The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “Morning, Tum-tum,” he boomed genially. “How’s the liver and all that?”

  “Morning, Hugh. Do you know Sir John Haverton?”

  “Morning, Sir John. Jolly old Cabinet merry and bright? Or did you all go down on Purple Polly at Goodwood yesterday?”

  Sir John rose a little grimly. “We have other things to do besides backing horses, Captain Drummond. I think we have met at Lady Meltrose’s house, haven’t we?”

  “More than likely,” said Hugh affably. “I don’t often dine there: she ropes in such a ghastly crowd of bores, don’t you know.”

  “I feel sure, Captain Drummond, that you’re an admirable judge.” Sir John turned to Sir Bryan Johnstone and held out his hand. “Well, I must be off. Good morning, Johnstone—and you’ve thoroughly roused my curiosity. I’d very much like to know who the gentleman is whom we’ve been discussing. And in the meantime I’ll look through these papers and let you know my decision in due course.”

  He bustled out of the office, and Hugh sank into a chair with a sigh of relief.

  “The old boy’s clothes seem full of body this morning. Tum-tum,” he remarked as the door closed. “Indigestion—or don’t the elastic-sided boots fit?”

  “Do you know what we have been discussing, Hugh?” said the other quietly.

  “Not an earthly, old man. Was it that new one about the girl in the grocer’s shop?”

  “We’ve been discussing the leader of the Black Gang,” said Sir Bryan, with his eyes fixed on the man sprawling in the chair opposite.

  Not by the twitch of a muscle did Drummond’s face change: he seemed engrossed in the task of selecting a cigarette.

  “You’ve been in Deauville, haven’t you, Hugh—the last few days?”

  “Quite right old man. All among the fairies.”

  “You don’t know that a burglary has taken place at your house in London?”

  “A burglary!” Drummond sat up with a jerk. “Why the deuce hasn’t Denny told me?”

  “A very small one,” said Sir Bryan, “committed by myself, and perhaps he doesn’t know. I took—your typewriter.”

  For a few moments Hugh Drummond stared at him in silence: then his lips began to twitch. “I see,” he said at length. “I meant to have that defective ‘s’ repaired.”

  “You took me in, old boy,” continued Sir Bryan, “utterly and absolutely. If it hadn’t been for one of the men at Maybrick Hall turning King’s evidence, I don’t believe I should have found out now.”

  “Well, what are you going to do about it?” asked Drummond after a pause.

  “Nothing. I was discussing the matter with Sir John this morning, and we both agreed that you either deserved penal servitude or a seat in the Cabinet. And since neither course commends itself to us, we have decided to do nothing. There are reasons, which you will appreciate, against any publicity at the moment. But, Hugh, the Black Gang must cease.”

  Drummond nodded. “Carried, nem. con; Tum-tum. It shall automatically dissolve today.”

  “And further,” continued Sir Bryan, “will you relieve my curiosity and tell me what sent Charles Latter mad?”

  “I did,” said Drummond grimly, “as I told that ass McIver over a cocktail at the Regency. He was plotting to blow up three thousand men’s employment, Tum-tum, with gun-cotton. It was at his instigation that four men were killed in Manchester as the result of another outrage. So I lashed him to his bed, and underneath him I put what he thought was a slab of gun-cotton with fuse attached. It wasn’t gun-cotton: it was wood. And he went mad.” He paused for a moment, and then continued. “Now, one for you. Why did you let Carl Peterson escape? I nearly killed him that night, after I’d bayoneted the Russian.”

  “How did you know he had escaped?” demanded Sir Bryan.

  Hugh felt in his pocket and produced a note.

  “Read it,” he said, passing it across the desk.

  “It was a pity you forgot that there might be another key to the padlock, Captain Drummond,” it ran. “And Giuseppi is an old friend of mine. I quite enjoyed our single.”

  Sir Bryan returned the note without a word, and Drummond replaced it in his pocket.

  “That’s twice,” he said quietly, and suddenly the Director of Criminal Investigation, than whom no shrewder judge of men lived, saw and understood the real Drummond below the surface of inanity—the real Drummond, cool, resourceful, and inflexible of will—the real Drummond who was capable of organising and carrying through anything and everything once he had set his mind to it.

  “That’s twice,” he repeated, still in the same quiet tone. “Next time—I win.”

  “But no more Black Gang, Hugh,” said the other warningly.

  Drummond waved a huge hand. “I have spoken, Tum-tum. A rose by any other name, perhaps—but no more Black Gang.” He rose and grinned at his friend. “It’s deuced good of you, old man, and all that…”

  The eyes of the two men met.

  “If it was found out, I should be looking for another job,” remarked Sir Bryan dryly. “And perhaps I should not get the two thousand pounds which I understand the widow of the late lamented Ginger Martin has received anonymously.”

  “Shut up,” said Drummond awkwardly.

  “Delighted, old man,” returned the other. “But the police in that district are demanding a rise of pay. She has been drunk and disorderly five times in the last week.”

  To those strong-minded individuals who habitually read the entrancing chit-chat of Mrs. Tattle in The Daily Observer, there appeared the following morning a delightful description of the last big fancy-dress ball of the season held at the Albert Hall the preceding night. Much of it may be passed over as unworthy of perpetuation, but the concluding paragraph had its points of interest.

  “Half-way through the evening,” she wrote in her breezy way, “just as I was consuming an ice in one hand with the Duchess of Sussex, and nibbling the last of the asparagus in the other with the Princess of Montevideo, tastefully disguised as an umbrella-stand, we were treated to the thrill of the evening. It seemed as if suddenly there sprang up all round the room a mass of mysterious figures clothed from head to foot in black. The dear Princess grew quite hysterical, and began to wonder if it was a ‘hold up’ as she so graphically described it. In fact, for safety, she secreted the glass-headed parasol—the only remaining heirloom of the Royal House—and which formed a prominent part of her costume, behind a neighbouring palm. Whispers of the mysterious Black Gang were heard on all sides, but we were soon reassured. Belovedst, they all carried champagne bottles! Wasn’t it too, too thrilling!! And after a while they all formed up in a row, and at a word from the leader—a huge man, my dears, puffectly ’uge—they discharged the corks in a volley at one of the boxes, which sheltered no less than two celebrities—Sir Bryan Johnstone, the chief of all the policemen, and Sir John Haverton, the Home Secretary. It is rumoured that one of the corks became embedded in Sir John’s right eye—but rumour is a lying jade, is not she? Anyway loud sounds of revelry and mirth were heard proceeding from the box, and going a little later to powder my nose I distinctly saw Sir John being taught the intricacies of the fox-trot by the huge man in the passage. Presumably the cork had by then been removed from his eye, but one never knows, does one? Anything can happen at an Albert Hall ball, especially at the end of the season.”

  THE THIRD ROUND (1923) [Part 1]

  CHAPTER I

  In Which the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate Holds Converse with Mr Edward Blackton

  With a sigh of pleasure Mr Edward Blackton opened the windows of his balcony and leaned out, staring over the lake. Opposite, the mountains of Savoy rose steeply from the water; away to the left the Dent du Midi raised its crown of snow above the morning haze.

  Below him the waters of the lake glittered and scintillated with a thousand fires. A steamer, with much blowing of sirens and reversing of paddle-wheels, had come to rest at a landing-stage hard by, and was taking on board a bevy of tourists, while the gul
ls circled round shrieking discordantly. For a while he watched them idly, noting the quickness with which the birds swooped and caught the bread as it was thrown into the air, long before it reached the water.

  He noted also how nearly all the food was secured by half a dozen of the gulls, whilst the others said a lot but got nothing. And suddenly Mr Edward Blackton smiled.

  “Like life, my dear,” he said, slipping his arm round the waist of a girl who had just joined him at the window. “It’s the fool who shouts in this world: the wise man says nothing and acts.”

  The girl lit a cigarette thoughtfully, and sat down on the ledge of the balcony. For a while her eyes followed the steamer puffing fussily away with its load of sightseers and its attendant retinue of gulls: then she looked at the man standing beside her. Point by point she took him in: the clear blue eyes under the deep forehead, the aquiline nose, the firm mouth and chin. Calmly, dispassionately she noted the thick brown hair greying a little over the temples, the great depth of chest, and the strong, powerful hands: then she turned and looked once again at the disappearing steamer. But to the man’s surprise she gave a little sigh.

  “What is it, my dear?” he said solicitously. “Bored?”

  “No, not bored,” she answered. “Whatever may be your failings, mon ami, boring me is not one of them. I was just wondering what it would feel like if you and I were content to go on a paddle-wheel steamer with a Baedeker and a Kodak, and a paper bag full of bananas.”

  “We will try tomorrow,” said the man, gravely lighting a cigar.

  “It wouldn’t be any good,” laughed the girl. “Just once in a way we should probably love it. I meant I wonder what it would feel like if that was our life.”

  Her companion nodded.

  “I know, carissima,” he answered gently. “I have sometimes wondered the same thing. I suppose there must be compensations in respectability, otherwise so many people wouldn’t be respectable. But I’m afraid it is one of those things that we shall never know.”

  “I think it’s that,” said the girl, waving her hand towards the mountains opposite—”that has caused my mood. It’s all so perfectly lovely: the sky is just so wonderfully blue. And look at that sailing boat.”

  She pointed to one of the big lake barges, with its two huge lateen sails, creeping gently along in the centre of the lake. “It’s all so peaceful, and sometimes one wants peace.”

  “True,” agreed the man; “one does. It’s just reaction, and we’ve been busy lately.”

  He rose and began to pace slowly up and down the balcony. “To be quite honest, I myself have once or twice thought recently that if I could pull off some really big coup—something, I mean, that ran into the millions—I would give things up.”

  The girl smiled and shook her head.

  “Don’t misunderstand me, my dear,” he went on. “I do not suggest for a moment that we should settle down to a life of toping and ease. We could neither of us exist without employing our brains. But with really big money behind one, we should be in a position to employ our brains a little more legitimately, shall I say, than we are able to at present, and still get all the excitement we require.

  “Take Drakshoff: that man controls three of the principal Governments of Europe. The general public don’t know it; the Governments themselves won’t admit it: but it’s true for all that. As you know, that little job I carried out for him in Germany averted a second revolution. He didn’t want one at the time; and so he called me in. And it cost him in all five million pounds. What was that to him?” He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. “A mere flea-bite—a bagatelle. Why, with that man an odd million or two one way or the other wouldn’t be noticed in his pass-book.”

  He paused and stared over the sunlit lake, while the girl watched him in silence.

  “Given money as big as that, and a man can rule the world. Moreover, he can rule it without fear of consequences. He can have all the excitement he requires; he can wield all the power he desires—and have special posses of police to guard him. I’m afraid we don’t have many to guard us.”

  The girl laughed and lit another cigarette. “You are right, mon ami, we do not. Hullo! who can that be?” Inside the sitting-room the telephone bell was ringing, and with a slight frown Mr Edward Blackton took off the receiver.

  “What is it?” From the other end came the voice of the manager, suitably deferential as befitted a client of such obvious wealth installed in the most palatial suite of the Palace Hotel.

  “Two gentlemen are here, Mr Blackton,” said the manager, “who wish to know when they can have the pleasure of seeing you. Their names are Sir Raymond Blantyre and Mr Jabez Leibhaus. They arrived this morning from England by the Simplon Orient express, and they say that their business is most urgent.”

  A sudden gleam had come into Mr Blackton’s eyes as he listened, but his voice as he answered was almost bored.

  “I shall be pleased to see both gentlemen at eleven o’clock up here. Kindly have champagne and sandwiches sent to my sitting room at that hour.”

  He replaced the receiver, and stood for a moment thinking deeply.

  “Who was it?” called the girl from the balcony.

  “Blantyre and Leibhaus, my dear,” answered the man. “Now, what the deuce can they want with me so urgently?”

  “Aren’t they both big diamond men?” said the girl, coming into the room.

  “They are,” said Blackton. “In romantic fiction they would be described as two diamond kings. Anyway, it won’t do them any harm to wait for half an hour.”

  “How did they find out your address? I thought you had left strict instructions that you were not to be disturbed.”

  There was regret in the girl’s voice, and with a faint smile the man tilted back her head and kissed her.

  “In our profession, cara mia,” he said gently, “there are times when the strictest instructions have to be disobeyed. Freyder would never have dreamed of worrying me over a little thing, but unless I am much mistaken this isn’t going to be little. It’s going to be big: those two below don’t go chasing half across Europe because they’ve mislaid a collar stud. Why—who knows?—it might prove to be the big coup we were discussing a few minutes ago.”

  He kissed her again; then he turned abruptly away and the girl gave a little sigh. For the look had come into those grey-blue eyes that she knew so well: the alert, keen look which meant business.

  He crossed the room, and unlocked a heavy leather dispatch-case. From it he took out a biggish book which he laid on the table. Then, having made himself comfortable on the balcony, he lit another cigar, and began to turn over the pages.

  It was of the loose-leaf variety, and every page had entries on it in Blackton’s small, neat hand-writing. It was what he called his “Who’s Who”, but it differed from that excellent production in one marked respect. The people in Mr Edward Blackton’s production had not compiled their own notices, which rendered it considerably more truthful even if less complimentary than the orthodox volume.

  It was arranged alphabetically, and it contained an astounding wealth of information. In fact in his lighter moments the author was wont to say that when he retired from active life he would publish it, and die in luxury on the large sums paid him to suppress it. Mentioned in it were the names of practically every man and woman possessed of real wealth—as Blackton regarded wealth—in Europe and America.

  There were, of course, many omissions, but in the course of years an extraordinary amount of strange and useful information had been collected. In many cases just the bare details of the person were given: these were the uninteresting ones, and consisted of people who passed the test as far as money was concerned but about whom the author had no personal knowledge.

  In others, however, the entries were far more human. After the name would be recorded certain details, frequently of a most scurrilous description. And these details had one object and one object only—to assist at the proper time and place in parti
ng the victim from his money.

  Not that Mr Edward Blackton was a common blackmailer—far from it. Blackmailing pure and simple was a form of amusement which revolted his feelings as an artist. But to make use of certain privately gained information about a man when dealing with him was a different matter altogether.

  It was a great assistance in estimating character when meeting a man for the first time to know that his previous wife had divorced him for carrying on with the housemaid, and that he had then failed to marry the housemaid. Nothing of blackmail in that: just a pointer as to character.

  In the immense ramifications of Mr Blackton’s activities it was of course impossible for him to keep all these details in his head. And so little by little the book had grown until it now comprised over three hundred pages. Information obtained first-hand or from absolutely certain sources was entered in red; items not quite so reliable in black. And under Sir Raymond Blantyre’s name the entry was in red.

  “Blantyre, Raymond. Born 1858. Vice-President Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate. Married daughter of John Perkins, wool merchant in London. Knighted 1904. Something shady about him in South Africa—probably I.D.B. Races a lot. Wife a snob. Living up to the limit of his income. 5.13.”

  Mr Blackton laid the book on his knee and looked thoughtfully over the lake. The last three figures showed that the entry had been made in May 1913, and if he was living up to the limit of his income then, he must have had to retrench considerably now. And wives who are snobs dislike that particularly.

  He picked up the book again and turned up the dossier of his other visitor, to find nothing of interest. Mr Leibhaus had only bare details after his name, with the solitary piece of information that he, too, was a Vice-President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate.

  He closed the book and relocked it in the dispatch-case; then he glanced at his watch.

  “I think, my dear,” he said, turning to the girl, “that our interview had better be apparently private. Could you make yourself comfortable in your bedroom, so that you will be able to hear everything and give me your opinion afterwards?” He opened the door for her and she passed through. “I confess,” he continued, “that I’m a little puzzled. I cannot think what they want to see me about so urgently.”