The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

The youngster looked vaguely relieved.

  “But may I ask exactly how you came to hear of this job?” said Hugh to the girl.

  “Quite easily,” she smiled. “I had my name down at a bureau in London for secretarial work. Ten days ago I went in to find if anything was doing, and the woman who runs it offered me this. It might have been anybody else, only I happened to be the first. And the terms were so very good that I jumped at it. Five pounds a week, and fifty on account.”

  “Ten days ago,” said Hugh thoughtfully, glancing at me, and it was clear what he was thinking. If this girl had only heard of it then the offer must have been made before the appearance of the lights on the Marsh.

  “Have you any idea what your work is to be?” went on Hugh.

  “Not the slightest,” she answered. “Presumably an ordinary secretarial job.”

  Once again Hugh glanced at me: then he lit a cigarette.

  “Well, as I told this gentleman,” he remarked, “it’s not the sort of house I’d choose for a rest cure. But I may be wrong: I’ve never been inside myself. Only there is one thing you ought to know.”

  And then very briefly he told her about the mysterious signals from Spragge’s Farm. She listened in silence, but the result was a foregone conclusion. Her mind was made up, though Freckles did his best to dissuade her.

  “Can’t you possibly chuck it, Pat?” he said earnestly.

  “How can I, you mut?” laughed the girl. “I tell you I’ve spent the fifty quid.”

  “And I’m overdrawn,” he muttered. “Hell!”

  “Look here,” began Hugh and I simultaneously.

  The girl gave us both a delicious smile.

  “Sweet of you both,” she said. “I know just what you were going to say. But I couldn’t dream of it. After all this old bird can’t eat me. I shall be all right, Tom: don’t you worry.”

  “But I do worry,” answered the youth. “So would anybody who saw what sort of a house it was.”

  “Go and press the bell, my pet,” she said firmly. “It’s little Patricia for the shore. Go on, you ass: we can’t stand here in the road all day.”

  He went over reluctantly and did as he was told, and suddenly Hugh spoke.

  “Look here, Miss?”

  “Verney,” said the girl.

  “Mine is Drummond: and this is Peter Darrell. What I was going to say was this. My house is the next one to this—about half a mile away towards Rye. Now everything may be quite O.K., but in case—only in case, mind you—it isn’t, it will help you to know that we’re near at hand. So one or other of us will make a point of being here between two and three each day. Of course it’s quite on the cards that you’ll be able to take a walk: in fact, if I were you I’d insist on it. Then if anything crops up you can come and tell us. But if by any chance he keeps you inside or makes you stop in the garden, and you want to get at us, just write a note, put it in an envelope with half a brick inside and bung it over the wall. You can spot the place—close by the gate, and we’ll be here to get it.”

  “Thanks most awfully,” said the girl gratefully, “though I’m quite certain it won’t be necessary. Oh! my goodness, what an awful looking man!”

  The peephole in the gate had opened suddenly, and staring through it was the man who I placed at once as the pugilistic servant. He was certainly not a prepossessing sight as his narrow eyes took us in in turn, and the girl’s exclamation was very natural. Suspicion was in every line of his face, and it was not until he saw Hugh that his expression cleared.

  “This lady,” said Hugh, “has come to do secretarial work for Mr. Granger. Presumably you are expecting her.”

  The man made no reply, but stared up and down the road. Then at last we heard an iron bar clang and the gate opened just sufficiently to let him through.

  “Come quickly,” he said in a harsh voice. “Mr. Granger expects you, but we had forgotten your coming.”

  “My trunk is in the car,” said the girl. “Get it, please. Don’t touch the typewriter: I will carry that myself.”

  “Pat: I don’t like it.” Freckles made one final, despairing attempt. “Can’t you possibly get out of it? “

  “I can’t say that I like it very much myself, Tom,” she said quietly, “but I’m going through with it for all that.”

  The man, with the trunk on his shoulder, stood in the open gateway beckoning to her urgently.

  “So long, old son,” she said with a smile. And then turning to Hugh she held out her hand. “Between two and three: I’ll remember.”

  She took her machine out of the car, and the iron bar clanged to inside.

  “Damn it,” began Freckles, “she oughtn’t to have gone. She—”

  He paused suddenly, and at the same time I felt the flesh at the back of my scalp begin to tingle. For from inside the wall there came the deep-noted baying of a hound. It rose and fell, in a snarling roar of incredible ferocity: then as suddenly as it had begun it ceased, and only the faint noise of rattling bars could be heard.

  I looked at the boy: he was as white as a sheet. And the next moment he had sprung forward and was pounding with his fists on the gate.

  “Pat,” he shouted, “Pat! Are you all right?”

  Came her answer, faint and a little tremulous.

  “It’s all right, Tom. It’s locked up.”

  For a while we stood there looking at one another, whilst the colour slowly came back to his cheeks.

  “By Jove! that gave me a shock,” he said at length. “I ought never to have let her take this filthy job,” he added savagely.

  On Hugh Drummond’s face there appeared his habitual cheery smile.

  “My dear fellow,” he cried, “from the little I know of the adorable sex, the question, as they say in Parliament, did not arise. Miss Verney had determined to take the job, and that was that. Don’t you worry: we’ll look after her.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Freckles gloomily. “Anyway, I’m going to put up at the pub here till I’m certain she’s all right.”

  For a moment Hugh hesitated, and I could see he was summing the boy up.

  “Look here,” he said after a while, “don’t bother about a pub. Come and put up with me.

  “Do you really mean it?” He stared at Hugh doubtfully. “I mean—dash it—you hardly know me. You don’t even know my name.”

  “I’ll trust you not to steal the spoons,” laughed Hugh. “But it would be an advantage to know your name.”

  “Scott,” said Freckles. “Tom Scott. And it’s really most awfully good of you. I’d love to stay with you if you don’t mind.”

  “Shouldn’t have asked you if I did,” said Hugh. “Let’s get into that bus of yours and push back to the house.”

  “It may take a bit of time to start her,” said the proud owner. “I picked her up cheap.”

  At the end of five minutes his prophecy had proved correct. Acting under instructions, I had pulled out a wire and received a severe electric shock: Hugh had stamped on a button, causing a loud explosion and a discharge of grey smoke through the radiator. But finally she commenced to fire on at least two of the four cylinders and we started, the driver’s face wreathed in a complacent smile.

  “The steering is a bit dicky,” he explained as we missed a milestone by an inch. “Wants knowing. Nearly took a tramcar coming over Vauxhall Bridge this morning.”

  “Do you mean to say,” gasped Hugh, who was precariously clutching at the sides of the dickey, “that you drove this abom—this affair out of London?”

  “Rather,” said Freckles. “Why not?”

  “To the left here,” muttered Hugh feebly. “And for God’s sake don’t kill the cat. She has maternal duties to perform at the moment.”

  A frightful crash occurred in the bowels of the machine, and we came to a halt.

  “When the brakes don’t act, I put her into reverse,” explained Freckles, and Hugh nodded weakly.

  “I no longer have any fears for Miss Verney,” he remar
ked. “Her perils at present are as nothing to driving out of London in this machine. However, young fellow, we’ll have it pushed round to the garage and then we must have a little talk. Because there are one or two things you’ve got to get into your head.”

  He led the way into the house, and we followed him.

  “I’ll show you your room afterwards,” he said to Scott. “But after that motor drive I want a nerve tonic. Help yourselves, you fellows: it’s all on the sideboard.”

  We took our drinks outside and sat down.

  “Now I suppose I’m right,” began Hugh, “in assuming that you are responsible for the ring on Miss Verney’s finger?”

  “That’s so,” said Freckles with a grin. “We fixed it a month ago, but since neither of us has a bean the outlook is a bit grim.”

  “You’ve got plenty of time before you,” laughed Hugh. “However, just at the moment we’ll leave your matrimonial prospects. You heard what I said to your fiancee about those lights on the Marsh, didn’t you?”

  “Rather,” cried the boy. “What’s the game do you think?”

  “That,” said Hugh, “is exactly what Darrell and I had decided to find out. We still propose to find out, but now you and Miss Verney have come into the picture.”

  “I wish to heaven she hadn’t,” said Scott gloomily.

  “If she hadn’t you wouldn’t have either,” remarked Hugh. “And we shouldn’t be sitting here drinking a whisky and soda and having this talk. But she did and there’s no more to be said about it. Now let me say at once that I do not believe she is in any danger, so you can set your mind at rest over that. But I do believe that she’s in a house where some pretty funny doings are going to happen in the near future. It’s obvious that her boss is terrified to death of something, though what that something is we know no more than you. But we propose to have a dip at finding out tonight.”

  “How?” cried Scott eagerly.

  “I don’t know whether you heard me mention Spragge’s Farm. If you look through that telescope you’ll find that it is focussed on it. And that is the house from which the lights have come. It therefore looks as if there was a connection between it and Mr. Granger’s terror, which has only arisen since the signal was given. This afternoon Peter and I, by a little subterfuge, got as far as the front door, but we couldn’t get any farther. However, it was enough to prove that there is someone else in the house beside Spragge and his wife, because we heard the blighter snoring. Tonight we propose to investigate again, and you can come too if you like.”

  “If I like,” cried Freckles joyfully. “Lead me to it.”

  “But on one condition,” said Hugh quietly. “There seems to me to be every prospect of a bit of fun, and fun is too hard to come by to run any risk of having it spoiled. If you come in with us, Scott, you have got to do as you are told. No fancy tricks of your own or anything of that sort—do you get me?”

  “Absolutely,” answered the other. “I’ll do just what you say.”

  “Good,” said Hugh. “Now come here, and let me feel your muscle. Not too bad. Got it cranking that infernal contrivance of yours, I suppose. Anyway, don’t forget the golden rule—if you’ve got to hit, hit first.”

  “I say you really are a priceless pair,” said Freckles ecstatically.

  “We may get a bit of sport,” said Hugh casually, and then his eyes narrowed suddenly. “Isn’t that a car, at the turn-off to Spragge’s Farm?”

  He went to the telescope and focussed it.

  “A big yellow one, Peter,” he said. “There’s a woman in the driver’s seat with a man beside her. And leaning over the gate talking to them is our Mr. Spragge himself unless I’m much mistaken. Now I wonder if they’ve got anything to do with it. Hullo! they are turning round, and going back towards Rye. Going like hell into the bargain. Come on, let’s hit the Bentley. We might spot something.”

  “A Bentley,” sighed Freckles. “Indeed and in truth the Lord is good. And incidentally, Drummond, if it’s any good to you at any time, I’m used to driving the breed.”

  “Good,” said Hugh. “It may come in handy.”

  We fell into the car, and he let her out. He drove, as he did everything else, magnificently, and in four minutes we struck the top of the hill leading down to Rye. Now as I say, Hugh had trodden on the juice, and yet, roaring up the hill towards us was a big yellow car driven by a woman with a man sitting beside her. And another in the back seat. I had a fleeting glimpse of a beautiful, rather scornful face bending over the wheel, and a man with a small pointed beard sitting beside her: then they had flashed past.

  “See which way they go, Peter,” sang out Hugh, braking hard.

  “They’ve turned off towards your house,” I said.

  “And towards Granger’s,” he answered, swinging into the entrance of a house to turn. “By George! they must have travelled.”

  “An Isotto straight twelve,” remarked Freckles casually. “But you’ve got the legs of them in this. Oh! if Mother only knew what her baby boy was doing instead of sitting in Prodom and Peanut’s office, the old girl would pass right out.”

  “You are a reprehensible young devil,” chuckled Hugh as we started up the hill again. “But the girl at the wheel, Peter, was undoubtedly a pippin of the first order.”

  And as from a great distance I heard the voices of two adorable ladies in the Hermitage at Le Touquet wondering how the dear lambs were enjoying their golf.

  We swung past the entrance to Hugh’s house, and then he slackened speed a little.

  “No good looking as if we were racing them,” he said. “And if they’ve got anything to do with it By Jove! Peter, they have.”

  The yellow car had stopped at the entrance to Granger’s house. The occupants were still sitting in it, and were apparently studying the place. But as we passed they all three stared at us.

  “Don’t look round,” said Hugh quietly. “Though I’m afraid we’ve committed a tactical bloomer. Do you think they spotted us as the car they met on the hill?”

  “The chauffeur bloke at the back did,” said Freckles.

  “Damn!” said Hugh. “However it is done now. We’ll go back to Rye by another route. Now I wonder where that bunch come into the picture. In fact, I wonder the hell of a lot of things.”

  CHAPTER III

  In Which We Come to Spragge’s Farm by Night

  The Dolphin Inn at Rye is almost too well known to need description. It stands halfway up a steep cobbled hill in the centre of the town, and to its hospitable doors come all sorts and conditions of men. Tourists, artists, golfers—all may be found there—discussing everything from the history of the Cinque Ports to the Putt that Failed on the Last Green. Of old, when the sea lapped round the foothills of Rye, and in later years too, it was a well-known haunt of smugglers, as Hugh had said. Many a cask of old brandy: many a roll of silk had come in through the front door, which the most drastic search by preventive men had failed to reveal. There were stories told of secret passages, and sliding panels by means of which the Excise men were outwitted; but in the present year of grace the only sliding panel in evidence is the one through which the barman hands out the necessary.

  It was half-past six when we entered the lounge hall, having left the car at the bottom of the hill. Two old ladies were sitting in one corner immersed in guide books, whilst another was occupied by an elderly clergyman. There was plenty of room for us, but Hugh went straight through to a small room which led off the main hall.

  “The only untouched part of the hotel,” he remarked. “This room is as it was when the place was built.”

  Nearly the whole of one end of it was occupied by a huge fireplace, in which as the guide book put it, “it was the custom on special occasions to roast an ox whole.” The special occasions presumably were when a particularly good haul of contraband had successfully eluded the coastguard men. On each side of the fireplace the wall consisted of a sort of scroll-work, long since blackened by the smoke. The shelves were filled
with pewter—some valuable, but for the most part modern stuff. And perhaps the most interesting thing in the room was an old map worked in embroidery, showing the country in 1723. Even as late as that the sea was very nearly up to the outskirts of Rye, and almost the whole of Romney Marsh was covered with water.

  “Looks a bit different, doesn’t it?” said Hugh, studying it idly. “Where we dotted old man Spragge one this afternoon was a bally lake. There’s where his farm is, Scott,” he went on. “And that is our destination tonight. By Jove!” he added with sudden interest, “that must be Granger’s house. I’d no idea it was so old. A convent: that accounts for the wall round it.”

  “Naughty girls—the nuns,” said Freckles. “Do you know the story?”

  But we never heard this bright particular gem, because at that moment two men came in, one of whom hailed Hugh with a shout of joy. He wore a Guards tie, and his face seemed vaguely familiar to me.

  “You old blighter,” he cried. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Hullo! John James,” said Hugh. “How’s yourself? You know Darrell, don’t you?”

  “I met you once in the pavilion at Lord’s,” cried the newcomer, and then I placed him. He was whisky or beer or something, and rolled in money. Sir John Jameson, Bart., was his name, and he had recently come into the title. Moreover he had a big place somewhere in Kent.

  “This is Scott,” went on Hugh. “Sir John Jameson.”

  “This undoubtedly calls for a drop of the old and bold,” said John James. “By the way, this is Piggy Heythrop, who suffers from the delusion that he can beat me at golf. Waiter—five martinis. Well, old lad—what are you doing down here?”

  “I’ve rented a house for the summer called Bay Trees. Principally because there isn’t one.”

  “The devil you have,” cried the other. “Why, man, that house used to belong to my governor. And the one next door as well. Look here, Hugh, we’ve got back to Laidley Towers: you and your lady wife must come over and stop.”

  “Hold hard a moment, John,” said Hugh. “You say the next-door house used to belong to you. Which one do you mean?”

  “Temple Tower. Used to be a convent. The old man sold ’em both about twenty years ago. Personally I was rather sorry about Temple Tower. It’s got a very interesting history. I wonder who has it now.”