The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “You confounded scoundrel,” I spluttered. “Give me back my notes.”

  Charles became convulsed with an internal upheaval that apparently indicated laughter.

  “Yer know, matey,” he said when he could at last speak, “I didn’t know that they let things like you out of a ’ome.”

  Once more the convulsion seized him, and a dull overmastering rage began to rise within me. The limit of my endurance had been reached. I felt I didn’t care what happened. Damn Drummond and all his works: damn the moment I’d ever let myself in for this fool show. Above all, damn this great hulking blackguard who had pinched my money, and now sat there nearly rolling off his chair with laughter.

  And suddenly I saw red. I sprang at him and hit him with all my force in the face. Then while he was still too surprised to move I got in a real purler with the teapot over his right eye. And after that I frankly admit I don’t remember much more. I recall that he did not remain too surprised to move for long. I recall seeing something that gleamed in his hand, and feeling a searing, burning pain in my forearm. I also recall that an object which felt like a steam hammer hit my jaw. Then—a blank.

  CHAPTER XV

  In Which Some of the Others Join Me

  When I came to myself I was back in the room below, fastened to the same seat as before. The filthy taste was in my mouth again, so I guessed they had used the narcotic on me once more. But this time that wasn’t my only trouble. My jaw felt as if it had been broken: and my arm, which some one had bound up roughly, ached intolerably.

  For a while I sat there motionless. I was feeling dazed and drowsy. I’d almost come to the end of my tether. A sort of dull apathy had told of me. I felt I didn’t care what happened as long as it happened quickly.

  The room was absolutely silent, and after a time I forced my brain to work. I was alone: I was ungagged. Supposing I shouted for help. There was a bare chance that I might be heard by some stray passer-by. Anyway it was worth trying.

  “Help!” I roared at the pitch of my lungs. “Help!”

  I listened: still no sound. Very good: I’d try again. I opened my mouth: I shut it. Or perhaps it would be more correct to say it shut itself.

  A huge black hand had suddenly materialized from nowhere—a hand with the fingers curved like a bird’s talon. I stared at it fascinated, as it moved gently towards my throat. There was no hurry, but the utmost deliberation in the whole action. And this time I nearly screamed in sheer terror.

  The fingers closed round my throat, and began playing with it. Still quite gently. No force was used; but every touch of those fingers gave its own message of warning.

  As suddenly as it had appeared, it went, and I sat there sweating and silent. So I was not alone: somewhere behind me, out of sight, was that cursed black Pedro. The hand that had closed on my throat was the actual hand that had murdered that poor devil the night before. And as if he had read my thoughts there came from above my head a hideous throaty chuckle. Then silence once again.

  Gradually I grew calmer, though the thought of that great black brute lurking behind me was horrible. If only I could see the devil it would be better. But he remained out of sight, and after a time I began to think he must have gone. Into the garage perhaps—the passage leading to it was behind me. Whether he had or whether he hadn’t, however, I dismissed the idea of calling for help.

  To distract my mind, I studied the room with closer attention. I could see more than half, and I wondered what the small preparations were that Paul had spoken of. As far as I could see nothing was changed: the same stones, the same carpet. And then it struck me that on one of the stone seats was what looked like a block of wood. It was about the size of a box of a hundred cigarettes, and a cord stuck out from one end on to the carpet.

  I looked at the other seats. A similar block was on each one of them, and by pushing myself backwards in my own, I could feel the sharp edge against my spine.

  By twisting my head I could just see the cord attached to it. It was a long one, and I followed it idly with my eyes across the carpet until it disappeared behind the next stone. Part of the preparations evidently, but with what purpose was beyond me. Just as everything else was beyond me. Time alone would show.

  But that fact didn’t stop one thinking. Round and round in my head ran the ceaseless question—what was going to happen that night? From every angle I studied it till my brain grew muzzy with the effort. What was going to be done to us? Did that woman really mean all she had implied, or had it been a jest made to frighten Mrs Drummond?

  After a while I dozed off, only to wake up sweating from an appalling dream in which two of the great stones were being used to crush my head by the black. Looking back now I suppose I was a little light-headed, but at the time I wasn’t conscious of it. I had lost a good deal of blood from the wound in my arm though I didn’t know it then. And as the day wore on, and the room gradually grew darker and darker, I sank into a sort of stupor. Vaguely I heard odd sounds, the car in the garage, a man’s voice in the hall, but they seemed to come from a long way off. And the only real things in my mental outlook were those cursed white stones.

  They moved after a while, passing me in a ceaseless procession. They heaved and dipped and formed fours till I cursed them foolishly. And something else moved, too—a great black form that flitted between them peering and examining. Twice did I see it, and the second time I forced myself back to reality.

  It was the negro, and he seemed intensely interested in everything—almost childishly so. He touched stone after stone with his fingers. Then he picked up one of the little blocks that I had noticed, and examined it closely, grunting under his breath.

  Suddenly he straightened up and stood listening. Then with a quick movement he replaced the block, and vanished behind me just as the door into the hall opened and Paul came in. He crossed to my stone and stood looking down at me, while I feigned sleep. And after a time he too began to stroll round amongst the other stones.

  He examined each of the blocks, and the cords that ran from them. And as I watched him out of the corner of my eye I noticed a thing I had missed before. On the altar stone was a little black box, and all the cords appeared to lead to it. He seemed particularly interested in that box, but in the bad light I couldn’t see what he was doing. At length, however, he put it down, and lighting a cigarette once more came and stood in front of me. I looked up at him dully.

  “You really are the most congenital ass I’ve ever met, Mr Seymour,” he said pleasantly. “Did you honestly think Charles would let you go?”

  “I’ve given up trying to think in this mad house,” I retorted. “When is this ridiculous farce going to end?”

  He made no reply for a while, but just stood staring at me thoughtfully. “I really am rather interested in you,” he said at length. “It would be most devilish funny if you really have got nothing to do with them.”

  “I’ve already told you that I don’t know what you are talking about,” I cried. “You’re making a fearful mistake. I don’t know who you mean by them.”

  He began to chuckle. “’Pon my soul,” he said, “I’m almost beginning to think that you don’t. Which makes the jest excessively rich.”

  “A positive scream,” I agreed sarcastically. “Would it be too much to hope that I might be permitted to share it?”

  “I fear,” he answered, “that you might not quite appreciate it.”

  He continued to chuckle immoderately.

  “You will in time, I promise you,” he went on. “And then you will see how terribly funny it all is. I must say,” he continued seriously, almost more to himself than to me, “I did think yesterday that you and the butterfly gentleman were mixed up in it.”

  “I wish to Heaven,” I said wearily, “that you would realize that I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re talking about. And I further wish you to be under no delusions as to what I’m going to do when I do manage to get out of this place.”

  He started laughing
again. “What are you going to do?” he asked. “Don’t, I beg of you, terrify me too much!”

  I stuck to it good and hard. Useless it might be, but at any rate it was better than nothing. “I shall go straight to the police,” I said, “and lodge a summons against you for assault and battery. And as for that cursed ruffian upstairs…”

  “Poor Charles,” he remarked. “You dotted him one with the teapot all right. Well, thank you for your kindly warning. You’ll have some other privileged spectators coming to join you soon—three of them.” He strolled to the door, and looked back as he reached it. “I can keep no secrets from you, bank clerk,” he said. “You have an indefinable attraction for me. Do you see those little blocks in the seats?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “There is one in yours, just behind you.”

  “I’ve felt it already,” I remarked.

  “Well, be very careful how you feel it,” he said gently. “Do nothing rough with it. Treat it as a mother treats a sickly child—gently and tenderly. Because it happens to be gun-cotton. Admittedly a safe explosive—but one never knows.”

  For a moment I was absolutely speechless.

  “Gun-cotton,” I stammered at length. “Good God! man—are you joking?”

  “Far from it,” he said. “But I can assure you that there’s no chance of it going off—yet.” He smiled genially. “The fact of the matter is, bank clerk, that you have butted your head into some rather dirty work. I don’t mind admitting that there are moments when I think it is almost too dirty. But “—he shrugged his shoulders—”when the ladies get ideas in their charming heads, who are we to gainsay them?”

  “If by the ladies you allude to that partially demented female who was talking such infernal rot last night,” I said grimly, “I’ll tell you one idea that she has got wedged in hers. She’s got about as much use for you as a Cockney has for a haggis.”

  “I don’t understand you,” he said softly, but I noticed that, of a sudden, he was standing very still.

  “Then I’ll make myself clearer,” I remarked. “You cut no ice with her, Paul: she loathes the sight of your face. I watched her last night when you were pulling out the knee clutching business, and her expression was that of one who contemplates a bad egg from close range.”

  “You are pleased to be insolent, Mr Seymour.” He was still standing motionless by the door.

  “I am pleased to be nothing, you flat-headed skate,” I answered. It struck me that a little of Drummond’s vocabulary might assist. “But if you imagine that after you’ve done whatever fool tricks you are going to do you’re then going to land the beauteous lady you’re making the deuce of an error. Nothing doing, Paul: you can take my word for it.”

  “But for the fact,” he remarked after a time, “that the death you are going to die is such a particular choice one, I would strangle you here and now for those words.”

  “Doesn’t alter the fact that she loathes the sight of your face, laddie,” I mocked. “And I certainly don’t blame her.”

  He sprang across the room towards me, and I don’t think I have ever seen such a look of demoniacal rage on any man’s face before. In fact, but for the interruption, I believe he would have carried out his threat. As it was he managed to control himself with a monstrous effort as the door opened and the woman herself came in.

  “Quick, Paul,” she cried. “They are coming—the three of them. Where’s Pedro? Charles is here but we want the black. And gag that fool of a clerk.”

  He stuffed a gag into my mouth, and glared at me. “One sound, and I’ll knife you,” he muttered. “Pedro!” He looked over my shoulder. “Where is the damned fool?” he said irritably. “I’ve hardly seen him the whole day? Pedro!”

  There was a guttural grunt, and then the huge black shambled past me. His head was down, and in the dim light he looked a terrifying sight.

  “Get behind the curtains, Pedro. And don’t kill. We want them alive in the chairs. Charles—get the other side of the door.”

  Sick with anxiety I waited. Could nothing be done to warn them? They were walking straight into the trap, and suddenly the full realization of our position seemed to strike me. All very well to gain a little cheap satisfaction by taunting the man over his love affair, but it didn’t alter the fact that once these three men were caught the odds against us were wellnigh hopeless. Drummond couldn’t fight half a dozen men, especially when two of them had the strength of the negro and the one called Charles.

  The woman had left the room: the three men were hiding behind the curtains, so to all appearances except for myself it was empty. And then I heard Darrell’s voice in the hall.

  “So we meet again, madame,” he said gravely. “As you probably know we have come without informing any one, trusting that you will keep your side of the bargain.”

  “Quite like old times seeing you,” she answered. “And Mr Jerningham and Mr Longworth, too.”

  “Shall we cut the conversation, madame?” he remarked. “At your instigation three men—one of whom was Hugh himself—have been foully murdered. So you will pardon me if I say that the sooner you hand Mrs Drummond over to us the better I shall be pleased. In your letter you said that your revenge was sufficient. Let us then be done with it.”

  “We seem much milder than of yore,” she mocked.

  “You have Mrs Drummond in your power,” he said simply. “We have no alternative. Well, madame, we are waiting.”

  “Yes, mes amis, you are right,” she answered after a pause. “We will be done with it. You shall have Phyllis. And believe me I am almost sorry now that I ever started it. Moods change. A few weeks ago there was nothing I desired more than the deaths of all of you. Today I regret the Mere. Come this way.”

  “One moment, madame. Does she know that her husband is dead?”

  “No—she does not. Mr Darrell, it is easy to say, I know, but I wish he were not.”

  “A pity you didn’t think of that a little earlier, madame,” he said grimly. “Where are we to go? Why cannot Mrs Drummond be handed over to us in this hall?”

  “You will soon see why,” she answered, appearing in the door. “Besides I particularly want to show you all this room.”

  I gave an agonized guttural choke but it was no good. As she had doubtless anticipated they paused inside the door, completely taken off their guard by the strangeness of their surroundings.

  “What on earth,” began Jerningham, and even as he spoke the three hidden men sprang on them.

  In a few seconds it was all over. Paul had a revolver in Jerningham’s neck. Charles gave the same attention to Darrell. And poor little Algy Longworth was the negro’s share. He was merely picked up like a kicking baby and deposited in a seat. Then the steel bars were turned and he sat there glowering.

  “You damned dirty—” he shouted angrily.

  “Silence, you little rat,” said Irma. “Get the other two fixed. Shoot, Paul, if they give any trouble.”

  But the muzzle of a revolver in the nape of a man’s neck is a good preventer of trouble, and soon the four of us were sitting there like trussed birds.

  “So it was a trick, was it?” said Darrell quietly.

  The woman began to shake with laughter.

  “You fools,” she cried, “you brainless fools. Did you really imagine that I was going to hand Phyllis over to you and let you walk out of the house. You must be mad.”

  She turned on Charles and the black.

  “Go! Get out! But be around in case I want you. Paul—you can ungag the bank clerk.”

  Her glance roved from one to the other of us.

  “Four,” she said musingly. “And there should have been six. You see, Darrell, that there are six seats prepared for your reception.”

  Her eyes were beginning to glitter feverishly, and as she stood in the centre of the room her body swayed gracefully from side to side as if she was dancing. To me it was not unexpected, but the other three were staring at her in amazement. As yet they had no
t seen one of her outbursts.

  “Still we must make do with four, I suppose,” she went on. “Unless, Paul, we sent out for two more. No—better not. Let us keep our final meeting as intimate as possible. And we already have one stranger.”

  “Where is Phyllis Drummond?” said Jerningham.

  She turned and looked at him dreamily.

  “Phyllis is waiting.” she answered. “For days she has been waiting for you to come, and now very soon she will join you.”

  “And what then,” snapped Darrell.

  “Why then, mon ami, you shall all go on a journey together. A long journey. Ah! if only Hugh was here: if only my circle was complete. Then indeed the reunion would be a wonderful one.”

  And now the crazy glitter in her eyes grew more pronounced till I marvelled that the man called Paul could ever have hoped for any return for his love. The woman was frankly crazy, and stealing a glance at him I saw that he was staring at her with a dawning horror in his face.

  “Carissima,” he muttered. “I beseech of you, do not excite yourself.”

  “But as it is we shall have to make do with four.” Her voice had risen. “Four instead of six. And the principal guest not here. Why—the whole lot of you could go if only Drummond was here. But I did my best, Carl—I did my best.”

  She had turned to the altar stone, and was speaking to it.

  “I did my best, beloved—I did my best. And his end was not unworthy. Gassed—and drowned like a rat in a trap.”

  She threw herself across the stone, her arms outstretched, and for a space there was silence in the darkening room. Then abruptly she rose and swept to the door.

  “At nine o’clock, Paul, we will begin.”

  “Look here,” I said when she had gone, “Paul—or whatever your name is—what is the good of going on with this?”

  He stared at me dully.

  “The woman is clean plumb crazy. She is as mad as a hatter. So what are you going to get out of it? You can’t marry a mad woman: you can’t even make love to her.”

  He muttered something unintelligible under his breath.