The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “Then we’ll move.”

  And Peter, watching the car resignedly from the window, saw the American grip his seat with both hands, and then raise them suddenly in silent prayer, while an elderly charlady fled with a scream to the safety of the area below.

  They did the trip in well under the hour, and the detective got out of the car with a faint sigh of relief.

  “You’ve missed your vocation, Captain,” he murmured. “If you pushed a bath-chair it would be safer for all parties. I bolted two bits of gum in that excursion.”

  But Drummond was already out of earshot, dodging rapidly through the bushes on his way to The Larches; and when the American finally overtook him, he was standing by a side-door knocking hard on the panels.

  “Seems kind of empty,” said the detective thoughtfully, as the minutes went by and no one came. “Why not try the front door?”

  “Because it’s in sight of the other house,” said Hugh briefly. “I’m going to break in.”

  He retreated a yard from the door, then, bracing his shoulder, he charged it once. And the door, as a door, was not… Rapidly the two men went from room to room—bedrooms, servants’ quarters, even the bathroom. Every one was empty: not a sound could be heard in the house. Finally, only the dining-room remained, and as they stood by the door looking round, the American shifted his third piece of gum to a new point of vantage.

  “Somebody has been rough-housing by the look of things,” he remarked judicially. “Looks like a boozing den after a thick night.”

  “It does,” remarked Hugh grimly, taking in the disorder of the room. The tablecloth was pulled off, the telephone lay on the floor. China and glass, smashed to pieces, littered the carpet; but what caught his eye, and caused him suddenly to step forward and pick it up, was a plain circle of glass with a black cord attached to it through a small hole.

  “Algy Longworth’s eyeglass,” he muttered. “So he’s been caught too.”

  And it was at that moment that, clear and distinct through the still evening air, they heard a woman’s agonised scream. It came from the house next door, and the American, for a brief space, even forgot to chew his gum.

  The next instant he darted forward.

  “Stop, you young fool!” he shouted, but he was too late.

  He watched Drummond, running like a stag, cross the lawn and disappear in the trees. For a second he hesitated; then, with a shrug of square shoulders, he rapidly left the house by the way they had entered. And a few minutes later, Drummond’s car was skimming back towards London, with a grim-faced man at the wheel, who had apparently felt the seriousness of the occasion so acutely as to deposit his third piece of spearmint on the underneath side of the steering-wheel for greater safety.

  But, seeing that the owner of the car was lying in blissful unconsciousness in the hall of The Elms, surrounded by half a dozen men, this hideous vandalism hurt him not.

  CHAPTER X

  In Which the Hun Nation Decreases By One

  I

  Drummond had yielded to impulse—the blind, all-powerful impulse of any man who is a man to get to the woman he loves if she wants him. As he had dashed across the lawn to The Elms, with the American’s warning cry echoing in his ears, he had been incapable of serious thought. Subconsciously he had known that, from every point of view, it was the act of a madman; that he was deliberately putting his head into what, in all probability, was a carefully prepared noose; that, from every point of view, he could help Phyllis better by remaining a free agent outside. But when a girl shrieks, and the man who loves her hears it, arguments begin to look tired. And what little caution might have remained to Hugh completely vanished as he saw the girl watching him with agonised terror in her face, from an upstair window, as he dashed up to the house. It was only for a brief second that he saw her; then she disappeared suddenly, as if snatched away by some invisible person.

  “I’m coming, darling.” He had given one wild shout, and hurled himself through the door which led into the house from the garden. A dazzling light of intense brilliance had shone in his face, momentarily blinding him; then had come a crushing blow on the back of his head. One groping, wild step forward, and Hugh Drummond, dimly conscious of men all round him, had pitched forward on his face into utter oblivion.

  “It’s too easy.” Lakington’s sneering voice broke the silence, as he looked vindictively at the unconscious man.

  “So you have thought before, Henry,” chuckled Peterson, whose complete recovery from his recent unfortunate indisposition was shown by the steady glow of the inevitable cigar. “And he always bobs up somehow. If you take my advice you’ll finish him off here and now, and run no further risks.”

  “Kill him while he’s unconscious?” Lakington laughed evilly. “No, Carl, not under any circumstances, whatever. He has quite a lengthy score to pay and by God! he’s going to pay it this time.” He stepped forward and kicked Drummond twice in the ribs with a cold, animal fury.

  “Well, don’t kick him when he’s down, guv’nor. You’ll ’ave plenty o’ time after.” A hoarse voice from the circle of men made Lakington look up.

  “You cut it out, Jem Smith,” he snarled, “or I might find plenty of time after for others beside this young swine.” The ex-pugilist muttered uneasily under his breath, but said no more, and it was Peterson who broke the silence.

  “What are you going to do with him?”

  “Lash him up like the other two,” returned Lakington, “and leave him to cool until I get back tomorrow. But I’ll bring him round before I go, and just talk to him for a little. I wouldn’t like him not to know what was going to happen to him. Anticipation is always delightful.” He turned to two of the men standing near. “Carry him into my room,” he ordered, “and another of you get the rope.”

  And so it was that Algy Longworth and Toby Sinclair, with black rage and fury in their hearts, watched the limp form of their leader being carried into the central room. Swathed in rope, they sat motionless and impotent, in their respective chairs, while they watched the same process being performed on Drummond. He was no amateur at the game, was the rope-winder, and by the time he had finished, Hugh resembled nothing so much as a lifeless brown mummy. Only his head was free, and that lolled forward helplessly.

  Lakington watched the performance for a time; then, wearying of it, he strolled over to Algy’s chair.

  “Well, you puppy,” he remarked, “are you going to try shouting again?” He picked up the rhinoceros-hide riding-whip lying on the floor, and bent it between his hands. “That weal on your face greatly improves your beauty, and next time you’ll get two, and a gag as well.”

  “How’s the jaw, you horrible bit of dreg?” remarked Algy insultingly, and Toby laughed.

  “Don’t shake his nerve, Algy,” he implored. “For the first time in his filthy life he feels safe in the same room as Hugh.”

  The taunt seemed to madden Lakington, who sprang across the room and lashed Sinclair over the face. But even after the sixth cut no sound came from the helpless man, though the blood was streaming down inside his collar. His eyes, calm and sneering, met those of the raving man in front of him without a quiver, and, at last, Peterson himself intervened.

  “Stop it, Lakington.” His voice was stern as he caught the other’s upraised arm. “That’s enough for the time.”

  For a moment it seemed as if Lakington would have struck Peterson himself; then he controlled himself, and, with an ugly laugh, flung the whip into a corner.

  “I forgot,” he said slowly. “It’s the leading dog we want—not the puppies that run after him yapping.” He spun round on his heel. “Have you finished?”

  The rope-artist bestowed a final touch to the last knot, and surveyed his handiwork with justifiable pride.

  “Cold mutton,” he remarked tersely, “would be lively compared to him when he wakes up.”

  “Good! Then we’ll bring him to.”

  Lakington took some crystals from a jar on one of the shelve
s, and placed them in a tumbler. Then he added a few drops of liquid and held the glass directly under the unconscious man’s nose. Almost at once the liquid began to effervesce, and in less than a minute Drummond opened his eyes and stared dazedly round the room. He blinked foolishly as he saw Longworth and Sinclair; then he looked down and found he was similarly bound himself. Finally he glanced up at the man bending over him, and full realisation returned.

  “Feeling better, my friend?” With a mocking smile, Lakington laid the tumbler on a table close by.

  “Much, thank you, Henry,” murmured Hugh. “Ah! and there’s Carl. How’s the tummy, Carl? I hope for your sake that it’s feeling stronger than the back of my head.”

  He grinned cheerfully, and Lakington struck him on the mouth. “You can stop that style of conversation, Captain Drummond,” he remarked. “I dislike it.”

  Hugh stared at the striker in silence.

  “Accept my congratulations,” he said at length, in a low voice which, despite himself, shook a little. “You are the first man who has ever done that, and I shall treasure the memory of that blow.”

  “I’d hate it to be a lonely memory,” remarked Lakington. “So here’s another, to keep it company.” Again he struck him, then with a laugh he turned on his heel. “My compliments to Miss Benton,” he said to a man standing near the door, “and ask her to be good enough to come down for a few minutes.”

  The veins stood out on Drummond’s forehead at the mention of the girl, but otherwise he gave no sign; and, in silence, they waited for her arrival.

  She came almost at once, a villainous-looking blackguard with her, and as she saw Hugh she gave a pitiful little moan and held out her hand to him.

  “Why did you come, boy?” she cried. “Didn’t you know it was only a forgery—that note?”

  “Ah! was it?” said Hugh softly. “Was it, indeed?”

  “An interesting point,” murmured Lakington. “Surely if a charming girl is unable—or unwilling—to write to her fiancé, her father is a very suitable person to supply the deficiency. Especially if he has been kindly endowed by Nature with a special aptitude for—er—imitating writing.”

  Mr. Benton, who had been standing outside the door, came lurching into the room.

  “Quite ri’, Laking—Laking—ton,” he announced solemnly. “Dreadful thing to sep—separate two young people.” Then he saw Drummond, and paused, blinking foolishly. “Whash he all tied up for li’ that?”

  Lakington smiled evilly.

  “It would be a pity to lose him, now he’s come, wouldn’t it?” The drunken man nodded two or three times; then a thought seemed to strike him, and he advanced slowly towards Hugh, wagging a finger foolishly.

  “Thash reminds me, young fellah,” he hiccoughed gravely, “you never asked my consent. You should have asked father’s consent. Mosh incon—inconshiderate. Don’t you agree with me, Mishter Peterson?”

  “You will find the tantalus in the dining-room,” said Peterson coldly. “I should say you require one more drink to produce complete insensibility, and the sooner you have it the better.”

  “Inshensibility!” With outraged dignity the wretched man appealed to his daughter. “Phyllis, did you hear? Thish man says I’sh in—inebri…says I’sh drunk. Gratui…tous inshult…”

  “Oh, father, father,” cried the girl, covering her face with her hands. “For pity’s sake go away! You’ve done enough harm as it is.”

  Mr. Benton tacked towards the door, where he paused, swaying.

  “Disgraceful,” he remarked solemnly. “Rising generation no reshpect for elders and bettersh! Teach ’em lesson, Lakington. Do ’em all good. One—two—three, all ranged in a—in a row. Do ’em good—” His voice tailed off, and, after a valiant attempt to lean against a door which was not there, he collapsed gracefully in a heap on the floor.

  “You vile hound,” said Phyllis, turning like a young tigress on Lakington. “It’s your doing entirely, that he’s in that condition.”

  But Lakington merely laughed.

  “When we’re married,” he answered lightly, “we’ll put him into a really good home for inebriates.”

  “Married!” she whispered tensely. “Married! Why, you loathsome reptile, I’d kill myself before I married you.”

  “An excellent curtain,” remarked Lakington suavely, “for the third act of a melodrama. Doubtless we can elaborate it later. In the meantime, however”—he glanced at his watch—“time presses. And I don’t want to go without telling you a little about the programme, Captain Drummond. Unfortunately both Mr. Peterson and I have to leave you for tonight; but we shall be returning tomorrow morning—or, at any rate, I shall. You will be left in charge of Heinrich—you remember the filthy Boche?—with whom you had words the other night. As you may expect, he entertains feelings of great friendship and affection for you, so you should not lack for any bodily comforts; such as may be possible in your present somewhat cramped position. Then tomorrow, when I return, I propose to try a few experiments on you, and, though I fear you will find them painful, it’s a great thing to suffer in the cause of science… You will always have the satisfaction of knowing that dear little Phyllis will be well cared for.” With a sudden, quick movement, he seized the girl and kissed her before she realised his intention. The rope round Drummond creaked as he struggled impotently, and Lakington’s sneering face seemed to swim in a red glow.

  “That is quite in keeping, is it not,” he snarled “to kiss the lady, and to strike the man like this—and this—and this?…” A rain of blows came down on Drummond’s face, till, with a gasping sigh, the girl slipped fainting to the floor.

  “That’ll do, Lakington,” said Peterson, intervening once again. “Have the girl carried upstairs, and send for Heinrich. It’s time we were off.”

  With an effort Lakington let his hand fall to his side, and stood back from his victim.

  “Perhaps for the present, it will,” he said slowly. “But tomorrow—tomorrow, Captain Drummond, you shall scream to Heaven for mercy, until I take out your tongue and you can scream no more.” He turned as the German came into the room. “I leave them to you, Heinrich,” he remarked shortly. “Use the dog-whip if they shout, and gag them.”

  The German’s eyes were fixed on Hugh gloatingly.

  “They will not shout twice,” he said in his guttural voice. “The dirty Boche to it himself will see.”

  II

  “We appear,” remarked Hugh quietly, a few minutes later, “to be in for a cheery night.”

  For a moment the German had left the room, and the three motionless, bound figures, sitting grotesquely in their chairs, were alone.

  “How did they get you, Toby?”

  “Half a dozen of ’em suddenly appeared,” answered Sinclair shortly, “knocked me on the head, and the next thing I knew I was here in this damned chair.”

  “Is that when you got your face?” asked Hugh.

  “No,” said Toby, and his voice was grim. “We share in the matter of faces, old man.”

  “Lakington again, was it?” said Hugh softly. “Dear Heavens! if I could get one hand on that…” He broke off and laughed. “What about you, Algy?”

  “I went blundering in over the way, old bean,” returned that worthy, “and some damn fellow knocked my eye-glass off. So, as I couldn’t see to kill him, I had to join the picnic here.”

  Hugh laughed, and then suddenly grew serious.

  “By the way, you didn’t see a man chewing gum on the horizon, did you, when I made my entrance? Dog-robber suit, and face like a motor-mascot.”

  “Thank God, I was spared that!” remarked Algy.

  “Good!” returned Hugh. “He’s probably away with it by now, and he’s no fool. For I’m thinking it’s only Peter and him between us and—” He left his remark unfinished, and for a while there was silence. “Jerry is over in France still, putting stamp-paper on his machine; Ted’s gone up to see that Potts is taking nourishment.”

  “And he
re we sit like three well-preserved specimens in a bally museum,” broke in Algy, with a rueful laugh. “What’ll they do to us, Hugh?”

  But Drummond did not answer, and the speaker, seeing the look on his face, did not press the question.

  Slowly the hours dragged on, until the last gleams of daylight had faded from the skylight above, and a solitary electric light, hung centrally, gave the only illumination. Periodically Heinrich had come in to see that they were still secure; but from the sounds of hoarse laughter which came at frequent intervals through the half-open door, it was evident that the German had found other and more congenial company. At length he appeared carrying a tray with bread and water on it, which he placed on a table near Hugh.

  “Food for you, you English swine,” he remarked, looking gloatingly at each in turn. “Herr Lakington the order gave, so that you will be fit tomorrow morning. Fit for the torture.” He thrust his flushed face close to Drummond’s and then deliberately spat at him.

  Algy Longworth gave a strangled grunt, but Drummond took no notice. For the past half-hour he had been sunk in thought, so much so that the others had believed him asleep. Now, with a quiet smile, he looked up at the German.

  “How much, my friend,” he remarked, “are you getting for this?” The German leered at him.

  “Enough to see that you tomorrow are here,” he said.

  “And I always believed that yours was a business nation,” laughed Hugh. “Why, you poor fool, I’ve got a thousand pounds in notes in my cigarette-case.” For a moment the German stared at him; then a look of greed came into his pig-eyes.

  “You hof, hof you?” he grunted. “Then the filthy Boche will for you of them take care.”

  Hugh looked at him angrily.

  “If you do,” he cried, “you must let me go.”

  The German leered still more.

  “Natürlich. You shall out of the house at once walk.”

  He stepped up to Drummond and ran his hands over his coat, while the others stared at one another in amazement. Surely Hugh didn’t imagine the swine would really let him go; he would merely take the money and probably spit in his face again. Then they heard him speaking, and a sudden gleam of comprehension dawned on their faces.