The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Moaning pitifully, Professor Goodman lay back in his chair with his eyes closed.

  “I won’t,” he muttered again and again through clenched teeth, while the heat from the furnace grew greater and greater, and the dull red changed to white.

  “Foolish fellow,” sighed Mr Robinson. “However,” he added hopefully, “It’s only half a second this time. And as a special concession I’ll let you off with only 1900°. Now, Freyder—we are quite ready.”

  Freyder took a step forward, and at that moment it happened.

  He gave one agonised shout of terror, and then scream after scream of agony rang through the house. For it was not Professor Goodman’s arm which touched the white-hot furnace, but Freyder’s face—and to his Chief’s horrified eyes it had seemed as if he had dived straight at it.

  “My God!” he muttered foolishly, as Freyder, moaning horribly, dashed from the room. “How did it happen?” The words died away on his lips and he stood staring into the shadows beyond the light thrown by the furnace. Drummond was sitting on the floor grinning vacantly at space.

  “Gug, gug, gug,” he burbled foolishly. “Pretty light.” Then, apparently bored with life in general, he returned with interest to his occupation.

  “Puff-puff!” he cried happily. “Puff-puff! Naughty man kicked train.”

  And the train he was busily pushing along the floor consisted of his own shoes.

  Once again Mr Robinson dashed to the bell and pealed it. His momentary shock at Freyder’s ghastly accident had passed; his sole thought was that Drummond was no longer unconscious. And Drummond in full possession of his physical powers was a dangerous person to have about the place, even if his mind was wandering. But was it? That was the point. Or was he shamming?

  Such a possibility at once suggested itself to Mr Robinson’s tortuous brain, and he was not a gentleman who took any unnecessary risks.

  He had watched Professor Goodman totter from his chair with a look of wild hope in his face as he realised the unexpected presence of a friend; he had watched him sink back into it again with a groan as his cry for help was greeted with a vacuous grin from the man so happily playing on the floor. But still he was not satisfied, and a revolver gleamed ominously in his hand as he watched his enemy.

  His mind was made up on one point. Shamming or not shamming—mad or sane—at the slightest hint of trouble on Drummond’s part he would kill him and be done with it. In fact he was sorely tempted to do so at once: it would save a lot of bother in the long run. His finger tightened on the trigger, and he raised his revolver till it was pointing direct at Drummond’s heart.

  “I’m going to kill you, Drummond,” he said quietly.

  But if he expected to discover anything by such a test he was doomed to disappointment. Still the same vacuous grin, still the same lolling head, and a jumble of incoherent words was all the result; and very slowly he lowered his weapon, as one of his men came rushing into the room, to stop abruptly at the door as his eyes fell on the figure on the floor.

  He gave a sigh of relief. “So there you are, my beauty,” he muttered.

  “Was it you who was told off to look after Captain Drummond?” said Mr Robinson softly.

  The man looked at the speaker with fear in his eyes.

  “I put him on the bed, Chief,” he said sullenly, “and he was unconscious. And I hadn’t had any supper, so…”

  “You went downstairs to get some,” Mr Robinson concluded his sentence for him. “You went downstairs, you miserable fool, leaving him alone.”

  His eyes bored into the man’s brain, and he shrank back against the wall. “I will deal with you later,” continued Mr Robinson, “and until then you will continue to look after him. If nothing further of this sort happens, it is possible that I may overlook your fault—so you had better see to it.”

  “I’ll swear it won’t happen again, Chief,” said the man eagerly. “It was only because I thought the young swine was stunned…”

  With a gesture Mr Robinson cut him short. “You’re not paid to think, you’re paid to do what you’re told,” he remarked coldly. “Go, now, and get one of the others. And bring some rope when you return.”

  The man departed with alacrity, and once more Mr Robinson fell to staring at the man sitting on the floor. To Professor Goodman he paid not the slightest attention; all his thoughts were concentrated on Drummond. Was he shamming, or was he not? Had Freyder’s blow on the head deprived him of his reason—or was it a wonderful piece of acting? And finally he decided on yet another test.

  Still watching Drummond narrowly, he walked over to the door and affected to give an order to someone in the passage outside. “Bring the girl Phyllis in here.”

  Now surely there would be some tell-tale start if he was shamming—some little movement that would give him away. But there was nothing—absolutely nothing—to show that Drummond had even heard. He was engrossed in some intricate shunting operations with his shoes, and after a time Mr Robinson came back into the room. Almost, if not quite, his mind was made up—Drummond was insane. Only temporarily possibly—but insane.

  The blow on the back of his head had caused something in his brain to snap, and the man he hated most on earth was just a babbling lunatic. Almost, if not quite, he was sure of it; for certain proof he would have to wait until he could examine him—and especially his eyes—more closely. And Mr Robinson had no intention of examining Drummond, sane or insane, closely until Drummond’s arms were very securely lashed together.

  “You’d better be very careful of him,” he remarked as the two men came in with rope. “I am almost certain that He’s got very bad concussion, but if you handle him roughly he may get angry. I shall be covering him the whole time with a revolver, but I want you to lash his wrists behind his back.”

  They approached him cautiously, and Drummond smiled at them vacantly.

  “All right, old chap,” murmured the first man ingratiatingly. “Pretty train you’ve got there… Won’t you shake hands?”

  “Gumph,” remarked Drummond brightly, busily pushing his shoe.

  “Get hold of his other hand,” said the first man tersely to his companion. “Then we’ll get them both behind his back, and I’ll slip a running noose over them.”

  Which was excellent in theory, but poor in execution. A loud crack was heard and the two men staggered back holding their heads, which had impinged with violence.

  “Gumph,” again remarked Drummond. “Puff-puff-puff.”

  “Damn the swine!” snarled the man who had originally been told off to look after him, and Mr Robinson smiled gently. It was very obvious that, whatever his mental condition might be, Drummond’s physical strength was unimpaired.

  “I think, Chief,” said the second man, “that we should do it better if we lashed his wrists in front of him to start with. It’s being man-handled that he doesn’t take to, and we might be able to slip the noose over his wrists without his realising what the game is.”

  “Do it how you like,” snapped Mr Robinson, “but do it quickly.” Which again proved excellent in theory, but poor in execution.

  For it soon transpired that Drummond was far too happy playing trains on the floor to realise the desirability of having his hands lashed together. In fact the proceeding appeared to annoy him considerably. And it was not until another man had been summoned and Mr Robinson himself had joined in the fray that they finally got the noose over his wrists and drew it tight. And in the course of doing so two of the men had crashed heavily into the furnace, which, though cooling, was still unpleasantly hot.

  But at last it was done, and four panting men stood round in a ring regarding him triumphantly as he rolled on the floor. And then after a while he lay still, with a foolish grin on his face.

  “Gug-gug,” he burbled. “Where’s my train?”

  “I’ll gug-gug him,” snarled one of the men, kicking him heavily in the ribs. “The young devil’s a homicidal maniac.”

  “Stop that!” said Mr Ro
binson savagely. “All accounts with this young man are settled by me. Now stand by in case he struggles. I’m going to examine his eyes.”

  They approached him cautiously, but for the moment the trouble seemed over. Like so many madmen, and people temporarily insane, his frenzied struggles of the last ten minutes had completely exhausted Drummond. And even when Mr Robinson raised his eyelids and stared into his eyes he made no attempt to move, but just lay there smiling stupidly. For a long while Mr Robinson examined him, and then with a nod of satisfaction he rose to his feet.

  “Take him to his room, and see that he doesn’t escape again. He’s mad, but for how long he’ll remain so I can’t tell. If you see the faintest sign of his recovering his reason, come and tell me at once.”

  He watched them pick up Drummond and carry him out. They took him into the next room and threw him on the bed, and Mr Robinson followed, For a moment or two he moved restlessly on the pillows—then he gave a strangled grunt and a snore.

  “He’s asleep, Chief,” said one of the men, bending over him.

  “Good,” answered Mr Robinson. “Let us trust he remains so for some time.”

  Then with a look of cold determination on his face he returned to the room where Professor Goodman still sat huddled in his chair.

  CHAPTER IX

  In Which Professor Goodman Has a Trying Time

  “And now, dear brother;” he remarked; gently closing the door, “we will resume our little discussion where we left off. I was, if you remember just about to ask you to sample the temperature of the furnace at 2000° when the interruption occurred. Is it necessary that I should repeat that request, or was your experience at the lower temperature sufficient for you?” Professor Goodman raised his haggard face and stared at his tormentor.

  “What have you done to that poor young man, you devil?”

  Mr Robinson smiled and stroked his whiskers. “Well, really,” he answered mildly, “I think the boot is on the other leg. The question is more what has he done to my unfortunate staff? Poor Mr Freyder I feel almost certain must be in great pain with his face, judging by the noise he made, and two of my other servants have very nasty burns.”

  “I know all that,” said the other. “But what has sent him insane?”

  Mr Robinson smiled even more gently. “As a scientist, dear brother, you should know the tiny dividing line between sanity and madness. One little link wrong in that marvellous mechanism of the brain, and the greatest thinker becomes but a babbling fool. Not that his best friends could ever have called poor Drummond a great thinker, but—” he paused to emphasise his words “—but, dear brother, he serves as a very good example of what might happen to one who is a great thinker.”

  Professor Goodman shivered; there had been no need to emphasise the meaning underlying the words.

  “You see,” continued Mr Robinson, “Drummond very foolishly and very unfortunately for himself has again crossed my path. This time, as a matter of fact, it was by pure accident. Had you not lunched with him on the day of your death and given him the notes of your process, you may take it from me that this little interlude would never have occurred. But you did—and, well, you see what has happened to Drummond. The silly young fellow is quite mad.”

  “You have done something to him to make him so,” said the other dully.

  “Of course,” agreed Mr Robinson. “Or to be strictly accurate, Freyder has.”

  And suddenly Professor Goodman rose to his feet with a pitiful little cry. “Oh! my God! I don’t understand. I think I’m going mad myself.”

  For a moment or two Mr Robinson looked at him narrowly. If such an appalling eventuality as that happened, the whole of his scheme would be frustrated. True, it was a common figure of speech, but Professor Goodman was a frail old man, accustomed to a sedentary life. And during the past two or three days his life had been far from sedentary. Supposing under the strain the old man’s reason did snap.… Mr Robinson drew a deep breath: the mere thought of such a thing was too impossible to contemplate.

  But it had to be contemplated, and it had to be taken into account in his immediate course of action. Whatever happened, Professor Goodman’s intellect must be preserved at all costs. Even a nervous breakdown would constitute a well-nigh insuperable obstacle to his plans. And in spite of the seriousness of the position, Mr Robinson could hardly help smiling at the irony of the thing.

  Here was he with the greatest prize of his career waiting to be picked up—almost, but not quite, within his grasp. All the difficult practical details, all that part of his scheme concerned solely with organisation, had gone without a hitch. And now he was confronted by something far smaller in comparison, and yet almost as important as all the rest put together—the state of the mind of an elderly scientist. It was a problem in psychology which in the whole of his career he had never had to face under exactly similar conditions.

  There had been occasions when men’s reasons had snapped under the somewhat drastic treatment with which Mr Robinson was wont to enforce his wishes. But on all those occasions a remarkable aptitude with the pen had enabled him to dispense with the formality of their signature. This time, however, his wonderful gifts as a forger were wasted. Knowledge of ancient cuneiform writing might have been of some use in enabling him to decipher the notes, he reflected grimly—but as it was they were hopelessly and utterly unintelligible. Only Professor Goodman could do it, and that was the problem which had just come home to him more acutely than ever. What was the best line to adopt with the old man? How far would it be safe to go in a policy of threats and force? Or would apparent kindness do the trick better and quicker?

  Especially quicker—that was the important thing. It was a ticklish point to decide; but it was essential that it should be decided, and at once.

  He glanced at the haggard, staring eyes of the man confronting him; he noted the twitching hands and he made up his mind. After all, it was easy to go from kindness to threats, whereas the converse was difficult. And though he had reluctantly to admit to himself that burning a man’s arm on red-hot metal can hardly be regarded as the act of a personal friend, there was no good worrying about it. It had been done, and could not be undone. All that he could do now was to try to efface the recollection of it as far as possible.

  “Sit down, Professor,” he said gently. “I feel that I owe you some explanation.” With a groan the other sank back into his chair. “Will you have a cigar?” went on Mr Robinson easily, holding out his case. “You don’t smoke? You should. Most soothing to the nerves. In the first place I must apologise for not having made things clearer to you before, but this slight contretemps with Drummond has kept me rather fully occupied. Now I want you to recall to your mind the interviews that you had with Sir Raymond Blantyre.”

  “I recall them perfectly,” answered the Professor, and Mr Robinson noted with quiet satisfaction that he seemed to be less agitated.

  “He offered you, did he not? a large sum of money for the suppression of your secret, which you refused—and very rightly refused. But, my dear Professor, do you really imagine for a moment that an unscrupulous blackguard of his type was going to lie down and accept your refusal? If you chose to refuse the money, so much the better for him; but whether you refused or accepted, he intended to suppress you. And but for me—” he paused impressively “—he would have done.”

  Professor Goodman passed a bewildered hand across his forehead.

  “But for me,” repeated Mr Robinson, “you would now be dead—foully murdered. You have never in your life—and I trust you never will again—been in such deadly peril as you were in a few days ago. Indeed, if it were known now that you were alive, I fear that even I would be powerless to save you.” He drew carefully at his cigar; then he leaned forward and touched the Professor on the knee. “Have you ever heard of a man called Peterson?”

  “Never,” returned the other.

  “No—probably not. You and he hardly move in the same circles. Peterson, of course, is on
ly one of the many names by which that arch-devil is known. He is a King of Criminals—a man without mercy—a black-hearted villain.” Mr Robinson’s voice shook with the intensity of his emotion. “And to that man Sir Raymond Blantyre went with a certain proposal. Do you know what that proposal was? It concerned you and your death. You were to be murdered before you gave your secret to the world.”

  “The villain!” cried Professor Goodman, in a shaking voice. “To think that I’ve had him to dinner, and that his wife is a friend of ours.”

  Mr Robinson smiled pityingly. “My dear Professor,” he said, “I’m afraid that your life has been lived far apart from the realities of the world. Do you really suppose that such a trifle as that would have weighed for one instant with Sir Raymond Blantyre? However, I will get on with my explanation. It matters not how I discovered these things: I will merely say that for twenty years now I have dogged this man Peterson as his shadow. He did me the greatest wrong one man can do another: I won’t say any more.”

  Mr Robinson choked slightly.

  “I have dogged him, Professor,” he went on after a while, “as I say, for twenty years, hoping—always hoping—that the time would come for my revenge. I have lived for nothing else; I have thought of nothing else. But one thing I was determined on—that my revenge when it did come should be a worthy one. A dozen times could I have given him away to the police, but I stayed my hand. When it came, I wanted the thing to be more personal. And at last the opportunity did come. It came with you.”

  “With me?” echoed Professor Goodman. “How can I have had anything to do with your revenge on this man?”

  “That is what I am just going to explain to you,” continued Mr Robinson. “In this man Peterson, Sir Raymond Blantyre had encountered a blackguard far more subtle than himself. Peterson was perfectly prepared to murder you—but he had no intention of murdering the secret of your process. That he proposed to keep for himself—so that he could continue blackmailing Sir Raymond. You see the manner of blackguard he is. It was a scheme after his own heart, and I made up my mind to strike at last. Apart from frustrating the monstrous crime of murdering you, I should achieve an artistic revenge.”