The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  I heard no more: Toby Sinclair, swearing vigorously, under his breath, dragged me into Piccadilly.

  “Confound you, Stockton, why the devil don’t you do what you’re told? I was half-way along Burlington Arcade before I realised you weren’t there. You’d better take it here and now that if Hugh tells you to do a thing he means it to be done exactly as he said. And he said nothing about standing and watching him.”

  “Damn Drummond and everything connected with him,” I said irritably. “Who is he anyway to give me orders?”

  He laughed quietly as we got into the taxi.

  “I’m sorry, old man,” he said. “I was forgetting for the moment that you only met him for the first time today. You’ll laugh yourself in a few days when you recall that remark of yours.”

  I did; but at the time I was peevish.

  “If there’s a man living in England today,” he went on, “who is more capable than Hugh of finding out what happened last night I’d like to meet him.”

  And I smiled my incredulity. To tell the truth, the things that had happened since my return from the War Office had rather driven that interview from my mind. But now I had leisure to recall it, and the more I thought of it the less I liked it. It is all very well in theory to say that there are occasions when an individual must suffer for the good of the state, but in practice it is most unpleasant when that individual is your own particular friend. Your friend, too, who had called to you for help and whom you have failed.

  Mercifully Robin had neither kith nor kin, which eased my mind a certain amount: by allowing this false impression to be given at the inquest I was harming no one, except Robin himself. And if he was dead, sooner or later his body would be found, which would prove beyond a doubt that he was not the original culprit: whereas if he was alive the time would come when I should be able to explain. For all that, nothing could alter the fact that I disliked my role, and not the less because it was compulsory.

  I said as much that afternoon as we sat in Drummond’s study. He had come in about two hours after us, and he seemed a bit silent and thoughtful.

  “You can’t help it, Stockton,” he said. “And probably Gaunt if he knew would be the first man to realise the necessity. It’s not that that’s worrying me.” He rose and went to the window. “I’m thinking I’ve made a fool of myself. I don’t see a sign of anyone: I haven’t for the last hour—and I took Ted’s car out of St James’s Square, and have been all round London in it; but I’m afraid I’ve transferred attention to myself. There was just a second or two on the stairs at Hatchett’s when our little lad of the genial face looked at me with the utmost suspicion.”

  He resumed his chair and stretched out his legs.

  “However, we can but chance it. It may lead to something.”

  “It’s very good of you,” I said a little doubtfully. “But I really don’t know if—I mean, the police and all that, don’t you know. They’ve got the thing in hand.”

  He gazed at me in genuine amazement.

  “Good Lord! my dear man,” he remarked, “if you want to leave the thing to old MacIver and Co., say the word. I mean it’s your palaver, and I wouldn’t butt in for the world. Or if you want to handle the thing yourself I’m away out from this moment. And you can have the free run of my various wardrobes if you want to go to Peckham tonight.”

  I couldn’t help it: I burst out laughing.

  “Frankly, it would never have dawned on me to go to Peckham tonight,” I said. “Incidentally if it hadn’t been for you I shouldn’t have known anything about Peckham, for I should never have had the nerve to pull that little blighter into Toby’s rooms even if I’d realised he was watching the house—which I shouldn’t have. What I meant was that it seemed very good of you to worry over a thing like this—seeing that you don’t even know Gaunt.”

  An expression of profound relief had replaced the amazement.

  “By Jove! old man,” he remarked, “you gave me a nasty fright then. What on earth does it matter if I know Gaunt or not? Opportunities of this sort are far too rare to stand on ceremony. What I was afraid of was that you might want to keep it all for yourself. And I can assure you that lots of amusing little shows I’ve had in the past have started much less promisingly than this. You get Toby to tell you about ’em while I go and rout out some togs for tonight.”

  “What an amazing bloke he is,” I said as the door closed behind him. And Toby Sinclair smiled thoughtfully.

  “In the words of the American philosopher, you have delivered yourself of a perfectly true mouthful. And now, if you take my advice, you’ll get some sleep. For with Hugh on the war-path, and if we have any luck, you won’t get much tonight.”

  He curled himself up in a chair, and in a few minutes he was fast asleep. But try as I would I could not follow his example. There was a sense of unreality about the whole thing: events seemed to be moving with that queer, jumbled incoherence that belongs to a dream. Robin’s despairing cry: the policeman crashing to the floor like a bullock in a slaughter-house: the dead Australian who had fought so fiercely. And against whom? Who was it who had come into that room the night before? What was happening there even as Robin got through to me on the phone?

  And suddenly I seemed to see it all. The door was opening slowly, and Robin was staring at it. For a moment or two we watched it, and then I could bear the suspense no longer. I hurled myself forward, to find myself in the grip of a huge black-bearded man with a yellow handkerchief knotted round his throat.

  “You swine,” I shouted, and then I looked round stupidly.

  For the room had changed, and the noise of a passing taxi came from Brook Street.

  “Three hours of the best,” said the big man genially, and a nasty-looking little Jew clerk behind him laughed. “It’s half-past seven, and time you altered your appearance.”

  “Good Lord!” I muttered with an attempt at a grin. “I’m awfully sorry: I must have been dreaming.”

  “It was a deuced agile dream,” answered Drummond. “My right sock suspender is embedded about half-an-inch in my legs. Toby saw you coming and dodged.”

  He turned to the little Jew, who was lighting a cigarette. “Make some cocktails, old man, while I rig up Stockton.”

  “Great Scott!” I said. “I’d never have known either of you.”

  “You won’t know yourself in twenty minutes,” answered Drummond. “You’re going to be a mechanic with Communistic tendencies, and my third revolver.”

  CHAPTER III

  In Which Some Excellent Advice Is Followed

  The Three Cows at Peckham proved an unprepossessing spot. It was a quarter to nine when we entered the public bar, and the place was crowded. The atmosphere reeked of tobacco-smoke and humanity, and in one corner stood one of those diabolical machines in which, for the price of one penny, a large metal disc rotates and delivers itself of an appalling noise.

  Involuntarily I hesitated for a moment; then seeing that Drummond had elbowed his way to the bar and that Toby was standing behind him, I reluctantly followed. I really had half a mind to chuck up the whole thing: after all the police were already on the matter. What on earth was the use of this amateur dressing-up business?

  “Three of four-’alf, please, Miss,” said Drummond, planking down a shilling on the counter. “Blest if you ain’t got much thinner since I was last ’ere.”

  “Come off it,” returned the sixteen-stone maiden tersely. “You ain’t a blinking telegraph pole yourself. Three whiskies and splash, and a Guinness. All right! All right! I’ve only got two hands, ain’t I?”

  She turned away, and I stared round the place with an increasing feeling of disgust. Racing touts, loafers, riff-raff of all descriptions filled the room, and the hoarse hum of conversation, punctuated by the ceaseless popping of corks for the drinkers of Bass, half deafened one. But of either of our friends of the morning there was no sign.

  I took a sip out of the glass in front of me. Drummond was engaged with a horsy-looking
gentleman spotting winners for next day; on my other side Toby Sinclair, in the intervals of dispassionately picking his teeth, was chaffing the sixteen-stoner’s elderly companion. And I wondered if I appeared as completely at ease in my surroundings and as little noticeable as they did. A cigarette might help, I reflected, and I lit one. And a moment or two later Drummond turned round.

  “’Ear that,” he remarked in a confidential whisper. “Strite from the stables. Why the devil don’t you smoke a Corona Corona, you fool! Put out that Turk. And try and look a bit less like a countryman seeing London for the first time. Absolutely strite from the stables. Stargazer—for the two-thirty. ’E can’t lose.”

  “Like to back yer fancy, Mister?” The horsy-looking gent leaned forward with a wink.

  “What’s that? I mean—er—” I broke off, completely bewildered. Mechanically I put out my cigarette. For Drummond’s words had confused me. They both laughed.

  “’E ain’t been long in London, ’ave yer, mate?” said Drummond. “’E comes from up North somewhere. What this gentleman means is that if you’d like to ’ave five bob or ’alf a Bradbury on a ’orse for tomorrer ’e can arrange it for yer.”

  “And wot’s more,” said the horsy man, “I can give you the winner of the Derby. As sure as my name is Joe Bloggs I can give you the winner. You may not believe it, but I ’ad it direct from the stewards of the Jockey Club themselves. ‘Bloggs,’ they says to me, they says, ‘it ain’t everyone as we’d tell this to. But you’re different; we knows you’re a gentleman.’”

  “Did they now?” said Drummond in an awed voice.

  “But wot they said to me was this. ‘We don’t object to your a passing of it on, if you can find men wot you trust. But it ain’t fair to give anyone this information for nothing. We don’t want the money, but there are ’orspitals that do. The price to you, Bloggs, is one thick ’un; to be paid to the London ’Orspital.’ So I said to ’em, I said—‘Done with you, your Graces; a thick ’un it is.’ And at ’ome, mates, now—locked up along with my marriage lines and the youngster’s christening certificate is a receipt for one pound from the London ’Orspital. I shall taike it with me to Epsom, and it’ll be a proud day for me if I can taike receipts for two more. It’s yer chance, boys. Hand over a couple of Brads, and the hinformation is yours—hinformation which the King himself don’t know!’

  “I bet ’e doesn’t,” agreed Drummond. “It’s a pleasure to ’ave met yer, Mr Bloggs. ’Ave another gargle? I guess me and my mate ’ere will come in on that little deal. Money for nothing, I calls it.”

  It was at that moment that I saw them enter the bar—the man who had been in Hatchett’s, and another one. Of the squealing little specimen who had been dragged into Toby’s room I saw no sign, but doubtless he would come later. However, the great point was that the others had arrived, and I glanced at Drummond to make sure he had noticed the fact.

  To my amazement he was leaning over the bar calling for Mother to replenish his glass and that of his new friend. So I dug him in the ribs covertly, at the same time keeping a careful eye on the two newcomers. It vas easy to watch them unperceived, as they were talking most earnestly together. And by the most extraordinary piece of good fortune they found a vacant place at the bar itself just beside the horsy man.

  Again I dug Drummond in the ribs, and he looked at me knowingly.

  “All right, mate, o’ course we’ll take it. But wot I was just wondering was whether, seeing as ’ow there are the two of us like, this gentleman wouldn’t let us ’ave his hinformation for thirty bob. Yer see, guv’nor, it’s this way. You tells me the name of the ’orse, and I pays you a quid. Wot’s to prevent me passing it on to him for nothing, once I knows it?”

  “The ’Orspital, mate. Them poor wasted ’uman beings wot looks to us for ’elp in their sufferings. As the Duke of Sussex said to me, ‘Bloggs!’ ’e said—‘old friend of my youth…’”

  I could stand it no longer: I leant over and whispered in Drummond’s ear—“Do you see who has just come in? Standing next this awful stiff.”

  He nodded portentously.

  “I quite agree with you, mate. Excuse me one moment, Mr Bloggs.”

  He turned to rue, and his expression never varied an iota.

  “Laddie,” he murmured wearily, “I saw them ten minutes ago. I felt London shake when you gave your little start of surprise on seeing them yourself. With pain and gloom I have watched you regarding them as a lion regards the keeper at feeding time at the Zoo. All that remains is for you to go up to them and let them know whom we are. Then we’ll all sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and go home. Well, then, that’s agreed. Seeing, as ’ow it’s for an ’orspital, Mr Bloggs, my mate ’ere says ’e’ll spring a thick ’un.”

  “Good for both of yer,” cried the tipster. “And you may take it from me, boys, that it’s dirt cheap at the price.”

  “Come in ’ere between us, Mr Bloggs,” said Drummond confidentially. “It wouldn’t do for no one else to ’ear anything about it. We don’t want no shortening of the odds.”

  “I sees you knows the game, mate,” said the other appreciatively as they changed places, thereby bringing Drummond next to our quarry. “You’re right: the Duke would never forgive me if we was to do that. ‘Spread your money amongst all yer bookmakers, Joe, and keep them damned stiffs from bilking ’onest men like you and me,’—them were his very words.”

  “Wait a moment, mate,” cried Drummond. “Mother—give me a pencil and a bit o’ paper, will yer? I’ve got a shocking memory, Mr Bloggs, and I’d like to ’ave this ’ere ’orse’s name down in writing, seeing as ’ow I’m springing a quid for it. There it is, and now let’s ’ear.”

  He produced a one-pound note which he laid on the bar, from which it disappeared, with a speed worthy of Maskelyne and Cook, into Mr Bloggs’ pocket. And then the momentous secret was whispered in his ear.

  “You don’t say,” said Drummond. “Well, I never did.”

  “And if yer gets on now yer gets on at 66 to 1,” said the tipster triumphantly. “Lumme! it’s like stealing the cat’s milk.”

  Drummond seemed suddenly to be struck with an idea. “Why, blow my dickey, if I ain’t been and forgotten young Isaac. ’E’s careful with ’is money, Mr Bloggs, is Isaac—but for a cert like this ’e might spring a quid too. Isaac—’ ere.”

  “What’s the matter?” said Toby, glancing round.

  “Do you want the winner of the Derby ’orserace, my boy? That’s the matter.”

  “Go on,” said Toby suspiciously. “I’ve heard that stuff before.”

  “It’s the goods this time, my boy,” said Mr Bloggs impressively. “Strite from my old pal the Duke of Essex—I mean—er—Sussex—’imself.”

  His back was turned to Drummond, and the movement of Drummond’s face was almost imperceptible. But its meaning was clear: Toby was to accept the offer. And for the life of me, as I stood there feeling bored and puzzled, I couldn’t make out the object of all this tomfoolery. This palpable fraud had served his purpose; what on earth was the use of losing another pound for no rhyme or reason? The two men behind Drummond were engrossed in conversation, and there was still no sign of the third.

  For a moment or two I listened half mechanically to Toby bargaining for better terms, and then something drew my attention to a man seated by himself in a corner. He had a tankard of beer at his side, and his appearance was quite inconspicuous. He was a thick-set burly man, who might have been an engine-driver off duty or something of that sort. And yet he seemed to me to be studying the occupants of the bar in a curiously intent manner. At any ordinary time I probably shouldn’t have noticed him; but then at any ordinary time I shouldn’t have been in the Three Cows. And after a while I began to watch him covertly, until I grew convinced that my suspicions were correct. He was watching us. Once or twice I caught his eye fixed on me with an expression which left no doubt whatever in my mind that his presence there was not accidental. And though I immediately looked away
, lest he should think I had noticed anything, I began to feel certain that he was another of the gang—possibly the very one we had come to find. Moreover, my certainty was increased by the fact that never once, as far as I could see, did the two men standing next to Drummond glance in his direction.

  Drummond noticed nothing: he and Toby were still occupied in haggling with the Duke of Sussex’s pal. And I couldn’t help smiling slightly to myself as I realised the futility of all this ridiculous masquerade. However, I duly paid my pound, as I didn’t want to let them down in their little game, and thought out one or two sarcastic phrases to put across at Drummond later. Though I had said nothing at the time I had not been amused by his remark about “Auld Lang Syne.”

  And then another idea dawned on me—why should I say anything about it? Though I would never have thought it, there was a certain amount of fun in this dressing-up game. And one thing seemed pretty obvious without any suggestion of self-conceit. If Drummond could succeed at it, I certainly could. An excellent fellow doubtless, and one possessed of great strength—but there it ended. And I even began to wonder if he really had spotted the arrival of the two men until I told him. It’s easy to be wise after the event, and there is such a thing as jealousy. So I decided that I would have a shot at it myself the following evening. At the moment I was not very busy, and doubtless I’d be able to borrow my present disguise from Drummond. After all he’d offered to lend it to me whenever I wanted it, and even to give me the run of his wardrobe.

  “Well, I’m off.” It was Toby speaking, and with a nod that included all of us he slouched out of the bar, to be followed shortly afterwards by Mr Bloggs.

  “Don’t forget, mate,” said that worthy to me earnestly as he put down his empty glass, “that it’s the goods: 66 to 1 is the price today, so that if yer backs it each way you lands a matter of eighty quid, which is better than being ’it in the eye with a rotten hegg.”

  I agreed suitably with this profound philosophical fact, and omitted to tell him that I hadn’t even heard the name of this fortune-maker, owing to slight deafness in the ear which I had presented to him.