The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “Tumkins,” he cried. “I have committed sacrilege. I have slept in the Holy of Holies. Have you decided on my fate? Am I to be shot at dawn?”

  Sir Bryan left the window and sat down at his desk. For a moment or two he rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his left hand, as if trying to make up his mind: then he lay back in his chair and stared at his erstwhile fag.

  “Would you like to do a job of work, old man?”

  Hugh started as if he had been stung by a wasp, and Sir Bryan smiled.

  “Not real work,” he said reassuringly. “But by mere luck last night you saw something which Inspector McIver would have given a good deal to see. Or to be more accurate, you saw some men whom McIver particularly wants to meet.”

  “Those blokes in the car you mean,” cried Hugh brightly.

  “Those blokes in the car,” agreed the other. “Incidentally, I may say there was a good deal more in that little episode than you think: and after consultation with McIver I have decided to tell you a certain amount about it, because you can help us, Hugh. You see you’re one up on McIver: you have at any rate seen those men and he hasn’t. Moreover, you say you could recognise two of them again.”

  “Good heavens! Tumkins,” murmured Hugh aghast, “don’t say you want me to tramp the streets of London looking for them.”

  Sir Bryan smiled. “We’ll spare you that,” he answered. “But I’d like you to pay attention to what I’m going to tell you.”

  Hugh’s face assumed the look of intense pain always indicative of thought in its owner. “Carry on, old bird,” he remarked. “I’ll try and last the course.”

  “Last night,” began Sir Bryan quietly, “a very peculiar thing happened to McIver. I won’t worry you with the full details, and it will be enough if I just give you a bare outline of what occurred. He and some of his men in the normal course of duty surrounded a certain house in which were some people we wanted to lay our hands on. To be more accurate there was one man there whom we wanted. He’d been shadowed ever since he’d landed in England that morning, shadowed the whole way from the docks to the house. And sure enough when McIver and his men surrounded the house, there was our friend and all his pals in one of the downstairs rooms. It was then that this peculiar thing happened. I gather from McIver that he heard the noise of an owl hooting, also a faint scuffle and a curse. And after that he heard nothing more. He was chloroformed from behind, and went straight out of the picture.”

  “Great Scott!” murmured Hugh, staring incredulously at McIver. “What an amazing thing!”

  “And this is where you come in, Hugh,” continued Sir Bryan.

  “Me!” Hugh sat up abruptly. “Why me?”

  “One of the men inside the room was an interesting fellow known as Flash Jim. He is a burglar of no mean repute, though he is quite ready to tackle any sort of job which carries money with it. And when McIver, having recovered himself this morning, ran Flash Jim to ground in one of his haunts he was quite under the impression that the men who had doped him and the other officers were pals of Flash Jim. But after he’d talked to him he changed his mind. All Flash Jim could tell him was that on the previous night he and some friends had been discussing business at this house. He didn’t attempt to deny that. He went on to say that suddenly the room had been filled with a number of masked men, and that he’d had a clip over the back of the head which knocked him out. After that presumably he was given a whiff of chloroform to keep him quiet, and the next thing he remembers is being kicked into activity by the policeman at—” Sir Bryan paused a moment to emphasise the point—”at Piccadilly Circus.”

  “Good Lord!” said Hugh dazedly. “Then that bird I saw last night sleeping it off on the pavement was Flash Jim.”

  “Precisely,” answered Sir Bryan. “But what is far more to the point, old man, is that the two birds you think you would be able to recognise and who were in the car, are two of the masked men who first of all laid out McIver and subsequently surrounded Flash Jim and his pals inside.”

  “But what did they want to do that for?” asked Hugh in bewilderment.

  “That is just what we want to find out,” replied Sir Bryan. “As far as we can see at the moment they are not criminals in the accepted sense of the word. They flogged two of the men who were there last night, and there are no two men in England who more richly deserved it. They kidnapped two others, one of whom was the man we particularly wanted. Then to wind up, they planted Flash Jim as I’ve told you, let the others go, and brought McIver and all his men back to McIver’s house, where they left them to cool on the pavement.”

  For a moment there was silence, and then Hugh began to shake with laughter.

  “But how perfectly priceless!” he spluttered when he was able to speak once more. “Old Algy will burst a blood-vessel when I tell him: you know, Algy, Tumkins, don’t you—that bird with the eye-glass, and the funny-looking face?”

  Inspector McIver frowned heavily. All along he had doubted the wisdom of telling Drummond anything: now he felt that his misgivings were confirmed. What on earth was the good of expecting such an obvious ass to be of the smallest assistance? And now this raucous hilarity struck him as being positively indecent. But the Chief had insisted: the responsibility was his. One thing was certain, reflected McIver grimly. Algy, whoever he was, would not be the only one to whom the privilege of bursting a blood-vessel would be accorded. And before very long it would be all round London—probably in the papers. And McIver particularly did not want that to happen. However, the next instant Sir Bryan soothed some of his worst fears.

  “Under no circumstances, Hugh,” he remarked gravely, “is Algy to be given a chance of bursting any blood-vessel. You understand what I mean. What I have said to you this afternoon is for you alone—and no one else. We know it: Flash Jim and Co. know it.”

  “And the jolly old masked sportsmen know it,” said Hugh.

  “Quite,” remarked Sir Bryan. “And that’s a deuced sight too many already. We don’t want any more.”

  “As far as I am concerned, my brave Tumkins,” cried the other, “the list is closed. Positively not another participator in the State secret. But I still don’t see where I leap in and join the fray.”

  “This way, old boy,” said Sir Bryan. “McIver is a very strong man, and yet he was picked up last night as he himself says as if he was a baby, by one of these masked men who, judging from a note he wrote, is presumably the leader of the gang. And so we deduce that this leader is something exceptional in the way of strength.”

  “By Gad! that’s quick, Tumkins,” said Hugh admiringly. “But then you always did have the devil of a brain.”

  “Now you are something very exceptional in that line, Hugh,” continued the other.

  “Oh! I can push a fellah’s face if it’s got spots and things,” said Hugh deprecatingly.

  “And what I want to know is this. If we give you warning would you care to go with McIver the next time he has any job on, where he thinks it is likely this gang may turn up? We have a pretty shrewd idea as to the type of thing they specialise in.”

  Hugh passed his hand dazedly over his forehead. “Sort of mother’s help you mean,” and McIver frowned horribly. “While the bird biffs McIver, I biff the bird. Is that the notion?”

  “That is the notion,” agreed Sir Bryan. “Of course you’ll have to do exactly what McIver tells you, and the whole thing is most unusual. But in view of the special features of the case…What is it, Miss Forbes?” He glanced up at his secretary, who was standing in the doorway, with a slight frown.

  “He insists on seeing you at once. Sir Bryan.” She came forward with a card, which Sir Bryan took.

  “Charles Latter.” The frown deepened. “What the deuce does he want?”

  The answer was supplied by the gentleman himself, who appeared at that moment in the doorway. He was evidently in a state of great agitation and Sir Bryan rose.

  “I am engaged at the moment, Mr. Latter,” he said coldly.

>   “My business won’t take you a minute. Sir Bryan,” he cried. “But what I want to know is this. Is this country civilised or is it not? Look at what I received by the afternoon post.”

  He handed a sheet of paper to the other, who glanced at it casually. Then suddenly the casual look vanished, and Sir Bryan sat down at his desk, his eyes grim and stem. “By the afternoon post, you say.”

  “Yes. And there have been too many disappearances lately!”

  “How did you know that?” snapped the chief, staring at him.

  For a moment Latter hesitated and changed colour. “Oh! everyone knows it,” he answered, trying to speak casually.

  “Everyone does not know it,” remarked Sir Bryan quietly. “However, you did quite right to come to me. What are your plans during the next few days?”

  “I am going out of London tomorrow to stay with Lady Manton near Sheffield,” answered Latter. “A semi-political house party. Good heavens! What’s that?” With a snort Hugh sat up blinking.

  “So sorry, old lad,” he burbled. “I snored: know I did. Late hours are the devil, aren’t they?” He heaved himself out of his chair, and grinned pleasantly at Latter, who frowned disapprovingly.

  “I don’t go in for them myself. Well, Sir Bryan.”

  “This matter shall be attended to, Mr. Latter. I will see to it. Good afternoon. I will keep this note.”

  “And who was that little funny-face?” said Hugh as the door closed behind Mr. Latter.

  “Member of Parliament for a north country constituency,” answered Sir Bryan, still staring at the piece of paper in his hand. “Lives above his income. Keenly ambitious. But I thought he was all right.”

  The other two stared at him in surprise. “What do you mean, sir?” asked McIver at length.

  “Our unknown friends do not think so, Mac,” answered the chief, handing his subordinate the note left by Latter. “They are beginning to interest me, these gentlemen.”

  “You need a rest, Charles Latter,” read McIver slowly. “We have established a home for people like you where several of your friends await you. In a few days you will join them.”

  “There are two things which strike one, McIver,” remarked Sir Bryan thoughtfully, lighting cigarette. “First and most important: that message and the one you found this morning were written on the same typewriter—the letter ‘s’ is distorted in each case. And, secondly, Mr. Charles Latter appears to have inside information concerning the recent activities of our masked friends which it is difficult to see how he came by. Unless “—he paused and stared out of the window with a slight frown—”unless they are far more conversant with his visiting list than I am.”

  McIver’s great jaw stuck out as if made of granite. “It proves my theory, sir,” he grunted, “but if these jokers try that game on with Mr. Latter they won’t catch me a second time.”

  A terrific blow on the back made him gasp and splutter. “There speaks my hero—boy,” cried Hugh. “Together we will outwit the knaves. I will write and cancel a visit: glad of the chance. Old Julia Manton—face like a horse: house at Sheffield: roped me in, Tumkins—positively stunned me with her verbosity. Ghastly house—but reeks of boodle.”

  Sir Bryan looked at him surprised. “Do you mean to say you are going to Lady Manton’s?”

  “I was. But not now. I will stick closer than a brother to Mr. McIver.”

  “I think not, old man. You go. If you’d been awake you’d have heard Latter say that he was going there too. You can be of use sooner than I thought.”

  “Latter going to old Julia?” Hugh stared at him amazed. “My dear old Tum-tum, what a perfectly amazing coincidence.”

  CHAPTER III

  In Which Hugh Drummond Composes A Letter

  Hugh Drummond strolled slowly along Whitehall in the direction of Trafalgar Square. His face wore its habitual look of vacuous good humour, and at intervals he hummed a little tune under his breath. It was outside the Carlton that he paused as a car drew up by his side, and a man and a girl got out.

  “Algy, my dear old boy,” he murmured, taking off his hat, “are we in good health today?”

  “Passable, old son,” returned Algy Longworth, adjusting his quite unnecessary eye-glass. “The oysters wilted a bit this morning, but I’m trying again tonight. By the way, do you know Miss Farreydale?”

  Hugh bowed. “You know the risk you run, I suppose, going about with him?”

  The girl laughed. “He seems harmless,” she answered lightly.

  “That’s his guile. After a second cup of tea he’s a perfect devil. By the same token, Algy, I am hibernating a while in the country. Going to dear old Julia Manton’s for a few days. Up Sheffield way.”

  Miss Farreydale looked at him with a puzzled frown. “Do you mean Lady Manton—Sir John’s wife?”

  “That’s the old dear,” returned Hugh. “Know her?”

  “Fairly well. But her name isn’t Julia. And she won’t love you if you call her old.”

  “Good heavens! Isn’t it? And won’t she? I must be mixing her up with someone else.”

  “Dorothy Manton is a well-preserved woman of—shall we say—thirty-five? She was a grocer’s daughter: she is now a snob of the worst type. I hope you’ll enjoy yourself.”

  “Your affection for her stuns me,” murmured Hugh. “I appear to be in for a cheerful time.”

  “When do you go, Hugh?” asked Algy.

  “Tomorrow, old man. But I’m keeping you from your tea. Keep the table between you after the second cup, Miss Farreydale.”

  He lifted his hat and walked on up the Haymarket, only to turn back suddenly.

  “‘Daisy,’ you said, didn’t you?”

  “No. Dorothy,” laughed the girl. “Come on, Algy, I want my tea.”

  She passed into the Carlton, and for a moment the two men were together on the pavement.

  “Lucky she knows the Manton woman,” murmured Hugh.

  “Don’t you?” gasped Algy.

  “Not from Eve, old son. Don’t fix up anything in the near future. We shall be busy. I’ve joined the police and shall require help.”

  With a cheery nod he strolled off, and after a moment’s hesitation Algy Longworth followed the girl into the Carlton.

  “Mad, isn’t he—your friend?” she remarked as he came up.

  “Absolutely,” he answered. “Let’s masticate an eclair.”

  A quarter of an hour later Hugh let himself into his house in Brook Street. On the hall table were three telegrams which he opened and read. Then, having torn them into tiny fragments, he went on into his study and rang the bell.

  “Beer, Denny,” he remarked, as his servant came in. “Beer in a mug. I am prostrate. And then bring me one of those confounded books which people have their names put in followed by the usual lies.”

  “Who’s Who, sir,” said Denny.

  “You’ve got it,” said his master. “Though who is who in these days, Denny, is a very dark matter. I am rapidly losing my faith in my brother man—rapidly. And then after that we have to write a letter to Julia—no, Dorothy Manton—erstwhile grocer’s daughter with whom I propose to dally for a few days.”

  “I don’t seem to know the name, sir.”

  “Nor did I, Denny, until about an hour ago. But I have it on reliable authority that she exists.”

  “But how, sir…” began the bewildered Denny.

  “At the moment the way is dark,” admitted Drummond. “The fog of war enwraps me. Beer, fool, beer.”

  Accustomed to the little vagaries of his master, Denny left the room to return shortly with a large jug of beer which he placed on a small table beside Drummond’s chair. Then he waited motionless behind his chair with a pencil and writing-block in his hand.

  “A snob, Denny; a snob,” said Drummond at length, putting down his empty glass. “How does one best penetrate into the life and home of a female snob whom one does not even know by sight? Let us reason from first principles. What have we in our repertoire that w
ould fling wide the portals of her house, revealing to our awestruck gaze all the footmen ranged in a row?” He rose suddenly. “I’ve got it, Denny; at least some of it. We have old Turnip-top. Is he not a cousin of mine?”

  “You mean Lord Stavely, sir,” said Denny diffidently.

  “Of course I do, you ass. Who else?” Clasping his replenished glass of beer, Hugh strode up and down the room. “Somehow or other we must drag him in.”

  “He’s in Central Africa, sir,” reminded Denny cautiously.

  “What the devil does that matter? Julia—I mean Dorothy—won’t know. Probably never heard of the poor old thing. Write, fool; take your pen and write quickly.

  “‘Dear Lady Manton,

  “‘I hope you have not forgotten the pleasant few days we spent together at Wiltshire Towers this spring.’”

  “But you didn’t go to the Duke’s this spring, sir,” gasped Denny.

  “I know that, you ass—but no more did she. To be exact, the place was being done up, only she won’t know. Go on, I’m going to overflow again.”

  “‘I certainly have not forgotten the kind invitation you gave to my cousin Staveley and myself to come and stop with you. He, at the moment, is killing beasts in Africa: whereas I am condemned to this unpleasant country. Tomorrow I have to go to Sheffield…’”

  He paused. “Why, Denny—why do I have to go to Sheffield? Why in Heaven’s name does anyone ever go to Sheffield?”

  “They make knives there, sir.”

  “Do they? But you needn’t go there to buy them. And anyway, I don’t want knives.”

  “You might just say on business, sir,” remarked his servant.

  “Gad! you’re a genius, Denny. Put that in. ‘Sheffield on business, and I wondered if I might take you at your word and come to…’ Where’s the bally woman live? Look it up in Who’s Who.”