The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  And then he realised that Professor Goodman was saying something. “I have shown you as I promised.” His voice seemed very weary. “That is the method, of making the ordinary white diamond. Tomorrow, after I have rested for a while, I will show you how to make one that is rose-pink.”

  Mr Robinson hesitated. “Is there much difference in the system?” he remarked thoughtfully.

  The Professor’s voice shook a little—but then it was hardly to be wondered at. He had had a trying evening. “It will mean obtaining a somewhat rare strontium salt,” he answered. “Also it has to be added to the other salts in minute doses from time to time to ensure perfect mixing. The heat also has to be regulated a little differently.”

  His eyes searched the other’s face anxiously. Delay him—at all costs. Drummond’s urgent words still rang in his ears, and this seemed the only chance of doing so. The main secret he had already given away; there was nothing he could do or say to alter that. Only with Drummond’s warning had he realised finally that he had been fooled; that in all probability the promise of rejoining his wife had been a lie from beginning to end. And the realisation had roused every atom of fight he had in him.

  He was a shrewd old man for all his absentmindedness, and during the hour he had sat there while the furnace cooled his mind had been busy. How Drummond had got there he didn’t know, but in Drummond lay his only hope. And if Drummond said delay, he would do his best to carry out instructions. Moreover, Drummond had said something else too, and he was a chemist.

  “Where can you obtain this strontium salt?” asked Mr Robinson at length.

  “From any big chemist in London,” replied the other.

  Mr Robinson fingered the diamond in his hand. It would mean additional delay, but did that matter very much? Now that he was in possession of the secret he had half decided to get away early in the morning. The yacht was ready; he could step on board when he liked. But there were undoubted advantages in being able to make rose-pink diamonds as well as the ordinary brand, and it struck him that, after all, he might just as well adhere to his original plan. Drummond was safe; there was nothing to fear from the old fool in the chair. So why not?

  “Give me the name of the salt and it shall be sent for tomorrow,” he remarked.

  “If you’re sending,” said the Professor mildly, “you might get some other salts too. By my process I can make them blue, green, black, or yellow, as well as red. Each requires a separate salt, though the process is basically the same.”

  Once again Mr Robinson frowned thoughtfully, and once again he decided—why not? Blue diamonds were immensely valuable, and he might as well have the process complete.

  “Make a list of everything you want,” he snapped, “and I will get the whole lot tomorrow. And now, after you’ve done that, go to bed.”

  He watched the old man go shambling along the passage to his room; then, slipping the diamond into his pocket, he went in to have a look at Drummond. He was apparently asleep, and for a while Mr Robinson stood beside him with a look of malignant satisfaction on his face. That his revenge on the man lying bound and helpless on the bed added to the risk of his plans, he knew; but no power on earth would have made him forgo it. In the eyes of the world Professor Goodman was already dead; in his case he would merely be confirming an already established fact. But with Drummond it was different. There would be a hue and cry: there was bound to be. But what did it matter? Was he not going to die himself—officially? And dead men are uninteresting people to pursue.

  “Don’t relax your guard for an instant,” he said to the two men. “We shall be leaving here tomorrow afternoon.”

  He left the room and went down to his own particular sanctum.

  He had made up his mind as to what he would do, and it seemed to solve all the difficulties in the most satisfactory way. These special salts should be sent direct to the yacht and Professor Goodman should initiate him into their mysteries on board. He would have the electric furnace taken from the house, and the experiments could be carried out just as easily at sea. And when finally he felt confident of making all the various colours, and not till then, he would drop the old fool overboard. Drummond also; the extra few days would increase the chance of his becoming sane again.

  He suddenly bethought him of Freyder, and went into his room. His face, even his eyes, were completely hidden by bandages, and Mr Robinson expressed his sympathy. In fact after Freyder had exhausted his vocabulary on the subject of Drummond, Mr Robinson even went so far as to promise his subordinate a special private chance of getting some of his own back.

  “You may do anything you like to him, my dear fellow,” he said soothingly, “save actually kill him. I shall watch it all with the greatest pleasure. I only reserve to myself the actual coup de grace.” He closed the door and, returning to his study, took the diamond out of his pocket. The tools at his disposal were not very delicate, but he determined, even at the risk of damaging the diamond, to work with them. He wanted to make assurance doubly sure, and it was not until the first faint streaks of dawn were coming through the window that he rose from his work with a sigh of satisfaction.

  On the table in front of him lay diamonds to the value of some six or seven thousand pounds; there had been no mistake this time. And with a sigh of satisfaction he placed them in his safe.

  He felt suddenly tired, and glancing at his watch he found that it was already half-past three. A little rest was essential, and Mr Robinson went upstairs. He stopped by the Professor’s room and looked in: the old man was fast asleep in bed. Then he went to see Drummond once more, and found him muttering uneasily under the watchful eyes of his two guards. Everything was correct and in order, and with another sigh of satisfaction he retired to his room for a little well-earned repose.

  It was one of his assets that he could do with a very small amount of sleep, and eight o’clock the following morning found him up and about again. His first care were his two prisoners, and to his surprise he found the Professor already up and pottering about in the room where he had been working the night before. He seemed in the best of spirits, and for a moment or two Mr Robinson eyed him suspiciously. He quite failed to see what the old man had to be pleased about.

  “One day nearer rejoining my dear wife,” he remarked as he saw the other standing in the doorway. “You can’t think how excited I feel about it.”

  “Not being married myself,” agreed Mr Robinson pleasantly, “I admit that I cannot enter into your joy. You’re up early this morning.”

  “I couldn’t sleep after six,” explained the Professor. “And so I decided to rise.”

  Mr Robinson grunted. “Your breakfast will be brought to you shortly,” he remarked. “I would advise you to eat a good one, as we shall be starting shortly afterwards.”

  “Starting?” stammered the Professor. “But I thought you wished me to show you how to make blue diamonds. And the other colours too.”

  “I do,” answered the other. “But you will show me, Professor, on board my yacht. I trust that you are a good sailor, though at this time of year the sea should be calm.”

  Professor Goodman stood by the electric furnace plucking nervously at his collar. It seemed as if the news of this early departure had given him a bit of a shock.

  “I see,” he said at length. “I did not understand that we were starting so soon.”

  “You have no objections, I hope,” murmured Mr Robinson politely. “The sooner we start, the sooner will come that delirious moment when you once more clasp Mrs Goodman in your arms. And now I will leave you, if you will excuse me. I have one or two things to attend to—amongst them our obstreperous young friend of last night.”

  He strolled along the passage into the room where Drummond was. And though he realised that the idea was absurd, he felt a little throb of relief when he saw him still lying bound on the bed.

  Ridiculous, of course, that he should find anything else, and yet Drummond, in the past, had extricated himself from such seeming
ly impossible situations that the sight of him bound and helpless was reassuring. Drummond smiled at him vacantly, and with a shrug of his shoulders he turned to the two men.

  “Has he given any trouble?” he asked.

  “Not a bit, guv’nor,” answered one of them. “He’s as barmy as he can be. Grins and smiles all over his face, except when that old bloke next door comes near him.”

  Mr Robinson stared at the speaker.

  “What do you mean?” he said. “Has the old man been in here this morning?”

  “He came in about half an hour ago,” answered the other. “Said he wanted to see how the poor fellow was getting on. And as soon as Drummond saw him he started snarling and cursing and trying to get at him. I tell you we had the devil’s own job with him—and then after a while he lay quiet again. Thinks he’s some bloke of the name of Peterson.”

  “How long was the old man here?” said Mr Robinson abruptly.

  “About half a minute. Then we turned him out.”

  “Under no circumstances is he to be allowed in here again.”

  Mr Robinson again bent over Drummond and stared into his eyes. But no sign of reason showed on his face: the half-open mouth still grinned its vacant grin. And after a while Mr Robinson straightened up again. He had allowed himself to be alarmed unnecessarily: Drummond was still off his head.

  “We are leaving at once after breakfast,” he remarked. “He is to be put in the ambulance as he is. And if he makes any noise—gag him.”

  “Very good, guv’nor. Is he to have anything to eat?”

  “No—let the swine starve.”

  Mr Robinson left the room without a backward glance, and the sudden desperate glint in Drummond’s eyes passed unnoticed. For now indeed things did look utterly hopeless. The Professor’s plan passed to him on a piece of paper and which he had conveyed to his mouth and swallowed as soon as read, even if it was a plan of despair, had in it the germ of success. It was nothing more nor less than to set fire to the house with chemicals that would burn furiously, and trust to something happening in the confusion. At any rate it might have brought in outside people—the police, the fire brigade. And Peterson could hardly have left him bound upstairs with the house on fire. Not from any kindly motives—but expediency would have prevented it. Only the chemicals had to come from London, and if they were starting at once after breakfast it was obvious that the stuff couldn’t arrive in time.

  The dear old Professor he took his hat off to. Tortured and abominably treated, he had kept his head and his nerve in the most wonderful way. For a man of his age and sedentary method of life not to have broken down completely under the strain was nothing short of marvellous. And not only had he not broken down, but he’d thought out a scheme and got it to Drummond wrapped round a Gillette razor-blade. It had taken a bit of doing to get the blade into his waistcoat pocket, and had his arms been bound to his body he couldn’t have done it. But fortunately only his wrists were lashed together, and he had managed it. And now it all seemed wasted.

  He debated in his mind whether he would try to cut the ropes, and chance everything in one wild fight at once. But the two men eating their breakfast near the foot of his bed were burly brutes.

  And even if by twisting himself up he had been able to cut the cord round his legs without their noticing he would be at a terrible disadvantage, cramped after his confinement as he was. Besides, there was the Professor. Nothing now would have induced him to leave the old man. Whatever happened, he must stay beside him in the hopes of being able to help him. Because one thing was clear.

  Even if he personally escaped, unless he could get help before the yacht started—the Professor was doomed. The yacht was going down with all hands: there lay the devilish ingenuity of the scheme.

  And even if he could have prevented the yacht sailing, he knew Peterson quite well enough to realise that he would merely change his plans at the last moment. As he had so often done in the past, he would disappear, with the secret—having first killed Professor Goodman.

  No; the only possible chance lay in his going on the yacht himself and trusting to luck to find a way out. Incidentally it was perhaps as well that the only possible chance did lie in that direction, since, as far as Drummond could see, his prospects of not going on board were even remoter than his prospects of getting any breakfast.

  A sudden shuffling step in the passage outside brought his two guards to their feet. They dashed to the door just as Professor Goodman appeared, and then they stopped with a laugh. For the old man was swaying backwards and forwards and his eyes were rolling horribly.

  “I’ve been drugged,” he muttered, and pitched forward on his face.

  Then the men sat down again, leaving him where he lay.

  “That’ll keep him quiet,” said one of them. “It was in his tea.”

  “If I had my way I’d put a bucket of it into the swab on the bed,” answered the other. “It’s him that wants keeping quiet.”

  The first speaker laughed brutally.

  “He won’t give much trouble. Once we’ve got him on board, it’ll be just pure joy to watch the fun. Freyder’s like a man that’s sat on a hornet’s nest this morning.”

  And at that moment Freyder himself entered the room. His face was still swathed in bandages, and Drummond beamed happily at him. The sight of him provided the one bright spot in an otherwise gloomy horizon, though the horrible blow which he received on the mouth rather obscured the brightness, and gave him a foretaste of what he could expect from the gentleman. But true to his role, Drummond still grinned on, though he turned his head away to hide the smouldering fury in his eyes. In the past he had been fairly successful with Peterson’s lieutenants, and he registered a mental vow that Mr Julius Freyder would not be an exception.

  He watched him go from the room kicking the sprawling body of the Professor contemptuously as he passed, and once again he was left to his gloomy thoughts. It was all very well to register vows of vengeance, but to carry them out first of all entailed getting free.

  And then a sudden ray of hope dawned in his mind. How were they going to be got on board? Stretchers presumably, and that would be bound to attract attention if the yacht was lying in any harbour.

  But was she? She might be lying out to sea somewhere, and send a boat ashore for them in some deserted stretch of coast. That was the devil of it, he hadn’t the faintest idea where he was. He might be in Essex; he might be on the South Coast; he might even be down on the Bristol Channel.

  A little wearily he gave it up; after all, what was the good of worrying? He was bound and the Professor was drugged, and as far as he could see any self-respecting life insurance would hesitate at a ninety-five percent premium for either of them. His principal desire at the moment was for breakfast, and as that was evidently not in the programme, all he could do was to inhale the aroma of eggs and bacon, and wonder why he’d been such a damned fool as to take that telephone call.

  The tramp of footsteps on the stairs roused him from his lethargy, and he half-turned his head to look at the door. Two men were there with a stretcher, on which they were placing the Professor. Then they disappeared, to return again a few moments later with another, which they put down beside his bed. It was evidently his turn now, but, even bound as he was, they showed no inclination to treat him as unceremoniously as the Professor. His reputation seemed to have got abroad, and, though he smiled at them inanely and burbled foolishly, they invoked the assistance of the other two men, who had just finished their breakfast, before lifting him up and putting him on the stretcher.

  In the hall stood Mr Robinson, who again peered at him intently as he passed, and then Drummond found himself hoisted into the back of a car which seemed to be a cross between an ambulance and a caravan. The back consisted of two doors instead of the conventional ambulance curtains, and on each side was a window covered with muslin blind. Two bunks, one on each side, stretched the full length of the car and a central gang-way, which had a little washbasi
n at the end nearest the engine, separated them.

  On one of these bunks lay Professor Goodman, breathing with the heavy, stertorous sounds of the drugged. The men pitched him on to the other, as Mr Robinson, who had followed them out, appeared.

  “You have your orders,” he remarked curtly. “If Drummond makes a sound—gag him. I shall be on board myself in about two hours.”

  He closed the doors, leaving the two men inside, and the car started. It was impossible to see out of either window owing to the curtains, and the ostentatious production of a revolver by one of the men removed any thought Drummond might have had of trying to use the razor-blade. “Mad or not, take no chances,” was the motto of his two guards, and when on top of everything else, though he hadn’t made a sound, they crammed a handkerchief half-down his throat, he almost laughed.

  He judged they had been going for about an hour, when the diminished speed of the car and the increased sounds of traffic indicated a town. It felt as if they were travelling over cobbles, and once they stopped at what was evidently a level crossing, for he heard a train go by. And then came the sound of a steamer’s siren, to be followed by another and yet a third.

  A seaport town obviously, he reflected, though that didn’t help much. The only comfort was that a seaport town meant a well-used waterway outside. And if he could get free, if he could go overboard with the Professor, there might be a shade more of a chance of being picked up. Also there would almost certainly be curious loungers about as they were carried on board.

  The car had stopped; he could hear the driver talking to someone. Then it ran forward a little and stopped again. And a moment or two later a curious swaying motion almost pitched him off the bunk. Surely they couldn’t be at sea yet. The car dropped suddenly, and with a sick feeling of despair he realised what had happened. The car had been hoisted bodily on board; his faint hope of being able to communicate with some onlooker had gone.

  Once again the car became stationary, save for a very faint and almost imperceptible movement. From outside came the sounds of men heaving on ropes, and the car steadied again. They were actually on board, and the car was being made fast.