The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “What are you going to do, Hugh?” I said.

  “I dunno, old lad,” he answered. “Don’t you worry about me.”

  And sure enough he disappeared soon after lunch and I was left to my own resources.

  At first I tried to sleep, but I soon gave up the attempt. Sleep simply would not come, and after a while I decided to go for a walk. I gathered from Denny that there was a short cut over the fields which led to Rye, and with the idea of possibly getting a lift back in John’s car I struck out along it. There was always a chance, I thought, of finding out something, and if not, Rye was a town well worth exploring.

  It was a drowsily warm afternoon, and I walked slowly, my thoughts full of Matthews’ astounding story. It seemed wellnigh unbelievable that this amazing crime of a generation ago should have its denouement in such a peaceful English setting. Who was he—this sinister being—who had baffled the whole French police force? Had we seen him in the Dolphin the night before? Was he the clergyman, as Hugh had half suggested? Futile surmises: if Matthews didn’t know, it was hardly likely that I should. But the problem haunted me: I couldn’t get it out of my thoughts. And suddenly I arrived at a decision. I would stroll round Rye, and then go to the Dolphin for tea. With luck I might find the little room empty, in which case I would investigate the fireplace, and see if there was anything in Hugh’s theory. It could do no harm, and it gave me an object for the afternoon. Possibly even, I might solve the problem of the identity of le Bossu himself.

  A neighbouring clock struck three, and shortly after I reached the outskirts of the town. I strolled aimlessly round, looking into old curiosity shops for about half an hour: then, striking up the hill, I made for the Dolphin. Once I thought I saw Victor Matthews in the distance, but I wasn’t sure, and I wondered how his line of inquiries was progressing.

  The hall was deserted when I entered: so, fortunately, was the little room. And I made a dive at once for the fireplace. It was, as I have already said, an enormous affair, in which it was easy to stand with one’s head and shoulders up the flue. I peered upwards, but could see nothing. Evidently there was a jink in the chimney which stopped the light. At any rate there was only blackness to be seen.

  “Do you require tea, sir?”

  I emerged hurriedly, to find a waiter staring at me.

  “Please,” I said, feeling remarkably foolish. “A wonderful fireplace, this.”

  “Yes, sir. It is very famous.”

  He stalked from the room, leaving me with the uncomfortable feeling that he regarded me with grave suspicion. Admittedly the beauties of the fireplace were best seen from the outside: at the same time I failed to see any reason why I shouldn’t stand inside it if I wished to. However, having satisfied himself on his return that the fireplace was still there, he thawed somewhat under the influence of a substantial tip.

  “Hotel pretty full?” I said casually.

  “Yes, sir. They comes and goes,” he answered. “Week-ends we’re always full up, but we’ve got some rooms now if you want one.”

  His interest waned when he found I didn’t, and after a while he drifted away to some new arrivals in the hall. They were obviously American tourists motoring through, and therefore could be given a clean bill of health as far as I was concerned. Presumably, also, the waiter might be excluded, though his case was not quite so certain. I had already made up my mind that the most unlikely person would prove to be the man we wanted, and that even women must not be ruled out. After all, men had masqueraded in female clothes before now.

  Other people came drifting in, and I eyed them all like a lynx. And then, after a while, the absurdity of the proceeding struck me: how could I possibly know? It was more than likely that le Bossu had already left the hotel, even assuming he had ever been there.

  Suddenly my interest revived: Vandali and the girl had come into the hall. For a moment or two they seemed undecided as to where they would sit: then they turned and came into the little room. The girl swept past me as if unconscious of my existence, but Vandali gave me a curt bow.

  “Been doing any more botanising?” he said sarcastically.

  “Been getting the Yuletide welcome at Temple Tower again?” I returned.

  He paused and stared at me, and I thought for a moment that he was going to have an actual discussion. Then apparently he thought better of it and he passed on and joined the girl. I picked up a paper and pretended to read. It was a day old but I wanted a screen from behind which I could study them. They had begun to talk in low tones, and it was impossible to hear more than an odd word or two. But it seemed to me that he was urging some line of action on her, and that she was opposed to it. What it was I had no idea, but once I distinctly heard him mention the word “police.” I strained my ears, but they were sitting too far away. Only it became increasingly obvious that there was a fundamental difference of opinion between them over something, and that neither could apparently convert the other.

  I laid down the paper and lit a cigarette. There did not seem to be much object in waiting any longer. I could not move closer to them without making things obvious, and they were evidently not going to raise their voices. And I was on the point of getting up when some dirt fell down the chimney at the end of the room and lay in a little heap on the whitened hearthstone. A very ordinary phenomenon, and yet—was it? I felt my pulse begin to go a little quicker. Had that dirt fallen naturally, or had it been disturbed by something? Was the hidden listener even now at his post? And yet how could he be unless he was in the room?

  The other two had noticed nothing. For about five minutes they continued their conversation: then, shrugging his shoulders irritably, the man got up and left the room, whilst the girl picked up an illustrated weekly. In a fever of impatience I waited for her to go too: I wanted to have another look up the chimney. But apparently she had no intention of following her companion’s example, and after a time she took out her cigarette-case.

  I watched her out of the corner of my eye, as she began to hunt in her bag for a match. And it suddenly struck me that the opportunity was too good to miss.

  “Allow me,” I said, rising and striking one for her.

  She thanked me, and a little to my surprise she laid down her paper as if quite ready to talk.

  “A ghastly affair,” I said, “these two murders.”

  “Two!” she cried, staring at me blankly. “Two!”

  “Yes,” I said. “One outside, and one inside the grounds of Temple Tower.”

  And now it was obvious that not only was the information a surprise to her, but it was a very agitating surprise.

  “I heard of one,” she said, “the one outside. But, tell me, who was murdered inside?”

  “Mr. Granger’s servant—a man called Gaspard. It appears that both men were strangled.”

  “But this is amazing,” she cried. “You’re sure it wasn’t Mr. Granger who was killed?”

  “Perfectly sure,” I said. “The police are investigating both crimes now.”

  A look of relief appeared on her face, though her bewilderment was still obvious, and I tried to read the situation by the light of my inside knowledge of the Vandalis’ plans. The reason for the relief was clear: it would have complicated things for them considerably if Granger had been dead.

  “It is incredible,” she said once again. “Who on earth killed the man outside?”

  “The same person presumably who killed the one inside,” I answered, but her remark, phrased as it was, threw a sudden ray of light on what she was thinking and the reason for her surprise at my news. Evidently she must have assumed that le Rossignol had been murdered by Gaspard. And the information that Gaspard himself was dead completely nonplussed her. So much was apparent: what was not clear was whether or not she knew of le Bossu. Her expression at the moment seemed to be that of a person who had heard an inexplicable piece of news: but surely if she knew of le Bossu the matter ceased to be inexplicable at once. And as we continued to discuss the thing, I began more
and more to feel sure that she did not know of the silent strangler. Which only tended to make it more baffling.

  If Hugh’s surmise was right: if our plans had been overheard by someone listening in the chimney, and if, further, the Vandalis’ room was the one overhead, something must be wrong somewhere. He had put his theory forward when the idea was that the person who had heard our plans was the very woman I was talking to. Of course, it might well be that there was no one there at the moment, and that the dirt had fallen accidentally. And even as I thought so, some more fell down the chimney and lay in a little heap on the whitened hearthstone.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, suddenly conscious that she had asked a question and was expecting an answer. “I didn’t quite catch your remark.”

  “I asked if you knew anything about this man Granger?” she said.

  “I fear I am only a stranger here,” I answered lightly. “He seems a man of curious disposition.”

  “Is it worthwhile,” she said coldly, “lying in quite such a stupid fashion? A man does not go and conceal himself beside the road on a hot summer’s day for fun.”

  “Is it worthwhile,” I answered equally coldly, “calling a man a liar until you are quite certain of your facts? The reason for my concealment, as you call it, was simple. Mr. Granger has recently engaged a secretary. She happens to be the fiancee of the youngster who was with me. And in view of the type of house it had been arranged that she should throw a letter over the wall telling him if she was all right. Hence our presence there.”

  She stared at me suspiciously, but with the serene confidence of having told the truth—or very nearly—I returned the look blandly.

  “You mean to say that that is all you were there for?” she cried.

  “What else is there to be there for?” I countered.

  “A man doesn’t fortify himself like that unless he is afraid of something,” she said.

  “Some such idea had occurred to me,” I agreed.

  For a while she smoked in silence: then she seemed to come to a sudden decision.

  “What do you think he is afraid of?” she demanded.

  “Presumably the entrance of callers,” I remarked.

  “Shall we cease to beat about the bush. Monsieur?” she said quietly. “For I really cannot believe that your ignorance is quite so profound as you make out.”

  “If it enabled me to talk a little longer with you, Madame,” I replied, “I would wish it were even more profound.”

  She waved aside the clumsy compliment with a frown.

  “You know who the man is who was found murdered in the wood.” The remark was a statement, not a question.

  “Let us suppose for the moment that I do. What then?”

  “Why, then you must know everything,” she cried irritably. “Why not come out into the open. Monsieur? There is plenty for all of us. And now that he is dead there is no hurry. We can take our time.”

  At last her meaning was clear, and with it the absolute certainty that she was ignorant of the existence of le Bossu. She believed that, with the murder of le Rossignol, the only people left to share the reward for the stolen property were themselves and us. But one thing it seemed to me she had overlooked even from her own point of view.

  “Madame,” I remarked, “we agreed, I think, that the object of the fortification was to keep out callers, and it would not appear to have been successful. Someone must have been inside the grounds last night.”

  “Precisely,” she said, staring me straight in the face. “And that someone must have been a very powerful man. Almost as powerful as your friend who was in here a night or two ago.”

  For a moment I did not take her meaning.

  Then it suddenly dawned on me, and I burst out laughing.

  “My dear lady,” I cried, “you surely are not accusing us of having pulled off a double murder, are you? That is a bit too rich altogether.”

  She rose without answering, and with a feeling of relief I realised she was going. There was nothing more to be gained by prolonging the conversation, and I wanted to have another look up the chimney. It was certainly not my intention to enlighten her over le Bossu, and if she chose to pretend to me that she thought we had murdered Gaspard and le Rossignol, she was quite at liberty to do so.

  I watched her step out into the hall, and stand there for a moment or two as if undecided where to go: then she turned and ascended the stairs. And I, after a swift look round to make sure I was unobserved, made a dart for the chimney. And this time it was not all darkness: Hugh was right.

  About six feet above my head was a square opening through which a faint light was filtering. And even as I stared at it something moved behind it, and I saw a pair of savage eyes staring down into mine. Then they were gone, and I stepped out into the room again.

  My pulse was beating a shade faster than usual, but my brain was perfectly cool. What was the next move? That those eyes had belonged to le Bossu Masqué himself I felt sure, but what was going to happen now? According to Hugh, the Vandalis’ room was above us, and Madame Vandali had just gone upstairs. So that she would be bound to find him, and what then? Because, from my reading of the case, she didn’t know of his existence.

  I waited—but there was no sound. Then I took another look up the chimney, but this time all was darkness. And after a while another thought struck me. If, as I believed, the Vandalis did not know about him, would he have dared to go into their room?

  I went quickly out into the hall and looked upstairs. True enough. Number 18 was over the little room where we had been talking, and so far Hugh was right. But he had not seen the position of the opening in the chimney, and I had. And I saw at once that that opening could not have been made from Number 18, but must have come from the room next it. Number 19 was le Bossu’s room—not 18. The door was shut, and for a moment I had an insane impulse to stroll casually up the stairs, open the door, and walk in. I could pretend I had come into the wrong room by mistake, and he could not do me any harm in the Dolphin.

  However, I decided against it, and walked over to the Visitors’ Book. There was the entry right enough: “H. Thomas, London. No. 19.”

  “I see you have a Mr. Thomas staying here,” I said to the girl. “I wonder if that is the Harold Thomas I used to play golf with? Is he a big man with a slight stoop?”

  “He is a biggish man, but I don’t think he stoops,” she answered.

  “Fair moustache?” I asked,

  “I think he is clean shaven,” she replied. “I really couldn’t say for sure. But I expect he will be back for dinner.”

  He is not in the hotel, then?” I said quietly. No. I haven’t seen him all day.”

  She turned to a new arrival, and I went back into the annex. What was to be done now? That the man who called himself Thomas was in the hotel I knew. But it was manifestly impossible for me to tell the girl how I knew it. If a man lays claim to having seen eyes peering at him out of chimneys, his audience is more than likely to make rude insinuations concerning alcohol. And yet it was utterly imperative that, somehow or other, I should see inside Number 19. How to do it: that was the problem.

  I wandered restlessly back into the hall: what about sitting down in a spot which commanded a view of the room? And to my amazement I found, on looking up, that the door was open. Mechanically I ordered a whisky and soda: how did that fact affect things? Did it mean that the owner of Number 19 had gone out in reality, or what?

  I finished my drink, and as I laid down the glass I came to a decision. I would go up and walk straight into the room. If there was any unpleasantness I could pretend that I thought it was my mythical Harold Thomas and apologise for my intrusion. But I should have seen the man we wanted: and that, so it seemed to me, was worth a big risk.

  There was no one about, and so, putting a bold face on it, I walked straight up the stairs. Then for a moment I admit I hesitated: visions of being arrested as an hotel thief floated before me. But I banished them, and with a preliminary
knock on the door, I went into Number 19.

  There was no one in it, and I glanced quickly round. A weather-beaten suitcase stood in one corner: on the bed lay a pair of pyjamas. A man’s toilet accessories—hair brushes, shaving gear, and the like—adorned the dressing-table. In fact, it was without exception the least suspicious looking room I have even been in. And then I suddenly became aware of a most peculiar noise. It came from the next room, and it sounded as if someone was drumming with his feet on the partition wall. It came fitfully, and then, after a while, it died away altogether, save for an occasional bump.

  With its cessation I pulled myself together: there was no good my remaining there now that I had found the room empty. The bluff about Mr. Harold Thomas was all very well, but not having found him at home there was no excuse for my remaining in his room. I must go down and resume my watch in the hall.

  And even as I came to that conclusion I happened to look in the glass in front of me. I could see over my shoulder the room behind me.

  The door was slowly shutting. With a great effort I forced myself to look round. Evidently Mr. Thomas had returned.

  But it wasn’t Mr. Thomas. Standing almost on top of me was a masked figure, that in the fading light seemed of monstrous size. In a flash I took in the hump on his back, realised it was le Bossu Masqué himself, and then his hands shot out and he got my throat. I struggled wildly, and I am not generally considered a weakling. But in that man’s hands I might have been a child. The silent strangler had got me.

  Soon there came a roaring in my ears, and still the grip held. I was losing consciousness: he was throttling me. And the last thing I remember before everything went black was the look of fierce triumph in his eyes.

  CHAPTER X

  In Which “Le Bossu” Retrieves His Error

  When I came to myself, for a moment or two I could recall nothing. Then in a wave it all came back to me. Once again I saw that terrible figure crouching over me, and felt those vicelike hands on my throat.

  Feeling a little dazed and sick, I scrambled to my feet. Of my assailant, there was no sign: the room was empty. And then another thing struck me: the kit that had been lying about was no longer there. Everything had gone, including the suitcase.