The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “Laidley Towers,” echoed Darrell. “What the devil are you going there for?”

  “I just can’t bear to be parted from Henry for one moment longer than necessary,” said Hugh quietly. “And Henry is there, in a praiseworthy endeavour to lift the Duchess’s pearls… Dear Henry!” His two fists clenched, and the American looking at his face, laughed softly.

  But it was only for a moment that Drummond indulged in the pleasures of anticipation; all that could come after. And just now there were other things to be done—many others, if events next morning were to go as they should.

  “Take those two into the centre room,” he cried. “Incidentally there’s a dead Boche on the floor, but he’ll come in very handy in my little scheme.”

  “A dead Boche!” The intimidated rabbit gave a frightened squeak. “Good heavens! You ruffian, this is beyond a joke.” Hugh looked at him coldly.

  “You’ll find it beyond a joke, you miserable little rat,” he said quietly, “if you speak to me like that.” He laughed as the other shrank past him. “Three of you boys in there,” he ordered briskly, “and if either of them gives the slightest trouble clip him over the head. Now let’s have the rest of the crowd in here, Peter.”

  They came filing in, and Hugh waved a cheery hand in greeting. “How goes it, you fellows?” he cried with his infectious grin. “Like a company powwow before popping the parapet. What! And it’s a bigger show this time, boys, than any you’ve had over the water.” His face set grimly for a moment; then he grinned again, as he sat down on the foot of the stairs. “Gather round, and listen to me.”

  For five minutes he spoke, and his audience nodded delightedly. Apart from their love for Drummond—and three out of every four of them knew him personally—it was a scheme which tickled them to death. And he was careful to tell them just enough of the sinister design of the master-criminal to make them realise the bigness of, the issue.

  “That’s all clear, then,” said Drummond, rising. “Now I’m off. Toby, I want you to come, too. We ought to be there by midnight.”

  “There’s only one point, Captain,” remarked the American, as the group began to disperse. “That safe—and the ledger.” He fumbled in his pocket, and produced a small india-rubber bottle. “I’ve got the soup here—gelignite,” he explained, as he saw the mystified look on the other’s face. “I reckoned it might come in handy. Also a fuse and detonator.”

  “Splendid!” said Hugh, “splendid! You’re an acquisition, Mr. Green, to any gathering. But I think—I think—Lakington first. Oh! yes—most undoubtedly—Henry first!”

  And once again the American laughed softly at the look on his face.

  CHAPTER XI

  In Which Lakington Plays His Last ‘Coup’

  I

  “Toby, I’ve got a sort of horrid feeling that the hunt is nearly over.”

  With a regretful sigh Hugh swung the car out of the sleeping town of Godalming in the direction of Laidley Towers. Mile after mile dropped smoothly behind the powerful two-seater, and still Drummond’s eyes wore a look of resigned sadness.

  “Very nearly over,” he remarked again. “And then once more the tedium of respectability positively stares us in the face.”

  “You’ll be getting married, old bean,” murmured Toby Sinclair hopefully.

  For a moment his companion brightened up.

  “True, O King,” he answered. “It will ease the situation somewhat; at least I suppose so. But think of it Toby: no Lakington, no Peterson—nothing at all to play about with and keep one amused.”

  “You’re very certain, Hugh.” With a feeling almost of wonder Sinclair glanced at the square-jawed, ugly profile beside him. “There’s many a slip…”

  “My dear old man,” interrupted Drummond, “there’s only one cure for the proverb-quoting disease—a dose of salts in the morning.” For a while they raced on through the warm summer’s night in silence, and it was not till they were within a mile of their destination that Sinclair spoke again.

  “What are you going to do with them, Hugh?”

  “Who—our Carl and little Henry?” Drummond grinned gently. “Why, I think that Carl and I will part amicably—unless, of course, he gives me any trouble. And as for Lakington—we’ll have to see about Lakington.” The grin faded from his face as he spoke. “We’ll have to see about our little Henry,” he repeated softly. “And I can’t help feeling, Toby, that between us we shall find a method of ridding the earth of such a thoroughly unpleasing fellow.”

  “You mean to kill him?” grunted the other non-committally.

  “Just that, and no more,” responded Hugh. “Tomorrow morning as ever is. But he’s going to get the shock of his young life before it happens.”

  He pulled the car up silently in the deep shadows of some trees, and the two men got out.

  “Now, old boy, you take her back to The Elms. The ducal abode is close to—I remember in my extreme youth being worse than passing sick by those bushes over there after a juvenile bun-worry…”

  “But confound it all,” spluttered Toby Sinclair. “Don’t you want me to help you?”

  “I do: by taking the buzz-box back. This little show is my shout.”

  Grumbling disconsolately, Sinclair stepped back into the car.

  “You make me tired,” he remarked peevishly. “I’ll be damned if you get any wedding present out of me. In fact,” and he fired a Parthian shot at his leader, “you won’t have any wedding. I shall marry her myself!”

  For a moment or two Hugh stood watching the car as it disappeared down the road along which they had just come, while his thoughts turned to the girl now safely asleep in his flat in London. Another week—perhaps a fortnight—but no more. Not a day more… And he had a pleasant conviction that Phyllis would not require much persuasion to come round to his way of thinking—even if she hadn’t arrived there already… And so delightful was the train of thought thus conjured up, that for a while Peterson and Lakington were forgotten. The roseate dreams of the young about to wed have been known to act similarly before.

  Wherefore to the soldier’s instinctive second nature, trained in the war and sharpened by his grim duel with the gang, must be given the credit of preventing the ringing of the wedding-bells being postponed for good. The sudden snap of a twig close by, the sharp hiss of a compressed-air rifle, seemed simultaneous with Hugh hurling himself flat on his face behind a sheltering bush. In reality there was that fraction of a second between the actions which allowed the bullet to pass harmlessly over his body instead of finishing his career there and then. He heard it go zipping through the undergrowth as he lay motionless on the ground; then very cautiously he turned his head and peered about. A man with an ordinary revolver is at a disadvantage against someone armed with a silent gun, especially when he is not desirous of alarming the neighbourhood.

  A shrub was shaking a few yards away, and on it Hugh fixed his half-closed eyes. If he lay quite still the man, whoever he was, would probably assume the shot had taken effect, and come and investigate. Then things would be easier, as two or three Boches had discovered to their cost in days gone by.

  For two minutes he saw no one; then very slowly the branches parted and the white face of a man peered through; It was the chauffeur who usually drove the Rolls-Royce, and he seemed unduly anxious to satisfy himself that all was well before coming nearer. The fame of Hugh Drummond had spread abroad amongst the satellites of Peterson.

  At last he seemed to make up his mind, and came out into the open. Step by step he advanced towards the motionless figure, his weapon held in readiness to shoot at the faintest movement. But the soldier lay sprawling and inert, and by the time the chauffeur had reached him there was no doubt in that worthy’s mind that, at last, this wretched meddler with things that concerned him not had been laid by the heels. Which was as unfortunate for the chauffeur as it had been for unwary Huns in the past.

  Contemptuously he rolled Drummond over; then noting the relaxed muscles and ine
rt limbs, he laid his gun on the ground preparatory to running through his victim’s pockets. And the fact that such an action was a little more foolish than offering a man-eating tiger a peppermint lozenge did not trouble the chauffeur. In fact, nothing troubled him again.

  He got out one gasping cry of terror as he realised his mistake; then he had a blurred consciousness of the world upside down, and everything was over. It was Olaki’s most dangerous throw, carried out by gripping the victim’s wrists and hurling his body over by a heave of the legs. And nine times out of ten the result was a broken neck. This was one of the nine.

  For a while the soldier stared at the body, frowning thoughtfully. To have killed the chauffeur was inconvenient, but since it had happened it necessitated a little rearrangement of his plans. The moon was setting and the night would become darker, so there was a good chance that Lakington would not recognise that the driver of his car had changed. And if he did—well, it would be necessary to forgo the somewhat theatrical entertainment he had staged for his benefit at The Elms. Bending over the dead man, he removed his long grey driving-coat and cap; then, without a sound, he threaded his way through the bushes in search of the car.

  He found it about a hundred yards nearer the house, so well hidden in a small space off the road that he was almost on top of it before he realised the fact. To his relief it was empty, and placing his own cap in a pocket under the seat he put on the driving-coat of his predecessor. Then, with a quick glance to ensure that everything was in readiness for the immediate and rapid departure such as he imagined Lakington would desire, he turned and crept stealthily towards the house.

  II

  Laidley Towers was en fête. The Duchess, determined that every conceivable stunt should be carried out which would make for the entertainment of her guests, had spared no pains to make the evening a success. The Duke, bored to extinction, had been five times routed out of his study by his indefatigable spouse, and was now, at the moment Hugh first came in sight of the house, engaged in shaking hands with a tall, aristocratic-looking Indian…

  “How-d’ye-do,” he murmured vacantly. “What did you say the damn fellah’s name was, my dear?” he whispered in a hoarse undertone to the Duchess, who stood beside him welcoming the distinguished foreigner.

  “We’re so glad you could come, Mr. Ram Dar,” remarked the Duchess affably. “Everyone is so looking forward to your wonderful entertainment.” Round her neck were the historic pearls, and as the Indian bowed low over her outstretched hand, his eyes gleamed for a second.

  “Your Grace is too kind.” His voice was low and deep, and he glanced thoughtfully around the circle of faces near him. “Maybe the sands that come from the mountains that lie beyond the everlasting snows will speak the truth; maybe the gods will be silent. Who knows…who knows?”

  As if unconsciously his gaze rested on the Duke, who manfully rose to the occasion.

  “Precisely, Mr. Rum Rum,” he murmured helpfully; “who indeed? If they let you down, don’t you know, perhaps you could show us a card trick?”

  He retired in confusion, abashed by the baleful stare of the Duchess, and the rest of the guests drew closer. The jazz band was having supper; the last of the perspiring tenants had departed, and now the bonne-bouche of the evening was about to begin.

  It had been the Marquis of Laidley himself who had suggested getting hold of this most celebrated performer, who had apparently never been in England before. And since the Marquis of Laidley’s coming-of-age was the cause of the whole evening’s entertainment, his suggestion had been hailed with acclamation. How he had heard about the Indian, and from whom, were points about which he was very vague; but since he was a very vague young man, the fact elicited no comment. The main thing was that here, in the flesh, was a dark, mysterious performer of the occult, and what more could a house party require? And in the general excitement Hugh Drummond crept closer to the open window. It was the Duchess he was concerned with and her pearls, and the arrival of the Indian was not going to put him off his guard… Then suddenly his jaw tightened: Irma Peterson had entered the room with young Laidley.

  “Do you want anything done, Mr. Ram Dar?” asked the Duchess—“the lights down or the window shut?”

  “No, I thank you,” returned the Indian. “The night is still; there is no wind. And the night is dark—dark with strange thoughts, that thronged upon me as I drew nigh to the house—whispering through the trees.” Again he fixed his eyes on the Duke. “What is your pleasure, Protector of the Poor?”

  “Mine?” cried that pillar of the House of Lords, hurriedly stifling a yawn. “Any old thing, my dear fellow… You’d much better ask one of the ladies.”

  “As you will,” returned the other gravely; “but if the gods speak the truth, and the sand does not lie, I can but say what is written.”

  From a pocket in his robe he took a bag and two small bronze dishes, and placing them on a table stood waiting.

  “I am ready,” he announced. “Who first will learn of the things that are written on the scroll of Fate?”

  “I say, hadn’t you better do it in private, Mr. Rum?” murmured the Duke apprehensively. “I mean, don’t you know, it might be a little embarrassing if the jolly old gods really did give tongue; and I don’t see anybody getting killed in the rush.”

  “Is there so much to conceal?” demanded the Indian, glancing round the group, contempt in his brooding eyes. “In the lands that lie beyond the snows we have nothing to conceal. There is nothing that can be concealed, because all is known.”

  And it was at that moment that the intent watcher outside the window began to shake with silent mirth. For the face was the face of the Indians Ram Dar, but the voice was the voice of Lakington. It struck him that the next ten minutes or so might be well worth while. The problem of removing the pearls from the Duchess’s neck before such an assembly seemed to present a certain amount of difficulty even to such an expert as Henry. And Hugh crept a little nearer the window, so as to miss nothing. He crept near enough, in fact, to steal a look at Irma, and in doing so saw something which made him rub his eyes and then grin once more. She was standing on the outskirts of the group, an evening wrap thrown loosely over her arm. She edged a step or two towards a table containing bric-à-brac, the centre of which was occupied, as the place of honour, by a small inlaid Chinese cabinet—a box standing on four grotesquely carved legs. It was a beautiful ornament, and he dimly remembered having heard its history—a story which reflected considerable glory on the predatory nature of a previous Duke. At the moment, however, he was not concerned with its past history, but with its present fate; and it was the consummate quickness of the girl that made him rub his eyes.

  She took one lightning glance at the other guests who were craning eagerly forward round the Indian; then she half dropped her wrap on the table and picked it up again. It was done so rapidly, so naturally, that for a while Hugh thought he had made a mistake. And then a slight rearrangement of her wrap to conceal a hard outline beneath, as she joined the others, dispelled any doubts. The small inlaid Chinese cabinet now standing on the table was not the one that had been here previously. The original was under Irma Peterson’s cloak…

  Evidently the scene was now set—the necessary props were in position—and Hugh waited with growing impatience for the principal event. But the principal performer seemed in no hurry. In fact, in his dry way Lakington was thoroughly enjoying himself. An intimate inside knowledge of the skeletons that rattled their bones in the cupboards of most of those present enabled the gods to speak with disconcerting accuracy; and as each victim insisted on somebody new facing the sands that came from beyond the mountains, the performance seemed likely to last indefinitely.

  At last a sudden delighted burst of applause came from the group, announcing the discomfiture of yet another guest, and with it Lakington seemed to tire of the amusement. Engrossed though he was in the anticipation of the main item which was still to be staged, Drummond could not but admire the
extraordinary accuracy of the character study. Not a detail had been overlooked; not a single flaw in Lakington’s acting could he notice. It was an Indian who stood there, and when a few days later Hugh returned her pearls to the Duchess, for a long time neither she nor her husband would believe that Ram Dar had been an Englishman disguised. And when they had at last been persuaded of that fact, and had been shown the two cabinets side by side, it was, the consummate boldness of the crime, coupled with its extreme simplicity, that staggered them. For it was only in the reconstruction of it that the principal beauty of the scheme became apparent. The element of luck was reduced to a minimum, and at no stage of the proceedings was it impossible, should things go amiss, for Lakington to go as he had come, a mere Indian entertainer. Without the necklace, true, in such an event; but unsuspected, and free to try again. As befitted his last, it was perhaps his greatest effort… And this was what happened as seen by the fascinated onlooker crouching near the window outside.

  Superbly disdainful, the Indian tipped back his sand into the little bag, and replacing it in his pocket, stalked to the open window. With arms outstretched he stared into the darkness, seeming to gather strength from the gods whom he served.

  “Do your ears not hear the whisperings of the night?” he demanded. “Life rustling in the leaves; death moaning through the grasses.” And suddenly he threw back his head and laughed, a fierce, mocking laugh; then he swung round and faced the room. For a while he stood motionless, and Hugh, from the shelter of the bushes, wondered whether the two quick flashes that had come from his robe as he spoke—flashes such as a small electric torch will give, and which were unseen by anyone else—were a signal to the defunct chauffeur.

  Then a peculiar look came over the Indian’s face, as his eyes fell on the Chinese cabinet.

  “Where did the Protector of the Poor obtain the sacred cabinet of the Chow Kings?” He peered at it reverently, and the Duke coughed.