The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “The devil she did,” he grunted again, and stared at me thoughtfully out of the one eye that still functioned. “You’re certain of that?”

  “Absolutely. You remember she dropped the lamp in her agitation when she first saw your face. I saw the look in her eyes as I picked it up: it was terror.”

  And now they were all staring at me.

  “Why,” I went on, “she alluded to you as the devil himself.”

  “Good Lord!” said Drummond softly, “it can’t be…Surely, it can’t be…”

  “There’s no reason why it shouldn’t,” said Jerningham. “It’s big enough for them to handle.”

  “We’re talking of things unknown to you, Stockton,” explained Drummond. “But in view of what you saw and heard, it may be that a very extraordinary thing has taken place…Confound my neck!”

  He rubbed it gently, and then went on again.

  “As far as I know there is only one woman in the world who is likely to regard me as the devil himself, and be kind enough to suggest killing me. And if it is her…Great Scott! boys—what stupendous luck.”

  “Marvellous!” I ejaculated. “She must love you to distraction.” But he was beyond my mild sarcasm.

  “If it’s her—then Helias…oh! my sainted aunt! don’t tell me that old gorse bush was Carl Peterson.”

  “I don’t know anything about Carl Peterson,” I said. “But it was old gorse bush, as you call him, who flatly refused to kill you and us as well. Moreover, he didn’t know you.”

  “Then gorse bush wasn’t Carl. But the woman…Ye Gods! I wonder. Just think of the humour of it, if it really was Irma. Not knowing it was me, she thought I possibly was the genuine article—the real Australian nephew. She made herself up into a passable imitation of Aunt Amelia, kept the light away from her face, and trusted to luck. Then she recognised me, and saw at once that I was as big a fraud as she was, and that the game was up.”

  “I don’t know your pals, as I said before,” I put in, “but that’s exactly what did happen.”

  “If I’m right, Stockton, you’ll know ’em soon enough. And furthermore, if I’m right my debt of gratitude to you for putting me in the way of this little show will be increased a thousandfold.” His voice was almost solemn, and I began to laugh.

  “Mrs Drummond’s debt of gratitude will wilt a bit when she sees your face,” I said. “Don’t you think you’d better get home and have it attended to?”

  “Not on your life,” he remarked. “My face can wait: examining this house can’t. So let us, with due care as befits five blinking cripples, see what we can find. Then a bottle of Elliman’s embrocation and bed.”

  “Damnation!” roared a furious voice from the door. “What the devil are you doing here again?”

  “MacIver’s little twitter,” said Drummond. “I would know that fairy voice anywhere.”

  He rose cautiously and turned round.

  “Mac, we have all taken it in the neck, not only metaphorically but literally. Any sudden movement produces on the spot an immediate desire for death. So be gentle with us, and kind and forbearing. Otherwise you will see the heartrending spectacle of six men bursting into tears.”

  “What on earth has happened to your face?” demanded the detective.

  “Aunt Amelia sprayed it with ammonia from point-blank range,” said Drummond. “A darned unfriendly act I think you’ll agree. And then a nasty man covered with black hair took advantage of my helpless condition to sandbag me. Mac, my lad, in the course of a long and blameless career I’ve never been so badly stung as I was last night.”

  “What do you mean by Aunt Amelia?” growled the other.

  “The official occupant of this house, Mac.”

  “Miss Simpson. Where is she?”

  “I know not. But somehow I feel that the sweet woman I interviewed in bed last night was not Miss Amelia.” Then with a sudden change of tone—“Have you found the communication between the two houses?”

  “How do you know there is one?”

  “Because I’m not a damned fool,” said Drummond. “It was principally to find it that I came here.”

  He glanced at the detective’s suspicious face and began to laugh.

  “Lord! man: it’s obvious. That fellow the other night was dead, so how did the body disappear? It couldn’t have gone out by the window in broad daylight, and unless your men were liars or asleep it couldn’t have gone out by the door. So there must have been some way of communication.”

  “I found it by accident a few minutes ago from the next house,” said MacIver. “It opens into the bedroom above.”

  “I thought it must,” said Drummond. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if dear Aunt Amelia’s bed was up against the opening.”

  “There was a woman here, was there?”

  “There was.” For a moment or two Drummond hesitated. “Look here, MacIver,” he said slowly, “we’ve had one or two amusing little episodes together in the past, and I’m going to tell you something. After they knocked me out last night, Mr Stockton, who was only bound and gagged, heard one or two very strange things. This woman who was here masquerading as Miss Simpson evidently knew me. She further evinced a strong wish to have me killed then and there. Now who can she have been? MacIver, I believe—and mark you, there is nothing inherently improbable in it—I believe that once more we are up against Peterson. He wasn’t here; but the girl—his mistress—was. I may be wrong, but here and now I’d take an even pony on it.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” acknowledged the other. “We’ve heard nothing of the gentleman for two or three years.”

  “And if we are, MacIver,” continued Drummond gravely, “this whole show, serious as it is at the moment, becomes ten times more so.”

  “If only I could begin to understand it,” said the detective angrily. “The whole thing seems so utterly disconnected and pointless.”

  “And it will probably remain so until we reach the end, if we ever do reach the end,” said Drummond. “One thing is pretty clear: this house was evidently the headquarters of that part of the gang which lived in London.”

  “I’m getting into touch with Miss Simpson at once,” said MacIver.

  Drummond nodded.

  “She may or may not be perfectly innocent.”

  “And two of my fellows are searching this house now,” went on the detective. But damn it, Captain Drummond, I’m defeated—absolutely defeated. If whoever is running this show wanted to get away with Gaunt’s secret—why all this? Why didn’t they go at once? Why waste time?”

  He swung round as one of his men came into the room. He was carrying in his arms a metal tank of about four gallons capacity, which was evidently intended to be strapped to a man’s back. To the bottom was attached a length of rubber tubing, at the end of which was fixed a long brass nozzle with a little tap attached. On one side of the tank a small pump was placed, and we crowded round to examine it as he placed it on the table.

  “Two or three more of them in the cellar below, sir,” said the man.

  “Pretty clear what they are intended for,” said Drummond gravely. “It’s nothing more nor less than a glorified fruit sprayer. And with that liquid of theirs inside…”

  “There is this too that I found,” went on the man. “I’d like you to come yourself, sir, and see. There was blood on the walls and on the floor—and this—”

  From his pocket he took a handkerchief, and it was stained an ominous red. It was quite dry, and MacIver opened it out and laid it beside the tank.

  “Hullo!” he muttered, “what’s this mean?”

  Scrawled over part of the material were some red letters. The ink used had been blood: the pen might have been the writer’s finger.

  3P 7 ANT

  A smear completed it: evidently he’d collapsed or been interrupted.

  “I found it in a crack in the wall, sir,” said the man. “It had been pushed in hard.”

  MacIver’s eyes had narrowed, and without a word
he pointed to the corner of the handkerchief. Clearly visible through the blood were two small black letters. And the letters were R.G.

  CHAPTER VI

  In Which We Get a Message from Robin Gaunt

  Robin Gaunt! It was his blood-soaked handkerchief that lay in front of us. He too had been thrown into the same cellar where we had spent the night. And where was he now?

  I picked up the handkerchief, and a sudden wave of bitterness swept over me. I pictured him, wounded—perhaps dying—scrawling his message down there in the darkness, whilst outside men said vile things about him and papers fanned the flame.

  “Your super-vivisector, Inspector,” I remarked. “It’s damned well not fair.”

  “But just at present it’s necessary, Mr Stockton,” he answered. “By Jove! if only that handkerchief could speak! 3P 7 A N T…What on earth was he trying to write?”

  He turned and went briskly out of the room.

  “Show me exactly where you found it,” he said to his subordinate.

  We all trooped after him, and by the light of an electric torch we explored the cellar. The officer pointed to the crack in the wall where he had found the handkerchief, and to the dark stains just below and on the floor.

  “I’m thinking,” said Drummond gravely, “that the poor devil was in a pretty bad way.”

  Torch in hand MacIver was carrying out his examination systematically. An opening in one wall led to a smaller cellar, and it was there that three other spraying cisterns, similar to the one upstairs, were standing. They differed in small details, but their method of action was the same. In each design there was a pump for producing the necessary pressure, and a small stopcock at the end of the spraying pipe which allowed the jet of liquid to be turned on or off at will.…

  The main points of difference lay in the arrangement of the straps for securing the reservoirs to the shoulders, and the shape and size of the reservoirs themselves. Also the rubber piping varied considerably in length in the different models.

  “Take these upstairs,” said MacIver to the officer, “and put them alongside the other one.”

  Once more he resumed his examination, only to stop abruptly at the startled exclamation that came from his man. He was standing at the top of the cellar steps tugging at the door.

  “It’s locked, sir,” he cried. “I can’t make it budge.”

  “Locked!” shouted MacIver. “Who the devil locked it?”

  “It’s been locked from the other side, and the key is not in the keyhole.”

  MacIver darted up the steps, and switched his torch on to the door.

  “Who came in last?” he demanded.

  “I did,” said Toby Sinclair. “And I left the door wide open. I can swear to it.”

  In a frenzy of rage the Inspector hurled himself against it, but the result was nil.

  “Not in a hundred years, Mac,” said Drummond quietly. “No man can open a door as stout as that at the top of a flight of stairs. You can’t get any weight behind your shoulder.”

  “But, damn it, man,” cried the other, “we haven’t been down here ten minutes. Whoever locked it must be in the house now.”

  “Bexton is there too, sir,” said the officer. “He was exploring upstairs.”

  “Bexton!” bellowed the Inspector, through the keyhole. “Bexton! Lord! is the man deaf? Bexton—you fool: come here.”

  But there was no answer.

  “Steady, MacIver,” said Drummond, “you’ll have a rush of blood to the head in a minute. He’s possibly up at the top of the house, and we’ll get him as soon as he comes down. No good getting needlessly excited.”

  “But who has locked this door?” demanded the other. “That’s what I want to know.”

  “Precisely, old lad,” agreed Drummond soothingly. “That’s what we all want to know. But before we have any chance of knowing, we’ve got to get to the other side. And since we can’t blow the blamed thing down there’s no good going on shouting. Let’s have a look at it: I’m a bit of an authority on doors.”

  He went up the stairs, and after a brief examination he gave a short laugh.

  “My dear Mac—short of a crowbar and a pickaxe we’re stung. And since we’ve none of us got either in our waistcoat pockets there’s no good worrying. The bolt goes actually into the brickwork: you can see it there. And the lock on the door has been put on from the other side, so a screwdriver is no good.”

  He came down again laughing.

  “I can’t help it—I like these people. They are birds after my own heart. They’ve bitten us properly, and got away with their expensive set of uppers and lowers completely intact. I shall sit down and ruminate on life, and if anyone feels strong enough to massage my neck, I shall raise no objections. Lord! what a game we’ll have when I meet gorse bush again.”

  He lit a cigarette, and deposited himself on the floor with his back against the wall.

  “Mac, if that’s our only means of illumination you’d better switch it off. We may want it later—you never know.”

  “Bexton must be down in a moment or two,” said the Inspector angrily.

  “True,” answered Drummond. “Unless he’s down already.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that there are some people knocking about in this district who are no slouches in the sand-bag game. And I should think it was quite on the cards that the worthy Bexton has already discovered the fact.”

  “If that’s the case we’re here for hours.”

  “Just so,” agreed Drummond. “Which is all the more reason for preserving that air of masterly tranquillity which is the hall-mark of the Anglo-Saxon in times of stress. Men have won prizes ranging from bullseyes to grand pianos for sentiments less profound than that. We are stung, Mac: we are locked in, and we shall remain locked in until some kindly soul comes along to let us out. And since the betting is that the key has been dropped down the nearest drain-pipe, and that our Mr Bexton has taken it good and hard where I took it last night, I think we can resign ourselves to a fairly lengthy period of rest and meditation…Damn my neck!”

  “Supposing we all shouted together,” I suggested, after we had sat in silence for several minutes. “Somebody must hear surely.”

  We let out a series of deafening bellows, and at length our efforts were rewarded. A heavy blow was struck on the other side of the door, and an infuriated voice shouted through the keyhole.

  “Stop that filthy row. You’ll have plenty of time to sing glees when you’re breaking stones on Dartmoor. If you do it any more now I’ll turn a hose on you.”

  We heard the sound of retreating footsteps, and MacIver gave a gasp of amazement.

  “Am I mad?” he spluttered. “Am I completely insane? That was Fosdick’s voice—the man on duty next door.”

  And then every semblance of self-control left him, and he raved like a lunatic.

  “I’ll sack the fellow! I’ll have him out of the force in disgrace. He’s been drinking: the fool’s drunk. Fosdick—come here, damn you, Fosdick!”

  He went on shouting and beating on the door with one of the tin reservoirs, till once again came a blow from the other side followed by Fosdick’s voice.

  “Look ’ere, you bally twitterer: I’m getting fair fed up with you. There’s a crowd outside the door now asking when the performing hyenas are going to be let out. Now listen to me. Every time I ’ears a sound from any of you, you stops down there another ’alf-hour without your breakfasts. The van when she comes can easily wait, and I ain’t in no hurry.”

  “Listen, you fool,” roared MacIver. “You’re drunk: you’ve gone mad. I order you to open the door. It’s me—Inspector MacIver.”

  “Inspector my aunt,” came the impassive reply. “Now don’t you forget what I said. The van oughtn’t to be long now.”

  “The van,” said MacIver weakly, as the footsteps outside departed. “What van? In the name of Heaven, what is the man talking about?”

  “Oh! Lord, Mac,” cried Drum
mond helplessly, “don’t make me laugh any more. As it is I’ve got the most infernal stitch.”

  “I fail to see the slightest humour in the situation,” said MacIver acidly. “The only possible conclusion I can come to is that Fosdick has suddenly lost his reason. And in the meantime I, sir, am locked in here at a time when every moment is of value. In the whole of my career such a thing has never happened.”

  “There’s no doubt about it, old man,” agreed Drummond in a shaking voice, “that up-to-date our investigations have not yet met with that measure of success which they justly deserve. We can muster between us five stiff necks, one parboiled face, and an excessively uncomfortable floor to sit on.”

  “The whole thing is entirely owing to your unwarrantable interference,” snapped the detective.

  “My dear Mac,” said Drummond, “if, as you think, your bloke Fosdick has gone off the deep end you really can’t blame me. Personally I don’t think he has.”

  “Then perhaps you’d be good enough to explain what he’s doing this for,” said MacIver sarcastically. “A little game, I suppose.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” answered Drummond. “My dear man, cease going off like a steam-engine and think for a moment. The whole thing is perfectly obvious. The van is to take us to prison.”

  “What on earth…” stuttered MacIver.

  “No more and no less,” went on Drummond calmly. “Yonder stout-hearted warrior is under the firm impression that he has a band of blood-thirsty criminals safe under lock and key. He sees promotion in store for him: dazzling heights—”

  “Inspector MacIver! Inspector MacIver. Are you there?”

  It was Fosdick’s agitated voice from the other side of the door.

  “I should rather think I am,” said MacIver grimly. “Open this door, you perishing fool…”

  “I will, sir, at once. It’s all a mistake.”

  “Damn your mistakes! Open the door.”

  “But I haven’t got the key. Wait a bit, sir, I’ll get a screwdriver.”

  “Hurry,” roared MacIver. “May Heaven help that man when I get at him.”

  “I wouldn’t be too hasty if I was you, Mac,” said Drummond quietly. “Better men than he have been caught napping.”