The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Once more I turned back to the room: the shadow had materialized. Standing in the doorway was a woman—one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life. I put her age at about thirty, though it may have been two or three years more. She was, as far as my masculine eye could judge, perfectly dressed—but it was her face, or rather her expression, that held me spellbound. There was contempt in it, and hatred—and yet, mingled with them, a sort of pity and regret. Once her eyes travelled to the bolts in the wall, and she smiled—a lazy, almost Oriental smile. And then she did an extraordinary thing. Still standing motionless she glanced upwards. Not at me, not at the hole in the ceiling, but as a woman looks up in prayer. The whole expression of her face had changed: there was in it now a wonderful triumph. Her eyes were half-closed: her whole body seemed to relax into utter surrender. And suddenly she spoke:

  “I would have kept him till last, my loved one—but it was not to be. But there are still the other three—and her. After, I will come to you.”

  And then it seemed to me that she took in her arms a head I could not see—and kissed lips that to her were real. Lingeringly, passionately as a woman kisses her lover. Gradually her arms fell to her side, and for a while she stood with her face transfigured and her eyes closed. Then she drew herself up: the vision had vanished. She gave one more glance round the room and was gone, leaving no trace of her visit save a faint, elusive scent. Jasmine, and yet not quite jasmine—something I had never smelt before, something I could never mistake in the future. Something unique, something in keeping with the woman herself. For she had seemed to me in that moment of self-revelation, when she spoke to the unseen, to be of the type for whom men will sacrifice their honour and even their lives.

  Stiffly, like a man waking from a dream, I moved over to Drummond and shook him by the shoulder.

  “What is it?” he said, instantly awake.

  “Your friend Irma has been here,” I answered quietly.

  “What!” he almost shouted. “Then why in hell…”

  He was standing up in his excitement, but with an effort he pulled himself together. “How do you know it was her? Tell me about it.”

  He listened in perfect silence whilst I told him what I had seen.

  “I couldn’t wake you without making a noise,” I said when I had finished. “And I don’t know,” I added candidly, “that I could have wakened you anyway. I watched that woman almost as if I had been in a trance. But one thing is certain—she thinks you are dead. Another thing is certain—she is going for the other three. And your wife. And then she will commit suicide.”

  “You think she’s mad,” said Drummond.

  “No, I don’t think that she’s mad. I think she’s more dangerous even than that. She’s a woman with an obsession—a mission in life. That man she spoke to was real to her—as real as you are to me. He is still her lover though he is dead. And her mission is to revenge his death. She’s got foreign blood in her, and if I wanted any more proof than I have had already as to the seriousness of this show I’ve got it now. This is a vendetta—and only your deaths will finish it.”

  “Perhaps it’s as well he didn’t wake you up, Hugh,” said Toby thoughtfully. “You can bet she’s covered her traces pretty effectually, and what could you have done if you had caught her? It wouldn’t have helped you to find Phyllis. In addition you’d have given away the fact that you’re not dead.”

  “You may be right,” agreed Drummond at length. “But, by Jove! I’d like to have seen her. You’d recognize her again, Dixon?”

  “In a million,” I said. “And I’d recognize that scent.”

  “Which is less likely to change than her appearance,” he remarked shortly. And then he frowned suddenly. “You’re quite certain, aren’t you, that it was genuine—this performance of hers? I mean you don’t think that she knew we were here and did it to bluff us.”

  “If that show wasn’t genuine,” I said, “she is the most marvellous actress the world has ever seen. No: I’m certain it was pukka.”

  He grunted thoughtfully and sat down again. “Perhaps so,” he said after a while.

  “Besides,” I went on, “what could be her object in doing it if she knew we were here?”

  “When you know the lady as well as I do,” he answered, “you’ll realize that she doesn’t conform to ordinary rules.”

  He relapsed into silence, his chin sunk on his chest, and for the first time the full realization of what we were engaged in came to me. Before, this woman had been a legendary figure, a writer of would-be flippant letters, a maker of skilfully devised deathtraps. Dangerous certainly—more than dangerous—but with at any rate some idea of making a sporting game of it. I had believed that if we did pull through, if we did follow the clues successfully, she intended to play the game and restore Drummond’s wife to him. And I had believed that she proposed to give us a sporting chance of so doing. Now I believed it no longer.

  However much Drummond might doubt it I knew that what I had seen was genuine. The woman had ceased to be a legend and had become a reality—a reality ten times more dangerous than any legend. Gone was any hope of a sporting chance: she meant and always had meant to kill the lot of us. What strange jink in her brain had made her decide on this particular method of doing so was beside the point—probably the same jink that makes a cat play with a mouse before finishing it off. The cruelty that lies latent in the female. And she was gratifying that whilst pursuing her inexorable purpose. Letting us think we were playing a game, whilst all the time she had no intention of playing herself. Letting us think we had a chance of success, whilst all the time we had none.

  For what chance had we? True by the most marvellous fluke we had escaped the night before—but flukes cannot continue indefinitely. Sooner or later she would have us, as she had always meant to have us. And the cellar below showed exactly the amount of mercy we should receive.

  What chance had Drummond against such an antagonist? I glanced at him, sunk in thought, his great fists clenched by his side. Let him get his hands on anything on two legs—well and good. God help the thing! But this wasn’t a question of brute strength: this was a question of cunning and brain. This wasn’t man to man: this was a human being against mechanical traps. Strength was of no avail against poison gas and specially prepared devices.

  I wondered if he was even now thinking out some plan of-campaign. To meet guile with guile was our only hope, and somehow he didn’t strike me as being the right man for that. Something to hit hard and often and he won in a canter: but first find the thing to hit. “Gosh! I hope they’ve brought the beer.”

  I sighed a little wearily: such was our leader’s mentality. “Doubtless they will when they come,” I assured him.

  “When they come!” he grunted. “You wouldn’t hear a howitzer going off in the next room, laddie. They have come. That flat-footed blighter Algy has fallen over his own feet twice already. Cultivate the old ears, Dixon: in the dark they’re worth more to you than your eyes.”

  “Damn the man,” I reflected, but a suitable reply eluded me. For I could hear absolutely nothing even then. “I wonder if they butted into little Pansy?” He got up and yawned prodigiously, and as he did so I heard cautious footsteps coming along the passage. The next moment Peter Darrell appeared in the door followed by the other two. “All right, Hugh?”

  “Thirsty, Peter—darned thirsty. Where’s the ale?” He lowered himself though the hole and dropped to the floor.

  “We’ve got a dozen, old boy. Is that enough?”

  “Do you drink beer, Dixon?” asked Drummond, looking up.

  “Not usually at this hour of the morning,” I answered. “Thank God for that,” he said in a relieved voice. “It’s a most deplorable habit, and I’m glad you don’t suffer from it. Incidentally, chaps, you haven’t run into Irma by any chance, have you?”

  “Well I’m damned!” Jerningham glanced at Darrell. “Why do you ask, Hugh?”

  “Because according to Dixon t
he poppet has been here, holding spiritual converse with our late lamented Carl. Of course he doesn’t know the darling by sight, and Toby and I were both asleep. But from his account of the interview it must have been her.” He paused with his glass half way to his mouth. “Have you seen her?”

  “As we were leaving the village, old boy,” said Jerningham, “a closed car, going fast, met us. And as we passed it a woman looked out of the window. Peter was driving, and Algy was in his usual condition of comatose imbecility, so it was only I who saw her. I just got a fleeting glimpse, but I thought it was Irma myself. I wasn’t sure; but from what you say it must have been. I tried to get the number of the car, but the road is dusty and I couldn’t see it. And then just as I was telling Peter, we went and punctured. Otherwise we could have followed. What did she come here for?”

  “To gloat over my corpse, Ted, and to assure Carl that you three weren’t forgotten,” said Drummond. “She’s out for the lot of us.”

  “Bless her little heart,” remarked Peter. “But she’ll have to be a bit more explicit as far as I’m concerned.”

  He produced a copy of The Times from his pocket.

  “Here’s the invitation to the party: but Allah alone knows what it means.”

  He pointed to two verses in the Personal Column. They were headed—To dear Hugh.

  A lily with the plural put before. A thing of beauty, but in this case, more Like the fair lady whom you met last night. When found, at any rate, you’ll start quite right. Dipped in the river Styx one part alone stayed dry. Leave out the next, but take the cry Of every schoolboy. That should give a man. And now, you poor fish, find it if you can.

  “Does anyone know the story of the girl who went to a fancy dress ball dressed as a lily,” said Algy hopefully.

  “Sit on his head,” groaned Peter. “What the hell does it mean?”

  THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES [Part 2]

  CHAPTER X

  In Which the Third Clue Is Solved

  I have said earlier that this is my first essay in writing, but I should imagine that one of the rules must be to refrain as far as possible from boring the misguided optimists who are endeavouring to wade through the completed effort. And, therefore, I will refrain from giving any description of the rest of that day. It had been unanimously decided that it would be unsafe for Drummond, Sinclair and me to leave before nightfall if we were to avoid any risk of being spotted. And so beyond mentioning that the beer expired shortly after midday, that Toby Sinclair revoked twice at bridge and was soundly beaten by Drummond for his pains, and that I got an acute attack of the hiccoughs due to ale on an empty stomach, I will draw a veil over our doings. Quiet reigned on the Western Front, broken only by the curses of the particular individual who was, at the moment, wrestling with the doggerel in The Times.

  Drummond from the outset gave it up. With a graceful movement of the hand he waved it from him, as a child might wave a plate of prunes and semolina pudding, Algy Longworth having at last got his story about the lily off his chest was found guilty of telling the world’s hoariest chestnut, and having been thrown into the passage refused to play any more. So it was left to the rest of us to try and solve it. And honesty compels me to admit that we failed—utterly. It seemed completely meaningless.

  ‘A lily with the plural put before.’

  That seemed to give Slily. Toby Sinclair insisted that there was a loch of that name somewhere in the Hebrides, but on being pressed was not quite sure it wasn’t an island off the coast of Cork. And that was about as far as we got. Except for Achilles: I got that.

  ‘Dipped in the river Styx one part alone stayed dry.’

  That seemed to point to the Achilles Statue, an unsuitable spot, as Drummond pointed out moodily, for erecting a booby-trap. And we were all somewhat moody when we left at ten that night for his house in London. Concealment was necessary and personally I was hidden under a rug at the back of the first car. Before that I had always felt a certain contempt for individuals who endeavour to evade paying for a railway ticket by travelling under the seat. Now I regard them with nothing short of admiration. To walk is a far, far better thing.

  But we arrived at length, and having got Algy Longworth’s shoe out of my mouth we crept through two dustbins to the back door. It was a risk coming to his house at all but it had to be run, since all his props for makeup were there. And after a short pause the door was opened by a manservant, who evinced not the slightest surprise at the sight of the procession.

  “Have you seen any one loitering about the house, Denny?” said Drummond as the door closed behind us.

  “No, sir. But a man called this afternoon and asked for you.”

  “What sort of a man?”

  “A stranger, sir. And I am inclined to think, not an Englishman.”

  “What did you say?”

  “The truth, sir. I said you were away from home.”

  Drummond looked thoughtful.

  “Look here, Peter—we’ve got to try and ride them off. I’m tolerably certain we weren’t spotted coming in here, but it looks as if they were watching the front. Go with Ted and drive up openly to the house. Ring the bell. When Denny comes—tell him the news in a voice broken with grief. Tell him I’m dead. Tell him twice if you think the blighter outside hasn’t heard. Denny—you will clutch the door, turn pale with anguish and sob out—’ No man had ever a better master.’ And for God’s sake don’t breathe port all over the street. After that, Peter, you three go off to your rooms and wait for further orders. Somehow or other we’ve got to solve this confounded thing.”

  “Right-ho, old boy, I’ll pitch Denny the tale. And then we’ll wait to hear further from you.”

  And it was while we were waiting for them to come that I had an idea. Old Tom Jenkinson. If any man in London could solve it he could. A former schoolmaster of mine now retired, and a member of my club. He still appeared to regard me as a dirty and inkstained schoolboy. But over acrostics, riddles or crosswords he was a perfect genius. I said as much to Drummond.

  “Splendid,” he remarked. “Is he likely to be at the club now?”

  “Never leaves it before midnight.”

  “Then go and scribble a line to him, old boy, explaining what we want—and I’ll send it round by Denny. You’ll find paper in that room up there, but see that the curtains are pulled tight before you switch on the light.”

  Dear Mr Jenkinson, (I wrote)

  I would be deeply obliged to you if you would send me the solution of the enclosed rhyme. It represents a town or locality or place of some sort, presumably in the British Isles. It is a matter of urgent importance that I should get the answer as soon as possible. Knowing you I feel sure that you can solve it at once, and the bearer of this note will wait for a reply. I hope Mrs Jenkinson is in the best of health.

  Yours sincerely,

  Joe Dixon

  “Splendid,” said Drummond. “Peter has been, and according to Denny there was a man loitering by the railings who overheard what was said. Moreover, he’s gone now, so it may have done some good. Anyway we’ll send Denny round with that note at once.”

  “Go out by the back door,” he said as his servant came in, “and take this to the Junior Reform. Wait for an answer. And don’t forget—if anyone asks you—I’m dead.”

  “Very good, sir,” said the man impassively. “There is a new cask, sir, behind the door.”

  “A good fellow,” remarked Drummond. “And improved considerably since the death of his wife. She was a muscular woman and a martyr to indigestion, and the result left much to be desired.”

  He lit a cigarette, and began pacing up and down the room.

  “Lord! but I hope this old buster of yours solves it,” he said once or twice.

  “If he doesn’t, it’s insolvable,” I assured him. “But there’s just a chance, of course, that he may not be in London.”

  And the instant I’d said it I regretted having spoken. His face fell, and he stared at me blankly.


  “If so,” I hastened to add, “we can always get him through, the club. Letters will be forwarded.”

  “But it means delay,” he muttered. “More hanging about.”

  An hour passed, and two, and suddenly he lifted his head listening.

  “Denny’s back,” he said. “Now we shall know.”

  His voice was quiet, but there was a strained look in his eyes as he watched the door. Should we have the answer, or did it mean further waiting? And mercifully it was the former, his servant had brought an answer. I opened it, and the others listened breathlessly.

  “Dear Dixon, (it ran)

  “Before giving you the solution of your ridiculous little problem there are one or two points to which I would draw your attention. In days gone by, when you went, if memory serves me aright, by the name of Stinkhound, I endeavoured, for my sins, to teach you the rudiments of English composition. Why then do you offend my eyes, and give me further proof, if such were needed, of my complete failure, by using the word ‘would’ twice in the first sentence. ‘I should be,’ not ‘I would be,’ is the correct opening to your ill-written missive. Again, if the matter is of urgent importance, obviously you require the answer as soon as possible—a clear case of tautology. Lastly, your interest in Mrs Jenkinson’s health, though doubtless well meant, is a little tardy. She died some five years ago.

  “However—to your problem. My opinion of your intellect was always microscopic: even so, it is incredible that any one out of an asylum could have failed to solve it at sight—knowing that it was meant to represent a place. Let us take the first stanza. Clearly the last line has nothing to do with it: it is put in to cheer you on when you have interpreted the other three. Now, of course, I do not know the nature of the lady you met last night: your repellent habits are, I am glad to say, a closed book to me. But in this case she was obviously not a thing of beauty. Ergo—she was ugly or plain. But few places contain the letters UGLY: whereas there are many Plains in the British Isles. One in particular leaps to the mind—Salisbury Plain.