The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  He lounged out of the room, and hailing a taxi drove back to the service flat he was occupying during his wife’s absence in America. Ever since he had met Irma at Paddington he had been conscious of a feeling of profound relief that Phyllis was out of harm’s way: he had no wish for a repetition of that ghastly hunt which had so nearly terminated disastrously in the house on Salisbury Plain, and the mere remembrance of which could even now bring him out in a cold sweat. But this time, if Madame Saumur—to give her her present title—struck, she could not do it through Phyllis: it would have to be direct at him. And when, at eleven-thirty exactly, he passed through the swing doors of the Custard Pot, he was conscious of a feeling of exhilaration, of expectancy, like the hunter who hears hounds in the distance. Gone were all the doubts engendered by Dick Newall: he knew there was some game afoot. And it would not be for want of trying if he didn’t play.

  The club was typical of a score of others. After a small formality at the office, which cost him a pound, he duly became a member, and passing up a flight of stairs, he entered the dancing-room. The Comtessa, he had been told below, had not yet arrived, but on informing the head waiter he was expecting her, he was at once shown to a special table in the corner.

  “Will M’sieu order now?” he was asked.

  “Put a bottle of Clicquot on the ice,” he answered, “and we’ll leave the food till later.”

  The room was tastefully got up for a place of the type. It was small, but not too hot, and the lighting was soft and restful to the eyes. On a microscopic expanse of floor in the centre three couples were dancing to the music of a small band sitting in a balcony half-way up one wall.

  The place was full: in fact, he had been shown to the last available table. And he realised the Comtessa must have telephoned through instructions that it was to be kept for her. The flowers, he noticed, were special ones: evidently the lady was something of a noise in the place.

  His eyes travelled round the assembled company, but he saw no one whom he knew. The usual pairs; two or three parties of four—it might have been any of the smaller night clubs, save for one thing. There was about the whole atmosphere of the place a definite sense of smartness which as a rule is so conspicuously lacking from similar establishments. It might have been an overflow from the Embassy.

  Suddenly there came a little buzz of interest, and Drummond glanced towards the door: the Comtessa had arrived. Escorted by an obsequious head waiter, she was crossing the room towards him, and he rose with a bow. The eyes of most people present followed her as she moved, and Drummond admitted to himself that an evening frock turned her into a ravishing beauty. She was wearing a dinging black chiffon dress, the long skirt of which floated gracefully out as she walked, and the low-cut back showed up the whiteness of her skin and her perfect figure.

  “My dear Comtessa,” he murmured, bending over her hand, “forgive my British bluntness, but you are superb.”

  “British bluntness, mon ami,” she answered, with a dazzling smile, “is often preferable to Continental diplomacy.”

  “I left the question of food until you arrived,” he said. “What about some caviare?”

  “I adore it,” she answered. “Just that, and nothing else.”

  He gave the necessary order; then he turned to his companion.

  “Would you care to dance now, afterwards, or not at all?” he asked.

  “Afterwards,” she said. “For the moment I want to talk to you. I had no idea you knew Natalie so well.”

  “Natalie!” he murmured. “I presume you mean Madame Saumur?”

  She nodded.

  “She has talked a lot to me about you these last few days: in fact, I very nearly suggested that you should bring one of those nice friends of yours tonight and make a parti carrée.”

  “That would have been most entertaining. Comtessa,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes. “I don’t think I have ever had the pleasure of having supper with—er—Natalie. By the way, you must forgive me if I sometimes call her by the wrong name. In the past it has changed with such bewildering rapidity that it will be a little difficult to remember.”

  “It is about that past that I want to talk to you, Captain Drummond.”

  “That should certainly prove interesting; dear lady,” he said grimly.

  She laid her hand on his arm.

  “No one regrets it more bitterly than she does—believe me. She came under the influence of that man Carl Peterson when she was little more than a child.” The Comtessa broke off suddenly.

  “May I ask what you’re laughing at?” she demanded.

  “Forgive me, Comtessa,” said Drummond, still shaking silently, “but this is richer than anything I ever dreamed of. You can’t tell me that at this stage of history you’re trying to kid me with the seduced girlhood stunt? Why, my dear soul, there were times when little Irma—I beg her pardon—Natalie left Carl Peterson at the post. If there was anything to it at all, I should say it was she who caught him young.”

  “Be that as it may, she’s a changed woman now.”

  For a moment or two Drummond stared at her thoughtfully.

  “What’s the game, Comtessa?” he asked at length. “You are very far from being a fool: I also am conceited enough to regard myself as not quite an idiot. So once again I ask you—what’s the game?”

  “I find you somewhat gauche, Captain Drummond,” she said coldly. “There is no game, as you call it. Natalie Saumur is a friend of mine, who admittedly in the past has been injudicious. She is sincerely sorry for that past, and wished me to tell you so. And I, believing that an Englishman generally accepted an apology in the spirit in which it was offered, undertook to give you her message.”

  “You used the word injudicious, Comtessa,” he said quietly. “Is that how you would describe a cold-blooded attempt to murder my wife?”

  She laughed merrily.

  “My dear man,” she cried, “you don’t really imagine she ever intended to do it, do you? Why—she told me all about it: how you came in disguised as a black and all the rest of it.”

  “Shall we drop this fooling, Comtessa?” said Drummond, a little wearily. “If you are friends with her, you are friends with one of the most dangerous criminals in Europe. I know it, and all I’m wondering is whether you don’t know it too.”

  “Are you aware what you’re implying?” she cried angrily.

  “Perfectly,” he answered. “Come now, Comtessa, shall we put the cards on the table? Don’t forget that that poor devil Marton and I did not sit in silence during the time he was at Merridale Hall.”

  Not a muscle of her face moved: her expression was one of bored indifference.

  “Presumably not,” she said. “What did you discuss: the weather?”

  “Amongst other things,” he answered. “And one of those other things was your charming self.”

  “Indeed! And why should he discuss me with a complete stranger?”

  “You seemed to have a fascination for him which, now that I have met you, I can quite understand.”

  “You did not mention it at the inquest.”

  “There were several things I did not mention at the inquest,” said Drummond calmly. “Muddy footmarks on the carpet for one.”

  “Really, Captain Drummond, you talk in riddles. What carpet are you alluding to?”

  “The one in the smoking-room at Merridale Hall,” he answered. “My dear Comtessa, there were more lies packed into that inquest than there are currants in a plum-pudding.”

  “You mean you perjured yourself?” she cried.

  “In excellent company,” he remarked. “Though my crime was more in the nature of suppressing the truth, rather than of inventing lies. By the way, how is your dear father, Mr. Hardcastle?”

  “Really, Captain Drummond, I find you perfectly intolerable,” she exclaimed furiously. “First of all you are extremely rude to me personally, and then you imply that my father was telling lies. You know yourself that the only thing which it was agreed
should not be mentioned was the appearance of the ghost.”

  He smiled faintly.

  “Yes: that was the only thing which was agreed,” he remarked.

  “Captain Drummond,” she said quietly, “I insist on your telling me what you are hinting at.”

  He looked at her steadily. What a superb actress she was! And for a moment he was tempted to tell her exactly what he was hinting at; then he decided to temporise.

  “My dear Comtessa,” he murmured, “aren’t we becoming unduly serious? It was all most unpleasant, but it is over and done with. And the only thing that is worrying me is that perhaps I ought to have mentioned what Marton told me.”

  “What did he tell you?” Was it his imagination, or was there a hint of anxiety in her voice?

  He shook his head. “I feel I must treat it as confidential even from you,” he said gravely. “Let’s talk of something else. You remember Peter Darrell, don’t you? He is going down to your father’s studio tomorrow to see if he is suitable for that vacancy that is being advertised.”

  And the next instant, to his unbounded amazement, he realised that he had scored a bull’s-eye.

  Not by the quiver of an eyelid did he give away the fact; but he had noticed the knuckles of her right hand, which was loosely holding the edge of the table, suddenly gleam white. And the complete unexpectedness of it, for the moment, bewildered him. He had made the remark quite casually, for want of something better to say, and to extricate himself from a difficult position. Since Marton had said nothing to him, he couldn’t very well tell the Comtessa what it was. And then to find that, by a sheer fluke, he had pierced her armour, was a most extraordinary thing—a thing, moreover, which required careful thought.

  He drained his champagne and refilled both their glasses.

  “He seems to fill the bill,” he went on casually, “as far as physical requirements are concerned. You might put in a word for him, Comtessa.”

  “I’m afraid I have nothing to do with the running of the studio,” she said. “By the way, how did you know it was my father’s?”

  Her voice was quite normal: save for that tell-tale tautening of her fingers, she had given no sign at all that he had got home.

  “I think he mentioned it to me,” he lied glibly. “And I was thinking of going down with Peter,” he continued. “If Mr. Hardcastle is there, he might perhaps allow me to look on for a bit.”

  She made some perfunctory reply, and then suggested they should dance, to which he at once agreed. He wanted time to think, and as the slow procession of packed sardines that now occupied the floor entailed no mental strain for steering, his brain could concentrate on this new development. Why had his casual remark upset her?

  There could be no secret about the studio, since it was advertising publicly. What, then, had caused her agitation? And after puzzling it out through three fox-trots he decided that it could be only one thing—the fact that he had, quite accidentally, let his remark about Peter Darrell and the studio immediately follow the conversation about young Marton. In his mind there had been no connection whatever: in hers there had. And the thought at once opened up a new line of country. Was it possible that the ordinary activities of the studio were a cloak for something criminal, and that Marton had found out about it? That that was why they had killed him, and that her agitation was due to the fear that he had been told about it by Marton on the afternoon of his death? The close juxtaposition of the two remarks might have made her think so—might have made her believe that he was playing a far deeper game than in reality he had been.

  “I’m tired,” she said suddenly, “and this crowd is insufferable. What were we talking about?” she continued as they sat down again. “Of course!—I remember: your friend and the studio. Has he ever done any film work before?”

  “Never,” said Drummond. “But the advertisement says that previous experience is not essential. What film are they making?”

  “I think it is called ‘High Finance’,” she answered. “I know that part of it is going to be done down in Devonshire. That was why my father was so anxious to get hold of Glensham House. But perhaps Mr. Marton told you that?”

  “I don’t think he actually mentioned that point,” he said gravely. He was conscious that she was watching him covertly, and he realised that it was going to be a battle of wits.

  “But he talked about the film?”

  “Vaguely,” said Drummond. “In a general sort of way, you know.”

  “He was very keen to act himself, poor boy,” she went on. “In fact, there was some talk of his having a small part in this very film.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “A little difficult to fit in, I should think, with his other work.”

  “It was merely a walking-on part,” she explained. “And, of course, he might not have been suitable.”

  “Quite,” said Drummond politely, handing her his open cigarette-case.

  She took one, and as he held the match for her to light it he tried to puzzle out what was behind her apparently harmless remarks. What were they leading up to? Or was it just ordinary banal conversation?

  “I’m surprised he didn’t say that he might be acting, when he talked to you about the film,” she said. “He was so very full of it, my father said, when he got to Glensham House.”

  “I think he was too nervy to talk about anything of that sort, Comtessa,” remarked Drummond.

  “I know—that money trouble. Captain Drummond, I rather blame myself over that. He used to take me out a good deal, and I suppose it must have cost more than he could afford. If only the poor boy had told me instead of posing as being very wealthy.”

  “The junior partner in a firm of solicitors is rarely very wealthy,” he said curtly.

  “If only I had realised that sooner,” she sighed, glancing at her wrist watch. “Will you think me very rude if I run away now? My father has a very important individual coming to lunch with him tomorrow, and I must appear at my best. I wonder if you know him by any chance—Sir Edward Greatorex?”

  “Never heard of him in my life,” he said. “Who is he?”

  “A well-known business man,” she answered. “But he spends most of his time abroad, so I’m not surprised that you don’t know him.”

  He called the waiter and paid the bill; then he I accompanied her to the door.

  “I am calling for my father,” she said, “so don’t trouble to see me home. Good night. I wish I could persuade you about Natalie.”

  And ten minutes later she let herself into her maisonnette in South Audley Street. The sound of voices was coming from a downstair room, which ceased as she threw open the door. Hardcastle, Slingsby, and Penton were sitting round the table with a bottle of whisky between them, whilst curled up in an easy-chair was Natalie Saumur.

  “How did the party go?” cried Hardcastle.

  “Did you tell that guy, Tom, where your studio was?” she said as she flung off her cloak.

  “I never even told him I had a studio,” he answered. “What’s happened, kid?”

  “Just this. Captain Hugh Drummond has got to go.”

  “You mean he’s wise to things?” The three men sat motionless, staring at her.

  “He’s wise to a great deal too much. Especially about that young fool’s death And when I tried the Christian repentance stunt about Natalie it didn’t cut enough ice to keep a louse in cold storage.”’

  “Damn all that,” snarled Hardcastle. “What about the big thing?”

  “I don’t know, Tom: frankly, I don’t know.” She lit a cigarette and sat down. “He started talking about the studio: one of his friends is rolling up tomorrow in answer to the advertisement—that fair-haired man, Darrell. Drummond is going down too: wants to know if you’ll let him look on. Now how did he know it was your studio? He said to me that you had told him.”

  “You mean Marton may have told him,” said Penton softly.

  “Exactly. And if he told him that, he may have told him other things as well.
”

  “Then surely he would have informed the police,” said Slingsby.

  And then, for the first time, the woman in the chair spoke. Her voice was deep and musical: her English held no trace of any foreign accent. “That is where you are wrong,” she said. “Hugh Drummond does not tell the police unless it is absolutely essential. In all the years I have known him he has never once called them in: he prefers to keep the thing to himself.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” demanded Hardcastle.

  She lit a fresh cigarette from the stump of the old one. “Let us start see where we stand,” she answered. “The mere fact that you have not mentioned the studio to him proves nothing. There is no secret about the matter: there are several quite ordinary ways in which he could have found out that you had rented it. At the same time, I quite admit that Marton may have told him, and therefore we had a better act on that assumption.”

  She paused suddenly, and a spasm of anger shook her. “You damned fools—the lot of you—for letting that young cub know the whole truth. If it hadn’t been for that this situation would never have arisen. However “—she controlled herself and continued calmly—”it is no good crying over that. The situation has arisen, and we’ve got to deal with it.”

  “Give me his address,” said Penton harshly, “and leave him to me. I’ve dealt with his sort before.”

  The woman in the chair looked at him with a pitying smile. “My poor friend,” she murmured, “do not be a more ridiculous than God intended you to be. You have no more chance of dealing single-handed with Hugh Drummond than a board-school child would have. He would simply play with you, as he has in the past with men of four times your ability. You can’t handle him that way.”

  Penton, his face white with rage, started angrily to his feet.