The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “Have you any idea what he looks like?” asked Toby.

  “That’s the devil of it,” I answered. “I haven’t the slightest. All I can tell you is that he must be a fairly wealthy man who had two sons killed in Gallipoli.”

  The policeman nodded his head portentously.

  “The Yard has found men with less to go on than that, sir,” he remarked. “Very likely he’ll be putting up at one of the swell hotels.”

  “And very likely he won’t,” put in Toby. “If what Mr Stockton thinks is right, and this unknown Australian is at the bottom of it all, stopping at one of the big hotels is just what he wouldn’t do. However, there’s a taxi, so presumably it’s the Inspector.”

  The constable hurriedly extinguished his cigarette, and went to the front door to meet MacIver. He was a short, thick-set, powerful man with a pair of shrewd, penetrating eyes. He gave a curt nod to each of us, and listened in silence while I again repeated my story. This time I told it a little more fully, emphasising the fact that Robin Gaunt was at any rate under the impression that he had made a far-reaching discovery which would revolutionise warfare.

  “What sort of a discovery?” interrupted MacIver.

  “I can’t tell you, Inspector,” I said, “for I don’t know. He was employed during the war as a gas expert, and when the Armistice came he had, I believe, invented a particularly deadly form which, of course, was never used. And from what he told me a dinner tonight, this invention was now perfected. He described it to me as causing universal, instantaneous death.”

  The Inspector fidgeted impatiently: imagination was not his strong point, and I admit it sounded a bit fanciful.

  “He left me to come and interview an Australian who has helped him financially. His idea was that the appalling power of this discovery of his could be used to prevent warfare in future, if it was in the sole hands of one nation. He thought that no other nation would then dare to go to war. And his intention was to demonstrate before the Army Council tomorrow, with the idea that England might be that one nation. That is what he told me this evening. How far his claims were justified I don’t know. What his discovery was I don’t know. But two things I do know: first, that Robin Gaunt is a genius, and second, that his claim can be no more fantastic than what we all of us saw take place before our very eyes half-an-hour ago.”

  MacIver grunted and rose from his chair.

  “Let’s go and have a look.”

  The constable led the way, and once again we entered the room upstairs. Everything was just as we had left it: the dead man still stared horribly at the ceiling: the terrier still lay a little twisted heap in the window: the blood still dripped sluggishly off the desk. But the strange smell we had noticed was considerably less powerful, though the Inspector noticed it at once and sniffed. Then with the method born of long practice he commenced his examination of the room. And it was an education in itself to see him work. He never spoke; and at the end of ten minutes not a corner had been overlooked. Every drawer had been opened, every paper examined and discarded, and the net result was—nothing.

  “A very extraordinary affair,” he said quietly. “I take it you knew Mr Gaunt fairly intimately?”

  He looked at me and I nodded.

  “Very intimately,” I answered. “We were at school together, and at college, and I’ve frequently seen him since.”

  “And you have no idea, beyond what you have already told me, as to what this discovery of his was?”

  “None. But I should imagine, Inspector, in view of his appointment with the Army Council tomorrow, that someone at the War Office may be able to tell you something.”

  “It is, of course, possible that he will keep that appointment,” said MacIver. “Though I admit I’m not hopeful.”

  His eyes were fixed on the dead dog.

  “That’s what beats me particularly,” he remarked. “Why kill the terrier? A possible hypothesis is that he didn’t: that the dog was killed accidentally. Let us, for instance, imagine for a moment that your friend was experimenting with this device of his. The dead guinea-pig bears that out. Then some accident occurred. I make no attempt to say what accident, because we have no idea as to the nature of the device. He lost his head, snatched up the telephone, got through to you—and then realising the urgent danger rushed from the room, forgetting all about the dog. And the dog was killed.”

  “But surely,” I objected, “under those circumstances we should find some trace of apparatus. And there’s nothing. And why all that blood?”

  “He might have snatched it up when he left, and thrown it away somewhere.”

  “He might,” I agreed. “But I can’t help thinking, Inspector, that it is more sinister than that. If I may say so, I believe that what happened is this. The Australian whom he was going to meet was not an Australian at all. He was possibly a German or some foreigner, who was deeply interested in this device, and who had deceived Gaunt completely. He came here tonight, and overpowered Gaunt: then he carried out a test on the dog, and found that it acted. After that he, probably with the help of accomplices, removed Gaunt, either with the intention of murdering him at leisure or of keeping him a prisoner.”

  “Another hypothesis,” agreed the Inspector, “but it presents one very big difficulty, Mr Stockton. Your friend must have suspected foul play when he rang you up on the telephone. Now you’re on a different exchange, and it must have taken, on a conservative estimate, a quarter of a minute to get through. Are we to assume that during those fifteen seconds this Australian, or whatever he is, and his accomplices stood around and looked at Mr Gaunt doing the one thing they didn’t want him to do—getting in touch with the outside world?”

  It was perfectly true, and I admit the point had not struck me. And yet in the bottom of my mind I still felt convinced that in the Australian lay the clue to everything, and I said as much.

  “Find that man, Inspector,” I repeated, “and you’ve solved it. There are difficulties. I know, of which not the least is the telephone. Another is the fact that Gaunt is a powerful man: he’d have struggled like a tiger. And except for the blood there’s no sign of a struggle.”

  “They may have tidied up after,” put in Toby. “Hullo! what’s the matter, constable?”

  The policeman, who, unnoticed by us, had left the room was standing in the door, obviously much shaken.

  “This affair gets worse and worse, sir,” he said to MacIver. “Will you just step over the passage here, and have a look in this room?”

  We crowded after him into the room opposite—one which belonged to the corresponding suite to Robin’s. Instantly the same faint smell became noticeable, but it was not that which riveted our attention. Lying on the floor was a man, and we could see at a glance that he was dead. He was a great big fellow, and his clothes bore witness to the most desperate struggle. His coat was torn, his waistcoat ripped open, and there was a dark purple bruise on his forehead. But in the strange rigidity of his limbs, and in the fixed staring eyes, he resembled exactly the unfortunate constable in the room opposite.

  A foot or so away from his head was a broadish-brimmed hat, and MacIver turned it over with his foot. Then he bent down to examine it.

  “I’m thinking, Mr Stockton,” he remarked grimly, “that we’ve done what you wanted to do. We’ve found the Australian. That hat was made in Sydney.”

  He whistled softly under his breath.

  “And that effectively knocks both our hypotheses out of court.” He made a sudden dart into the corner.

  “Constable, give me those tongs. I guess I’m not touching anything I can avoid in this house tonight.”

  He took the tongs and lifted up what appeared to be an india-rubber glove. It was a sort of glazed white in colour, and was obviously new, since the elastic band which fitted round the wrist was quite clean, and there was no sign of scratches or dirt anywhere.

  “Put this on the desk in the other room,” said MacIver to the policeman. “And now we’ll go over every si
ngle room in this house.”

  We did: we explored the attic and the basement, the sitting-rooms and the scullery. And it was nearly three before we had finished. But not another thing did we discover: quite obviously everything that had happened had occurred in those two rooms. MacIver grew more and more morose and uncommunicative, and it was obvious that he was completely baffled. Small blame to him: the whole thing seemed like the figment of an incredible nightmare.

  And even when Toby Sinclair put forward what seemed on the face of it to be a fairly plausible explanation he merely grunted and expressed no opinion.

  “I’ll bet you that that’s what happened,” Toby said, as, the search concluded, we stood once again in Robin’s room. “The two of them were in here—Gaunt and the Australian—when they were surprised by someone. The Australian, whom we’ve suspected unjustly, fought like a tiger, and gained just sufficient time for Gaunt to get through on the telephone. Then they killed the Australian, and got at Gaunt. Don’t ask me to explain the dog, for I can’t.”

  It seemed plausible, as I say, and during the drive home behind our patiently waiting taxi-driver I could think of nothing better. We’d both been warned that our evidence would be required the following day, and the constable, reinforced by another, had been left in possession of the house.

  “I believe you’ve hit it, Sinclair,” I said, as the car turned into Clarges Street. “But what’s worrying me is what has happened to that poor devil Gaunt.”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “If I am right, Stockton,” he answered gravely, “I’m thinking I, wouldn’t issue a policy on his life if I was in the insurance business. In fact, what I don’t understand is why they didn’t kill him then and there.”

  The car pulled up at the door of my rooms, and I gave the driver a fiver.

  “You’ve been splendid,” I said, “and I’m much obliged to you.”

  “Don’t mention it, sir,” he answered. “But I guess there’s one thing you might like to know.”

  He pointed to a taxi which had just driven slowly past and was now turning into Curzon Street.

  “It’s empty; but that there car was down in Kensington all tonight, just about a ’undred yards along the road. You two gents have been followed.” He handed me a slip of paper. “And that’s the number of the car.”

  CHAPTER II

  IN WHICH I MEET HUGH DRUMMOND

  I have purposely alluded at some length to that last conversation between Robin Gaunt and myself at Prince’s. Apart altogether from the fact that he was my friend, it is only fair that his true character should be known. At the time, it may be remembered, there were all sorts of wild and malicious rumours going round about him. From being an absolutely unknown man as far as the general public was concerned, he attained the notoriety of a popular film star.

  It was inevitable, of course: the whole affair was so bizarre and extraordinary that it captivated the popular fancy. And the most favourite explanation was the most unjust of all to Robin. It was that he was a cold-blooded scientist who had been experimenting on his own dog. A sort of super vivisectionist: a monster without a heart, who had been interrupted in the middle of his abominable work by the Australian, whom he had murdered in a fit of rage; and then, a little alarmed at having killed a man as well as a dog and a guinea-pig, he had rung me up on the telephone as a blind, and fled.

  Apart from ignoring the question of the blood, it was ridiculous to anyone who knew him, but there is no doubt that as an explanation of what had occurred it was the one that had most adherents. Certainly the possibility of Robin having killed the Australian—it transpired that he was one David Ganton, a wealthy man, who had been staying at the Ritz—was entertained for a considerable time. Until, in fact…But of that in due course.

  I wish now to show how it was that theory started, and why it was that at the inquest I made no mention of the conversation I have recorded. For my lips were sealed by the interview which occurred the following morning. I was rung up on the telephone at eleven o’clock, and an unknown voice spoke from the other end.

  “Is that Mr Stockton? It is Major Jackson speaking. I hope it won’t be inconvenient for you to come round at once to the War Office in connection with the affair last night. Ask for G branch, Room 38. Instructions will be sent down, so you will have no delay at the door.”

  To Room 38, G Branch, I accordingly went, there to find four people already assembled. Seated at a desk was a tanned, keen-faced man who had soldier written all over him; whilst standing against the mantelpiece, smoking a cigarette, was a younger man, whom I recognised, as soon as he spoke, as the man who had rung me up. The other two consisted of Inspector MacIver and a thin-lipped man wearing pince-nez whose face seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Mr Stockton?” Major Jackson stepped forward and shook hands. “This is General Darton”—he indicated the man at the desk—“and this is Sir John Dallas. Inspector MacIver I think you know.”

  That was why Sir John’s face had seemed familiar. As soon as I heard the name I remembered having seen his photograph in a recent copy of the Sphere, as the author of an exhaustive book on toxicology.

  “Sit down, Mr Stockton,” said the General, “and please smoke if you want to. You can guess, of course, the reason we have asked you to come round…”

  “I told him, sir,” put in Major Jackson.

  “Good! Though I expect it was unnecessary. Now, Mr Stockton, we have heard from Inspector MacIver an account of last night and what you told him. But we think it would be more satisfactory if we could hear it from you first hand.”

  So once again I told them everything I knew. I recalled as far as possible, word for word, my conversation with Robin at dinner, and I noticed that the two officers glanced at one another significantly more than once. But they listened in silence, save for one interruption when I mentioned his notion of fighting indiscriminately against both sides.

  It was the General who smiled at that and remarked that as an idea it had at any rate the merit of novelty.

  Then I went on and outlined what had happened up till the arrival of the Inspector, paying, naturally, particular attention to the death of the constable. And it was at that point that Sir John spoke for the first time.

  “Did you happen to see what part of the dog the constable touched?” he said.

  “Roughly, I did, Sir John. He laid his hand on the dog’s ribs just above the left shoulder.”

  He nodded as if satisfied.

  “I thought as much. Now another thing. You saw this man die in front of your eyes. Did the manner of his death create any particular impression on your brain apart from its amazing suddenness?”

  “It produced the impression that he had acute pain spreading from his fingers up his arm. The whole arm seemed to twist and writhe, and then he was dead.”

  And once again Sir John nodded as if satisfied.

  “There is only one other point which I might mention,” I concluded. “The Inspector can tell you everything that happened while he was there. As we got out of our taxi in Clarges Street, another car drove slowly by. And our driver told us that it was the same car that had been standing for hours about a hundred yards further down the road. It was empty, and this is the number.” I handed the slip of paper to MacIver, who glanced at it and gave a short laugh. “It struck us both that we might have been followed.”

  “This car was found deserted in South Audley Street this morning,” he said. “It’s rightful owner was arrested for being hopelessly drunk in Peckham last night at about half-past nine. And he swears by all his gods that the only drink he’d had was one whisky-and-soda with a man who was a stranger to him. His car was standing in front of the pub at the time, and he remembers nothing more till he woke up in his cell with his boots off.”

  “That would seem to prove outside influence at work, Inspector,” said the General.

  “Maybe, sir,” said MacIver cautiously. “Maybe not. Though it does point that way.”

&
nbsp; “But, good Heavens, General,” I cried, “surely there can be no doubt about that. What other possible solution can there be?”

  For a moment or two he drummed with his fingers on the desk.

  “That brings us, Mr Stockton,” he said gravely, “to the main reason which made us ask you to come round here this morning. We have decided to take you into our confidence, and rely upon your absolute discretion. I feel sure we can do that.”

  “Certainly, sir,” I said.

  “In the first place, then, you must know that the Army Council regard this as a most serious matter. There is no doubt whatever that Gaunt was a most brilliant man: his work during the war proved that. But, as you know yourself, the Armistice prevented any practical test. And there is a vast difference between theory and practice. However, with a man like that one is prepared to take a good deal on trust, and when he asked to be allowed to give us a demonstration today we granted his request at once. I may say that at the time of the Armistice there were still two points where his discovery failed. The first and lesser of the two lay in the stuff itself; the second and greater lay in the method of distributing it. In applying to us for his demonstration he claimed to have overcome both these difficulties.

  “At the time when the war ended it was, as you can guess, a very closely guarded secret. Not more than four men knew anything about it. And then, the war over, and the necessity for its use no longer existing, the whole thing was rather pigeon-holed. In fact it was only the day before yesterday, on the receipt of Gaunt’s request, that the matter was unearthed again. Naturally we imagined that it was still just as close a secret as ever. The events of last night prove that it cannot have been, unless my alternative theory should prove to be correct. And if that is so, Stockton, we are confronted with the unpleasant fact that someone is in possession of this very dangerous secret. Even in its Armistice stage the matter would be serious enough; but if Gaunt’s claims are correct, words are inadequate to express the dangers of the situation. Now, as anyone who is in the slightest degree in touch with the European pulse today knows, we are living on the edge of a volcano. And nothing must be done to start an eruption. Nothing, you understand. All personal feelings must go to the wall. In a moment or two I shall ask Sir John to say a few words, and from him you will realise that the first and lesser of the two points has evidently been rectified by Gaunt. What of the second and greater one? Until we know that, nothing must even be hinted at in the papers as to the nature of the issues at stake. And that brings me to my point. When you give your evidence at the inquest, Stockton, I want you to obliterate from your mind the conversation you had with Gaunt last night. The whole force of Scotland Yard is being employed to try and clear this thing up, and secrecy is essential. And we therefore rely entirely on your discretion and that of your friend, Mr Sinclair.”