The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “Well, sir,” began McIver at length, “this is briefly what took place. At ten o’clock last night as we had arranged, we completely surrounded the suspected house on the outskirts of Barking. I had had a couple of good men on duty there lying concealed the whole day, and when I arrived at about nine-thirty with Sergeant Andrews and half a dozen others, they reported to me that at least eight men were inside, and that Zaboleff was one of them. He had been shadowed the whole way down from Limehouse with another man, and both the watchers were positive that he had not left the house. So I posted my men and crept forward to investigate myself. There was a little chink in the wooden shutters of one of the downstairs rooms through which the light was streaming. I took a glimpse through, and found that everything was just as had been reported to me. There were eight of them there, and an unpleasant-looking bunch they were, too. Zaboleff I saw at the head of the table, and standing next to him was that man Waldock who runs two or three of the worst Red papers. There was also Flash Jim, and I began to wish I’d brought a few more men.”

  McIver smiled ruefully. “It was about the last coherent wish I remember. And,” he went on seriously, “what I’m going to tell you now, sir, may seem extraordinary and what one would expect in detective fiction, but as sure as I am sitting in this chair, it is what actually took place. Somewhere from close to, there came the sound of an owl hooting. At that same moment I distinctly heard the noise of what seemed like a scuffle, and a stifled curse. And then, and this is what beats me, sir.” McIver pounded a huge fist into an equally huge palm. “I was picked up from behind as if I were a baby. Yes, sir, a baby.”

  Involuntarily Sir Bryan smiled. “You make a good substantial infant, McIver.”

  “Exactly, sir,” grunted the Inspector. “If a man had suggested such a thing to me yesterday I’d have laughed in his face. But the fact remains that I was picked up just like a child in arms, and doped, sir, doped. Me—at my time of life. They chloroformed me, and that was the last I saw of Zaboleff or the rest of the gang.”

  “Yes, but it’s the rest of the report that beats me,” said his chief thoughtfully.

  ‘”So it does me, sir,” agreed McIver. “When I came to myself early this morning I didn’t realise where I was. Of course my mind at once went back to the preceding night, and what with feeling sick as the result of the chloroform, and sicker at having been fooled, I wasn’t too pleased with myself. And then I rubbed my eyes and pinched myself, and for a moment or two I honestly thought I’d gone off my head. There was I sitting on my own front door step, with a cushion all nicely arranged for my head and every single man I’d taken down with me asleep on the pavement outside. I tell you, sir, I looked at those eight fellows all ranged in a row for about five minutes before my brain began to act. I was simply stupefied. And then I began to feel angry. To be knocked on the head by a crew like Flash Jim might happen to anybody. But to be treated like naughty children and sent home to bed was a bit too much. Dammit, I thought, while they were about it, why didn’t they tuck me up with my wife.”

  Once again Sir Bryan smiled, but the other was too engrossed to notice.

  “It was then I saw the note,” continued McIver. He fumbled in his pocket, and his chief stretched out his hand to see the original. He already knew the contents almost by heart, and the actual note itself threw no additional light on the matter. It was typewritten, and the paper was such as can be bought by the ream at any cheap stationer’s.

  “To think of an old bird like you, Mac,” it ran, “going and showing yourself up in a chink of light. You must tell Mrs. Mac to get some more cushions. There were only enough in the parlour for you and Andrews. I have taken Zaboleff and Waldock, and I dropped Flash Jim in Piccadilly Circus. I flogged two of the others whose method of livelihood failed to appeal to me; the remaining small fry I turned loose. Cheerio, old son. The fellow in St. James makes wonderful pick-me-ups for the morning after. Hope I didn’t hurt you.”

  Idly Sir Bryan studied the note, holding it up to the light to see if there was any water-mark on the paper which might help. Then he studied the typed words, and finally with a slight shrug of his shoulders he laid it on the desk in front of him.

  “An ordinary Remington, I should think. And as there are several thousands in use it doesn’t help much. What about Flash Jim?”

  McIver shook his head. “The first thing I did, sir, was to run him to ground. And I put it across him good and strong. He admitted everything: admitted he was down there, but over the rest of the show he swore by everything that he knew no more than I did. All he could say was that suddenly the room seemed full of men. And the men were all masked. Then he got a clip over the back of the head, and he remembers nothing more till the policeman on duty at Piccadilly Circus woke him with his boot just before dawn this morning.”

  “Which fact, of course, you have verified,” said Sir Bryan.

  “At once, sir,” answered the other. “For once in his life Flash Jim appears to be speaking the truth. Which puts a funny complexion on matters, sir, if he is speaking the truth.”

  The Inspector leaned forward and stared at his chief.

  “You’ve heard the rumours, sir,” he went on after a moment, “the same as I have.”

  “Perhaps,” said Sir Bryan quietly. “But go on, McIver. I’d like to hear what’s on your mind.”

  “It’s the Black Gang, sir,” said the Inspector, leaning forward impressively. “There have been rumours going round, rumours which our men have heard here and there for the past two months. I’ve heard ’em myself; and once or twice I’ve wondered. Now I’m sure—especially after what Flash Jim said. That gang is no rumour, it’s solid fact.”

  “Have you any information as to what their activities have been, assuming for a moment it is the truth?” asked Sir Bryan.

  “None for certain, sir; until this moment I wasn’t certain of its existence. But now—looking back—there have been quite a number of sudden disappearances. We haven’t troubled officially, we haven’t been asked to. Hardly likely when one realises who the people are who have disappeared.”

  “All conjecture, McIver,” said Sir Bryan. “They may be lying doggo, or they’ll turn up elsewhere.”

  “They may be, sir,” answered McIver doggedly. “But take the complete disappearance of Granger a fortnight ago. He’s one of the worst of the Red men, and we know he hasn’t left the country. Where is he? His wife, I happen to know, is crazy with anxiety, so it doesn’t look like a put-up job. Take that extraordinary case of the Pole who was found lashed to the railings in Whitehall with one half of his beard and hair shaved off and the motto ‘Portrait of a Bolshevist’ painted on his forehead. Well, I don’t need to tell you, sir, that that particular Pole, Strambowski, was undoubtedly a messenger, between—well, we know who between and what the message was. And then take last night—”

  “Well, what about last night?”

  “For the first time this gang has come into direct contact with us.”

  “Always assuming the fact of its existence.”

  “Exactly, sir,” answered McIver. “Well, they’ve got Zaboleff and they’ve got Waldock, and they laid eight of us out to cool. I guess they’re not to be sneezed at.”

  With a thoughtful look on his face Sir Bryan rose and strolled over to the window. Though not prepared to go quite as far as McIver, there were certainly some peculiar elements in the situation—elements which he, as head of a big public department, could not officially allow for an instant, however much it might amuse him as a private individual.

  “We must find Zaboleff and Waldock,” he said curtly, without turning round. “Waldock, at any rate, has friends who will make a noise unless he’s forthcoming. And…”

  But his further remarks were interrupted by the entrance of his secretary with a note.

  “For the Inspector, Sir Bryan,” she said, and McIver, after a glance at his chief, opened the envelope. For a while he studied the letter in silence, then with an enigmatic smi
le he rose and handed it to the man by the window.

  “No answer, thank you. Miss Forbes,” he said, and when they were once more alone, he began rubbing his hands together softly—a sure sign of being excited. “Curtis and Samuel Bauer, both flogged nearly to death and found in a slum off Whitechapel. The note said two of ’em had been flogged.”

  “So,” said Sir Bryan quietly. “These two were at Barking last night?”

  “They were, sir,” answered the Inspector.

  “And their line?” queried the Chief.

  “White Slave Traffic of the worst type,” said McIver. “They generally drug the girls with cocaine or some dope first. What do you say to my theory now, sir?”

  “It’s another point in its favour, McIver,” conceded Sir Bryan cautiously: “but it still wants a lot more proof. And, anyway, whether you’re right or not, we can’t allow it to continue. We shall be having questions asked in Parliament.”

  McIver nodded portentously. “If I can’t lay my hands on a man who can lift me up like a baby and dope me, may I never have another case. Like a baby, sir. Me—”

  He opened his hands out helplessly, and this time Sir Bryan laughed outright, only to turn with a quick frown as the door leading to the secretary’s office was flung open to admit a man. He caught a vague glimpse of the scandalised Miss Forbes hovering like a canary eating bird-seed in the background: then he turned to the newcomer. “Confound it, Hugh,” he cried. “I’m busy.”

  Hugh Drummond grinned all over his face, and lifting a hand like a leg of mutton he smote Sir Bryan in the back, to the outraged amazement of Inspector McIver.

  “You priceless old bean,” boomed Hugh affably. “I gathered from the female bird punching the what-not outside that the great brain was heaving—but, my dear old lad, I have come to report a crime. A crime which I positively saw committed with my own eyes: an outrage: a blot upon this fair land of ours.”

  He sank heavily into a chair and selected a cigarette. He was a vast individual with one of those phenomenally ugly faces which is rendered utterly pleasant by the extraordinary charm of its owner’s expression. No human being had ever been known to be angry with Hugh for long. He was either moved to laughter by the perennial twinkle in the big man’s blue eyes, or he was stunned by a playful blow on the chest from a fist which rivalled a steam hammer. Of brain he apparently possessed a minimum: of muscle he possessed about five ordinary men’s share.

  And yet unlike so many powerful men his quickness on his feet was astounding—as many a good heavyweight boxer had found to his cost. In the days of his youth Hugh Drummond—known more familiarly to his intimates at Bulldog—had been able to do the hundred in a shade over ten seconds. And though the mere thought of such a performance now would have caused him to break out into a cold sweat, he was still quite capable of a turn of speed which many a lighter-built man would have envied.

  Between him and Sir Bryan Johnstone existed one of those friendships which are founded on totally dissimilar tastes. He had been Bryan Johnstone’s fag at school, and for some inscrutable reason the quiet scholarship of the elder boy had appealed to the kid of fourteen who was even then a mass of brawn. And when one day Johnstone, going about his lawful occasions as a prefect, discovered young Drummond reducing a boy two years older than himself to a fair semblance of a jelly, the appeal was reciprocated.

  “He called you a scut,” said Drummond a little breathlessly when his lord and master mildly inquired the reason of the disturbance. “So I scutted him.”

  It was only too true, and with a faint smile Johnstone watched the “scutted” one depart with undignified rapidity. Then he looked at his fag.

  “Thank you, Drummond,” he remarked awkwardly.

  “Rot. That’s all right,” returned the other, blushing uncomfortably.

  And that was all. But it started then, and it never died, though their ways lay many poles apart. To Johnstone a well-deserved knighthood and a high position in the land: to Drummond as much money as he wanted and a life of sport.

  “Has someone stolen the goldfish?” queried Sir Bryan with mild sarcasm.

  “Great Scott! I hope not,” cried Hugh in alarm. “Phyllis gave me complete instructions about the brutes before she toddled off. I make a noise like an ant’s egg, and drop them in the sink every morning. No, old lad of the village, it is something of vast import: a stain upon the escutcheon of your force. Last night—let us whisper it in Gath—I dined and further supped not wisely but too well. In fact I deeply regret to admit that I became a trifle blotto—not to say tanked. Of course it wouldn’t have happened if Phyllis had been propping up the jolly old home, don’t you know: but she’s away in the country with the nightingales and slugs and things. Well, as I say, in the young hours of the morning I thought I’d totter along home. I’d been with some birds—male birds, Tumkins”—he stared sternly at Sir Bryan, while McIver stiffened into rigid horror at such an incredible nickname—”male birds, playing push halfpenny or some such game of skill or chance. And when I left it was about two a.m. Well, I wandered along through Leicester Square, and stopped just outside Scott’s to let one of those watering carts water my head for me. Deuced considerate driver he was too: stopped his horse for a couple of minutes and let one jet play on me uninterruptedly. Well, as I say, while I was lying in the road, steaming at the brow, a motor-car went past, and it stopped in Piccadilly Circus.”

  McIver’s air of irritation vanished suddenly, and a quick glance passed between him and Sir Bryan.

  “Nothing much you observe in that, Tumkins,” he burbled on, quite unconscious of the sudden attention of his hearers. “But wait, old lad—I haven’t got to the motto yet. From this car there stepped large numbers of men: at least, so it seemed to me, and you must remember I’d recently had a shampoo. And just as I got abreast of them they lifted out another warrior, who appeared to me to be unconscious. At first I thought there were two, until I focused the old optics and found I’d been squinting. They put him on the pavement and got back into the car again just as I tottered alongside.

  “‘What ho! souls,’ I murmured, ‘what is this and that, so to speak?’

  “‘Binged, old bean, badly binged,’ said the driver of the car. ‘We’re leaving him there to cool.’

  “And with that the car drove off. There was I, Tumkins, in a partially binged condition alone in Piccadilly Circus with a bird in a completely binged condition.

  “‘How now,’ I said to myself. ‘Shall I go and induce yon water merchant to return?’—as a matter of fact I was beginning to feel I could do with another whack myself—’ or shall I leave you here—as your pals observed—to cool?’

  “I bent over him as I pondered this knotty point, and as, I did so, Tumkins, I became aware of a strange smell.”

  Hugh paused dramatically and selected another cigarette, while Sir Bryan flashed a quick glance of warning at McIver, who was obviously bursting with suppressed excitement.

  “A peculiar and sickly odour, Tumkins,” resumed the speaker with maddening deliberation. “A strange and elusive perfume. For a long while it eluded me—that smell: I just couldn’t place it. And then suddenly I got it: right in the middle, old boy—plumb in the centre of the windpipe. It was chloroform: the bird wasn’t drunk—he was doped.”

  Completely exhausted Hugh lay back in his chair, and once again Sir Bryan flashed a warning glance at his exasperated subordinate.

  “Would you be able to recognise any of the men in the car if you saw them again?” he asked quietly.

  “I should know the driver,” answered Hugh after profound thought. “And the bird beside him. But not the others.”

  “Did you take the number of the car?” snapped McIver.

  “My dear old man,” murmured Hugh in a pained voice, “who on earth ever does take the number of a car? Except your warriors, who always get it wrong. Besides, as I tell you, I was partially up the pole.”

  “What did you do then?” asked Sir Bryan.

>   “Well, I brought the brain to bear,” answered Hugh, “and decided there was nothing to do. He was doped, and I was bottled—so by a unanimous casting vote of one—I toddled off home. But Tumkins, while I was feeding the goldfish this morning—or rather after lunch—conscience was gnawing at my vitals. And after profound meditation, and consulting with my fellow Denny, I decided that the call of duty was clear. I came to you, Tumkins, as a child flies to its mother. Who better, I thought, than old Tum-tum to listen to my maidenly secrets? And so…”

  “One moment, Hugh,” Sir Bryan held up his hand. “Do you mind if I speak to Inspector McIver for a moment?”

  “Anything you like, old lad,” murmured Drummond. “But be merciful. Remember my innocent wife in the country.”

  And silence settled on the room, broken only by the low-voiced conversation between McIver and his chief in the window. By their gestures it seemed as if Sir Bryan was suggesting something to his subordinate to which that worthy officer was a little loath to agree. And after a while a strangled snore from the chair announced that Drummond was ceasing to take an intelligent interest in things mundane.

  “He’s an extraordinary fellow, McIver,” said Sir Bryan, glancing at the sleeper with a smile. “I’ve known him since we were boys at school. And he’s not quite such a fool as he makes himself out. You remember that extraordinary case over the man Peterson a year or so ago. Well, it was he who did the whole thing. His complete disability to be cunning utterly defeated that master-crook, who was always looking for subtlety that wasn’t there. And of course his strength is absolutely phenomenal.”

  “I know, sir,” said McIver doubtfully, “but would he consent to take on such a job—and do exactly as he was told?”

  They were both looking out of the window, while in the room behind them the heavy breathing of the sleeper rose and fell monotonously. And when the whole audience is asleep it ceases to be necessary to talk in undertones. Which was why Sir Bryan and the Inspector during the next ten minutes discussed certain matters of import which they would not have discussed through megaphones at the Savoy. They concerned Hugh and other things, and the other things particularly were of interest. And they continued discussing these other things until, with a dreadful noise like a racing motor back-firing, the sleeper sat up in his chair and stretched himself.