The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  For a moment the man paused, genuine amazement on his face.

  “My dear girl, you don’t really imagine I ever intended to produce her, do you? And any lingering doubt I might have had on the matter disappeared the moment I found Drummond knew us. There’s going to be no mistake this time over that young gentleman, believe me.”

  With a slight laugh he disappeared into the bathroom, and as little Janet put through her call a tinkling of bottles seemed to show that the Reverend Theodosius was not wasting time.

  CHAPTER XIV

  In Which a Rolls-Royce Runs Amok

  Some ten minutes later he emerged from the bathroom carefully carrying a saucer in his hand. The girl’s announcement that Number 13 had started at once had been received with a satisfied grunt, but he had spoken no word. And the girl, glancing through the door, saw him, with his shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows, carefully mixing two liquids together and stirring the result gently with a glass rod. He was completely absorbed in his task, and with a faint smile on her face she went back to the sofa and waited. She knew too well the futility of speaking to him on such occasions. Even when he came in, carrying the result of his labours with a pair of india-rubber gloves on his hands, she made no remark, but waited for him to relieve her curiosity.

  He placed the mixture on the table and glanced round the room. Then he pulled up one of the ordinary stuff arm-chairs to the table and removed the linen head-rest, which he carefully soaked with the contents of the saucer, dabbing the liquid on with a sponge, so as not to crumple the linen in any way. He used up all the liquid, and then, still with the same meticulous care, he replaced the head-rest on the chair, and stood back and surveyed his handiwork.

  “Look all right?” he asked briefly.

  “Quite,” answered the girl. “What’s the game?”

  “Drummond has got to sit in that chair,” he returned, removing the saucer and the sponge to the bathroom, and carefully peeling off his gloves. “He’s got to sit in that chair, my dear, and afterwards that linen affair has got to be burnt. And whatever happens “—he paused for a moment in front of her—”don’t you touch it.”

  Quietly and methodically, he continued his preparations, as if the most usual occurrence in the world was in progress. He picked up two other chairs, and carried them through into the bedroom; then he returned and placed an open dispatch-case with a sheaf of loose papers on another one.

  “That more or less limits the seating accommodation,” he remarked, glancing round the room. “Now if you, cara mia, will spread some of your atrocious woollen garments on the sofa beside you, I think we can guarantee the desired result.”

  But apparently his preparations were not over yet. He crossed to the sideboard and extracted a new and undecanted bottle of whisky. From this he withdrew about a dessertspoonful of the spirit, and replaced it with the contents of a small phial which he took out of his waistcoat pocket. Then he forced back the cork until it was right home, and with the greatest care replaced the cap of tinfoil round the top of the bottle. And the girl, coming over to where he was working, saw that the bottle was again as new.

  “What a consummate artist you are, cheri!” she said, laying a hand on his shoulder.

  The Reverend Theodosius smiled and passed his arm round her waist.

  “One of the earliest essentials of our—er—occupation, my little one, is to learn how to insert dope into an apparently untouched bottle.”

  “But do you think you will get him to drink even out of a new bottle?”

  “I hope so. I shall drink myself. But even if he doesn’t, the preparation on the chair is the essential thing. Once his neck touches that—”

  With an expressive wave of his hand he vanished once more into the bathroom, returning with his coat.

  “Don’t you remember that Italian toxicologist—Fransioli?” he remarked. “We met him in Naples three years ago, and he obligingly told me that he had in his possession the secret of one of the real Borgia poisons. I remember I had a most interesting discussion with him on the subject. The internal application is harmless; the external application is what matters. That acts alone, but if the victim can be induced to take it internally as well it acts very much better.”

  “Fransioli?” She frowned thoughtfully. “Wasn’t that the name of the man who had the fatal accident on Vesuvius?”

  “That’s the fellow,” answered the Reverend Theodosius, arranging a siphon and some glasses on a tray. “He persuaded me to ascend it with him, and on the way up he was foolish enough to tell me that the bottles containing this poison had been stolen from his laboratory. I don’t know whether he suspected me or not—I was an Austrian Baron at the time, if I remember aright—but when he proceeded to peer over the edge of the crater at a most dangerous point I thought it better to take no risks. So—er—the accident occurred. And I gathered he was really a great loss to science.”

  He glanced at his watch, and the girl laughed delightedly. “It will be interesting to see if his claims for it are true,” he continued thoughtfully. “I have only used it once, but on that occasion I inadvertently put too much into the wine, and the patient died. But with the right quantities it produces—so he stated, and I saw him experiment on a dog—a type of partial paralysis, not only of the body, but of the mind. You can see, you can hear, but you can’t speak and you can’t move. What ultimately happens with a human being I don’t know, but the dog recovered.”

  A quick double knock came at the door, and with a final glance round the room the Reverend Theodosius crossed to his desk and sat down.

  “Come in,” he called, and a small dapper-looking man entered.

  “Number 13, sir,” said the newcomer briefly, and the other nodded.

  “I am expecting a man here shortly, 13,” remarked the clergyman, “whose voice I shall want you to imitate over the telephone.

  “Only over the telephone, sir?”

  “Only over the telephone. You will not be able to be in this room, but there is a bathroom adjoining in which you can hear every word that is spoken.” The other nodded as if satisfied. “For how long will you require to hear him talk?”

  “Five or ten minutes, sir, will be ample.”

  “Good. You shall have that. There’s the bathroom. Go in, and don’t make a sound.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And wait. Have Giuseppi and Number 10 come yet?”

  “They left headquarters, sir, just after I did. They should be here by now.”

  The man disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and once again the Reverend Theodosius glanced at his watch.

  “Our young friend should be here shortly,” he murmured. “And then the single which he seems so anxious to play can begin in earnest.”

  The benign expression which he had adopted as part of his role disappeared for an instant to be replaced by a look of cold fury.

  “The single will begin in earnest,” he repeated softly, “and it’s the last one he will ever play.”

  The girl shrugged her shoulders. “He has certainly asked for it,” she remarked, “but it strikes me that you had better be careful. You may bet on one thing—that he hasn’t kept his knowledge about you and me to himself. Half those young idiots that run about behind him know everything by this time, and if they go to Scotland Yard it will be very unpleasant for us, mon cheri. And that they certainly will do if anything should happen to dear Hugh.”

  The clergyman smiled resignedly. “After all these years, you think it necessary to say that to me! My dear, you pain me—you positively wound me to the quick. I will guarantee that all Drummond’s friends sleep soundly in their beds tonight, harbouring none but the sweetest thoughts of the kindly and much-maligned old clergyman at the Ritz.”

  “And what of Drummond himself?” continued the girl.

  “It may be tonight, or it may be tomorrow. But accidents happen at all times—and one is going to happen to him.” He smiled sweetly, and lit a cigar. �
�A nasty, sticky accident which will deprive us of his presence. I haven’t worried over the details yet—but doubtless the inspiration will come. And here, if I mistake not, is our hero himself.”

  The door swung open and Drummond entered. “Well, Carl, old lad,” he remarked breezily, “here I am on the stroke of time with the bag of nuts all complete.”

  “Excellent,” murmured the clergyman, waving a benevolent hand towards the only free chair. “But if you must call me by my Christian name, why not make it Theo?” Drummond grinned delightedly.

  “As you wish, my little one. Theo it shall be in future, and Janet.” He bowed to the girl as he sat down. “There’s just one little point I want to mention, Theo, before we come to the laughter and games. Peter Darrell, whom you may remember of old, and who lunched with us today, is sitting on the telephone in my house. And eight o’clock is the time limit. Should his childish fears for my safety and my wife’s not be assuaged by that hour, he will feel compelled to interrupt Tum-tum at his dinner. I trust I make myself perfectly clear.”

  “You are the soul of lucidity,” beamed the clergyman.

  “Good! Then first of all, there are the diamonds. No, don’t come too near, please, you can count them quite easily from where you are.” He tumbled them out of the bag, and they lay on the table like great pools of liquid light. The girl’s breath came quickly as she saw them, and Drummond turned on her with a smile.

  “To one given up to good works and knitting, Janet, doubtless, such things do not appeal. Tell me, Theo,” he remarked as he swept them back into the bag—”who was the idiot who put them in Snooks’ desk? Don’t answer if you’d rather not give away your maidenly secrets; but it was a pretty full-sized bloomer on his part, wasn’t it—pooping off the old bomb?”

  He leaned back in his chair, and for a moment a gleam shone in the other’s eyes, for the nape of Drummond’s neck came exactly against the centre of the impregnated linen cover.

  “Doubtless, Captain Drummond, doubtless,” he murmured politely. “But if you will persist in talking in riddles, don’t you think we might choose a different subject until Mrs. Drummond arrives?”

  “Anything you like, Theo,” said Drummond. “I’m perfectly happy talking about you. How the devil do you do it?” He sat up and stared at the other man with genuine wonder on his face. “Eyes different—nose—voice—figure—everything different. You’re a marvel—but for that one small failing of yours.”

  “You interest me profoundly,” said the clergyman. “What is this one small failing that makes you think I am other than what I profess to be?”

  Drummond laughed genially.

  “Good heavens, don’t you know what it is? Hasn’t Janet told you? It’s that dainty little trick of yours of tickling the left ear with the right big toe that marks you every time. No man can do that, Theo, and blush unseen.”

  He leaned back again in his chair, and passed his hand over his forehead.

  “By Jove, it’s pretty hot in here, isn’t it?”

  “It is close everywhere today,” answered the other easily, though his eyes behind the spectacles were fixed intently on Drummond. “Would you care for a drink?”

  Drummond smiled; the sudden fit of muzziness seemed to have passed as quickly as it had come.

  “Thank you—no,” he answered politely. “In your last incarnation, Theo, you may remember that I did not drink with you. There is an element of doubt about your liquor which renders it a dangerous proceeding.”

  “As you will,” said the clergyman indifferently, at the same time placing the bottle of whisky and the glasses on the table. “If you imagine that I am capable of interfering with an unopened bottle of Johnny Walker, obtained from the cellars of the Ritz, it would be well not to join me.” He was carefully removing the tinfoil as he spoke, and once again the strange muzzy feeling swept over Drummond. He felt as if things had suddenly become unreal—as if he was dreaming. His vision seemed blurred, and then for the second time it passed away, leaving only a strange mental confusion. What was he doing in this room? Who was this benevolent old clergyman drawing the cork out of a bottle of whisky?

  With an effort he pulled himself together. It must be the heat or something, he reflected, and he must keep his brain clear. Perhaps a whisky-and-soda would help. After all, there could be no danger in drinking from a bottle which he had seen opened under his very eyes.

  “Do you know, Theo,” he remarked, “I think I will change my mind and have a whisky-and-soda.”

  His voice sounded strange to his ears; and he wondered if the others noticed anything. But apparently not; the clergyman merely nodded briefly, and remarked, “Say when.”

  “When,” said Drummond, with a foolish sort of laugh. It was a most extraordinary thing, but he couldn’t focus his eyes; there were two glasses on the table and two clergymen splashing in soda from two siphons. Surely he wasn’t going to faint; bad thing to faint when he was alone with Peterson.

  He took a gulp at his drink and suddenly began to talk—foolishly and idiotically.

  “Nice room, Carl, old lad…Never expected meet you again: certainly not in nice room…Wrote letter paper after poor old Latter went mad. Drew you—drew badger. Send badger mad too.”

  His voice trailed away, and he sat there blinking stupidly. Everything was confused, and his tongue seemed weighted with lead. He reached out again for his glass—or tried to—and his arm refused to move. And suddenly out of the jumble of thoughts in his brain there emerged the one damning certainty that somehow or other he had been trapped and drugged. He gave a hoarse, inarticulate cry, and struggled to rise to his feet, but it was useless; his legs and arms felt as if they were bound to the chair by iron bands. And in the mist that swam before his eyes he saw the mocking faces of the clergyman and his daughter.

  “It seems to have acted most excellently,” remarked the Reverend Theodosius, and Drummond found he could hear quite normally; also his sight was improving; things in the room seemed steadier. And his mind was becoming less confused—he could think again. But to move or to speak was utterly impossible; all he could do was to sit and watch and rage inwardly at having been such a fool as to trust Peterson.

  But that gentleman appeared in no hurry. He was writing with a gold pencil on a letter pad, and every now and then he paused and smiled thoughtfully. At length he seemed satisfied, and crossed to the bathroom door.

  “We are ready now,” Drummond heard him say, and he wondered what was going to happen next. To turn his head was impossible; his range of vision was limited by the amount he could turn his eyes. And then, to his amazement, he heard his own voice speaking from somewhere behind him—not, perhaps, quite so deep, but an extraordinary good imitation which would have deceived nine people out of ten when they could not see the speaker. And then he heard Peterson’s voice again mentioning the telephone, and he realised what they were going to do.

  “I want you,” Peterson was saying, “to send this message that I have written down to that number—using this gentleman’s voice.”

  They came into his line of vision, and the new arrival stared at him curiously. But he asked no questions—merely took the paper and read it through carefully. Then he stepped over to the telephone, and took off the receiver. And, helplessly impotent, Drummond sat in his chair and heard the following message spoken in his own voice:

  “Is that you, Peter, old bird? I’ve made the most unholy bloomer. This old bloke Theodosius isn’t Carl at all. He’s a perfectly respectable pillar of the Church.”

  And then apparently Darrell said something, and Peterson, who was listening through the second ear-piece, whispered, urgently to the man.

  “Phyllis,” he went on—”she’s as right as rain! The whole thing is a boss shot of the first order.…”

  Drummond made another stupendous effort to rise, and for a moment everything went blank. Dimly he heard his own voice still talking into the instrument, but he only caught a word here and there, and then it ceased,
and he realised that the man had left the room. It was Peterson’s voice close by him that cleared his brain again.

  “I trust you approve of the way our single has started. Captain Drummond,” he remarked pleasantly. “Your friend Peter, I am glad to say, is more than satisfied, and has announced his intention of dining with some female charmer. Also he quite understands why your wife has gone into the country—you heard that bit, I hope, about her sick cousin?—and he realises that you are joining her.”

  And suddenly the pleasant voice ceased, and the clergyman continued in a tone of cold, malignant fury.

  “You rat! You damned interfering young swine! Now that you’re helpless I don’t mind admitting that I am the man you knew as Carl Peterson, but I’m not going to make the mistake he made a second time. I underestimated you. Captain Drummond. I left things to that fool Lakington. I treated you as a blundering young ass, and I realised too late that you weren’t such a fool as you looked. This time I am paying you the compliment of treating you as a dangerous enemy, and a clever man. I trust you are nattered.”

  He turned as the door opened, and the man who had telephoned came in with two others. One was a great, powerful-looking man who might have been a prize-fighter; the other was a lean, swarthy-skinned foreigner, and both of them looked unpleasant customers. And Hugh wondered what was going to happen next, while his eyes rolled wildly from side to side as if in search of some way of escape. It was like some ghastly nightmare when one is powerless to move before some dreadful figment of the brain, only to be saved at the last moment by waking up. Only in Hugh’s case he was awake already, and the dream was reality.

  He saw the men leave the room, and then Peterson came over to him again. First he took the little bag of diamonds out of his pocket, and it struck Hugh that though he had seen the other’s hand go into his pocket, he had felt nothing. He watched Peterson and the girl as they examined the stones; he watched Peterson as he locked them up in a steel dispatch-case. And then Peterson disappeared out of his range of vision. He was conscious that he was near him—just behind him—and the horror of the nightmare increased. It had been better when they were talking; at least then he could see them. But now, with both of them out of sight—hovering round the back of his chair, perhaps—and without a sound in the room save the faint hum of the traffic outside, the strain was getting unbearable.