The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  The American nodded slowly.

  “Von Gratz,” he said. “I remember his name now. Steel man. Maybe you’re right, Captain, and that he know something; anyway, I guess Hiram C. Potts and I stick closer than brothers till I restore him to the bosom of his family.”

  But Mr. Potts, when he did arrive, exhibited no great inclination to stick close to the detective; in fact, he showed the greatest reluctance to enter the house at all. As Algy has said, he was still weak and dazed, and the sight of the place where he had suffered so much produced such an effect on him that for a while Hugh feared he was going to have a relapse. At length, however, he seemed to get back his confidence and was persuaded to come into the central room.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Potts,” Drummond assured him over and over again. “Their gang is dispersed, and Lakington is dead. We’re all friends here now. You’re quite safe. This is Mr. Green, who has come over from New York especially to find you and take you back to your family.”

  The millionaire stared in silence at the detective, who rolled his cigar round in his mouth.

  “That’s right, Mr. Potts. There’s the little old sign.” He threw back his coat, showing the police badge, and the millionaire nodded. “I guess you’ve had things humming on the other side, and if it hadn’t been for the Captain here and his friends they’d be humming still.”

  “I am obliged to you, sir,” said the American, speaking for the first time to Hugh. The words were slow and hesitating, as if he was not quite sure of his speech. “I seem to remember your face,” he continued, “as part of the awful nightmare I’ve suffered the last few days—or is it weeks? I seem to remember having seen you, and you were, always kind.”

  “That’s all over now, Mr. Potts,” said Hugh gently. “You got into the clutches of the most infernal gang of swine, and we’ve been trying to get you out again.” He looked at him quietly. “Do you think you can remember enough to tell us what happened at the beginning? Take your time,” he urged. “There’s no hurry.”

  The others drew nearer eagerly, and the millionaire passed his hand dazedly over his forehead.

  “I was stopping at the Carlton,” he began, “with Granger, my secretary. I sent him over to Belfast on a shipping deal and—” He paused and looked round the group. “Where is Granger?” he asked.

  “Mr. Granger was murdered in Belfast, Mr. Potts,” said Drummond quietly, “by a member of the gang that kidnapped you.”

  “Murdered! Jimmy Granger murdered!” He almost cried in his weakness. “What did the swine want to murder him for?”

  “Because they wanted you alone,” explained Hugh. “Private secretaries ask awkward questions.”

  After a while the millionaire recovered his composure, and with many breaks, and pauses the slow, disjointed story continued.

  “Lakington! That was the name of the man I met at the Carlton. And then there was another… Peter… Peterson. That’s it. We all dined together, I remember, and it was after dinner, in my private sitting-room, that Peterson put up his proposition to me… It was a suggestion that he thought would appeal to me as a business man. He said—what was it?—that he could produce a gigantic syndicalist strike in England—revolution, in fact; and that as one of the biggest ship-owners—the biggest, in fact—outside this country, I should be able to capture a lot of the British carrying trade. He wanted two hundred and fifty thousand pounds to do it, paid one month after the result was obtained… Said there were others in it…”

  “On that valuation,” interrupted the detective thoughtfully, “it makes one million pounds sterling.”

  Drummond nodded. “Yes, Mr. Potts; and then?”

  “I told him,” said the millionaire, “that he was an infernal scoundrel, and that I’d have nothing whatever to do with such a villainous scheme. And then—almost the last thing I can remember—I saw Peterson look at Lakington. Then they both sprang on me, and I felt something prick my arm. And after that I can’t remember anything clearly. Your face, sir”—he turned to Drummond—“comes to me out of a kind of dream; and yours, too,” he added to Darrell. “But it was like a long, dreadful nightmare, in which vague things, over which I had no power, kept happening, until I woke up late last night in this gentleman’s house.” He bowed to Ted Jerningham, who grinned cheerfully.

  “And mighty glad I was to hear you talking sense again, sir,” he remarked. “Do you mean to say you have no recollection of how you got there?”

  “None, sir; none,” answered the millionaire. “It was just part of a dream.”

  “It shows the strength of the drug those swine used on you,” said Drummond grimly. “You went there in an aeroplane, Mr. Potts.”

  “An aeroplane!” cried the other in amazement. “I don’t remember it. I’ve got no recollection of it whatever. There’s only one other thing that I can lay hold of, and that’s all dim and muzzy… Pearls… A great rope of pearls… I was to sign a paper; and I wouldn’t… I did once, and then there was a shot, and the light went out, and the paper disappeared…”

  “It’s at my bank at this moment, Mr. Potts,” said Hugh; “I took that paper, or part of it, that night.”

  “Did you?” The millionaire looked at him vaguely. “It was to promise them a million dollars when they had done what they said… I remember that… And the pearl necklace… The Duchess of…” He paused and shook his head wearily.

  “The Duchess of Lampshire’s?” prompted Hugh.

  “That’s it,” said the other. “The Duchess of Lampshire’s. It was saying that I wanted her pearls, I think, and would ask no questions as to how they were got.”

  The detective grunted.

  “Wanted to incriminate you properly, did they? Though it seems to me that it was a blamed risky game. There should have been enough money from the other three to run the show without worrying you, when they found you weren’t for it.”

  “Wait,” said the millionaire, “that reminds me. Before they assaulted me at the Carlton, they told me the others wouldn’t come in unless I did.”

  For a while there was silence, broken at length by Hugh.

  “Well, Mr. Potts, you’ve had a mouldy time, and I’m very glad it’s over. But the person you’ve got to thank for putting us fellows on to your track is a girl. If it hadn’t been for her, I’m afraid you’d still be having nightmares.”

  “I would like to see her and thank her,” said the millionaire quickly.

  “You shall,” grinned Hugh. “Come to the wedding; it will be in a fortnight or thereabouts.”

  “Wedding!” Mr. Potts looked a little vague.

  “Yes! Mine and hers. Ghastly proposition, isn’t it?”

  “The last straw,” remarked Ted Jeningham. “A more impossible man as a bridegroom would be hard to think of. But in the meantime I pinched half a dozen of the old man’s Perrier Jouet 1911 and put ’em in the car. What say you?”

  “Say!” snorted Hugh. “Idiot boy! Does one speak on such occasions?”

  And it was so…

  III

  “What’s troubling me,” remarked Hugh later, “is what to do with Carl and that sweet girl Irma.”

  The hour for the meeting was drawing near, and though no one had any idea as to what sort of a meeting it was going to be, it was obvious that Peterson would be one of the happy throng.

  “I should say the police might now be allowed a look in,” murmured Darrell mildly. “You can’t have the man lying about the place after you’re married.”

  “I suppose not,” answered Drummond regretfully. “And yet it’s a dreadful thing to finish a little show like this with the police—if you’ll forgive my saying so, Mr. Green.”

  “Sure thing,” drawled the American. “But we have our uses, Captain, and I’m inclined to agree with your friend’s suggestion. Hand him over along with his book, and they’ll sweep up the mess.”

  “It would be an outrage to let the scoundrel go,” said the millionaire fiercely. “The man Lakington you say is dead; the
re’s enough evidence to hang this brute as well. What about my secretary in Belfast?”

  But Drummond shook his head.

  “I have my doubts, Mr. Potts, if you’d be able to bring that home to him. Still, I can quite understand your feeling rattled with the bird.” He rose and stretched himself; then he glanced at his watch. “It’s time you all retired, boys; the party ought to be starting soon. Drift in again with the lads, the instant I ring the bell.”

  Left alone Hugh made certain once again that he knew the right combination of studs on the wall to open the big door which concealed the stolen store of treasure—and other things as well; then, lighting a cigarette, he sat down and waited.

  The end of the chase was in sight, and he had determined it should be a fitting end, worthy of the chase itself—theatrical, perhaps, but at the same time impressive. Something for the Ditchlings of the party to ponder on in the silent watches of the night… Then the police—it would have to be the police, he admitted sorrowfully—and after that, Phyllis.

  And he was just on the point of ringing up his flat to tell her that he loved her, when the door opened and a man came in. Hugh recognised him at once as Vallance Nestor, an author of great brilliance—in his own eyes—who had lately devoted himself to the advancement of revolutionary labour.

  “Good afternoon,” murmured Drummond affably. “Mr. Peterson will be a little late. I am his private secretary.”

  The other nodded and sat down languidly.

  “What did you think of my last little effort in the Midlands?” he asked, drawing off his gloves.

  “Quite wonderful,” said Hugh. “A marvellous help to the great Cause.”

  Valiance Nestor yawned slightly and closed his eyes, only to open them again as Hugh turned the pages of the ledger on the table.

  “What’s that?” he demanded.

  “This is the book,” replied Drummond carelessly, “where Mr. Peterson records his opinions of the immense value of all his fellow-workers. Most interesting reading.”

  “Am I in it?” Valiance Nestor rose with alacrity.

  “Why, of course,” answered Drummond. “Are you not one of the leaders? Here you are.” He pointed with his finger, and then drew back in dismay. “Dear, dear! there must be some mistake.”

  But Valiance Nestor, with a frozen and glassy eye, was staring fascinated at the following choice description of himself:

  “Nestor, Valiance. Author—so-called. Hot-air factory, but useful up to a point. Inordinately conceited and a monumental ass. Not fit to be trusted far.”

  “What,’ he spluttered at length, “is the meaning of this abominable insult?”

  But Hugh, his shoulders shaking slightly, was welcoming the next arrival—a rugged, beetle-browed man, whose face seemed vaguely familiar, but whose name he was unable to place.

  “Crofter,” shouted the infuriated author, “look at this as a description of me.”

  And Hugh watched the man, whom he now knew to be one of the extremist members of Parliament, walk over and glance at the book. He saw him conceal a smile, and then Valiance Nestor carried the good work on.

  “We’ll see what he says about you—impertinent blackguard.” Rapidly he turned the pages, and Hugh glanced over Crofter’s shoulder at the dossier.

  He just had time to read: “Crofter, John. A consummate blackguard. Playing entirely for his own hand. Needs careful watching,” when the subject of the remarks, his face convulsed with fury, spun round and faced him.

  “Who wrote that?” he snarled.

  “Must have been Mr. Peterson,” answered Hugh placidly. “I see you had five thousand out of him, so perhaps he considers himself privileged. A wonderful judge of character, too,” he murmured, turning away to greet Mr. Ditchling, who arrived somewhat opportunely, in company with a thin pale man—little more than a youth—whose identity completely defeated Drummond.

  “My God!” Crofter was livid with rage. “Me and Peterson will have words this afternoon. Look at this, Ditchling.” On second thoughts he turned over some pages. “We’ll see what this insolent devil has to say about you.”

  “Drinks!” Ditchling thumped the table with a heavy fist. “What the hell does he mean? Say you, Mr. Secretary—what’s the meaning of this?”

  “They represent Mr. Peterson’s considered opinions of you all,” said Hugh genially. “Perhaps this other gentleman…”

  He turned to the pale youth, who stepped forward with a surprised look. He seemed to be not quite clear what had upset the others, but already Nestor had turned up his name.

  “Terrance, Victor. A wonderful speaker. Appears really to believe that what he says will benefit the working-man. Consequently very valuable; but indubitably mad.”

  “Does he mean to insult us deliberately?” demanded Crofter, his voice still shaking with passion.

  “But I don’t understand,” said Victor Terrance dazedly. “Does Mr. Peterson not believe in our teachings, too?” He turned slowly and looked at Hugh, who shrugged his shoulders.

  “He should be here at any moment,” he answered, and as he spoke the door opened and Carl Peterson came in.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he began, and then he saw Hugh. With a look of speechless amazement he stared at the soldier, and for the first time since Hugh had known him his face blanched. Then his eyes fell on the open ledger, and with a dreadful curse he sprang forward. A glance at the faces of the men who stood watching told him what he wanted to know, and with another oath his hand went to his pocket.

  “Take your hand out, Carl Peterson.” Drummond’s voice rang through the room, and the arch-criminal, looking sullenly up, found himself staring into the muzzle of a revolver. “Now, sit down at the table—all of you. The meeting is about to commence.”

  “Look here,” blustered Crofter, “I’ll have the law on you…”

  “By all manner of means, Mr. John Crofter, consummate blackguard,” answered Hugh calmly. “But that comes afterwards. Just now—sit down.”

  “I’m damned if I will,” roared the other, springing at the soldier. And Peterson, sitting sullenly at the table trying to readjust his thoughts to the sudden blinding certainty that through some extraordinary accident everything had miscarried, never stirred as a half-stunned Member of Parliament crashed to the floor beside him.

  “Sit down, I said,” remarked Drummond affably. “But if you prefer to lie down, it’s all the same to me. Are there any more to come, Peterson?”

  “No, damn you. Get it over!”

  “Right! Throw your gun on the floor.” Drummond picked the weapon up and put it in his pocket; then he rang the bell. “I had hoped,” he murmured, “for a larger gathering, but one cannot have everything, can one, Mr. Monumental Ass?”

  But Vallance Nestor was far too frightened to resent the insult; he could only stare foolishly at the soldier, while he plucked at his collar with a shaking hand. Save to Peterson, who understood, if only dimly, what had happened, the thing had come as such a complete surprise that even the sudden entrance of twenty masked men, who ranged themselves in single rank behind their chairs, failed to stir the meeting. It seemed merely in keeping with what had gone before.

  “I shall not detain you long, gentlemen,” began Hugh suavely. “Your general appearance and the warmth of the weather have combined to produce in me a desire for sleep. But before I hand you over to the care of the sportsmen who stand so patiently behind you, there are one or two remarks I wish to make. Let me say at once that on the subject of Capital and Labour I am supremely ignorant. You will therefore be spared any dissertation on the subject. But from an exhaustive study of the ledger which now lies upon the table, and a fairly intimate knowledge of its author’s movements, I and my friends have been put to the inconvenience of treading on you.

  “There are many things, we know, which are wrong in this jolly old country of ours; but given time and the right methods I am sufficiently optimistic to believe that they could be put right. That, however, would not
suit your book. You dislike the right method, because it leaves all of you much where you were before. Every single one of you—with the sole possible exception of you, Mr. Terrance, and you’re mad—is playing with revolution for his own ends: to make money out of it—to gain power…

  “Let us start with Peterson—your leader. How much did you say he demanded, Mr. Potts, as the price of revolution?”

  With a strangled cry Peterson sprang up as the American millionaire, removing his mask, stepped forward.

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, you swine, was what you asked me.” The millionaire stood confronting his tormentor, who dropped back in his chair with a groan. “And when I refused, you tortured me. Look at my thumb.”

  With a cry of horror the others sitting at the table looked at the mangled flesh, and then at the man who had done it. This, even to their mind, was going too far.

  “Then there was the same sum,” continued Drummond, “to come from Hocking, the American cotton man—half German by birth; Stienmann, the German coal man; von Gratz, the German steel man. Is that not so, Peterson?” It was an arrow at a venture, but it hit the mark, and Peterson nodded.

  “So one million pounds was the stake this benefactor of humanity was playing for,” sneered Drummond. “One million pounds, as the mere price of a nation’s life-blood… But, at any rate, he had the merit of playing big, whereas the rest of you scum—and the other beauties so ably catalogued in that book—messed about at his beck and call for packets of bull’s-eyes. Perhaps you laboured under the delusion that you were fooling him, but the whole lot of you are so damned crooked that you probably thought of nothing but your own filthy skins.

  “Listen to me!” Hugh Drummond’s voice took on a deep, commanding ring, and against their will the four men looked at the broad, powerful soldier, whose sincerity shone clear in his face. “Not by revolutions and direct action will you make this island of ours right—though I am fully aware that this is the last thing you could wish to see happen. But with your brains, and for your own unscrupulous ends, you gull the working-man into believing it. And he, because you can talk with your tongues in your cheeks, is led away. He believes you will give him Utopia; whereas, in reality, you are leading him to hell. And you know it. Evolution is our only chance—not revolution; but you, and others like you, stand to gain more by the latter…”