The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Then came Drummond’s voice, sharp and insistent. “Light. Give me light. My God! what is it?”

  And never to my dying day shall I forget the spectacle we saw when Darrell’s torch focused and steadied on Drummond. The thing was on him—clawing at him: a thing that looked like a black sack. Its hands were fastened on his throat, and it was by his throat that it was supporting itself. Because it had no legs—only two stumps. It was mouthing and gibbering, and altogether dreadful. Some faint luminosity still remained on its face, but in the light of the torch it was hardly noticeable. And then I forgot everything in watching that ghastly struggle.

  The dust was rising in little eddies as Drummond moved, carrying the thing with him. Of its almost superhuman strength no one knew better than I, and in a few seconds the veins were standing out on Drummond’s forehead. Then he braced himself against the wall, and gripped its wrists with his hands. I could see the muscles taut and bulging under the sleeves of his coat as he tried to wrench the thing’s hands away from his throat. But in spite of his enormous strength, he told me afterwards that but for the knowledge of a certain ju-jitsu grip by which a man’s fingers can be forced open, the thing would have throttled him unless we had helped. As it was, help was unnecessary: the murderous hold relaxed, and, with a heave, Drummond flung the thing away from him. It landed on the floor with a thud, and for a space it stood there balancing itself on its hands and glaring at us. Then, like some great misshapen ape, it disappeared up the passage, moving on its hands and stumps.

  “Good Lord!” grunted Drummond, “what a little pet.”

  “Where’s the gun, Hugh,” said Darrell curtly. His torch was flashing on the empty passage. “Put it out, Peter,” snapped Drummond. “I’m thinking that gun belonged to the other bloke. We’ll follow up in darkness.”

  And then, before we had gone two steps, there came from in front of us a loud crash, followed by a terrible scream. The scream was not repeated: only a low moaning noise could be heard, and after a while that also ceased. Once again the silence was absolute.

  “For the love of Heaven,” came Drummond’s hoarse whisper. “Keep your eyes skinned. Who is the last man?”

  “I am,” said Jerningham. “Don’t worry about this end.” We crept forward, guided by momentary flashes of Drummond’s torch. The trail was easy to follow. It led along the passage for about fifteen yards, and then turned to the right through an open door.

  “Stop here,” said Drummond quietly. “I’m going in alone.”

  And just as little details about him had struck me before, so on this occasion did the almost incredible swiftness and silence of his movements impress my mind. One instant he was there: the next he was not, but no sound had marked his going.

  We clustered round the open door waiting. Once a board creaked inside, and then suddenly we heard a startled exclamation, and Drummond rejoined us.

  “There’s something pretty grim happened,” he muttered. “Stand well away from the door. I’m going to switch on the torch.”

  The beam flashed on, and outlined against it was the ominous silhouette of a revolver held in his other hand. And for a space the two remained motionless: then the revolver fell to his side.

  “Great Scott!” he muttered. “Poor brute!”

  The crash and the scream were accounted for: also the silence that had followed. Lying motionless on the floor close to the further wall was the thing that had attacked him. And it needed no second glance to see that it was dead. There was a dreadful wound in the head; in fact, it was split completely open. And further details are unnecessary.

  For a while we stared at it stupidly—the same thought in all our minds. How had it happened? Because save for the motionless figure on the floor the room was empty. What was it that had struck the poor brute this ghastly blow in the darkness. Nothing had come out of the door, and the only window was boarded up.

  It was a peculiar room with stone walls and a stone ceiling, and what it could have been used for in the past completely defeated me. Let into the wall near which the body was lying were six iron rings: except for them, the walls were absolutely bare. They were fixed in a straight line about a yard from the floor, and were three or four feet apart. And below each ring the boarding was worn away as if it had been gnawed by rats. “Didn’t the landlord say that the farmer who was murdered kept savage dogs?” said Darrell. “He probably used those staples to chain them up.”

  “Maybe he did,” said Drummond grimly. “But there ain’t any dogs here now, Peter, and what I want to know is what killed that poor brute.”

  Once again we fell silent staring at the twisted body.

  “He looks as if he had been bashed over the head with a steam-hammer,” said Jerningham at length. “That crash we heard was it.”

  “Yes, damn it!” cried Drummond. “But what caused the crash.”

  He took a step or two towards the body, and even as he did so there came to me, out of the blue so to speak, an idea. What made me think of it I don’t know: what made me suddenly remember my conversation with the old gentleman that afternoon, I can’t say. But the fact remains that mercifully I did. It was the remark he had made to me that had first caused me to suspect him. I could see him, even as I stood there, giving me that strange, penetrating stare and saying “Was it fifth or sixth? It might make a lot of difference.” And the dead thing was lying between the fifth and sixth ring.

  “I think I’ve got it,” I said slowly. “It’s part of the clue I was given this afternoon, and up till now I’d forgotten it.”

  They listened while I told them, and when I’d finished Drummond nodded his head thoughtfully.

  “You’re probably right,” he said. “Let’s work on the assumption, at any rate.”

  “That’s all very fine and large,” grunted Darrell. “But we don’t want the same result, old boy. And it strikes me that if you make a mistake you won’t make a second.”

  “I’ve got to chance it, Peter,” answered Drummond doggedly. “If Dixon is right, we’re on the track of the next clue. And nothing matters except getting that. Let’s think for a moment. What’s the natural thing to do when you see a ring in a wall? Pull the blamed thing, isn’t it?”

  “Probably what that poor brute was doing when he was killed,” said Sinclair.

  “Then I will pull it, too,” announced Drummond calmly.

  “For Heaven’s sake, man,” cried Jerningham, “What’s the use?”

  “That remains to be seen,” said Drummond. “But we’re going to pull those rings—and we’re going to pull ’em now. Toby, go back to the car with Algy. Keep close together going through the house. In the toolbox you’ll find my towrope. Bring it. And don’t forget that there is at least one unconsidered little trifle loose in the house.”

  “If I’m right,” he went on as they left the room, “the danger must lie close to the wall. That thing never moved with a wound like that in his head: he died on the spot where he was hit. Anyway, one must take a chance.”

  And his hand as he lit a cigarette was as steady as a rock.

  CHAPTER VIII

  In Which We Explore the Mere

  It is nervy work waiting. I know that my feelings were strongly reminiscent of those that I had experienced in France when the latest reports from the seats of the mighty indicated that enemy mining was proceeding underneath one’s trench. To dangers seen and heard one can get tolerably used, but the unseen, silent horror of this room was making me jumpy. I felt I almost preferred my fight in the darkness with the thing that now lay dead.

  At last, after what seemed an interminable time, Sinclair and Longworth returned with the rope.

  “See anyone?” said Drummond casually.

  “Not a soul. But I thought I saw a gleam of light from one of the top rooms,” said Sinclair.

  “Probably our friend of the gun. Give me the rope, and let’s get on with it.”

  “Look here, old man,” said Darrell, “let’s toss.”

  “Go t
o hell,” remarked Drummond tersely. “It’s good of you, Peter, old lad, but this is my show. The only point is that in case anything happens I rely on you to carry on the good work.”

  He walked across to the fifth ring and slipped the rope through it. Then he stepped back, and we breathed again. Nothing had happened so far.

  “Stand clear,” he said. “I’m going to pull.”

  He gave a tug on the rope, and the next instant it was wrenched out of his hand. Some huge object had flashed downwards through the beam of his torch and landed with a sickening thud on the dead man, tearing the rope out of his grasp as it fell. Instinctively he turned the light upwards. In the ceiling was a square, black hole, and we had a momentary glimpse of a face peering at us through it. Then it was gone, and we were left staring upwards foolishly.

  It was Drummond who recovered himself first.

  “A booby-trap that I like not the smell of,” he said savagely. “Keep that hole in the ceiling covered, Ted, and shoot on sight.”

  It must have weighed a couple of hundredweight—the slab that had come out of the ceiling. There was a staple let into the centre of it, with a wire rope attached, by which it had evidently been hoisted back into position the first time. One could see the faint outline of some sort of winding gear above the opening, but of the man who had operated it there was no sign.

  “No—I like not the smell of it,” he repeated grimly. “It’s murder—pure and simple. But if the swine think they’re going to stop us they’re wrong.”

  “What’s the next move?” said someone shakily.

  “See what happens when we pull the sixth ring,” he said. “If what Dixon said is right, that’s the other important one.”

  “Probably the floor will give way this time.” remarked Algy Longworth gloomily. “I feel I should like a mother’s soothing comfort.”

  We waited tensely while Drummond again adjusted the rope. He began to pull, and suddenly he gave a triumphant exclamation.

  “It’s moving.”

  It was: a crack was appearing in the wall. And then with a faint creak the whole block of stone swung round on a pivot, leaving an opening about three feet wide and six feet high.

  “The poor brute was looking for that, I suppose,” said Drummond, “and in the darkness pulled the wrong ring.”

  He crossed the room, and then stopped abruptly. He was staring at a piece of paper fastened to the back of the part that had moved.

  “Well done, little man,” he read slowly. “Any casualties yet? But you’ve still got a long way to go, and I’ve got some far better jests for you before you’ve finished. Incidentally the charming gentleman without any legs is an impromptu turn as far as I am concerned. I found him on the premises when I arrived, and he struck me as being quite in keeping with the general character of the house. I rather think he must be the so-called ghost, and I do hope he’s behaved himself. But if he hasn’t don’t blame me. His predilections seem quite delightfully murderous, and he resents any intrusion terribly. But doubtless somebody loves him. Phyllis is still quite well, though just a leetle bit off her food. Isn’t this fun?”

  “Damn the woman,” said Drummond angrily. Then he began to laugh. “Though, ’pon my soul,” he went on, “if it wasn’t for Phyllis, I think I should agree with her.”

  “Time enough for that, old boy, when we’re through,” said Jerningham. “Hasn’t it struck you that at the moment we’re in a rather bad strategical position? It’s a sitting shot either from the ceiling or through that opening.”

  “You’ve said a mouthful, Ted,” agreed Drummond, “Back into the passage, and we’ll have a council of war.”

  The moon had risen, and an eerie half light was filtering through the dirty windows, making the place seem, if possible, more ghostly than before.

  “Now then,” said Drummond, “let’s get down to the meat juice. I should think that what our one and only Irma says is right, and that the poor devil dead in there has been responsible for all the stories about this place. Probably used that phosphorous trick to frighten people. Anyway, he’s out.”

  “Next man in is the bloke with the hands who let drive with his bundook,” said Darrell thoughtfully.

  “And any other little pals of his who may be lying about,” went on Drummond. “But the thing to decide is where is the next clue?”

  “The betting is a pony to a dried pea that it’s down that secret passage,” said Jerningham.

  “Then down the passage we go, old son. But not all of us. If this was an ordinary house I wouldn’t mind. But that booby-trap in there was specially prepared, and there are probably others. The question is how many of us go. I think three are enough. That leaves three to guard this end. You five do fingers out for it: two of you to come.”

  “Let’s all come in,” said Sinclair. “You too, Hugh.”

  “No,” said Drummond decisively. “I’m going, anyway. Get a move on.”

  “What are fingers out?” I asked mildly.

  “Laddie,” said Drummond, “you may be a whale at conundrums, and I take off my hat to you over this evening’s show. But your education is a bit deficient. At the word go, extend as many fingers as you like in front of you. One hand only: thumbs don’t count. Go.”

  I extended two: a complicated mathematical proceeding took place, and the winner appeared to be Sinclair. “Once again,” said Drummond. “Only the four of you. Go.”

  This time I extended three, and hoped for the best.

  “Thirteen in all, and we start with Dixon.”

  “Splendid,” I murmured: I didn’t mind who he started with. The passage, in spite of the dust, was comfortable: and, as far as I could see, the ceiling was ordinary lath and plaster.

  “Come on then,” said Drummond. “I’ll go first, then Dixon, then Toby.”

  I opened my eyes abruptly. I suppose I’m not very clever at that game. I appeared to have won, anyway, which was frightfully jolly and all that.

  “Just guard this end, you three,” said Drummond. “And you’d better give us a couple of hours at least.”

  He stepped back into the room, and flashed his torch up at the hole in the ceiling. No sign of anyone, and he led the way across the floor to the opening in the wall.

  “Don’t forget,” he whispered urgently, “that anything may happen.”

  “I won’t,” I assured him, and wondered if a ton of masonry on one’s head was a comparatively painless death.

  The passage led downwards, and the walls and ceiling gradually grew damper and damper, until large drops of water splashed on my head at each step I took forward. Drummond was in front with his torch, and progress was slow as he tested every foothold he took before advancing. At length he paused, and waited for us to come up with him.

  “I believe we’re under the mere,” he announced.

  “Hooray!” I cried enthusiastically. “I’ve always wanted to drown.”

  And suddenly he began to shake with laughter. “You priceless bird,” he remarked. “Look here—you go back—you’ve done your fair share for tonight—and Toby and I will go on.”

  “Be blowed for a yarn,” I said. “Let’s get on with it.” Once more we crept forward, and at length the passage started to rise again. It seemed to be bending right-handed the whole time, and was getting drier and drier. Suddenly Drummond paused; we had come to a fork. To the right a flight of stone steps led upwards: to the left it continued on the level.

  “Shall we try the steps first,” whispered Drummond, and the next instant he switched off his torch. For quite distinctly and from close to had come the sound of a woman’s voice.

  “It can’t be possible that we’ve found her,” he breathed.

  “What—your wife?” I muttered.

  “No—the other,” he answered. “Supposing she didn’t expect us to track her so quickly, and as a result we’ve caught her up.”

  Once again came the voice, and this time a man spoke too.

  “It’s up the steps,” said Dru
mmond. “Toby—you wait here: we may be putting our heads straight into it. If anything happens, sprint back to the others and tell them. Dixon—you come half way up as far as the bend.”

  I crept up behind him, feeling with my fingers on the walls. And suddenly I found Drummond’s hand on my arm.

  “Stay there,” he whispered. “I’m going on alone.”

  Not two yards in front of us a beam of light shone out from under a closed door.

  I waited tensely, crouched against the wall: could it be possible that we had run this woman to earth—that she was on the other side of the door? And, if so, how many men were likely to be with her? True, we had only heard one voice, but that meant nothing.

  With a crash Drummond flung open the door and stepped into the room. A man and a woman were sitting at a table on which the remains of a meal were lying. Two candles guttered in the sudden draught, and with a cry of fear the woman rose to her feet.

  “Keep your hands on the table—both of you,” snapped Drummond.

  “Who are you?” said the man in a surly voice, his eyes fixed on the revolver. “And what d’you want?”

  “A little conversation, my friend,” said Drummond. “In the first place—who are you? And who is the lady?”

  He flashed his torch on her face, and stared at her intently. She was a haggard, unkempt woman. Her face was lined and wrinkled, her hair streaked with grey. And she looked most desperately ill.

  “Never you mind who we are,” said the man angrily. “It ain’t no blasted business of yours, is it? What are you doing in this house, anyway?”

  “I admit,” answered Drummond pleasantly, “that under normal circumstances you would have a certain amount of justification for your question. But you can hardly call this house normal, can you?”

  “Are you the police, mister?” said the woman, speaking for the first time.

  “I am not,” said Drummond. “I’ve got nothing to do with them.”

  “Well, what do you want,” said the man again. “Are you one of the bunch who have been fooling round this house for the last few weeks.”

  “We get warm,” remarked Drummond. “No—I am not one of the bunch. At the same time, though not of them I am after them, if you get me. But for them I should not be here. Am I to take it, then, that you disown them also.”