The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

“My dear old thing, I must,” answered Hugh. “You’ve seen the Professor’s distinct instructions that jolly old Tootem & Tootem are to have ’em. I can’t go against that. What the legal wallah does with them afterwards is nothing to do with me. Still, I wish I could feel more certain in my own mind. You see, the devil of it is, Algy, that even if that bloke is a stumer, our hands are tied. There are old Goodman’s instructions, and the only thing I can do is to throw the responsibility on the lawyer’s shoulders.”

  He paced thoughtfully up and down the room, to stop suddenly and pick up his hat. “It’s worth trying,” he remarked half to himself, and the next moment Algy was alone. From the window he saw Hugh hail a taxi and disappear, and with a shrug of his shoulders he resumed his study of Ruff’s Guide. At times the vagaries of his host were apt to be a little wearing.

  And when some four hours later Hugh returned just in time for dinner, it certainly seemed as if he’d wasted his time.

  “I’ve been watching Mr Atkinson’s house, Algy,” he said despondently, “you know the one I spotted after the inquest, where Scheidstrun is living. Went to ground in a house opposite. Said I was a doctor looking for rooms. Thank heavens! the servant developed no symptoms requiring medical attention, because all I could have conscientiously recommended for anybody with a face like hers was a lethal chamber. However, as I say, I took cover in the parlour behind a bowl of stuffed fruit, and there I waited. Devil a thing for hours. Atkinson’s house was evidently occupied; in fact, I saw him look out of the window once. A benevolent-looking old chap with mutton-chop whiskers. However, I stuck it out, and at last, just as I was on the point of giving it up, something did happen, though not much. A closed car drove up, and from it there descended old Scheidstrun, a youngish man, and an elderly woman. Couldn’t see her very well—but she looked a typical Boche. Probably his wife, I should think.”

  He relapsed into silence and lit a cigarette. “An afternoon wasted,” he grunted after a while. “I’m fed up with the whole dam’ show, Algy. Why the devil didn’t I give him the notes and be done with it when he was here? As it is, I’ve got to waste tomorrow morning as well fooling round in the city; and with the funeral in the afternoon the old brain will cease to function. Mix me a cocktail, like a good fellow. Everything is in the cupboard.”

  And thus it came about that while two cocktails were being lowered in gloomy silence in Brook Street, a cheerful-looking old gentleman with mutton-chop whiskers entered his quiet residential hotel in Bayswater. There were no signs of gloomy silence about the old gentleman; in fact, he was almost chatty with the lounge waiter.

  “I think—yes, I think,” he remarked, “that I will have a small cocktail. Not a thing I often do—but this evening I will indulge.”

  “Spotted a winner, sir?” said the waiter, responding to the old gentleman’s mood.

  “Something of that sort, my lad,” he replied genially—”something of that sort.”

  And Mr William Robinson’s smile was enigmatic.

  He seldom remembered an afternoon when in a quiet way he had enjoyed himself so much. In fact, he was almost glad that Drummond had refused to hand over the notes: it would have been so inartistic—so crude. Of course it would have saved bother, but where is the true artist who thinks of that? And he had never really imagined that Drummond would; he knew that young gentleman far too well for that. Naturally he was suspicious: well, he would be more suspicious tomorrow morning. He would be so suspicious, in fact, that in all probability the worthy Mr Tootem would get the shock of his life. He chuckled consumedly, and departed so far from his established custom as to order a second Martini. And as he lifted it to his lips he drank a silent toast: he drank to the shrewd powers of observation of a beautiful girl who was even then watching orange change to pink on the snow-capped Dent du Midi from the balcony of her room in the Palace Hotel.

  And so it is unnecessary to emphasise the fact that there were wheels destined to rotate within wheels in the comfortable room in Austin Friars where Mr Tootem senior discharged his affairs, though that pillar of the legal profession was supremely unaware of the fact. With his usual courtly grace he had risen to greet the eminent German savant Professor Scheidstrun, who had arrived at about ten minutes to eleven on the following morning. Somewhat to Mr Tootem’s surprise, the Professor had been accompanied by his wife, and Frau Scheidstrun was now waiting in the next room for the business to be concluded.

  “Most sad, Professor,” murmured Mr Tootem. “An irreparable loss, as you say, to the scientific world—and to his friends.” He glanced at the clock. “This young man—Captain Drummond—will be here, you say, at eleven.”

  “That is the arrangement that I haf with him made,” answered the German. “He would not to me quite rightly the notes hand over yesterday; but as you see from the letter, it was my dear friend’s wish that I should haf them, and carry on with the great discovery he has made.”

  “Quite so,” murmured Mr Tootem benevolently, wishing profoundly that Drummond would hasten his arrival. The morning, was warm; the Professor’s egg-stained garments scandalised his British soul to the core; and in addition, Mr Tootem senior had arrived at that ripe age when office hours were made to be relaxed. He particularly wished to be at Lord’s in time to see Middlesex open their innings against Yorkshire, and only the fact that Professor Goodman had been a personal friend of his had brought him to the city at all that day.

  At length with a sigh of relief he looked up. Sounds of voices outside betokened someone’s arrival, and the business would be a short one.

  “Is this the young man?” he said, rubbing his hands together.

  But the Professor made no reply: he was watching the door which opened at that moment to admit Drummond. And since Mr Tootem rose at once to greet him, the fact that he had not answered escaped the lawyer’s attention. He also failed to notice that an unaccountable expression of uneasiness showed for a moment on the German’s face, as he contemplated Drummond’s vast bulk.

  “Ah! Captain Drummond, I’m glad you’ve come,” remarked Mr Tootem. “Let me see—you know Professor Scheidstrun, don’t you?” He waved Drummond to a chair.

  “Yes, we had a little pow-wow yesterday afternoon,” said Drummond, seating himself.

  The strained look had vanished from the Professor’s face: he beamed cheerfully. “In which I found him most suspicious,” he said in his guttural voice. “But quite rightly so.”

  “Exactly,” murmured Mr Tootem, again glancing at the clock. It would take him at least twenty minutes to get to Lord’s. “But I am sure he will not be suspicious of me. And since I have one or two important—er—business engagements, perhaps we can conduct this little matter through expeditiously.”

  He beamed benevolently on Drummond, who was leaning back in his chair regarding the Professor through half-closed lids. “Now, I understand that my dear friend and client, the late Professor Goodman, handed over to you some very valuable papers, Captain Drummond,” continued Mr Tootem. “A great compliment, I may say, showing what faith he placed in your judgment and trustworthiness. I have here—and I gather you have seen this letter—instructions that those papers should be handed over to me. You have them with you, I trust?”

  “Oh! yes. I’ve got them with me,” said Drummond quietly, though his eyes never left the German’s face.

  “Excellent,” murmured Mr Tootem. At a pinch he might do Lord’s in a quarter of an hour. “Then if you would kindly let me have them, that will—ah—conclude the matter. I may say that I quite appreciate your reluctance to hand them to anyone but me…”

  The worthy lawyer broke off abruptly. “Good heavens! Captain Drummond, what is the matter?” For Drummond had risen from his chair, and was standing in front of the Professor. “You’re not the man who came to see me yesterday,” he said quietly. “You’re not Professor Scheidstrun at all.”

  “But the man is mad,” gasped the German. “You say I am not Scheidstrun—me.”

  “You’re made
up to look exactly like him—but you’re not Scheidstrun! I tell you, Mr. Tootem”—he turned to the lawyer, who was staring at him aghast—”that that man is no more Scheidstrun than I am. The disguise is wonderful—but his hair is a slightly different colour. Ever since I came in I’ve been wondering what it was.”

  “This young man is mad,” said the German angrily. “The reason that it is a slightly different colour is that I wear a wig. I haf two: this morning I wear the other one to what I wear yesterday.”

  But Drummond wasn’t even listening. Like a bird fascinated by a snake he was staring at the Professor’s left hand, beating an agitated tattoo on his knee. For a moment or two he was dazed, as the stupendous reality burst on his mind. Before him sat Carl Peterson himself, given away once again by that old trick which he could never get rid of, that ceaseless nervous movement of the left hand. It was incredible; the suddenness of the thing took his breath away. And then the whole thing became clear to him. Somehow or other Peterson had heard of the discovery; perhaps employed by Sir Raymond Blantyre himself. He had found out that the notes of the process were to be handed to Scheidstrun, and with his usual consummate daring had decided to impersonate the German. And the woman he had seen arriving the night before was Irma.

  His thoughts were chaotic: only the one great thing stuck out. The man in front of him was Peterson: he knew it. And with one wild hoot of utter joy he leapt upon him.

  “My little Carl,” he murmured ecstatically, “the pitcher has come to the well once too often.”

  Possibly it had; but the scene which followed beggared description. Peterson or not Peterson, his confession as to wearing a wig was the truth. It came off with a slight sucking noise, revealing a domelike cranium completely devoid of hair. With a wild yell of terror the unfortunate German sprang from his chair, and darted behind the portly form of Mr Tootem, while Drummond, brandishing the wig, advanced on him.

  “Damn it, sir,” spluttered Mr Tootem, “I’ll send for the police, sir; you must be mad.”

  “Out of the way, Tootles,” said Drummond happily. “You’ll scream with laughter when I tell you the truth. Though we’d best make certain the swab hasn’t got a gun.”

  With a quick heave he jerked the cowering man out from behind the lawyer, who immediately rushed to the door shouting for help.

  “A madman,” he bellowed to his amazed staff. “Send for a keeper, and a straight-jacket.”

  He turned round, for a sudden silence had settled on the room behind. Drummond was standing motionless gripping both the Professor’s arms, with a look of amazement slowly dawning on his face. Surely he couldn’t be mistaken, and yet—unless Peterson had suffered from some wasting disease—what on earth had happened to the man? The arms he felt under the coat-sleeve were thin as match-sticks, whereas Peterson as he remembered of old was almost as strong as he was.

  He stared at Professor Scheidstrun’s face. Yes—surely that nose was too good to be true. He pulled it thoughtfully and methodically—first this way then that—while the unhappy victim screamed with agony, and the junior clerk upset the ink in his excitement at the untoward spectacle.

  It was real right enough—that nose. At least nothing had come off so far, and a little dazedly Drummond backed away, still staring at him. Surely he hadn’t made a mistake: the gesture—that movement of the left hand had been quite unmistakable. And the next instant a terrific blow on the right ear turned his attention to other things.

  He swung round to find a monumental woman regarding him with the light of battle in her eyes.

  “How dare you,” she boomed, “the nose of my Heinrich pull?” With great agility Drummond dodged a heavy second to the jaw, and it was now his turn to flee for safety. And it took a bit of doing.

  The lady was out for blood, as a heavy volume on the intricacies of Real Estate which missed Drummond’s head by half an inch and broke a flower-vase clearly proved.

  “He seize my wig; he try to pull off my nose,” wailed the Professor, as Mr Tootem, junior, attracted by the din, rushed in. “And if I the coward catch,” bellowed his spouse, picking up a companion volume on Probate and Divorce, “I will not try—I will succeed with this.”

  “Three to one on the filly,” murmured young Tootem gracelessly, as with a heavy crash Probate and Divorce shot through the window.

  But mercifully for all concerned, especially the reputation of Tootem, Price & Tootem, it proved to be the lady’s dying gasp.

  Completely exhausted she sank into a chair, and Drummond cautiously emerged from behind a table. He was feeling a little faint himself; the need for alcohol was pressing. One thing even to his whirling brain was beyond dispute. Impossible though it was that Peterson should have shrunk, it was even more impossible that Irma should have swollen. By no conceivable art of disguise could that beautiful and graceful girl have turned herself into the human monstrosity who was now regarding him balefully from her chair.

  Her arms were twice the size of his own, and unless Irma had developed elephantiasis the thing simply could not be. Of course she might have covered herself with india-rubber and blown herself out in some way; he didn’t put anything beyond Peterson. But the thought of pricking her with a pin to make sure was beyond even his nerve. It was too early in the day to ask any woman to burst with a slow whistling noise. And if she was real… He trembled violently at the mere thought of what would happen.

  No; incredible though it was, he had made a ghastly mistake. Moreover, the next move was clearly with him. “I’m afraid I’ve made a bloomer,” he murmured, mopping his forehead. “What about a small spot all round, and—er—I’ll try to explain.”

  It cannot be said that he found the process of explaining an easy one. The lady in particular, having got her second wind, seemed only too ready to cut the cackle and get down to it again; and, as Drummond had to admit even to himself, the explanation sounded a bit lame. To assault unmercifully an elderly German savant in a lawyer’s office merely because he was drumming with his left hand on his knee was, as Mr Tootem junior put it, a shade over the odds.

  And his excuse for so doing—his description of the inconceivable villainies of Carl Peterson in the past—was received coldly.

  In fact Hugh Drummond proceeded to spend an extremely unpleasant twenty minutes, which might have been considerably prolonged but for Mr Tootem senior remembering that the umpires were just about coming out at Lord’s.

  He rose from his chair pontifically.

  “I think we must assume,” he remarked, “that this misguided young man was actuated by worthy motives, even though his actions left much to be desired. His keenness to safeguard the valuable notes of my late lamented client no doubt inspired his amazing outburst. And since he has apologised so profusely to you, Professor—and also, my dear Madam, to you—I would suggest that you might see your way to accepting that apology, and that we might terminate the interview. I have no doubt that now that Captain Drummond has satisfied himself so—ah—practically that you are not—I forget his friend’s name—will have no hesitation in handing over the notes to me. Should he still refuse, I shall, of course, have no other alternative but to send for the police which would cause a most unpleasant contretemps for all concerned. Especially on the very day of the—er—funeral.”

  Drummond fumbled in his pocket. “I’ll hand ’em over right enough,” he remarked wearily. “I wish I’d never seen the blamed things.”

  He passed the sheets of paper across the desk to Mr Tootem. “If I don’t get outside a pint of beer soon,” he continued, reaching for his hat, “there will be a double event in the funeral line.”

  Once again he apologised profusely to the German, and staggered slightly in his tracks as he gazed at the lady. Then blindly he made his way to the door, and twenty minutes later he entered his house a comparatively broken man. Even Algy awoke from his lethargy and gazed at him appalled.

  “You mean to say you pulled the old bean’s nose?” he gasped.

  “This w
ay and that,” sighed Hugh. “And very, very hard. Only nothing like as hard as his wife hit me. She’s got a sweeping left, Algy, like the kick of a mule. Good Lord! what an unholy box-up. I must say if it hadn’t been for old Tootem, it might have been deuced serious. The office looked like the morning after a wet night.”

  “So you’ve handed over the notes?”

  “I have,” said Hugh savagely. “And as I told old Tootem in his office, I wish to heavens I’d never seen the bally things. Old Scheidstrun’s got ’em, and he can keep ’em.”

  Which was where the error occurred. Professor Scheidstrun had certainly got them—Mr Tootem senior had pressed them into his hands with almost indecent brevity the instant Drummond left the office—but Professor Scheidstrun was not going to keep them. At that very moment, in fact, he was handing them over to a benevolent looking old gentleman with mutton-chop whiskers in a room in Mr Atkinson’s house in the quiet square.

  “Tell me all about it,” murmured the old gentleman, with a smile. “You’ve no idea how interested I am in it. I would have given quite a lot to have been present myself.”

  “Mein Gott!” grunted the Professor. “He is a holy terror, that man. He tear off my wig; he try to tear off my nose.”

  “And then I him on the ear hit,” boomed his wife.

  “Splendid,” chuckled the other. “Quite splendid. He is a violent young man at times, is Captain Drummond.”

  “It was that the colour of my wig was different that first made him suspect,” went on the German. “And then I do what you tell me—I tap with my left hand so upon my knee. The next moment he jumps upon me like a madman.”

  “I thought he probably would,” said the old gentleman. “A very amusing little experiment in psychology. You might make a note of it, Professor. The surest way of allaying suspicions is to arouse them thoroughly, and then prove that they are groundless. Hence your somewhat sudden summons by aeroplane from Germany. I have arranged that you should return in the same manner tomorrow after the funeral—which you will attend this afternoon.”