving in a dark room; a stealthy, uncanny noise. Hugh peered into the blackness tensely. After the first moment of surprise his brain was quite cool. He had looked under the bed, he had hung his coat in the cupboard, and save for those two obvious places there was no cover for a cat. And yet, with a sort of sixth sense that four years of war had given him, he knew that noise had been made by some human agency. Human! The thought of the cobra at The Elms flashed into his mind, and his mouth set more grimly. What if Peterson had introduced some of his abominable menagerie into the room?… Then, once more, the thing like a fly sounded loud in his ear. And was it his imagination, or had he heard a faint sibilant hiss just before?

  Suddenly it struck him that he was at a terrible disadvantage. The thing, whatever it was, knew, at any rate approximately, his position: he had not the slightest notion where it was. And a blind man boxing a man who could see, would have felt just about as safe. With Hugh, such a conclusion meant instant action. It might be dangerous on the floor: it most certainly was far more so in bed. He felt for his torch, and then, with one convulsive bound, he was standing by the door, with his hand on the electric-light switch.

  Then he paused and listened intently. Not a sound could he hear; the thing, whatever it was, had become motionless at his sudden movement. For an appreciable time he stood there, his eyes searching the darkness—but even he could see nothing, and he cursed the American comprehensively under his breath. He would have given anything for even the faintest grey light, so that he could have some idea of what it was and where it was. Now he felt utterly helpless, while every moment he imagined some slimy, crawling brute touching his bare feet—creeping up him…

  He pulled himself together sharply. Light was essential and at once. But, if he switched on, there would be a moment when the thing would see him before he could see the thing—and such moments are not helpful. There only remained his torch; and on the Ancre, on one occasion, he had saved his life by judicious use. The man behind one of those useful implements is in blackness far more impenetrable than the blackest night, for the man in front is dazzled. He can only shoot at the torch: therefore, hold it to one side and in front of you…

  The light flashed out, darting round the room. Ping! Something hit the sleeve of his pyjamas, but still he could see nothing. The bed, with the clothes thrown back; the washstand; the chair with his trousers and shirt—everything was as it had been when he turned in. And then he heard a second sound—distinct and clear. It came from high up, near the ceiling, and the beam caught the big cupboard and travelled up. It reached the top, and rested there, fixed and steady. Framed in the middle of it, peering over the edge, was a little hairless, brown face, holding what looked like a tube in its mouth. Hugh had one glimpse of a dark, skinny hand putting something in the tube, and then he switched off the torch and ducked, just as another fly pinged over his head and hit the wall behind.

  One thing, at any rate, was certain: the other occupant of the room was human, and with that realisation all his nerve returned. There would be time enough later on to find out how he got there, and what those strange pinging noises had been caused by. Just at that moment only one thing was on the programme; and without a sound he crept round the bed towards the cupboard, to put that one thing into effect in his usual direct manner.

  Twice did he hear the little whistling hiss from above, but nothing sang past his head. Evidently the man had lost him, and was probably still aiming at the door. And then, with hands that barely touched it, he felt the outlines of the cupboard.

  It was standing an inch or two from the wall, and he slipped his fingers behind the back on one side. He listened for a moment, but no movement came from above; then, half facing the wall, he put one leg against it. There was one quick, tremendous heave; a crash which sounded deafening; then silence. And once again he switched on his torch…

  Lying on the floor by the window was one of the smallest men he had ever seen. He was a native of sorts, and Hugh turned him over with his foot. He was quite unconscious, and the bump on his head, where it had hit the floor, was rapidly swelling to the size of a large orange. In his hand he still clutched the little tube, and Hugh gingerly removed it. Placed in position at one end was a long splinter of wood, with a sharpened point; and by the light of his torch Hugh saw that it was faintly discoloured with some brown stain.

  He was still examining it with interest when a thunderous knock came on the door. He strolled over and switched on the electric light; then he opened the door.

  An excited night-porter rushed in, followed by two or three other people in varying stages of undress, and stopped in amazement at the scene. The heavy cupboard, with a great crack across the back, lay face downwards on the floor; the native still lay curled up and motionless.

  “One of the hotel pets?” queried Hugh pleasantly, lighting a cigarette. “If it’s all the same to you, I wish you’d remove him. He was—ah—finding it uncomfortable on the top of the cupboard.”

  It appeared that the night-porter could speak English; it also appeared that the lady occupying the room below had rushed forth demanding to be led to the basement, under the misapprehension that war had again been declared and the Germans were bombing Paris. It still further appeared that there was something most irregular about the whole proceeding—the best people at the Ritz did not do these things. And then, to crown everything, while the uproar was at its height, the native on the floor, opening one beady and somewhat dazed eye, realised that things looked unhealthy. Unnoticed, he lay “doggo” for a while; then, like a rabbit which has almost been trodden on, he dodged between the legs of the men in the room, and vanished through the open door. Taken by surprise, for a moment no one moved: then, simultaneously, they dashed into the passage. It was empty, save for one scandalised old gentleman in a nightcap, who was peering out of a room opposite angrily demanding the cause of the hideous din.

  Had he seen a native—a black man? He had seen no native, and if other people only drank water, they wouldn’t either. In fact, the whole affair was scandalous, and he should write to the papers about it. Still muttering, he withdrew, banging his door, and Hugh, glancing up, saw the American detective advancing towards them along the corridor.

  “What’s the trouble, Captain?” he asked, as he joined the group.

  “A friend of the management elected to spend the night on the top of my cupboard, Mr. Green,” answered Drummond, “and got cramp half-way through.”

  The American gazed at the wreckage in silence. Then he looked at Hugh, and what he saw on that worthy’s face apparently decided him to maintain that policy. In fact, it was not till the night-porter and his attendant minions had at last, and very dubiously, withdrawn, that he again opened his mouth.

  “Looks like a hectic night,” he murmured. “What happened?” Briefly Hugh told him what had occurred, and the detective whistled softly.

  “Blowpipe and poisoned darts,” he said shortly, returning the tube to Drummond. “Narrow escape—damned narrow! Look at your pillow.”

  Hugh looked: embedded in the linen were four pointed splinters similar to the one he held in hi
s hand; by the door were three more, lying on the floor.

  “An engaging little bird,” he laughed; “but nasty to look at.” He extracted the little pieces of wood and carefully placed them in an empty matchbox: the tube he put into his cigarette-case. “Might come in handy: you never know,” he remarked casually.

  “They might if you stand quite still,” said the American, with a sudden, sharp command in his voice. “Don’t move.”

  Hugh stood motionless, staring at the speaker who, with eyes fixed on his right forearm, had stepped forward. From the loose sleeve of his pyjama coat the detective gently pulled another dart and dropped it into the matchbox.

  “Not far off getting you that time, Captain,” he cried cheerfully. “Now you’ve got the whole blamed outfit.”

  III

  It was the Comte de Guy who boarded the boat express at the Gare du Nord the next day; it was Carl Peterson who stepped off the boat express at Boulogne. And it was only Drummond’s positive assurance which convinced the American that the two characters were the same man.

  He was leaning over the side of the boat reading a telegram when he first saw Hugh ten minutes after the boat had left the harbour; and if he had hoped for a different result to the incident of the night before, no sign of it showed on his face. Instead he waved a cheerful greeting to Drummond.

  “This is a pleasant surprise,” he remarked affably. “Have you been to Paris, too?”

  For a moment Drummond looked at him narrowly. Was it a stupid bluff, or was the man so sure of his power of disguise that he assumed with certainty he had not been recognised? And it suddenly struck Hugh that, save for that one tell-tale habit—a habit which, in all probability, Peterson himself was unconscious of—he would not have recognised him.

  “Yes,” he answered lightly. “I came over to see how you behaved yourself!”

  “What a pity I didn’t know!” said Peterson, with a good-humoured chuckle. He seemed in excellent spirits, as he carefully tore the telegram into tiny pieces and dropped them overboard. “We might have had another of our homely little chats over some supper. Where did you stay?”

  “At the Ritz. And you?”

  “I always stop at the Bristol,” answered Peterson. “Quieter than the Ritz, I think.”

  “Yes, it was quite dreadful last night,” murmured Hugh. “A pal of mine—quite incorrigible—that bird over there”—he pointed to Ted Jerningham, who was strolling up and down the deck with the American—“insisted on dressing up as a waiter.” He laughed shortly at the sudden gleam in the other’s eye, as he watched Jerningham go past. “Not content with that, he went and dropped the fish over some warrior’s boiled shirt, and had to leave in disgrace.” He carefully selected a cigarette. “No accountin’ for this dressing-up craze, is there, Carl? You’d never be anything but your own sweet self, would you, little one? Always the girls’ own friend—tender and true.” He laughed softly; from previous experience he knew that this particular form of baiting invariably infuriated Peterson. “Some day, my Carl, you must tell me of your life, and your early struggles, amidst all the bitter temptations of this wicked world.”

  “Some day,” snarled Peterson,

  “Stop.” Drummond held up a protesting hand. “Not that, my Carl—anything but that.”

  “Anything but what?” said the other savagely.

  “I felt it in my bones,” answered Drummond, “that you were once more on the point of mentioning my decease. I couldn’t bear it, Carl: on this beautiful morning I should burst into tears. It would be the seventeenth time that that sad event has been alluded to either by you or our Henry: and I’m reluctantly beginning to think that you’ll have to hire an assassin, and take lessons from him.” He looked thoughtfully at the other, and an unholy joy began to dawn on his face. “I see you have thrown away your cigar, Carl. May I offer you a cigarette? No?… But why so brusque? Can it be—oh no! surely not—can it be that my little pet is feeling icky-boo? Face going green—slight perspiration—collar tight—only the yawning stage between him and his breakfast! Some people have all the fun of the fair. And I thought of asking you to join me below at lunch. There’s some excellent fat pork…”

  A few minutes later, Jerningham and the American found him leaning by himself against the rail, still laughing weakly.

  “I ask no more of life,” he remarked when he could speak. “Anything else that may come will be an anti-climax.”

  “What’s happened?” asked Jerningham.

  “It’s happening,” said Drummond joyfully. “It couldn’t possibly be over yet. Peterson, our one and only Carl, has been overcome by the waves. And when he’s feeling a little better I’ll take him a bit of crackling…” Once again he gave way to unrestrained mirth, which finally subsided sufficiently to allow him to stagger below and feed.

  At the top of the stairs leading to the luncheon saloon, he paused, and glanced into the secret place reserved for those who have from early childhood voted for a Channel tunnel.

  “There he is,” he whispered ecstatically, “our little Carl, busy recalling his past. It may be vulgar, Ted: doubtless it is. I don’t care. Such trifles matter not in the supreme moments of one’s life; and I can imagine of only one more supreme than this.”

  “What’s that?” asked Ted, firmly piloting him down the stairs.

  “The moment when he and Henry sit side by side and recall their pasts together,” murmured Hugh solemnly. “Think of it, man—think of it! Each cursin’ the other between spasms. My hat! What a wonderful, lovely dream to treasure through the weary years!” He gazed abstractedly at the waiter. “Roast beef—underdone,” he remarked, “and take a plate of cold fat up to the silence room above. The third gentleman from the door would like to look at it.”

  But the third gentleman from the door, even in the midst of his agony, was consoled by one reflection.

  “Should it be necessary, letter awaits him.” So had run the telegram, which he had scattered to the winds right under Drummond’s nose. And it was necessary. The mutton-headed young sweep had managed to escape once again: though Petro had assured him that the wretched native had never yet failed. And he personally had seen the man clamber on to the top of the cupboard…

  For a moment his furious rage overcame his sufferings… Next time…next time…and then the seventh wave of several seventh waves arrived. He had a fleeting glimpse of the scoundrel Drummond, apparently on the other side of a see-saw, watching him delightedly from outside; then, with a dreadful groan, he snatched his new basin, just supplied by a phlegmatic steward, from the scoundrel next him, who had endeavoured to appropriate it.

  IV

  “Walk right in, Mr. Green,” said Hugh, as, three hours later, they got out of a taxi in Half Moon Street. “This is my little rabbit-hutch.”

  He followed the American up the stairs, and produced his latchkey. But before he could even insert it in the hole the door was flung open, and Peter Darrell stood facing him with evident relief in his face.

  “Thank the Lord you’ve come, old son,” he cried, with a brief look at the detective. “There’s something doing down at Godalming I don’t like.”

  He followed Hugh into the sitting-room.

  “At twelve o’clock today Toby rang up. He was talking quite ordinarily—you know the sort of rot he usually gets off his chest—when suddenly he stopped quite short and said, ‘My God! What do you want?’ I could tell he’d looked up, because his voice was muffled. Then there was the sound of a scuffle, I heard Toby curse, then nothing more. I rang and rang and rang—no answer.”

  “What did you do?” Drummond, with a letter in his hand which he had taken off the mantelpiece, was listening grimly.

  “Algy was here. He motored straight off to see if he could find out what was wrong. I stopped here to tell you.”

  “Anything through from him?”

  “Not a word. There’s foul play, or I’ll eat my hat.”

  But Hugh did not answer. With a look on his face which
even Peter had never seen before, he was reading the letter. It was short and to the point, but he read it three times before he spoke.

  “When did this come?” he asked.

  “An hour ago,” answered the other. “I very nearly opened it.”

  “Read it,” said Hugh. He handed it to Peter and went to the door.

  “Denny,” he shouted, “I want my car round at once.” Then he came back into the room. “If they’ve hurt one hair of her head,” he said, his voice full of a smouldering fury, “I’ll murder that gang one by one with my bare hands.”

  “Say, Captain, may I see this letter?” said the American; and Hugh nodded.

  “‘For pity’s sake, come at once,’” read the detective aloud. “‘The bearer of this is trustworthy.’” He thoughtfully picked his teeth. “Girl’s writing. Do you know her?”

  “My fiancée,” said Hugh shortly.

  “Certain?” snapped the American.

  “Certain!” cried Hugh. “Of course I am, I know every curl of every letter.”

  “There is such a thing as forgery,” remarked the detective dispassionately.

  “Damn it, man!” exploded Hugh. “Do you imagine I don’t know my own girl’s writing?”

  “A good many bank cashiers have mistaken their customers’ writing before now,” said the other, unmoved. “I don’t like it, Captain. A girl in real trouble wouldn’t put in that bit about the bearer.”

  “You go to hell,” remarked Hugh briefly. “I’m going to Godalming.”

  “Well,” drawled the American, “not knowing Godalming, I don’t know who scores. But, if you go there—I come too.”

  “And me,” said Peter, brightening up.

  Hugh grinned.

  “Not you, old son. If Mr. Green will come, I’ll be delighted; but I want you here at headquarters.”

  He turned round as his servant put his head in at the door.

  “Car here, sir. Do you want a bag packed?”

  “No—only my revolver. Are you ready, Mr. Green?”

  “Sure thing,” said the American. “I always am.”