The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “Do you recognize any of these men?” she went on.

  “I recognize those three,” he stammered, and Darrell nodded pleasantly.

  “A little morning exercise by the waters of the Mere,” he remarked.

  “And what of the others?” she said.

  He looked at Toby and me, and shook his head.

  “I’ve seen them,” he said. “At Amesbury. And I thought “—he looked sideways at Paul—”I thought. The boss,” he went on sullenly, “said that I was to say nothing about them.”

  For a moment she stared at Paul with a look of such concentrated cold fury that I almost felt sorry for the man. After all, swine though he was, he did love her, and had only embarked on this affair for her sake. But what she was going to say to him we shall never know, for at that moment there came a diversion.

  The man with the damaged hand had suddenly come very close to me and was peering into my face. Then with a quick movement he seized my moustache and tore it off.

  “God in Heavens!” he muttered, “it’s one of them. One of the three that were drowned.”

  A dead silence settled on the room, which was at last broken by Toby. “What about Opsiphanes syme?” he burbled genially.

  Another dead silence, broken this time by the woman. “So Drummond is not dead,” she said softly. “How very interesting.”

  “I seem to recall,” drawled Jerningham pleasantly, “in those dear days of long ago, that our lamented friend whose repulsive visage adorns the altar had frequent necessity to remark the same thing.”

  And then Paul spoke with sudden fear in his voice. “It’s a trap. An obvious trap. He’s probably got the police with him.”

  “There wasn’t a soul outside when I came in,” said Grant. “There hasn’t been a thing past the gate since eight o’clock.”

  “Go out,” said the woman, “and mount guard again. Paul—fetch Phyllis.”

  For a moment or two he seemed on the point of arguing with her: then he thought better of it and both of them left the room.

  “So you are Sinclair,” she said, coming over to Toby.

  “Quite right, sweet girl of mine,” he answered. “And how have we been keeping since our last merry meeting?”

  “All of you except Drummond.” She was talking half to herself. “Helpless: at my mercy.”

  A triumphant smile was on her lips, and as it seemed to me with justice. It exactly expressed the situation, and now that the momentary excitement of the finger episode had worn off I began to feel gloomier than ever. It was all very well for the others to be flippant, but unless they were completely blind to obvious realities it could only be due to bravado. We were absolutely in this woman’s power, there was no other way of looking at it. That their mood might be due to a blind unquestioning faith in Drummond’s ability was also possible, but unless he came with four or five exceptionally powerful men to help him, this was going to be a case of the pitcher going to the well once too often. For what none of them seemed to realize was the fact that this woman was careless of her own life. There lay the incredible danger. Discovery meant nothing to her provided her revenge had come first.

  I came out of my reverie to find Darrell’s eyes fixed on me. “Learnt that tune yet, Dixon?” he said.

  Toby Sinclair was humming the Froth Blower’s Anthem, and I nodded. I was free now to give Drummond away, but what earthly good it was going to be heaven alone knew.

  “A new recruit, dear Irma,” went on Darrell. “You will be pleased to know that it was he who solved most of your clues.”

  She turned her strange brooding eyes on me. “How did you get out of the Mere,” she asked curiously.

  “A little substitution,” I remarked. “The gentleman you left below arrived too soon, and then I sat on the water handle by mistake.”

  “I am glad,” she said. “The audience will now be complete.”

  “Think so,” said Jerningham mockingly. “One seat, and a rather important one, still remains to be occupied.”

  “It is possible that it may remain unoccupied,” she said enigmatically. “Good evening, Phyllis. Your husband’s friends have all arrived, as you see.”

  Mrs Drummond stared round with a wan little smile. “Hullo! chaps,” she said. “Where’s Hugh?”

  “The Lord knows, Phyllis,” answered Darrell. “We don’t.”

  “He will come,” said Mrs Drummond calmly. “Don’t worry.”

  “You think so,” answered Irma. “Good. And anyway why should you worry. Whether he comes, or whether he doesn’t, the result as far as you are concerned will be the same. In fact I am not sure that my revenge would not be all the sweeter if he didn’t come—until too late.” Once more she was leaning against the altar stone, with one hand resting on the bust of Carl Peterson. “Imagine his feelings for the rest of his life if he arrived to find you all dead, knowing that at last he had failed you.”

  “May I remind you once again of the number of times we have heard remarks of a similar nature from your late lamented—er—husband—” said Jerningham with a yawn.

  “And may I remind you,” she answered, “of my original little verse to Drummond concerning the Female of the Species. I shall wait a little, and then we will proceed. Should he come in the interval I shall be delighted for him to participate in our little ceremony. Should he fail to appear he will not. He will merely find the results. And should he be so injudicious as not to come alone he will encounter two locked doors, doors which will take even him some time to knock down. He will hear you screaming for help inside here—and then—”

  Her voice rose: her breast heaved: she was tasting of her triumph in advance.

  “Bonzo’s meat cubes are highly recommended for preserving a placid disposition,” said Algy brightly. “You’ll split a stay lace, my angel woman, unless you’re careful.”

  “Why do we delay, dear one?” said Paul anxiously. “Let us be done with it now, and leave him to find what he will find.”

  But she shook her head. “No: we will give him half an hour. And if he is not here by then…”

  I thought furiously: every moment gained might be an advantage. “How is he to know anything about it,” I said. “If he is where I last saw him, he is in Amesbury. And it will take more than half an hour get a messenger to him and for him to reach here.”

  She looked at me thoughtfully. “Is he also disguised like you and Sinclair?”

  “He is,” I said shortly. “He has a large black beard.…”

  “You fool,” howled Sinclair. “You damned treacherous fool. My God! We’re done.”

  I stared at him stupidly, and a sudden deadly sick feeling came over me. “But,” I stammered, “I thought…”

  I looked across helplessly at Darrell. What had I said? Surely the message was clear, to say who he was after I heard the anthem once.

  “I could kill you where you sit, you cur,” went on Sinclair idly, “if only I had my hands free.”

  “You seem to have said the wrong thing, Mr Dixon,” said Irma pleasantly. “So dear Hugh is disguised in a large black beard, is he? I don’t think I should like Hugh in a black beard. Well, well! I wonder what little amusement he has in store for us. We will certainly wait, Paul, until he arrives. I couldn’t bear to miss him in a black beard.”

  “He had a scheme,” said Sinclair furiously to the other three. “An absolute winner. But everything depended on his disguise. You fool, Dixon: you fool.”

  “Shut up, Toby,” said Mrs Drummond peremptorily. “I’m sure Mr Dixon didn’t mean to do any harm, and anyway—” she turned to me—”thank you a hundred times for all you’ve been through on my behalf.”

  I looked at her gratefully, though I was too much upset to speak. I simply couldn’t understand the thing. Evidently Drummond had altered his plans since he’d sent the message through Darrell. But if so—and he didn’t want me to comply with his first instructions—why hadn’t he sent countermanding orders through Sinclair? And after a while I began to
feel angry: the man was a damned fool. From beginning to end he had bungled every single thing. It was I who had borne the burden and heat of the whole show. And what possible hope had he got of deceiving anybody with that absurd false beard?

  “And have you any idea if our friend is coming soon?” pursued Irma sweetly. “Or shall we send a note to Amesbury, addressed to Mr Blackbeard?”

  “You needn’t worry,” said Sinclair sullenly. “He’s coming all right.”

  He glowered vindictively at me, and I glowered back at him. I was absolutely fed up—so fed up that I almost forgot what was in store for us. Of all the bungling, incompetent set of fools that I had ever known this much vaunted gang won in a canter. And their so-called leader was the worst of the lot.

  My mind went back to Bill Tracey’s remarks about him and the extraordinary things he had done. I’d tell Bill the truth when I next saw him. I’d put him wise. And then my stomach gave a sick heave: I should never see Bill again. The sweat poured down me. My anger had gone—reality had returned. In a short while this astounding farce would be over, and I should be dead.

  The room swam before me. I could only see the faces of the others through a mist. Dead! We should all be dead. By a monstrous effort I bit back a wild desire to shout and rave. That would be the unforgivable sin in front of this crowd. They might lack brains, but they didn’t lack courage. I pulled myself together and stared at them. Boredom was the only emotion they displayed—boredom and contempt. This foul woman could kill them all right: she could never make them whimper. “I’m damned sorry,” I said suddenly. “But for God’s sake don’t think it was treachery.”

  For a moment no one spoke. Then—”Sorry I said that,” said Toby gruffly. “Withdraw it and all that sort of rot.”

  Silence fell again: the only movement was Paul’s restless fidgeting. The woman still leaned gracefully against the altar stone. Mrs Drummond sat motionless, staring at the door.

  “He will probably be coming soon, Paul,” said Irma suddenly. “And it would be better not to give him any warning. Gag them.”

  “What about the girl?” he said.

  “Gag her as well, and put her in the vacant chair for a time.”

  “Don’t touch me you foul swine,” said Mrs Drummond coldly. “I will go there.”

  “And then when dear Hugh comes,” said Irma, “he shall take your place, Phyllis. Whilst you will be placed elsewhere.”

  She clenched her hands, and for a moment the feverish glitter returned to her eyes. Then she grew calm again.

  “Now turn out all the lights except the one at the end.”

  And so for perhaps ten minutes we sat there waiting. Once I heard Pedro’s throaty chuckle that seemed to come from the passage leading to the garage: and once I thought I heard the sound of a car on the road outside. Otherwise the silence was absolute.

  Through the open skylight I could see the stars, and I began wondering what had become of the sailor. Somewhere about the house I supposed: one of the infamous gang. And then I started to wonder how Drummond would come.

  Should I suddenly see his bearded face peering through at us—covering the woman with a revolver? But the stars still shone undimmed by any shadow, and after a while my brain refused to act. My arm was throbbing abominably. My thoughts began to wander.

  I was back in my club, and the woman Irma was the Wine Steward. It was absurd that I couldn’t get a drink before eleven o’clock in the morning in my own club. A fatuous wartime regulation that should be repealed. I’d write to my MP about it. Everybody ought to write to their MP about it. Here was that doddering ass old Axminster coming in. Thought he owned the place because he was a peer.… What was he saying? I listened—and suddenly my thoughts ceased to wander.

  It wasn’t Axminster: it was the man with the damaged hand. “A big bloke with a black beard is dodging through the bushes towards the house,” he said. “What are we to do?”

  The woman stretched out her arms ecstatically. “Let him come,” she cried triumphantly. “Pedro.” Came another throaty chuckle from behind me. “Come into the room after him, Pedro. Don’t let him see you. Then I leave him to you. But don’t kill him.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  In Which the Curtain Rings Down

  As long as I live I shall never forget the tension of the next few minutes. The light was so dim that the faces of the others were only blurs. Paul had joined the woman, and they were standing side by side against the altar stone. The door in the hall was ajar, and the hall itself was in darkness so that it was impossible to see anything distinctly.

  “He had a scheme: an absolute winner.”

  Sinclair’s words came back to me, and I wondered what it was. Had I really done the whole lot of us in by my indiscretion? But at last the period of waiting was over. Drummond’s voice could be heard in the hall.

  “Very little light in this house.”

  The woman by the altar stiffened. “His voice,” she said exultingly. “Drummond at last.”

  And then, or was it my imagination, there seemed to come a funny sort of hissing noise from the hall. Had the negro got him already? But no, he was speaking again. “I am a police inspector, and I wish to see the lady of the house on a very important matter.”

  In the dim light I could just see Darrell’s expression of blank amazement, and I sympathized with him. Was this the brilliant scheme? If so, was a more utterly fatuous one ever thought of. Why, his voice gave him away.

  “A very serious matter. I may say that I have two plain clothes men outside. What is that door at the end there? Don’t attempt to detain me. Oh! I see—you’re leading the way, are you.”

  The door opened, and there stood Drummond. I could just see his black beard, but it wasn’t at him that I looked for long. He took a couple of steps into the room, and like a shadow the negro slipped in—dodging behind the curtain. I heard hoarse gurgling noises coming from the others as they strove to warn him, but Paul had done his work too well.

  With a swift movement he stepped back and shut the door, so that Pedro was not more than a yard from him.

  “Good evening. Inspector. Your voice is very familiar.”

  “A little ruse, my poppet,” said Drummond pleasantly, “for getting into the august presence. May I say that I have a revolver in my hand, in case you can’t see it in this light? And will you and your gentleman friend put your hands up. I’ve dealt with one of your myrmidons outside in the hall, and my temper is a bit ragged.”

  With a faint smile the woman raised her hands, and Paul followed suit.

  “How are you, mon ami,” she said. “We only required you to complete the family circle. In fact I was desolated when I thought you’d succumbed at the Mere.”

  I worked madly at the handkerchief with my jaws. Why didn’t he come further into the room? At any second the negro might spring on him.

  “And what is this ridiculous entertainment?” he asked.

  “Specially staged for you, Hugh,” she answered.

  “I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time,” he said shortly. “A truce to this fooling. I’ve had enough of it. You and the swine with you are for it now.”

  “Are we?” she mocked.

  “Yes—you are. Come here, you swab. I don’t know your name, and I don’t want to, but hump yourself.”

  “And if I refuse,” said Paul easily.

  “I’ll plug you where you stand,” answered Drummond. “I don’t know how my wife and friends are secured, but set them free. And no monkey tricks.”

  And then, with a superhuman effort, I got the handkerchief half off my mouth.

  “Look out behind,” I croaked, and even as I spoke the gleaming white teeth of the negro showed over his shoulder. That was all I could see at that distance, but I could hear.

  There came a startled grunt from Drummond, that foul throaty chuckle from the black man, and the fight commenced. And what a fight it was in the semi-darkness. I forgot our own peril, forgot what depended on the issue in th
e thrill of the issue itself. Dimly I could see them swaying to and fro, each man putting forward every atom of strength he possessed, whilst Irma swayed backwards and forwards in her excitement, and the man Paul went towards the struggling pair in case he was wanted.

  “Leave them, Paul,” she cried tensely. “Let Drummond have his last fight.”

  And then Darrell got his gag free. “Go it, Hugh; go it, old man,” he shouted.

  I heard someone croaking hoarse sounds of encouragement and suddenly realized it was myself. And then gradually the sounds ceased, and my mouth got strangely dry. For Drummond was losing.

  From a great distance I heard Darrell muttering “My God!” over and over again to himself, and from somewhere else came pitiful little muffled cries as Mrs Drummond realized the ghastly truth. Her husband was losing.

  It was impossible to see the details, but of the main broad fact there was no doubt. At long last, Drummond had met his match. The black’s chuckles were ceaseless and triumphant, though Drummond fought mute. But slowly and inexorably he was being worn down. And then step by step the black man forced him towards the chair where his wife was sitting.

  “Take Phyllis out, Paul,” cried Irma suddenly. “Take her out.”

  Foot by foot, faster and faster the pair swayed towards the empty seat. Drummond was weakening obviously, and suddenly with a groan he gave in and crumpled. And then in a couple of seconds it was over. He was flung into the chair, and with a click the steel bars closed over his wrists. He was a prisoner, the family circle was complete.

  With a heart broken little cry his wife, who had torn off her gag, flung her arms around him and kissed him.

  “Darling boy,” she cried in an agony. Then abruptly she straightened up and stood facing her enemy. And if her voice when she spoke was not quite steady, who could be surprised?

  “You foul devil,” she said. “Get it over quickly.”

  And Pedro’s evil chuckle was the only answer. I glanced at Irma, and for the time she was beyond speech. Never have I seen such utter and complete triumph expressed on any human being’s face. She was in an ecstasy. Standing in front of the bust of Peterson, she was crooning to it in a sort of frenzy. The madness was on her again.