The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “My love, my King: he has been beaten. Do you realize it, my adored one? Drummond has been beaten. You are here, my Carl: your spirit is here. Do you see him—the man who killed you—powerless in my hands?”

  Gradually she grew calmer, and at length Paul spoke.

  “There is no reason for more delay now, Carissima,” he said urgently. “Let us finish.”

  She stared at him broodingly. “Finish—yes. All will be finished soon, Paul. But for a few minutes I will enjoy my triumph. Then we will stage our play.”

  She looked at each of us in turn—a look of mingled triumph and contempt. “Ungag them, Paul, and Pedro—you attend to the white woman should she give trouble.”

  She waited till Paul had obeyed her, gloating over us, and the full realization of our position came sweeping over me. Great though the odds against him had been, some vestige of hope had remained while Drummond was still free. Now our last chance had gone: we were finished—outwitted by this woman. And though nothing could have been more utterly futile and fatuous than Drummond’s behaviour, I felt terribly sorry for him.

  Still breathing heavily after his fight, he sat there with his chin sunk on his chest looking the picture of despondency. And I realized what he must be going through. Beaten, and knowing that the result of that beating meant death to us all and to his wife. And yet—angry irritation surged up in me again—how on earth could he have expected anything else? If ever a man had asked for trouble he had. Now he’d got it, and so had we.

  All the fight seemed to have gone out of him: he was broken. And when I looked at the others they seemed broken too—stunned with the incredible thing that had happened. That Drummond, the invincible, should have met his match at last—should be sitting there as a helpless prisoner—had shattered them. It was as if the Bank of England had suddenly become insolvent. And it was like Peter Darrell to try and comfort him.

  “Cheer up, old son,” he said lightly. “If that black hadn’t caught you unawares from behind, you’d have done him.” And Drummond’s only reply was a groan of despair, whilst his wife stroked his hair with her hand, and Pedro, like a great black shadow, hovered behind her.

  “Possibly,” answered Irma. “That ‘if’ should be a great comfort to you all during the next half hour.”

  “All is ready,” said Paul. “Let us start.”

  “Yes, we will start. But, as this is our last meeting, are there any little points you would like cleared up or explained? You, my dear Drummond, seem strangely silent. It’s not surprising, I admit; complete defeat is always unpleasant. But, honestly, I can’t congratulate you on your handling of the show. You haven’t been very clever, have you? In fact, you’ve been thoroughly disappointing. I had hoped at any rate, for some semblance of the old form, certainly at the end, but instead of that you have given no sport at all. And now—it is over.”

  She fell silent, that strange brooding look on her face, until at length Paul went up to her. “For Heaven’s sake, Carissima,” he said urgently, “do not let us delay any longer. I tell you I fear a trap.”

  “Why do you fear a trap?” she demanded.

  “They have come into our power too easily,” he said doggedly. “They have walked in with their eyes open, it seems to me.”

  “All that matters is that they have walked in,” she answered. “And now, whatever happens, they will never walk out again. Do you hear that, Drummond, I said—whatever happens.”

  He made no answer until the negro, with a snarl of rage, thrust his evil face close to him.

  “I hear,” he said sullenly.

  “It matters not,” she cried triumphantly, “if a cordon of police surround the house; it matters not if they batter at the doors—they will be too late. Too late!” She breathed the words deliriously; the madness was coming on her again.

  “But,” stammered Paul, “how shall we get away?”

  She waved him from her imperiously. “Be silent; you bore me,” Once more she turned to the plaster cast. “Do you realize, my Carl, what has happened? They are all here—all of them. Drummond and his wife are here; the others are here waiting to expiate their crime. Their lives for yours, my King; I have arranged that. Is it your will that I delay no longer?” She stared at the bust as if seeking an answer, and somebody—I think it was Algy—gave a short, high-pitched laugh. Nerves were beginning to crack; only Mrs Drummond still stood cool and disdainful, stroking her husband’s hair.

  Suddenly the wild futility of the whole thing came home to me, so that I writhed and tugged and cursed. Seven of us were going to be killed at the whim of a mad woman! Murdered in cold blood! God! it was impossible—inconceivable.… Why didn’t somebody do something? What fools they were—what utter fools!

  I raved at them incoherently, and told them what I thought of their brains, their mentality, and the complete absence of justification for their existence at all.

  “I told you she meant to kill us,” I shouted, “and you five damned idiots come walking into the most obvious trap that has ever been laid.”

  “Shut that man’s mouth,” said Irma quietly, and for the second time Pedro’s huge black hand crept round my throat, squeezing, throttling, so that, half choked, I fell silent. After all, what was the use? Mad she might be and undoubtedly was, but as she had said to Drummond, we were finished, whatever happened. And it was more dignified to face it in silence.

  “We will begin,” she said suddenly. “Paul, get Phyllis.”

  With a little cry, Mrs Drummond flung her arms round her husband’s neck. “Goodbye, my darling,” she cried, kissing him again and again. But he was beyond speech, and at length the negro seized her and dragged her away.

  “Let me go, you foul brute,” she said furiously, and Paul, who was standing by the stone of sacrifice, beckoned to her to come. Proudly, without faltering, she walked towards him.

  “Lie down,” he said curtly.

  “Get it accurate, Paul,” cried Irma anxiously. “Be certain that it is accurate.”

  “I will be certain,” he answered.

  And then for the first time I realized that there were ropes made fast to rings in the stone. She was going to be lashed down. She didn’t struggle even when Pedro, chuckling in his excitement, helped to make her fast. And on her face was an expression of such unutterable contempt that it seemed to infuriate the other woman. “You may sneer, my dear Phyllis,” she stormed. “But look above you, you little fool; look above you.”

  With one accord we all looked up, and at the same moment a small light was turned on in the ceiling. And when he had seen what it illuminated Ted Jerningham began to shout and bellow like a madman. “Stop it, you devil,” he roared. “Let one of us go there instead other. My God! Hugh. Do you see?”

  But Drummond was still silent, and after a while Jerningham relapsed into silence too. And as for me, I was conscious only of a deadly feeling of nausea. Hanging from a rafter was a huge, pointed knife. It was of an uncommon Oriental design, and it looked the most deadly weapon.

  “Yes, Hugh—do you see?” cried Irma mockingly. “Do you see what it is that hangs directly above your wife’s heart? It has been tested, not once, but many times, and when I release the spring it will fall, Hugh. And it will fall straight.” And still Drummond sat silent and cowed. “But I shall not release it yet: that I promise you. There is a little ceremony to be gone through before our finale. The rest of them have seen it, Drummond, but to you as my principal guest it will come as a surprise. And after it is over, and the knife that you see up there is buried in Phyllis’s heart, your turn will come.”

  She was rocking to and fro in her mad excitement.

  “Paul has arranged it,” she cried exultingly. “Clever Paul. Behind each one of you is enough explosive to shatter you to pieces. But Paul has so arranged it that even as Phyllis waits and waits for death to come—so will you all wait. You will see it creeping closer and closer, and be powerless to do anything to save yourselves. I shall light the fuse, and you will s
ee the flame burning slowly towards this little box. And when it reaches that box—suddenly, with the speed of light, the flame will dart to the gun-cotton behind your backs. For the fuse that connects the gun-cotton to the box is of a different brand to the one I shall light. Paul knows all these things: Paul is clever.”

  And now the madness was on her in earnest. She walked to and fro in front of the altar stone, her arms outstretched, worshipping the plaster cast of Peterson. “Is my revenge worthy, my King?” she cried again and again. “Does it meet with your approval? First she shall be killed before their eyes, and then they will wait for their own death. They will see it coming closer every second, until, at last…”

  “Great Heavens! man,” shouted Darrell to Paul, “you can’t let her go on. The woman is mad.”

  But he took no notice. His eyes were fixed on the woman who had now become silent. She seemed to be listening to a voice we could not hear, and something told me that we were very near the end. “Put out the lights, Paul,” she said gravely.

  I took one last look round the room; at Mrs Drummond, lying bound, with the black man gloating over her; at Irma, standing triumphant by the altar stone; and finally at Drummond. Even now I could hardly believe that it was the finish, and that he had nothing up his sleeve. But there he still sat with his head sunk on his breast, the personification of desolate defeat. And then the lights went out.

  Once again we were plunged in darkness that could be felt, but this time it was not a rehearsal. In a few minutes that knife would fall from the ceiling, and the poor girl would be dead. And we should see it actually happen. The sweat poured off me in streams as the full horror of it came home. I scarcely thought of what was going to be the fate of the rest of us afterwards. To be lying there bound, knowing that at any moment the knife might fall, was enough to send her crazy. More merciful if it did.

  “A model of Stonehenge, Drummond. You have realized that?”

  At last he seemed to have recovered the use of his tongue. “Yes, I have realized that.” His voice was perfectly steady, and I wondered if even now he realized what was coming.

  “And the stone on which Phyllis lies is the stone of sacrifice. Do you think she is a worthy offering?”

  “Do you really mean to do this monstrous thing, Irma Peterson?” he asked.

  “Should I have gone to all this trouble,” she mocked, “if I didn’t?”

  “And yet, when on one occasion you asked me, I spared Carl’s life. Do you remember?”

  “Only to kill him later,” she cried fiercely. “Go on, Drummond: beg for her life. I’d like to hear you whining.”

  “You won’t do that,” he answered. “If I ask you to spare her it is for a different reason altogether. It is to show that you have left in you some shred of humanity.”

  “As far as you are concerned I have none,” she said. “As I say, should I have done all this for nothing? Listen, Drummond.

  “It was in Egypt, as I told you in my first letter, that the idea came to me. By the irony of fate, it was suggested to me by a man who knows you well, Drummond. You and dear Phyllis had been staying at the same house with him, and he was so interested to find out that I also knew you. He told me about this splendid game of hidden treasure, and it appeared that you had won. I asked him the rules, and he said they were exceedingly simple. Everything depended on having good clues. I trust that mine have been up to standard.”

  She paused, and no one spoke.

  “From the game, as you played it then, to the game as you have played it now, was but a short step. Preparation was necessary, it is true; but the main idea was the same. I would give you a hidden-treasure hunt, where the prize was not a box of cigarettes, but something a little more valuable. And I would leave you to think “—her voice rose suddenly—”you poor fool, that if you succeeded you would get the prize.”

  She laughed, and it had an ugly sound.

  “However, of that later. Having made my preparations, the next thing was to obtain the prize. That proved easier than I expected. Twice, but for one of those little accidents which no one could foresee, Phyllis would have got into a special taxi in London—a taxi prepared by me. But I could afford to wait. For weeks you were watched, Drummond—and then you went to Pangbourne where you began to realize that I was after you. And then came the opportunity. A hastily scrawled note in your handwriting—Paul is an adept at that, and I had several specimens of your writing—and the thing was done.

  “‘Bring the Bentley at once to Tidmarsh, old girl. A most amazing thing has happened.—H.’ Do you remember the note, Phyllis? I don’t blame you for falling into the trap: it said neither too much nor too little, that note. And so I got the prize at a trifling cost. It was naughty of you to hit him so hard, my dear, as I’ve told you before. Paul said it was a positively wicked blow.”

  Once again that mocking laugh rang through the room, but I hardly heard it. With every sense alert, I was listening to another sound—the sound of heavy breathing near me. Something was happening close by—but what? Then came a groan, and silence. “What was that? Who groaned?” Her words came sharp and insistent.

  “Who, indeed?” answered Drummond’s voice. “Why don’t you continue, Irma Peterson? We are waiting for the theatrical display.”

  “Pedro! Pedro! Is Drummond still in his chair?” Came that same throaty chuckle, followed by Drummond’s voice again: “Take your hands off me, you foul swab.”

  “It is well,” she said, and there was relief in her voice. “I should not like a mistake to occur now. And, with you, Drummond—one never knows.”

  “True,” said he, “one never knows. Even now, Irma—there is time for you to change your mind. I warn you that it will be better for you if you do.”

  “Thank you a thousand times,” she sneered. “Instead, however, of following your advice, we will begin. The sacrifice is ready; we have delayed enough.” Once more I became conscious of movement near me, and my pulses began to tingle. “Just for the fraction of a second, Drummond, will you again see Phyllis alive: then the knife will fall.”

  The faint light was beginning behind the Friar’s Heel, in a couple of minutes it would be all over. Unless…unless… My heart was pounding; my tongue was dry. Was it the end, or were strange things taking place?

  “The dawn,” she cried. “You see the dawn, Drummond. Soon the sun will rise, the rays will creep nearer and nearer to Phyllis. And then… See…the rim is already there. It is coming, Drummond, coming. Have you any last message, you poor damned fool, for her? If so speak now for my hand is on the lever of the knife.”

  “Just one,” said Drummond lightly, and to my amazement his voice did not come from the chair in which he was imprisoned. “Every beard is not false, but every skunk smells. That beard ain’t false, dearie, and this skunk don’t smell. So I’m thinking there’s something wrong somewhere.”

  There was a moment’s dead silence, then she gave a little choking gasp. Came a streak of light as the knife shot down, a crash, and on the stone of sacrifice lay the bust of Carl Peterson, shattered in a hundred pieces. For a while I couldn’t grasp it. I stared stupidly at the woman who was cowering back against the altar stone; at the crumpled figure of Paul lying on the ground close by me. And then I looked at the black man, and he was grinning broadly.

  “So it ain’t poor dear Drummond in that chair,” he chuckled. “That is my very good friend John Perkins, and when you thought John was talking, it was really me what spoke, so you see you weren’t quite as clever as you thought, my poppet.”

  Suddenly she began to scream hysterically, and Drummond raced round the chairs setting us free.

  “Guard Phyllis,” he shouted, as the door opened and Charles followed by the chauffeur came rushing in. It lasted about five seconds—the scrap—but that five seconds was enough. For when it was over and we looked round for Irma she had gone. Whether there was some secret door which we didn’t discover, or whether she fled through the passage into the garage we shal
l never know. But from that day to this there has been no trace seen of her. And I don’t even know the ultimate fate of the various men of the house party. Having caught the lot, including Charles, we put them in our chairs. And then Drummond lit the fuse and we left them bellowing for mercy.

  “Let ’em sweat for ten minutes,” he remarked. “I’ve disconnected at the junction box, but they don’t know that I have. Now then, boys, once again—and all together—Froth Blowers for ever.”

  We stood in the road and we yelled at the tops of our voices. And it was only when we’d finished that I suddenly remembered the sailor.

  “That’s all right, old boy,” laughed Drummond. “Been retrieving any more bad plums out of waste paper baskets lately?”

  And so the game ended, and I know that that night I was too tired even to think about the strangeness of it, much less ask. It wasn’t till lunch next day that Drummond cleared up the loose ends. I can see him now, lolling at the end of the table with a lazy grin on his face, and a tankard of beer beside him.

  “You’ll probably curse my neck off, chaps,” he said, “for keeping you in the dark, but honestly, it seemed the only way. It was touch and go, mark you—especially for Phyllis, and that was where the difficulty came in!”

  “For the Lord’s sake start at the beginning,” said Darrell.

  “In the first place, I wasn’t too sure that they really did think we’d been killed at the Mere. And so it became absolutely vital that I should not be caught. But how to arrange it, and at the same time lull her suspicions, and make her think she’d got me, was the problem. Obviously by providing myself with a double, which is where dear old John came in. He acts for the movies, and he’d grown that awful fungus for a part he has to play shortly. When it is removed, however, he really does look rather like me; moreover he’s the same build. So off we set—me as a sailor, him as me—without the smell of an idea as to what we were going to slosh into down here.