The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Drummond stared at him.

  “Of course I did. And I thought he did it deuced well, though what he wanted to introduce the smell for, the Lord alone knows. You don’t mean to say there’s any truth in it, Ted?”

  “No, I don’t say that. But for the first time today, funnily enough—and I’d forgotten to mention it before—I heard that story. Some bloke at the inquest told me. That is the Glensham legend.”

  “Well, I think Pansy-face swallowed it all right. But it’s the other point that is the really important one. I asked her point blank what was the trouble she alluded to, and she said he had got into a mess over money, and had confided in her.”

  “Possibly the truth,” said Darrell.

  “He said to me that afternoon, I wish it was only that,’” answered Drummond. “A mess over money doesn’t make a fellow go in fear of his life; and most certainly a mess over money isn’t going to cause them to murder him. No, Peter: it must be more than that. You may bet your bottom dollar that young Marton had served their purpose and had lost his nerve in so doing. They were afraid of his squealing, and wanted him out of the way. But what was the purpose?—that’s the point.”

  He relapsed into silence and stared out of the window at the flying countryside. And though his most fervent admirer would never have called Hugh Drummond a second Newton, yet he possessed a great deal of sound common sense, which he could use to advantage on an occasion such as this.

  And here, it seemed to him, those facts were clear. Marton had been murdered for some reason as yet unknown, and the murderers had got away with it as far as the police were concerned. But what the murderers did not know was how far they had got away with it where he and Ted and Peter were concerned.

  He tried to put himself in the position of the opponents. Assuming his basic foundation was correct, what line of action would they take?

  Would they take the point of view that since they had bluffed the police the other thing didn’t matter?

  Something big was on foot, since they had not hesitated to murder a man: would they merely carry on with their plans, and completely disregard him and the two sitting opposite him? They might reasonably assume that, since he had said nothing up to date, he proposed to let the matter drop altogether. They might even assume that their bluff had been successful all round. And it seemed to him that until they were certain one way or the other, their policy must be to wait and see.

  If they did anything else, if they gave the slightest hint that they were not sure if he believed the story, they gave themselves away at once. It was a question of the old chestnut—’ That’s my story, and I’m going, to stick to it.’

  For the moment, therefore, it seemed to him that the other side would do nothing. In fact they would do nothing until their own next move proved that they had not been bluffed. Then the scrap would begin in earnest. But the difficulty lay in what the next move was going to be. Unless they could get some information out of Dick Newall, it looked as if they were up against a blank wall. And he realised that Jerningham’s fears were not groundless: to ask a lawyer, however great a friend he might be, to reveal what were possibly office secrets was to ask a lot.

  “When can we get in touch with your pal, Ted?” he asked.

  “Almost certainly this evening, old boy. He’s nearly always in the club before dinner. Hullo! here is Mr. Peters.”

  The solicitor paused by their table on seeing Jerningham.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Peters. I didn’t know you were on the train. Let me introduce Captain Drummond and Mr. Darrell. Won’t you take a seat at our table?”

  “Thank you, thank you,” cried the other. “With pleasure. I am really so worried and distracted over this shocking affair, coming so closely on top of the other, that I hardly know what I’m doing. I fear it will completely break up poor Mrs. Marton. She idolised Bob.”

  “It’s very sad indeed,” agreed Drummond.

  “Such shocking bad luck. By the way, Mr. Peters, I didn’t like to ask him personally, but perhaps you can tell me. My father knew a man called Hardcastle very well indeed a few years ago in South Africa. I was wondering if it was the same one.”

  “I really can’t say,” answered the lawyer. “He may have been in South Africa—in fact I should think it is more than likely he was. He seems to have travelled extensively. All I know about him is that he wanted to rent Glensham House. And as we have been the family solicitors for years, he naturally came to us about it. I was a little surprised, I must admit. It didn’t strike me as at all the sort of place a man like him would want. But houses of that size are difficult things to let these days, especially so far away from London, and so I closed with his offer at once, though it was for a very short lease.”

  “So he is not proposing to make his home there?”

  “Dear me, no! He has taken it for three months only.”

  “Then he certainly must be very wealthy,” remarked Drummond. “He’ll want a great deal of furniture to make it habitable.”

  “No: all the remainder is stored in Plymouth, so that he won’t have to buy anything.”

  “I hear that he is inventing some cinema gadget,” went on Drummond casually. “At least we gathered so from his daughter.”

  “I know he is interested in the films,” said the lawyer. “In fact, we did some business for him in that line. But I think he is a man with many irons in the fire.”

  “I suppose you don’t happen to know anything about the legend of the house,” put in Jerningham.

  “My dear Sir,” said the other, “in my profession, we deal with facts. Those give us quite enough trouble without going into suppositions. There is some legend, I believe—in fact, I think I once had told me. But I pay no attention to that sort of thing at all, though from idle chatter I heard at the inquest today, some idiot seems to have revived the story. And of course, now I come to think of it, it was that that took his three young men over there in the first place.”

  He smiled currently.

  “Well, well, it’s all very fine to people of your age. But when you come to mind, you’ll find that flesh and blood cause quite sufficient worry, without chasing round after spirits.”

  “Most old houses have some sort of legend attached to them, don’t they?” said Drummond. “Especially when they have secret passages as well.”

  “Now that is a fact with regard to Glensham House,” said the lawyer. “The place is honey-combed with them. And, funnily enough, that is a thing that particularly attracted Mr. Hardcastle. As an American he seemed to consider that no old English house was worth ten cents—I think that was his phrase—unless it had a secret passage.”

  “Indeed,” murmured Drummond. “Well, he seems to have got his money’s worth this time. Do you know the entrances to any of them?”

  “I haven’t an idea,” answered the other. “And I can’t say that I want to have one. Between ourselves, as I don’t think I see a prospective tenant in any of you, the non-secret part of the house is sufficiently gloomy, to my mind, without worrying over anything else.”

  He called for his bill.

  “Well, I must be getting back to my carriage,” he continued. “I’ve got an hour’s work in front of me before we reach London. Good day to you, gentlemen: good day.”

  “Interesting, that point about Hardcastle and the secret passages,” said Drummond, as the lawyer disappeared. “May mean something: may not. What about the other half, chaps? And then I think I’ll rejoin Pansy-face. I’d hate her to think my love for her had waned.”

  But the Comtessa was immersed in a novel when they returned to their compartment, and save for one swift smile and a hope that the tea had been good, nothing more was said till the train reached Paddington. And then in the general rising their shoulders touched.

  “You won’t forget the Custard Pot?” she murmured.

  “I shall haunt the door,” he answered, “till I get arrested as a street nuisance. Let me take your dressing-case and I’ll see you into a
taxi.”

  “The car should be here,” she said leaning out of the window. “Yes: there’s the chauffeur.”

  She beckoned to a man in livery who was standing on the platform.

  “Au revoir, Captain Drummond. Don’t forget, Mayfair 0218.”

  “The line will probably fuse,” he murmured as he strolled at her side towards the car. “Is your husband—er—in London?”

  “Not at present,” she answered gravely. “He travels abroad a lot. Ah! chérie, let me introduce Captain Drummond—Madame Saumur.”

  And for a space there was utter silence. For Drummond and a woman already seated in the car were staring at one another speechlessly, while the Comtessa looked from one to the other in growing bewilderment.

  “Enchanté, Madame,” said Drummond at length. “It is a long time since we met, is it not? Saumur, did you say, Comtessa?

  “So you two know one another?” she cried.

  “A rose by any other name, dear lady,” remarked Drummond with a smile. “Does Madame also adorn the Custard Pot?” He stood back as the chauffeur closed the door, and bowed. “If so my cup of happiness will be complete.”

  “Posing as a statue, old lad,” said Darrell a few moments later. “Or watching the last of the loved one?”

  “Madame Saumur, Peter,” answered Drummond dreamily. “Pansy-face’s girl friend. She was in the car. Madame Saumur, Peter: think of it.”

  “I’m thinking,” said the other. “What about it?”

  “She was Irma, Peter: our long-lost Irma Peterson.”

  “Irma!” cried Darrell incredulously. “Rot, man!”

  “Do you suppose I’d make a mistake over her?” said Drummond with a grin.

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Not a word. We were both so flabbergasted for a moment or two that we gaped at one another like a couple of codfish. Then I made some fatuous remark and they pushed off.”

  “What an amazing thing!” said Jerningham, as they got into a taxi. “How is it going to affect matters?”

  “In this way, Ted. There’s no earthly use now in our playing a canny game. We can still pretend, of course, that we agree with the verdict today, but we can’t fool her into thinking we’ve dropped the matter. She knows us a great deal too well to believe it for an instant.”

  “And she didn’t speak at all?”

  Drummond shook his head. “Not with her tongue. But just as the car drove off she gave me one look that said volumes. It was as clear as if she had shouted it through a megaphone. It’s a fight to a finish this time.”

  CHAPTER V

  They drove to Ted Jerningham’s club, and one of the first members they met in the smoking-room, was the man they wanted. He was reading an evening paper, and the instant he saw them he gave them a hail.

  “Ted, old lad, come here. Of all the amazing things I’ve ever known this wins in a canter. Fancy you being mixed up in this performance.”

  “Evening, Dick,” said Jerningham. “I want you to meet Drummond and Darrell.”

  “The three musketeers complete,” grinned the other, and then grew serious again. “It’s a pretty damnable business, isn’t it? I suppose this account is accurate?”

  Drummond, who had skimmed through the report, nodded.

  “Yes,” he said. “That just about gives the finding of twelve good men and true, and to that extent, therefore, it is accurate.”

  Newall stared at him.

  “Are you implying that there is some inside information going around which is not mentioned in the report?”

  “Is there any spot that we can go to, Ted,” said Drummond, “where there will be no chance of our being overheard?”

  “Sure bill,” he answered. “The small card-room is bound to be empty.”

  He led the way to the lift, and the others followed with Newall, who was still carrying the paper in his hand. And, having ordered a round of the necessary, he closed the door.

  “Now we shan’t be disturbed,” he said. “Get on with it, Hugh.”

  “Right oh!” answered Drummond. “Now then, Newall, we’ll take the whole bally hurdle in one. That story as given in the paper you’re holding is a lie from beginning to end.”

  “What on earth do you mean?” cried the other. “You aren’t telling me that Bob Marton is still alive, are you?”

  “No, not that. What I am telling you is that he was not murdered by Morris, the escaped convict.”

  “Then who the devil was he murdered by?”

  “Before we go into that, have I your word that what we’re going to tell you won’t go any further?”

  “Yes,” said Newall, “you have.”

  “Good! Then Marton was murdered by one of the trio Hardcastle, Slingsby and Penton—or by all of them.”

  “My dear sir,” stuttered Newall after a pause, during which his eyes almost came out of his head, “you’re pulling my leg. What under the sun should they want to murder Marton for?”

  “That,” said Drummond with a faint smile, “is where we hope you’ll be able to help us.”

  “I say, Ted,” cried the other, “is he really being serious?”

  “Absolutely, Dick. It’s an extraordinary yarn, but you can take it from me that every word is gospel truth.”

  Briefly, but at the same time omitting nothing, Drummond gave him the story, and the lawyer listened with increasing amazement. But at the end he shook his head.

  “Sorry,” he said, “but I fear you haven’t convinced my legal mind. It’s quite clear that you believed the yarn this convict spun to you, but what I am asking myself, in view of the well-nigh inconceivable alternative you suggest, is whether you is weren’t deceived by him yourselves.”

  “I expected you to say that,” said Drummond quietly. “And it was the realisation that everybody would think that that made us say nothing about it. Nevertheless, Morris did not deceive us: what he said was the truth.”

  “But, damn it, man,” cried Newall, “what possible motive could there have been for such a thing? Hardcastle, a perfectly good American millionaire—why should he want to put Bob Marton out of the way? It’s preposterous: it’s—it’s inconceivable, as I said before.”

  “There is no important document, or something of that sort, missing from the office, is there?”

  “Nothing: nothing at all. Why, as far as I know, there isn’t a document in the office that is worth a tanner to anyone else. Honestly, you fellows, I think you’re after the wrong fox this time with a vengeance. And if you don’t mind my giving you a word of professional advice, you’d better be damned careful. What you’ve said to me is safe—it won’t go beyond me. But there’s such a thing as libel, and a story like that renders you liable to thumping damages.”

  “You need have no fears on that score,” said Drummond. “We aren’t going to mention it. We didn’t say a word about it even to old man Peters. One question, though, Newall. However much we imagined over what Morris said to us, there is no doubt over Marton’s remarks to me. How do you account for those? Who are the ‘they’ he was terrified of?”

  “I confess that defeats me,” said the other slowly. “Of course he was in a rotten condition of nerves.”

  “Rotten enough to imagine some non-existent beings?”

  Dick Newall lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

  “It’s a poser, I admit,” he remarked. “You say he mentioned this woman Comtessa Bartelozzi by name?”

  “Certainly,” said Drummond. “He mentioned her in connection with his trouble, and she is Hardcastle’s daughter.”

  “What is she like to look at?”

  “Extraordinarily attractive. If you happen to frequent a night club called the Custard Pot, you may have seen her there.”

  “What’s that?” cried the other. “The Custard Pot! Why, she must be the woman I saw there with Bob Marton one night. I pulled his leg about it next day, and he got quite shirty about it.”

  “Had Hardcastle been to your firm then?”

&nb
sp; Newall stared at him.

  “Yes, he had. Hardcastle came to us about two months ago, and this incident I’m talking about was last week.”

  “Seems strange that Marton didn’t tell you who the lady was,” said Drummond. “Look here, Newall,” he went on quietly, “I know our story must seen a bit thin to you. For all that, it’s the truth. Young Marton was foully murdered by Hardcastle and his bunch, and up to date they have got clean away with it. There is some big crime in contemplation: what it is I know no more than you. But Marton knew, and that’s why they outed him.”

  A waiter entered, and came up to Newall. “You’re wanted on the telephone, sir,” he announced.

  “I’ll come back at once,” said the lawyer, rising.

  He followed the man from the room, and Drummond turned to the other two.

  “I don’t blame him in the slightest being sceptical,” he remarked. “So, would we be in his place. And it only shows what the result would have been if we put forward at the inquest.”

  “Would it be any use telling him about Irma?” suggested Darrell. “Birds of a feather and that sort of idea.”

  Drummond shrugged his shoulders.

  “She would only be a name to him,” he said. “He’s had no first-hand experience of her little ways. Still, it’s a possibility, Peter.”

  And at that moment Newall returned with a worried expression on his face.

  “It’s a very strange thing,” he said, “in view of what we’ve been talking about, but my uncle has just rung me up. And quite obviously something is wrong. It’s getting on for eight o’clock, and unless it was serious it could surely have kept till tomorrow. I’m going round to see him at once. Will you fellows be dining here?”

  “They can feed with me,” said Jerningham.

  “Right: I’ll come back as soon as I’ve seen the old man. Of course it may be nothing at all, but it’s the first time I’ve ever known him do such a thing.”

  He left the room, and Drummond rubbed his hands together.

  “I wonder if that means we’re on the track of something,” he said. “Your pal seems a cheery sort of bloke, Ted: I hope he won’t be as close as an oyster if he finds out anything.”