The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “And what if I refuse?” I said.

  He studied the ash on the end of his cigar.

  “In the course of the twenty years I have already mentioned, Mr Gaunt,” he said, “I wouldn’t like to say how many people have made that remark to me. And the answer has become monotonous with repetition. Latterly one of your celebrated politicians has given me an alternative reply, which I will now give to you. Wait and see. We’ve been very kind to you, Gaunt, up to date. You gave me a lot of trouble over that box of antidote which you hid in the cellar”—how my heart sank at that—“though I realise that it was partially my fault—in not remembering sooner that you had it in your pocket. In fact, I had to dispose of an eminent savant, Sir John Dallas, in order to get hold of it.”

  “Then the authorities got it?” I almost shouted.

  “Only to lose it again, I regret to say. By the way,” he leaned forward suddenly in his chair—“do you know a man called Drummond—Captain Hugh Drummond?”

  From beside me as I read, Drummond heaved a deep sigh of joy. “It is Peterson,” he said. “That proves it. Go on, Stockton.”

  “Hugh Drummond! No, I’ve never heard of the man. But do you mean to say you murdered Sir John?”

  “Dear me! That word again. I keep on forgetting that you have been out of touch with current affairs. Yes, Sir John failed to see reason—so it was necessary to dispose of him. Your omission of the formula for the antidote on the paper containing that of the poison has deprived the world, I regret to state, of an eminent scientist. However, during the sea-voyage which you are shortly going to take I will see that you have an opportunity of perusing the daily papers of that date. They should interest you, because really, you know, your discovery of this poison has had the most far-reaching results. Still, if you will give me these ideas…”

  He rose shrugging his shoulders.

  “Am I to be taken abroad?” I cried.

  “You are not,” he answered curtly. “You will remain in England. And if I may give you one word of warning, Mr Gaunt, it is this. I require your services on one or two matters, and I intend to have your services. And my earnest advice to you is that you should give that service willingly. It will save me trouble, and you—discomfort.”

  With that they left me, if possible more completely bewildered than before. I turned it over from every point of view in my mind, and I could see no ray of light in the darkness. The only point of comfort was that at any rate I was going to change my quarters, and it was possible that I might escape from the new ones. Vain hope! It is dead now, but it buoyed me up for a time.

  It was two days later that Helias entered the room and told me to get ready.

  “You are going in a car,” he said. “And I am going with you. If you make the slightest endeavour to communicate or signal to anyone I shall gag you and truss you up on the floor.”

  And that brings me to the point…Eyes, those ghastly staring eyes. And the woman screaming…Oh! God, my head…

  At this point the narrative as a narrative breaks off. It is continued in the form of a diary. But it has given rise to much conjecture. Personally I think the matter is clear. I believe, in fact from a perusal of the original it is obvious, that “head” was the last coherent word written by Robin Gaunt. The rest of the sheet is covered with meaningless scrawls and blots. In fact I think that at that point the poor chap’s reason gave way. How comes it, then, that the diary records events which occurred after he had been taken away in the motor-car? To me the solution is clear. The diary, though its chronological position comes after the narrative given above, was actually written first.

  Surely it must be so. Up to the time when he was removed in the car he was in such a dazed physical and mental condition that the mere effort of keeping a diary would have been beyond him. Besides, what was there to record? His mind, as he says, was hopelessly fogged. He knew nothing when he left the house in which he had been confined as to what had happened in his rooms in London—or rather shall I say he knew nothing as to what had been reported in the papers? And yet the narrative already given was obviously written with a full knowledge of those reports.

  Besides—take his first paragraph, “Daily torture.” There had been no question of daily torture. “Final unbelievable atrocity.” There had been none. No: it is clear. When things began to happen Gaunt kept a diary. And when, at the end he felt his reason going, he wrote the narrative to fill in the gap not covered by the subsequent notes. Had he not gone mad we might have had the whole story in the form in which he presented the first half.

  I know that certain people hold a different view. They agree with me that he went mad at this point, but they maintain that the diary was written by him when he was insane. They say, in fact, that he scrawled down the disordered fancies of his brain, and for confirmation of their argument they point to the bad writing—sometimes well-nigh illegible: to the scraps of paper the notes were made on: to the general untidiness and dirt of the record.

  I can only say that I am utterly convinced they are wrong. The bad writing, the scraps of paper were due, I feel certain, to the inherent difficulties under which they were written. Always was he trying to escape detection: he just scribbled when he could and where he could. Then for some reason which we shall never know he found himself in the position of being able to write coherently and at length. And the fortunate thing is that he brought his narrative so very close to the point where his diary starts.

  CHAPTER XI

  In Which We Read the Diary of Robin Gaunt

  I am on board a ship. She is filling with oil now from a tanker alongside. No lights. No idea where we are. Thought the country we motored through resembled Devonshire.

  They’re Russians—the crew—unless I’m much mistaken. The most frightful gang of murderous-looking cut-throats I’ve ever seen. Two of them fighting now: officers seem to have no control. Difficult to tell which are the officers. Believe my worst fears confirmed: the Bolsheviks have my secret. May God help the world!

  Under weigh. Just read the papers Wilmot spoke about. Is Stockton mad? Why did he say nothing at the inquest? And Joe—poor little chap. How dare they say such things about me? The War Office knew; why have they kept silent?

  The murderers! The foul murderers! There was a wretched woman on board, and these devils have killed her. They pushed her in suddenly to the cabin where I was sitting. She was terrified with fear, poor soul. The most harmless little short fat woman. English. They hustled her through—three of them, and she screamed to me to help her. But what could I do? Two more of the crew appeared, and one of them clapped his hand over her mouth. They took her on deck—and with my own eyes I saw them throw her overboard. It was dark, and she disappeared at once. She just gave one pitiful cry—then silence. Are they going to do the same to me?

  Four men playing cards outside the door. Certain now that they are Russians. What does it all mean?

  It is incomprehensible. There must be at least fifty rubber suits on board with cisterns and everything complete for short-range work with my poison. An officer took me to see them, and one of the men put one on.

  “Good?” said the officer, looking at me.

  I wouldn’t answer, and a man behind me stuck a bayonet into my back.

  “Good now?” snarled the officer.

  I nodded. Oh! for a chance to be on equal terms…

  But they are good: far too good. They have taken my rough idea, and improved upon it enormously. A man in one of those suits could bathe in the poison safely. But what do they want them for, on board a ship?

  Thank Heavens! I am on shore again. They dragged me up on deck and I thought it was the end. A boat was alongside, and they put me in it. Then some sailors rowed me away. It was dark, and the boom of breakers on rocks grew louder and louder. At last we reached a little cove, and high above me I could see the cliffs. The boat was heaving, and then the man in charge switched on an electric torch. It flashed on the end of a rope ladder dangling in front of us,
and swaying perilously as the swell lapped it and then receded. He signed to me to climb up it, and when I hesitated for a moment, he struck me in the face with his boat-hook. So I jumped and caught the ladder, and immediately the boat was rowed away, leaving me hanging precariously. Then a wave dashed me against the cliff, half stunning me, and I started to climb. An ordeal even for a fit man…Exhausted when I reached the top. I found myself in a cave hewn out of granite. And Helias was waiting for me.

  “Your quarters,” he said. “And no monkey tricks.”

  But I was too done in to do anything but sleep.

  The mystery deepens. This place is too amazing. Today I have been shown the plant in which my poison is to be made. It is a huge tank capable of holding I know not how many tons concealed from view by a wooden building built around it. The building is situated on the top of the cliff and the cliff itself is honeycombed with caves and passages. One in particular leads down from the tank to a kind of living-room, and thence up again to another opening in the cliff similar to the one by which I entered. And from the bottom of the tank there runs a pipe—yards and yards of it coiled in the room. Enough to allow the end to reach the sea. There is a valve in the room by which the flow can be stopped. It must be to supply the vessel below. But why so much? I will not make it: I swear I will not make it, even if they torture me.

  Dear God! I didn’t know such things were known to man. Four days—four centuries. Don’t judge me…I tried, but the entrance was guarded.

  [In the original this fragment was almost illegible. Poor devil—who would judge him? Certainly not I. Who can even dimly guess the refinements of exquisite torture they brought to bear on him in that lonely Cornish cave? And I like to think that behind that last sentence lies his final desperate attempt to outwit them by hurling himself on to the rocks below. “But the entrance was guarded.”]

  It is made. And now that it is made what are they going to do with it? They’ve let me alone since I yielded, but my conscience never leaves me alone. Night and day: night and day it calls me “Coward.” I am a coward. I should have died rather than yield. And yet they could have made it themselves: they said so. They knew the formula. But they thought I’d do it better. If any accident took place I was to be the sufferer.

  Should I have ended it all? It would have been so easy. It would be so easy now. One touch: one finger in the tank and everything finished. But surely sooner or later this place must be discovered. I lie and look out over the grey sea, and sometimes on the far horizon there comes the smoke of a passing vessel.

  Always far out—too far out. Anyway I have no means of signalling. I’m just a prisoner in a cave. They don’t even give me a light at night. Nothing to do but think and go on thinking, and wonder whether I’m going mad. Is it a dream? Shall I wake up suddenly?

  Yesterday I had a strange thought. I must be dead. It was another world, and I was being shown the result of my discovery on earth. Cruelty, death, torture—that was all that the use of such a poison as mine could lead to. It was my punishment. It’s come back to me since—that thought. What was that strange and wonderful play I saw on earth? “Outward Bound.” Rather the same idea: no break—you just goon. Am I dead?

  [Undoubtedly to my mind the first time that Robin Gaunt’s reason began to totter. Poor devil—day after day—brooding alone.]

  Things are going to happen. There’s a light at sea—signalling. Is it the ship, I wonder? They’re letting down the pipe from the cave about me. It’s flat calm: there is hardly a murmur from the sea below.

  At last I know the truth. At last I know the reason for the tank on the top of the cliff, and all that has happened in the last three months. With my own eyes I have seen an atrocity, cold-blooded and monstrous beyond the limits of human imagination.

  Six thousand feet below me gleams the Atlantic: I am on board the dirigible that Wilmot murdered Ganton to obtain. I have locked my cabin door: I hope for a few hours to be undisturbed. And so whilst the unbelievable thing that has happened is fresh in my mind I will put it down on paper.

  [I may say that this final portion of Robin Gaunt’s diary was written in pencil in much the same ordered and connected way as the first part of his narrative. It shows no trace of undue excitement in the handwriting: nor, I venture to think, does it show any mental aberration as far as the phraseology is concerned.]

  I will start from the moment when I saw the signal from the sea. The pipe was hanging down the cliff, and after a while there came a whistle from below. Almost at once I heard the gurgle of liquid in the pipe: evidently poison from the tank was being lowered to someone underneath. Another whistle and the gurgling ceased. Then came the noise of oars; the pipe was drawn up, and for some time nothing more happened.

  It was about half-an-hour later that Helias appeared and told me to come with him. I went to the main living-room, where I found Wilmot, and a man whom I recognised as having seen on board. They were talking earnestly together and poring over a chart that lay between them on the table.

  “The 2nd or 3rd,” I heard Wilmot say, “and the first port of call is the Azores.”

  The other man nodded, and pricked a point on the chart. “That’s the spot,” he said. “A bit west of the Union Castle route.” And just then I became aware of the faint drone of an engine. It sounded like an aeroplane, and Wilmot rose.

  “Then that settles everything. Now I want to see how this part works.” He glanced at me as I stood there listening to the noise, which by this time seemed almost overhead. “One frequently has little hitches the first time one does a thing, Mr Gaunt. You will doubtless be able to benefit from any that may occur when you proceed yourself to stop the next war.”

  They all laughed, and I made no answer.

  “Let’s go and watch,” said Wilmot, glancing at his watch. “I’ll just time it, I think.”

  He led the way up the passage towards the tank, and I followed. That there was some devilish scheme on foot I knew, but I was intensely eager to see what was going to happen. Anything was better than the blank ignorance of the past few weeks.

  We approached the tank, and then to my amazement I saw that there was a large open space in the roof through which I could see the stars. And even as I stared upwards they were blotted out by a huge shape that drifted slowly across the opening so low down that it seemed on top of us.

  “The dirigible that Mr Ganton so kindly bought for me,” said Wilmot genially. “As I say, it is the first time we have done this and I feel a little pardonable excitement.”

  And now the huge vessel above us was stationary, with her engines going just sufficiently to keep her motionless in the light breeze. One could make out the two midship gondolas, and the great central keel that forms the backbone of every airship of her type. And as I stared at her fascinated, something hit the side of the wooden house with a thud. A man clad in one of the rubber suits who was standing on the roof slipped forward and caught the end of a pipe similar to the one in the cave. This he dropped carefully into the tank.

  “Ingenious, don’t you think, Mr Gaunt?” said Wilmot. “We now pump up your liquid into the ballast tanks, at the same time discharging water to compensate for weight. You will see that by keeping one tank permanently empty there is always room for your poison to be taken on board. When the first empty tank is filled, another has been emptied of water and is ready.”

  I hardly listened to him: I was too occupied in watching the level of the liquid fall in the gauge of the tank: too occupied in wondering what was the object of it all.

  “Twelve minutes,” he remarked as the pump above began to suck air in the tank. “Not so bad. We will now go on board. Another little device, Gaunt, on which we flatter ourselves. It looks alarming, but there is no danger.”

  Swinging above us was a thing that looked like a cage, which had evidently been let down from the airship. In a moment or two it came to rest on the roof, and Wilmot beckoned to me to go up the steps.

  “Room for us both,” he re
marked.

  I made no demur: it was useless to argue. Why he wanted me on board was beyond me, though doubtless I should know in time. So I followed him into the cage, and he shut the door. And the next moment we were being drawn up to the dirigible.

  It was the first time I had been outside and I stared round eagerly, but in the faint grey light that precedes dawn it was difficult to see much. Far below us lay the sea, whilst inland the ground was hilly. I saw what I took to be a road in the distance: also a tall chimney which stuck up from the midst of low-lying buildings. And then the cage came to rest: it had been drawn right into the keel of the airship. A metal plate closed underneath us with a clang, and we both stepped out into the central corridor.

  “Something to eat and drink, Mr Gaunt,” said Wilmot, and I followed him in a sort of dull stupor.

  He led the way to a luxurious cabin which was fitted up as a dining-room. On the table were champagne and a variety of sandwiches.

  “We will regard this as a holiday for you,” he remarked. “And if you behave yourself there is no reason why it shouldn’t prove a very pleasant one. After it is over you will have to refill the tank for us, but for the next three or four days let us merely enjoy ourselves.”

  We were flying eastwards—I could tell that by the light; and I peered out of the window, trying to see if I could spot where we were.

  “A beautiful sight, isn’t it?” said Wilmot. “And when the sun rises it is even more beautiful. Lord Grayling and the Earl of Dorset both agreed that to see the dawn from such a vantage-point was to see a very wonderful sight.”

  “In God’s name,” I burst out, “what does it all mean?”

  He smiled as he selected a sandwich.

  “Just your scheme, my dear fellow,” he answered. “Your scheme in practice.”

  “But there’s no war on,” I cried.

  “No. There’s no war on,” he agreed.