The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “All the safer,” grunted Flash Jim. “Anyone passing will think the ghost is walking.”

  “Nevertheless, kindly cover it up,” ordered Zaboleff, and one of the Jews rose and wedged his pocket-handkerchief into the crack. There was silence in the room while he did so, a silence broken only by the mournful hooting of an owl outside.

  “Owls is the only things wot comes to this damned museum,” said Flash Jim morosely. “Owls and blinkin’ fools like us.”

  “Stow it, Jim,” snarled Waldock furiously. “Anyone would think you wanted a nurse.”

  “Gentlemen—please.” Zaboleff held up a protesting hand. “We do not want to prolong matters, but one or two explanations are necessary. To return, then, to these things that have happened recently, and which necessitated a fresh rendezvous for this evening—one which our friend Mr. Waldock so obligingly found. Three messengers sent over during the last three weeks bearing instructions and—what is more important—money, have disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” echoed Waldock stupidly.

  “Absolutely and completely. Money and all. Two more have been abominably ill-treated and had their money taken from them, but for some reason they were allowed to go free themselves. It is from them that we have obtained our information.”

  “Blimey!” muttered Flash Jim; “is it the police?”

  “It is not the police, which is what makes it so much more serious,” answered Zaboleff quietly, and Flash Jim breathed a sigh of relief. “It is easy to keep within the law, but if our information is correct we are up against a body of men who are not within the law themselves. A body of men who are absolutely unscrupulous and utterly ruthless, a body of men who appear to know our secret plans as well as we do ourselves. And the difficulty of it is, gentlemen, that though, legally speaking, on account of the absurd legislation in this country we may keep within the law ourselves, we are hardly in a position to appeal to the police for protection. Our activities, though allowed officially, are hardly such as would appeal even to the English authorities. And on this occasion particularly that is the case. You may remember that the part I played in stirring up bloodshed at Cowdenheath a few months ago, under the name of MacTavish, caused me to be deported. So though our cause is legal—my presence in this country is not. Which was why tonight it was particularly essential that we should not be disturbed. Not only are we all up against this unknown gang of men, but I, in addition, am up against the police.”

  “Have you any information with regard to this gang?” It was the Jew who had closed the chink in the shutters, speaking for the first time.

  “None of any use—save that they are masked in black, and cloaked in long black cloaks.” He paused a moment as if to collect his thoughts. “They are all armed, and Petrovitch—he was one of the men allowed to escape—was very insistent on one point. It concerned the leader of the gang, whom he affirmed was a man of the most gigantic physical strength; a giant powerful as two ordinary strong men. He said…Ah! Mein Gott—!”

  His voice rose to a scream as he cowered back, while the others, with terror on their faces, rose hurriedly from their seats on the floor and huddled together in the corners of the room.

  In the doorway stood a huge man covered from head to foot in black. In each hand he held a revolver, with which he covered the eight occupants during the second or two which it took for half a dozen similarly disguised men to file past him, and take up their positions round the walls. And Waldock, a little more educated than the remainder of his friends, found himself thinking of old tales of the Spanish Inquisition and the Doges of Venice even as he huddled a little nearer to the table. “Stand by the table, all of you.”

  It was the man at the door who spoke in a curiously deep voice, and like sheep they obeyed him—all save Flash Jim. For that worthy, crook though he was, was not without physical courage. The police he knew better than to play the fool with, but these were not the police.

  “Wot the—” he snarled, and got no farther. Something hit him behind the head, a thousand stars danced before his eyes, and with a strangled grunt he crashed forward on his face.

  For a moment or two there was silence, and then once again the man at the door spoke. “Arrange the specimens in a row.”

  In a second the seven remaining men were marshalled in a line, while behind them stood six motionless black figures. And then the big man walked slowly down in front of them, peering into each man’s face. He spoke no word until he reached the end of the line, and then, his inspection concluded, he stepped back and leaned against the wall facing them.

  “A nauseating collection,” he remarked thoughtfully. “A loathsome brood. What are the three undersized and shivering insects on the right?”

  “Those are three of my clerks,” said Waldock with an assumption of angry bravado. “And I would like to know—”

  “In good time you will,” answered the deep voice. “Three of your clerks, are they; imbued with your rotten ideas, I suppose, and yearning to follow in father’s footsteps? Have we anything particular against them?”

  There was no answer from the masked men, and the leader made a sign. Instantly the three terrified clerks were seized from behind and brought up to him, where they stood trembling and shaking in every limb.

  “Listen to me, you three little worms.” With an effort they pulled themselves together: a ray of hope was dawning in their minds—perhaps they were going to be let off easily. “My friends and I do not like you or your type. You meet in secret places and in your slimy minds you concoct foul schemes which, incredible though it may seem, have so far had more than a fair measure of success in this country. But your main idea is not the schemes, but the money you are paid to carry them out. This is your first and last warning. Another time you will be treated differently. Get out of here. And see you don’t stop.”

  The door closed behind them and two of the masked men; there was the sound as of a boot being used with skill and strength, and cries of pain; then the door reopened and the masked men returned.

  “They have gone,” announced one of them. “We helped them on their way.”

  “Good,” said the leader. “Let us continue the inspection. What are these two Hebrews?”

  A man from behind stepped forward and examined them slowly; then he came up to the leader and whispered in his ear.

  “Is that so?” A new and terrible note had crept into the deep voice. “My friends and I do not like your trade, you swine. It is well that we have come provided with the necessary implement for such a case. Fetch the cat.”

  In silence one of the men left the room, and as his full meaning came home to the two Jews they flung themselves grovelling on the floor, screaming for mercy.

  “Gag them.”

  The order came out sharp and clear, and in an instant the two writhing men were seized and gagged. Only their rolling eyes and trembling hands showed the terror they felt as they dragged themselves on their knees towards the impassive leader.

  “The cat for cases of this sort is used legally,” he remarked. “We merely anticipate the law.”

  With a fresh outburst of moans the two Jews watched the door open and the inexorable black figure come in, holding in his hand a short stick from which nine lashes hung down.

  “Heavens!” gasped Waldock, starting forward. “What are you going to do?”

  “Flog them to within an inch of their lives,” said the deep voice. “It is the punishment for their method of livelihood. Five and six—take charge. After you have finished remove them in Number 3 car, and drop them in London.”

  Struggling impotently, the Jews were led away, and the leader passed on to the remaining two men.

  “So, Zaboleff, you came after all. Unwise, surely, in view of the police?”

  “Who are you?” muttered Zaboleff, his lips trembling.

  “A specimen hunter,” said the other suavely. “I am making a collection of people like you. The police of our country are unduly kind to your breed, alth
ough they would not have been kind to you tonight, Zaboleff, unless I had intervened. But I couldn’t let them have you; you’re such a very choice specimen. I don’t think somehow that you’ve worked this little flying visit of yours very well. Of course I knew about it, but I must confess I was surprised when I found that the police did too.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded the other hoarsely.

  “I mean that when we arrived here we found to our surprise that the police had forestalled us. Popular house, this, tonight.”

  “The police!” muttered Waldock dazedly.

  “Even so—led by no less a personage than Inspector McIver. They had completely surrounded the house, and necessitated a slight change in my plans.”

  “Where are they now?” cried Waldock.

  “Ah! Where indeed? Let us trust at any rate in comfort.”

  “By heaven!” said Zaboleff, taking a step forward. “As I asked you before—who are you?”

  “And as I told you before, Zaboleff, a collector of specimens. Some I keep; some I let go—as you have already seen.”

  “And what are you going to do with me?”

  “Keep you. Up to date you are the cream of my collection.”

  “Are you working with the police?” said the other dazedly.

  “Until tonight we have not clashed. Even tonight, well, I think we are working towards the same end. And do you know what that end is, Zaboleff?” The deep voice grew a little sterner. “It is the utter, final overthrow of you and all that you stand for. To achieve that object we shall show no mercy. Even as you are working in the dark—so are we. Already you are frightened; already we have proved that you fear the unknown more than you fear the police; already the first few tricks are ours. But you still hold the ace, Zaboleff—or shall we say the King of Trumps? And when we catch him you will cease to be the cream of my collection. This leader of yours—it was what Petrovitch told him, I suppose, that made him send you over.”

  “I refuse to say,” said the other.

  “You needn’t; it is obvious. And now that you are caught—he will come himself. Perhaps not at once—but he will come. And then…But we waste time. The money, Zaboleff.”

  “I have no money,” he snarled.

  “You lie, Zaboleff. You lie clumsily. You have quite a lot of money brought over for Waldock so that he might carry on the good work after you had sailed tomorrow. Quick, please; time passes.”

  With a curse Zaboleff produced a small canvas bag and held it out. The other took it and glanced inside.

  “I see,” he said gravely. “Pearls and precious stones. Belonging once, I suppose, to a murdered gentlewoman whose only crime was that she, through no action of her own, was born in a different sphere from you. And, you reptile “—his voice rose a little—”you would do that here.”

  Zaboleff shrank back, and the other laughed contemptuously. “Search him—and Waldock too.”

  Two men stepped forward quickly. “Nothing more,” they said after a while. “Except this piece of paper.”

  There was a sudden movement on Zaboleff’s part—instantly suppressed, but not quite soon enough.

  “Injudicious,” said the leader quietly. “Memory is better. An address, I see—No. 5, Green Street, Hoxton. A salubrious neighbourhood, with which I am but indifferently acquainted. Ah! I see my violent friend has recovered.” He glanced at Flash Jim, who was sitting up dazedly, rubbing the back of his head. “Number 4—the usual.”

  There was a slight struggle, and Flash Jim lay back peacefully unconscious, while a faint smell of chloroform filled the room.

  “And now I think we will go. A most successful evening.”

  “What are you going to do with me, you scoundrel?” spluttered Waldock. “I warn you that I have influential friends, who—who will ask questions in—in Parliament if you do anything to me; who will go to Scotland Yard.”

  “I can assure you, Mr. Waldock, that I will make it my personal business to see that their natural curiosity is gratified,” answered the leader suavely. “But for the present I fear the three filthy rags you edit will have to be content with the office boy as their guiding light. And I venture to think they will not suffer.”

  He made a sudden sign, and before they realised what was happening the two men were caught from behind and gagged. The next instant they were rushed through the door, followed by Flash Jim. For a moment or two the eyes of the leader wandered round the now empty room taking in every detail: then he stepped forward and blew out the two candles. The door closed gently behind him, and a couple of minutes later two cars stole quietly away from the broken-down gate along the cart track. It was just midnight, behind them the gloomy house stood up gaunt and forbidding against the darkness of the night sky. And it was not until the leading car turned carefully into the main road that anyone spoke.

  “Deuced awkward, the police being there.”

  The big man who was driving grunted thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he returned. “Perhaps not. Anyway, the more the merrier. Flash Jim all right?”

  “Sleeping like a child,” answered the other, peering into the body of the car.

  For about ten miles they drove on in silence: then at a main cross-roads the car pulled up and the big man got out. The second car was just behind, and for a few moments there was a whispered conversation between him and the other driver. He glanced at Zaboleff and Waldock, who appeared to be peacefully sleeping on the back seat, and smiled grimly.

  “Good night, old man. Report as usual.”

  “Right,” answered the driver. “So long.”

  The second car swung right-handed and started northwards, while the leader stood watching the vanishing tail lamp. Then he returned to his own seat, and soon the first beginnings of outer London were reached. And it was as they reached Whitechapel that the leader spoke again with a note of suppressed excitement in his voice.

  “We’re worrying ’em; we’re worrying ’em badly. Otherwise they’d never have sent Zaboleff. He was too big a man to risk, considering the police.”

  “It’s the police that I am considering,” said his companion.

  The big man laughed.

  “Leave that to me, old man, leave that entirely to me.”

  CHAPTER II

  In Which Scotland Yard Sits Up and Takes Notice

  Sir Bryan Johnstone leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling with a frown. His hands were thrust deep into his trouser pockets; his long legs were stretched out to their full extent under the big roll-top desk in front of him. From the next room came the monotonous tapping of a typewriter, and after a while Sir Bryan closed his eyes.

  Through the open window there came the murmur of the London traffic—that soothing sound so conducive to sleep in those who have lunched well. But that did not apply to the man lying back in his chair. Sir Bryan’s lunch was always a frugal meal, and it was no desire for sleep that made the Director of Criminal Investigation close his eyes. He was puzzled, and the report lying on the desk in front of him was the reason.

  For perhaps ten minutes he remained motionless, then he leaned forward and touched an electric bell. Instantly the typewriter ceased, and a girl secretary came quickly into the room.

  “Miss Forbes,” said Sir Bryan, “I wish you would find out if Chief Inspector McIver is in the building. If so, I would like to see him at once; if not, see that he gets the message as soon as he comes in.”

  The door closed behind the girl, and after a moment or two the man rose from his desk and began to pace up and down the room with long, even strides. Every now and then he would stop and stare at some print on the wall, but it was the blank stare of a man whose mind is engrossed in other matters.

  And once while he stood looking out of the window, he voiced his thoughts, unconscious that he spoke aloud. “Dash it, McIver’s not fanciful. He’s the least fanciful man we’ve got. And yet…”

  His eyes came round to the desk once more, the desk on which the report was lying. It was Inspecto
r McIver’s report—hence his instructions to the secretary. It was the report on a very strange matter which had taken place the previous night, and after a while Sir Bryan picked up the typed sheets and glanced through them again. And he was still standing by the desk, idly turning over the pages, when the secretary came into the room.

  “Chief Inspector McIver is here. Sir Bryan,” she announced.

  “Tell him to come in, Miss Forbes.”

  Certainly the Inspector justified his Chief’s spoken thought—a less fanciful looking man it would have been hard to imagine. A square-jawed, rugged Scotchman, he looked the type to whom Holy Writ was Holy Writ only in so far as it could be proved. He was short and thick-set, and his physical strength was proverbial. But a pair of kindly twinkling eyes belied the gruff voice. In fact, the gruff voice was a pose specially put on which deceived no one; his children all imitated it to his huge content, though he endeavoured to look ferocious when they did so. In short, McIver, though shrewd and relentless when on duty, was the kindest-hearted of men. But he was most certainly not fanciful.

  “What the dickens is all this about, McIver?” said Sir Bryan with a smile, when the door had shut behind the secretary.

  “I wish I knew myself, sir,” returned the other seriously. “I’ve never been so completely defeated in my life.”

  Sir Bryan waved him to a chair and sat down at the desk. “I’ve read your report,” he said, still smiling, “and frankly, McIver, if it had been anyone but you, I should have been annoyed. But I know you far too well for that. Look here “—he pushed a box of cigarettes across the table—”take a cigarette and your time and let’s hear about it.”

  McIver lit a cigarette and seemed to be marshalling his thoughts. He was a man who liked to tell his story in his own way, and his chief waited patiently till he was ready. He knew that when his subordinate did start he would get a clear, concise account of what had taken place, with everything irrelevant ruthlessly cut out. And if there was one thing that roused Sir Bryan to thoughts of murder and violence, it was a rambling, incoherent statement from one of his men.