The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “That answers it, Ted, I agree,” said Drummond. “And yet I’m not satisfied. Don’t know why, but there it is. By the same token, do either of you blokes know this Comtessa Bartelozzi?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “Not guilty,” said Darrell. “Did he give any description of her?”

  “No,” answered Drummond. “He’d only just started to tell his little piece when you arrived.”

  “Anyway,” said Jerningham, “I don’t see that there is anything to be done. He’s not here, and that’s an end of it the point that now arises is what the deuce to do tonight. I’d ring up the doctor and ask him round for a rubber, but I doubt if he’d get here. What are you staring at, Hugh?”

  Drummond had his eyes riveted on a spot on the carpet, and suddenly he bent down and touched it with his fingers. He gave a low whistle and straightened up.

  “I knew I was right,” he said quietly. “It’s earth. And more there—and there. Somebody has been in through the window, Ted.”

  “By Jove! he’s right,” said Darrell, peering at the marks on the floor.

  “And look at those two close by the chair Marton was sitting in. Whoever it was who came in stood by that chair.”

  “Come here,” called out Darrell, who, with the electric torch in his hand, was leaning out of the window. “There are footmarks all along the flower-bed.”

  “Let’s get this clear,” said Jerningham. “You’re certain those marks weren’t there before?”

  “Of course I’m not,” cried Drummond. “I don’t spend my time examining your bally carpet. But that mud is still damp. Well, I was asleep here after lunch until young Marton arrived, and all that time the window was shut. In fact, it was never opened till I heard Peter shouting.”

  “What about the two warders?”

  “Neither of them ever went near the window. Nor did Marton. Lord! man, it’s as clear as be damned. It’s a definite trail from the window to the chair the youngster was sitting in.”

  “There’s no sign of a struggle,” said Darrell.

  “Why should there have been one?” demanded Jerningham. “It may have been some bloke he knew with whom he toddled off all friendly like.”

  “Seems to me there are two pretty good objections to that,” said Drummond. “In the first place, how did anyone know he was here? Secondly, if it was a pal who, by some extraordinary fluke, arrived at the window, why did he bother to come into the room? Why not just call out to him?” He shook his head gravely. “No, chaps: as I see it, there’s only one solution that fits. The visitor was Morris—the escaped convict. He was lying hidden in the garden and seized his chance when he saw Marton alone.”

  “By Jove! that’s possible,” said Darrell thoughtfully.

  “But, damn it—why should he go off with a bally convict?” demanded Jerningham.

  “Probably Morris dotted him one over the head,” said Drummond. “Then dragged him outside, and, hidden by the fog, stripped him. It’s the very point the warders mentioned: the first thing an escaped man does is to try to get civilian clothes.”

  “Then in that case the wretched bloke is probably lying naked in the shrubbery,” cried Jerningham. “We’d better have a search-party; though our chances of finding him, unless we walk on top of him, are a bit remote.”

  “Doesn’t matter: we must try,” said Drummond. “Got any lanterns, Ted?”

  “I expect Jennings can produce something,” answered the other. “Though I’m afraid it’s pretty hopeless.”

  He rang the bell, and as he did so there came from outside the sound of footsteps on the drive.

  All three stared at the window expectantly: was this Marton coming back? But it was one of the warders who materialised out of the mist, to be followed a moment or two later by his mate.

  “Beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said, “but as I was passing I thought I’d let you know that Morris was seen about a quarter of a mile from here an hour ago. So warn your servants to keep the windows shut and the doors bolted.”

  “I’m rather afraid it’s a bit late, officer,” said Drummond. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Morris has been here within the last quarter of an hour. And those “—he pointed to the marks of mud—”are his tracks.”

  “But what were you doing, sir?”

  “Helping Mr. Jerningham to get his car out of the ditch. You remember that youngster who was here? Well, I left him in this room, and when I came back he was gone. And the only possible solution that I can think of is that Morris laid him out in order to get his clothes. We’re just going to have a search through the grounds now.”

  “I’ve told Jennings to get lanterns,” said Jerningham.

  “Possibly you’re right, sir,” said the warder. “He’d seize a chance like that. But there is another thing that may have happened: the young gentlemen may have joined his friends.”

  “What friends?” demanded Drummond.

  “Well, sir, just after me and my mate left you this afternoon and got into the main road we ran into two gentlemen walking along. So we stopped them and warned them about Morris. One of them, a great, big, powerful-looking man he was, began to laugh.

  “‘Thank you, officer,’ he says. ‘But if this guy Morris tries any funny stuff with me he won’t know whether it was a steam hammer or a motor lorry that hit him.’

  “‘No, sir,’ I answers, ‘you look as if you could take care of yourself—same as another gent I’ve just been talking to.’ Meaning you, sir, of course.” He turned to Drummond. “Well, he seemed interested like,” went on the warder, “and so I told him what had just happened—about the young gentleman being in such a panic and all that.

  “‘Can you describe him?” says he, and when I done so he turns to his friend. ‘Quite obviously it’s the boy we were expecting.’ he says. ‘The poor lad must have lost his way in the fog. Up there, is he, officer? And what is the name of the house?’

  “‘Merridale Hall,’ I tells him. ‘You can’t miss it: you are only thirty yards from the entrance gate.’

  “And with that he says good afternoon and walks on. So I should think, sir, that in this case that is what happened: the young gentleman went off with his friends. Not that you thought wasn’t very probable: Morris would stick at nothing. And, of course, you didn’t know any-thing about these two gents.”

  “No,” said Drummond slowly. “I didn’t. They did not, by any chance, say where they were stopping?”

  “No, sir, they didn’t. Well, good night, gentlemen: we must be getting along.”

  “The plot thickens,” said Drummond, as the footsteps of the two warders died away. “And, boys, it seems to me it thickens in a rather promising manner.”

  “I don’t see much ground for optimism at the moment, old lad,” said Darrell.

  “Don’t you, Peter? I do. It seems to me that we have at any rate established the fact that Marton’s story was not entirely a cock-and-bull one: nor was it mere groundless panic.”

  “I’m darned if I see why,” said Jerningham. “Anyway, we shan’t want those lanterns now, I take it.” He went to the door and shouted the fact to Jennings: then he came back to his chair.

  “Those warders,” went on Drummond quietly, “met these two men just outside the gate. Now it would have taken them, at the most, two minutes to walk up the drive. At a conservative estimate it was at least twenty minutes after when you two rammed the gate-post. What do you suggest they were doing during the gap? Why, if they were friends of Marton, didn’t they ring the front-door bell and inquire if he was here? Why, when they finally did come in, did they come in through the window? No, my boy—it’s a fiver to a dried orange pip that those two men are the ‘they’ he was so terrified of. And now, owing to the mere fluke of that warder meeting them, they’ve got him.”

  “I’ll grant all that, old lad,” said Jerningham. “But what I want to know is, what the deuce you propose to do about it. You don’t know where these men are living: you don’t know anythi
ng about ’em. All we do know is that your boy friend’s name is Marton, which cannot be called a very uncommon one.”

  “Afraid I’m rather inclined to agree with Ted, old boy,” said Darrell. “Doesn’t seem to me that we’ve got anything to go on. True, we know about this female—Bartelozzi or whatever her name is—but as she is presumably in London, that doesn’t help much.”

  Drummond gave a sudden exclamation, and pulled out of his pocket the piece of paper he had found on the drive. “I clean forgot—all about this,” he said, opening it out. “Picked it up by the gate-post.”

  “Anything interesting?” cried Darrell, as he watched the other’s face.

  Without a word Drummond laid it on the table, and they all three stared at it. It was an ordinary piece of office notepaper with the name and address of the firm stamped at the top.

  MARTON, PETERS & NEWALL, SOLICITORS

  134, Norfolk Street, Strand WC2.

  Underneath was written in pencil the two words:

  ‘Glensham House’.

  “At any rate that establishes something else.” remarked Jerningham: “a point that does give us a foundation to work on. Glensham House is about half a mile down the road towards Yelverton.”

  “The deuce it is,” said Drummond, his eyes beginning to gleam.

  “It’s a big house, and it’s been empty for some years. They say it’s haunted, but that is probably poppy cock. It has recently been let to a wealthy American, who has installed a housekeeper and is, I believe, shortly coming to live there himself.”

  “Things are marching,” remarked Drummond. “It is, I take it, a fair assumption that Glensham House was Marton’s objective.”

  The other two nodded.

  “It is also, I take it, another fair assumption that the Marton who seems to be the senior member of the firm is this fellow’s father or uncle.”

  “Go up top,” murmured Darrell.

  “Why, then, my stouthearted warriors, should the junior bottle-washer of a firm of respectable lawyers be wandering about Dartmoor in such a state of abject terror?

  “Wait a moment,” said Jerningham suddenly.

  “Where have I heard or seen the name of that firm recently? By Jove! I believe I’ve got it.”

  He crossed the room and picked up the morning paper.

  “Here it is,” he cried excitedly. “I knew I wasn’t mistaken.”

  TRAGEDY AT SURBITON LONDON LAWYER’S DEATH

  “A shocking tragedy occurred yesterday at 4, Minchampton Avenue, Surbiton, the residence of Mr. Edward Marton, senior partner of the well-known firm of Norfolk Street solicitors—Marton, Peters and Newall. Mr. Edward Marton, who was a very keen sportsman, went into his smoking-room after dinner with the intention of overhauling his guns. A few minutes later his wife and daughters, who were sitting in the drawing-room, were alarmed by the sound of a shot. They rushed into the smoking-room, and were horrified to find Mr. Marton lying on the carpet with a dreadful wound in his head. A gun was by his side, and some cleaning materials were on the table close by. A doctor was at once summoned, but the unfortunate gentleman was beyond aid. In fact, the medical opinion was that death had been instantaneous. It is thought that Mr. Marton, who frequently shot during the week-end, must have taken down his gun for the purpose of cleaning it. By some fatal mischance a cartridge had been left in one of the barrels, which went off killing Mr. Marton immediately. The deceased, who was a very popular member of Surbiton society, leaves one son and three daughters.”

  Drummond lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

  “The Marton family don’t appear to be in luck,” he remarked. “Ted,” he went on suddenly, “have you ever left a cartridge in a gun?”

  “Can’t say I have, old boy. Why?”

  “Well-known sportsman,’” quoted Drummond. “Frequently shot over the week-end.’ I wonder: I wonder very much. Confound it, you fellows, when you clean a gun you break it first, don’t you? And when you break a gun you can see the blamed thing is loaded. Mark you, I’m not saying it wasn’t an accident, but, once again, I wonder.”

  “You mean you think he shot himself?” said Darrell.

  Drummond shrugged his shoulders.

  “I can understand a gun being loaded and a man fooling about with it and by accident potting somebody else. I can understand a man climbing a fence, and through not holding his gun properly or forgetting to put it at safety, getting peppered himself. But I find it deuced difficult to understand it in this case.”

  “And supposing you’re right—what then?” said Jerningham curiously.

  “Son in a condition of abject terror: father committing suicide. Surely there must be some connection.”

  “Do you think the son knows what’s happened?”

  “Can’t tell you: he said nothing about it to me. But in the account in the paper it specifies Mrs. Marton and her daughters only, so possibly he doesn’t. Anyway, Ted, your question as to what to do tonight is now answered.”

  The other two stared at him.

  “We pay a little visit to Glensham House. You say the new owner is not yet in residence.”

  “As far as I know, he isn’t,” said Jerningham doubtfully.

  “Splendid! And if by chance he is, we’ll swear we’ve lost our way in the fog. Great Scot! chaps, think of the bare possibility of having stumbled on something. Admittedly it may prove a hopeless frost, but it would be nothing short of criminal to neglect such an opportunity.”

  “That’s all right, old bean,” said the other, “and no one likes a bit of fun and laughter better than I do. But don’t forget I live in this bally locality, and what you’re proposing is nothing more nor less than housebreaking.”

  “I know, Ted.” Drummond grinned happily. “Maximum penalty ten years. But we’ll plead we’re first offenders.”

  “Confound you, Hugh,” laughed Jerningham. “What do you expect to find there anyway?”

  Drummond waved a vast hand.

  “What about a perfectly good ghost? You say it’s haunted. Honestly, chaps, I’ve got a feeling that we’re on to something. And whatever you two blokes decide to do—I’m going.”

  “That settles it, Peter,” said Jerningham resignedly. “Tell mother that my last thoughts were of her.”

  CHAPTER II

  Glensham House was a large, rambling old place.

  It stood on low ground surrounded by trees, about half-way between the main road and the deadly Grimstone Mire. For generations it had belonged to the Glensham family, but increasing taxation and death dues had so impoverished the present owner that he had been compelled to let.

  Legends about the place abounded, and though some of them were undoubtedly founded on fact, many were merely local superstitions. For the house was an eerie one, set in eerie surroundings: the sort of place round which stories would be likely to grow—especially in the West Country.

  But whatever the truth of some of the modern yarns—strange lights seen without human agency, footsteps when there was no one there to make them—certain of the older legends were historically true. The house was honeycombed with secret passages, and there was documentary proof that it had sheltered many of the Royalists during the Civil War with Cromwell.

  For the last two years it had been empty, the tenants having left abruptly because, so they said, of the servant troubles. An old woman who lived in a cottage not far away had aired the place and kept it more or less clean, but there was a dark and unlived-in atmosphere about the house as it loomed up that made the man who was feeling his way cautiously forward along the edge of the drive shiver involuntarily and hesitate.

  He was cold and hungry: for eight hours, like a phantom, he had been dodging other phantoms through the fog. Once he had butted straight into a woman, and she, after one glance at his clothes, had fled screaming. He had let her go: anyway there would not have been much good in attempting to follow her in that thick blanket of mist.

  And in some ways he was glad she had seen him.

&
nbsp; Already he was regretting bitterly the sudden impulse that had made him bolt, and she would most certainly say she had seen him, which would localise the hunt. In fact, only a certain pride and the knowledge that he was hopelessly lost prevented him from going back to the prison and giving himself up.

  Sheer chance had guided his footsteps to Glensham House. He knew the dangers of the moor in a fog: he knew that the risk he ran of being caught by a patrol of warders was a lesser evil far than a false step into tone of those treacherous green bogs, from which there was no return. But he also knew that the main road was more dangerous than a side track, and when he had accidentally blundered off the smooth surface on to gravel he had followed the new direction blindly. Food and sleep were what he wanted: then perhaps he would feel more capable of carrying on. Perhaps he might even do the swine yet, and make a clear get away. Other clothes, of course—but that would have to wait. It was food first and foremost.

  And now he stood peering at the house in front of him. He could see no trace of a light: not a sound broke the silence save the melancholy drip, drip from the sodden branches above his head.

  And once again did Morris, the Sydenham murderer, shiver uncontrollably.

  Like most men of low mentality, anything at all out of the ordinary frightened him. And having been born in a town, and lived all his life in crowds, the deadly stillness of this gloomy house almost terrified him. But hunger was stronger than fear: where there was a house there was generally food, and to break into a place like this was child’s play to him.