The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Once more silence fell on the room, and Drummond, with the faintest perceptible shrug of his shoulders, again turned his back on us and stared into the darkness. Our only positive clue gone—or at any rate valueless, the outlook blacker, if possible, than before. The butler brought in a tray of drinks and Tracey waved his hand at it mechanically.

  “Help yourselves,” he remarked, but nobody moved.

  And then at last Drummond spoke. His back was still towards us: his voice was perfectly quiet. “This situation is too impossible to continue,” he said. “Something is bound to happen soon.”

  And as if in answer to his remark the telephone bell jangled a second time.

  “I told you so,” he said calmly. “This is news.”

  Tracey had again taken the receiver: and again we watched him with a kind of feverish anxiety. Was Drummond right? Or was it some further futile communication from the police?

  “A lady wishes to speak to you, Drummond,” said Tracey, and the tension suddenly became acute. “She won’t give her name.”

  Drummond went to the instrument, and we waited breathlessly. And if there is a more maddening proceeding during a time of suspense than having to listen to one end of a telephone conversation I have yet to experience it. We heard the metallic voice of the other speaker; we saw Drummond give an uncontrollable start, and then freeze into absolute immobility.

  “So it is you,” he said in a low voice. “Where is Phyllis?”

  Again that metallic voice, and then quite clearly a laugh.

  “Damn you,” said Drummond, still in the same quiet tone. “What have you done with her?”

  This time the voice went on for nearly a minute, and all we could do was to watch the changing expressions on his face and try to imagine what was causing them. Anger, bewilderment, and finally blank surprise were all registered, and it was the latter which remained when the voice ceased.

  “But look here!” he cried. “Are you there? Damn it—she’s gone!”

  He rang the bell furiously for the Exchange.

  “Where did that last call come from?” he asked. “London. Can you possible get me the number?”

  We waited eagerly, only to see him lay down the receiver wearily.

  “The public callbox at Piccadilly Circus,” he said.

  “It was Irma?” almost shouted Darrell.

  “Yes—it was.”

  He stood there frowning, and we waited eagerly.

  “It was that she-cat right enough. I’d know her voice anywhere. And she’s got some dirty game up her sleeve.”

  “What did she say?” asked someone.

  “She first of all said that she was charmed to renew her acquaintance with Phyllis, and that it seemed quite like old times. She went on to say that so far she had only been able to have a very brief chat with her, but that she hoped for many more in the near future. She was sure I would like to know that she was unhurt, but how long that condition of affairs lasted depended on me entirely. That I should have a letter from her in the morning making things quite clear, and that all she could advise me to do for the present was to have a good night in. Then she rang off.”

  “Well—that’s something,” said Darrell. “We know she’s unhurt.”

  “Yes—I don’t think she would lie,” agreed Drummond. “But what’s she getting at? How can it depend on me?”

  “That seems fairly obvious,” said Jerningham gravely. “You’re going to be put through it, old man, and if you don’t play nicely Phyllis is going to suffer. There’s no good not facing facts, and she’s got you by the short hairs.”

  Drummond sat down heavily.

  “I suppose you’re right,” he said slowly. “I’ll do anything—anything. I wanted to ask her tonight if she would take me instead of Phyllis, but she’d rung off.”

  Darrell laughed shortly.

  “I don’t think the answer would have been very satisfactory even if she hadn’t,” he said. “You’re not a very comfortable person to have about the house, old boy.”

  “Hell!” said Drummond tersely.

  Then he stood up, and the expression on his face made me feel profoundly thankful that I was never likely to come up against him.

  “I’m going to take one of your boats, Tracey,” he remarked. “Don’t wait up for me: I shan’t go to bed tonight.”

  The next moment he had vanished through the open window.

  “Poor devil,” said Bill. “I’m sorry for him. But I don’t see that there’s anything to be done.”

  “There isn’t,” said Darrell. “We can only wait for this letter tomorrow morning.”

  He helped himself to a whiskey and soda, and I followed his example. That was all we could do—wait for the letter. But it was impossible to prevent oneself speculating on the contents. What test was Drummond going to be put to? Was he going to be told to commit some crime? Some robbery possibly with his wife’s safety depending on his success? What a ghastly predicament to be in! To have to run the risk of a long term of imprisonment, or else to know that he was putting his wife in danger. And even if he ran the risk how could he be sure that the others would stick to their side of the bargain? Avowedly they were criminals of the worst type, so what reliance could possible be put on their word?

  The others had gone off to the billiard room, leaving Tracey and me alone. And suddenly the utter incredibility of the whole situation came over me in a wave. Not twelve hours ago had I been sitting peacefully in my club, earnestly discussing with the secretary whether the new brandy was as good as the last lot. He had said yes: I had disagreed. And it had seemed a very important matter.

  I laughed: and he looked up at me quickly. “I don’t see anything very humorous in the situation,” he remarked.

  I laughed again. “No more do I, Bill, not really. But it had just occurred to me that if I was suddenly transported to the smoking-room of the club, and I told the occupants that since I last saw them a lady had been kidnapped from your house, I had found a dead man in a ditch, and finally had been nearly murdered for my pains—they might not believe me.”

  He grunted. “You’re right,” he said. “They might not. At times I hardly believe it myself. Damn this accursed woman Irma—or whatever she calls herself!” He mixed himself a drink savagely. “We’re going to have hordes of newspaper men round the place, poking their confounded noses into everything. And, being Whitsuntide, they’ll probably run special steamers to view the scene of the crime. I tell you, Joe, I wouldn’t have had it happen for worlds. Of course I’m very sorry for Drummond—but I wish it had taken place somewhere else.”

  “Naturally,” I agreed. “At the same time. Bill, don’t forget that everything that happened did take place somewhere else. The dead man I found was twelve miles from here—and he has since disappeared. The car has disappeared, too. In fact there’s nothing to connect the matter with this house.”

  “What do you mean?” he said. “Nothing to connect it with this house! What about Mrs. Drummond? Wasn’t she staying here?”

  “She was—undoubtedly. But hasn’t it occurred to you—mind you, I only put it forward as a possibility—that Drummond may be compelled by the gang who have got her to keep the fact of her disappearance quiet?”

  “But the police know it already,” he cried.

  “They know she went out in a car, and that the car was found empty. That does not necessarily mean that she has disappeared. We know she has, but that’s a very different matter. And if, as I surmise, Drummond is going to be ordered to commit a crime as the price for his wife’s life—or at any rate safety—the first essential is that he should keep the police out of it as much as possible.”

  “Commit a crime!” He stared at me for a moment or two and then put down his glass on the table. “You really think that that is going to be the next move?”

  “I don’t know any more than you do,” I said. “The whole thing is so absolutely amazing that no ordinary rules seem to apply. If they had murdered the poor girl out
right as an act of revenge it would at any rate have been understandable. But this new development can only mean that they are going to put pressure on him through his wife.”

  “Well, I must frankly admit,” he said at length, “that the less that is known about this affair the better I shall be pleased. At the same time I’d hate to know that Drummond was running round the country robbing churches or something of that sort.”

  He paused, struck by a sudden thought.

  “It might be a case, not of blackmail exactly, but of ransom. On the payment of a sum of money she will be returned.”

  “Is he a wealthy man?” I asked.

  “Quite well off. Do you think that’s the solution, Joe?”

  “My dear old man,” I cried, “ask me another. I don’t think I’ve ever been so hopelessly at sea in my life. I shall put a cold compress round my neck, and go to bed. Presumably all our questions will be answered tomorrow morning.”

  And to bed I went—but not to sleep. Try as I would I could not stop thinking about the affair. That last idea of Bill Tracey’s had a good deal to be said for it. And what would happen if Drummond wouldn’t pay—or couldn’t? People of the type we were up against were not likely to ask a small sum.

  Would they go on keeping her a prisoner until he had scraped together the money? Or would they murder her? I shuddered at the thought: this was England, not a bandit-infested desert. They would never dare to run such an appalling risk. They might threaten, of course, but at that it would stop. And then as if to mock me I saw once again that evil face with its cynical smile, heard that voice: “Too easy,” felt those vicelike hands on my throat. Would they stop at that?

  At last I could bear it no longer. I got up and lit a cigarette: then I went and sat down by the open window. A very faint breeze was stirring in the trees: from the other end of the lawn came the mournful cry of an owl. And somewhere out there in the darkness was that poor devil Drummond, on the rack with anxiety and worry.

  Suddenly the moon came out from behind a cloud, throwing fantastic shadows across the lawn—the clear-cut black and white shadows of the night. And after a while I began to imagine things, to see movement where there was no movement, to hear noises when there was no noise. Every board that creaked in the house seemed like the footsteps of a man, and once I started violently as a bat flitted past close to. In fact I came quite definitely to the conclusion that during the hours of darkness Piccadilly was good enough for me. With which profound reflection I got back into bed, and promptly fell asleep. But what the footman thought, I don’t know. Because when a motor car with blood spouting from the radiator is on the point of knocking you down, and you see that it isn’t really a radiator, but the face of a man with a cynical smile who continually says “Too easy,” it is only natural that you should push that face. I did—and it was the footman’s stomach. The only comfort was that he had already put down the tea.

  CHAPTER V

  In Which the Letter Arrives

  And now I come to the beginning proper of the amazing adventure which was to occupy us for the next few days. The happenings of the preceding day were only the necessary preliminaries without which the adventure could not have started.

  As I have said, the two alternatives which I had in my mind as I went downstairs the next morning could be summed up in the two words—ransom or crime. And it was with a queer feeling of excitement that I saw Drummond standing in the hall holding a bulky letter in his hand. The letter.

  “How’s the neck?” he remarked.

  “So so,” I said. “You’ve heard from that woman?”

  He nodded his head thoughtfully.

  “I have. And I’ll be damned if I can make out if I’m mad or if she is. Go and hit a sausage, and then we’ll have a council of war.”

  I went into the dining-room, to find that the rest of his pals had nearly finished. None of the women were down yet, so conversation was non-existent. And ten minutes later we all duly assembled in Tracey’s study.

  “I’ve read this letter twice,” said Drummond, coming straight to the point, “and as I said to Dixon I don’t know whether I’m mad or she is. He looked a bit fine-drawn, I thought, but much less worried than he had done the previous night.

  “I should think the best thing to do is for me to read it aloud to you,” he went on. “The postmark on the envelope is of no assistance. It was posted in London, and that doesn’t help. Somewhat naturally also there is no address.”

  He spread out the sheets and began.

  “MON AMI,

  “In case you have forgotten, I wish to recall to your memory the circumstances of our last meeting. A little more than six months ago you may remember we met beside the wreckage of the airship. And I told you then that I knew you had killed Carl. It matters not how I knew: some things are incapable of ordinary explanation. But if it is of any interest to you, I did, as a matter of fact, make further inquiries from people who had been on that last voyage. And from them I learned that I was right, and that you did kill him.

  “Six months ago, Drummond, and during those six months you have never been out of my thoughts for long. There was no hurry, and during a winter spent in Egypt I have been indulging in the luxury of anticipation. They say it is better than realization: the next few days should decide that point as far as this particular case is concerned. There was another reason also which necessitated a little delay. Various arrangements had to be made in England—arrangements which took time. These have now been made, and I trust that in the near future you will find them satisfactory.

  “However, I go too fast. The first thing I had to decide was what method I should adopt for punishing you adequately. My revenge, if I was to enjoy it to the full, had to be carefully thought out. I wanted nothing crude;” (I caught Darrell’s eye at that moment) “I wanted something artistic. And above all I wanted something long drawn out.

  “And so your brilliant intellect will at once perceive that no mere death coming suddenly out of the blue could fit into my ideas. You smile, perhaps: you recall that in the past you were frequently threatened with death and that you are very much alive today. Agreed, mon ami; but do not forget the little verse I sent you. Doubtless you have inspected the message contained in it, and it is up to me to prove that that message is no empty boast.

  “For example, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to have killed your dear Phyllis yesterday afternoon. And her positively murderous assault on one of my most trusted assistants really made me very angry for a while. The poor man is quite dead.

  “In parenthesis, mon cher, who on earth is the funny little man you left to guard the car when you found it? From the description I’ve heard he”s a new one on me.”

  “Damn the woman!” I spluttered, and even Drummond grinned suddenly. Then he went on.

  “To return, however. It would have been very easy to have killed her, but so far from doing so the dear girl is sitting with me as I write. Not only easy—but just. We should have been all square. But I want more satisfaction than that, Drummond, much more. And so I will come down to my little scheme.

  “In the past your physical strength has always excited my warmest admiration. But I have never been quite so certain about your mental ability. Luck, I think, has entered a good deal into the matter, and though I should be the last person to belittle luck, yet it is apt to affect the issue somewhat unfairly.

  “And so on this occasion I propose to test your brain. Not unduly, I trust, but enough to afford me a certain amount of amusement. Do not be alarmed—your physical strength will be tested also. If you emerge triumphant your dear Phyllis will be restored to your bosom. If on the other hand you fail, then I shall claim my pound of flesh. In other words, what might have so easily been done yesterday afternoon will merely have been postponed.

  “The test is expressed simply by two words: Find Phyllis. You raise your eyebrows: that, you say, is somewhat naturally the test. But wait, mon ami, and I will explain a little further.
You have doubtless heard of hidden treasure hunts: perhaps joined in one yourself. This is going to be run on the same rules. You will receive clues which you will interpret to the best of your ability. These clues will lead you to various places where further clues will await you. They will also lead you to various places where you may or may not enjoy yourself. Things will happen which you may or may not like. In fact, my dear Drummond, to put the matter in a nutshell, you may or may not pull through. As I said, I have made my arrangements with some care.

  “One further word. This little matter is between you and me. I have no objection to your roping in your friends—in fact, the more the merrier. But I don’t want the police butting in. You could not avoid it yesterday afternoon, I know, so you are forgiven for that. But get them out of it now—quickly. Another thing, too. I don’t want Uncle Percival or whatever he calls himself asking absurd questions from any of the Broadcasting centres. If that should happen our little game would cease abruptly. So bear those two points in mind: no police, no broadcasting. And that, I think, is all. You will get your first clue today.”

  Drummond laid down the letter, and lit a cigarette. “What do you think of it?” he said.

  “The thing is a fantastic leg pull,” cried Tracey.

  But Drummond shook his head doubtfully. “I wonder,” he said. “What do you think, Peter?”

  “That she means every word of it, old boy,” answered Darrell, positively. “That’s no leg pull: it’s damned grim earnest.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Jerningham. “We’re for the trail again.”

  “You mean to tell me,” spluttered Tracey, “that this woman has hidden your wife, and now expects you to go chasing round the country till you find her! Dash it—it’s absurd.”

  “Absurd or not absurd,” said Drummond gravely, “that is exactly what this woman has done. And from what I know of her it’s going to be some chase.” He got up, and suddenly, to my amazement, an almost ecstatic grin spread over his face.