The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “You may at this point ask what relation Salisbury has to a lily with the plural put before. Knowing your abysmal ignorance of everything remotely approaching to culture you probably will. The ancient name for Salisbury, my dear Dixon, was Sarum. To this day you will see the word written on many of the milestones around the town. Well, I suppose even you have heard of an Arum Lily. And therefore the first stanza is solved and gives us—Salisbury Plain, a large area—comprising as it does a considerable portion of the County of Wiltshire.

  “The second stanza is clearly designed to narrow our field. It does—to a remarkable degree. The first line could, of course, be solved by a child of six. But as Ruff’s Guide to the Turf is doubtless more familiar to you than Homer’s Iliad I shall assume that your mind has not even reached that infantile standard. Achilles was the son of Peleus by Thetis, one of the Nereids. And ancient mythology tells us that to make him invulnerable she dipped him in the Styx, holding him by the heel. Hence the phrase, the heel of Achilles which was the only part that remained dry. The first line therefore gives us Heel.

  “The cry of every schoolboy.’

  “What the repulsive little horrors call it now I do not know—but when you were one of them, what word rose most often to your lips? What was your moan—your everlasting bleat? Tuck. You gorged your bellies on tuck, and slept, as a result, in school—making disgusting noises. Tuck, Stinkhound—tuck.

  “That should give a man.’

  “Have you never read Ivanhoe? Have you never heard of Robin Hood, and the fat and jovial Friar Tuck, his constant companion and father confessor?

  “And so we have Heel, Tuck and Friar. A glance at the verse will show us that Tuck is to be left out—and that reduces us to Heel and Friar.

  “On Salisbury Plain is an ancient Druidical temple known as Stonehenge. Outside the main circle is a great stone—the sun-stone. This is the point where a spectator, centrally placed within the temple, would see the sun rise on Midsummer Day. And the common name for the sun-stone is the Friar’s Heel.

  “Wherefore, the solution of your childish effusion is the monolith known as the Friar’s Heel at Stonehenge on Salisbury Plain. And in conclusion I can only endorse most wholeheartedly the terse and apt description of you given in the middle of the last line.

  “Faithfully yours,

  “THOMAS JENKINSON.

  “PS—I have often wanted to know one thing. Were you or were you not the miserable little boy who first nicknamed me Wart Hog and the late Mrs Jenkinson Slab Face? A nickname—like a caricature—should bear some relation to the truth, Dixon, if it is to be considered clever. And to call me a Wart Hog is positively stupid.”

  “I got Achilles at any rate, confound the old ass,” I remarked, as I put the letter down. “Well—there you are. Now we know.”

  “Stonehenge,” said Drummond. “Close to Amesbury.”

  “With cantonments all round it,” put in Toby Sinclair. “I motored past it last summer.”

  “How far away?” Drummond looked at him thoughtfully. “I haven’t been there since I was a kid, and there was nothing built then.”

  “I suppose about a mile to the nearest,” said Sinclair. “Perhaps less. And there’s another thing, too. By day there are hordes of trippers all over the place—guides and all that sort of stunt. You’ve got to pay to go in.”

  “So nothing can happen by day. And by night—with troops as close as that—they will have to be careful.”

  He went to the telephone, and gave a number.

  “Peter,” he said as soon as he got through, “come round at once—all of you. Back door, as before.”

  He sat down and stared at me.

  “I wonder what is the best rig for you,” he pondered. “In a way, you’re the least important as only the man and the woman of last night know you.”

  “And our venerable friend of the Angler’s Rest,” I reminded him.

  “True. I’d forgotten him. Still a moustache, a pair of spectacles and the earnest air of a tourist should meet the case. And if you see any of those three, efface yourself. Toby—I’ve got a very good line in elderly professors for you. Butterflies, I think. You can gambol lightly over Salisbury Plain making a noise like a killing-bottle.”

  “Thanks, dear old boy,” said Sinclair. “What are you going to be?”

  “That remains to be seen,” answered Drummond with an enigmatic smile. “I’ve got two or three half formed ideas.”

  The smile faded slowly from his face.

  “But whatever it is, I’m thinking that the sooner we begin to put the fear of God into this bunch the better.”

  And I realized suddenly how he had earned the sobriquet of Bulldog.

  A minute or so later Peter Darrell and the other two came in.

  “You’ve solved it?” asked Jerningham eagerly.

  “A pal of Dixon’s has,” said Drummond. “A stone called the Friar’s Heel at Stonehenge. You can read the letter later.”

  “And you can read this one now,” said Darrell. “Delivered by hand.”

  It consisted of one line.

  ‘Read today’s Times. Personal column.’

  “So she really does think we’re dead, Peter.” Drummond rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. However, let’s get down to it. In the first place, from now on you three have got to run this show alone. Officially, that’s to say. And, dash it all, I don’t like it.”

  “Cut it out, you ass,” laughed Jerningham.

  “It’s all very fine and large, Ted—but they mean business. And I don’t want any casualties. I believe that what Dixon said is absolutely right. Whether she is insane or not is beside the point: there’s not much sign of insanity about her plans up to date. But from what he heard her say this morning we are all for it, and Phyllis as well, before she goes to join Peterson. She was never remarkable, was she, for the quality of mercy. And now that she’s obsessed with this idea, she will be utterly merciless. It’s revenge run mad. So for the love of Heaven be careful. I’d never forgive myself if one of you took it in the neck.”

  “We’ll be careful all right, old boy,” said Darrell quietly. “But Phyllis has got to be found, hasn’t she?”

  “I know that. But I’m wondering if it wouldn’t be better for you three to chuck it and leave it to me.”

  “We have but little desire for a rough house,” said Jerningham, “but there’s going to be one in a moment unless you cease talking tripe.”

  “Well, well; so be it,” grinned Drummond. “But I thought I’d just mention it. So as I said before—let’s get down to it. From what Toby says, the place is stiff with people all the day. So by day there can’t be any risk. Now, it’s possible that all we are going to get there is another clue—in fact, it’s probable. I really don’t see how they can rig up anything in a public place like that which can be dangerous—even at night. And so as I see it—there’s just one thing to fear, and that can only happen at night.”

  “What’s that?” said Darrell.

  “Common or garden murder, Peter,” said Drummond gravely. “There may be a clue; on the other hand, it may be a trap.”

  “Murder,” I said doubtfully. “In a place like that.”

  “Why not?” said Drummond coolly. “What leads in nine cases out of ten to the discovery of a murder? Motive. And what possible known motive is there for killing any of them. We know the motive: who else does? If we told this story to the police we’d be laughed out of court.”

  “And Phyllis would pay the price,” said Jerningham gravely.

  “We know they are utterly unscrupulous: we know that they intend to kill them. What more likely than that they’ll have a dip at it at the Friar’s Heel. And that is a thing I do not propose to risk unless it is absolutely essential. No, Peter, my mind is made up, old boy—so there’s no use your looking like that. I promise you that when it is necessary, I’ll send for you.”

  “What is your suggestion, Hugh?” said Jerningham after a whale.

&nb
sp; “This, Ted. From what Dixon overheard Irma say, this little show will not be concluded until they’ve got you—all three. I may be wrong, but I don’t think they will try for you in London: in her own distorted way she is going to play this game through to the end in the way she intended. And, therefore, nothing further will take place until you come to the Friar’s Heel. Now my proposal is this. But for this freak pal of Dixon’s, Heaven alone knows when we should have solved that last clue. So there will be nothing surprising about it if you take at least a couple of days over finding the answer. And during those two days—or until I wire for you—you will remain in London, ready to leave the instant you hear from me.”

  “And you three?” asked Darrell.

  “We’ll go down in disguise and spy out the land. Maybe we shall find nothing; maybe the clue, if there is one at the Friar’s Heel, will only be given to one of you. If so, I’ll wire you. But it’s possible that we shall find the clue, and get a short cut to what we want.”

  “I don’t like it, Hugh,” said Jerningham.

  “Ted, old boy, it’s best from every point of view. I don’t want one of you killed—or the lot. And, my dear old lad, they mean business. Supposing you were all killed, from another point of view altogether—where should we be? Ignorant of where Phyllis is, with the game over as far as they are concerned. The whole bunch of us wiped out. The only person left then to finish off is Phyllis. There are such things as silencers for guns, laddie, as we know only too well. No, no: it’s absolutely obvious. We’ll go first and see what we can find out. If we find out nothing—then you come in. If, on the contrary, we get on their tracks—then you still come in, but in a far sounder strategical position than if you went down now. Because when you arrive they will think the Friar’s Heel is your objective, whereas in reality it won’t be. They will lie up for you there, and you will short-circuit them.”

  “He’s right, Ted; perfectly right,” said Darrell unwillingly. “I wish he wasn’t; but he is.”

  “So I shall rig up Toby and Dixon tomorrow, and they will go to some pub in Amesbury.”

  “What’s your own game, Hugh,” said Algy.

  “That, old boy, you will know in due course. For the time being I think it’s best that none of you should know. It’s going to be touch and go—this show—and I’d sooner have an absolutely free hand. And finally, don’t forget the old Froth Blower’s dirge. Twice for danger.”

  “Froth Blower’s?” I asked. “Is that the thing I’ve heard you singing?”

  “Laddie,” laughed Drummond, “you can’t be real. When peace comes your education shall be taken in hand. Now is all clear?”

  “Absolutely,” said Darrell.

  “Then a long night in, chaps. We’ll want all we can get in the sleep line. And one other thing. If you want to get me, drop a line to John Bright at the Post Office, Amesbury.”

  They went casually with a nod and a grin—did the other three; demonstrativeness was not a characteristic of this crowd. But when they’d gone, Drummond sat for some time staring in front of him with his beer untasted on the table at his side. And at last he rose with a grunt. “Come on; bed. I hope to Heaven they’ll be all right in London.”

  He showed me to my room, where a pair of his pyjamas had been laid out.

  “Hope they won’t be too small,” he said with a grin. Then he paused by the door. “Deuced good of you and all that, Dixon, to mix yourself up in this show. Though, ’pon my soul, I don’t know what we’d have done without you.”

  And, astounding though it may seem, I can recall no remark made to me in my life that has occasioned me greater pleasure. Whether it had anything to do with it, I don’t know, but certain it is that no sooner had my head touched the pillow than I was asleep. And the next thing I knew was his servant shaking me by the shoulder the next morning.

  “Nine o’clock, sir,” he said. “And the Captain would like you to come along to the music-room as soon as you’ve had your bath.”

  The music-room appeared to be so-called because there was no trace of any musical instrument in it. It resembled nothing so much as an old clothes shop. Suits of all sorts and descriptions littered the floor; wigs, false hair and the usual makeup appliances were on the table. Drummond was standing in the middle with two complete strangers by him. One of them was obviously of the hairdresser type; the other was an elderly man of scholastic appearance.

  “Morning, Dixon,” said Drummond. “Now, Albert, there you are. What are we to do with him? A minimum on his face, because he’s not used to it.”

  The hairdresser man eyed me critically.

  “I thought a moustache,” went on Drummond. “And glasses. For Mr Seymour. Don’t forget, Dixon—Fred Seymour.”

  “Can’t we dispense with the moustache?” I said. “It’s certain to fall off at the wrong moment.”

  “Not as I shall fix it, sir,” said the hairdresser in a pained voice. “Will you kindly take a seat here?”

  “Who is the old bloke?” I whispered to Drummond as I passed him.

  “My dear fellow,” he cried, “excuse me. I quite forgot. This is a very old friend of mine—Professor Stanton—Mr Dixon. He’s come to give Toby some advice on butterflies.”

  “A fascinating hobby, Mr Dixon,” remarked the Professor, and I stared at him in amazement. Surely I knew that voice.

  “Great Scott,” I muttered. “It’s you, Sinclair.”

  They all laughed.

  “What an amazing disguise,” I cried. “But for your voice I’d never have known you.”

  “And under the ministrations of the excellent Albert the result will be the same in your case,” remarked Drummond. “The whole essence of disguise, Dixon, is to make it as simple as possible, and therefore as unnoticeable.”

  He was watching Albert’s efforts as he spoke.

  “Most people are extraordinarily unobservant,” he went on. “If you wear different clothes to usual, alter your walk a little, and put on a pair of dark spectacles, you’ll pass nine people out of ten that you know in the street without being recognized. Whereas if you wear a large red nose and fungus all over your face you may not be recognized, but you’ll certainly be noticed. And once you’re noticed the danger begins. Albert, I think a respectable bank clerk of about thirty-five is what we want.”

  He began rummaging in the pile of clothes.

  “We’ll give you a rather badly cut suit of plus fours, and a cap. Horn rimmed spectacles, Albert. Now let’s have a look at him.”

  The three of them stared at me critically.

  “Get into these clothes,” said Drummond. “I can’t be sure till you’re out of that dressing-gown.”

  I contemplated the garments with distaste. “I suppose there are people who wear things like that,” I remarked, “or nobody would make them.”

  “It’s a misfit,” he said. “I bought a dozen of ’em once, and that’s about the last. Don’t mind if your stockings come down a bit; it helps the effect. Yes, Albert: that will do.”

  “I think so, sir,” said Albert complacently, and at that moment I saw myself in the glass.

  The shock was ghastly, but at the same time I was forced to admit that the result was amazing. I do not look at my face more often than necessary as a general rule, it shakes me too badly to see it. But the reflection that confronted me as I stood there was that of a complete stranger. Moreover, it was true to type. I had seen hundreds of similar examples at the seaside during August, or on char-a-banc trips.

  “Then that’s finished,” said Drummond. “Now the only pub, as far as I can make out, is the Amesbury Castle. I think you’d better arrive separately, and you can strike up an acquaintance afterwards.”

  He smiled suddenly and held out his hand.

  “Thank you, Dixon; I’ll take charge of that.”

  “Charge of what?” I said blankly.

  “Blokes dressed like you, old boy, do not use expensive gold and platinum cigarette cases with Asprey written all over ’em. We’ll p
ut that in my safe, and here is a tasty little thing in leather. Nor, laddie, do most bank clerks smoke Balkan Sobranies. I suggest the perfectly good yellow packet.…”

  “I loathe Virginian cigarettes,” I groaned.

  “Well,” he conceded, “you may smoke cheap Turkish if you like. But a Balkan Sobranie would shout aloud to heaven. Anything more, Toby?”

  “Nothing, I think, Hugh. We aren’t to know you, are we?”

  Drummond smiled. “You won’t know me, Toby,” he said quietly. “All you’ve got to do is to keep your mouths shut, and your eyes open—and if you want me, John Bright at the Post Office finds me. If I want you I’ll let you know.”

  He grinned again. “So long, boys. Leave the house by the back door separately, and for Heaven’s sake, Dixon, try not to appear self-conscious. Be a city clerk: don’t only look it.”

  Which was a policy of excellence, but not quite so easy as it sounded. As I walked along Berkeley Street I felt that everybody was looking at me. And when I ran straight into a woman I knew opposite the Ritz, I instinctively lifted my cap. She stared at me in blank surprise, and I dodged down Arlington Street to recover. Ass that I was—giving myself away at the very first moment. But after a while confidence began to return. I realized that though Joe Dixon would have caused a mild sensation garbed as I was—Fred Seymour caused none at all. And I further realized that if I as Joe Dixon had met me as Fred Seymour, I should have paid no attention to me. Fred Seymour was just one of a numerous type—no more conspicuous than any other individual of that type. The truth of Drummond’s remark about the red nose was obvious. I was just an inconspicuous unit amongst thousands of others.

  And so, as I say, gradually my confidence returned. I walked normally, and to test myself I determined to pass the commissionaire outside my club. I looked him straight in the face: he returned the look without a sign of recognition. And he on an average must see me five hundred times a year.

  A sudden thought struck me: I had no baggage. For a while I debated between the rival merits of a rucksack and a handbag, deciding finally on the former. Then I bought a couple of shirts and some socks, and thus equipped, I made my way to Paddington. The last phase of the game, though I little knew it, had begun.