The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  True, his right arm pained him somewhat; true, he was supremely unaware that at seven o’clock that morning Drummond had descended from the Orient express on to the same platform. What he was aware of was that in his pocket reposed the secret which would make him all-powerful; and in his hand-bag reposed an English morning paper giving the eminently satisfactory news that only six survivors had been rescued from the S.Y. Gadfly, which had mysteriously blown up off the Needles. Moreover, all six had combined in saying that the temporary owner of the yacht—a Mr Robinson—must be amongst those drowned.

  The hotel bus drew up at the door of the Palace Hotel, and Mr Blackton descended. He smiled a genial welcome at the manager, and strolled into the luxurious lounge. In the ballroom leading out of it a few couples were dancing, but his shrewd glance at once found whom he was looking for; In a corner sat Irma talking to a young Roumanian of great wealth, and a benevolent glow spread over him. No more would the dear child have to do these fatiguing things from necessity. If she chose to continue parting men from their money as a hobby it would be quite a different thing. There is a vast difference between pleasure and business.

  He sauntered across the lounge towards her, and realised at once that there was something of importance she wished to say to him. For a minute or two, however, they remained there chatting; then with a courteous good night they left the Roumanian and ascended in the lift to their suite.

  “What is it, my dearest?” he remarked, as he shut the sitting room door.

  “That man Blantyre is here, Ted,” said the girl. “He’s been asking to see you.”

  He sat down and pulled her to his knee. “Blantyre,” he laughed. “Sir Raymond! I thought it possible he might come. And is he very angry?”

  “When he saw me he was nearly speechless with rage.”

  “Dear fellow! It must have been a dreadful shock to him.”

  “But, Ted,” she cried anxiously, “is it all right?”

  “Righter even than that, carissima. Blantyre simply doesn’t come into the picture. All I trust is that he won’t have a fit in the room or anything, because I think that Sir Raymond in a fit would be a disquieting spectacle.”

  There was a knock at the door, and the girl got quickly up. “Come in.”

  Mr Blackton regarded the infuriated man who entered with a tolerant smile.

  “Sir Raymond Blantyre, surely. A delightful surprise. Please shut the door, and tell us to what we are indebted for the pleasure of this visit.”

  The President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate advanced slowly across the room. His usually florid face was white with rage, and his voice, when he spoke, shook uncontrollably.

  “You scoundrel—you infernal, damned scoundrel!”

  Mr Blackton thoughtfully lit a cigar; then, leaning back in his chair, he surveyed his visitor benignly. “Tush, tush!” he murmured. “I must beg of you to remember that there is a lady present.”

  Sir Raymond muttered something under his breath; then, controlling himself with an effort, he sat down. “I presume it is unnecessary for me to explain why I am here,” he remarked at length.

  “I had imagined through a desire to broaden our comparatively slight acquaintance into something deeper and more intimate,” said Mr Blackton hopefully.

  “Quit this fooling,” snarled the other. “Do you deny that you have the papers containing Goodman’s process?”

  “I never deny anything till I’m asked, and not always then.”

  “Have you got them, or have you not?” cried Sir Raymond furiously.

  “Now I put it to you, my dear fellow, am I a fool or am I not?” Mr Blackton seemed almost pained. “Of course I have the papers of the process. What on earth do you suppose I put myself to the trouble and inconvenience of coming over to England for? Moreover, if it is of any interest to you, the notes are no longer in the somewhat difficult calligraphy of our lamented Professor, but in my own perfectly legible writing.”

  “You scoundrel!” spluttered Sir Raymond. “You took our money—half a million pounds—on the clear understanding that the process was to be suppressed.”

  Mr Blackton blew out a large cloud of smoke. “The point is a small one,” he murmured, “but that is not my recollection of what transpired. You and your syndicate offered me half a million pounds to prevent Professor Goodman revealing his secret to the world. Well, Professor Goodman hasn’t done so—nor will he do so. So I quite fail to see any cause for complaint.”

  The veins stood out on Sir Raymond’s forehead. “You have the brazen effrontery to sit there and maintain that our offer to you did not include the destruction of the secret? Do you imagine we should have been so incredibly foolish as to pay you a large sum of money merely to transfer those papers from his pocket to yours?”

  Mr Blackton shrugged his shoulders. “The longer I live, my dear Sir Raymond, the more profoundly do I become impressed with how incredibly foolish a lot of people are. But, in this case, do not let us call it foolishness. A kinder word is surely more appropriate to express your magnanimity. There are people who say that business men are hard. No—a thousand times, no. To present me with the secret was charming; but to force upon me half a million pounds sterling as well was almost extravagant.”

  “Hand it over—or I’ll kill you like a dog.”

  Mr Blackton’s eyes narrowed a little; then he smiled. “Really, Sir Raymond—don’t be so crude. I must beg of you to put that absurd weapon away. Why, my dear fellow, it might go off. And though I believe capital punishment has been abolished in most of the cantons in Switzerland, I don’t think imprisonment for life would appeal to you.”

  Slowly the other man lowered his revolver.

  “That’s better—much better,” said Mr Blackton approvingly. “And now, have we anything further to discuss?”

  “What do you propose to do?” asked Sir Raymond dully.

  “Really, my dear fellow, I should have thought it was fairly obvious. One thing you may be quite sure about: I do not propose to inform the Royal Society about the matter.”

  “No, but you propose to make use of your knowledge yourself?”

  “Naturally. In fact I propose to become a millionaire many times over by means of it.”

  “That means the ruin of all of us.”

  “My dear Sir Raymond, your naturally brilliant brain seems amazingly obtuse this evening. Please give me the credit of knowing something about the diamond market. I shall place these stones with such care that even you will have no fault to find. It will do me no good to deflate the price of diamonds. Really, if you look into it, you know, your half-million has not been wasted. You would have been ruined without doubt if Professor Goodman had broadcast his discovery to the world at large. Every little chemist would have had genuine diamonds the size of tomatoes in his front window. Now nothing of the sort will happen. And though I admit that it is unpleasant for you to realise that at any moment a stone worth many thousands may be put on the market at the cost of a fiver, It’s not as bad as it would have been if you hadn’t called me in. And one thing I do promise you: I will make no attempt to undersell you. My stones will be sold at the current market price.”

  Sir Raymond stirred restlessly in his chair. It was perfectly true what this arch-scoundrel said: it was better that the secret should be in the hands of a man who knew how to use it than in those of an unpractical old chemist.

  “You see, Sir Raymond,” went on Mr Blackton, “the whole matter is so simple. The only living people who know anything about this process are you and your syndicate—and I. One can really pay no attention to that inconceivable poop—I forget his name—I mean the one with the eyeglass.”

  “There’s his friend,” grunted Sir Raymond—’that vast man.”

  “You allude to Drummond,” said Mr Blackton softly.

  “That’s his name. I don’t know how much he knows, but he suspects a good deal. And he struck me as being a dangerous young man.”

  Mr Blackton smiled sadly.
“Drummond! Dear fellow. My darling,” he turned to the girl, “I have some sad news for you. In the excitement of Sir Raymond’s visit, I quite forgot to tell you. Poor Drummond is no more.”

  The girl sat up quickly. “Dead! Drummond dead! Good heavens! how?”

  “It was all very sad, and rather complicated. The poor dear chap went mad. In his own charming phraseology he got kittens in the granary. But all through his terrible affliction, one spark of his old life remained: his rooted aversion to me. The only trouble was that he mistook someone else for your obedient servant, and at last his feelings overcame him. I took him for a short sea-voyage, with the gentleman he believed was me, and he rewarded me by frothing at the mouth, and jumping overboard in a fit of frenzy, clutching this unfortunate gentleman in the grip of a maniac. They were both drowned. Too sad, is it not?”

  “But I don’t understand,” cried the girl. “Good heavens! what’s that?”

  From a large cupboard occupying most of one wall came the sound of a cork being extracted. It was unmistakable, and a sudden deadly silence settled on the room. The occupants seemed temporarily paralysed: corks do not extract themselves. And then a strange pallor spread over Mr Blackton’s face, as if some ghastly premonition of the truth had dawned on him.

  He tottered rather than walked to the cupboard and flung it open. Comfortably settled in the corner was Drummond. In one hand he held a corkscrew, in the other a full bottle of Napoleonic brandy, which he was sniffing with deep appreciation.

  “I pass this, Carl,” he remarked, “as a very sound liqueur brandy. And if you would oblige me with a glass, I will decide if the taste comes up to the bouquet. A tooth-tumbler will do excellently, if you have no other.”

  The pallor grew more sickly on Blackton’s face as he stared at the speaker. He had a sudden sense of unreality; the room was spinning round. It was untrue, of course; it was a dream. Drummond was drowned: he knew it. So how could he be sitting in the cupboard?

  Manifestly the thing was impossible.

  “Well, well,” said the apparition, stretching out his legs comfortably, “this is undoubtedly a moment fraught with emotion and, I trust I may say, tender memories.”

  He bowed to the girl, who, with her hands locked together, was, staring at him with unfathomable eyes. “Before proceeding, may I ask the correct method of addressing you? I like to pander to your foibles, Carl, in any way I can, and I gather that neither Mr Robinson nor Professor Scheidstrun is technically accurate at the moment.”

  “How did you get here?” said Blackton in a voice he hardly recognised as his own.

  “By the Orient express this morning,” returned Drummond, emerging languidly from the cupboard.

  “My God! you’re not human.”

  The words seemed to be wrung from Blackton by a force greater than his own, and Drummond looked at him thoughtfully. There was no doubt about it—Peterson’s nerve had gone. And Drummond would indeed not have been human if a very real thrill of triumph had not run through him at that moment. But no trace showed on his face as he opened his cigarette-case.

  “On the contrary—very human indeed,” he murmured. “Even as you, Carl—you’ll excuse me if I return to our original nomenclature: It’s so much less confusing. To err is human—and you erred once. It’s bad luck, because I may frankly say that in all the pleasant rencontres we’ve had together nothing has filled me with such profound admiration for your ability as this meeting. There are one or two details lacking in my mind—one in particular; but on what I do know, I congratulate you. And possessing, as I think you must admit, a sense of sportsmanship, I feel almost sorry for that one big error of yours, though it is a delightful compliment to my histrionic abilities. How’s Freyder’s face?”

  “So you hadn’t got concussion?” said the other. His voice was steadier now; he was thinking desperately.

  “You’ve hit it, Carl. I recovered from my concussion on the floor, of your room, and listened with interest to your plans for my future. And having a certain natural gift for lying doggo, I utilised it. But if it’s any gratification to you, I can assure you that I very nearly gave myself away when I found who it was you had upstairs. You will doubtless be glad to hear that by this time Professor Goodman is restored to the bosom of his family.”

  A strangled noise came from behind him, and he turned round to find Sir Raymond Blantyre in a partially choking condition. “Who did you say?” he demanded thickly.

  “Professor Goodman,” repeated Drummond, and his voice was icy. “I haven’t got much to say to you, Sir Raymond—except that you’re a nasty piece of work. Few things in my life have afforded me so much pleasure as the fact that you were swindled out of half a million. I wish it had been more. For the man who carried this coup through one can feel a certain unwilling admiration; for you, one can feel only the most unmitigated contempt.”

  “How dare you speak like that!” spluttered the other, but Drummond was taking no further notice of him.

  “That was your second error, Carl. You ought to have come into the motor-boat. I assure you I had a dreadful time dragging that poor old chap underneath it, as you crossed our stern. His knowledge of swimming is rudimentary.”

  “So that was it, was it?” said Blackton slowly. His nerve had completely recovered, and he lit a cigar with ease. “I really think it is for me to congratulate you, my dear Drummond. Apart, however, from this exchange of pleasantries—er—what do we do now?”

  “You say that Professor Goodman is still alive?” Sir Raymond had found his voice again. “Then who—who was buried?”

  “Precisely,” murmured Drummond. “The one detail in particular in which I am interested. Who was the owner of the boot? Or shall I say who was the owner of the foot inside the boot, because the boot was undoubtedly the Professor’s?”

  “The point seems to me to be of but academic interest,” remarked Mr Blackton in a bored voice. “Nil nisis bonum’—you know the old tag. And I can assure you that the foot’s proprietor was a tedious individual. No loss to the community whatever.”

  And suddenly a light dawned on Sir Raymond Blantyre. “Great heavens! it was poor Lewisham.”

  Absorbed as he had been by other things, the strange disappearance of his indiscreet fellow-director, the peculiar radiogram from mid-Atlantic and subsequent silence, had slipped from his mind. Now it came back, and he stared at Blackton with a sort of fascinated horror. The reason for Lewisham’s visit to Professor Goodman was clear, and he shuddered uncontrollably. “It was Lewisham,” he repeated dully.

  “I rather believe it was,” murmured Blackton, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. “As I said before, the point is of but academic interest.”

  He turned again to Drummond. “So Professor Goodman is restored to his family once more. I trust he has suffered no ill-effects from his prolonged immersion.”

  “None at all, thank you,” answered Drummond. “Somewhat naturally, he is angry. In fact, for a mild and gentle old man, he is in what might be described as the devil of a temper.”

  “But if he’s back in London,” broke in Sir Raymond excitedly, “what about his secret? It will be given to the world, and all this will have been in vain.”

  Mr Blackton thoughtfully studied the ash on his cigar, while Drummond stared at the speaker. And then for one fleeting instant their eyes met. Sworn enemies though they were, for that brief moment they stood on common ground—unmitigated contempt for the man who had just spoken.

  “From many points of view, Sir Raymond, I wish it could be given to the world,” said Drummond. “I can think of no better punishment for you, or one more richly deserved. Unfortunately, however, you can set your mind at rest on that point. Professor Goodman no longer possesses his notes on the process.”

  “Precisely,” murmured Mr Blackton. “It struck me that one copy was ample. So I destroyed his.”

  “But for all that,” continued Drummond, noting the look of relief that spread over Sir Raymond’s face, “I
don’t think you’re going to have a fearfully jolly time when you return to London. In fact, if I may offer you a word of advice, I wouldn’t return at all.”

  “What do you mean?” stammered the other.

  “Exactly what I say, you damned swine,” snapped Drummond. “Do you imagine you can instigate murder and sudden death, and then go trotting into the Berkeley as if nothing had happened? You’re for it, Blantyre; you’re for it—good and strong. And you’re going to get it. As I say, the Professor is angry and he’s obstinate and he wants your blood. My own impression is that if you get off with fifteen years, you can think yourself lucky.”

  Sir Raymond plucked at his collar feverishly. “Fifteen years! My God!”

  Then his voice rose to a scream. “But it was this villain who did it all, I tell you, who murdered Lewisham, who…”

  With a crash he fell back in the chair where Drummond had thrown him, and though his shaking lips still framed words, no sound came from them. Blackton was still critically regarding the ash on his cigar; Drummond had turned his back and was speaking again.

  “Yes, Carl,” he was saying, “the Professor and I will deal with Sir Raymond. Or if anything should happen to me, then the Professor is quite capable of doing it himself.”

  “And what do you anticipate should happen to you?” asked Blackton politely. “Nothing, I trust. But there is one thing which I have never done in the past during all our games of fun and laughter. I have never made the mistake of underrating you.”

  Blackton glanced at him thoughtfully. “We appear,” he murmured, “to be approaching the sixpence in the plum-pudding.”

  “We are,” returned Drummond quietly. “Sir Raymond is the Professor’s portion; you are mine.”

  A silence settled on the room—a silence broken at length by Blackton. His blue eyes never left Drummond’s face; the smoke from his cigar rose into the air undisturbed by any tremor of his hand.

  “I am all attention,” he remarked.

  “There is not much to say,” said Drummond. “But what there is, I hope may interest you. If my memory serves me aright, there was one unfailing jest between us in the old days. Henry Lakington did his best to make it stale before he met with his sad end; that unpleasant Count Zadowa let it trip from his tongue on occasions; in fact, Carl, you yourself have used it more than once. I allude to the determination expressed by you all at one time or another—to kill me.”