The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Or did Drummond intend to lie hidden in the hope of getting a clue, and to use Longworth as a decoy without whom the clue would not be given? That, of course, was possible. But what the damned fool seemed to fail utterly to realize even now was the folly of doing such a thing in his present disguise. Already the sailor suspected him: once let him be discovered at the Friar’s Heel, even if his great strength did enable him to get away, suspicion would become certainty. Then they would either move Mrs Drummond, or finish her off right away, and we should be in a far worse position than we were now.

  If only he would leave the thing to me. It seemed such an obvious solution to the whole matter. Instead of which, here they were blundering round, suspected by everybody and finding out nothing.

  At length I finished my dinner, and went into the lounge. I had seen Longworth go out previously, but there was no sign of him as I sat down. And as I tried to drink some of the concoction that passes in the average English hotel for coffee, the sailor went by towards the door.

  “Goodnight, mate,” he called out.

  “Where are you off to?” I asked carelessly.

  “Going to see some friends out Netheravon way,” he answered with a wink. “At least—a friend.”

  He went out under the pleasing delusion that he had deceived me, and I sat on. Where was Algy?

  A quarter of an hour passed: a half, and at length I could stand it no longer. I would chance it and go to his room. I got up and strolled over casually to the office. There was the entry in the book right enough—A. Longworth, Room 15. I went upstairs; the room was facing me. And after a quick glance round to see that no one was about I opened the door and went in.

  The room was empty, and I stood there wondering what to do next. It seemed obvious that he must have left the hotel, and if so he was probably on his way to Stonehenge by now. And the only thing to do as far as I could see was to follow him. After all, who knew what he might be up against, and even if Drummond was there a third person would do no harm.

  I decided that I would walk. The night was fine though dark, and an hour, I calculated, would just about see me there. Then I would lie concealed unless my help was wanted, and find out what I could.

  It was just about eleven when I reached the slight hill that passes the monument. I was walking on the grass beside the road to deaden the sound of my footsteps, and when I got level with the great stones I sat down for a while to reconnoitre. I could see them dimly outlined in the darkness some hundred yards away, and I craned my eyes to see if I could make out any sign of movement. There was nothing: all was silent and motionless, until after a while I began to imagine things.

  I recalled that vigil of the other night by the stranded motorcar, and realized that unless I did something soon my nerves would begin to go. And one thing was obvious: if I did want to find out anything I would have to go nearer.

  I put a leg through the wire fence, and even as I did so I heard a sound that froze me into immobility and brought me out in a cold sweat. It was a shrill scream of fear, and the voice was the voice of a man.

  It came from the direction of Stonehenge, and I crouched there listening with every sense alert. The scream was not repeated, though it seemed to me that I heard a hoarse worrying noise for a time. Then utter silence.

  Suddenly I became aware of something else. I was still standing half straddled over the fence, when I felt by the faintest movement of my legs that someone else was touching the wires. And not very far away either.

  I peered into the darkness: was that the dark outline of a man—or was it only a little mound? It was moving, I could swear it was moving. But it was moving away from the road and towards Stonehenge.

  Then came the next unexpected development. This time there was no mistake about it: someone was scrambling through the fence without taking any precautions whatever. The wires literally twanged, and once again I crouched down waiting. Well for me that I did so: well for me that I was not still in the place where I had sat down first.

  For a moment later a man, bent almost double, came swiftly past right over the spot from which I had only just moved. The fence was between us but even so, he was so close that I could have touched him, and how he missed seeing me I do not know. But I saw him, and long after he had vanished into the darkness I sat there motionless, trying to puzzle out this new development. Even without the momentary glimpse I had got of his face, another sense would have proclaimed the truth. The man was a coal-black negro.

  I looked round again: the mound was no longer there, and after a little hesitation I too started to crawl cautiously towards Stonehenge. Whether I liked it or not, the reason of that dreadful scream had got to be discovered.

  Foot by foot I wormed my way forward, peering ahead at every step to try and see the other man who I knew must be somewhere in front of me. Suddenly from about twenty yards away came the faint glow of a screened electric torch. I stopped instantly: without realizing it I had almost reached one of the great stones. And for a space I stared at the terrible spectacle the light revealed.

  Lying on his back, his legs sprawling drunkenly, was a man, and it only needed one glance to see that he was dead. There were ghastly marks round his throat, and his head lolled sideways. The poor brute had been throttled by a man of immense strength, and it looked to me as if his neck had been broken.

  It was not Algy Longworth: the dead man was a complete stranger. But who was the man who held the torch? His face was in shadow: I could not see the outline of his body. Was it the sailor? Or was it the man with the damaged hand? I craned forward, and as I did so the torch was extinguished. I had a blurred impression of movement, and then silence. The man, whoever he was, had gone. I was alone with the dead body. And even as I realized it and began to wonder what I should do next, I heard the faint thrumming of a motor car from the road. Then came the slight squeak of a brake and the sound of a door being opened. I looked round. Whoever it was was running without lights.

  Very cautiously I backed away from the murdered man. An unlighted car stopping where this one had seemed too suspicious for my liking. And having gone what I thought was a safe distance I lay down and waited: waited until the next thing happened, a thing which almost made me throw caution to the winds.

  “To the right,” came the voice of a man, speaking low. “You have your torch?” came the answer, and the man grunted assent.

  And the second speaker was a woman. I could see them dimly outlined against the darkness not five yards away. But it wasn’t that that filled me with a wild excitement: it was the smell of a scent like jasmine—and yet not quite jasmine. It was the woman herself—Irma—our arch-enemy. They moved away, and I wormed after them. “Here he is,” said the man’s voice. “I’ll switch on the torch for a second.”

  Once more came the faint glow, and then a sharp exclamation from her. “This isn’t one of them. I’ve never seen this man before in my life.”

  The torch was extinguished. “Darling—Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” she said fiercely. “I know the whole brood by sight. That is no more Longworth than you are.”

  “Then what on earth was he doing here?” muttered the man.

  “How should I know?” she answered. “That fool Pedro has killed the wrong man.”

  “Unless this man is a new member of their gang,” said her companion.

  She almost spat at him.

  “I’m not concerned with new members. I want the old lot.”

  “My beloved,” came his voice, vibrant with love and passion, “can’t you chuck it? This is all such a ghastly risk. Drummond is dead already: you’ve got his wife. Isn’t that enough?”

  “It is not,” she said coldly.

  “Well, what are we going to do about this body?” he asked wearily. “Every moment we’re here increases our danger.”

  “Are those sheds over there empty?”

  “But the risk, cherie. It is bound to be discovered.”

  “Not until
we have finished,” she said in a peculiar voice. “Send Pedro back from the car to carry it there.”

  They were moving away, back towards the road. And to my mind there returned those strange words of hers—”After, I will come to you.” And her voice as she said the word “Finished,” had been the same. What was in this strange woman’s brain? What dark, hideous plan had she conceived? Because the conviction was growing on me that she was not only a woman obsessed with an idea—she was mad.

  And who was this man, her companion, who evidently loved her? Where did he come in? Did he hope for reward after her plans were fulfilled—did he hope for her? What wouldn’t I have given for the due to the events of the night. Who was the dead man? Who was the man who had first examined him and then disappeared into the darkness?

  And then the noise of the car starting recalled me to the present. Pedro must be the black man I had seen dodging past me down the road, and I had no wish to meet Pedro whatever. Crouching low, I dodged away from the place where the body lay. I had seen enough. I would go back to the hotel and think things over tomorrow.

  I reached the railings, and cautiously crawled through them. Then I started on my three-mile walk. From behind me came the harsh cry of a night bird, and once I paused and listened. It seemed to me that I heard a strange, worrying noise, followed by a sharp shout that was instantly suppressed. With an involuntary shudder I walked on till the dim outline of the giant stones were hidden by the hill. Nothing would have induced me to return to the place again. But I couldn’t help wondering what further horror had happened there. Had the negro suddenly encountered the other wanderer by night? And who was it who had shouted?

  One ray of light, and one ray only shone in the general fog. They had intended to kill Algy Longworth that night: they therefore intended to kill Darrell and Jerningham. The last lingering doubt that this woman intended to play the game had been dispelled. And it was therefore imperative that they should be warned. They must at all costs be kept away from the place. Once they were caught, the end would come at once: nothing could save Drummond’s wife. This woman Irma would imagine that we were all accounted for, and no further reason would exist for delay. So Algy would have to be sent away as soon as possible, and told to stop away until at any rate I had discovered the headquarters of our enemy.

  It ought not to be difficult, I reflected. Surely someone in the neighbourhood must have seen the negro. He would be a conspicuous figure in a locality like this. And once he was identified the house was identified. And once that was done, there was one thing on which I was absolutely determined. The police must be informed. If Drummond wouldn’t do it, then I would. It was essential: the house must be completely surrounded by a cordon of men. The time for fooling with matters was past: things were altogether too serious. We were up against a mad woman and a man who was infatuated with her. And they would have to be put under restraint, or else exterminated.

  Then another thought struck me. What if I informed the police at once or first thing next morning of what I had seen? Told them that in one of those old disused military sheds they would find the dead body of a man, and that the murderer was a negro. That would take them direct to the place and settle things. As a foreigner, I took it, he would have to be registered: his address would, therefore, be known. The only trouble was that my own doings might require a little explanation. Why was I masquerading about in a disguise? Why had I entered my name in the hotel books as Seymour when it was really Dixon? Well—I should have to tell them everything, that was all, though I frankly did not relish the idea of trying to make a stolid local police officer believe me. The whole thing sounded too much like a nightmare induced by a surfeit of lobster.

  I paused to light a cigarette, and as I did so I saw a red light on the road ahead of me. It was the tail-light of a car, and it was stationary. It seemed to be about a hundred yards away, and for a moment or two I stared at it thoughtfully. True, there was nothing inherently suspicious about a stationary motor car, but tonight I was in a mood to suspect anything.

  I crept cautiously a little nearer. Something had evidently gone wrong, I could see the outline of the chauffeur as he peered into the bonnet. Another man was standing beside him holding an electric torch in his hands, and the chauffeur was tinkering with a spanner.

  Suddenly the man holding the light turned it for a moment on to the chauffeur’s face, and I stopped abruptly. For the chauffeur was the man who had sprung at me out of the ditch three nights before, and whose hands I could still feel on my throat. No doubt about it now: the car in front of me belonged to the enemy. And surely, unless it was a very amazing coincidence, it must be the same car that had stopped by Stonehenge earlier.

  I crawled into the hedge and tried to decide on a line of action. There in front of me lay the means of running the gang to earth if only I could seize it. But how? Once the defect was put right the car would be off, and manifestly I couldn’t follow it on foot. I cursed myself for not having come on a bicycle: then I might have had some chance. Now it was hopeless. And yet I knew that if I could but track that car to its destination our problem was solved.

  I crept a little nearer, and suddenly an idea dawned on me. The luggage grid was down at the back. Suppose I managed to get on that! It would have to be done with the utmost care: the exact psychological moment would have to be seized. Just as he let in his gear would be the time. And if I was spotted, I would pretend that I was trying to jump a ride. Disguised as I was, the chauffeur would not recognize me: the woman, anyway, did not know me, and the only danger was the other man of whose identity I was still in ignorance. Still, it was worth the risk: the information, if I could get it, would be so invaluable.

  The chauffeur was closing the bonnet. The man who had been holding the light opened the door and got in. The moment had come. Stooping low, I ran the few yards to the back of the car, just as I heard the noise of the self-starter. Then the engine was raced for a few seconds, and I gripped the grid with both hands, and swung myself on to it. We were off.

  A wild feeling of triumph swept over me: so far, I had not been spotted. But it didn’t last long, and if the road had not been good, it would have lasted an even shorter time. For sheer discomfort commend me to a ride on the luggage grid of a fast car. Several times I was nearly shot off as we went over bumps. In addition, the car was over lubricated, and emitted a dense cloud of blue smoke from just underneath me. But for all that, I felt it was worth it: I’d done the trick. I’d succeeded where, at any rate up to date, the others had failed. All that was necessary now was to hang on until we reached our destination, drop off as the car slowed down, and escape into the darkness. And in spite of my extreme agony, I almost laughed as I pictured Drummond’s face the next morning when he heard the news.

  I felt the brakes being applied and heaved a sigh of relief. And then the car swung right-handed, and turned through a gate. I could tell by the scrunch of gravel under the tyres that we were in a drive, and suddenly a light inside the car was switched on. That was a complication I had not thought of, for now the ground behind the car was illuminated through the back window. And if either of the occupants happened to look out they were bound to see me when I dropped off. I hesitated, squeezing myself as close as possible to the car. Should I chance it? And while I was trying to make up my mind, the car stopped at the front door.

  Now I thought detection was certain, but still my luck held. The man and the woman passed into the house: the door closed behind them. And the next instant the car moved on. Once again did I get ready to jump off, when the noise of the gravel ceased and I realized we were in the garage. Moreover, it was a big garage, and the chauffeur had driven the car in as far as it would go so that I had at least ten yards to cover before reaching the door. I heard him get down and start fiddling with some tools on a bench. Should I make a dart for it now? Then the lights were switched off, and he yawned prodigiously. He had evidently finished for the night, and I only just had time to dodge to one side of t
he car as he came by on the other.

  He heaved on the sliding doors, and they met with a clang. A key turned: his footsteps died away. And I couldn’t help it—I laughed. The situation really had its humorous side. Without doubt I had successfully tracked the tiger to its lair—so successfully that I was inside while the tiger was out. And as my position came home to me I stopped laughing. The humour of the situation lay with the tiger.

  I started to make a tour of inspection. The main doors were locked: there was nothing to be hoped for in that quarter. And a brief survey of the windows showed that none of them were made to open. Cautiously I felt my way along to the further end. A wooden bench littered with spanners and things filled three-quarters of it: in the other quarter, and my hopes rose as I saw it, was a second door. I tried the handle. It was locked. That finished it. I was caught like a rat in a trap. With the arrival of the chauffeur next morning I must be discovered. Nothing could prevent it.

  What a drivelling idiot I had been! I had accomplished absolutely nothing. I didn’t even know where I was, which would have been some recompense. Then, even if they kept me a prisoner, I might have found an opportunity of communicating with Drummond. As it was, all that I had succeeded in doing was to get locked up in a unknown place.

  What about breaking one of the windows? It gave me a possibility of escape whereas if I waited there was none. But I soon realized the difficulty of the idea. The panes were small—far too small for me to squeeze through. It would mean smashing wood and everything, and there, not ten yards away, was the house. Still, it was a possibility. I was bound to be heard but in the general confusion I might escape. And even as I was turning the matter over in my mind I stiffened into sudden rigidity. A light was shining below the bottom of the second door, and I could hear footsteps approaching.

  The key turned, and I dodged behind the car. A man came in, and I could hear him cursing under his breath. He had an electric torch in his hand, and he appeared to be searching for some tool on the bench. His back was towards me, and for a moment I had the wild idea of hurling myself on him and taking him unawares. I think if I had had any weapon in my hand I would have done so and chanced it.