The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  It was nothing more nor less than an announcement purporting to come from the leader of the Black Gang himself, and sent to the editor of the Sheffield paper. It occupied a prominent position in the centre page, and was introduced to the public in the following words:

  “The following communication has been received by the editor. The original, which he has handed over to the proper authorities, was typewritten; the postmark was a London one. The editor offers no comment on the genuineness of the document, beyond stating that it is printed exactly as it was received.”

  The document ran as follows:

  In view of the conflicting rumours started by the story of Mr. Day, the night-watchman at Greystone’s Works, it may be of interest to the public to know that his story is true in every detail. The three men whom he saw bound were engaged at the instigation of others in an attempt to wreck the main power station, thereby largely increasing unemployment in Sheffield, and fomenting more unrest. The driving force behind this, as behind other similar activities, is international. The source of it all lies in other countries; the object is the complete ruin of the great sober majority of workers in England by a loud-voiced, money-seeking minority which is composed of unscrupulous scoundrels and fanatical madmen. For these apostles of anarchy a home has been prepared, where the doctrines of Communism are strictly enforced. The three men who have disappeared from Sheffield have gone to that home, but there is still plenty of room for others. Mr. Charles Latter has gone mad, otherwise he would have accompanied them. The more intelligent the man, the more vile the scoundrel. Charles Latter was intelligent. There are others more intelligent than he. It is expressly for their benefit that the Black Gang came into being.

  THE LEADER OF THE GANG.

  The reception of this remarkable document was mixed. On the strength of the first sentence Mr. Day’s price rose to two pints; but it was the rest of the communication which aroused public interest. For the first time some tangible reason had been advanced to account for the presence of the three bound men and their masked captors in the power-station at Greystones. Inquiries revealed the fact that all three of them were men educated above the average, and of very advanced Socialistic views. And to that extent the document seemed credible. But it was the concluding sentences that baffled the public.

  True, Mr. Charles Latter, M.P., had been staying on the night in question at Lady Manton’s house a few miles out of the town. Equally true he had had a nervous breakdown which necessitated his removal to a nursing-home in London. But what connection there could possibly be between him and the three men it was difficult to see. It was most positively asserted that the well-known Member of Parliament had not left Drayton House during the night on which the affair took place; and yet, if credence was to be attached to the document, there was an intimate connection between him and the affair at the steel works. Callers at the nursing-home came away none the wiser; his doctor had positively forbidden a soul to be admitted save his brother, who came away frowning after the first visit, and returned no more. For Charles Latter not only had not recognised him, but had shrunk away, babbling nonsense, while continually his eyes had sought the foot of the bed with a look of dreadful terror in them.

  And so speculation continued. No further communication emanated from the mysterious Black Gang. Mr. Latter was insane; the three men had disappeared, and Mr. Day, even at two pints, could say no more than he had said already. There were people who dismissed the entire thing as an impudent and impertinent hoax, and stated that the editor of the Sheffield paper should be prosecuted for libel. It was obvious, they explained, what had occurred. Some irresponsible practical joker had, for reasons of his own, connected together the two acts, whose only real connection was that they had occurred about the same time, and had maliciously sent the letter to the paper.

  But there were others who were not so sure—people who nodded wisely at one another from the corners of trains, and claimed inside knowledge of strange happenings unknown to the mere public. They affirmed darkly that there was more in it than met the eye, and relapsed into confidential mutterings.

  And then, when nothing further happened, the matter died out of the papers, and speculation ceased amongst the public. The general impression left behind favoured a hoax; and at that it was allowed to remain until the events occurred which were to prove that it was a very grim reality.

  But whatever the general public may have thought about the matter, there were two people in London who viewed the sudden newspaper notoriety with rage and anger. And it is, perhaps, needless to say that neither of them concurred in the impression that it was a hoax; only too well did they know that it was nothing of the kind.

  The first of these was Count Zadowa, alias Mr. William Atkinson. He had duly received from Latter a telegram in code stating that everything was well—a telegram dispatched from Sheffield after the meeting with Delmorlick in the afternoon. And from that moment he had heard nothing. The early editions of the evening papers on the following day had contained no reference to any explosion at Sheffield; the later ones had announced Mr. Latter’s nervous breakdown. And the Count, reading between the lines, had wondered, though at that time he was far from guessing the real truth. Then had come strange rumours—rumours which resulted in the summoning post-haste from Sheffield of a man who was alluded to in the archives at 5, Green Street, as John Smith, commission agent. And, though he may have fully deserved the description of commission agent, a glance at his face gave one to wonder at his right to the name of John Smith.

  “Tell me exactly what has happened,” said the Count quietly, pointing to a chair in his inner office. “Up to date I have only heard rumours.”

  And John Smith, with the accent of a Polish Jew, told. Mr. Latter had called on him early in the afternoon, and, in accordance with his instructions, he had arranged a meeting between Mr. Latter and Delmorlick at an hotel. Delmorlick had taken three other men with him, and he presumed everything had been arranged at that meeting. No, he had not been present himself. For two of Delmorlick’s companions he could vouch; in fact—and then, for the first time, Count Zadowa heard the story so ably spread abroad by Mr. Day. For it was those two men and Delmorlick who had disappeared.

  “Then it was the fourth man, who gave it away,” snapped the Count. “Who was he?”

  “He called himself Jackson,” faltered the other. “But I haven’t seen him since.”

  Thoughtfully the Count beat a tattoo with his fingers on the desk in front of him; no one looking at him would have guessed for an instant the rage that was seething in his brain. For the first time he realised fully that, perfect though his own organisation might be, he had come up against one that was still better.

  “And what about this nervous breakdown of Mr. Latter’s?” he demanded at length.

  But on that subject John Smith knew nothing. He had no ideas on the subject, and, after a few searching questions, he found himself curtly dismissed, leaving the Count to ponder over the knotty point as to the connection between Latter’s breakdown and the affair at the power-station. And he was still pondering over it three days later when the bombshell exploded in the form of the document to the Press. That the concluding sentences were evidently directed against him did not worry him nearly as much as the publicity afforded to activities in which secrecy was essential. And what worried him even more was the fact that others on the Continent—men whose names were never mentioned, but who regarded him almost as he regarded Latter—would see the English papers, and would form their own conclusions. Already some peremptory letters had reached him, stating that the activities of the Black Gang must cease—how, it was immaterial. And he had replied stating that he had the thing well in hand. On top of which had come this damnable document, which was published in practically every paper in the country, and had produced a sort of silly-season discussion from “Retired Colonel” and “Maiden Lady.” Of no importance to him that “Common Sense” decreed that it was a stupid hoax: he knew it was not. And
so did those others, as he very soon found out. Two days after the appearance of the document, he received a letter which bore the postmark of Amsterdam. It stated merely: “I am coming,” and was signed X. And had anyone been present when Count Zadowa opened that letter in his private office, he would have seen an unexpected sight. He would have seen him tear the letter into a thousand pieces, and then wipe his forehead with a hand that trembled a little. For Count Zadowa, who terrified most men, was frightened himself.

  The second person who viewed this sudden notoriety with dislike was Inspector McIver. And in his case, too, the reason was largely personal. He was caught on the horns of a dilemma, as Sir Bryan Johnstone, who was not too pleased with the turn of events, pointed out to him a little caustically. Either the entire thing was a hoax, in which case why had McIver himself taken such elaborate precautions to prevent anything happening? or it was not a hoax, in which case McIver had been made a complete fool of.

  “I’ll stake my reputation on the fact that no one got into or left the house that night. Sir Bryan,” he reiterated again and again. “That the Black Gang was at work in the town, I admit; but I do not believe that Mr. Latter’s condition is anything more that a strange coincidence.”

  It was an interview that he had with Mr. Latter’s brother that caused him to go round to Drummond’s house in Brook Street. Much as he disliked having to do so, he felt he must leave no stone unturned if he was to get to the bottom of the affair, and Mr. Latter’s brother had said one or two things which he thought might be worth following up. If only Hugh Drummond wasn’t such a confounded fool, he reflected savagely, as he turned into Bond Street, it would have been possible to get some sane information. But that was his chief’s fault; he entirely washed his hands of the responsibility of roping in such a vast idiot; And it was at that stage in his meditations that a Rolls-Royce drew silently up beside him, and the cheerful voice of the subject of his thoughts hailed him delightedly.

  “The very man, and the very spot!”

  McIver turned round and nodded briefly. “Morning, Captain Drummond! I was just going round to your house to see you.”

  “But, my dear old top,” cried Hugh, “don’t you see where you are? The portals of the Regency positively beckon us. Behind those portals a cocktail apiece, and you shall tell me all your troubles.” He gently propelled the Inspector through the doors of the celebrated club, still babbling cheerfully.

  “After profound experience, old lad,” he remarked, coming to anchor by the bar, “I have come to the conclusion that there is only one thing in this world better than having a cocktail at twelve o’clock.”

  “What’s that?” said McIver perfunctorily.

  “Having two,” answered Drummond triumphantly.

  The Inspector smiled wanly. After his profound experience he had come to the conclusion that there could exist no bigger ass in the world than Drummond, but he followed a trade where at times it is necessary to suffer fools gladly. And this was one of them.

  “Is there any place where we could have a little private talk, Captain Drummond?” he asked, as the other pushed a Martini towards him.

  “What about that corner over there?” said Drummond, after glancing round the room.

  “Excellent!” agreed the Inspector, and, picking up his cocktail, he crossed over to it and sat down. It took his host nearly five minutes to do the same short journey, and McIver chafed irritably at the delay. He was a busy man, and it seemed to him that Drummond knew everyone in the room. Moreover, he insisted on talking to them at length. And once again a feeling of anger against his chief filled his mind. What had Drummond except his great strength to distinguish him from this futile crowd of cocktail-drinking men? All of them built on the same pattern; all of them fashioned along the same lines. Talking a strange jargon of their own—idle, perfectly groomed, bored. As far as they were concerned, he was non-existent save as the man who was with Drummond. He smiled a little grimly; he, who did more man’s work in a week than the whole lot of them put together got through in a year. A strange caste, he reflected, as he sipped his drink; a caste which does not aim at, because it essentially is, good form; a caste which knows only one fetish—the absolute repression of all visible emotion; a caste which incidentally pulled considerably more than its own weight in the war. McIver gave them credit for that.

  “Sorry to be so long.” Drummond lowered himself into a chair. “The place is always crowded at this hour. Now, what’s the little worry?”

  “It’s about the affair up at Sheffield,” said the Inspector. “I suppose you’ve seen this communication in the papers, purporting to come from the leader of the Black Gang.”

  “Rather, old lad,” answered Drummond. “Waded through it over the eggs the other morning. Pretty useful effort, I thought.”

  “The public at large regard it as a hoax,” continued McIver. “Now, I know it isn’t! The typewriter used in the original document is the same as was used in their previous communications.”

  “By Jove, that’s quick!” said Drummond admiringly. “Deuced quick.”

  McIver frowned. “Now please concentrate. Captain Drummond. The concluding sentence of the letter would lead one to suppose that there was some connection between the activities of this gang and Mr. Charles Latter’s present condition. I, personally, don’t believe it. I think it was mere coincidence. But whichever way it is, I would give a great deal to know what sent him mad.”

  “Is he absolutely up the pole?” demanded Drummond.

  “Absolutely! His brother has seen him, and after he had seen him he came to me. He tells me that the one marked symptom is an overmastering terror of something which he seems to see at the foot of the bed. He follows this thing round with his eyes—I suppose he thinks it’s coming towards him—and then he screams. His brother believes that someone or something must have been in his room that night—a something so terrifying that it sent him mad. To my mind, of course, the idea is wildly improbable, but strange things do occur.”

  “Undoubtedly!” agreed Drummond.

  “Now you were in the house,” went on the Inspector; “you even examined his room, as you told Sir Bryan. Now, did you examine it closely?”

  “Even to looking under the bed,” answered Drummond brightly.

  “And there was nothing there? No place where anybody or anything could hide?”

  “Not a vestige of a spot. In fact, my dear old police hound,” continued Drummond, draining his glass, “if the genial brother is correct in his supposition, the only conclusion we can come to is that I sent him mad myself.”

  McIver frowned again.

  “I wish you’d be serious. Captain Drummond. There are other things in life beside cocktails and—this.” He waved an expressive hand round the room. “The matter is an important one. You can give me no further information? You heard no sounds during the night?”

  “Only the sheep-faced man snoring,” answered Drummond with a grin. And then, of a sudden, he became serious and, leaning across the table, he stared fixedly at the Inspector.

  “I think we must conclude, McIver, that the madness of Mr. Latter is due to the ghosts of the past, and perhaps the spectres of the present. A punishment, McIver, for things done which it is not good to do—a punishment which came to him in the night. That’s when the ghosts are abroad.” He noted McIver’s astonished face and gradually his own relaxed into a smile. “Pretty good, that—wasn’t it, after only one cocktail. You ought to hear me after my third.”

  “Thanks very much. Captain Drummond,” laughed the Inspector, “but that was quite good enough for me. We don’t deal in ghosts in my service.”

  “Well, I’ve done my best,” sighed Drummond, waving languidly at a waiter to repeat the dose. “It’s either that or me. I know my face is pretty bad, but—”

  “I don’t think we need worry about either alternative,” said McIver, rising.

  “Right oh, old lad,” answered Drummond. “You know best. You’ll have another?”


  “No more, thanks. I have to work sometimes.”

  The inspector picked up his hat and stick, and Drummond strolled across the room with him. “Give my love to Tum-tum.”

  “Sir Bryan is not at the office today. Captain Drummond,” answered McIver coldly. “Good morning.”

  With a faint smile Drummond watched the square, sturdy figure swing through the doors into Bond Street, then he turned and thoughtfully made his way back to the table.

  “Make it seven, instead of two,” he told the waiter, who was hovering round.

  And had McIver returned at that moment he would have seen six of these imperturbable, bored men rise unobtrusively from different parts of the room, and saunter idly across to the corner where he had recently been sitting. It would probably not have struck him as an unusual sight—Drummond and six of his pals having a second drink; in fact, it would have struck him as being very usual. He was an unimaginative man, was the Inspector.

  “Well,” said Peter Darrell, lighting a cigarette. “And what had he got to say?”

  “Nothing of interest,” answered Drummond. “I told him the truth, and he wouldn’t believe me. Algy back yet?”

  “This morning,” said Ted Jerningham. “He’s coming round here. Had a bit of trouble, I gather. And, talk of the devil—here he is.”

  Algy Longworth, his right arm in a sling, was threading his way towards them.

  “What’s happened, Algy?” said Hugh as he came up.

  “That firebrand Delmorlick stuck a knife into me,” grinned Algy. “We put him on a rope and dropped him overboard, and towed him for three hundred yards. Cooled his ardour. I think he’ll live all right.”