The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “Drayton House, sir,” announced Denny.

  “‘To Drayton House for a day or two. Yours very sincerely.’ That’ll do the trick, Denny. Give it to me, and I’ll write it out. A piece of the best paper with the crest and telephone number embossed in blue, and the victory is ours.”

  “Aren’t you giving her rather short notice, sir?” said Denny doubtfully.

  Drummond laid down his pen and stared at him sadly.

  “Sometimes, Denny, I despair of you,” he answered. “Even after four years of communion with me there are moments when you relapse into your pristine brain wallow. If I gave her any longer it is just conceivable—though I admit not likely—that I might get my answer from her stating that she was completely unaware of my existence, and that she’d sent my letter to the police. And where should we be then, my faithful varlet? As it is, I shall arrive at Drayton House just after the letter, discover with horror that I have made a mistake, and be gracefully forgiven by my charming hostess as befits a man with such exalted friends. Now run away and get me a taxi.”

  “Will you be in to dinner, sir?”

  “Perhaps—perhaps not. In case I’m not, I shall go up to Sheffield in the Rolls tomorrow. See that everything is packed.”

  “Will you want me to come with you, sir?”

  “No, Denny—not this time. I have a sort of premonition that I’m going to enjoy myself at Drayton House, and you’re too young for that sort of thing.”

  With a resigned look on his face, Denny left the room, closing the door gently behind him. But Drummond, left to himself, did not at once continue his letter to Lady Manton. With his pen held loosely in his hand he sat at his desk staring thoughtfully at the wall opposite. Gone completely was his customary inane look of good humour: in its place was an expression of quiet, almost grim, determination. He had the air of a man faced with big decisions, and to whom, moreover, such an experience was no novelty. For some five minutes he sat there motionless; then with a short laugh he came out of his reverie.

  “We’re getting near the motto, my son,” he muttered—”deuced near. If we don’t draw the badger in a few weeks, I’ll eat my hat.”

  With another laugh he turned once more to his half-finished letter. And a minute or two later, having stamped and addressed the envelope, he slipped it into his pocket and rose. He crossed the room and unlocked a small safe which stood in the corner. From it he took a small automatic revolver which he dropped into his coat pocket, also a tiny bundle of what looked like fine black silk. Then, having relocked the safe he picked up his hat and stick and went into the hall.

  “Denny,” he called, pausing by the front door.

  “Sir,” answered that worthy, appearing from the back premises.

  “If Mr. Darrell or any of them ring up I shall be tearing a devilled bone tonight at the Savoy grill at eleven o’clock.”

  CHAPTER IV

  In Which Count Zadowa Gets a Shock

  Number 5, Green Street, Hoxton, was not a prepossessing abode. A notice on one of the dingy downstair windows announced that Mr. William Atkinson was prepared to advance money on suitable security: a visit during business hours revealed that this was no more than the truth, even if the appearance of Mr. Atkinson’s minion caused the prospective borrower to wonder how he had acquired such an aggressively English name.

  The second and third floors were apparently occupied by his staff, which seemed unduly large considering the locality and quality of his business. Hoxton is hardly in that part of London where large sums of money might be expected to change hands, and yet there was no doubt that Mr. William Atkinson’s staff was both large and busy. So busy indeed were his clerks that frequently ten and eleven o’clock at night found them still working hard, though the actual business of the day downstairs concluded at six o’clock—eight Saturdays.

  It was just before closing time on the day after the strange affair down at Barking that a large, unkempt-looking individual presented himself at Mr. Atkinson’s office. His most pressing need would have seemed to the casual observer to be soap and water, but his appearance apparently excited no surprise in the assistant downstairs. Possibly Hoxton is tolerant of such trifles.

  The clerk—a pale, anaemic-looking man with an unhealthy skin and a hook nose—rose wearily from his rest.

  “What do you want?” he demanded morosely.

  “Wot d’yer think!” retorted the other. “Cat’s meat?”

  The clerk recoiled, and the blood mounted angrily to his sallow face. “Don’t you use that tone with me, my man,” he said angrily. “I’d have you to know that this is my office.”

  “Yus,” answered the other. “Same as it’s your nose sitting there like a lump o’ putty stuck on to a suet pudding. And if I ’ave any o’ your lip, I’ll pull it off—see. Throw it outside, I will, and you after it—you parboiled lump of bad tripe. Nah, then—business.” With a blow that shook the office he thumped the desk with a huge fist. “I ain’t got no time to waste—even if you ’ave. ’Ow much?” He threw a pair of thick hobnailed boots on to the counter, and stood glaring at the other.

  “Two bob,” said the clerk indifferently, throwing down a coin and picking up the boots.

  “Two bob!” cried the other wrathfully. “Two bob, you miserable Sheenie.” For a moment or two he spluttered inarticulately as if speech was beyond him; then his huge hand shot out and gripped the clerk by the collar. “Think again, Archibald,” he continued quietly, “think again and think better.”

  But the assistant, as might be expected in one of his calling, was prepared for emergencies of this sort. Very gently his right hand slid along the counter towards a concealed electric bell which communicated with the staff upstairs. It fulfilled several purposes, that bell: it acted as a call for help or as a warning, and according to the number of times it was pressed, the urgency of the matter could be interpreted by those who heard it. Just now the clerk decided that two rings would meet the case: he disliked the appearance of the large and angry man in whose grip he felt absolutely powerless, and he felt he would like help—very urgently. And so it was perhaps a little unfortunate for him that he should have allowed an ugly little smirk to adorn his lips a second or two before his hand found the bell. The man facing him across the counter saw that smirk and lost his temper in earnest. With a grunt of rage he hit the other square between the eyes, and the clerk collapsed in a huddled heap behind the counter with the bell still unrung.

  For a few moments the big man stood motionless, listening intently. From upstairs came the faint tapping of a typewriter; from outside the usual street noises of London came softly through the two closed doors. Then, with an agility remarkable in one so big, he vaulted the counter and inspected the recumbent assistant with a professional eye. A faint grin spread over his face as he noted that gentleman’s condition, but after that he wasted no time. So quickly and methodically in fact did he set about things, that it seemed as if the whole performance must have been cut and dried beforehand, even to the temporary indisposition of the clerk. In half a minute he was bound and gagged and deposited under the counter. Beside him the big man placed the pair of boots, attached to which was a piece of paper which he took from his pocket. On it was scrawled in an illiterate hand—

  “Have took a fare price for the boots, yer swine.” Then quite deliberately the big man forced the till and removed some money, after which he once more examined the unconscious man under the counter.

  “Without a hitch,” he muttered. “Absolutely according to Cocker. Now, old lad of the village, we come to the second item on the programme. That must be the door I want.”

  He opened it cautiously, and the subdued hum of voices from above came a little louder to his ears. Then like a shadow he vanished into the semi-darkness of the house upstairs.

  It was undoubtedly a house of surprises, was Number 5, Green Street. A stranger passing through the dingy office on the ground floor where Mr. Atkinson’s assistant was wont to sit at the receipt o
f custom, and then ascending the stairs to the first story would have found it hard to believe that he was in the same house. But then, strangers were not encouraged to do anything of the sort.

  There was a door at the top of the flight of stairs, and it was at this door that the metamorphosis took place. On one side of it the stairs ran carpetless and none too clean to the ground floor, on the other side the picture changed. A wide passage with rooms leading out of it from either side confronted the explorer—a passage which was efficiently illuminated with electric lights hung from the ceiling, and the floor of which was covered with a good plain carpet. Along the walls ran rows of bookshelves stretching, save for the gaps at the doors, as far as a partition which closed the further end of the passage. In this partition was another door, and beyond this second door the passage continued to a window tightly shuttered and bolted. From this continuation only one room led off—a room which would have made the explorer rub his eyes in surprise. It was richly, almost luxuriously, furnished. In the centre stood a big roll-top writing-desk, while scattered about were several arm-chairs upholstered in green leather. A long table almost filled one side of the room; a table covered with every imaginable newspaper. A huge safe flush with the wall occupied the other side, while the window, like the one outside, was almost hermetically sealed. There was a fireplace in the corner, but there was no sign of any fire having been lit, or of any preparations for lighting one. Two electric heaters attached by long lengths of flex to plugs in the wall comprised the heating arrangements, while a big central light and half a dozen movable ones illuminated every corner of the room.

  In blissful ignorance of the sad plight of the clerk below, two men were sitting in this room, deep in conversation. In a chair drawn up close to the desk was no less a person than Charles Latter, M.P., and it was he who was doing most of the talking. But it was the other man who riveted attention: the man who presumably was Mr. Atkinson himself. He was seated in a swivel chair which he had slewed round so as to face the speaker, and it was his appearance which caught the eye and then held it fascinated.

  At first he seemed to be afflicted with an almost phenomenal stoop, and it was only when one got nearer that the reason was clear. The man was a hunchback, and the effect it gave was that of a huge bird of prey. Unlike most hunchbacks, his legs were of normal length, and as he sat motionless in his chair, a hand on each knee, staring with unwinking eyes at his talkative companion, there was something menacing and implacable in his appearance. His hair was grey; his features stern and hard; while his mouth reminded one of a steel trap. But it was his eyes that dominated everything—grey-blue and piercing, they seemed able to probe one’s innermost soul. A man to whom it would be unwise to lie—a man utterly unscrupulous in himself, who would yet punish double dealing in those who worked for him with merciless severity. A dangerous man.

  “So you went to the police, Mr. Latter,” he remarked suavely. “And what had our friend Sir Bryan Johnstone to say on the matter?”

  “At first, Count, he didn’t say much. In fact he really said very little all through. But once he looked at the note his whole manner changed. I could see that instantly. There was something about the note which interested him.…”

  “Let me see it,” said the Count, holding out his hand.

  “I left it with Sir Bryan,” answered the other. “He asked me to let him keep it. And he promised that I should be all right.”

  The Count’s lips curled.

  “It would take more than Sir Bryan Johnstone’s promise, Mr. Latter, to ensure your safety. Do you know whom that note was from?”

  “I thought, Count,” said the other a little tremulously—”I thought it might be from this mysterious Black Gang that one has heard rumours about.”

  “It was,” replied the Count tersely.

  “Heavens!” stammered Latter. “Then it’s true; they exist.”

  “In the last month,” answered the hunchback, staring fixedly at his frightened companion, “nearly twenty of our most useful men have disappeared. They have simply vanished into thin air. I know, no matter how, that it is not the police: the police are as mystified as we are. But the police, Mr. Latter, whatever views they may take officially, are in all probability unofficially very glad of our friends’ disappearance. At any rate until last night.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the other.

  “Last night the police were baulked of their prey, and McIver doesn’t like being baulked. You know Zaboleff was sent over?”

  “Yes, of course. That is one of the reasons I came round tonight. Have you seen him?”

  “I have not,” answered the Count grimly. “The police found out he was coming.”

  Mr. Latter’s face blanched: the thought of Zaboleff in custody didn’t appeal to him. It may be mentioned that his feelings were purely selfish—Zaboleff knew too much.

  But the Count was speaking again. A faint sneer was on his face; he had read the other’s mind like an open book.

  “And so,” he continued, “did the Black Gang. They removed Zaboleff and our friend Waldock from under the very noses of the police, and, like the twenty others, they have disappeared.”

  “My God!” There was no doubt now about Mr. Latter’s state of mind. “And now they’ve threatened me.”

  “And now they’ve threatened you,” agreed the Count. “And you, I am glad to say, have done exactly what I should have told you to do, had I seen you sooner. You have gone to the police.”

  “But—but,” stammered Latter, “the police were no good to Zaboleff last night.”

  “And it is quite possible,” returned the other calmly, “that they will be equally futile in your case. Candidly, Mr. Latter, I am completely indifferent on the subject of your future. You have served our purpose, and all that matters is that you happen to be the bone over which the dogs are going to fight. Until last night the dogs hadn’t met—officially; and in the rencontre last night, the police dog, unless I’m greatly mistaken, was caught by surprise. McIver doesn’t let that happen twice. In your case he’ll be ready. With luck this cursed Black Gang, who are infinitely more nuisance to me than the police have been or ever will be, will get bitten badly.”

  Mr. Latter was breathing heavily.

  “But what do you want me to do, Count?”

  “Nothing at all, except what you were going to do normally,” answered the other. He glanced at a notebook on his desk. “You were going to Lady Manton’s near Sheffield, I see. Don’t alter your plans—go. In all probability it will take place at her house.” He glanced contemptuously at the other’s somewhat green face, and his manner changed abruptly. “You understand, Mr. Latter,” his voice was deadly smooth and quiet, “you understand, don’t you, what I say? You will go to Lady Manton’s house as arranged, and you will carry on exactly as if you had never received this note. Because if you don’t, if you attempt any tricks with me, whatever the Black Gang may do or may not do to you, however much the police may protect you or may not protect you—you will have us to reckon with. And you know what that means.”

  “Supposing the gang gets me and foils the police,” muttered Latter through dry lips. “What then?”

  “I shall deal with them personally. They annoy me.”

  There was something so supremely confident in the tone of the Count’s voice, that the other man looked at him quickly.

  “But have you any idea who they are?” he asked eagerly.

  “None—at present. Their leader is clever—but so am I. They have deliberately elected to fight me, and now I have had enough. It will save trouble if the police catch them for me: but if not…”

  The Count shrugged his shoulders, and with a gesture of his hand dismissed the matter. Then he picked up a piece of paper from the desk and glanced at it.

  “I will now give you your orders for Sheffield,” he continued. “It has been reported to me that in Sir John Manton’s works there is a red-hot madman named Delmorlick. He has a good job himself, but he s
pends most of his spare time inciting the unemployed—of which I am glad to say there are large numbers in the town—to absurd deeds of violence. He is a very valuable man to us, and appears to be one of those extraordinary beings who really believe in the doctrines of Communism. He can lash a mob, they tell me, into an absolute frenzy with his tongue. I want you to seek him out, and give him fifty pounds to carry on with. Tell him, of course, that it comes from the Great Master in Russia, and spur him on to renewed activity.

  “You will also employ him, and two or three others whom you must leave him to choose, to carry out a little scheme of which you will find full details in this letter.” He handed an envelope to Latter, who took it with a trembling hand. “You personally will make arrangements about the necessary explosives. I calculate that, if successful, it should throw at least three thousand more men out of work. Moreover, Mr. Latter, if it is successful your fee will be a thousand pounds.”

  “A thousand!” muttered Latter. “Is there much danger?”

  The Count smiled contemptuously. “Not if you do your work properly. Hullo! What’s up?”

  From a little electric bell at his elbow came four shrill rings, repeated again and again.

  The Count rose and with systematic thoroughness swept every piece of paper off the desk into his pocket. Then he shut down the top and locked it, while the bell, a little muffled, still rang inside.

  “What’s the fool doing?” he cried angrily, stepping over to the big safe let into the wall, while Latter, his face white and terrified, followed at his side. And then abruptly the bell stopped.

  Very deliberately the Count pressed two concealed knobs, so sunk into the wall as to be invisible to a stranger, and the door of the safe swung open. And only then was it obvious that the safe was not a safe, but a second exit leading to a flight of stairs. For a moment or two he stood motionless, listening intently, while Latter fidgeted at his side. One hand was on a master switch which controlled all the lights, the other on a knob inside the second passage which, when turned, would close the great steel door noiselessly behind them.