The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “But what the deuce has this got to do with Irma?” he demanded after he had read it.

  “Get outside some beer, Algy, and listen,” said Drummond. “We’ve been having a bit of fun lately.”

  “I saw you were getting mixed up in something or other down in Devonshire,” said the other. “In fact, I very nearly came down to see what was up. Tell me all about it.”

  Briefly Drummond ran over the events of the past few days, and when he had finished, Algy Longworth nodded thoughtfully.

  “I get you,” he said. “Rightly or wrongly, you believe that the key of the mystery lies in Blackwater studio, and you want me to see if I can spot anything.”

  “That’s the notion, old lad. It’s a forlorn hope, and if by chance Irma is there and sees you, you’ll probably get bunged into the river. But that won’t do you any harm: it’s an awfully jolly sort of river.”

  “Oh! yeah—Cuthbert,” grunted the other. “But, joking apart, old boy, it is, as you say, a mighty forlorn hope. I mean if there is any dirty work going on down there, it’s not going to be where anyone walking in casual like is going to see it. The blokes will probably take one look at my face, burst into floods of tears, and that will end the interview.”

  “Can’t help it, Algy: we’ve got to try it. It’s the only hope. Why, dash it all, old boy, you might even get taken on, in which case you’d have the run of the studio.”

  “And get thrown daily into the Blackwater,” said Longworth gloomily. “Damn it! I don’t want to act in a film, Hugh. I am sick with love: every moment of my life is occupied.”

  “You haven’t started to quote Ella Wheeler Wilcox at her, have you?” demanded Drummond suspiciously.

  “Only one or two chosen fragments’ said the other.

  “Then it’s high time, for the poor girl’s sake, that you vanished from her sight. The last wretched woman you treated in that way had to go into a mental home. You’re a menace, Algy, when you’re in that condition. What is she like, this new wench of yours?”

  With a howl of anguish, Darrell leaped from his seat.

  “Are you mad, Hugh? You’ll start him off.”

  “I find you rather offensive, Peter,” said Longworth with dignity. “She is dark—”

  “We’ll take that for granted,” cut in Drummond hurriedly. “What I want to know is whether she has a face at which an ordinary man can look without using smoked glasses. Yes or no.”

  “Most emphatically yes,” spluttered Longworth indignantly.

  “Right. Then take her down with you tomorrow,” said Drummond. “When you’re in love, your brain is more microscopic than usual, and she might very likely notice one or two things that you wouldn’t. Tell her a certain amount, but not everything. Leave out all the Devonshire part of the show: just tell her to keep her eyes open and see if she can spot anything suspicious. She might even apply for a part herself. What is the matter with you, Algy? Are you in pain?”

  “Listen, chaps,” he said thoughtfully. “Two days ago, when I first met her at a cocktail party, and we talked awhile on the drama and bi-metallism, she said something about films.” He frowned horribly at the mental strain. “Was it that she adored Charlie Chaplin, or was it that she herself had once played a part at Elstree?”

  “There would seem to be a trifling difference,” said Drummond mildly.

  “At any rate, I think it’s a deuced good idea,” went on Longworth happily. “We will have a healthy day in Kent tomorrow.”

  “Essex, you damned fool! And no dallying on the road. If you want to quote Wilcox at her, you’ll quote it in the studio. Now, push off: I want to go to bed.”

  But for a long time after the others had gone Hugh Drummond sat on smoking. And when at last he got up and switched off the light, there was a glint in his eyes which those who knew him well could have interpreted at once. He had evolved a plan, and the plan seemed to him to be good.

  Moreover, it still seemed good to him when his servant Denny arrived the next morning with tea and the daily papers. Many an idea conceived overnight fails to stand the remorseless logic of the following day, but this one did. It was simple, and more or less fool-proof, and for the space of two cigarettes he cogitated over it; then he opened The Times, more from habit than from any desire to see the news. And as he glanced down the Court Circular one item caught his eye.

  “Sir Edward Greatorex arrived at the Ritz Carlton yesterday afternoon from Berlin. He expects to remain in London about a fortnight.”

  The name seemed vaguely familiar, and for a while he lay in bed trying to remember where he had heard it. And then suddenly it came to him: Greatorex was the man the Comtessa had mentioned overnight as lunching with Hardcastle that day.

  A well-known business man, was how she described him, in which case he presumably was quite capable of looking after himself. For his sake, at any rate, reflected Drummond as he went into the bathroom, he hoped so.

  Breakfast over, he proceeded to ring up Algy Longworth.

  “Look here, old boy,” he said, “there’s a point that occurred to me after you’d gone last night. If Irma is down at the studio you’re stung anyway. But if she isn’t it would be better for you not to give your real name. For if by any chance they do take you, she will certainly get to hear of it, and then the fat will be in the fire and you’ll get the push.”

  “Right you are, Hugh,” came the answer. “I’ve just rung up Laura, and she’s all on for coming. And she has acted in a small part.”

  “You didn’t say anything about what I told you last night over the phone, did you?”

  “Not a word. I’m lunching with her, and we’ll push down afterwards. Where shall I find you this evening to report the doings?”

  “Come to the club, Algy, about nine.”

  He rang off, and lit a cigarette thoughtfully; then he shouted for Denny. “We’re on the warpath again, old warrior,” he said as his servant came in. “And for the next few days I shall be here, and I shall not be here. Do you get me?”

  “You mean, sir, that you wish to be thought within when in reality you are without.”

  “More or less, Denny. There will probably be a caller or two, and almost certainly some telephone messages. You will have to deal with them, and either I have just gone out or I am just coming in. If at luncheon-time, I am feeding at a private house—not an hotel: don’t forget that. Dinner the same thing. In short, I want you to give the impression that I am leading my ordinary normal life in London. Do you get me?”

  “Perfectly, sir. I am to be vague as to your actual movements, but definite that movement is taking place.”

  “You’ve hit it. I shall sleep here tonight, after that it’s doubtful. Look up my small automatic some time today, and see that it is oiled and pulling light.”

  “Very good, sir. And in case of necessity where can I get hold of you?”

  Drummond thought for a moment or two.

  “Post Office, Colchester,” he said. “Address me as Henry Johnson, and use a common envelope.”

  “Exactly, sir,” said Denny, making a note on his cuff. “Is that all, sir?”

  “Yes, Denny, it is. Get me my hat and stick: the club will find me for the next hour or so. Should anyone ring up, you can tell ’em so.”

  Refusing a taxi, he started to stroll across the Park. The birds were singing: the morning was perfect, and as he turned into his club, he felt at peace with the world.

  Two men whom he knew slightly were in the smoking-room, and he nodded to them as he passed.

  And he was just going to sit down when a sentence from one of them caught his ear.

  “I see that fellow Greatorex has arrived in London.”

  The speaker was a stockbroker, and, acting on a sudden impulse, Drummond crossed over to where they were sitting.

  “I couldn’t help over-hearing your remark, Blackton,” he said. “Who is this man Greatorex? Somebody mentioned him last night, and seemed surprised I’d never heard of him. Business bi
rd of sorts, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t think he’d be particularly flattered at that description,” answered the other, with a laugh. “Sir Edward Greatorex is a man before whom Governments tremble. He’s an international financier with a finger in innumerable pies.”

  “Is he wealthy?”

  “Wealthy! My dear fellow, he’s one of the three richest men in the world. He is the richest, save for one or two Indian Maharajahs, outside America.”

  “What is he doing over here?”

  “Ask me another: I’m not on dining terms with him. And he is one of the hardest men to get near there is. Making a few more millions, I suppose.”

  “I see,” said Drummond. “No wonder people were surprised last night at my ignorance.”

  He lounged back to his own chair thoughtfully.

  What was a man like that doing in the Hardcastle galaxy? True, Hardcastle was reputed to be wealthy, but Greatorex seemed pretty high game for him to have a business lunch with. He glanced at his watch: a sudden idea had come to him. It was just half-past eleven: the bar at the Ritz Carlton would be open. Charlie, the barman, was an old friend: he would go round there and have a cocktail. With luck he might see the man himself: anyway, Charlie was a positive fountain of gossip.

  The bar was empty when he got there, save for the barman polishing glasses, who hailed him delightedly.

  “Good morning, sir,” he cried. “It’s a long while since you’ve been here.”

  “’Morning, Charlie,” said Drummond. “Your drinks are too damned expensive for anyone short of a millionaire to come here often. But since I am here, I’ll gargle with a Bronx.”

  “How are you, sir?” continued the other. “You’re looking as fit as ever.”

  “Just living from hour to hour. Anyone interesting stopping in the pub?”

  Charlie shook his head.

  “Business very slack, sir. We’ve had a good season on the whole, but it’s pretty well over. Sir Edward Greatorex is here for a fortnight, but he’s no help to me.”

  “Even he can’t afford to pay your prices, I suppose?”

  The barman grinned. “Strict teetotaler, sir.”

  “What sort of a fellow is he, Charlie?”

  “Well, sir,” said the other confidentially, “the last time he was here he stayed for three weeks. He had the royal suite, and most of his meals were served in it. And when he left he tipped the floor-waiter a quid in mistake for a ten-bob note, and then wanted change when he found out what he’d done—”

  “Mean as that, is he?”

  “Mean, sir! Why, if people write him enclosing stamped envelopes for his reply, he first of all floats the stamps off, and then he borrows from the hotel gum to stick ’em on his own letters.”

  “That’s a good ’un, Charlie,” laughed Drummond.

  “I wouldn’t be that poor bloke of a secretary of his—not if you paid me five thousand a year,” went on the other. “Treats him like a dog, he does.”

  He gave a sudden cough, and, with a warning look at Drummond, turned to greet a man who had just entered the bar.

  “Good morning, sir. The usual, I suppose?”

  “Please, Charlie.”

  And Drummond, happening to glance at the newcomer, gave a little start of surprise. It was the man who had asked him the way to South Audley Street the previous night. He knew him immediately, though the other showed no sign of recognition. And then he remembered that during the few seconds they had talked his back had been to the street lamp, leaving his face in shadow.

  For a moment or two he debated whether he should remind him of their meeting and ask him if he had found his destination all right: then he decided not to. He had no desire to drink with him, which the other would probably suggest if he spoke. So he picked up a midday paper and ran his eye down the racing news, until the man, having finished his drink, left the bar.

  “Funny we should have been talking about him, sir, just as he came in,” said Charlie.

  Drummond stared at him in surprise.

  “You mean that he is the secretary?” he said at length.

  “Of course, sir. That’s why I coughed.”

  “Well, I’m damned,” said Drummond. “I thought you merely meant that someone was coming in and you wanted to change the conversation. So he is the secretary, is he? Charlie, give me another Bronx.”

  The barman looked at him curiously.

  “Almost looks as if you knew him, sir.”

  “No, I don’t know; but I’ve seen him. He has the hell of a time, has he?”

  “All of that, from what I hear, sir. And yet he seems to stick it all right. He was with Sir Edward, the last time he was here, and that’s eighteen months ago.”

  “Italian, I should imagine.”

  Charlie nodded.

  “Gardini is his name—Benito Gardini. He generally comes in here in the morning for a quick one. Your Bronx, sir.”

  “Thank you, Charlie. Have one yourself. Look here, could you find out something for me? I want to know if Sir Edward is lunching in his suite today, or whether he’s coming downstairs.”

  “Certainly, sir: nothing easier.” He turned round. “Bert!” he called.

  A youth in his shirt-sleeves popped his head out of an inner sanctum.

  “Yes, Mr. Green.”

  “Put on your coat and run upstairs to Number 40. Get hold of Leonard and find out whether lunch is being served in the room or not. And look slippy.”

  “I’m rather curious to see Sir Edward,” said Drummond, as the boy departed. “I’ve heard so much about him, but to the best of my belief I’ve never even seen a picture of him.”

  “He doesn’t look a bad sort at all, sir,” said Charlie. “Tall, with a small fair beard. But handsome is as handsome does. Well, Bert?”

  “Number 40 is going hout for lunch, Mr. Green,” said the boy. “Leonard don’t know where, but ’e ’eard them talking abaht it this morning. There’s a car coming for them at ’alf-past twelve.”

  “Well done, Bert,” said Drummond, handing him a shilling. “Be sure and put it in the plate on Sunday.”

  He glanced at his watch: twenty minutes past twelve. He would take up a position in the lounge that commanded both exits, and since the secretary would almost certainly accompany him, at any rate as far as the car, there would be no difficulty in spotting him.

  He found a suitable chair and lit a cigarette.

  The Comtessa’s house was in South Audley Street: was that where the secretary had been going? He wished now that he had waited to see, but there had been nothing in the harmless request for direction which could possibly have aroused his suspicions. And so it was the purest guesswork that her house had been his destination, but if the guess was correct, it was a funny hour to make a call.

  A sudden stir in the lounge roused him from his reverie. Two men were coming down the stairs, and one of them was Gardini. And for the second time that morning Drummond, as he studied the other, was conscious of a little shock of surprise.

  For somewhere, at some time or other, he had seen him before. The man was definitely familiar, and for a long time after they had passed through the lounge he sat on trying to puzzle out where they could have met. But try as he would, it eluded him, and when finally he left the hotel himself, he could only imagine that Sir Edward must have been pointed out to him on one of his previous visits to England, and that he had forgotten all about it. In any event, his hour at the Ritz Carlton had not been wasted.

  For the rest of the afternoon he killed time: there was nothing to do now except wait for Algy Longworth. He turned up just after nine, and a glance at his face showed that something had happened.

  “The most extraordinary thing, old boy,” he cried. “They have engaged both of us.”

  “The devil they have,” said Drummond. “Let’s hear all about it.”

  “We rolled up to the studio at half-past three,” began the other. “And the first thing that hit one was the army of blokes who had e
vidently come in answer to the advertisement. They were all over the place, scowling at one another, and it struck me that little Algy wasn’t going to have much of a chance. However, I beetled up to a door-keeper warrior, and told him what I wanted.

  “First left, second right,” he said wearily. “There are only about sixty in front of you.”

  “So we joined the glad throng, and after a while we noticed one thing. We might be sixtieth, but it wasn’t going to take long. Each interview was the shortest thing on record: it was more like a procession passing by a judge. At last our turn came, and in I barged with Laura. A damned great fellow in shirt-sleeves with a cigar in his mouth was sitting at a table. He took one look at me and shook his head.

  “‘No go,’ he said. Next.’”

  “But I thought you said they’d taken you,” cried Drummond.

  “Wait a moment, old boy: I’m coming to that. Out we pushed again, wondering how we could get a closer look at the place. All we’d seen up to date were a couple of passages and a small room, and from what Laura had said on the way down I gathered it was about all we were likely to see. The door into the actual studio was shut, and when we started to go in the commissionaire fellow let out a shout.

  “‘Not allowed in there,’ he cried, ‘without a permit.’

  “And we were just on the point of pushing off when another man in shirt-sleeves came dodging through the crowd that still blocked the passage.

  “‘Hi! You,’ he called out to me, ‘you’re wanted. Come back to the office, and the young lady too.’ So back we went, and found the big man still sitting there.

  “‘Are you both wanting engagements?’ he asked.

  “‘That’s the idea,’ I said. ‘Anything doing?’

  “‘Not with regard to the advertisement,’ he answered. ‘You don’t fill that bill. But it occurred to me after you’d gone that as there are two of you, we might be able to arrange something. Ever done any film work?’

  “I told him that I hadn’t, but that Laura had, and to cut a long story short, we were engaged at five pounds a week each. She gave her real name of Laura Mainwaring: I gave mine as Algy Wentworth.

  “‘I don’t quite know what we shall fix you with,’ he said in conclusion, ‘but there are one or two small parts that remain to be filled. Mr. Slingsby—’ he was the man who had come after us and fetched us back—’ will take you along into the studio and introduce you to our producer, Mr. Haxton. You’d better just have a look round and get the atmosphere of the piece we are doing. Society picture, with strong human appeal.’