The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Thoughtfully his eyes searched the water again; there was no trace of either man. Of a suspicious nature, he had examined both sides of the motor-boat; moreover, he had seen inside the motorboat.

  And now as the girl’s sobs died away he turned to the officer beside him.

  “There can be no doubt about it, I fear,” he remarked with a suitable inflection of sorrow in his voice.

  “None, sir, I’m afraid. Even if we couldn’t see them, we could hear them. I’m afraid the madman’s done the poor old gentleman in.”

  “Sink in a brace of shakes with a holy terror like that ’anging round yer neck,” said one of the sailors, and a mutter of agreement came from the others.

  “Yes, I’m afraid there can be no possibility of saving them now.”

  Ted Jerningham took out his cigarette-case, only to replace it hurriedly as he remembered the dreadful tragedy they had just witnessed. “Doubtless, however, their bodies will be washed ashore in time.”

  “Er—doubtless,” murmured Mr Robinson. That aspect of the case had already struck him, and had not pleased him in the slightest degree. Had he been able to conform with his original plan, neither body would have ever been seen again. However, he had not been able to conform to that plan, so there was no more to be said about it. The main point was that both of them were drowned.

  “Doubtless,” he repeated. “Poor fellows!—poor fellows! Two neurasthenic patients of mine, sir.… How sad!—How terribly sad! However, I fear there is no good wasting any more time. I can only thank you for your prompt assistance, and regret that, through no fault of yours, it was not more effective.”

  Jerningham bowed. “Don’t mention it, sir—don’t mention it,” he murmured. “But I think, as I can do no more, that I will now get back. The tragedy, as you will understand, has somewhat upset this lady.”

  He put his finger on the starting-switch, and the quiet of the night was broken by the roar of the engine. And as the sailors dipped in their oars to row back to the yacht, the motor-boat circled slowly round.

  “Good night, sir.” Mr Robinson waved a courteous hand. “And again a thousand thanks.”

  “And again don’t mention it,” returned Jerningham, sitting down by the tiller. “You can take your wrap off his hand now, Pat,” he whispered. “They can’t see.”

  A vast hand grasping the gunwale was revealed as she did so, and an agonised whisper came from the water.

  “Hurry, old man, for the love of Pete. Unless we can hold the old man upside-down soon to drain the water out of him, he’ll drown.”

  “Right-oh! Hugh. Can you hold on for a couple of hundred yards? I’ll go slow. But they may have a searchlight on the yacht, and we’re still very close to her.”

  “All right, Ted. I leave it to you.”

  “I’ll still keep broadside on, old man; though I don’t think he had any suspicions.”

  He nosed the motor-boat through the water, and a few moments later the necessity of his precaution was justified. A blinding light flickered across the water, found them, and held steady: it was the Gadfly’s searchlight. Jerningham rose and waved his hand, and after a while the beam passed on searching the sea. One final attempt evidently to try to spot the victims of the tragedy, rewarded by empty water. And at last the light went out; all hope had been abandoned.

  “Quick, Hugh,” cried Jerningham. “Get the old boy on board.”

  With a heave the almost unconscious form of Professor Goodman was hoisted into the boat, to be followed immediately by Drummond himself.

  “Lie down, old man—lie down in case they use that searchlight again.”

  The engine roared and spluttered, and two black mountains of water swirled past the bows.

  “Forty-five on her head, Hugh,” shouted Ted. “Incidentally, what’s this particular brand of round game?”

  “The largest drink in the shortest time, old son,” laughed the other. “And for the Professor—bed, quick.”

  He turned to the girl. “My dear soul,” he said, “you were magnificent. If you hadn’t had hysteria when I began to sneeze it was all up.”

  “But what could he have done?” cried the girl. “And he looked such a nice old man.”

  Drummond laughed grimly. “Did you recognise him, Ted?” Once again he turned to the girl. “If he’d known that we were in the water, that nice old man would have had no more compunction in shooting you and Ted and dropping your bodies overboard than I shall have in drinking that drink. It’s been the biggest coup of his life, Ted—but it’s failed. But, by Jove, old man, it’s been touch and go, believe me.”

  The roar of the engine made conversation difficult, but after covering the dripping form of the Professor with a dry rug they fell silent. Astern the lights of the Gadfly were growing fainter and fainter in the distance; ahead lay Cowes and safety. But Drummond’s mind, now that the immediate danger was over, had jumped ahead to the future. To restore the Professor to the bosom of his family was obviously the first thing to be done; but—after that?

  The engine ceased abruptly, and he realised they had reached the yacht. Leaning over the side were some of the guests, and as—he and Ted lifted the body of the professor up the gangway a chorus of excited questioning broke out, a chorus which was interrupted by the amazed ejaculation of an elderly man.

  “God bless my soul,” he cried incredulously, as the light fell on the Professor’s face, “It’s old Goodman’s double!”

  “Not exactly,” answered Drummond. “It’s Professor Goodman himself.”

  “Damme, sir,” spluttered the other, “I was at his funeral a week ago. He was blown up in his house in Hampstead doing some fool experiment.”

  “So we all thought,” remarked Drummond quietly. “And as it happened we thought wrong. Get him below, Ted—and get him to bed, or we really shall be attending his funeral. He’s swallowed most of the English Channel as it is. Though I can assure you, sir,” he addressed the elderly man again, “that he possesses a vitality which turns Kruschen salts a pale pink. Within the last week he’s been blown up; his remains, consisting of one boot, have been buried; he’s been bounced on a white-hot electric furnace to keep his circulation going; he’s had his breakfast doped; and last, but not least, he’s gone backwards and forwards under Ted’s motorboat.

  “And now if someone will lead me to a whisky-and-soda of vast dimensions, I’ll—My God! what’s that?” It was very faint, like the boom of a distant heavy gun, but he happened to be looking towards the Needles. And he had seen a sudden deep orange flash, in the water against the sky—the flash such as in old days an aeroplane bomb had made on bursting. The others swung round and stared seawards, but there was nothing more to be seen.

  “It sounded like a shell,” said one of the men. “What did you think it was?” He turned to Drummond, but he had disappeared, only to dash on deck a moment or two later with Ted behind him.

  “Every ounce you can get out of her, Ted. Rip her to pieces if necessary—but get there. That infernal devil has blown up the yacht.”

  The motor-boat spun round, and like a living beast gathered speed. The bow waves rose higher and higher, till they stood four feet above the gunwales, to fall away astern into a mass of seething white.

  “I’ll never forgive myself,” shouted Drummond in Ted’s ear. “I knew he was going to blow her up, but I never thought he’d do it so soon.” Quivering like a thing possessed, the boat rushed towards the scene of the explosion. The speedometer needle touched—went back—touched again—and then remained steady at fifty.

  “Go to the bows,” howled Ted. “Wreckage.”

  With a nod Drummond scrambled forward, and lying between the two black walls of water, he slowly swung the headlight backwards and forwards over the sea in front. To hit a piece of floating wreckage at the speed they were travelling would have ripped them open from stem to stern. Other craft attracted to the spot loomed up and dropped back as if stationary, and then suddenly Drummond held up his hand. In front was
a large dark object with two or three men clinging to it, and as he focused the headlight on them he could see them waving. The roar of the engine died away, and timing it perfectly Jerningham went full speed astern.

  The thing in the water was one of the large wooden lockers used for storing life-belts, and they drew alongside just in time. It was waterlogged, and the weight of the men clinging to it was more than it could stand. Even as the last of them stepped into the boat, with a sullen splash the locker turned over and drifted away only just awash.

  “Yer’d better mind out,” said one of the men. “There’s a lot of that about.”

  “Go slow, Ted,” cried Drummond. Then he turned to the men. “What happened?”

  “Strike me pink, governor, I’m damned if I know. We’ve had a wonderful trip, we ’ave—you can take my word. Fust a ruddy madman jumps overboard with another bloke—and they both drowns. Then half an hour later there comes the devil of an explosion from below; the ’ole deck goes sky ’igh, and the skipper he yells, ‘We’re sinking.’ It didn’t require for ’im to say that; we all knew we was. We ’eeled right over, and in ’alf a minute she sank.”

  “Anybody else saved?” asked Drummond.

  “I dunno, governor,” answered the man. “There wasn’t no women and children on board, so I reckons it was everyone for himself.”

  “Any idea what caused the explosion?”

  “I ’aven’t, governor—that’s strite. But I knew as no good was a-going to come of this trip, as soon as that there madman went and drowned hisself.”

  Drummond stared silently ahead. In the dim light he had no fear of being recognised, even if any of the three men they had saved had seen him. And his mind was busy. He had not the slightest doubt that Peterson had caused the explosion; he had even less doubt that Peterson, at any rate, was not drowned. But why had he taken the appalling risk of doing such a thing in so populous a waterway?

  He went back to the stern and sat down beside Ted, who was nosing the boat gently through the water. Masses of debris surrounded them, and it was necessary to move with the utmost caution.

  “What made him risk it here, Ted?” he whispered.

  “Obvious, old man,” returned the other in a low voice. “He thought your bodies would be washed ashore; he had no means of telling when. He knew they would be identified; he further knew that I would at once say what had happened. From that moment he would be in deadly danger; wireless would put every ship at sea wise. And to do a little stunt of this sort, if he was to escape, it was imperative he should be near land. So, as Peterson would do, he didn’t hesitate for a moment, but put the job through at once.”

  Drummond nodded thoughtfully.

  “You’re right, Ted—perfectly right.”

  “And unless I’m very much surprised, our friend at the present moment is stepping out of his life-belt somewhere on the beach in Colwell Bay. Tomorrow, I should imagine, he will cross to Lymington—and after that you possibly know what his moves will be. I certainly don’t—for I’m completely in the dark over the whole stunt.”

  “It’s too long a story to tell you now, old man,” said Drummond. “But one thing I do know. Whoever else may be picked up, our friend will not be amongst the survivors. He’s run unheard-of risks to pull this thing off, including a cold-blooded murder. And now officially he’s going to die himself in order to throw everyone off the scent.” He laughed grimly. “Moreover, he’d have done what he set out to do if you hadn’t been leaning over the side of your governor’s yacht.”

  “But what’s the prize this time?”

  “Old Goodman’s secret for making artificial diamonds—that was the prize, and Peterson has got it.”

  Ted whistled softly. “I heard something about it from Algy,” he remarked. “But it seems to me, Hugh, that if that is the case, he’s won.”

  Drummond laughed. “You were a bit surprised, Ted, when I refused to allow you to pull us on board your boat. Of course I knew as well as you did that with your speed we could have got clean away from them. But don’t you see, old man, the folly of doing so? He would have spotted at once that we were not drowned; he would further have spotted that I was not as mad as I made out. Chewing soap is the hell of a game,” he added inconsequently. Then he went on again, emphasising each point on his fingers.

  “Get me so far? Once he knew we were alive, it would have necessitated a complete alteration of his plans. He’d probably have put straight into some place on the south coast; gone ashore himself and never returned. And then he’d have disappeared into the blue. Maybe he’d have had another shot at murdering old Goodman; however, that point doesn’t arise. The thing is he’d have disappeared.”

  “Which is what he seems to have done now,” remarked Ted.

  Again Drummond laughed. “But I think I know where he’ll turn up again. In what form or guise remains to be seen: our one and only Carl is never monotonous, to give him his due. You see, Ted, you don’t seem to realise the intense advantage of being dead. I didn’t till I heard him discussing it one night in his study. And now I’m dead, and the Professor’s dead, and dear Carl is dead. That’s why I bumped the poor old man’s head on the barnacles underneath your boat, as we changed sides. It’s a gorgeous situation.”

  “Doubtless, old man,” murmured the other. “Though you must remember it’s all a little dark and confusing to me. And anyway, where do you think he’ll turn up again so that you can recognise him—”

  “My dear man, our little Irma, or Janet, or whatever name the sweet thing is masquerading under this time, is a powerful magnet. And I am open to a small bet that at the moment she is taking the air in Switzerland: Montreux to be exact. What more natural, then, that believing himself perfectly safe, our one and only Carl will return to the arms of his lady—if only for a time.”

  “And you propose to fly there also?”

  “Exactly. I want the notes of that process, and I also want a final reckoning with the gentleman.”

  “Final?” said Ted, glancing at Drummond thoughtfully.

  “Definitely final,” answered Drummond quietly. “This time our friend has gone too far.”

  Jerningham looked at the numerous other boats which, by this time, had arrived at the scene of the disaster. Then he swung his helm hard round.

  “That being so,” he remarked, “since our presence is no longer needed here, I suggest that we get a move on. From my knowledge of Montreux, old man, it is getting uncomfortably hot just now. Deauville will be more in Irma’s line. If I were you, I’d get out there, and do it quick. Joking apart, you may be right and, of course, I don’t know all the facts of the case. But from what I’ve guessed, I think friend Peterson will cover all his tracks at the first possible moment.”

  “He may,” agreed Drummond. “And yet—believing that the Professor and I are both dead—he may not. You see,” he repeated once again, “he thinks he’s safe. Therein lies the maggot in the Stilton.” With which profound simile he relapsed into silence, only broken as once more the boat drew up alongside the yacht.

  “He thinks he’s safe, which is where he goes into the mulligatawny up to his neck. Put these fellows on shore, Ted, give me a change of clothes, and then run me over to Lymington.”

  CHAPTER XII

  In Which He Samples Mr Blackton’s Napoleon Brandy

  That Drummond was no fool his intimate friends knew well. He had a strange faculty for hitting the nail on the head far more often than not. Possibly his peculiarly direct method of argument enabled him to reach more correct conclusions than someone subtler-minded and cleverer could achieve. His habit of going for essentials and discarding side issues was merely the mental equivalent of those physical attributes which had made him a holy terror in the ring. Moreover, he had the invaluable gift of being able to put himself in the other man’s place.

  But it may be doubted if in any of his duels with Peterson he had ever been more unerringly right than in his diagnosis of the immediate future. It was not a f
luke; it was in no sense guesswork.

  He merely put himself in Peterson’s place, and decided what he would do under similar circumstances. And having decided on that, he went straight ahead with his own plans, which, like all he made, were simple and to the point. They necessitated taking a chance, but, after all, what plan doesn’t?

  He had made up his mind to kill Peterson, but he wanted to do it in such a manner that it would appeal to his sense of art in after-life. And with Drummond the sense of art was synonymous with the sense of fair play. He would give Peterson a fair chance to fight for his life. But in addition to that his ambition went a little farther. He felt that this culminating duel should be worthy of them both. The mental atmosphere must be correct, as well as the mundane surroundings.

  That that was largely beyond his control he realised, but he hoped for the best. The sudden plunging of Peterson from the dizzy heights of success into the valley of utter failure must not be a hurried affair, but a leisurely business in which each word would tell. How dizzy were the heights to which Peterson thought he had attained was, of course, known only to Peterson. But, on that point, he need not have worried.

  For Mr Edward Blackton, as he stepped out of the train at Montreux station at nine o’clock on a glorious summer’s evening, was in a condition in which even a request for one of his three remaining bottles of Napoleon brandy might have been acceded to.