The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “But surely you could have seen he wasn’t in convict’s kit,” said Drummond.

  “The first thing an escaped man does, sir, is to steal a suit of civvies. He either lays out some bloke he meets and strips him, or he breaks into a house. And a man like Morris, who is as powerful as they make ’em, and is absolutely desperate into the bargain, wouldn’t stick at either course. I’m sorry, sir,” he continued to the youngster, “if I’ve given you a fright. But you must admit that your behaviour was hardly that of a man who had nothing to fear.”

  “I quite agree,” said Drummond tersely. He was covertly examining the youngster as he spoke, and there were times when those somewhat lazy eyes of his could bore like gimlets. But his next remark gave no indication of his thoughts.

  “A drink, my stouthearted sportsmen,” he boomed cheerfully. “And good hunting to you. By the way,” he went on, as he produced glasses and a tantalus, “you say this man is a murderer. Then why didn’t they hang him?”

  “Don’t you remember the case, sir? About four years ago. An old man was found with his head bashed in, in some small street in Sydenham. They caught this fellow Morris and they found him guilty. And then at the last moment the Home Secretary reprieved him and he got a lifer. Some legal quibble, and he got the benefit of the doubt.”

  The warder smiled grimly. “It’s not for the likes of me to criticise the decision,” he went on, “but I’d willingly bet my chances of a pension that he did it.”

  “That’s so,” agreed his mate.

  “A more callous brutal swine of a man never drew breath. Well, sir, we must be getting along. Here’s your very good fortune.” The two warders raised their glasses. “And if I might make so bold as to advise you, sir, I’d have a pretty sharp look round tonight. As I said before, from the looks of you Mister Morris would find he’d met his match. For all that, he’s a desperate man, and he might get at you while you were asleep.”

  He put down his empty glass.

  “And as for you, sir,” he went on, turning to the youngster, into whose cheeks a little colour had returned, “all I can say is, once again, that I’m sorry. But it’s a dangerous thing to run from an armed warder, in a fog, down these parts, when a convict has escaped that very day. Good afternoon, gentlemen: thanking you very much again.”

  The two men picked up their hats, and Drummond went with them to the front door. Then he returned to the smoking-room, and having lit a cigarette, he threw himself into an arm-chair, and signed to the youngster to do likewise.

  “Now, young feller,” he said quietly, “it strikes me that there is rather more in this affair than meets the eye. You wake me from a refreshing doze by dashing into the house with a remark that they are after you, and it then turns out to be a completely false alarm. Why should you think that two warders were after you?”

  “In the mist I didn’t realise they were warders,” stammered the other.

  And once again Drummond stared at him thoughtfully.

  “I see,” he remarked. “And who, may I ask, did you mean by ‘they’?”

  “I can’t tell you,” muttered the other. “I daren’t.”

  “As you will,” said Drummond casually. “I must confess, however, to a certain mild curiosity as to the identity of people who can reduce anyone to such a condition of pitiable funk as you were in. Also as to why you should anticipate meeting them on Dartmoor in a fog. Incidentally, my name is Drummond—Captain Drummond: what’s yours?”

  “Marton,” said the other, fumbling in his pocket for his cigarette-case.

  For a while Drummond looked at him in silence. The youngster was clearly a gentleman: his age he put down at about twenty-one or two. His face was good looking in a weak sort of way, and though he had the build and frame of a big man, he was obviously in rotten condition. In fact, it would have been impossible to produce a better specimen of the type that he utterly despised. If fit, Marton would have been big enough and strong enough for anything on two legs; as he was, one good punch and he would have split like a rotten apple.

  Drummond watched him light a cigarette with a trembling hand, and then his glance travelled over his clothes. Well cut: evidently a West-End tailor, but equally evident West-End clothes. And why should a man go careering about Dartmoor dressed as he was and in fear of his life? Was it just some ordinary case of a youngster absconding with cash, whose nerves had brought him to the condition he was in? Or could it be that there was something more in it than that? And at the bare thought of such a possibility his eyes began to glisten.

  Life had been intolerably dull of late: in fact, since the affair with the masked hunchback on Romney Marsh nothing had happened to make it even bearable. He had shot, and fished, and consumed innumerable kippers in night clubs, but beyond that nothing—positively nothing. And now could it be possible that as the result of a sudden whim which had caused him to spend a week with Ted Jerningham something amusing was going to happen? The chances were small, he reflected sadly, as he again looked at Marton: still, it was worth trying. But the youngster would have to be handled carefully if anything was to be got out of him.

  “Look here, Marton,” he said, not unkindly, “it seems to me that you’re in a condition when it will do you no harm to shoot your mouth to somebody. I’m considerably older than you, and I’m used to handling tough situations. In fact, I like ’em. Now what’s all the trouble about?”

  “There’s no trouble,” answered the other sullenly. “At least none where anyone else can help.”

  “Two statements that hardly tally,” remarked Drummond. “And since the first is obviously a lie, we will confine ourselves to the second. Now, might I ask what you are doing in that rig down here, hiding behind the gate-post of this house?”

  “I tell you I saw them looming out of the fog,” cried the other wildly. “And I thought—I thought—”

  “What did you think?”

  “I just lost my head and bolted. And then when one of them fired—” He broke off and stared round the room. “What is this house?”

  “Merridale Hall,” said Drummond quietly. “Now out with it, young feller. What—have you been up to? Pinching boodle or what?”

  “I wish it was only that.” He lit another cigarette feverishly, and Drummond waited in silence. If he was trying to bring himself up to the point of telling his story, it would be better to let him do it in his own way. “God! What a fool I’ve been.”

  “You’re not the first person to say that,” Drummond remarked. “But in what particular line have you been foolish?”

  His curiosity was increasing now that any question of money was ruled out. However poor a specimen Marton might be, there must be something pretty seriously wrong to produce such a result on his nerves. So once again he waited, but after a while the other shook his head.

  “I can’t tell you,” he muttered. “I daren’t.”

  “You damned young fool,” said Drummond contemptuously, losing his patience. “What on earth is there to be frightened of? Your affairs don’t interest me in the slightest, but you’ve made a confounded nuisance of yourself this afternoon, and frankly I’ve had enough of you. So unless you can pull yourself together and cease quivering like a frightened jelly, you’d better push on to wherever you’re going.”

  He had no intention whatever of turning him out of the house, but it struck him that the threat might produce some coherence in the other. And his surprise was all the greater at the unexpected answer he received. For the youngster for the first time pulled himself together and spoke with a certain quiet dignity.

  “I’m sorry. Captain Drummond,” he said. “And I apologise for the exhibition I’ve made of myself. I know my nerves are all to hell, and though it was my fault in the beginning, it hasn’t been entirely so since. And so, if I might ask you for a whisky and soda, I’ll be getting on.”

  “Now,” said Drummond cheerily, “you’re beginning to talk. I was trying to get you into some semblance of coherence, that’s all. Th
ere can be no question whatever of your leaving tonight: you’d be lost in this fog in half a minute. And I know that my pal Jerningham, whose house this is, will agree with me when he gets back—that is, if he gets back at all: with this weather he’ll very likely stay the night in Plymouth. So here’s a drink, young feller, and again I tell you candidly that if you’re wise you won’t bottle this thing up any more. Whatever it is, I won’t give you away, and, unless it’s something dirty, I may be able to help you.”

  Marton drained his glass, and into his eyes there came a look of dawning hope.

  “Good Lord!” he cried, “If only you could. But I’m afraid it’s beyond anyone: I’ve got to go through with it myself. Still, it will be an awful relief to get it off my chest. Do you go much to London?”

  “I live there,” said Drummond.

  “And do you go about a good deal?”

  “I trot round,” remarked the other with a faint smile, “the same as most of us do.”

  “Have you ever run across a woman called Comtessa Bartelozzi?”

  Drummond thought for a moment, and then shook his head.

  “Not that I know of: she’s a new one on me. Hold hard a minute: we’ll have the other half-section before you go on.”

  He rose and crossed to the side table, carrying Marton’s glass and his own. So there was a woman in the situation, was there? Name of Bartelozzi. Sounded a bit theatrical: might be real—might be false. And as for the title, Comtessas grew like worms in a damp lawn. In fact, he was so occupied with his thoughts and the mixing of two drinks, that he failed to see the hard hatchet face of a man that for one second was pressed against the window. And Marton, who had his back to it also, sat on in ignorance that, in that fleeting instant, every detail of the room had been taken in by the silent watcher outside.

  “Now then,” said Drummond, returning with the glasses, “we’ve got as far as the Comtessa Bartelozzi. Is she the black or rather negress in the wood pile?”

  “If only I’d never met her!” said the other. “I was introduced to her one night at the Embassy, and.… Great Scot! what’s that?”

  From outside had come the sound of a crash.

  It was some distance away, but in the still air it was clearly audible. And it was followed almost immediately by a flood of vituperation and loud shouts of ‘Hugh’. Drummond grinned gently, and going to the window opened it.

  “Hullo! Peter,” he shouted. “What has happened, little one?”

  “That perishing, flat-footed idiot Ted has rammed the blinking gate-post,” came an answering shout. “We’ve taken two and a half hours to get here from Plymouth, most of the time in the ditch, and now the damned fool can’t even get into his own drive.”

  The voice was getting nearer.

  “What’s Ted doing, Peter?” demanded Drummond.

  “Sitting in the car drinking whisky out of my flask. Says that God doesn’t love him, and that he won’t play any more.”

  Peter Darrell loomed out of the fog and came up to the window.

  “Hullo!” he muttered, “who is the boy friend?”

  “We’ll go into that after,” said Drummond. “Does Ted propose to sit there the whole night?”

  “He says he you are to come down and help,” answered Darrell. “The car is half stuck, and you can barely see your hand in front of your face.”

  “All right, I’ll come. You wait here, Marton, and carry on with your yarn later.”

  “Bring a torch, old boy,” went on Darrell. “Not that it’s much use, but it might help to pilot him up the drive.”

  “There’s one in the hall,” said Drummond. “I’ll get it. And, Marton, you’ll find cigarettes in the box there.”

  He got the torch and joined Darrell outside.

  And as they disappeared into the mist, their feet crunching on the gravel, two dim figures crouching near the wall began to creep slowly towards the open window. Their footsteps were noiseless in the earth of the flower-bed that bordered the wall, and the youngster sat on in utter ignorance of the fate that was threatening him. A good sort, this Captain Drummond, he reflected: was it possible that he would be able to help him? And even as the dawn of hope began in his mind there came a sound from behind him. He swung round in his chair: his jaw dropped: wild terror shone in his eyes. Not a yard away stood the man he had seen only once before—but that once had been enough.

  He gave a hoarse, choking cry and tried to get up. And as he moved he felt his neck held in a vice-like grip. He struggled feebly, staring into the cruel, relentless eyes of his assailant. And then there came a roaring in his ears: the room spun round until at length everything grew black.

  “Take his hat, Steve, and then give me a hand with the young swine. Those guys may be back at any moment.”

  “Have you killed him?” asked the second man.

  “No. But we’ll have to carry him. I guess it’s the first time I’ve been thankful for this darned fog.”

  And a few moments later the only moving thing in the smoking-room was the mist that eddied in through the open window, whilst all unconscious of what had happened, Drummond and Darrell were groping their way down the drive.

  “All sorts of excitement here, Peter,” said Drummond. “There is an escaped murderer wandering about at large—”

  “We heard in Plymouth that a convict had got away. Poor devil! I’d sooner be tucked up in my cell than wandering about this bit of the country on a night like this.”

  “And then the arrival of that youth.”

  “He seems a rather leprous-looking mess, old boy.”

  “Nothing to what he was when he first appeared. He’s just beginning to tell me the scent of his young life. Evidently got into the deuce of a hole somehow, and probably wants the seat of his pants kicked good and hearty. However, Ted will have to give him a shake-down: can’t turn him out in this fog. And we’ll hear what the worry is.”

  “Doesn’t sound a particularly absorbing evening’s entertainment,” remarked Darrell dubiously.

  “Probably not,” agreed Drummond. “But there’s just a bare possibility it might lead to some amusement. And, by Gad! Peter, anything would be welcome these days.”

  “A drink most emphatically would be,” said the other. “Here is the car.”

  The side-lights suddenly showed up a yard in front of them, and Darrell demanded his flask.

  “Finished, dear old lad,” came Jerningham’s voice happily. “Quite, quite finished. What an infernal time you’ve been! Now if you’ll both push hard I’ll get her into reverse, and we ought to do it!”

  The wheels skidded on the greasy turf, but with Drummond’s great strength to help they at length got her into the road.

  “The gate is open, Ted,” he said. “Wait a moment now until I mark the right-hand pillar with the torch.”

  He stood beside it, throwing the light down on the ground, and as he did so a piece of paper lying at his feet caught his eye. It was clean and looked like a letter, and almost mechanically he picked it up and put it in his pocket as the car went slowly past him. Then, leaving Darrell to shut the gate, he piloted Jerningham up the drive until they got to the house.

  “Parker can put her away,” remarked the owner, getting out. “Jove! old boy, we’ve had an infernal drive.”

  “I thought you’d probably stop in Plymouth, Ted,” said Drummond.

  “It wasn’t too bad when we started,” said the other, “was it, Peter? Let’s get into the smoking-room, and I’ll ring for someone to get your kit.”

  “Wait a moment, Ted,” said Drummond. “There’s a visitor.”

  “A visitor! Who the devil has rolled up on an evening like this?”

  “Fellow by the name of Marton,” went on Drummond, lowering his voice. “He’s a pretty mangy piece of work, and he’s in a state of mortal terror over something or other. He’d just begun telling me about it when you arrived. I’ll tell you the beginning of the thing later on, but treat him easy now. He’s as frightened as a c
at with kittens.”

  He opened the smoking-room door.

  “Now then, Marton, here’s the owner—”

  He broke off abruptly: the room was empty.

  And for a while the three of them stared round in silence.

  “Have you got ’em again, Hugh?” demanded Jerningham.

  “No. I can vouch for the boy friend,” said Darrell. “I saw him.”

  Drummond stepped into the hall, and shouted. And the only result was the arrival of the butler.

  “Jennings, have you seen a young gentleman lying about anywhere?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” said the butler, looking slightly bewildered. “What sort of a young gentleman?”

  “Any sort, you old fathead,” said Jerningham, and once again Drummond shouted ‘Marton’ at the top of his voice.

  They waited, and at length Jerningham spoke.

  “Your young friend has apparently hopped it, old boy,” he remarked. “And if, as you say, he’s a bit of a mess I shouldn’t think he’s much loss. Get Mr. Darrel’s kit out of the car, Jennings, and tell Parker to put her in the garage.”

  He led the way back into the smoking-room and Drummond followed slowly. To the other two the matter was a trifling one: a youngster whom neither of them had met had come and gone. But to him the thing was much more puzzling. Even if Marton’s terror had finally proved groundless, it had been very real to him.

  And so what had induced him to leave a place where he knew he was safe? And why had they not met him going down the drive?

  “There’s something damned funny about this, you chaps,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you the whole tale.”

  They listened in silence as he ran over the events of the afternoon, and when he’d finished, Jerningham shrugged his shoulders. “It seems pretty clear to me, old boy,” he remarked. “When you left him and he began to think things over he came to the conclusion that he’d been talking out of his turn. He realised that, having once started, it would be difficult for him not to continue. Possibly, too, what he might have been prepared to tell to you alone he funked giving tongue to before a bunch of us. And so he decided to beat it while the going was good, which would get him out of his dilemma. And that answers your query about not meeting him as we came up the drive. Naturally he didn’t want to be seen, so he just stood a couple of yards in on the grass as we went past. In this fog we’d never have spotted him.”