The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Hugh paused and looked at me with a grin.

  “Getting a bit nearer the meat juice, ain’t we, Peter? Why should the fact that a red and blue light had been flashed on Romney Marsh inspire terror in the breasts of our Mr. Granger and his pugilistic companion? And no mild form of terror either. For if I’m a judge that man was sick with fear for his life.”

  “It would seem,” I murmured mildly, “that the problem is one which can hardly be solved on paper. And since our wives are at Le Touquet, it might help to pass the agonising time till they rejoin us, if we—”

  “Good lad,” he laughed. “I knew you would.”

  “But, look here, Hugh,” I said, “has nothing more happened? Have you seen the lights again?”

  “Only once—three nights ago.”

  “And you haven’t been down to this place—Spragge’s Farm?”

  He shook his head. “I thought I’d wait for you, Peter. It seemed a crime to keep a thing like this to oneself.”

  “Just one small point, old man,” I put in.

  “What about the police? If your surmise is right: if this man Granger is in fear of his life why hasn’t he told the police about it? Or has he? Because if so “

  “He hasn’t, Peter,” he interrupted. “That I know. The local inspector is a great pal of mine. And since that very objection occurred to me, I made a point of meeting him. I brought the conversation round to Granger—never a difficult thing to do. And I’m convinced that if he had asked for police protection I should have heard of it. Therefore he hasn’t. Why not? Because, laddie, he dare not. That’s my answer to it. It’s what I have thought all along. There is something that man has got to conceal, and he dare not run the risk of bringing the police in.”

  “It sounds feasible,” I agreed. “Anyway what’s the next move?”

  “A couple of short ones. Then lunch. And after that we’ll lay out a plan of campaign.”

  He led the way and I followed: thus it had always been in the past.

  CHAPTER II

  In Which We Meet Two New Allies

  I don’t pretend for a moment, of course, that there was the slightest excuse to be offered for us. Manifestly the matter was no business of ours. If Mr. Granger chose to barricade his house with iron spikes it was his affair, and no one else’s. Still I regret to say that there are people in this world who are as irresistibly drawn to a thick-ear atmosphere as a cat is to a saucer of milk. And Hugh Drummond was one of them, having been born that way.

  In that way he differed from me: I only acquired the liking by force of his example. And I am bound to admit that had I been the one to see a red and blue light flashing on Romney Marsh, and realised that such a harmless, even peculiar phenomenon produced terror in the breast of my next-door neighbour, I should not have proceeded farther with the matter.

  Wherefore the difference of our mental attitudes during lunch is easily understandable. Mine was principally concerned with our official position in the matter: his was entirely occupied with whether the thing was likely to produce some sport.

  “My dear Peter,” he said, as the waiter brought the coffee, “we haven’t got any official position in the matter. So that’s that, and there’s no use worrying about it. But it is manifestly the duty of every law-abiding citizen to investigate such a strange pastime as flashing coloured lights on the Marsh. Maybe it is some new method of catching moths: maybe not. Anyway we’re darned well going to see.”

  “And the first move?” I asked.

  “Is to call at Spragge’s Farm,” he answered.

  We are not to know that his notice about rooms to let has been withdrawn. We will therefore, on the way back, present ourselves at the door, and you will ask if he can put you up. Say that you’re suffering from nervous breakdown due to backing three winners in succession, and demand to see what accommodation he has to offer. Then say you’ll let him know. We’ll both keep our eyes skinned and perhaps we’ll see something.”

  “Right ho!” I said resignedly. “As long as I’m not expected to stop at the bally place, I’ll put up the palaver.”

  We paid the bill, and left the dining-room. Hugh’s car was outside the hotel, a Bentley Sports model: and ten minutes later we had dropped down the hill to Sandgate and were running along by the sea towards Hythe.

  “From now on, Peter,” he said, “until we get actually to Rye itself the ground is dead flat. When we get out a bit further you’ll see the range of hills away to the right where my house stands.”

  It was a hot, lazy afternoon, and the heat haze shimmered over the country which stretched dry and parched on each side of the road. Even the usual breeze which one gets in the locality had died away, and the few cattle we saw were standing listlessly in what shade they could find. The disused red water cistern on Littlestone golf links dropped away behind us, and the Martello Towers ceased as we turned away from the sea after New Romney.

  “Dungeness away there to the left,” said Hugh briefly. “And Lydd. Now we’re on the Marsh proper.”

  The road was good but narrow, with a deep ditch on each side, and he pointed out the spot to me where a motor charabanc had skidded and overturned one night, pinning the occupants underneath it till they were drowned in six inches of water.

  “These grass sides to the road get slippery at times,” he explained. “And then you want to watch it.”

  At length he stopped the car and lit a cigarette.

  “Now, Peter,” he said, “we approach our destination. That place there in front of us is Rye. Cast your eyes two fingers right and you will see on the hill an imposing red brick edifice. That is the house of Drummond. Straight in front of us you will see a smallish house in a clump of trees: that is Spragge’s Farm. One finger to the right of my house, also on the hill, you perceive another house. That is our friend Granger’s prison. Now you get the geography of the part that concerns us. And the great point, as you will notice, is that if, as I am tolerably certain, those lights were a warning of some sort, Spragge’s Farm is as good a place as any on the Marsh for Granger to see them from.”

  “Correct,” I agreed. “Now what am I really to say to Spragge?”

  “Any darned thing you like,” he laughed as we started once more. “It’s only a preliminary reconnaissance, and we can’t expect much luck.”

  It was fortunate we didn’t, because we had none at all. The farm stood about a quarter of a mile from the road, and a rough drive—little more than a stony lane—led up to it. A gate barred the entrance, and leaning over it was a morose looking individual smoking a pipe. He stared at us with scarcely veiled hostility as we pulled up, and made no effort to move.

  “This is Spragge’s Farm, isn’t it?” said Hugh politely.

  “It is,” grunted the man without removing his pipe from his mouth.

  “Do you know if Mr. Spragge is anywhere about?”

  “I’m Mr. Spragge. What might you be wanting?”

  Hugh’s fingers began to drum on the steering wheel, and it wasn’t difficult to tell exactly what he was wanting. But to clip a man over the jaw is not conducive to further conversation, and his voice remained studiously mild.

  “I was told, Mr. Spragge,” he said quietly, “that you had a room to let at your farm. My friend here is anxious for a place where he can finish—er—a book undisturbed. If your room is free he would like to see it.”

  The man removed his pipe, only apparently to enable him to spit with greater ease. Then he stared insolently from one to the other of us.

  “You were told wrong,” he grunted. “I’ve no room to let, and if I had I choose who I put—”

  “Your choice must be fairly limited I should imagine,” remarked Hugh, “if this is a fair sample of your manners. Nice chatty little fellow, aren’t you, Mr. Spragge?”

  The man straightened himself up, and the veins on his forehead began to stand out like whipcord.

  “Look here, you damned dude,” he said thickly, “you get out of this before I lose my temp
er. I speaks how I like, and to whom I like. But unless you’re out of this pretty quick, I’ll pull you out of your car and little Pansy-face beside you as well.”

  Hugh laughed pleasantly.

  “And why should I get out of this, Mr. Spragge? This road is as much mine as yours, and you’ve no idea what a pretty picture you make leaning against that gate. True, your face leaves much to be desired, and your clothes are deplorable, but the general picture—the tout ensemble—of the Englishman guarding his home is quite wonderful. Don’t you agree, Peter?”

  I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, and saw the old well-remembered look on his face. He was deliberately goading the man on, though for what purpose I couldn’t quite make out. This man Spragge was a powerful looking brute, and I failed to see any object in starting a rough house. And that was exactly what seemed imminent. With a flood of blasphemy the farmer flung open the gate, and slouched over to the car; and as he came Hugh opened the door and stepped into the road.

  “You!” snarled Spragge. “I’ve warned you once: now you can have it.”

  I almost laughed: how many men had said words to that effect in days gone by? And with the same result. Spragge shot out a fist like a leg of mutton, which encountered air, and the next instant he was lying flat on his back in the middle of the road, completely knocked out.

  “Quick, Peter,” said Hugh urgently. “Sling the blighter into the back of the car, and we’ll take him to the farm. Heaven forbid, old man,” he chuckled as the Bentley spun up the track, “that we should be so grossly inhuman as to leave this poor injured fellow lying in the road. His wife’s tender care is essential, and—keep your eyes skinned. We might spot something.”

  We pulled up at the door, and almost immediately a woman appeared. She was a worthy helpmeet to Mr. Spragge: in fact I have seldom seen a more forbidding looking pair. Tall and gaunt, with a thin saturnine face and bony hands, she looked an even more unpleasant customer than her husband. He was a powerful, foul-tempered brute: she looked the personification of evil.

  “What has happened?” she asked harshly.

  “Mrs. Spragge, I assume?” remarked Hugh politely. “I regret to state that your husband’s jaw has encountered a hard substance, which has temporarily rendered him unconscious. So, my friend and I, at great personal inconvenience, have brought him to the dear old homestead. Shall we bring him in?”

  Spragge was already beginning to stir uneasily, so there was no time to be lost if we were to get inside the house.

  “I don’t understand,” she said angrily. “What has happened to the fool?”

  “Far be it from me, madam,” murmured Hugh, “to cavil at the excellent description of your spouse. But he will doubtless tell you all about it when he is his own bright self again.”

  We had slung him out of the car and laid him on the grass, and as Hugh spoke I suddenly became aware of a noise that rose and fell regularly. It came from the inside of the house, and at that moment, Hugh evidently heard it too. He grinned faintly, and looked at the woman.

  “How nice it is to have a little peaceful nap in the afternoon,” he murmured. “But you should never take in a lodger that snores, Mrs, Spragge.”

  “Get out of this,” came a thick voice from behind us. Spragge, who had come to, had raised himself on his elbow, and was glaring vindictively.

  “Splendid,” cried Hugh. “Our own bright boy again. A little arnica applied by mother, and the face will be as good as new. But tell me, who is the human fog-horn within?”

  “Look here, mister,” cried the woman shrilly, “you be off. This farm ain’t no business of yours, and I’ll thank you to get into your car and clear out.”

  “The ingratitude of woman,” said Hugh resignedly. “After all I’ve done for poor Mr. Spragge too. Well, Peter, never shall it be said that we stayed where we weren’t wanted. We’ll go. But do tell little Ferdinand when he wakes that he ought not to sleep on his back.”

  He swung the car round, and as we went down the drive I glanced back. The man had scrambled to his feet, and was standing by his wife. And the two of them stood there motionless watching us, until we turned out of the drive into the main road.

  “Not much out of that, Peter, I’m afraid,” said Hugh. “All that we have established is that the Spragges are a very unsavoury pair, and that they have a man who snores staying in the house. But whether the man who snores is the red and blue light merchant, or whether it is any of them, Heaven alone knows. And as far as I can see there is only one way to find out.”

  “Which is?” I asked.

  “To go there by night,” he answered.

  “That’s when the activity is likely to occur. And I’ve somehow or other got a hunch that our musical sleeper is going to turn out to be very much in the picture. Let’s go back to the house now, so that you can dump your kit: then we’ll have dinner at the Dolphin in Rye, and do a bit of night work after. Jove! Peter, I’m beginning to feel quite young again.”

  “You’ll be younger before you’ve finished,” I said resignedly. “They tell me a few months in prison is a wonderful rejuvenator.”

  But he only grinned; in an affair of this sort he was beyond hope.

  “Prison be blowed, old boy. We may be a pair of thugs, but we are young men from the Christian Association compared to this comic bunch. Besides, we can always retire from the contest if we want to.”

  At that it was my turn to grin: a lion can retire from its kill if it wants to. At any rate time would show: up to date beyond putting Mr. Spragge to sleep we were blameless.

  The Bentley swung to the left as we came to Rye, and we took the circular road around the hill on which the town is built.

  “Up that cobbled road to the right, Peter,” said Hugh when we had gone halfway round, “is the Dolphin Inn. A famed resort for smugglers in the old days, and an extraordinarily good pub now. On your left is the road to Hastings, but we go straight on up to the higher ground.”

  We crossed the railway line, and another three miles brought us to Hugh’s house, where I dropped my baggage. As he said, the view over the Marsh was wonderful: it lay spread out in front of us like an aeroplane photograph.

  “If you look through the telescope,” he remarked, “you’ll see it is focussed on Spragge’s Farm.”

  I adjusted the eyepiece and found that I could make out every detail of the house. Almost could I see the handle on the front door so powerful was the instrument. But though I kept my eye glued to it for fully five minutes I saw no sign of life. The place was deserted: presumably Mr. Spragge was dealing with the arnica, and the mysterious sleeper still snored.

  “When you’re ready, Peter,” he said, after, he had had a look himself, “we might stroll along past friend Granger’s place. I’d like you to cast an eye on his preparations.”

  I was ready, and so we once more took the road. A short ten minutes’ walk brought us to our destination, and assuredly Hugh had not exaggerated when he called it a prison. The wall was about ten feet high, and constituted a fairly formidable obstacle in itself. But what made it practically impassable was the arrangement of steel spikes on the top. They faced in all directions: and each one was about two feet long. There was no gap anywhere: they continued over the massive wooden gates that formed the entrance. And by standing away from the wall I could see the top story of the house inside: every window was guarded with iron bars as Hugh had said.

  “The gentleman certainly seems to resent intrusion,” I remarked, and even as I spoke a small two-seater went past us and stopped outside the gates. A young man was driving it, and by his side was an extremely pretty girl. For a time they sat in the car looking somewhat dubiously at the prospect confronting them: then they both turned round and looked at us. And after a moment or two the man got out and came over to us.

  He was a cheerful looking youngster with a snub nose and freckles, and when he spoke he had a perfectly charming smile.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “but is either of you M
r. Granger?”

  “Not guilty,” remarked Hugh. “The gentleman you’re after is inside the fortifications.”

  “I say,” he went on a bit awkwardly, “you’ll understand I don’t want to be rude, or any tripe of that sort, but what kind of a bird is he?”

  “Why do you ask?” said Hugh.

  “Well—er—the lady with me has taken on a secretarial job with Mr. Granger. And dash it all, this bally place looks like an inebriates’ home.”

  “It’s not that as far as I know,” said Hugh. “But frankly I shouldn’t call it the sort of household that I’d like a girl I knew to go to.”

  “You hear that, Pat,” he sung out. “This gentleman thinks the show is a dud.”

  The girl got out of the car and came and joined us. Though usually of an unobservant nature, I noticed that there was a ring on her engagement finger, and with the acumen of Sherlock Holmes I arrived at what turned out to be the correct solution.

  “Can’t help that, Freckles,” she said calmly. “Dud or no dud, I’ve had fifty of the best out of the old bean and that’s that.”

  “You could send the money back,” he said doubtfully.

  “Easily, little bright-eyes,” she laughed, “if I had it to send. Unfortunately all that remains is twelve shillings and fourpence halfpenny.”

  “That’s a bit of a snag,” he admitted. “But look here, Pat, I don’t like the smell of this place at all.”

  “Nor do I,” she agreed frankly. “But what can I do?”

  “Can you tell me anything about this gentleman, sir?”

  He turned again to Hugh with a worried look on his face.

  “Practically nothing, I’m afraid,” said Hugh. “He came here some years ago, and had all these affairs erected round the house. He calls nowhere and sees no one, and the only other occupants of the house are a man and his wife.”

  “There is a woman there then. That’s good.”