The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “Universal, instantaneous death.”

  I lit a pipe and fell to reviewing the events of the past few days. And after a time the humour of the situation struck me. My elderly clerk, I felt, regarded me with displeasure: evidently he thought that a man of law displayed carelessness in getting mixed up in such a matter. As a set-off against that, however, I realised that I had seriously jeopardised Douglas Fairbanks in the office boy’s estimation.

  But the point I had to consider was my own future action. It was all very well for Hugh Drummond and a crowd of his irresponsible friends to go about committing breaches of the peace if they chose to: it was a very different matter for me. And Inspector MacIver had definitely told him that such activities were to cease. Yet, dash it all…

  I took a pull at myself and lit another pipe. Undoubtedly it was folly on my part to continue. The police had it in hand: almost certainly I should be getting myself into trouble. Yes, I’d be firm: I’d point out exactly to Drummond and the others how matters stood: my reputation as a lawyer and the impossibility of my countenancing such irregularities. Besides, this brief…

  And at that stage of my deliberations I heard a loud and well-known voice in the office outside.

  “Is Mr Stockton in? I can’t help it if he is busy. I’ve just killed my grandmother and I want his advice.”

  I went to the door and opened it. Drummond stood there beaming cheerfully at my outraged clerk, and as soon as he saw me he waved his hand.

  “Bolted the badger,” he cried. “My boy, I must have words with you. Yonder stout-hearted lad says you’re busy.”

  “A brief,” I said a little doubtfully, “which I ought to get on with. However, come in.”

  “Blow your old brief,” he answered. “Give the poor girl custody of the children and be done with it.”

  He sat down and put his legs on the desk, whilst I, with a glance at my clerk’s face of scandalised horror, hurriedly shut the door.

  “Look here, Stockton,” said Drummond, lowering his voice. “I thought I’d rout you out here, because it was a bit too long to say over the telephone. And since you’re really the principal in this affair, you ought to know at once. To start at the end of the matter, I haven’t the faintest doubt in my own mind now that my suspicions about Number 12 are correct.”

  He lit a cigarette and I felt my determination weakening. At any rate I wasn’t committed to anything by hearing what he had to say.

  “As you know,” he continued, “I went up to see my long-lost aunt—Miss Simpson. I put on a slouch hat, and made one or two slight alterations in my appearance. The first thing I did was to call at one or two of the local food shops, and at the greengrocer’s who supplied the house. I discovered her name was Amelia. Apparently she sometimes paid by cheque—in fact, they’d had one only last week.”

  “Well, that was a bit of a jolt to start off with: however, I thought I’d have a shot at it since I’d got so far. So off I strolled to Number 12. Two of the most obvious policemen I’ve ever seen in my life are watching Number 10, but they paid no attention to me as I went past.

  “I rang the bell, and for some time nothing happened. And then a curtain in the room next the front door moved slightly. I was being inspected, so I rang again to show there was no ill-feeling. An unpleasant-looking female opened the door about four inches, and regarded me balefully.

  “‘Good morning,’ I remarked, getting my foot wedged in that four inches. ‘I’ve come to see Aunt Amelia.’

  “‘Who are you?’ she said suspiciously.

  “‘Aunt Amelia’s nephew,’ I answered. ‘It’s ten years now since my father—that’s her brother Harry—died, and his last words to me were, “Waffle, my boy, if ever you go back to England, you look up sister Amelia.”’

  “You see, Stockton, I’d already decided that if it was a genuine show I’d get out of it by pretending that it must be another Miss Simpson.

  “‘Miss Amelia’s ill,’ said the woman angrily.

  “‘Too bad,’ I said. ‘I reckon that seeing me will be just the thing to cheer her up.’

  “‘She’s not seeing anyone, I tell you,’ she went on.

  “‘She’ll see little Wallie,’ I said. ‘Why, according to my father, she was clean gone on me when I was a child. Used to give me my bath, and doses of dill-water. Fair potty about me was Aunt Amelia. Besides, I’ve got a little memento for her that my father gave me to hand over to her.’

  “As a matter of fact I’d bought a small pearl necklace on the way up.

  “‘I tell you she can’t see you,’ snapped the woman. ‘She’s ill. You come back next week and she may be better.’

  “Well, there was nothing for it: I leaned against the door and the door opened. And I tell you, Stockton, I got the shock of my life. Standing at the foot of the stairs was a man with the most staggering face I’ve ever thought of. Tufts of hair sprouted from it like whin bushes on a seaside links: he was the King Emperor of Beavers. But it wasn’t that that stopped me in my tracks, it was the look of diabolical fury in his eyes. He came towards me—and he was a heavy-weight all right—with a pair of great black hairy fists clenched at his sides. And what he resembled most was a dressed-up gorilla.

  “‘What the devil do you want?’ he snarled at me from the range of about a foot.

  “‘Aunt Amelia,” I said, staring him in the eyes. ‘And I reckon you’re not the lady in question.’

  “I saw the veins beginning to swell in his neck, and the part of his face not covered with vegetation turned a rich magenta.

  “‘You infernal puppy,’ he shouted. ‘Didn’t you hear that Miss Simpson was ill?’

  “‘The fact is hardly to be wondered at with you about the house,’ I retorted, getting ready, I don’t mind telling you, Stockton, for the father and mother of scraps.

  “But he didn’t hit me: he made a desperate effort and controlled himself.

  “‘I am Miss Simpson’s doctor,’ he said, ‘and I will tell her of your visit. If you leave your address I will see that you are communicated with as soon as she is fit to receive visitors.’

  “Now that told one beyond dispute that there was something wrong. If he really had been the old lady’s doctor, if she really was ill upstairs, my intentionally insulting remark could only have been received as vulgar and gratuitous impertinence. So I thought I’d try another.

  “‘If this is a sample of your bedside manner,’ I said, ‘she won’t be fit to receive visitors for several years.’

  “And once again I thought he was going to hit me, but he didn’t.

  “‘If you come back tomorrow morning at this hour,’ he remarked, ‘I think your aunt may be fit to receive you. At the moment I fear I must forbid it.’

  “Well, I did some pretty rapid thinking. In the first place I knew the man was lying: he probably wasn’t a doctor at all. No man with a face like that could be a doctor: all his patients would have died of shock. In the second place I’d had a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of my eye of a couple of men upstairs who were examining me through a mirror hanging on the wall—a mirror obviously placed for that very purpose with regard to visitors.

  “And another thing stuck out a yard: throughout the whole of our conversation he had kept between me and the stairs. Of course it might have been accidental: on the other hand, it might not. The way it struck me, however, was that he was afraid, seeing that I was obviously a breezy customer, that I might make a dash for it. And I damned nearly did, Stockton—damned nearly.

  “However, not quite. I’d seen two men upstairs and there might be more: moreover, the bird I was talking to—if he was as strong as he, looked—would have been an ugly customer by himself. And even if I’d got to the top and been able to explore the rooms, it wouldn’t have done much good. I couldn’t have tackled the show single-handed.

  “So I pulled myself together, and did my best to appear convinced.

  “‘Well, I’m real sorry Aunt Amelia’s so sick,’ I said. ‘And
I’ll come round tomorrow as you say, Doctor. Just give her my love, will you, and on my way back I’ll call in and tell ’em to send along some grapes.’

  “His mouth cracked in what I presume was a genial smile.

  “‘That is very good of you,’ he answered. ‘I feel sure Miss Simpson will appreciate your kind attention.’

  “And with that I hopped it, sent up some grapes, and that’s that.” He lit a cigarette and stared at me with a smile.

  “But didn’t you tell the police?” I cried excitedly.

  “Tell ’em what?” he answered.

  “Why, that there’s foul play going on there,” I almost shouted.

  “Steady, old man,” he said quietly. “Your lad outside will die of a rush of blood to the head if he hears you.”

  “No, but look here, Drummond,” I said, lowering my voice, “you may have hit on the key of the whole affair.”

  “I think it’s more than probable that I have,” he answered calmly. “But that seems to me to be quite an unnecessary reason to go trotting off to the police.”

  “But I say, old man,” I began feebly, mindful of my previous resolutions. And then the darned fellow grinned at me in that lazy way of his, and I laughed.

  “What do you propose to do?” I said at length.

  “Anticipate the visit to Aunt Amelia by some nine or ten hours, and go there tonight. Are you on?”

  “Confound you,” I said, “of course I am.”

  “Good fellow,” he cried. “I knew you’d do it.”

  He took his feet off the desk and leaned towards me.

  “Stockton,” he said quietly, “we’re hot on the track. I know we are. Whether or not we shall find that unfortunate old lady upstairs I haven’t a notion. True she signed a cheque quite recently, but there’s such a thing in this world as forgery. And murder. What induced them to select that particular house and her I know not. But one thing I do know. Tonight is going to be a pretty stiff show. Be round in Brook Street at eight o’clock.”

  CHAPTER V

  In Which We Pay the Aunt an Informal Visit

  I was there to the minute. For a while after Drummond had gone, I told myself that I would have nothing more to do with the business, but it was a feeble struggle. The excitement of the thing had got hold of me, and poor old Stevens—my clerk—had never seemed so intolerably prosy and long-winded.

  “Splendid,” said Drummond as I walked in. “That completes us. Stockton, this is Ted Jerningham, a lad of repulsive morals but distinctly quick on the uptake.”

  He brought our numbers up to six, and when I look back now and think of the odds against which, in all ignorance, we were pitting ourselves I could almost laugh. And yet I know one thing. Even had Drummond realised what those odds were, it would not have made an iota of difference to him. With him it was always a question of the more the merrier.

  “We will now run over the plan of operations,” he went on, when I had removed two dogs from a chair and sat down. “I’ve told these birds what I told you this afternoon, Stockton, so it only remains to discuss tonight. In the first place we’ve had a stroke of luck which is a good omen. The street running parallel to Ashworth Gardens is called Jersey Street. And the back of Number 13 Jersey Street looks on to the back of 12 Ashworth Gardens. Moreover, the female who owns Number 13 Jersey Street lets rooms, and I have taken those rooms. In fact, I’ve taken the whole bally house for a week—rent paid in advance—for a party of divinity students who have come up to this maelstrom of vice to see the Mint and Madame Tussaud’s and generally be inconceivably naughty.

  “Separating the backs of the houses are two brown patches of mud with a low wall in the middle which a child of four could climb with ease. And since there is no moon tonight, there oughtn’t to be much difficulty in getting over that wall unseen—should the necessity arise.

  “And since the spectacle of four of you dashing down the stairs and out of the old girl’s back door, might rouse unworthy suspicions in her breast, I have stipulated that we must have the use of a ground floor sitting-room at the back of the house. She doesn’t usually let it, but I assured her that the wild distractions of Jersey Street would seriously interfere with out meditations.”

  “Four?” interrupted Jerningham. “Why four?”

  “I’m coming to that,” said Drummond. “I want someone with me in Number 12. And since the sport will probably be there, I think it’s only fair to let Stockton have it, as this is really his show.”

  A chorus of assent greeted his remark, and for the life of me I couldn’t help laughing. I had formed a mental picture of Drummond’s pal of the afternoon with the whin bushes sprouting from his face, and I could see him being my portion for the evening. But the whole tone of the meeting was one of the most serious gravity: it might have been a discussion before a shoot when the principal guest was being given the best position. So I suppressed the laugh and accepted with becoming gratitude.

  “Right,” said Drummond. “Then that’s settled. Now to the next point.”

  He picked up from his desk a cowl-shaped black mask, and regarded it reminiscently.

  “Lucky I kept a few of these: do you remember ’em, you fellows? Stockton wouldn’t, of course.”

  He turned to me.

  “Years ago we had an amusing little show rounding up Communists and other unwashed people of that type. We called ourselves the Black Gang, and it was a great sport while it lasted.”

  “Good Heavens!” I said, staring at him. “I dimly remember reading something about it in the papers. I thought the whole thing was a hoax.”

  They all laughed.

  “That’s when we chloroformed your pal MacIver and left him to cool on his own doorstep. Happy days, laddie: happy days. However, taking everything into account, the going at the moment might be worse. And it struck me that these things might come in handy tonight. If we wear our old black gauntlets, and these masks well tucked in round the collar, it will afford us some protection if they start any monkey tricks with that filthy juice of theirs. At any rate there is no harm in having them with us in case of accidents: they don’t take up much room and we can easily slip them into our pockets. So it all boils down to this. Stockton and I will deposit you four in Jersey Street, where you will take up a firm position in the back sitting-room. Bearing in mind that you are destined for the Church, and the penchant of landladies for keyholes, you will refrain from your usual conversation. Under no circumstances is Toby to tell any of his stories, nor is Ruff’s Guide to be placed in a prominent position on the table when she brings you in your warm milk at ten. Rather should there be an attitude of devotion: possibly a note-book or two in which you are entering up your impressions of the Wallace Collection—”

  A struggling mass of men at length grew quiescent in a corner, with Drummond underneath.

  “It takes five of us to do it,” panted Darrell to me. “And last time the chandelier in the room below fell on Denny’s head.”

  “That being quite clear,” pursued Drummond from his place on the floor, “we will pass on. Should you hear shouts as of men in pain from the house opposite; or should you, on glancing through the crack of the blind, see me signalling you will abandon your attitude of devotion and leg it like hell over the wall. Because we may want you damned quick. Wear your masks: Ted to be in “charge,” and I leave it to you as to what to do once you arrive in Number 12.”

  “And if we neither hear nor see anything?” asked Jerningham. “How long are we to give you?”

  They had resumed their normal positions, and Drummond thoughtfully lit a cigarette.

  “I think, old boy,” he remarked, “that half-an-hour should be long enough. In fact,” he added, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, “I’m not at all certain it won’t be twenty-nine minutes too long. Let’s get on with it.”

  We pocketed our masks and gauntlets and went downstairs. There was no turning back for me now: I was definitely committed to go through with it. But I have no hes
itation in admitting that our taxi-drive seemed to me the shortest on record. We had two cars, and Drummond stopped them several hundred yards short of our objective. Then leading the way with me we walked in pairs to Jersey Street.

  Number 13 was typical of all the houses in the neighbourhood—an ordinary drab London lodging-house of the cheaper type. But the landlady, when she finally emerged, was affability itself. The strong odour of gin that emerged with her showed that the rent had not been wasted, and led us to hope that sleep would shortly overcome her. At the moment it had merely made her thoroughly garrulous, and only the timely advent of an acute attack of hiccoughs stemmed the reminiscences of her girlhood’s happy days. But at last she went, and instantly Drummond was at the window peering through a chink in the blind.

  “Lower the light, someone, and then come and reconnoitre. There’s the house facing you: there’s the wall. No lights: I wonder if the birds have flown. No, by Jove! I saw a gleam then from that upstairs window. There it is again.”

  Sure enough a light was showing in one of the rooms, and I thought I saw a shadow move across the blind. Downstairs all was dark, and after a few moments’ inspection Drummond stepped back into the room.

  “Come on, Stockton,” he said. “We’ll go round by the front door. Don’t forget I’m an Australian, and you’re a pal of mine whom I met unexpectedly in London today. And if I pretend to be a little blotto—pugnaciously so—back me up. Ted—half-an-hour; but keep your eye glued on the house in case we want you sooner.”

  “Right ho! old man. Good luck.”

  We walked through the hall cautiously, but the door leading to our landlady’s quarters was shut. And in three minutes we were striding down Ashworth Gardens. A figure detached itself from the shadows outside the scene of last night’s adventure, and glanced at us suspiciously. But Drummond was talking loudly as we passed him of his voyage home, and the man made no effort to detain us.

  “One of MacIver’s men,” he muttered to me as we turned into Number 12. “Now, old man, we’re for it. If I can I’m going to walk straight in.”