The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “It was inconvenient—that summons,” said his wife heavily. “And my husband has been assaulted…”

  Her words died away as she looked at the benevolent old man. For no trace of benevolence remained on his face, and she shuddered uncontrollably.

  “People who do inconvenient things, Frau,” he said quietly, “and get found out must expect inconvenient calls to be made upon them.”

  “How long is this to continue?” she demanded. “How long are we to remain in your power? This is the second time that you have impersonated my husband. I tell you when I heard that young man speaking this morning, and knew how near he was to the truth almost did I tell him.”

  “But not quite. Not quite, Frau Scheidstrun. You are no fool; you know what would have happened if you had. I still hold the proofs of your husband’s unfortunate slip a year or two ago.”

  His eyes were boring into her, and once again she shuddered.

  “I shall impersonate your husband when and where I please,” he continued, “if it suits my convenience. I regard him as one of my most successful character-studies.”

  His tone changed; he was the benevolent old gentleman again. “Come, come, my dear Frau Scheidstrun,” he remarked affably, “you take an exaggerated view of things. After all, the damage to your husband’s nose is slight, considering the far-reaching results obtained by letting that young man pull it. All his suspicions are allayed; he merely thinks he’s made a profound ass of himself. Which is just as it should be. Moreover, with the mark in its present depreciated state, I think the cheque I propose to hand to your husband for the trouble he has taken will ease matters in the housekeeping line.”

  He rose from his chair chuckling.

  “Well, I think that is all. As I said before, you will attend the funeral this afternoon. Such a performance does not call for conversation, and so it will not be necessary for me to prime you with anything more than you know already. Your brother-scientists, who will doubtless be there in force, you will know how to deal with far better than I, seeing that I should undoubtedly fail to recognise any of them. And should Drummond be there—well, my dear fellow, I leave it to your sense of Christian decency as to how you treat him. In the presence of—ah—death”—the old gentleman blew his nose—”a policy of kindly charity is, I think, indicated. Anyway, don’t, I beg of you, so far forget yourself as to pull his nose. For without your wife to protect you I shudder to think what the results might be.”

  He smiled genially as he lit a cigar.

  “And you,” said the German, “you do not the funeral attend?”

  “My dear Professor,” murmured the other, “you surprise me. In what capacity do you suggest that I should attend this melancholy function? Even the mourners might be a trifle surprised if they saw two of us there. And as Mr William Robinson—my present role—I had not the pleasure of the deceased gentleman’s acquaintance. No; I am going into the country to join my brother—the poor fellow is failing a little mentally. Freyder will make all arrangements for your departure tomorrow, and so I will say good-bye. You have committed to memory—have you not?—the hours and days when you did things in London before you arrived? And destroyed the paper? Good; a document of that sort is dangerous. Finally, Professor, don’t forget your well-known reputation for absent-mindedness and eccentricity. Should anyone ask you a question about your doings in London which you find difficult to answer, just give your celebrated imitation of a windmill and say nothing. I may remark that if Freyder’s telephone report to me is satisfactory this evening, I shall have no hesitation in doubling the amount I suggested as your fee.”

  With a wave of his hand he was gone, and Professor Scheidstrun and his wife watched the big car drive away from the door.

  “Gott im Himmel,” muttered the German. “But the man is a devil.”

  “His money is far from the devil,” replied his wife prosaically. “If he doubles it, we shall have five hundred pounds. And five hundred pounds will be very useful just now.”

  But her husband was not to be comforted. “I am frightened, Minna,” he said tremulously. “We know not what we are mixed up in. He has told us nothing as to why he is doing all this.”

  “He has told us all that he wishes us to know,” answered his wife.

  “That is his way.”

  “Why he is dressed up like that?” continued the Professor. “And how did Goodman really die?” He stared fearfully at his wife. “Blown up? Yes. But—by whom?”

  “Be silent, Heinrich,” said his wife, but fear was in her eyes too. “It is not good to think of these things. Let us have lunch, and then you must go to the funeral. And after that he will send us the money, as he did last time, and we will go back to Dresden. Then we will pray the good God that he will leave us alone.”

  “What frightens me, Minna, is that it is I who am supposed to have been with Goodman on the afternoon it happened. And if the police should find out things, what am I to say? Already there are people who suspect that big man this morning, for instance. How am I to prove that it was not I, but that devil made up to look like me? Mein Gott, but he is clever. I should not have hidden myself away as he told me to do in his letter.”

  “He would have found out if you hadn’t,” said his wife. “He knows everything.”

  “There was no one who saw us start,” went on the German excitedly. “At least no one who saw me start. You they saw—but me, I was smuggled into the aeroplane. Everything is accounted for by that devil. It is impossible for me to prove an alibi. For four days I have concealed myself; our friends all think, as you told them, that I have gone to England. They think you follow, and they will see us return. Would anyone believe us if now we said it was all a lie? They would say—why did you remain hidden? What was the object of all this deceit? And I—what can I say? That I am in the power of someone whom, to save my life, I cannot describe. No one would believe me; it would make my position worse.” He grew almost hysterical in his agitation.

  “There is one comfort, my dear,” said his wife soothingly. “As long as everyone believes that it was you who was with Professor Goodman they are not likely to suspect very much. For foul play there must be a motive, and there could be no motive in your case. No, Heinrich, that devil has foreseen everything. No one was suspicious except the big man this morning, and now he is suspicious no longer. All that we have to do is just what we are told, and we shall be safe. But, mein Gott, I wish that we were on board that foul machine again, even though I shall assuredly be sick the whole way.”

  The worthy woman rose and placed a hand like a leg of mutton on her husband’s shoulder. “Lunch,” she continued. “And then you must go to the funeral, while I await you here.”

  And so an hour later Professor Scheidstrun, fortified by a most excellent meal, chartered a taxi and drove off to attend the ceremony.

  After all, his wife was a woman of sound common sense, and there was much in what she said. Moreover, five hundred pounds was not obtained every day. With his usual diabolical cleverness that man, whose real name even he did not know, had so arranged things that his scheme would succeed. He always did succeed; this would be no exception. And provided the scheme was successful, he personally would be safe.

  He stepped out at the church door and paid his fare. A celebrated Scotch chemist whom he knew, and who was entering the church at the same moment, stopped and spoke a few words with him, and for a while they stood chatting on the pavement outside. Then the Scotchman moved away, and the Professor was about to enter the church when someone touched him on the arm.

  He turned to find a young man, wearing an eyeglass, whom he had never seen before in his life.

  “Afternoon, Professor,” said the young man.

  The Professor grunted. Who on earth was this? Some relative presumably of the dead man.

  “You don’t seem to remember me,” went on the young man slowly. The fact was hardly surprising, but mindful of his instructions the German waved his arms vaguely and endeavo
ured to escape into the church. But the young man, whose eyes had narrowed suddenly, was not to be shaken off quite so easily.

  “One moment, Professor,” he said quietly. “Do you remember me?” Again the German grunted unintelligibly, but his brain was working quickly. Obviously this young man knew him; therefore he ought obviously to know the young man.

  “Ja,” he grunted, “I haf met you, but I know not where.”

  “Don’t you remember coming round to Captain Drummond’s house yesterday afternoon?” went on the other.

  “Of course,” said the Professor, beginning to feel firm ground again. “It was there that we did meet.”

  “That’s it,” said the young man cheerfully. “I was one of the four fellows there with Drummond.”

  “It vos stupid of me to haf forgotten,” remarked the German, breathing an inward sign of relief. “But so many were there, that must be my excuse.”

  He escaped into the church, and Algy Longworth made no further attempt to detain him. Without thought, and as a mere matter of politeness, he had spoken to the Professor on seeing him, to be greeted with the blank stare of complete non-recognition.

  And now the German had concurred in his statement that there had been five of them in the room during the interview, whereas only Hugh and he himself had been present. The short service was drawing to a close, and Algy, who had not heard a word, still stared thoughtfully at the back of the Professor’s head, two pews in front.

  He had noted the nods of greeting from several distinguished looking old gentlemen as the German had entered the church; but five instead of two! Surely it was incredible that any man, however absent-minded and engrossed in other things, should have made such a mistake as that. Even poor old Goodman himself had not been as bad as that. Besides, he personally had spoken not once but several times to the German during the interview. He couldn’t have forgotten so completely.

  But the fact remained that after the service was over, Professor Scheidstrun chatted for some time with several other elderly men, who had apparently had no doubts as to his identity. In fact it was impossible to believe that the man was not what he professed to be, especially as he too, remembering what Hugh had said, had laid his hand on the German’s arm outside the church and felt it. It was skinny and thin—and yet five instead of two! That was the thing that stuck in his gizzard.

  If only he could think of some test question which would settle the matter! But he couldn’t, and even if he had been able to there was no further chance of asking it. Professor Scheidstrun completely ignored his existence, and finally drove away without speaking to him again.

  And it was a very puzzled young man who finally returned to Brook Street to find Hugh Drummond sunk in the depths of depression. He listened in silence to what Algy had to say, and then he shook his head.

  “My dear old man,” he said at length, “it cuts no ice. It’s funny, I know. If you or I went round to have a buck with a fellow, we should remember whether the isolation was complete or whether we were crushed to death in the mob. But with these scientific blokes It’s altogether different. He probably has completely forgotten the entire incident. And yet, Algy, the conviction is growing on me that I’ve been had for a mug. Somehow or other they’ve handed us the dirty end. I confess it’s difficult to follow. I’m convinced that the man today in Tootem’s office is the genuine article. And if he is it’s almost impossible to believe that poor old Goodman’s death was anything but an accident. Then where’s the catch? That’s what I’ve been trying to puzzle out for the last three hours, and I’m just where I was when I started.”

  “You think that German is going to do what he said? Go back and carry on with Goodman’s discovery?”

  “I don’t know what else to think.”

  “Then I’ll tell you one thing, Hugh,” said Algy thoughtfully. “You’d have a death from heat—apoplexy if old Blantyre knew it. And he was showing no signs of a rush of blood to the face at the funeral today.”

  Drummond sat up and stared at his friend. “Which means either that he doesn’t know anything about it and believes that the secret died with Goodman; or else, Algy, he’s got at Scheidstrun. Somehow or other he’s found out about that letter, and he’s induced the German to part with the notes.”

  He rose and paced up and down the room.

  “Or else—Great Scott! Algy, can it be possible that the whole thing has been carefully worked from beginning to end? Blantyre went over to Switzerland—Toby told me that. He went over looking like a sick headache and came back bursting with himself.”

  Drummond’s face was hard.

  “If I thought that that swine had deliberately hired the German to murder poor old Goodman…” His great hands were clenched by his side, as he stared grimly out of the window.

  “I made a fool of myself this morning,” he went on after a while. “I suppose I’ve got Carl Peterson on the brain. But there are other swine in the world, Algy, beside him. And if I could prove…”

  “Quite,” remarked Algy. “But how the devil can you prove anything?”

  Suddenly Drummond swung round. “I’m going round to see Blantyre now,” he said decisively. “Will you come?”

  THE THIRD ROUND [Part 2]

  CHAPTER VII

  In Which Drummond Takes a Telephone Call and Regrets It

  Half an hour later Algy and he walked through the unpretentious door that led to the office of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate, to be greeted with a shout of joy from Toby Sinclair emerging from an inner room.

  “You have come to ask me to consume nourishment at your expense,” he cried. “I know it. I accept. I will also dine this evening.”

  “Dry up, Toby,” grunted Hugh. “Is your boss in?”

  “Sir Raymond? Yes—why?”

  “I want to see him,” said Hugh quietly.

  “My dear old man, I’m sorry, but it’s quite out of the question,” answered Toby. “There’s a meeting of the whole syndicate on at the present moment upstairs, and…”

  “I want to see Sir Raymond Blantyre,” interrupted Hugh. “And, Toby, I’m going to see Sir Raymond Blantyre. And if his darned syndicate is there, I’ll see his syndicate as well.”

  “But, Hugh, old man,” spluttered Toby, “be reasonable. It’s an important business meeting, and…”

  Hugh laid his hands on Toby’s shoulders and grinned.

  “Toby, don’t waste time. Trot along upstairs—bow nicely, and say ‘Captain Drummond craves audience’. And when he asks what for, just say, ‘In connection with an explosion which took place at Hampstead.’ And of a sudden it seemed as if a strange tension had come into Toby Sinclair’s room. For Toby was one of those who had hunted with Hugh in days gone by, and he recognised the look in the big man’s eyes. Something was up—something serious, that he knew at once. And certain nebulous, half-formed suspicions which he had vigorously suppressed in his own mind stirred into being.

  “What is it, old man?” he asked quietly.

  “I’ll know better after the interview, Toby,” answered the other. “But one thing I will tell you now. It’s either nothing at all, or else your boss is one of the most blackguardly villains alive in London today. Now go up and tell him.”

  And without another word Toby Sinclair went. Probably not for another living man would he have interrupted the meeting upstairs. But the habits of other days held; when Hugh Drummond gave an order, it was carried out.

  A minute later he was down again. “Sir Raymond will see you at once, Hugh,” and for Toby Sinclair his expression was thoughtful. For the sudden silence that had settled on the room of directors as he gave the message had not escaped his attention. And the air of carefully suppressed nervous expectancy on the part of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate did not escape Drummond’s attention either as he entered, followed by Algy Longworth.

  “Captain Drummond?” Sir Raymond Blantyre rose, and indicated a chair with his hand. “Ah! and Mr Longworth surely. Please sit down. I think I
saw you in the distance at the funeral today. Now, Captain Drummond, perhaps you will tell us what you want as quickly as possible, as we are in the middle of a rather important meeting.”

  “I will try to be as short as possible, Sir Raymond,” said Drummond quietly. “It concerns, as you have probably guessed, the sad death of Professor Goodman, in which I, personally, am very interested. You see, the Professor lunched with me at my club on the day of his death.”

  “Indeed,” murmured Sir Raymond politely.

  “Yes—I met him in St James’s Square, where he’d been followed.”

  “Followed,” said one of the directors. “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I say. He was being followed. He was also in a very excited condition owing to the fact that he had just received a letter threatening his life, unless he consented to accept two hundred and fifty thousand pounds as the price for suppressing his discovery for manufacturing diamonds cheaply. But you know all this part, don’t you?”

  “I know nothing whatever about a threatening letter,” said Sir Raymond. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it. Of his process, of course, I know. I think Mr Longworth was present at the dinner on the night I examined the ornament Miss Goodman was wearing. And believing then that the process was indeed capable of producing genuine diamonds, I did offer Professor Goodman a quarter of a million pounds to suppress it.”

  “Believing then?” said Drummond, staring at him.

  “Yes; for a time I and my colleagues here did really believe that the discovery had been made,” answered Sir Raymond easily. “And I will go as far as to say that even as it stands the process—now so unfortunately lost to science—produced most marvellous imitations. In fact—he gave a deprecatory laugh—” it produced such marvellous imitations that it deceived us. But they will not stand the test of time. In some samples he made for us at a demonstration minute flaws are already beginning to show themselves—flaws which only the expert would notice, but they’re there.”