The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “There are a good many things about Peterson that strike one as incredible,” said Drummond quietly. “But I wish I had even an inkling of what he’s going to do.”

  Suddenly the eyes of the two men met over the heads of the women. It was the moment I had been waiting for and I watched Wilmot intently. For perhaps the fraction of a second he paused in his conversation and it seemed to me that a gleam of triumph showed on his face: then once again he turned to the woman beside him with just the correct shade of deference which is expected of those who converse with a Duchess.

  Drummond also had turned away and was chatting with someone he knew, but I noticed that he continually edged nearer and nearer to the place where Wilmot was standing a little apart from the others. At last he stopped in front of them and bowed.

  “Good-evening, Duchess,” he remarked. “Why aren’t you slaughtering birds up North?”

  “How are you, Hugh? Same thing applies to you. By the way—do you know Mr Wilmot?—Captain Drummond?”

  The two men bowed, and Jerningham and I, talking ostensibly, drew closer. I know my hands were clammy with excitement, and I don’t think the others were in much better condition.

  “Your last trip, Mr Wilmot, I believe,” said Drummond.

  “That is so,” answered the other. “In England, I regret to say, the weather is so treacherous that after the early part of September flying ceases to be a pleasure.”

  “He has got some wonderful surprise for us, Hugh,” said the Duchess.

  “Merely a trifling souvenir, my dear Duchess,” answered Wilmot suavely.

  “Of what has become quite an institution, Mr Wilmot,” put in Drummond.

  Wilmot bowed.

  “I had hoped perhaps to have made it even more of an institution,” he answered. “But the public takes to new things slowly. Ah! we’re off.”

  “And what,” asked Drummond, “is our course tonight?”

  “I thought we would do the Thames Valley. Duchess—a cocktail?”

  A waiter with a row of exquisite glasses containing an amber liquid was handing her a tray.

  “Captain Drummond? You, I’m sure, will have one.”

  “Why, certainly, Mr Wilmot. I feel confident that what the Duchess drinks is safe for me.”

  And once again the eyes of the two men met.

  Personally I think it was at that moment that the certainty came to Wilmot that Drummond knew. But just as certainly no sign of it showed on his face. All through the sumptuous dinner that followed, when he and Drummond sat one on each side of the Duchess, he played the part of the courteous host to perfection. I was two or three places away myself, so much of their conversation I missed. But some of it I did hear, and I marvelled at Wilmot’s nerve.

  Deliberately Drummond brought up the subject of the Robin Gaunt mystery, and of the fate of the Hermione. And just as deliberately Wilmot discussed them both. But all the time he knew and we knew that things were moving inexorably towards their appointed end. And what was that end going to be?

  That was the question I asked myself over and over again. It seemed impossible, incredible that the suave, self-possessed man at the head of the table could possess a mind so imfamously black that, without a qualm, he would sacrifice all these women. And yet he had not scrupled to murder the women in the Hermione.

  It seemed so needless—so unnecessary. Why have brought them at all? Why not have flown with his crew alone? Why have drawn attention to himself with his much-advertised gala night?

  “Have you noticed the rate at which we are going? She’s positively quivering.”

  Jerningham’s sudden question broke in on my thoughts, and I realised that the whole great vessel was vibrating like a thing possessed. But no one seemed to pay any attention: the band still played serenely on, scarcely audible over the loud buzz of conversation.

  At last dinner was over, and a sudden silence fell as Wilmot rose to his feet. A burst of applause greeted him, and he bowed with a faint smile.

  “Your Grace,” he began, “Ladies and Gentlemen. It is, believe me, not only a pleasure but an honour to have had such a distinguished company tonight to celebrate this last trip in my airship. I am no believer in long speeches, certainly not on occasions of this sort. But, before distributing the small souvenirs which I have obtained as a memento of this—I trust I may say—pleasant evening, there is one thing which as loyal subjects of our gracious Sovereign it is our duty to perform. Before, however, requesting the distinguished officer on my right”—he bowed to Drummond, and suddenly with a queer thrill I noticed that Drummond’s face was shining like an actor’s with grease paint—“to propose His Majesty’s health, I would like to mention one fact. The liqueur in which I would ask you to drink the King is one unknown in this country. It is an old Chinese wine the secret of which is known only to a certain sect of monks. Its taste is not unpleasant, but its novelty will lie in the fact that you are drinking what only two Europeans have ever drunk before. One of those is dead—not, I hasten to assure you, as a result of drinking it: the other is myself. I will now ask Captain Drummond to propose the King.”

  In front of each of us had been placed a tiny glass containing a few drops of the liqueur, and Drummond rose to his feet, as did all of us.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said mechanically, and I could tell he was puzzled—“the King.”

  The band struck up the National Anthem, and we stood there waiting for the end. Suddenly on Drummond’s face there flashed a look of horror, and he swung round staring at Wilmot. And then came his mighty shout—drowning the band with its savage intensity.

  “Don’t drink. For God’s sake—don’t drink. It’s death.”

  Unconsciously I sniffed the contents of my glass: smelt that strange sickly scent: realised that the liquid was Gaunt’s poison.

  The band stopped abruptly, and a woman started to laugh hysterically. And still Drummond and Wilmot stared at one another in silence, whilst the great vessel drove on throbbing through the night.

  “What’s all this damned foolery?” came in angry tones from a red-faced man half-way down the table. “You’re frightening the women, sir. What do you mean—death?”

  He raised the glass to his lips, and before any of us could stop him, he drained it. And drinking it he crashed forward across the table—dead.

  It was then that real pandemonium broke loose. Women screamed and huddled together in little groups, staring at the man who had spoken—now lying rigid and motionless with broken glass and upset flower vases all round him.

  And still Drummond and Wilmot stared at one another in silence.

  “The doors, you fellows.” Drummond’s voice reached us above the din. “And line up the servants and keep them covered.”

  With a snarl that was scarcely human Wilmot sprang forward. He snatched up the Duchess’s liqueur glass and flung the contents in Drummond’s face. And Drummond laughed.

  “Your mistake, Peterson,” he said. “You only got half the antidote when you murdered Sir John Dallas. Ah! no—your hands above your head.”

  The barrel of his revolver gleamed in the light, and once again silence fell as, fascinated, we watched the pair of them. They stood alone, at the head of the table, and Drummond’s eyes were hard and merciless, while Peterson plucked at his collar with hands that shook.

  “Where are we driving to at this rate, Carl Peterson?” said Drummond.

  “There’s some mistake,” muttered the other.

  “No, Peterson, there is no mistake. Tonight you were going to do to the Megalithic what you did to the Hermione—sink her with every soul on board. There’s no good denying it: I spent last night in Black Mine.”

  The other started uncontrollably, and the blazing hatred in his eyes grew more maniacal.

  “What are you going to do, Drummond?” he snarled.

  “A thing that has been long overdue, Peterson,” answered Drummond quietly. “You unspeakable devil: you damnable wholesale murderer.”


  He slipped the revolver back in his pocket, and picked up his own liqueur glass.

  “The good host drinks first, Peterson.” His great hand shot out and clutched the other’s throat. “Drink, you foul brute: drink.”

  Never to my dying day shall I forget the hoarse yell of terror that Peterson uttered as he struggled in that iron grip. His eyes stared fearfully at the glass, and with a sudden stupendous effort he knocked it out of Drummond’s hand.

  And once again Drummond laughed: the contents had spilled on the other’s wrist.

  “If you won’t drink—have it the other way, Carl Peterson. But the score is paid.”

  His grip relaxed on Peterson’s throat: he stood back, arms folded, watching the criminal. And whether it was the justice of fate, or whether it was that previous applications of the antidote had given Peterson a certain measure of immunity, I know not. But for full five seconds did he stand there before the end came. And in that five seconds the mask slipped from his face, and he stood revealed for what he was. And of that revelation no man can write…

  Thus did Carl Peterson die on the eve of his biggest coup. As he had killed, so was he killed, whilst, all unconscious of what had happened, the navigator still drove the airship full speed towards the west.

  And now but little remains to be told. It was Drummond who walked along the corridor and found the control cabin. It was Drummond who put a revolver in the navigator’s neck, and forced him to swing the airship round and head back to London. It was Drummond who commanded the dirigible till finally we tied up once more to the mooring mast.

  And then it was Drummond who, revolver in hand to stop any rush of the crew, superintended the disembarkation of the guests. Lift load after lift load of white-faced women and men went down to the ground till only we six remained. One final look did we take at the staring glassy eyes of the man who sprawled across the chair in which he had sat to entertain Royalty, and then we too dropped swiftly downwards.

  News had already passed round the aerodrome, and excited officials thronged round us as we stepped out of the lift. But Drummond would say nothing.

  “Ring up Inspector MacIver at Scotland Yard,” he remarked curtly. “Leave all the rest of them on board till he comes. I will stop here.”

  But, as all the world knows, it was decreed otherwise. Barely had we sat down in one of the waiting-rooms when an agitated man rushed in.

  “She’s off,” he cried. “Wilmot’s dirigible is under weigh.”

  We darted outside to see the great airship slowly circling round. She still blazed with light, and from the windows leaned men, waving their arms mockingly. Then she headed north-east. And she was barely clear of the aerodrome when it happened. What looked to me like a yellow flash came from amidships, followed by a terrible rending noise. And before our eyes the dirigible became a roaring furnace of flame. Then, splitting in two, she dropped like a stone.

  What caused the accident no one will ever know. Personally I am inclined to agree with Drummond that one of the crew, realising that Wilmot was dead, decided to ransack his cabin to see what he could steal. And in the cabin he found some infernal device for causing fire, which in his unskilful hands exploded suddenly. It is a possible solution: that is all I can say for it. Anyway the point is immaterial. For twelve hours no man could approach the wreckage, so intense was the heat. And when at length it was possible, the bodies were so terribly burned as to be unrecognisable. Two only could be traced: the two in evening clothes. Though which was the red-faced man who had drunk and which was Wilmot no one could say. And again the point is immaterial. For when a man is dead he’s dead, and there’s not much use in worrying further. What did matter was that one of those two charred corpses was all that remained of the super-criminal known to the world as Wilmot—and known to Drummond as Carl Peterson.

  CHAPTER XIII

  In Which I Lay Down My Pen

  I have finished. To the best of my ability I have set down the events of that summer. At the outset I warned my readers that I was no literary man: had there been anyone else willing to tackle the job I would willingly have resigned in his favour.

  There will be many even now who will in all probability shrug their shoulders incredulously. Well, as I have said more than once, I cannot make any man believe me. If people choose to think that Gaunt’s description of the sinking of the Hermione is a madman’s delusion based on what he had read in the papers, they are welcome to their opinion. But the Hermione has never been heard of again, and it is now more than a year since she sailed from Southampton. And I have, at any rate, put forward a theory to account for her loss.

  What is of far more interest to me is what would have happened had the attack been carried out on the Megalithic. What would have happened if Drummond had not chanced to pick out the scent of death in his glass, from the heavy languorous smell of the hothouse flowers that filled the cabin in which we dined? Can’t you picture that one terrible moment, as with one accord every man and woman round that table pitched forward dead, under the mocking cynical eyes of Wilmot, and the great airship with its ghastly load tore on through the night?

  And then—what would have happened? Would the attack have been successful? I know not, but sometimes I try to visualise the scene. The dirigible—no longer blazing with light—but dark and ghostly, keeping pace with the liner low down on top of her. Those thirty desperate men: the shattered wireless: and over everything the rain of death. And then the strange craft capable of such speed in spite of her lines, alongside. Everywhere panic-stricken women and men dashing to and fro, and finding no escape. Perhaps the siren blaring madly into the night, until that too ceased because no man was left to sound it.

  Then in the grey dawn the transfer of the bullion to the other vessel: the descent of Wilmot from the airship: perhaps a torpedo. A torpedo was all that was necessary for the Lusitania.

  And then, last of all, I can see Wilmot—his hands in his pockets, a cigar drawing evenly between his lips—standing on the bridge of his ship. The swirling water has calmed down: only some floating wreckage marks the grave of the Megalithic. Suddenly from overhead there comes a blinding sheet of flame, and the doomed airship falls blazing into the sea.

  Guess-work, I admit—but that is what I believe would have happened. But it didn’t, and so guesswork it must remain to the end. There are other things too we shall never know. What happened to the vessel with the strange lines? There is no one known to us who can describe her save Robin Gaunt, and he is incurably insane. Where is she? What is she doing now? Is she some harmless ocean-going tramp, or is she rotting in some deserted harbour?

  What happened to the men we had left bound in Black Mine? For when the police got there next day there was no sign of them. How did they get away? Where are they now? Pawns—I admit; but they might have told us something.

  And finally, the thing that intrigues Drummond most. How much did Peterson think we knew?

  Personally I do not think that Peterson believed we knew anything at all until the end. Obviously he had no idea that we had been to Black Mine the night before, until Drummond told him so. Obviously he believed himself perfectly safe, and but for the discovery of Gaunt’s diary he would have been. Should we, or rather Drummond, ever have suspected that liqueur except for the knowledge we had? I doubt it, and so does Drummond. Even though we knew that smell so well—the smell of death—I doubt if we should have picked it out from the heavy exotic scent of the flowers.

  They are questions which for ever will remain unanswered, though it is possible that some day a little light may be thrown on them.

  And now there is but one thing more. Drummond and his wife are in Deauville, so I must rely on my memory.

  It was four days after the airship had crashed in flames. The scent of the poison no longer hung about the wreckage: the charred bodies had all been recovered. And as Drummond stood looking at the debris a woman in deep black approached him.

  “You have killed the man I loved, Hugh Drumm
ond,” she said. “But do not think it is the end.”

  He took off his hat.

  “It would be idle to pretend, Mademoiselle,” he said, “that I do not know you. But may I ask why you state that I killed Carl Peterson? Is not that how he died?”

  With his hand he indicated the wreckage.

  She shook her head.

  “The airship came down in flames at half-past one,” she said. “It was at ten o’clock that Carl died.”

  “That is so,” he said gravely. “I said the other to spare your feelings. You have seen, I presume, someone who was on board?”

  “I have seen no one,” she answered.

  “But those details have been kept out of the papers,” he exclaimed.

  “I have read no paper,” she replied.

  “Then how did you know?”

  “He spoke to me as he died,” she said quietly. “And as I said before, it is not the end.”

  Without another word she left him. Was she speaking the truth, or was there indeed some strange rapport between her and Peterson? Did the personality of that arch-criminal project itself through space to the woman he had lived with for so many years? And if so, what terrible message of hatred against Drummond did it give to her?

  He has not seen her since: the memory of that brief interview is getting a little blurred. Perhaps she too has forgotten: perhaps not. Who knows?

  THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES (1928) [Part 1]

  CHAPTER I

  In Which I Make Drummond’s Acquaintance

  Even now, after three months’ calm thought, I sometimes feel that I must have dreamed the whole thing. I say to myself that this is England: that I am sitting at lunch in my club hoping that that gluttonous lawyer Seybourne will not take all the best part of the Stilton: that unless I get a move on I shall be very late at Lord’s. I say all that just as I always used to say it—particularly about Seybourne. And then it suddenly comes over me—the events of those amazing days.