The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Desperately he pulled himself together. The police outside; the telephone; there was still time. He could hear the engine of a motor-boat now, but even so there was time. He rushed across the room to the door; outside in the passage were the two gendarmes.

  They listened as he poured out the story, and then one of them shook his head a little doubtfully.

  “It is perfectly true, Monsieur,” he remarked, “that we can communicate with the gendarmes of all the Swiss towns au bord du lac—and at once. But with the French towns it is different.”

  “French?” said Drummond, staring at him. “Isn’t this bally lake Swiss?”

  “Mais non, monsieur. Most of it is. But the southern shore from St Gingolph to Hermance is French. Evian-les-Bains is a well known French watering-place.”

  “Evian-les-Bains!” shouted Drummond—”Evian-les-Bains! Stung!—utterly, absolutely, completely stung! And to think that that girl fixed the whole thing under my very nose.” For a moment he stood undecided; then at a run he started along the corridor.

  “After ’em, mes braves. Another motor-boat is the only chance.”

  There was another moored close inshore, and into it they all tumbled, followed by Ted Jerningham and Algy Longworth, whom they had roused from their slumbers in the lounge. Ted, as the authority, took charge of the engine—only to peer at it once and start laughing.

  “What’s the matter?” snapped Drummond.

  “Nothing much, old man,” said his pal. “Only that there are difficulties in the way of making a petrol engine go when both sparking-plugs have long been removed.”

  And it seemed to Drummond that, at that moment, there came a faint, mocking shout from far out on the darkness of the lake.

  “Mind you wear hobnailed boots on the glacier.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  In Which Drummond Receives an Addition to His Library

  It was four days later. During that four days Drummond’s usual bright conversational powers had been limited to one word—’Stung’. And now as he drew his second pint from the cask in the corner of his room in Brook Street, he elaborated it.

  “Stung in the centre and on both flanks,” he remarked morosely. “And biffed in the jaw into the bargain.”

  “Still, old dear,” murmured Algy brightly—Algy’s world was bright again, now that there was no further need to postpone his marriage—”you may meet him again. You’d never really have forgiven yourself if you’d watched him passaging down a glacier. So near and yet so far, and all that sort of thing. I mean, what’s the good of a glacier, anyway? You can’t use the ice even to make a cocktail with. At least, not if old man Peterson was embalmed in it. It wouldn’t be decent.”

  “Stung,” reiterated Drummond. “And not only stung, my dear boy, but very nearly bitten. Are you aware that only by the most uncompromising firmness on my part did I avoid paying his bill at the Palace Hotel? The manager appeared to think that I was responsible for his abrupt departure. A truly hideous affair.”

  He relapsed into moody silence, which remained unbroken till the sudden entrance of Professor Goodman. He was holding in his hand an early edition of an evening paper, and his face was agitated.

  “What’s up, Professor?” asked Drummond.

  “Read that,” said the other.

  Drummond glanced at the paper.

  “Death of well-known English financier in Paris.”

  Thus ran the headline. He read on: “This morning Sir Raymond Blantyre, who was stopping at the Savoy Hotel, was found dead in his bed. Beside the deceased man an empty bottle of veronal was discovered. No further details are at present to hand.”

  The paragraph concluded with a brief description of the dead man’s career, but Drummond read no farther. So Blantyre had failed to face the music. As usual, the lesser man paid, while Peterson got off.

  “Suicide, I assume,” said the Professor.

  “Undoubtedly,” answered Drummond. “It saves trouble. And I may say I put the fear of God into him. Well, Denny—what is it?”

  “This letter and parcel have just come for you, sir,” said his servant.

  Drummond turned them both over in his hand, and a faint smile showed on his face. The postmark was Rome; the writing he knew.

  It was the letter he opened first: “I have threatened often: I shall not always fail. You have threatened once: you could hardly hope to succeed. I shall treasure some edelweiss. Au revoir.”

  Still smiling, he looked at the parcel. After all, perhaps it was as well. Life without Peterson would indeed be tame. He cut the string; he undid the paper. And then a strange look spread over his face—a look which caused the faithful Denny to step forward in alarm.

  “Beer, fool—beer!” cried his master hoarsely.

  On the table in front of him lay a book. It was entitled Our Tiny Tots’ Primer of Geography.

  THE FINAL COUNT (1926) [Part 1]

  INTRODUCTION

  In endeavouring to put before the public for the first time the truth concerning the amazing happenings of the summer of 1927, I feel myself to be at a disadvantage. In the first place I am no storyteller: so maybe my presentation of the facts will fail to carry conviction. Nay, further: it is more than likely that what I am about to write down will be regarded as a tissue of preposterous lies. And yet to those who condemn me offhand I would say one thing. Take the facts as you know them, and as they appeared in the newspapers, and try to account for them in any other way. You may say that in order to write a book—gain, perhaps, a little cheap notoriety—I have taken the ravings of a madman around which to build a fantastic and ridiculous story. You are welcome to your opinion. I can do no more than tell you what I know: I cannot make you believe me.

  In one respect, however, I feel that I am in a strong position: my own part was a comparatively small one. And it is therefore from no reason of self-aggrandisement that I write. To one man, and one man only, is praise and honour due, and that is the man who led us—Hugh Drummond. But if unbelievers should go to him for confirmation, it is more than probable they will be disappointed. He will burble at them genially, knock them senseless with a blow of greeting on the back, and then resuscitate them with a large tankard of ale. And the doubter may well be pardoned for continuing to doubt: I, myself, when I first met Drummond was frankly incredulous as to his capabilities of being anything but a vast and good-natured fool. I disbelieved, politely, the stories his friends told me about him: to be candid, his friends were of very much the same type as himself. There were four of them whom I got to know intimately: Algy Longworth, a tall young man with a slight drawl and an eyeglass; Peter Darrell, who usually came home with the milk each morning, but often turned out to play cricket for Middlesex; Ted Jerningham, who fell in love with a different girl daily; and finally Toby Sinclair, who was responsible for introducing me into the circle.

  Finally, there was Drummond himself of whom a few words of description may not be amiss. He stood just six feet in his socks, and turned the scales at over fourteen stone. And of that fourteen stone not one ounce was made up of superfluous fat. He was hard muscle and bone clean through, and the most powerful man I have ever met in my life. He was a magnificent boxer, a lightning and deadly shot with a revolver, and utterly lovable. Other characteristics I discovered later: his complete absence of fear (though that seemed common to all of them); his cool resourcefulness in danger; and his marvellous gift of silent movement, especially in the dark.

  But those traits, as I say, I only found out later: just at first he seemed to me to be a jovial, brainless creature who was married to an adorable wife.

  It was his face and his boxing abilities that had caused him to be nicknamed Bulldog. His mouth was big, and his nose was small, and he would not have won a prize at a beauty show. In fact, it was only his eyes—clear and steady with a permanent glint of lazy humour in them—that redeemed his face from positive ugliness.

  So much, then, for Hugh Drummond, D.S.O., M.C., who was destined to play the le
ading part in the events of that summer, and to meet again, and for the last time, the devil in human form who was our arch-enemy. And though it is not quite in chronological order, yet I am tempted to say a few words here concerning that monstrous criminal. Often in the earlier stages of our investigations did I hear Drummond mention his name—a name which conveyed nothing to me, but which required no explanation to the others or to his wife. And one day I asked him point blank what he meant.

  He smiled slightly, and a dreamy look came into his eyes.

  “What do I mean, by saying that I seem to trace the hand of Carl Peterson? I’ll tell you. There is a man alive in this world today—at least he’s alive as far as I know—who might have risen to any height of greatness. He is possessed of a stupendous brain, unshakable nerve, and unlimited ambition. There is a kink, however, in his brain, which has turned him into an utterly unscrupulous criminal. To him murder means no more than the squashing of a wasp means to you.”

  He looked at me quietly.

  “Understand me: that remark is the literal truth. Three times in the past have he and I met: I’m just wondering if this will prove to be the fourth; if, way back, at the foundation of this ghastly affair, there sits Carl Peterson, or Edward Blackton, or the Comte de Guy, or whatever he calls himself, directing, controlling, organising everything. I haven’t seen him now or heard of him for three years, and as I say—I wonder.”

  At the time, of course, it was Greek to me; but now that the thing is over and the terror is finished, it may be of interest to those who read to know before I start what we did not know at the time: to know that fighting against us with every force at his command was that implacable devil whom I will call Carl Peterson.

  I say, we did not know it, but I feel that I must mitigate that statement somewhat. Looking back now I think—and Drummond himself admits it—that deep down in his mind there was a feeling almost of certainty that he was up against Peterson. He had no proof: he says that it was just a guess without much foundation—but he was convinced that it was so. And it was that conviction that kept him at it during those weary weeks in London, when all traces seemed to be lost. For if he had relaxed then, as we others did: if he had grown bored, thinking that all was over, a thing would have occurred unparalleled in the annals of crime.

  But enough of this introduction: I will begin my story. And in telling it I shall omit nothing: even at the risk of boring my readers I shall give in their proper place extracts from the newspapers of the day which dealt with that part of the affair which is already known to the public. If there is to be a record, let it be a complete one.

  CHAPTER I

  In Which I Hear a Cry in the Night

  It was on a warm evening towards the end of April 1927 that the first act took place, though it is safe to say that there has never been any connection in the public mind up till this day between it and what came after. I was dining at Prince’s with Robin Gaunt, a young and extremely brilliant scientist, and a very dear friend of mine. We had been at school together and at Cambridge; and though we had lost sight of one another during the war, the threads of friendship had been picked up again quite easily at the conclusion of that foolish performance. I had joined the Gunners, whilst he, somewhat naturally, had gravitated towards the Royal Engineers. For a year or two, doubtless bearing in mind his really extraordinary gifts, the powers that be ordained that he should make roads, a form of entertainment of which he knew less than nothing. And Robin smiled thoughtfully and made roads. At least he did so officially: in reality he did other things, whilst a sergeant with a penchant for rum superintended the steam roller. And then one day came a peremptory order from G.H.Q. that Lieutenant Robin Gaunt, R. E., should cease making roads, and should report himself at the seats of the mighty at once. And Robin, still smiling thoughtfully, reported himself. As I have said, he had been doing other things during that eighteen months, and the fruits of his labours, sent direct and not through the usual official channels, lay on the table in front of the man to whom he reported.

  From then on Robin became a mysterious and shadowy figure. I met him once on the leave boat going home, but he was singularly uncommunicative. He was always a silent sort of fellow, though on the rare occasions when he chose to talk he could be brilliant. But during that crossing he was positively taciturn.

  He looked ill and I told him so.

  “Eighteen hours a day, old John, for eleven months on end. That’s what I’ve been doing, and I’m tired.”

  He lit a cigarette and stared over the water.

  “Can you take it easy now?” I asked him.

  He gave a weary little smile.

  “If you mean by that, have I finished, then I can—more or less. But if you mean, can I take it easy from a mental point of view, God knows. I’ll not have to work eighteen hours a day any more, but there are worse things than physical exhaustion.”

  And suddenly he laid his hand on my arm.

  “I know they’re Huns,” he said tensely: “I know it’s just one’s bounden duty to use every gift one has been given to beat ’em. But, damn it, John—they’re men too. They go back to their women-kind, just as all these fellows on this boat are going back to theirs.”

  He paused, and I thought he was going to say something more. But he didn’t: he just gave a short laugh and led the way through the crowd to the bar.

  “A drink, John, and forget what I’ve been saying.”

  That was in July ’18, and I didn’t see him again till after the Armistice. We met in London, and at lunch I started pulling his leg over his eighteen hours’ work a day. He listened with a faint smile, and for a long while refused to be drawn. And it was only when the waiter went off to get change for the bill that he made a remark which for many months stuck in my mind.

  “There are a few things in my life that I’m thankful for, John,” he said quietly. “And the one that I’m most thankful for is that the Boches broke when they did. For if they hadn’t…”

  “Well—if they hadn’t?”

  “There wouldn’t have been any Boches left to break.”

  “And a damned good thing too,” I exclaimed.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “They’re men too, as I said before. However, in Parliamentary parlance the situation does not arise. Wherefore, since it’s Tuesday today and Wednesday tomorrow, we might have another brandy.”

  And with that the conversation closed. Periodically during the next few months that remark of his came back to my mind.

  “There wouldn’t have been any Boches left to break.”

  An exaggeration, of course: a figure of speech, and yet Robin Gaunt was not given to the use of vain phrases. Years of scientific training had made him meticulously accurate in his use of words; and, certainly, if one-tenth of the wild rumours that circulated round the military Hush-Hush department was true, there might be some justification for his remark. But after a time I forgot all about it, and when Robin alluded to the matter at dinner on that evening in April I had to rack my brains to remember what he was talking about.

  I’d suggested a play, but he had shaken his head.

  “I’ve an appointment, old man, tonight which I can’t break. Remember my eighteen hours’ work a day that you were so rude about?”

  It took me a second or two to get the allusion.

  “Great Scott!” I laughed, “that was the war to end war, my boy. To make the world safe for heroes to live in, with further slush ad nauseam. You don’t mean to say that you are still dabbling in horrors?”

  “Not exactly, John,” he said gravely. “When the war was over I put the whole of that part of my life behind me. I hoped, as most of us did, that a new era had dawned: now I realise, as all of us realise, that we’ve merely gone back a few centuries. You know as well as I do that it is merely a question of time before the hatred of Germany for France boils up and cannot be restrained. Any thinking German will tell you so. Don’t let’s worry about whose fault it is: we’re concerned m
ore with effects than causes. But when it does happen, there will be a war which for unparalleled ferocity has never before been thought of. Don’t let’s worry as to whether we go in, or on whose side we go in: those are problems that don’t concern us. Let us merely realise that primitive passions are boiling and seething in Europe, backed by inventions which are the last word in science. Force is the sole arbiter today: force and blazing hate, covered for diplomacy’s sake with a pitifully thin veneer of honeyed phrases. I tell you, John, I’ve just come back from Germany and I was staggered, simply staggered. The French desire for revanche in 1870 compared to German feeling today is as a tallow dip to the light of the sun.”

  He lit a cigar thoughtfully.

  “However, all that is neither here nor there. Concentrate on that one idea, that force is the only thing that counts today: concentrate also on the idea that frightfulness in war is inevitable. I’ve come round to that way of thinking, you know. The more the thing drags on, the more suffering and sorrow to the larger number. Wherefore, pursuing the argument to a logical conclusion, it seems to me that it might be possible to arm a nation with a weapon so frightful, that by its very frightfulness war would be impossible because no other country would dare to fight.”

  “Frightfulness only breeds frightfulness,” I remarked. “You’ll always get counter-measures.”

  “Not always,” he said slowly. “Not always.”

  “But what’s your idea, Robin? What nation would you put in possession of such a weapon—granting for the moment that the weapon is there?”

  He looked at me surprised. It was a silly remark, but I was thinking of France and Germany.

  “My dear old man—our own, of course. Who else? The policeman of the world. Perhaps America too: the English-speaking peoples. Put them in such a position, John, that they can say, should the necessity arise—‘You shall not fight. You shall not again blacken the world with the hideous suffering of 1914. And since we can’t prevent you fighting by words, we’ll do it by force.’”