The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  There was a moment’s tense silence, and then Sir Raymond spoke.

  “I don’t understand you, Mr Lewisham,” he said coldly. “It is quite impossible for you to back out of it now, without betraying us all. And anyway, I would be greatly obliged if you would lower your voice.”

  With a great effort Mr Lewisham controlled himself. “Can’t we think of some other method, gentlemen?” he said. “This seems so horribly cold-blooded.”

  “What other possible method is there?” snarled Leibhaus. “We’ve tried everything.”

  The telephone in front of Sir Raymond rang suddenly and everyone started. It showed the condition of their nerves, and for an appreciable time the President tried to steady his hand before he picked up the receiver. And when after a few seconds he laid it down again he moistened his lips with his tongue, before he trusted himself to speak.

  “Mr Blackton will be with us in a quarter of an hour, gentlemen,” he remarked, and his voice was shaking a little. “I have no idea what he wants, and I am somewhat surprised at his coming here, since I laid especial stress on the fact that we were not to be implicated in any way with his—er—visit to England.”

  He gave a brief order through a speaking-tube; then he rose and walked wearily up and down the room. The prospect of meeting Blackton again was not at all to his taste, though his dislike was not in any way due to a belated access of better feeling and remorse. It was due to the fact that Blackton as a man thoroughly frightened him, and as he paced up and down glancing at his watch every half-minute or so he felt exactly as he had felt in years long gone by when he had been told that the headmaster was awaiting him in his study. It was useless to try to bolster up his courage by reflecting that Blackton was, after all, merely the paid servant of his syndicate.

  He knew perfectly well that Blackton was nothing of the sort, any more than a doctor can be regarded as the paid servant of his patient. The situation in brief was that Mr Blackton for a suitable fee had agreed to assist them professionally, and any other interpretation of the position would be exceedingly unwise.

  He started nervously as he heard the sound of voices on the stairs, but it was with a very creditable imitation of being at ease that he went forward as the door opened and Mr Blackton was shown in. He had discarded the disguise he had worn in the train, and appeared as he had done at their first meeting in Switzerland.

  He nodded briefly to Sir Raymond; then coming a few steps into the room, he favoured each man present with a penetrating stare.

  Then he laid his gloves on the table and sat down.

  “On receiving your message, I was not quite sure in which guise we were to expect you,” said Sir Raymond, breaking the silence.

  “The absurd passport regulations,” said Mr Blackton suavely, “necessitate one’s altering one’s appearance at times. However, to get to business. You are doubtless wondering at my action in coming round to see you. I may say that I had no intention of so doing until this morning. I have been in London for two days, and my plans were complete—when a sudden and most unexpected hitch occurred.”

  He paused and fixed his eyes on Sir Raymond. “How many people are there who know of this discovery of Professor Goodman’s?”

  “His family and our syndicate,” answered the President.

  “No one else in the diamond world except the gentlemen in this room knows anything about it?”

  “No one,” cried Sir Raymond. “We have most sedulously kept it dark. I feel sure I may speak for my friends.”

  He glanced round the room and there was a murmur of assent.

  “Then I am forced to the conclusion,” continued Mr Blackton, “that the writer of an anonymous letter received by the Professor this morning is amongst us at the moment.”

  His eyes travelled slowly round the faces of his audience, to stop and fasten on Mr Lewisham, whose tell-tale start had given him away.

  “I am informed,” went on Mr Blackton—”and my informant, who was cleaning the windows amongst other things at the Professor’s house, is a very reliable man—I am informed, I say, that this morning the Professor received a letter stating that unless he accepted the money you had offered him, he would be killed. Now, who can have been so incredibly foolish as to send that letter?” Mr Lewisham fidgeted in his chair, until at length everyone in the room, noting the direction of Blackton’s glance, was staring at him.

  “Was it you, Lewisham?” snapped Leibhaus.

  Mr Lewisham swallowed once or twice; then he stood up, clutching the edge of the table. “Yes—it was,” he said defiantly. “It seemed to me that we ought to neglect no possible chance of getting him to agree to our terms. I typed it, and posted it myself last night.”

  Smothered curses came from all sides; only Mr Blackton seemed unmoved. “You have realised, of course, what will happen should Professor Goodman take that letter to the police,” he remarked quietly. “The fact that it was your syndicate that offered him the money will make it a little unpleasant for you all.”

  But behind the impassive mask of his face Mr Blackton’s brain was busy. The thing—the only thing—with which even the most perfectly laid schemes were unable to cope had happened here. And that thing was having a chicken-hearted confederate, or, worse still, one who became suddenly smitten with conscience. Against such a person nothing could be done. He introduced an incalculable factor into any situation with which even a master craftsman was unable to deal.

  Not that he had the remotest intention of giving up the scheme—that was not Mr Blackton’s way at all. A further priceless idea had come to him since the interview at Montreux, which would render this coup even more wonderful than he had at first thought. Not only would he amass a large store of diamonds himself, but after that had been done and any further necessity for the continued existence of Professor Goodman had ceased, he would still have the secret of the process in his possession. And this secret he proposed to sell for a price considerably in excess of the two hundred and fifty thousand pounds offered to its original discoverer. After which he would decide what to do with the copy he had kept.

  In fact Mr Blackton fully realised that, in the hands of a master expert like himself, the affair presented promises of such boundless wealth that at times it almost staggered even him. And now, at the last moment, this new factor had been introduced into the situation which might possibly jeopardise his whole carefully thought-out scheme. And the problem was to turn it to the best advantage.

  “I don’t care,” Mr Lewisham was saying obstinately to the little group of men who were standing round him. “I don’t care if that letter of mine does stop it all. I’d sooner be ruined than go through the rest of my life feeling that I was a murderer.”

  “Mr Lewisham seems a little excited,” said Blackton suavely. “Who, may I ask, has said anything about murder?” They fell silent, and stared at him.

  “When Sir Raymond Blantyre came to me in Montreux, his request to me was to prevent the publication of this secret process of Professor Goodman’s. I stated that I would. I stated that the Professor would not give his lecture before the Royal Society. I believe that the word ‘murder’ occurred in the conversation”—he gave a somewhat pained smile—”but do you really imagine, gentlemen, that my methods are as crude as that?” He carefully lit a cigar, while his audience waited breathlessly for him to continue.

  “Since I find, however, that this gentleman has been so incredibly foolish and has lost his head so pitiably, I regret to state that in all probability I shall have to wash my hands of the entire business.”

  Cries of anger and dismay greeted this announcement, though the anger was entirely directed against the author of the letter.

  “But, really—” stammered Mr Lewisham, plucking nervously at his collar.

  “You have behaved like an hysterical schoolgirl, sir,” snapped Blackton. “You have jeopardised the success of my entire plan, and apart altogether from the sending of this letter you have shown yourself to be totally unfitte
d to be mixed up in an affair of this description. Even if the police did treat it as a stupid hoax—even, in fact, if we were able to prevent the letter being shown to the police at all—you are still totally unfit to be trusted. You would probably proclaim your sin through a megaphone in Trafalgar Square, taking special care to incriminate all these other gentlemen. And so I think, since you have decided to act on your own initiative in this way, you had better undertake the affair yourself.”

  He rose as if to leave, only to be, at once, surrounded by the other members of the syndicate, imploring him, to reconsider his decision. And at length Mr Blackton allowed himself to be persuaded to resume his chair. His indifference was sublime; to all outward intents and purposes he was utterly bored with the whole proceedings.

  “Really, Mr Blackton—I implore of you, we all implore of you, not to desert us like this.”

  Sir Raymond’s eyeglass was dreadfully agitated. “Can nothing be done to counteract Mr Lewisham’s inconceivable stupidity?” Mr Blackton affected to consider the point. Not for him to say that he had already decided exactly what was going to be done; not for him to say that the sole object of his recent remarks had been to produce the exact atmosphere that now existed—an atmosphere of combined antagonism to Lewisham, and an uncomfortable feeling on the part of that unfortunate man that he really had made a fool of himself. And certainly not for him to say what he had decided was a meet and fit punishment for Mr Lewisham.

  He shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “Since Mr Lewisham has caused all this trouble,” he said carelessly, “it is up to Mr Lewisham to endeavour to rectify it.”

  A chorus of approval greeted the remark, and Lewisham leaned forward a little in his chair.

  “I suggest therefore that this afternoon he should pay a visit to Professor Goodman, and find out what has happened to his letter. Should it have been handed over to the police, he must endeavour to convince the Professor that it was a stupid practical joke on his part, and persuade the Professor to ring up Scotland Yard and explain things. There will be no need for Mr Lewisham’s name to be mentioned, if he handles the Professor tactfully. On the other hand, if the note has not been handed over to the police, Mr Lewisham must endeavour to regain possession of it. And according to Mr Lewisham’s report, I will decide whether I can continue in this matter or not.”

  “That is tantamount to an avowal that the letter was sent by a member of our syndicate,” said Sir Raymond doubtfully. “You don’t think that perhaps it might be advisable to say that he had just discovered that some clerk had played a foolish practical Joke?”

  “The point seems really immaterial,” returned Mr Blackton indifferently. “But if Mr Lewisham prefers to say that, by all means let him do so.”

  “You will go, of course, Lewisham,” said Sir Raymond, and the other nodded.

  “I will go and see what I can do,” he answered. “And I can take it from you, Mr Blackton, that there will be no question of—of killing Professor Goodman?” For a brief moment there came into Mr Blackton’s grey-blue eyes a faint gleam as if some delicate inward jest was tickling his sense of humour.

  “You may take it from me,” he answered gravely, “that nothing so unpleasant is likely to happen to Professor Goodman.”

  Mr Lewisham gave a sigh of relief. “What time shall I go?” he asked.

  Mr Blackton paused in the act of drawing on his gloves.

  “The Professor, I am told,” he remarked, “has an appointment at three o’clock this afternoon. I would suggest therefore that you should call about two-thirty.”

  “And where shall I communicate with you?”

  “You can leave that entirely to me, Mr Lewisham,” murmured the other, with an almost benevolent smile. “I will take all the necessary steps to get in touch with you. Well, gentlemen”—he turned to the others—”that is all, I think, for the present. I will report further in due course. By the way, Mr Lewisham, I wouldn’t give your name to the servant, if I were you.”

  With a slight bow he opened the door and passed down the stairs. He paused as he reached the crowded pavement and spoke two words to a man who was staring into a shop-window; then he deliberated whether he should call a taxi, and decided to walk. And as he strolled along—slowly, so as not to destroy the aroma of his cigar, his reflections were eminently satisfactory. If the police had not received the note, he was in clover; if they had, a little care would be necessary. But in either case the one detail which had previously been, if not lacking, at any rate not entirely satisfactory was now supplied. It gratified his intellect; it pleased his artistic sense. Just as the sudden and unexpected acquisition of a tube of some rare pigment completes a painter’s joy, so this one detail completed Mr Blackton’s. That it consisted of a singularly cold blooded murder is beside the point: all artists are a little peculiar.

  And if fool men write fool letters, they must expect to suffer small annoyances of that sort. After all, reflected Mr Blackton with commendable thoughtfulness, the world would endure Mr Lewisham’s departure with almost callous fortitude.

  He realised suddenly that he had reached his destination, and throwing away his cigar he produced his latchkey and entered the house. It was situated in one of those quiet squares which lie, like placid backwaters, off the seething rivers of London. And its chief point of interest lay in the fact that it formed the invariable pied-a-terre of Mr Blackton when visiting England in whatever character he might at the moment be assuming. It appeared in the telephone book as belonging to William Anderson, a gentleman who spent much of his time a broad. And it was to William Anderson that the Inland Revenue were wont yearly to address their friendly reminders as to the duties of British citizens. Ever mindful of those duties, Mr Anderson had declared his income at nineteen hundred and fifty pounds per annum, and had opened a special account at a branch bank to cope with the situation. He drew the line at admitting his liability to super-tax; but after mature reflection he decided that his method of life rendered it advisable to state that his income was unearned.

  He placed his gloves and stick on the table in the hall, and slowly ascended the stairs. A few little details still required polishing up in connection with his afternoon’s work, and he was still deep in thought as he entered a room on the first landing.

  A man was seated at a desk, who rose as he entered—a man whose face was well-nigh as inscrutable as his chief’s. He was Mr Blackton’s confidential secretary, Freyder, a man with a salary of ten thousand a year plus commission. He was as completely unscrupulous as his employer, but he lacked the wonderful organising brain of the other. Given a certain specific job to do, he could carry it out to perfection; and for making arrangements in detail he was unrivalled. Which made him an ideal staff officer—a fact which the other had very soon recognised. And because Edward Blackton, like all big men, was not such a fool as to underpay an almost invaluable subordinate, he took care that Freyder’s salary would be such that he would have no temptation to go. For it he demanded implicit obedience, no mistakes, and at times twenty-four hours’ work out of twenty-four.

  “What did you find out, Chief?” he asked curiously.

  “It was sent by one of them, as I suspected,” answered Blackton, seating himself at his desk. “A stupid little man called Lewisham, who appears to have lost his head completely. However, on my assuring him that I had no intention of killing the excellent Goodman, he agreed to go round this afternoon and talk to the Professor about the matter.”

  “Go round this afternoon?” echoed Freyder, surprised. “What do you want him there for, this afternoon?” Blackton smiled gently. “He happens to be about the same size as our worthy Professor,” he murmured, “so it struck me he would come in very handy. By the way, make a note, will you, to obtain a specimen of his writing and signature. Find out if he’s married, and, if so, draft a letter to his wife from him saying that he’s gone to Valparaiso for the good of his health. Have it sent out to Number 13, and posted there.”

  He stared
thoughtfully out of the window, and Freyder waited for any further instructions. “Anything more to be settled about the house?”

  “Everything fixed, Chief; It’s ready to move straight into this afternoon.” The telephone bell rang on Freyder’s table. “Good,” he remarked a few moments later, replacing the receiver. “Number 10 reports that he followed Goodman to St James’s Square; that he is now having lunch at the Junior Sports Club, and that he has not communicated verbally with the police.”

  “And since the letter was in his pocket when he left his house, presumably he has not communicated in writing. He must be a frivolous old man, Freyder, to lunch at such a club. Anyway, I trust he will have a substantial meal, as I’m afraid his constitution may be tried a little during the next few hours.”

  He glanced at his watch. “The box and the men are ready?”

  “Loaded upon the car at the garage.”

  “Excellent. Then I think a pint of champagne and a little caviare—and after that I must get to work. And we will drink a silent toast to the worthy Mr Lewisham for his kindly forethought in being much the same size as the Professor, and wish him bon voyage to—what did I say?—oh! yes, Valparaiso.”

  “I don’t quite get Mr Lewisham’s part in this show, Chief,” remarked Freyder.

  Mr Blackton positively chuckled. “No more does he, my good Freyder—no more does he. But I can positively assure you of one thing—he is not going to Valparaiso.”

  And he was still chuckling ten minutes later when he rose and passed into an inner room at the back. It was a strange place—this inner sanctum of Mr Edward Blackton. The window was extra large, and was made of frosted glass which effectually prevented any inquisitive neighbour from seeing in. Around the walls full length mirrors set at different angles enabled him to see himself from every position—an indispensable adjunct to making up on the scale he found necessary. A huge cupboard filled one wall of the room, a cupboard crammed with clothes and boots of all sorts and descriptions; whilst on a shelf at the top, each in its separate pigeon-hole, were half a dozen wigs. But the real interest of the room lay in the small dressing-table which he proceeded to unlock.