The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  He took a few steps forward until he reached the wall: then he began to circle slowly round the house in the hope of finding a window unlatched.

  To save himself trouble had always been his motto, and in case there should be anyone about it would minimise the risk of making a noise. But ten minutes later he was back at his starting point without having found one open. He had passed three doors, all bolted, and he had definitely decided in his own mind that the place was empty.

  And now the question arose as to what to do.

  If it was empty there would probably be no food: at the same time it was shelter—shelter from this foul fog. He would be able to sleep: and, he might find something to eat. Perhaps the owners were only away for the night, in which case he might even get some other clothes. Anyway it was worthwhile trying, and a couple of minutes later there came a sharp click, followed by the sound of a window being gently raised.

  Inside the room he paused again and listened: not a sound. Once a board cracked loudly outside the door, and he waited tensely. But there was no repetition, and after a while he relaxed.

  “Empty,” he muttered to himself. “I guess we’ll do a bit of exploring, my lad.”

  He turned and softly shut and rebolted the window. Then he crept cautiously towards the door. There was a carpet on the floor, but except for that it struck him the room was very sparsely furnished. And hopes of food drooped again, only to be resurrected as he tiptoed into the hall.

  For close beside him in the darkness a clock was ticking. Another thing struck him also: the temperature in the hall seemed appreciably warmer than in the room he had just left.

  He paused irresolutely: he was beginning to doubt after all if the house was empty. And then the clock began to strike. He counted the chimes—eight: why, if there were people in the house, were they all upstairs or in bed so early?

  The darkness was absolute, and if he had had any matches he would have chanced it and struck one. But matches are not supplied to His Majesty’s convicts, and so he could only grope forward blindly and trust to luck that he would not kick anything over.

  He wanted, if he could, to locate the kitchen, as being the most likely place to find food. And so, guessing it would be at the back of the house, he tried to move in a straight line directly away from the room by which he had entered. And he had taken about ten paces when his foot struck something. All too late he knew what it was—one of those rickety little tables which are specially designed to upset on the slightest provocation.

  He felt it going, and his hand shot out to try to save it, with the result that he gave it the coup de grace. It fell with a crash, and a thing that sounded as if it must be a brass bowl went with it.

  In the silence the noise was appalling, and the convict, with the sweat pouring off his forehead, stood motionless. He’d find out now sure enough if the house was empty or not. Was that somebody moving upstairs, or was it his imagination?

  He waited for what seemed an eternity: no further sound came. And at length his heart ceased to race, and with a sigh of relief he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Safe, so far.

  Once more he went cautiously ahead, and a few moments later he bumped into a door. He tried the handle: it was unlocked, and he opened it. And at once he knew that he had struck lucky, for there came to his nostrils the unmistakable smell of food. Another thing, too—and this time there was no doubt at all about it—the room he was now in was much warmer. He groped his way forward, until his hands encountered a table—a solid, substantial table. Very gently he moved them over the surface. What was that? A cup and saucer, a loaf of bread, and last but not least a candle. And if there was a candle there might be matches.

  He went on feeling with his fingers: a knife, a plate with meat on it, and—but that seemed too good to be true—a bottle with a screw stopper: a bottle of a shape he had only seen in his dreams for years: a bottle of beer. And then, when he had almost decided to begin to eat, he touched a box of matches.

  For a while he hesitated: was it safe? There was still no sound from outside, and he decided to risk it: he wanted to gloat over that wonderful bottle. The next moment the candle illuminated the repast in front of him, and like a famished wolf the convict fell on it.

  He tore the bread in hunks from the loaf, beautiful white bread the taste of which he had almost forgotten. He crammed his mouth with beef—beef cut in thin slices. And finally he washed it down will great gulps of beer.

  At last the immediate pangs were appeased, and he began to think things over. The room he was in was apparently the servants’ hall, and since the meal had obviously not been prepared for him, there must be someone in the house. Then why had nothing happened when he upset the table in the hall?

  After a while a possible solution dawned on him. The owners of the house were clearly away, and had left the house in charge of a caretaker, who had gone out and been unable to get back owing to the fog.

  The point was, would he or she return that night? And even as he cogitated over it, his throat turned dry and he froze into a rigid block of terror. A mirror was hanging on the wall in front of him, and in it he could see the reflection of the door behind his chair. And it was slowly opening.

  He watched it with distended eyes, unable to move or speak: what was coming in? And nothing came: as silently as it had opened, it closed: almost he might have imagined the whole thing.

  But he knew he hadn’t imagined it: he knew that the door had opened and shut. Who had done it? Who had peered in and seen him sitting there? He had heard no sound: he had seen nothing. But that silent watcher had seen him!

  At last he forced himself to get up from his chair and turn round. The movement caused the candle to flicker, and the distorted shadows danced fantastically on the walls and ceiling. The only sound in the room was his heavy breathing as be stared fearfully at the door. Who was on the other side?

  He took a step forward: another. And then with a sudden run he darted at it and flung it open. The passage was empty: there was no one there.

  He rubbed his eyes dazedly: then, going back into the room, he got the candle, and holding it above his head once again examined the passage. No sign of anyone: no sound. The door which led into the hall was shut: so were two others that he could see. And suddenly a thought occurred to him that drove him back into the room almost frantic with fear: supposing there had never been anyone there, supposing it had been a ghost that had stood in the passage?

  Almost gibbering with terror, he shut the door again and fumbled wildly for the key. It was not there: if there was one at all, it was on the other side of the door. But not for a thousand pounds would Morris, brutal murderer though he might have been, have opened it again. All the horrors of the unknown were clutching at his heart: he would have positively welcomed the tramp of heavy boots in the hall, and the sight of a warder with a gun.

  Keeping the table between him and the door, he crouched on the floor, staring with fascinated eyes at the handle. Was it going to turn again or not?

  And after a while imagination began to play him tricks: he thought it was moving, and he bit his hand to prevent himself crying out. And then it didn’t: nothing happened.

  Suddenly he straightened up: for the moment the ghost was forgotten. A sound had come from above his head—the unmistakable sound of a footstep. It was repeated, and he stood there staring upwards, listening intently. No ghost about that, be reflected: somebody was in the room above him, and by the heaviness of the tread it sounded like a man.

  He leaned forward to blow out the candle: then he paused, torn between two conflicting fears. If he left it burning it might be seen, but if he blew it out the room would be in darkness. And darkness with the thing outside in the passage was impossible to contemplate: if the door was going to open again he felt he must see it. And even as he hesitated there came a strange, half—strangled cry from overhead followed by a heavy bump that shook the ceiling.

  He began to tremble violently: things we
re happening in this house that he could not understand. Give him a squalid slum, the lowest of boozing dens with murder in the air, and he was as good a man as anyone. But this was something he had never met before, and it was making him sweat cold. That noise upstairs—it wasn’t normal: and now there were other sounds, for all the world like the flounderings of some huge fish on the floor above. Gradually they died away, and once again silence settled on the house.

  After a while, as the silence continued, he grew a little calmer: he must decide what he was going to do. On one thing he was absolutely determined: clothes or no clothes, nothing would induce him to go upstairs. And the only point was whether he should go through the window now and out into the foggy night, or whether he dared to wait a few more hours. He opened the shutters, and found the point was settled for him: there were bars outside, and so that means of exit was cut out. And the bare idea of going through the hall until daylight came was out of the question.

  He sat down once more in the chair by the table, and tilted up the bottle of beer to see if by chance a drop remained. Then he spied a cupboard in the corner, and crossing the room he looked inside. And there, to his joyful amazement, he found five more. He greedily seized one, and turned back towards the table to get the glass.

  And the next moment the bottle fell from his nerveless fingers on the carpet. For the door had opened again.

  He stared at it, making hoarse little croaking noises in his throat. He was in such a position that he could not see into the passage. All he knew was that was open wide enough to admit a human being, or whatever it was that was outside.

  And now it was opening wider still, and he cowered back with his arm over his eyes. In another second he felt he would yell: his reason would give.

  And then suddenly the tension snapped. He heard a voice speaking, and it was a woman’s voice, though curiously deep and solemn.

  “My poor man, do not be frightened. I am here to help you.”

  He lowered his arm: the door was now wide open. And framed in the entrance was a grey-haired woman dressed in black. She stood very still. Her features were dead white, her hands like those of a corpse. But for her eyes, that gleamed strangely from her mask-like face, she might have been a waxwork model.

  The convict swallowed twice, and then he spoke.

  “Gaw lumme, mum, you didn’t ’alf give me a start opening that there door like that. The fust time was bad enough, but this time I thought as ’ow I was going to go barmy.”

  “The first time?” she said, still in the same deep voice. “This is the first time that I have been here tonight.”

  “Then ’oo was monkeying with that blinking door quarter of an hour ago?”

  She came slowly into the room, and the convict backed away. There was something almost as terrifying about this woman as if she had actually been a ghost.

  “Strange things happen in this house,” she said. “It is not wise to ask too many questions.”

  “There was a norful row going on above ’ere a few minutes ago,” he said nervously.

  “So you heard them too, did you?” she answered gravely. “Every foggy night the curse must be fulfilled: such is the penalty that even in death they must carry out.”

  “Spooks!” he muttered. “Is that wot you mean?”

  “Thirty years ago my son killed a man in the room above. He deserved to die if ever a man did, but they took my son, and they hanged him. Even, Morris, as they might have hanged you.”

  He took a step forward, snarling, only to stand abashed before those glowing eyes.

  “’Ow do you know my name is Morris?” he muttered sullenly.

  “There are many things that I know,” she said: “things that are whispered to me in the night by those who live around my bedside: those whom you could never see.”

  He shivered uncomfortably.

  “But it was not they who told me about you,” she went on. “This afternoon a warder came and warned me to be on my guard against you. I listened to what he had to say, and when he had gone I laughed. For I knew you would come, Morris: I willed you to come to me through the fog: it was for you I prepared the meal.”

  “Very nice of you, I’m sure, mum,” he said, scratching his head in a bewildered way. “But I don’t quite—”

  “Listen,” she interrupted imperiously. “I have told you that they hanged my son, and I have sworn to be revenged on them. Then perhaps the curse may be lifted.”

  He stared at her, and for the first time noticed that she was carrying a suit of clothes over her arm.

  “And for that reason, Morris, I have brought you these.”

  She laid the clothes on a chair.

  “I am going to help you to escape so that I can revenge myself on those who hanged my son. They are my son’s clothes, which I have kept against such a day as this. When I leave you, you will put them on. In the pockets you will find money, and cigarettes. Leave your own clothes on the floor here: I will dispose of them tomorrow. Do not thank me.” She held up her hand to stop him. “I do this not for you, but for my son: so that the curse may be lifted. One thing, and one thing only, do I say to you: as you value your life, and more than your life, do not go upstairs. For when the fog is on Dartmoor, there is death in this house.”

  The convict stared at her fearfully and the hair on the back of his scalp began to tingle and prick.

  Her eyes seemed to be glowing more than ever: her right arm was outstretched, with finger pointing directly at him. And even as he watched her she appeared to recede through the doorway: a moment later he was alone. The door was shut: the candle still flickered on the table, but of his mysterious visitor no trace remained save the clothes lying on the chair.

  “Barmy,” he muttered to himself. “Clean barmy. But, strewth, the old gal guessed right.”

  His nerves were still on edge, and the sound of his own voice comforted him.

  “Suppose them ruddy clothes are real,” he went on. “Not ghost clothes, are they, like everything else in this blinking spookery?”

  He crossed to the chair and picked them up: no ghost about them. He ran his fingers eagerly through the pockets: notes, silver, cigarettes were all there.

  “Lumme!” he chuckled, “’ere’s luck to the old geyser. May ’er curse be lifted. But if ever I sees ’er again, I’ll ask er to wear glasses. Luv-a-duck, them eyes of ’ers were ’orrid.”

  He lit a cigarette, and blew out a cloud of smoke luxuriously. Then he poured out the beer, and bringing the other four bottles he ranged them on the table.

  “If the meal was for me,” he announced, “I’ll show the old gal that I appreciates it.”

  He finished his cigarette, and then began to change his clothes. His convict rig he threw into the cupboard, and to his joyful amazement he found that the others fitted passably well. A little tight round the shoulders, and a little long in the legs, but not too bad, he considered, as he toasted his reflection in the mirror. The hat was a bit small, which was a pity, but by ripping out the lining he ft could just get it on.

  Anyway, what was a hat? He had already counted the money—fifteen pounds odd: he would buy another at the first opportunity. And having by that time lowered the third bottle of beer, he decided that it was time he made some plans.

  Here he was with clothes and money, full of good food and good drink—in fact, in a position that would have seemed impossible half an hour ago—but he was not out of the wood by any manner of means yet. He poured out the fourth bottle, and began to think.

  Presumably he could wait there till the morning if he wished to—the beer had produced a certain contempt for such trifles as spooks. And if he went now he would undoubtedly again lose his way in the fog. Of course daylight was dangerous: he knew that his description would have been circulated everywhere. But even if he went now, daylight would still come, and he would have the intense discomfort of wandering about in the fog all the night.

  And then another idea struck him which was so wonderful that he
promptly broached the fifth bottle. Why should he go at all—at any rate for days? If the old trout really wanted to lift the curse from her son, the best thing he could do would be to hide him until the hue and cry had blown over. Give him his half dozen, or dozen bottles of beer a day, and three or four good square meals, and he’d be perfectly happy. In fact, he’d do all he could to help the poor old thing with regard to her son.

  A righteous glow was spreading over him: of course he’d help her. A shame, he reflected, that the old girl should be haunted like that every foggy night. Lucky thing he’d come here, instead of wandering about on the moor, where he might have fallen into a bog. Which brought a sudden idea to him of such stupendous magnificence that he bolted the last half of the fifth bottle and seized the sixth.

  The bogs! Why in Heaven’s name hadn’t he thought of them before? The next morning he would give her his convict’s cap, and tell her to take it to the nearest one. She could there place it on a tuft of grass at the edge where it was bound in time to be discovered. Everyone would immediately think that he had fallen in, and the search would be given up. Then in due course he would leave comfortably and go overseas: the old lady was sure to have a bit of savings put by. The least she could do if he was going to help her over this curse business was to pass them across.

  If she wouldn’t—well, there were ways of making her. And at that stage of his reflections anyone looking at his face would have realised the truth of the warder’s remarks that afternoon about his character. The features bloated with the unaccustomed beer, the great red scar on his cheek standing out the more vividly for it, the small vicious eyes, the heavy jowl—all combined to show the murderer through instinct, and between him and the murderer through sudden passion a gulf is fixed which is immeasurable.

  He finished his glass, and lit a final cigarette.

  Having decided on his plans for the future, a desire for sleep was beginning to make itself felt. And after a while his head began to nod, and he was on the verge of falling right off, when a bell began to ring in the passage outside. The sound brought him scrambling to his feet. His head was feeling fuddled and muzzy, and for a while he stood staring stupidly in front of him. Who on earth could be ringing that infernal bell? Was it someone in the house, or was it someone outside at the front door? Again it pealed, and he began to curse foully under his breath. Could it be that the warders had got on to him?