The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  MacIver grunted: he was obviously in an extremely bad temper. And the presence of his large group of stolid subordinates, who were evidently waiting for orders in a situation that bewildered them, did not tend to soothe him.

  “Go and search the house,” he snapped. “Every room. And if you find anything suspicious, don’t touch it, but call me.”

  He waited till they had all left the room; then he turned to Drummond.

  “Now, sir,” he said. “I want to get to the bottom of this. In the first place, what brought you to this house?”

  “The bird in the next room shouted the address in my ear,” returned Drummond, “that time we were having one at the Three Cows.”

  “Damn it,” exploded MacIver, “what took you to the Three Cows? In disguise too.”

  “Just vulgar curiosity, Mac,” said Drummond airily. “And we felt that our presence in evening clothes might excite rude comment.”

  “Your presence in that rig excites my comment,” snapped the detective.

  “Undoubtedly, old lad,” said Drummond soothingly. “But there’s no law against toddling round in fancy dress as far as I know, and you ought to be very grateful to us for bringing you here. We’ve presented you with a new specimen, in a better state of preservation than the others you’ve got. Moreover, he’s the only one who deserved his fate. The fact of the matter, MacIver, is that we’re up against some pretty unscrupulous swine. Their object tonight was to kill Mr Stockton, and they very nearly succeeded. Why they should view him with dislike is beyond me, but the fact remains that they do. They set a deliberate trap for us, and we walked into it with our eyes open. You followed on, and in the darkness everybody mistook everybody else.”

  The detective transferred his gaze to Toby Sinclair.

  “You’re Mr Sinclair, ain’t you?”

  “I am,” returned Toby affably.

  “I thought you were both of you told not to pass this matter on. How is it that Captain Drummond comes to know of it?”

  “My fault entirely, Inspector,” said Toby. “I’d already told him before Mr Stockton returned from the War Office this morning.”

  “So I thought I’d help you unofficially,” murmured Drummond, “the same as I did at the time of the Black Gang.”

  MacIver’s scowl grew positively ferocious.

  “I don’t want your help,” he snarled. “And in future keep out of this matter or you’ll find yourself in trouble.

  He swung round as some of his men came into the room.

  “Well?”

  “Nothing, sir. The house is empty.”

  “Then, since the hour is late, I think we’ll leave you,” remarked Drummond. “You know where to find me, Mac; and you’d better let me know what I’m to say about the bloke’s death. From now on, I may say, we shall drop this, and concentrate exclusively on the breeding of white mice.”

  For a moment I thought MacIver was going to stop us; then apparently he thought better of it. He favoured us with a parting scowl, and with that we left him. By luck we found a taxi, and Drummond gave his own address.

  “There are one or two things we might discuss,” he said quietly, as we got into the car. “MacIver’s arrival is an undoubted complication. I wonder how he spotted you, Stockton.”

  “That’s what beats me,” I remarked. “I spotted him—not as MacIver, of course—down at the Three Cows. He struck me as a suspicious character, so I kept my eye on him casually while you were talking to that racing tout.”

  “Oh! Lord!” Drummond began to laugh. “Then that accounts for it. The effect of your casual eye would make an archbishop feel he’d committed bigamy. It has a sledge-hammer action about it, old man, that would make a nun confess to murder.”

  “I’m very sorry,” I said huffily. “But please remember that this sort of thing is quite new to me. And the practical result seems to be that we’ve got ourselves into a very nasty hole. Why—that confounded Inspector man suspects me.”

  “He doesn’t really,” said Drummond reassuringly. “He was merely as mad as thunder at having made an ass of himself.” And then he started laughing again.

  “Poor old Mac! Do you remember when we laid him out to cool on his own doorstep, Toby?”

  “I do,” returned Sinclair. “And I further noticed that your allusion to the Black Gang was not popular. But, joking apart, Hugh—what’s the next move?”

  “It rests on a slender hope, old boy,” said Drummond. “And even then it may lead to nothing. It rests on the reappearance of little rat face. Of course he may be able to tell us nothing: on the other hand, there must have been some reason for tricing him up. And that reason may throw some light on the situation.”

  “But are you really going on with it?” I asked.

  They both stared at me in amazement.

  “Going on with it!” cried Drummond. “What a question, my dear man. Of course we are. Apart altogether from the fact that they’re bound to have another shot at you, and probably at us too, there is all the makings of a really sporting show in this affair. Wash out MacIver’s unfortunate entrance for the moment, and concentrate on the other aspects of the case. Evidently what I feared this afternoon was correct, and our friend at Hatchett’s—now defunct—got on to us at Brook Street. He may have asked the head waiter whom I was—that’s a detail. He follows us to the Three Cows; he lays a deliberate trap into which we fall—admittedly with our eyes open. The sole object of that plot is to kill you and possibly us. It fails, and somewhat stickily for the originator. But you don’t imagine that we can allow the matter to rest there, do you? It wouldn’t be decent.”

  “Still,” I persisted, “it seems to me that we may be getting ourselves into hot water with the police if we go on.”

  Drummond laid his hand reassuringly on my knee.

  “It’s not the first time, old lad,” he remarked. “Mac and I are really bosom friends. Still, if you feel doubtful, you can back out. Personally I propose to continue the good work.”

  “Oh! if you’re going on I’m with you,” I said, a little ungraciously. “Only please don’t forget I’m reputed to be a lawyer.”

  “Magnificent,” returned Drummond imperturbably. “We’ll come to you for legal advice.”

  The car pulled up in front of his house and we got out.

  “Come in and change,” he went on, “and we’ll have a nightcap.”

  I noticed that his eyes were searching the street. The hour was two, and as far as I could see it was deserted. And yet I couldn’t help a distinct feeling of relief as the stout front door shut behind us. It gave one a feeling of safety and security which had been singularly lacking during the preceding part of the evening: no one could get at us there.

  I lit one of my prohibited Turkish cigarettes, and as I did so I saw that Drummond was staring with curious intentness at a letter and a parcel that lay on the hall table. The parcel was about the size of a cigar box, and the label outside proclaimed that it came from Asprey’s.

  He led the way upstairs, carrying them both with him. And then having drawn himself some beer, and waved his hand at the cask in the corner for us to help ourselves, he slit the envelope open with a paper knife.

  “I thought as much,” he said after he had read the contents. “But how very crude; and how very untruthful. Though it shows they possess a confidence in their ability, which is not so far justified by results.”

  We looked over his shoulder at the typewritten slip he held in his hand. It ran as follows:

  “Mr Stockton is dead because he knew too much: a traitor is dead because he was a traitor. Unless you stop at once, a fool will die because he was a fool.”

  “How crude,” he repeated. “How very crude. I’m afraid our opponents are not very clever. They must have been going to the movies or something. It is rare to find three lies in such a short space. Toby, bring me a basin chock-full of water, will you? There’s one in the bathroom.”

  His eyes were fixed on the parcel, and he was smilin
g grimly.

  “To be certain of success is an admirable trait, Stockton,” he murmured, “if you succeed. If, on the contrary, you fail, it is ill-advised to put your convictions on paper. Almost as ill-advised, in fact, as to send live-stock disguised as a cigarette-case.”

  “What on earth do you mean?” I asked.

  “Put your ear against that parcel and listen,” he answered shortly. And suddenly I heard it—a faint rustling, and then a gentle scraping noise.

  “You’re having an excellent blooding to this sort of game,” he laughed. “In fact, I’ve rarely known events come crowding so thick and fast. But crude—oh! so crude, as I said before.”

  “Here you are, old man. Is there enough water?”

  Toby had re-entered the room with the basin.

  “Ample,” answered Drummond, picking up the parcel and holding it tinder the surface. “Give me that paper-weight, Stockton, and then we can resume our beer.”

  Fascinated I watched the bubbles rise to the surface. At first they came slowly, then as the water permeated the wrappings they rose in a steady stream. And then clear and distinct there came a dreadful hissing noise, and the surface of the water became blurred with a faint tremor as if the box itself was shaking.

  “A pleasant little pet,” murmured Drummond, watching the basin with interest. “There’s no doubt about it, you fellows, that the air of rapidity grows more and more marked.”

  At last the bubbles ceased; the whole parcel was water-logged. “We’ll give five minutes,” said Drummond, “before inspecting Asprey’s latest.”

  We waited, I at any rate with ill-concealed impatience, till the time was up and Drummond took the parcel out of the water. He cut the string and removed the paper. Inside was a wooden box with holes drilled in it, and the water was draining out of it back into the basin.

  With the paper-knife he prised open the lid, and even he gave a startled exclamation when he saw what was inside. Personally it filled me with a feeling of nausea, and I saw Toby Sinclair clutch the table.

  It was a spider of sorts, but such a spider as I have never dreamed of in my wildest nightmares. Its body was the size of a hen’s egg; its six legs the size of a crab’s. And it was covered with coarse black hair. Even in death it looked the manifestation of all evil, with its great protruding eyes and short sharp jaws, and with a shudder I turned away.

  “A jest I do not like,” said Drummond quietly, tipping the corpse out into the basin. “Hullo! Another note.”

  He was staring at the bottom of the box, and there sure enough was an envelope. It was sodden with water, but the letter inside was legible. And for a while we stared at it uncomprehendingly.

  “This is to introduce William. If you decide to keep him, his favourite diet is one of small birds and mice. He is a married man, and since I hated to part him from his wife I have sent her along too. She is addressed to the most suitable person in the house to receive a lady.”

  As I say, for a moment or two we stared at the note uncomprehendingly, and then Drummond gave a sudden strangled grunt in his throat and dashed from the room.

  “Phyllis,” he flung at us hoarsely, from the door.

  “Good Lord! his wife,” cried Toby, and with sick fear in our hearts we followed him.

  “It’s all right, darling,” came his voice from above us, but there was no answer. And when we got to the open door and looked into the room the silence was not surprising.

  Cowering in a corner, her eyes dilated with horror, there stood a girl. She was staring at something on the carpet—something that was hidden from us by the bed. Her lips were moving, but no sound came from them, and she never even lifted her eyes to look at her husband.

  And I don’t wonder. Even now, though eighteen months have passed, my skin still creeps as I recall that moment. If the dead thing below had been horrible, what words can I use for the living? As with many spiders, the female was larger than the male, and the thing which stood on its six great legs about a yard from her feet looked the size of a puppy. It was squat and utterly loathsome, and as Drummond with the poker in his hand dashed towards it, it scuttled under the bed, hissing loudly.

  It was I who caught Mrs Drummond as she pitched forward in a dead faint, and I held her whilst her husband went Berserk. It was my first acquaintance with his amazing strength. He hurled heavy pieces of furniture about as if they were out of a doll’s house. The two beds flew apart with a crash and the foul brute he was after sidled under a wardrobe. And then the wardrobe moved like Kipling’s piano, save that there was only one man behind and not several.

  But at last he had it, and with a grunt of rage he hit it with the poker between the beady staring eyes. He hit it again and again and then he turned round and stared at us.

  “If ever I lay hands on the man who sent these brutes,” he said quietly, “I will do the same to him.”

  He took his wife from me and picked her up in his arms.

  “Let’s go out of here before she comes to,” he went on. “Poor kid; poor little kid!”

  He carried her downstairs, and a few minutes later she opened her eyes. Stark horror still shone in them, and for a while she sobbed hysterically. But at length she grew calmer, and disjointedly, with many pauses, she told us what had happened.

  She’d come in from a dance, and seen the two boxes lying on the hall table. She’d taken hers upstairs, thinking it was a present from her husband. And she’d opened it at her dressing-table. And then she’d seen this awful monster staring at her. Her maid had gone to bed, and suddenly it had scrambled out of the box and flopped off the table on to the floor at her feet.

  “I tried to scream, Hugh, and I couldn’t. I think I was half mesmerised. I just rushed blindly away, and I went to the wrong corner. Instead of going to the door, I went to the other. And it followed me. And when I stopped it stopped.”

  She began to shudder uncontrollably; then she pulled herself together again.

  “It just squatted there on the floor and its eyes seemed to grow bigger and bigger. And once I found myself bending right forward towards it, as if I was forced against my will. I think if it had touched me I should have gone mad. Who sent it, Hugh: who was the brute who sent it?”

  “If ever I find that out,” said Drummond grimly, “he will curse the day that he was born. But just now, darling, I want you to take some sleep dope and go to bed.”

  “I couldn’t,” she cried. “I couldn’t sleep with a double dose.”

  “Right ho!” he answered. “Then stop down here and talk to us. By the way, you don’t know Mr Stockton, do you? He’s really quite good-looking when you see his real face.”

  “I’m afraid, Mrs Drummond,” I said apologetically, “that I am indirectly responsible for those two brutes being sent to you tonight.”

  “Two,” she cried. “Your parcel had one too!”

  “Yes, my dear, it did,” said Drummond. “Only I took the precaution of drowning mine before inspecting it.”

  “Look here, Hugh,” cried his wife, “I know you’re on the warpath again. Well, I tell you straight I can stand most things—you’ve already given me three goes of Peterson—but I can’t stand spiders. If I get any more of them I shall sue for divorce.”

  Her husband grinned and she turned to me pathetically.

  “You wouldn’t believe what he’s like, Mr Stockton, once he gets going.”

  “I can hazard a pretty shrewd guess,” I returned. “We haven’t exactly been at a Sunday School treat this evening.”

  “Life is real and life is earnest,” chanted her husband. “And Stockton’s becoming one of the boys, my pet. We’ve had a really first-class show tonight. I’ve got the winner of the Derby, if it hadn’t been scratched a little tactlessly by old Uncle Bob and MacIver—you remember that shining light of Scotland Yard—has chased us all over London, and is very angry in consequence. And—oh! well, lots of things. What’s that you’re grasping in your hand, Toby?”

  “Another note, old boy.
He’s a literary gent, is our spider friend.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “In the box on Phyllis’s dressing-table. And I don’t think it will amuse you.”

  It did not.

  “A little nervy? Lost your temper? Well, well! They were quite harmless, both of them, though I admit Mary’s claim to beauty must not be judged by ordinary standards. But let that be enough. I don’t want meddlers. Next time I shall remove you without mercy. So cease being stupid.”

  “An amazingly poor judge of human nature,” said Drummond softly. “Quite amazingly so. I wonder which of the two it was. I trust with all my heart that it was not our friend of Hatchett’s and Ashworth Gardens. I should hate to think we would never meet again.”

  “But why won’t you?” said his wife hopefully.

  “Well, we had a little game tonight, darling,” answered Drummond. “And he has taken his own excellent advice. He has ceased being stupid.”

  CHAPTER IV

  In Which Hugh Drummond Discovers a New Aunt

  And at this point I feel that I owe my readers an apology. In fact, Hugh Drummond, who has just read the last chapter, insists on it.

  “What an appalling song and dance about nothing at all,” is the tenor of his criticism. “My dear fellow, concentrate on the big thing.”

  Well, I admit that in comparison with what was to come it was nothing at all. And yet I don’t know. After all, the first shell that bursts near one affects the individual more than a bombardment later on. And the events I have described constituted my first shell, so that on that score alone I crave indulgence.

  But there is another reason too which, in my opinion, renders it impossible to concentrate only on the big thing. Had these words been penned at the time, much that I am writing now would have been dismissed in a few lines, simply because the position of certain episodes in the chain of events would not have been obvious. But now looking back, and armed with one’s present knowledge, it is easy to see how they all fitted in; and how the two chains of events, the big one and the one that Drummond calls little, ran side by side till they finally met. And so I will give them both, merely remarking that if certain things appear obscure to the reader, they appeared even more obscure to us at the time.