The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “For God’s sake, man,” I went on urgently, “pull yourself together. Set us free, and let us go.”

  “She’ll be all right—after,” he said at length. “Quite all right—after.” He turned towards the door, and in desperation I played my last card.

  “You poor ass,” I cried, “there isn’t going to be an after for her. When she has finished us, she’s going to commit suicide. And whatever you choose to do with a lunatic, you’re stung good and strong with a corpse.”

  It was no good. He opened the door and went out. In fact I doubt if he even heard what I said, and with a feeling of sick despair I looked at the others.

  “So they haven’t spotted you, Dixon,” said Darrell in a low voice.

  “Not yet,” I answered. “I don’t think it ever dawned on them that I was one of the three they think were drowned at the Mere. But, for a while they suspected me of being another member of the bunch—a new one. Then Mrs Drummond rode them off.”

  “You’ve seen her?” said Jerningham eagerly.

  “Last night,” I said. “She was brought down here blindfolded and suddenly confronted with me. And there was no mistake about her failure to identify me being genuine. Not that it matters much,” I went on gloomily. “We’re hopelessly for it unless Drummond can do something. Why in Heaven’s name did you fellows walk into it so easily?”

  “Because he told us to,” answered Darrell calmly.

  “Told you to,” I echoed in amazement.

  “A short note,” he said. “Just—Follow the messenger—all three of you. Be surprised at nothing. And tell Dixon that he must not reveal my identity until he hears the Anthem whistled once.”

  “He knows I’m here?” I cried. “But I don’t understand.”

  “Frankly—no more do I,” said Algy. “What’s this damned stone quarry?”

  “It’s a model,” I said, “of Stonehenge. Look here, you fellows, I’ll tell you all I know. I can pretend that we are strangers if anyone comes in. But there is no reason why we shouldn’t talk in view of the position we are in—its most damnably serious.”

  “Fire ahead,” said Jerningham quietly.

  I told them everything; what I knew, and what I only suspected. I told them of the dead man at Stonehenge, and the scene of the night before. And they listened with consternation growing on their faces.

  “It was our last hope,” I said, “trying to make that man realize she was mad. But he’s wild about her—absolutely wild.”

  “You really think she’s going to commit suicide,” said Darrell doubtfully.

  “I do,” I answered. “Though the point is of academic interest only as far as we are concerned. She is going to do all of us in first.”

  “Man—but it’s a fearful risk.” said Jerningham.

  “Don’t you see,” I cried, “that she doesn’t care a damn about the risk. What does the risk matter to her if she’s going to join Carl, as she thinks, after? And that poor fish, Paul, is so infatuated with her that he is prepared to run any risk to get her.”

  We argued it from every angle whilst the room grew darker and darker. To them the only thing that mattered was that Drummond had told them to come: that Drummond had something up his sleeve. But try as I would, I couldn’t share their optimism. What could he do alone—or at best with Toby Sinclair to help him? The odds were altogether too heavy. Had we all been free it would have been different. Then we could have put up a good show. As it was the thing seemed hopeless to me. And yet he had deliberately told these three to walk into the trap. It was incomprehensible.

  It appeared that they had not seen him, but had only received the note. And the previous night Algy Longworth had also got a note which explained his movements to me. It had contained instructions to the effect that he was to announce publicly his intention of going to Stonehenge after dinner, that as he valued his life he was not to go but was to take a walk in the opposite direction.

  “If I had gone,” he said, “I suppose I should have shared the fate of the poor devil you saw dead. I wonder who he was.”

  “Ask me another,” I remarked. “He was a complete stranger to me. But he was undoubtedly murdered by that foul brute.”

  Conversation became desultory. All our nerves were getting frayed. The light had almost gone; we were just vague shapes to one another as we sat there fastened to those fantastic stones, waiting for nine o’clock.

  “I can’t believe it,” burst out Jerningham once. “Damn it—it’s like a nightmare.”

  No one answered; only the throaty chuckle that I had heard before came from somewhere behind me. “It’s the black,” grunted Darrell. “Get out, you filthy brute.”

  He chuckled again, and then like some monstrous misshapen animal he began to shamble round the room. I could just see him in the darkness peering first at one thing and then at another. He went to the two unoccupied seats and began fiddling with the mechanism that moved the two curved steel bars. He worked it several times, chuckling to himself like a child, and suddenly came Jerningham’s voice strained and tense.

  “Come and do that to my chair. I’ll give you some cigarettes and money if you do.”

  But the black man took no notice. He had transferred his attentions now to the black box that lay upon the altar stone. That occupied him for a long while, and all the time the throaty chuckling continued. Every now and then came the chink of tin on stone: then, as silently as he had come, he vanished again.

  It was the suspense of waiting that was so appalling, and I began to long for nine o’clock. A mood of dull resignation had come over me. I felt I simply didn’t care. Anything—so long as they got on with it. And as if in answer to my thoughts the door leading into the hall slowly opened, and a clock outside began to chime.

  “Nine,” muttered somebody.

  The final act was about to begin.

  CHAPTER XVI

  In Which We Have a Rehearsal

  I think my main feeling was one of intense curiosity. There was no light in the hall, but a faint lessening of the general darkness marked the door. For a time nothing happened, then something white appeared in the opening, and the room was flooded with light.

  The woman Irma was standing there clad in the same white garment she had worn the preceding night. Behind her hovered Paul—his face more saturnine than ever, but it was on her that all our attention was concentrated. In her hands she held some largish object which was covered with a silken cloth, and after a while she advanced to the altar stone and placed it there reverently. Then she removed the wrap, and I saw that it was a full size plaster cast of a man’s head.

  “Dashed if it isn’t our late lamented Carl,” muttered Darrell.

  The woman took no notice, she was staring intently at the cast. Once or twice her lips moved, but I heard no words, and for a time her hands were clasped in front of her as if in prayer. Then quite suddenly she turned her back on the altar and began to speak, whilst we watched her fascinated.

  “A few months ago,” she said, “I stood beside the wreckage of Wilmot’s giant airship, and over the charred body of my man I swore an oath. That oath will be finally fulfilled tonight.”

  Her voice was quiet and conversational.

  “But for an accident last night—a mistake on the part of one of my servants—I should not have sent you three the note I did. But Pedro, whom you have doubtless seen, killed a man at Stonehenge, and that necessitated a hastening in my plans. Why did you not go to Stonehenge, Longworth?”

  “Got hiccoughs after dinner, darling,” said Algy cheerfully. “Tell me, my poppet, is that a new line in nightdresses?”

  And just as Paul became livid with rage when I had jeered at him that morning, so now did the woman turn white to the lips with passion.

  “You dog,” she screamed. “How dare you? Strike him, Paul—strike him across the face.”

  Then she controlled herself.

  “Stay,” she said in a calmer voice. “He is not worth it. I will continue—for there
is much to say. But for that accident, I might—in fact I think I would—have given you one further clue. And yet I do not know: the game in very truth had begun to pall since Drummond died. You were only the puppies that followed your master. He was the one I wanted—not you. However, it was not to be, and because the finish comes tonight I thought that Phyllis should have you with her as she cannot have her husband. As yet she does not know that you are here: she does not even know her husband is dead. That she shall learn later—just before the end.”

  She paused, and I saw that Darrell was moistening his lips with his tongue, and that Jerningham’s face was white. There was something far more terrifying in this calm matter of fact voice than if she had ranted and raved.

  “This fourth man,” she continued, “this bank clerk presented a conundrum. Believe me, sir,” she turned to me, “I have no enmity against you. It is a sheer misfortune that you should be here, but since you are, you’ve got to stay.”

  “Please don’t apologize,” I said sarcastically. “Your treatment of your guest has left nothing to be desired.”

  But she seemed to have forgotten my existence: her real audience consisted of the other three.

  “The Friar’s Heel,” she remarked. “You solved that quicker than I thought you would. And here you are. This gentleman has doubtless already told you that these stones form a model of Stonehenge. And you wonder why I should have taken so much trouble. I will tell you.

  “Revenge is sweet, but to taste of its joys to the utmost, to extract from it the last drop of satisfaction, it must be as carefully planned as any other entertainment. That is why I regret so bitterly that it was Drummond himself who died at the Mere. I like to think of him struggling in that room—struggling to breathe—and knowing all the time that it was I who had done it. But I would far sooner have had him here; because he has escaped the supreme thing I planned for him.”

  With one hand outstretched she stood facing the other three.

  “He killed my man. You know it. You cannot deny it.”

  “If by that you mean he killed Carl Peterson, I do not deny it,” said Darrell calmly. “And no man ever deserved death more richly.”

  “Deserved death!” Her voice rose. “Who are you, you dogs, to pronounce judgment on such a man?” With an effort she controlled herself. “However, we will not bandy words. He killed my man—even as I shall shortly kill his woman.”

  She fell silent for a while staring at the plaster cast, and I saw Darrell’s anxious eyes roving round the room. They met mine for a moment, and he shrugged his shoulders helplessly. It was out now: there was no bluff about it. Death was in sight, and the manner of it seemed of but little account. Death—unless…

  Feverishly I stared around. Death, unless Drummond intervened. I looked up at the roof, remembering the sailor of the night before. But this time it was empty. And all the time the man called Paul stood watching the woman with sombre eyes.

  “It has not been very easy, Darrell.” She was speaking again. “My servants have blundered. Mistakes have been made. But from the moment she fell into my hands the final issue has never been in doubt. I might have had to forego this. I might even have had to forego getting the lot of you. But her life has been forfeit since that moment. I have played with her at times, letting her think that she would be free if you found her, and she, stupid little fool, has believed me. Free!” She laughed. “There have been times when only the greatest restraint has prevented me killing her with my own hands. And now I am glad, for I would like you to see her die.”

  “Carissima,” said the man called Paul, “is it wise to delay? All has gone so well up to now, and I fear something may happen.”

  “What can happen,” she said calmly, “who can interrupt us? The time has passed when there was danger of surprise. Your police, Darrell, are stickers. And although I did not think you would enlist their aid, there was the little matter of the blood in the ditch. I felicitated dear Phyllis on that. Paul tells me that she practically killed him with one blow of that heavy spanner—naughty girl.”

  “For God’s sake get on with it, woman,” said Jerningham harshly.

  “The essence of satisfactory revenge, my friend,” she remarked, “is not to hurry. The night is yet young.”

  I closed my eyes. The powerful gleaming lights against the black made me drowsy. It was a dream all this—it must be. In a few moments I should awake, and see my own familiar room.

  “What think you of the setting of my revenge?” From a great distance her voice came to me, and I forced myself back to reality again. “Stonehenge—in miniature. Theatrical—perhaps. But the story fascinates me. And because in this year of grace the real place cannot be used it was necessary to make a model.” With brooding eyes she stared in front of her. “We will rehearse it once, Paul. I am in the mood. Turn out the lights.”

  “Carissima,” he protested, “is it wise?”

  “Turn out the lights,” she said curtly, and with a muttered oath he obeyed.

  “I am in a strange mood tonight,” Her voice—low and throbbing—came to us out of the darkness. “It is true that I have rehearsed it before, that I know exactly every effect. But I would postpone it awhile. Besides it may be that you, who will watch the real performance, can suggest something at the rehearsal. Think well, you watchers: use your imagination, for only thus will you appreciate my plan.

  “Night. Darkness such as this. Around us on the grass a multitude who wait.”

  I sat up stiffly: was it imagination or had something passed close to my chair?

  “They wait in silence, whispering perhaps amongst themselves of what is about to happen. They have seen it before—many times, but the mystery of what they are about to see and the wonder of it never palls.

  “Darkness—and then in the east the faint light that comes before the dawn. Look!”

  It was clever—damnably clever. How the lights had been arranged to give the effect I cannot say, but at the end of the room behind the Friar’s Heel there came a faint luminosity. It was more a general lessening of the darkness than anything else, and one could just see the outlines of the stones against it.

  “A murmur like a wave beating on the shore—then silence once again. A gentle breeze, faint scented with the smell of country kisses their faces, and is gone, whilst all the time the dawn comes nearer: the tense expectancy increases.”

  I couldn’t help it. I was fascinated in spite of myself. My reason told me that all these elaborate preparations were nothing more nor less than the preliminaries to cold-blooded murder. And yet, theatrical though they might be, and were, they were also artistically impressive. I remember that I found myself thinking what a marvellous stage effect it would be.

  Gradually the light behind the Friar’s Heel increased, and then the woman began to sing. Her voice was small but true, and she sang in a tongue I did not know. It was a wild barbaric thing that sounded like one of those bizarre Magyar folk songs. And the effect was incredible. I found myself sweating with sheer excitement, all danger forgotten; and the others said after they had felt the same. The light grew brighter: her song wilder and more triumphant. And then suddenly she ceased.

  “It comes,” she cried. “The god comes. And as the first rays fall on the slaughter stone, and the woman who lies there, the sacrifice is made.”

  Out of the lessening darkness came a rim of golden light. It appeared behind the Friar’s Heel, and gradually grew larger and larger, even as the sun appears above the horizon, a yellow ball of electric light being raised slowly on a winding gear. So said reason. But imagination saw the scene of countless centuries ago.

  “The shadows shorten,” she whispered. “Soon they will reach the slaughter stone and pass it by. This time there is no victim—but next.… My God! What’s that?”

  Her voice rose to a sudden shrill cry, and for a while we all stared stupidly. For now the slaughter stone was bathed in light, and on its smooth surface was a gruesome object. One end was red with dried
up blood, and the other had a nail.

  The man called Paul moved slowly towards it.

  “It’s a man’s finger,” he muttered, and his voice was shaking.

  “A man’s finger,” repeated the woman. “But how did it get there? How did it get there?” she screamed. “How did it get there, you fool?”

  And Paul could give no answer.

  “A man’s finger,” she said once more, and glancing at her I saw that every drop of blood had drained from her face. “Where is Grant?”

  “Grant,” said Paul stupidly. “Why do you want Grant?”

  “Drummond shot his finger off,” she answered. “In the room below the Mere. Get him. Get him, you wretched fool, at once.”

  “But will you be all right,” he began, and again from behind me came a throaty chuckle. “Great Scott! the butterfly man.”

  I turned round. Sure enough there was Toby Sinclair, powerless in the hands of the negro. The mystery of the finger was explained.

  “Damn you!” he cried, “this is an outrage.”

  “Put him in a seat, Pedro,” said the woman, and Toby was forced into the chair next to mine.

  “If it isn’t Mr Seymour,” he fumed angrily. “Are these people mad? Is this place a lunatic asylum?”

  He subsided into angry mutterings, and I said nothing. For now I was too excited to speak. It was evident that the game was beginning in grim earnest.

  “Get Grant,” said the woman, and Paul left the room.

  She stood motionless leaning against the altar stone whilst that damnable black shambled round the room and then disappeared again. Toby Sinclair still continued to curse audibly, and the other three stared in front of them with eyes bright with anticipation. What was going to happen next? Once Sinclair stole a glance at me and winked, and I must confess that wink heartened me considerably. Because even now I saw very little light in the darkness.

  The door opened, and Paul came in followed by the man with the damaged hand.

  “Grant,” said the woman quietly, “is that your finger?”

  He gave a violent start: then he picked it up with a trembling hand. “It is,” he muttered foolishly. “At least, I—I think it is. It must be.”