The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  It surprised me, I confess. In one way and another I had heard so much of his resource and daring that it seemed all the more amazing that he should be so crude. To do him justice, the results he had obtained with Sinclair and myself were extremely good. Why, then, did he fail so dismally over himself? Could it be that he was so self-confident that he had become careless? Or was it merely that he was relying absolutely on the fact that the other side thought we were dead?

  A very strong asset, doubtless—immensely strong—for just so long as they continued to think so. And that was where the great danger of Toby Sinclair’s mistake lay. Supposing they got him and stripped off his disguise. He had been a member of Drummond’s gang all through: he would be recognized at once by the woman. And the instant he was recognized it would be obvious to the meanest capacity that we had not been drowned. If he had escaped we must all have escaped. And once that fact was known, suspicion would be bound to fall on me in spite of anything I might do. As for Drummond with his beard, a child would spot him at the other end of the street. Had not the sailor himself been suspicious the instant he saw him? And did it not prove, if further proof was necessary, that up to date I was entirely unsuspected? Otherwise would he have spoken as he did to me?

  It certainly gave me a feeling of confidence, but just as certainly it increased my responsibility. As far as I could make out, I was the only person who with any degree of safety could carry on. Sinclair was out of it; and I found myself hoping to Heaven that Drummond would stop out too. Of course, I knew he wouldn’t, but with his extremely conspicuous appearance he would do far mere harm than good. In fact, as I continued to think over it I began to feel thoroughly irritable. This wasn’t a game of Hunt the Slipper, or Kiss in the Ring, It was a game in which, as we knew to our cost, any false step might prove fatal. And it wasn’t playing fair to any of us to come into the thick of it with an appearance that called to high heaven—this is a disguise. Toby Sinclair’s mistake had been foolish, perhaps, but that I had managed to rectify by acting promptly. But nothing I could do would rectify Drummond’s. He, once he was seen, was beyond hope.

  I crossed to a writing-table: something must be done. He might be our leader and all that, but I failed to see the slightest reason why I should run a considerably increased risk of getting it in the neck.

  “Surely,” I began, “it is nothing short of insane to come here with such a blatantly false beard on. The thing shrieks at one. The man who looks like a sailor, and who, as I told you by signal in the bar, is one of them, suspected you at once. I rode him off, of course—but if the woman should see you, you’re done for. We all are. Would it not be wiser, in view especially of Sinclair’s bad mistake this afternoon, for you to leave this thing in my hands for the moment. I am the only one who is unknown to the other side. I obeyed your instructions, and did not go after him when he left the hotel, but are you aware that he was followed by the man whose finger you shot off. What is going to happen if they catch him? Don’t you see that the whole show is up? They will realize at once that none of us were drowned. And what then? Once that occurs, you will forgive my blunt speaking, but you won’t last a minute. You will be spotted immediately. And because of my association with Sinclair they will even suspect me.

  “Would it not, therefore, be better if, as I said before, you lie low for a bit? I will keep my eyes open, and find out what I can—notifying you at once of any developments. My principal hope lies in the sailor, and in the man with the damaged hand. The latter we know is one of them: the former I am equally certain is one also. Not, of course, absolutely so: but his whole demeanour at Stonehenge this afternoon was most suspicious. In fact, only the certainty of my perfect disguise prevents me from thinking that he was giving me the next clue. And if he was, it is Stornoway, in the island of Lewis. But of this I am not sure. Why should he waste a clue on an inoffensive bank clerk? Let us hope, at any rate, that I am wrong. Our difficulties in crossing undiscovered to such a sparsely populated locality as the Hebrides will be great.

  “Then there is another man about whom I think Sinclair wrote to you. He resembles apparently a man you killed some years ago called Lakington. We met him in the street here before starting for Stonehenge; and we again met him at the Friar’s Heel itself. I had a long talk with him first, and found him a most delightful and cultivated individual. In fact, I cannot believe that he is one of the enemy. Then Sinclair joined us, and committed his terrible gaffe. He told him he had actually seen a butterfly which, as we subsequently gathered, only grows in Brazil! Now whether this man, who for purposes of reference I will call Lakington, actually spotted this mistake, or whether he didn’t, I cannot say with any degree of certainty. But the point is really immaterial. Because the man who looks like a sailor most certainly did. After Lakington had left us, an odd little man, who obviously knew what he was talking about, though he acted as if he wasn’t all there, told Sinclair to his face that he was an impostor. And the sailor, who was close by, heard. Now do you see the danger we are in? Sinclair is spotted: you, I’m afraid, are spotted also, so that only I am left. And if by any chance they begin to suspect me—which is not likely, but at the same time is a possibility we must reckon with—the coincidence would be too marked to escape their notice. One newcomer in disguise might be anybody: three—one of whom is a big man—tapes us unerringly. We shall have lost the priceless asset of secrecy.

  “Wherefore I beg of you lie low. Hide, if necessary, in whatever room you may have taken, and wait for information from me. I am repeating myself, I know, but frankly, my dear fellow, it never even dawned on me that you would appear quite as you are. I venture to think it would almost have been better if you had come as yourself. However, the mischief is done now—and all that we can try to do is to rectify it.

  “You may rely implicitly on me; but please do not make my task any harder than it is already.”

  I read through what I had written. Strong, perhaps—but not one whit too strong. He must be made to understand the enormity of his offence. And if he didn’t: if he persisted in going about the place as he was, I should have to consider very seriously whether or not I would throw the thing up. Where would they have been without me up to date? I had more than half solved the first clue: I had completely solved the second: and, through old Jenkinson, I had given them the answer to the third. Which entitled me to express my opinion pretty tersely. And if Drummond didn’t like it, he could damned well lump it.

  I addressed an envelope to John Bright, and called for a stamp. And it was while I was waiting for it to be brought that a trick of memory brought to my mind an incident in some detective story I had read years ago. A man had given himself away by leaving behind him a piece of blotting-paper which he had just used. And the blotting-paper, when held up to a looking-glass, revealed exactly what he had written.

  Just one of those little things, I reflected, where brain counts. One of those small details where the blundering type of fellow is apt to get caught. So I took the blotting-paper, tore it into small pieces, and dropped them in the paper-basket. “Bit extravagant, aren’t you, mate?” With a feeling of annoyance, I turned round in my chair. Standing by the door of the bar was the sailor, and with him was the man with the damaged hand. And they were both staring at me.

  For a moment I was tempted to ask him angrily what the devil it had to do with him, but I instantly suppressed the impulse. After all, it was a very harmless remark—one, moreover, which I was quick enough to see gave me an excellent opportunity of consolidating my position.

  “A habit we clerks get into in a bank,” I said. “Clean blotting-paper always after finishing a job.”

  “Is that so?” he remarked. “What a good idea.” I rose and crossed to the front door—I had no wish to post the letter in the hotel. And it was as I was actually stepping on to the pavement that a sudden awful thought struck me. Supposing—what was to prevent them, as soon as I was gone, from getting the torn-up pieces out of the basket and fitting them toget
her.

  At all costs I must prevent that, and the question was how. The sailor was still by the door, though the other man had disappeared. There was only one thing to be done: get back to the table, write another letter, and in some way or other retrieve those incriminating pieces.

  I wrote another letter, and still he stood there. But at last he went, and I made a dive for the basket. The bits were all together, but mixed up to a certain extent with old cigarette ends and two used pipe-cleaners. However, there was no time to worry over trifles: it was imperative that I should get that blotting-paper. I grabbed the lot, including the pipe-cleaners, and some soft, wet object, and crammed everything into my pocket. Then, breathing freely, I once more stood up, only to see that confounded sailor pop out again like a jack-in-the-box from the bar.

  “Lumme, mate!” he cried, “what have you got on your coat? It looks like something out of a dustbin.”

  I glanced down, just as the soft, wet object fell with a flop on the carpet.

  “Why,” he said with interest, “that’s the rotten plum I threw away an hour ago. You don’t half have funny habits at your bank, old man, do you?”

  The situation was undeniably difficult, and the only thing to do was to carry it off lightly.

  “I threw away an important paper by mistake,” I laughed.

  “Well, you must have had St Vitus’s dance in your fingers when you picked it up again,” he said. “You’ve got an old bootlace and two toothpicks on your coat, sticking in the plum juice.”

  He retired into the bar again leaving me fuming inwardly. The man was absolutely ubiquitous: it seemed impossible to get rid of him. Moreover, it was one of those stupid little things that have the power of irritating one profoundly. To be seen by anybody grabbing rotten plums out of a wastepaper basket is annoying: in this case it might have been worse but for the cool way I had ridden him off.

  However, there was only one thing to be done—dismiss the matter as unimportant. I had retrieved the blotting-paper which was the main point: the next item on the programme was to post my letter to Drummond. And then the real business would begin.

  I strolled along the street, thinking out the best means of tackling the problem. The whole thing boiled down to a question of subtlety and brain: of meeting cunning with cunning. Once I had obtained the next clue, or located our opponents’ main even if only temporary headquarters—strength would doubtless be required. And then Drummond could shed his ridiculous beard and emerge from seclusion. But until then—well, my letter was concise on that point.

  My eyes suddenly narrowed: surely there was Drummond himself—beard and all—going into the Post Office. I quickened my steps. I felt that my letter was so vitally important that it would be worth while running some small risk to obtain immediate delivery. Every additional moment that he was at large in that absurd and obvious get-up increased our danger.

  He was leaning over the counter as I entered, and I went and stood next to him.

  “Are there any letters here for Bright?” he asked the girl “John Bright.”

  She turned round to look, and I nudged his arm gently, showing him at the same time the letter I held in my hand. Then I dropped it on the floor.

  “One just come,” said the girl handing over Toby Sinclair’s note.

  Drummond took it, and then, as she attended to me, he stooped down and picked up mine. I bought some stamps, and stayed chatting with the girl for a few moments to give him time to get away. Then with a feeling of relief that my warning had reached him safely I followed at a reasonable distance. That vital matter was settled anyway.

  Once more I returned to the problem. Two main lines of action presented themselves, so it seemed to me. The first lay in shadowing the sailor, or the man with the damaged finger, or possibly both: the second entailed a further visit or visits to the Friar’s Heel, and both courses involved certain obvious difficulties.

  It was true that up till now I had successfully avoided suspicion, but if I proceeded to attach myself permanently to either of the two men, how long should I continue avoiding it? If I tried to stalk them at a distance I was at once confronted with the fact that Salisbury Plain is not a very populous spot, and that I was almost certain to be discovered. On the other hand, if I went to the Friar’s Heel, what chance should I have of obtaining any clue? Why should anything be said to an inoffensive bank clerk?

  The best course I decided would probably be a mixture of the two. I could cultivate the sailor’s acquaintance, and if I kept my ears open I might learn something of value either from him or the man with the damaged hand. But I would confine my dealings with them to the bar, or at any rate the hotel, unless some opportunity presented itself to accompany them anywhere outside. In addition I would pay a further visit to the Friar’s Heel, and see if I could pick up anything there.

  And that was the conclusion I had reached as I turned into the lounge. Prudent, and at the same time calculated to give the maximum of result. The sailor was in his usual corner of the bar, and he waved a cheerful hand at me as I entered.

  “Been picking up any more plums?” he inquired. “Anyway, what about that gargle you wouldn’t have before?”

  “My shout this time,” I said genially as I sat down. “Just been having a stroll through the town. What is it?”

  He was leaning towards me, and signing me to put my head close. “I believe,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “that that man’s beard is false.”

  “What man?” I asked bewildered.

  And then, to my rage and fury I saw that Drummond had just entered the bar. For a moment or two I could scarcely speak, so angry did I feel. After my urgent letter, after my imperative warning, for the triple distilled fool to parade himself again in the hotel of all places was too maddening.

  “I don’t think so,” I managed to get out after a while. “Why should a man wear a false beard?”

  “Why should a man pretend to know about butterflies when he doesn’t?” he remarked. “Why should a man pick rotten plums and toothpicks out of a wastepaper basket?”

  “I trust,” I said stiffly, “that you don’t think there is anything mysterious about me.”

  “Lumme! no, mate,” he laughed. “There ain’t nothing mysterious about you.” He was staring covertly at Drummond all the time. “It is false,” he affirmed. “It waggles.”

  “Confound him and his beard,” I cried. “Let’s have that drink.”

  And even as I beckoned to the waiter, what little self-control that I still had after Drummond’s colossal idiocy very nearly left me. Who should be crossing the lounge and heading straight for the bar but Algy Longworth?

  He came drifting in and I stared at him speechlessly. Had everybody gone mad I wondered. That he should come here at all must be due to Drummond. And that Drummond should have sent him knowing that the man with the damaged hand was in the hotel could only be explained by the fact that our much vaunted leader’s brain had failed.

  True they took no notice of one another, and after a time, Longworth came over and sat down at the next table to ours. He, of course, did not know me, and I therefore judged it safe to address a casual remark to him. It might perhaps enable him to clear out.

  “Motoring through?” I said casually.

  He nodded.

  “Jolly place, isn’t it?” he remarked. “I always love dear old Salisbury Plain, ever since I spent six months on it at the beginning of the war. But I don’t know this end very well: I was up Ludgershall way. Is it far from here to Stonehenge?”

  “Stonehenge,” repeated the sailor. “About three miles, I suppose. This gentleman and I were there this afternoon.”

  “I thought of going tonight,” said Algy, and I felt I could have cheerfully murdered him.

  “Did you?” remarked the sailor, staring at him thoughtfully. “Well, it’s an interesting place, ain’t it, mate?”

  He turned to me.

  “What did they call that stone where we were talking? The Friar’s Heel,
wasn’t it?” And as he said it he deliberately raised his voice. I had a momentary glimpse of the man with the damaged hand standing in the door staring at Algy. Then he disappeared, and I saw him leave the hotel quickly. The damage was done: the message had been given.

  CHAPTER XIII

  In Which I Go To Friar’s Heel By Night

  I don’t mind confessing that I very nearly chucked in my hand. The whole thing was too disheartening. It was worse than disheartening—it was suicidal. I realized, of course, that my letter had not reached Drummond in time for him to warn Longworth that the sailor was one of the other side, but even so Algy should have known better than to discuss his plans with two complete strangers. And now the thing was what to do.

  Drummond had left the bar shortly after, and up till dinner time I had no chance of a private word with Longworth. I made him one or two covert signs when the sailor was not looking, but he missed them all. In fact he seemed to me to be wilfully dense. He must know that I was about somewhere, even if he didn’t actually recognize me.

  At dinner it was just the same. I came in to find him sitting at the long table between an elderly lady and a man who looked like a prosperous farmer. And not once did he even glance in my direction though I tried to catch his eye on several occasions.

  The sailor had beckoned to me as I came in to sit at his table, but I had pretended not to see. I wanted peace and quiet to think out this new development. If Algy went to the Friar’s Heel that night he was for it. That much was obvious. Unless, of course, Drummond proposed to be there, too, and bring the matter down to brute force. But even if he did, surely he must realize that it was very unlikely it would help us to find his wife’s hiding place.