The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  We were confronted then, on the morning after our visit to the Three Cows, with the following position of affairs. The secret of a singularly deadly poison had been stolen, and in the process of the theft the inventor of the poison had disappeared, his dog had been killed, and the man who, according to his own story, had not only been his friend but had also been financing his experiments, had been murdered. The death of the constable was an extraneous matter, and therefore did not affect the position, save that it afforded proof, if further proof was needed, of the deadliness of the poison.

  Sinclair and I, owing to the fact that we had come to Gaunt’s rooms, had been followed; and, of the two of us, I was regarded as the more dangerous. So much the more dangerous in fact, that my death had been deliberately decided on under circumstances which our enemies imagined did not admit of failure.

  They had clearly added Drummond to our list, probably, as he surmised, owing to the incident at Hatchett’s. And the fact that the head waiter knew him rendered his efforts to throw them off his track abortive. We were undoubtedly followed to the Three Cows, with the idea of inveigling us to Ashworth Gardens. MacIver was there simply and solely because he knew it was the pub in which the taxi-driver had been drugged the night before, and he hoped to pick up a thread to follow.

  And there came our first query. Did MacIver recognise the two men, and did they recognise him? To the first of these questions we unhesitatingly answered—No. There was no reason that he should know them at all as far as we could see; and the fact that MacIver’s worst suspicions were at once concentrated on me rendered it less probable that he would notice them. To the other question we again answered—No, but with less certainty. It didn’t appear a very important one, anyway, but it struck me that it would be taking an unnecessary and dangerous risk on their part to carry on with their programme if they thought they were being watched. And human nature being what it is, they would, with their guilty conscience, if they had recognised McIver, have assumed he was after them.

  As far as we were concerned they didn’t care—in fact, they wanted to be recognised. They wanted us to assume that they didn’t know us—that our disguises were perfect. And so what more natural than that they should discuss things openly in our hearing? In fact, they had been very sure of themselves, had those two gentlemen.

  All that was clear: it was over the subsequent events that there rested the fog of war. Why hang the poor little brute when obviously they had a supply of the poison? If they wished to kill him, that would have been a far surer and more efficacious method. And why the spiders?

  We were holding a council of war, I remember, at which I met Peter Darrell and Algy Longworth for the first time, and we discussed those two points from every angle. And it was Drummond who stuck out for the simplest explanation.

  “You’re being too deep, old lads,” he remarked. “The whole of this thing has been done with one idea, and one idea only—to frighten us. They think I’m a positive poop—a congenital whatnot. They intended to kill Stockton, whom they are afraid knows too much; and they intended to inspire in me a desire to hire two nurses and a bath-chair and trot up and down the front at Bournemouth. The mere fact that they have brought off a double event in the bloomer line doesn’t alter the motive.”

  He rose and pressed the bell, and in a moment or two his butler entered.

  “Did you take in those two parcels from Asprey’s last night, Denny?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “What time did they come?”

  “About midnight, sir.”

  “Who brought ’em?”

  “A man, sir.”

  “You blithering juggins, I don’t suppose it was a tame rhinoceros. What sort of a man?”

  “Don’t know that I noticed him particularly, sir. He just handed ’em in and said you’d understand.”

  Drummond dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

  “No help there,” he remarked. “Except as to time. Obviously they had everything prepared. As soon as they saw we were going to Ashworth Gardens, one of them came here, and the other followed us.”

  “Granted all that, old bean,” said Toby. “But why hang rat face? that’s what beats me.”

  Drummond lit a cigarette before replying.

  “There’s a far more interesting point than that,” he remarked. “And I mentioned it last night. Who hanged him? There were people in that house before we got there: men don’t hang themselves as a general rule. Those people left that house before we arrived there, just as the man who tried to murder Stockton got there after we arrived there. And on one thing I’ll stake my hat: the latter gentleman did not come up the stairs, or I’d have heard him. If he didn’t come up the stairs he entered by some unusual method: presumably the same as that by which the others left, or else Toby would have seen them. And houses with unusual entrances always interest me.”

  “There’s generally a back door,” said Algy Longworth.

  “But only one staircase, laddie,” returned Drummond. “And the man I killed did not come up that staircase. No: the old brain has seethed, and I’m open to a small bet that what they intended to do is clear. They meant to kill Stockton, and then they assumed that Toby and I would dash into the next room to catch the fellow who did it. Owing to the door being locked he would have time to get away. Then probably we should go for the police. And when we got back I’m wondering if we would have found either body there. On the other hand, we should have had to admit that we were masquerading in disguise, and doubts as to our sanity if nothing worse would be entertained. That, coupled with the spiders, they thought would put me off. Instead of that, however, he didn’t kill Stockton and got killed himself. Moreover, the police came without our asking, and found a dead body.”

  “But look here, Hugh,” interrupted Peter Darrell, “you said he’d have time to get away. How? The door is off, and if he’d jumped out of the window you could have followed him.”

  Drummond grinned placidly.

  “The window was shut and bolted, Peter. That’s why I think I shall return to Ashworth Gardens in the very near future.”

  “You mean to go back to the house?” I cried.

  “No—not to Number 10,” he answered. “I’m going to Number 12—next door. And there’s very little time to be lost.”

  He stood up and his eyes were glistening with anticipation.

  “It’s clear, boys: it must be. Either I’m a damned fool, or those blokes belong to the genus. If only old MacIver hadn’t arrived last night we could have followed it through then. There must be a means of communication between the two houses, and in Number 12 we may find some amusement. Anyway it’s worth trying. But, as I say, there’s no time to be lost. They’ve brought the police down on themselves in a way that shows no traces of insanity on our part, and they’ll change their quarters. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve done so already.”

  “You aren’t coming to the inquest?” said Toby.

  Drummond shook his head.

  “I haven’t been warned to attend. And when it comes to the turn of our friend last night, doubtless MacIver will tell me what to say.” The door opened and Denny entered.

  “Inspector MacIver would like to see you, sir.”

  “Show him up. Dash it all—that’s a nuisance. It means more delay.”

  However, his smile was geniality itself as the detective entered. “Good morning, Inspector. Just in time for a spot of ale.”

  But our visitor was evidently in no mood for spots of ale.

  “Look here, Captain Drummond,” he said curtly, “have you been up to your fool tricks again?”

  “Good Lord! what’s happened now?” said Drummond, staring at him in surprise.

  “The body of the man you killed last night has completely disappeared,” answered MacIver, and Drummond whistled softly.

  “The devil it has,” he muttered. And then he began to laugh. “You don’t imagine, do you, my dear fellow that I’ve got it lying about in
the bathroom here? But how did it happen?”

  “If I knew that I shouldn’t be here,” snapped the Inspector, and then, with the spot of ale literally forced on him, he proceeded to tell all that he did know.

  Three of his men had been left in the house, and owing to the smell from the poison they had none of them been in the room with the dead man. Also the window had been left open and the door locked. MacIver had left to ring up Sir John Dallas, but he was out of London. And when he finally got through to the house of a well-known scientist in Hampshire where Sir John was staying for the night, in order, as it transpired, to discuss the very matter of this poison, it was nearly five o’clock in the morning. And Sir John had decided that so much time had already elapsed that the chances of his being able to discover anything new were remote. So he had adhered to his original plan and come up by an early train, which the Inspector met at Waterloo. Together they went to 10 Ashworth Gardens, and MacIver unlocked the door. And the room was empty: the body had disappeared.

  The three men who had been left behind all swore that they hadn’t heard a sound. The front door had been locked all the night, and the men had patrolled the house at intervals.

  “’Pon my soul,” cried MacIver, “this case is getting on my nerves. That house is like a cupboard at a conjuring show. Whatever you put inside disappears.”

  I glanced at Drummond, and I thought I detected a certain suppressed excitement in his manner. But there was trace of it in his voice.

  “It is possible, of course,” he remarked, “that the man wasn’t dead. He came to: found the door locked and escaped through the window.”

  MacIver nodded his head portentously.

  “That point of view naturally suggests itself. And, taking everything into account, I am inclined to think that it must be the solution.”

  “You didn’t think of finding out if the blokes next door heard anything?” said Drummond casually.

  “My dear Captain Drummond!” MacIver smiled tolerantly. “Of course I made inquiries about the occupants of neighbouring houses.”

  “You did, did you?” said Drummond softly.

  “On one side is a clerk in Lloyd’s with his wife and two children; on the other is an elderly maiden lady. She is an invalid, and, at the moment, has a doctor actually in the house.”

  “Which is in Number 12?” asked Drummond.

  “She is: her name is Miss Simpson. However, the point is this, Captain Drummond. There will now, of course, be no inquest as far as the affair of last night is concerned.”

  “Precisely,” murmured Drummond. “That is the point, as you say.”

  “So there will be no necessity…”

  “For us to concoct the same lie,” said Drummond, smiling. “Just as well, old policeman, don’t you think? It’s really saved everyone a lot of bother.”

  MacIver frowned, and finished his beer.

  “At the same time you must clearly understand that Scotland Yard will not tolerate any further activities on your part.”

  “From now on I collect butterflies,” said Drummond gravely. “Have some more beer?”

  “I thank you—no,” said MacIver stiffly, and with a curt nod to us all he left the room.

  “Poor old MacIver’s boots are fuller of feet than usual this morning,” laughed Drummond as the door closed. “He simply doesn’t know which end up he is.”

  “A rum development that, Hugh,” said Sinclair.

  “Think so, old man? I don’t know. Once you’ve granted what I maintain—namely, that there’s some means of communication between the two houses—I don’t think it’s at all rum. Just as MacIver said—the point is that there will be no inquest. Inquests mean notoriety: newspaper reporters, crowds of people standing outside the house staring at it. If I’m right that’s the one thing that the occupants of Number 12 want to avoid.”

  “But dash it all, Hugh,” cried Darrell, “you don’t suggest that the invalid Miss Simpson—”

  “To blazes with the invalid,” said Drummond. “How do we know it’s an invalid? They may have killed the old dear, for all we know, and buried her under the cucumber frame. Of course, that man was dead: I’ve never seen a deader. Well, dead bodies don’t walk. Either he went out through the window, or he went into Number 12. The first would be an appalling risk, seeing it was broad daylight; in fact, without making the devil of a shindy it would be an impossibility. So that’s where I get the bulge on MacIver. I can go into Number 12, and he can’t without a warrant. That’s so, isn’t it, lawyer man?”

  “He certainly can’t enter the house without a warrant,” I agreed. “But I don’t see that you can go at all.”

  “My dear old lad,” he answered, “I am Miss Simpson’s long-lost nephew from Australia. If she is all that she pretends to be, I shall buy her some muscatel grapes, kiss her heartily on each cheek and fade gracefully away. But if she isn’t…”

  “Well,” I said curiously. “If she isn’t?”

  “Then there will be two damned liars in the house, and that’s always a sound, strategical position if you’re the lesser of them. So-long, boys. Tell me all about the inquest, and stand by for a show tonight.”

  He lounged out of the room, and I sat looking after him a little helplessly. His complete disregard for any normal methods of procedure, his absolute lack of any conventionality, nonplussed me. And yet I couldn’t help admitting to myself that what he said was perfectly correct. If she was the genuine article he merely retired gracefully: if she wasn’t, he held the whip hand, since the last thing the occupants of the house could do was to send for the police. And after a time I began to find myself hoping that she would prove to be an impostor, and that there would be another show tonight. It struck me as being more exciting than the legal profession…

  But at this point, in order to keep to the sequence of events, I must digress for the moment and allude to the inquest. It was an affair of surpassing dullness, chiefly remarkable for the complete suppression of almost all the facts that mattered. I realised, of course, that it was part of the prearranged plan: though even I, knowing as I did that there is a definite understanding between the coroner and the police in all inquests where murder has occurred, was surprised at the result when compared to the facts.

  But bald as that result was, the reporters got hold of it. The few central facts which concerned the death of the policeman and the finding of the dead bodies of the dog and the Australian had to come out. Also the disappearance of Robin Gaunt. (In fact, as anyone who cares to look up the account can see for himself, no mention occurred of the War Office or things military throughout the whole of the proceeding. I saw Major Jackson in the body of the court, but, since he was in mufti, he was indistinguishable from any ordinary spectator.)

  I told of the cry over the telephone; and, in short, I told with the omissions I have mentioned the story I have already put down in these pages up to the moment when Inspector MacIver arrived. And Toby Sinclair confirmed it.

  Then Sir John Dallas gave his evidence, which consisted of a series of statements of fact. The deaths had been due to an unknown poison administered externally: he was unable to say how it had been applied. He could give no opinion as to the nature of the poison, beyond saying that it punctured the skin and passed up an artery to the heart. He was continuing his experiments in the hopes of including it.

  Then MacIver was called, and I must say that I admired the almost diabolical cunning with which he slurred over the truth, and advanced the theory that had been decided upon. He didn’t say much, but the reporters seized it with avidity, and turned it from a weakly infant into a lusty child.

  “No trace has been discovered of Mr Gaunt?” said the coroner.

  “None,” admitted MacIver.

  Though naturally a full description had been circulated all over the country.

  The verdict, as may be remembered, was “Wilful murder by some person or persons unknown” in the case of the Australian—David Gayton: and “Death by misadve
nture” in the case of the constable. And in the latter case expressions of sympathy were tendered to his widow.

  “Well done, Stockton.” Major Jackson and I went out of the court together.

  “I suppose you know they had a shot at me last night,” I said.

  “The devil they did,” he remarked, looking thoughtful. “Where?”

  “It’s too long a story to tell,” I answered. “Have you heard anything about the selling of the secret abroad?”

  “Couldn’t have yet,” he said. “Of course, strictly between ourselves, we’re on to it in every country that counts. But the devil of it all is that unless old Dallas can isolate this poison, the mere fact of finding out that some other Power has got the secret isn’t going to help, because we can’t make it ourselves. We’ve given him all the data we possess at the War House, but he says it isn’t enough. He maintains, in fact, that if that formula represents the whole of Gaunt’s discovery at the time of the Armistice, then it would have been a failure.”

  “Gaunt said he’d perfected it,” I remarked.

  “Quite,” answered Jackson. “But, according to Dallas, it isn’t merely a process of growth along existing lines, but the introduction of something completely new. I’m no chemist, so I can’t say if the old boy is talking out of the back of his neck or not.”

  He hailed a passing taxi.

  “It’s serious, Stockton; deuced serious. Our only hope lies, as the General said yesterday, in the fact that the distribution question may defeat them. Because we’ve gone through every single available paper of Gaunt’s, and that point doesn’t appear anywhere. You see”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“aeroplanes are impracticable—they travel too fast, and they couldn’t take up sufficient bulk. And a dirigible—well, you remember sausage ballrooms, don’t you, falling in flames like manna from the heavens in France? One incendiary bullet—and finish. That’s the point, but don’t pass it on. Has he solved that? If so…”

  With a shrug of his shoulders he left his sentence uncompleted, and I stood watching the car as it drove away towards Whitehall.