The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  He found what he wanted, and left the garage. My opportunity, if it ever really had been an opportunity, had gone. But had it? For he had left the door wide open.

  Light streamed in, and I crept a little nearer. He was walking along a short passage, and a further door at the other end was open. It led into a room, and it was from the room that the light came. The passage was evidently to enable one to reach the garage from the house under cover, but it was not of such prosaic details that I was thinking. It was the brief glimpse I had obtained of the interior of the room that made me rub my eyes and wonder if I was dreaming.

  The entire furniture appeared to consist of big stones. I had seen no chair, no table, only square and oblong stones. At least, I thought they were stones: they certainly looked like stones—stones about three or four feet long and a foot thick. And if they were stones, what in the name of fortune were they there for? Had I come to a private lunatic asylum? Was the whole place bughouse?

  He had half closed the second door behind him so that I could no longer see anything from the garage. But I could still hear, and the noise was the noise a stonemason makes when chipping with a cold chisel.

  I crept even nearer. Confound the risk, I thought; I was caught, anyway. And by this time my curiosity was so intense that it banished fear. At last I got near enough to see into the room, or, rather, into a part of it. And what I saw confirmed my opinion. They were bughouse: the whole darned lot of them.

  The room was a big one, and the first impression that it gave was that it had been specially prepared for some mystical religious ceremony. The walls were completely concealed with black curtains, and a thick black carpet covered the floor. On this carpet, in the portion of the room that I could see, big greyish-white stones were lying about apparently haphazard. Some were on their sides: others stood endways. Some lay isolated: others were arranged as a child might arrange bricks. One particular group that I could see consisted of four stones on end and spaced at intervals of about a foot, with a fifth laid flat across their tops. In short, the whole effect was that of a stonemason’s yard arranged by its owner when under the influence of alcohol.

  Through the black curtains the lights stuck out—big, white, frosted lights that seemed to hang unsupported in the air. And after a while, as I looked at the one opposite me, it began to have the most extraordinary effect on my brain. First it would diminish in size, receding into the distance until it was only the size of a pin’s head; then it would come rushing towards me, blazing bigger and bigger till it seemed to fill the whole room. I found myself swaying, and with a monstrous effort I looked away. Almost had I walked towards that light, self-hypnotized.

  I forced myself to think of other things, and after a while the influence waned. What on earth was this extraordinary room? What was the man doing on the other side of the door? I could not see him, but steadily, monotonously, the chip, chip, chip went on. And then it suddenly stopped.

  I glanced up only to shrink back against the wall of the passage. Where she had come from I did not know, but there, standing in the middle of the room, was the woman. It was the first time I had seen her without a hat, and for a while I could only gaze at her speechlessly.

  She was dressed in some sort of loose white robe, and as she stood there outlined against the black background, a hand resting lightly on one of the big stones, she seemed like the priestess of some ancient cult. Her beauty was almost unearthly: her whole appearance utterly virginal. In her eyes there glowed a strange light—a light such as might have shone in the eyes of a martyr. And I felt that her soul was all the depth and height of space away.

  It was incredible to think ill of such a woman—to believe her capable of evil. Almost did I believe that she was someone else—someone I had not seen before. To think that it was she who had planned the death trap at the Mere; to think it was her I had heard talking coarsely and brutally at Stonehenge not two hours ago seemed unbelievable. And then it came once more, that faint scent like jasmine—and yet not quite jasmine.

  “Have you finished?”

  She spoke quietly, and now her voice was a delight to hear. And then she stiffened and drew herself up. Into her face there came a look of disgusted contempt. But the poor fool kneeling at her feet, with his arms round her knees, was oblivious of it. He was stammering wild words of love, was the man who looked like Lakington; and so engrossed was I in the scene that the fact of my unknown man being the man who looked like Lakington seemed almost trivial. What did it matter who he was, poor devil: he was just an actor in the game that is age-old.

  “When, my beloved, are you coming to me?”

  Again and again he said it, his voice shaking, his hands trembling. And she just stood there, utterly aloof: to her he was non-existent. Her eyes were fixed in front of her, and once her lips moved as if she was speaking to someone no earthly vision could see. Even as I had seen her speak at the Mere. “Have you finished?”

  With a sigh of utter weariness the man rose to his feet. “Yes,” he said. “I have.”

  She smiled, and held out her hand. “Good. For now there must be no delay, my friend. Pedro’s mistake has forced our hand. By the way, is he back?”

  The man shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Probably by this time.”

  “Anyway, I have written a letter which must be delivered to one of the three tomorrow morning. We know that Longworth is here, so he will therefore be the one. Listen, I will read it to you:

  “‘My friends, the game has begun to pall. My revenge is sufficient. If you will follow the bearer of this you will come to your destination. And the widow shall be handed over to you. If you don’t: if you are afraid to come, you will still be quite safe. No further steps will be taken against you. You will not be worth it. But Phyllis Drummond will die. So take your choice. Her life lies in your hands.

  “‘But let me repeat the warning given to your late lamented leader. My information is good, so no police. Otherwise Phyllis Drummond will die before you get here.’”

  “But, carissima,” cried the man, “will they come on that? It seems such an obvious trap.”

  “Quite clearly, Paul,” she said, “you have much to learn concerning the mentality of Englishmen of their type. They will come, even if a cordon of machine-gunners stood in their way. And we shall be ready for them.”

  “And then? After it is over?” He stared at her hungrily as if trying to read her very soul.

  “After it is over,” she repeated coolly. “Why, then, my dear Paul, we shall see.”

  “But you promised,” he muttered. “You promised by all you held sacred. Beloved “—his voice grew urgent and pleading—”for nearly a year I have worked unceasingly to give you your revenge. Worked without reward: at times without thanks. Only hope has kept me going, carissima—the hope that when all was over you would come to me. And now you say, ‘We shall see.’ Never have I kissed your lips during all these long months. Irma—say to me, promise me again—that I have not worked in vain.”

  “No, mon ami,” she said. “You have not worked in vain.”

  With a cry of joy he snatched one of her hands and smothered it with kisses. And over his bent head I saw her face. She was shaking with hideous, silent laughter. I craned forward fascinated: that such a change could take place in any human being’s expression seemed impossible. No longer a priestess of unearthly beauty, but evil incarnate that made one shudder to look at.

  Suddenly the man straightened up, and instantly her face became a mask. Even did she go so far as to smile encouragingly at the poor fish.

  “No, Paul,” she repeated. “You have not worked in vain. Tomorrow night…”

  The sentence was never finished, too late I realized that in my absorption I had stepped into the light. For a moment or two she stared at me in silence. Then—”Who is that man?”

  Like a flash her companion swung round. “Why,” he said softly, “it’s the bank clerk. Have you come to see my collection?” He was moving towards me
as he spoke, and in his right hand there gleamed a wicked-looking automatic. “Come in, bank clerk,” he said, still in the same deadly soft voice. “I am honoured indeed, even if the hour is a little unconventional.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  In Which I Meet Mrs Drummond

  The situation was undeniably awkward. The fact that I had realized all along that detection was inevitable made it none the less unpleasant when it came. And I liked neither the look of the automatic nor that on the man’s face. I stepped into the room.

  “I fear it must seem a little strange,” I began, making a valiant endeavour to keep my voice steady.

  “It does,” he agreed suavely. “May we be favoured with an explanation?”

  I plunged desperately. “To tell you the truth,” I said, “I lost my way. I went out for a long walk tonight, and after taking one or two turnings I realized I hadn’t the faintest idea where I was. Passing along the road I saw this house, and I came up to see if someone could put me right. I couldn’t get any answer, but I saw your garage door was open. So I went in, meaning to ask when the car returned. And I suppose I must have fallen asleep, for when I woke up the car was back and the door locked.”

  “I see,” said the man. “It seems a pity that such a big discrepancy exists between the first few words of your explanation and the rest.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” I remarked, uncomfortably conscious that a pulse was hammering in my throat.

  “You prefaced your interesting little story,” he explained, “by the five words, ‘To tell you the truth.’ Why not do so?”

  With a faint feeling of relief, I saw that the automatic was no longer in his hand. “I am not accustomed—” I began haughtily.

  “Be silent,” said the woman imperiously. “Do I understand you know this man, Paul?”

  “I met him at Stonehenge yesterday afternoon, my dear,” he remarked. “A bank clerk with lengthy holidays. South Africa last year, Australia next. I must apply for a position in that bank.”

  His eyes were boring into me, and I could have kicked myself with mortification. I, who had thought that my playing of the part had been perfect—that I alone was unsuspected. I tried another bluff.

  “You are very clever, sir,” I said coldly. “But not quite clever enough. My father keeps one of the few remaining private banks in which I am a clerk. But, as you will understand, not an ordinary clerk. And to broaden my mind he has allowed me to travel extensively.”

  “Most interesting,” he answered. “And most considerate of your father. Anyway, that’s better than the one before. You’re improving.”

  “Stop all this nonsense,” said the woman harshly. “Why wasn’t I told about this man?”

  “My dear,” he said pleadingly, “what was the use?”

  “On your own showing,” she snapped, “you suspected him. Why wasn’t I told?” Her voice was vibrating with anger. She swung round on me. “Who are you, you little rat?”

  “My name is Seymour,” I stammered.

  Suddenly her mood changed, and she lit a cigarette.

  “Put him in one of the seats,” she ordered quietly.

  “This way, Mr Seymour,” said the man.

  “And what if I refuse,” I blustered.

  For a moment he stared at me—thin lipped and motionless. “Just this,” he said gently, “I will blow out your brains where you stand.”

  “A messy proceeding.” I strove to speak jauntily. “But may I ask—”

  He whipped out his revolver and covered me. “Move,” he snarled. “And move damned quick. Come here.”

  He crossed to one of the stones. So did I. The more I saw of that man, the less I liked him.

  I found that the stone at which he was pointing had been fashioned into a sort of rough seat. “Sit down, and put your arms where I tell you. There—and there.”

  I obeyed: there didn’t seem anything else to do. And then there came a sudden click, and I felt two thin steel bars close over my wrists. I tugged and he laughed quietly. “I wouldn’t waste your time,” he remarked. “You’re as much a part of the furniture now as the stone you are sitting on.”

  “Look here, sir,” I said, “this is going beyond a joke. I admit that I had no right whatever to be in your garage, but that doesn’t afford you any justification for treating me like this.”

  He took no notice. He was speaking in low tones to the woman. And suddenly she nodded and came towards me. For a time she stood in front of me staring into my eyes, and then she spoke. “Do you know Hugh Drummond?”

  Now subconsciously, I suppose, I had been expecting that question, and on that one little effort of mine I do flatter myself.

  “Hugh Drummond.” I looked at her blankly. “I’ve never heard of the man in my life.”

  Still she stared at me, but my face gave nothing away. And at last she turned and spoke to the man.

  “Well,” I heard him say, “we might try.”

  She crossed to a door hidden in the curtains and disappeared, leaving me alone with the man.

  “What has happened,” he said suddenly, “to that egregious fraud who was pretending to collect butterflies?”

  “I haven’t any idea,” I answered. “He left the hotel before dinner.”

  “Say nothing about him,” he said curtly. “It will pay you not to.”

  “I wasn’t proposing to,” I remarked. “I fail to see the slightest reason for discussing a casual hotel acquaintance, or what bearing he has on my present position.”

  “If you hadn’t been a damned fool you wouldn’t be in your present position. Now the truth, my friend. Who are you, and how did you come here?”

  “I have nothing to add to what I have already said,” I answered.

  He stared at me moodily, and I grew more and more puzzled. Try as I would I couldn’t get a line on his mental attitude. If, as I now knew, he had spotted Toby Sinclair as a fraud, and me also, one would have expected him to show signs of gratification, even of triumph at having caught one of us so easily. Instead of which he seemed positively annoyed at my presence. True I had interrupted him in the middle of his love-making, but I felt that didn’t account for it.

  “You must be one of them,” he said half to himself. “And that butterfly fool as well. Damn it! you swarm like rabbits.”

  I said nothing. Light was beginning to dawn on the situation. Our thin lipped friend wanted the lady, and wanted her quickly. But before he got her he had, in the vernacular, to do a job of work. And that job had consisted up till now of disposing of the six of us. He believed that three were accounted for: the others were to be settled in the near future. And now he was confronted as he thought with further additions to the party, and therefore further delay in obtaining his purpose.

  “How the devil did you get here?” he repeated angrily.

  “I have nothing to add to what I have already said,” I repeated with a smile.

  “Damn you,” he snarled. “You’ll smile the other side of your face before long. It may amuse you to know that you’ll never leave this room alive.”

  “That,” I remarked with a confidence I was very far from feeling, “remains to be seen.”

  He took out his cigarette case savagely and started pacing up and down. And I for the first time since I had come into the room began to examine it more thoroughly. And the more I examined it the more amazing did it become. The whole of it was in keeping with the part I had seen from the passage. Stones and yet more stones, placed apparently indiscriminately. And yet, were they? Was there not some definite design? And as I stared round trying to find the solution I noticed a thing which gave me a queer little thrill. There were other roughly shaped seats beside the one I was sitting in—five others, making six in all. And each one was fitted with the same steel bars that encircled my own wrists. Six chairs, and six of us. What fantastic scheme had been evolved in that woman’s deranged brain? Time, I reflected grimly, and time alone would tell.

  The sound of a door openi
ng made me turn my head. Irma had returned. But now another woman was with her—a woman who was blindfolded. And with a sudden quickening of my pulse I realized that this must be Phyllis Drummond herself.

  She had evidently been awakened from sleep. Her bare feet were thrust into slippers, and she had slipped a peignoir over her pyjamas. Her face under the handkerchief that covered her eyes was pale but absolutely determined. Guided by her captor’s hand on her arm she walked firmly and without hesitation until she was halted in front of my chair.

  “What new foolery is this?” she asked scornfully, and I metaphorically took off my hat to her. Captivity had not broken her spirit.

  “No foolery at all, my dear, but a very pleasant surprise for you.”

  Mrs Drummond’s hands clenched convulsively. “You don’t mean that Hugh has found me?” A faint smile passed over Irma’s face, the news of Drummond’s supposed death had evidently been suppressed. “Not quite that,” answered the other, “but one of his friends has.”

  “Then,” said Mrs Drummond breathlessly, “he has succeeded. And so I am free to go. Who is it? Is it you, Peter?”

  With a quick movement Irma whipped off the handkerchief and for a while Drummond’s wife stared at me blankly. Then she turned wearily to her captor. “Why torment me?” she said. “What’s the good? You know Hugh’s friends. I’ve never seen this man before in my life.”

  And Irma who had been watching her intently relaxed and turned to the man. “That’s genuine,” she said briefly.

  “Is this by any chance,” I remarked ponderously, “a private lunatic asylum?”

  “You may well ask, sir,” said Mrs Drummond. “I don’t know who you are, or how you came here, but there is at any rate one mad person present. And that is this woman.”