The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Still the two men sat there with the doors tight shut, and the windows hermetically sealed by the blinds. They seemed to be waiting for something, and suddenly, with a sigh of relief, one spoke.

  “She’s off.” It was true: Drummond could feel the faint throb of the propeller.

  “The specimens are aboard,” laughed the other man, “and I guess it will be safe to open the doors in about a quarter of an hour or so, and get a bit of air. This damned thing is like a Turkish bath.”

  He rose and peered cautiously through a slit in the curtain, but he made no movement to open the door until the throbbing of the propeller had ceased, and the harsh rattle of a chain showed that they were anchoring. Then and not till then did he open the doors with a sigh of relief.

  Cautiously Drummond raised his head, and stared out. Where were they? He had followed every movement in his mind since he had come on board, but he was still as far as ever from knowing where they were. And luckily one glance was enough. It didn’t even need the glimpse he got of a huge Cunarder about a half-mile away: he recognised the shore. They were in Southampton Water, and though the knowledge didn’t seem to help very much, at any rate it was something to have one definite fact to start from.

  Southampton Water! He managed to shift the sodden pocket handkerchief into a more comfortable position, and his train of thought grew pessimistic. Why would men invent processes for making diamonds? he reflected morosely. If only the dear old blitherer still peacefully sleeping in the opposite bunk had stuck to albumenised food, he wouldn’t have been lying trussed up like a Christmas turkey. Far from it: he would have been disporting himself on Ted Jerningham’s governor’s yacht at Cowes. Had not Ted expressly invited him—Ted, who had hunted Peterson with him in the past, and asked for nothing better than to hunt him again?

  The irony of it! To think that Ted might even see the yacht go by; might remark on the benevolence of the appearance of muttonchop whiskers, if by chance he should be on deck. And he would never know. In all ignorance he would return to one of his habitual spasms of love, which always assailed him when afloat, with anyone who happened to be handy.

  It was a distressing thought, and, after a while, he resolutely tried to banish it from his mind. But it refused to be banished.

  Absurd, of course, but suppose—just suppose he could communicate with Ted. Things were so desperate that he could not afford to neglect even the wildest chance. Ted’s father’s yacht generally lay, as he knew, not far from the outgoing waterway; he remembered sitting on deck with Phyllis and watching a Union Castle boat go by so close that he could see the passengers’ faces on deck. What if he could shout or something? But Ted might not be on deck.

  Eagerly he turned the problem over in his mind, and the more he thought of it the more it seemed to him to be the only possible way out. How to do it, he hadn’t an idea—but at any rate it was something to occupy his thoughts. And when the benevolent face of Mr Robinson appeared at the door some hours later, he was still wrestling with the problem, though the vacant look in his eyes left nothing to be desired.

  “Any difficulty getting on board?” asked Mr Robinson.

  “None at all, boss,” answered the man who was still on guard. “We gagged the madman to be on the safe side.”

  Mr Robinson beamed. “Take the old man below,” he remarked. “He’ll be coming round soon. I will stay with our friend here till you return.”

  Thoughtfully he pulled the handkerchief out of Drummond’s mouth and sat down on the opposite bunk. “Still suffering from concussion,” he said gently. “Still, we have plenty of time, Captain Drummond—plenty of time.”

  “Gug-gug,” answered Drummond happily.

  “Precisely,” murmured the other. “I believe that men frequently say that when they drown. But I promise you we won’t drown you at once. As I say—there is plenty of time.”

  CHAPTER XII

  In Which Drummond Leaves the S.Y. Gadfly

  Still smiling benevolently, Mr Robinson strolled away, and shortly afterwards a series of sharp orders followed by a faint throbbing announced that the voyage of the S.Y. Gadfly had commenced. The Cunarder receded into the distance, and still Drummond lay on the bunk wrestling with the problem of what to do. He judged the time as being about six, so they would pass Ted Jerningham’s yacht in daylight.

  Apparently no guard was considered necessary for him now that the yacht was under way; after all, to watch a completely bound madman is a boring and uninteresting pastime. And with a feeling of impotent rage Drummond realised how easy it would be to cut the ropes and go quietly overboard. A swim of a mile or so meant nothing to him. If only it hadn’t been for the Professor!…

  No; the last hope—the only hope—lay in Ted Jerningham. Once that failed, it seemed to Drummond that nothing could save them.

  And it was perfectly clear that by no possibility could he hope to communicate with Ted from his present position. He must be free to use his limbs. And during the next ten minutes he discovered that the blade of a safety-razor is an unpleasant implement with which to cut half-inch rope, especially when one’s wrists are bound.

  But at last it was done, and he was free. No one had interrupted him, though once some footsteps outside had made him sweat with fear. But he was still no nearer to the solution of the problem. At any moment someone might come in and find him, and there would be no mistake about binding him the second time. Moreover, it would prove fairly conclusively that he was not as mad as he pretended.

  Quickly he arranged the ropes with the cut ends underneath, so that to a cursory glance they appeared intact. Then he again lay still. That the glance would have to be very cursory for anyone to be deceived he realised, but it was the best he could do. And anyway he was free, even if only for the time. If the worst came to the worst he had no doubt as to his ability to fight his way to the side and go overboard; gun work is impossible in Southampton Water. But unless he did it near another ship, he feared that the delay before he could do anything would be fatal to the Professor. Peterson would take no chances in this case; he would murder the old man out of hand, instead of postponing the event.

  And then, suddenly, came the idea—Ted’s motor-boat. How it was going to help he didn’t see; he had no coherent plan. But with a sort of subconscious certainty he felt that in Ted’s motor-boat lay the key to the problem. She was a wonderful machine, capable of doing her forty knots with ease, and she was the darling of Ted’s heart. Her method of progress in the slightest swell resembled a continuous rush down the waterchute at Earl’s Court; and her owner was wont to take whoever occupied his heart for the moment for what he termed “a bit of a breather” on most evenings after dinner.

  Ted’s motor-boat was their hope, he decided; but how? How to get at Ted, how to tell him, was the problem. Methodically he thought things out; now that he had something definite in his mind to go on, his brain was cool and collected. And it seemed to him that the only way would be to go overboard as they passed Ted’s yacht, and then follow the Gadfly at once while she was still close to land. There would be men on Ted’s yacht, and they could board the Gadfly and hold her up. That there were difficulties he realised.

  It meant leaving the Professor for at least an hour even under the most favourable conditions. Further it would be getting dark when they overtook the Gadfly, and to board a yacht steaming her twelve to fifteen knots is not a simple matter when the crew of the yacht do not desire your presence, and await you with marline-spikes on deck. Besides, the guests on Ted’s yacht might feel that as an evening’s amusement ‘hunt the slipper’ won on points. Still, it seemed the only chance, and he decided on it unless something better turned up. Anyway, it was a plan with a chance of success, which was something.

  He glanced through the open door to try to spot his position, and estimated that another half-hour at the rate they were going would just about bring them opposite Ted’s yacht. Still no one came near him, though periodically he could see one of the sailors movin
g about the deck. As far as he could tell, he had been slung just aft of the funnel, though he dared not raise himself too much for fear of being seen.

  The minutes passed, and his hopes began to rise. Could it be that luck was going to be on his side? Could it be that no one would come, and that in the failing light he might be able to slip over the side unperceived? If so, he might gain an invaluable half-hour; more—he might be able to get the motor-boat alongside the Gadfly later without the crew suspecting anything. It seemed too good to be true, and yet a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed, and he was still alone.

  He peered out again; they were getting very close. The deck was deserted, and suddenly he felt he could bear the strain no longer.

  He rose from the bunk and cautiously peered out of the door. And the sight he saw almost staggered him with his good fortune. If he had been walking about the deck instead of being cooped up under cover he could not have timed it more exactly. Not a hundred yards away to port lay Jerningham’s yacht, with the motor-boat alongside the gangway.

  Drummond glanced round; he could see no one. The structure in which he had been hoisted on board effectively screened him from the bridge; the sailors were apparently having their evening meal. And taking a quick breath he prepared to make a sprint for the side when he saw something which completely altered his plans. Leaning over the side of the yacht he was watching were a man and a woman. And the man was Ted Jerningham himself.

  Drummond saw him focus a pair of field-glasses and turn them on the Gadfly. And then clear and distinct across the water he heard the amazed shout of “Hugh”. Jerningham had seen him; the supreme chance had come, if only he wasn’t interrupted. And it is safe to say that during the next minute a very astonished girl stood beside a man whom she almost failed to recognise as the Ted Jerningham of normal life.

  “A pencil,” he snapped. “Write as I spell out. Get a move on. Look out: He’s beginning. D.A.N.G.E.R. F.O.L.L.O.W. I.N. M.O.T.O.R. B.O.A.T. P.E.T.E.R.S.O.N. U.R.G.E.N.T. That’s all.” She looked up: the huge man on board the passing yacht who had been standing outlined against the sky waving his arms had disappeared.

  “What on earth was he doing?” she cried.

  “Semaphoring,” answered Jerningham briefly.

  “But I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Nor do I,” returned her companion. “But that was Hugh Drummond. And what Hugh says goes, if we follow for the whole night. Coming?”

  “Rather. Who’s Peterson?”

  “A very dear old friend,” said Jerningham with a grim smile. “But how the deuce…” He broke off, and stared after the retreating yacht. “He loves me, because I emptied the entire sauce-boat over his shirt-front one night in Paris, when disguised as a waiter at the Ritz.”

  “My dear Ted, are you mad?” laughed the girl, following him down the gangway into the waiting motor-boat.

  “Oh! no—just fun and laughter. You wouldn’t believe what a humorist old man Peterson is.”

  A terrific explosion rent the air, followed by a cloud of blue smoke, and Jerningham took the tiller.

  “Warm enough, Pat?” he asked. “It may be a long show.”

  “Quite, thanks,” she answered. “Ted, why do you look so grave?”

  “I’m just wondering, my dear, if I ought to take you.” His hand was still on the gangway, and he looked at her irresolutely.

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Because there may be very grave danger.”

  The girl laughed. “Get on with it while the going’s good,” she said. “That yacht will be past the Needles if you delay much longer.”

  And so it came about that Drummond, watching feverishly from his bunk in the Gadfly, saw with a sigh of intense relief the motor-boat shoot out across the water. It was nearly a mile astern, but a mile was nothing to a boat of its great speed. Moreover, the distance was lessening, and he breathed a prayer that Ted wouldn’t come too close. With the amount of traffic round and about Cowes at that time of year an odd motor-boat could raise no suspicion, but if he settled down to follow steadily at a hundred yards or so astern he would be bound to draw attention to himself.

  He had not dared to send a longer message, and, of necessity, it had left a good deal to Ted’s imagination. But of all the men who had followed him unhesitatingly in the past, Ted Jerningham had been always the quickest on the uptake, and he soon saw that his confidence had not been misplaced. Ted had evidently realised that to follow steadily would arouse suspicion, and was laying his plans accordingly. He overhauled them like an express train, passed forty yards to starboard, circled their bow, and came dashing back. Then away at a tangent for half a mile or so, only to shoot back and stop apparently with engine trouble.

  The sea was like a millpond, and as the Gadfly passed the now silent motor-boat the sounds of a gramophone were plainly audible from it. Obviously someone with a racing motor-boat joy-riding with a girl, reflected the skipper as he paced the bridge; and forthwith dismissed the matter from his mind. He had other more important things to think of, and the first was the exact object of this trip. That the benevolent Mr Robinson had hired the Gadfly from its owner to take two invalids to Madeira he knew, but he wasn’t quite satisfied. The method of bringing the invalids on board had seemed so unnecessarily secretive. However, as is the way of men who go down to the sea in ships, his nature was not curious. He was there to carry out orders, and mind his own business—not other people’s. Still, he couldn’t help wondering.

  And had he seen the occupation of one of those invalids at the moment he would have wondered still more. For Drummond, having found a cake of soap on the basin beside his bunk, was carefully cutting it into small cubes with the blade of a safety razor.

  Though perhaps that is what one would expect from a madman.

  A sudden hoarse scream of fear some five minutes later made the Captain jump to the side of the bridge. Two sailors were rushing along the deck as if pursued by the devil, and he roared an order at them. But they took no notice of him, and dashed below. For a moment the worthy skipper stood there dumbfounded; then, cursing fluently, he dashed after them, only to stop with a strange pricking feeling in his scalp as a huge and ghastly figure confronted him. A great mass of foam was round its mouth, and it was brandishing a marline spike and bellowing. A terrifying spectacle in the half-light of dusk—a spectacle to put the fear of God into any man. And then as suddenly as it appeared it was gone.

  Terror is an infectious thing, and the infection spread in the good ship Gadfly. Within two minutes men were running in all directions, shouting that a homicidal maniac was loose on board.

  Below an appalling crash of breaking crockery and the sudden appearance on deck of a terrified steward told its own tale. The Captain was powerless; things had gone beyond him. He roared a futile order or two: no one paid the slightest attention to him. And then, quite suddenly, the pandemonium ceased—and men held their breath. How he had got there no one could say—but they all saw him outlined against the darkening sky.

  The madman was in the stern, and in his arms he held the body of a man. “At last,” they heard him shout, “at last I’ve got you, Peterson. We die together—you devil.…”

  “Stop them,” howled Mr Robinson, who had just dashed on deck, holding a limp right arm; but no man moved. Only a loud splash broke the silence, and the stern was empty.

  “Man overboard. Lower a boat. Stop the yacht, you cursed fool,” snarled Mr Robinson to the Captain, and then he rushed to the stern. Dimly in the failing light he thought he could see two heads in the water, but it was a couple of minutes before a boat was lowered, and in that couple of minutes he heard the roar of an engine coming nearer. Then the engine ceased, and he saw the outline of a motor-boat.

  “That boat may have picked ’em up, sir,” said the Captain, as Mr Robinson ran down the gangway into the waiting cutter.

  “Give way all,” came the second officer’s curt order. “With a will, boys.”

  The
motor-boat, still motionless, loomed rapidly up, and Mr Robinson stood up.

  “Ahoy there! Did you pick up those two men who fell overboard?”

  “Two!” Ted Jerningham, a conspicuous figure in white flannels, stood up also. “I heard the most infernal shindy on board your yacht and then a splash. Do you mean to say two men have fallen overboard?” The yacht’s boat was close to, the sailors resting on their oars.

  “Yes. Have you seen ’em?” asked the second officer.

  “Not a sign. And the water’s like a duckpond too.”

  The girl with him shuddered. “How dreadful! You don’t mean the poor fellows are drowned?”

  “Afraid it looks like it, miss,” said the officer, staring round the water. “Even in this light we’d see them with the sea as calm as it is.”

  Mr Robinson whispered something in his ear, which he seemed to resent.

  “Do what you’re told,” snarled his master, and with a shrug he gave an order.

  “Give way.”

  The oars dipped in the water, and they passed astern of the motor-boat. And had Mr Robinson been watching Ted Jerningham instead of the water he might have seen a sudden strained look appear on that young gentleman’s face, and his hand move instinctively towards the starting-switch. He might even have wondered why the girl, who had seemed so calm and unperturbed in the face of this dreadful tragedy, should suddenly give vent to a loud and hysterical outburst.

  “It’s dreadful,” she sobbed—”too dreadful! To think of those two poor men being drowned like that.”

  But Mr Robinson was not concerned with the dreadfulness of the situation; all that mattered to him was whether it was true or not. From the moment when Drummond, foaming at the mouth, had dashed into the dining-saloon, Mr Robinson’s brain had been working furiously. An attempt to intercept himself between Drummond and Professor Goodman had resulted in an appalling blow on his arm with a marline spike. And then, accustomed though he was to the rapidity of Drummond’s movements, even he for a few seconds had been nonplussed. There had been something so diabolical about this huge man, bellowing hoarsely, who had, after that first blow, paid no more attention to him, but had hurled himself straight on the dazed Professor. And even when the Professor, squealing like a rabbit, had dashed on deck with Drummond after him, for an appreciable time Mr Robinson had remained staring stupidly at the door. Drummond sane was dangerous; Drummond mad was nerve-shattering. And then he had pulled himself together just in time to dash on deck and see them both go overboard.