The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “The plain fact remains that the poor devil didn’t dodge it,” said Leyton.

  “There is another very remarkable point about the whole thing, Bill,” went on Standish. “Why did the man select the middle of a telephone conversation of all times to kill him? It seems the one moment of all others to avoid.”

  “That certainly is a bit of a poser,” agreed Leyton.

  “It’s such a poser that there must be a good reason for it, and there’s one that occurs to me. If a man is speaking into a telephone, even one of the desk type like this, he keeps his head still. And that was probably essential for the infliction of this wound. Well—I’m just going to have a look round and see if I can spot anything, and then we’ll go for the police.”

  He glanced through the contents of a paper-rack: there was nothing save a couple of invitations and some bills. Then his eyes travelled slowly over the desk. There was not much on it: a tray containing pens; a calendar; an open bottle of Stephens’ ink. In the middle were several sheets of blotting-paper folded together into a pad, one corner of which was stained a vivid crimson—the dead man’s head had fallen there.

  “His pockets we had better not touch,” said Standish, “but possibly the waste-paper basket might reveal something.”

  But it was almost empty: a torn-up letter, and a small fragment of blotting-paper with an ink stain in the centre of it was the total bag.

  “Nothing much in that lot,” he continued. “Hullo! this ink is still damp. And there’s the place on the pad where this bit was torn from. Cheer up, Bill,” he added with a faint smile, “I’ve nearly done. By the way, I wonder where the cork of that bottle is?”

  And Bill Leyton exploded.

  “Damn it, Ronald, I don’t know and I don’t care. This room, with that poor blighter sitting dead there, is giving me the willies. What does it matter where the cork is? It probably was taken out of the bottle and fell on the desk and made a blot. Then that bit of blotting-paper was torn off to wipe it up with.”

  “And the cork was then thrown out of the window in a fit of pique,” added Standish with mild sarcasm.

  “But what can it matter, old boy?” said Leyton irritably. “The wound can’t have been done with a cork.”

  And then he shrugged his shoulders: there had appeared on the other’s face an expression he knew only too well. Standish was following up some idea in his mind, and nothing short of an earthquake would disturb his concentration. What possible importance could be attached to the fact that the ink bottle was minus a cork Leyton failed to see, but he knew the futility of arguing.

  “You don’t shake an ink bottle, Bill, before you open it,” said Standish suddenly. “And that one is half empty.”

  “What the deuce?” began Leyton feebly.

  “It’s got this to do with it,” said the other. “The cork would be dry when it came out. Therefore the ink that that little piece of blotting-paper was used to mop up did not come from the cork.”

  He stiffened abruptly.

  “Listen,” he whispered, “don’t make a sound. There’s someone moving downstairs.”

  The two men stood motionless, straining their ears. The wind had dropped a little, and in a momentary lull they distinctly heard the creak of a board in the hall below.

  “Get behind the curtains, Bill,” he muttered. “It may be that the murderer has come back for something.”

  They stood waiting tensely, one on each side of the window. Between them the blind, with a sort of devilish perversity, flapped more than ever, so that it was quite impossible to hear any noise in the house. And since the door opened towards the window the passage outside was invisible from where they stood.

  Through a little chink Leyton could see most of the room: the dead man sprawling over the desk; the half-open door; the switches on the wall beyond. But it was at the door he was staring, fascinated: who was going to come round it in a few moments?

  Suddenly he heard a stifled exclamation from outside, and glancing across at Standish he saw that he was standing rigid, his revolver ready in his hand. Then he once more looked at the door: the visitor had arrived. Seconds dragged on into minutes: the suspense was becoming unbearable when, happening to glance at the two switches, he saw a hand resting on them. And the next moment the room was in darkness save for the light from the street lamp outside.

  He could no longer see the door itself, only the desk with its motionless occupant looking even more dreadful in the eerie half-light. But an unmistakable creak from the side of the room told him the unknown had entered. What was going to happen now? he wondered; and the next instant he knew. Some hard object struck him a crashing blow in the face and in the stomach, and he let out a shout of pain.

  “Splendid,” came a voice from near the wall, “I thought I wasn’t mistaken. I’ve got you covered, so just step into the lighted area by the window and step darned quick, or the next thing that hits you won’t be a table.”

  Leyton glanced across at Standish, and saw him give a quick nod. The game was clear: evidently the table thrower thought there was only one man behind the curtains. So he stepped out obediently and waited. His nose felt as if it was broken, and he was half winded, but those were trifles compared to the shock the other man was going to get in a moment or two.

  “You look a bit of a streak of misery in silhouette, don’t you,” went on the voice. “Let’s have a look at you in real life. Peter—switch on.”

  And then things happened. He had a momentary glimpse of a vast individual about four feet away from him, and another man by the door. And the next instant he was tackled round the waist, and went crashing backwards, knocking over Standish, who had come out from his curtain and was standing just behind him.

  “Two of ’em, Peter,” roared the big man, “and one’s got a gun.”

  What the result would have been is doubtful: he was wedged in a struggling mass between Standish, who was on the floor, and someone who felt rather like Carnera on top of him. But the end came most unexpectedly.

  “Quit it, Hugh,” cried another voice, “there’s some mistake. I know this bloke.”

  “What’s that?” The big man scrambled to his feet. “A mistake. There was no mistake about the revolver I saw in his hand.”

  “It’s Ronald Standish. I’ve played cricket with him.”

  “Good Lord! it’s Peter Darrell. Well, I’m damned.” Standish was sitting on the floor rubbing his head. “Who in the name of heaven is your pal?”

  “Drummond, old boy: Captain Hugh Drummond.”

  “I’m most dreadfully sorry,” said Drummond. “I seem to have bloomered badly. But I saw poor old Jim Sanderson dead at his desk, and I could just see through the crack by the hinges of the door that there was someone behind this curtain. I couldn’t see the other one, and I jumped to the conclusion that whoever it was couldn’t be up to any good. So I drew the fox by bunging a table at it, and then I suddenly realised I was looking down a gun, when it doesn’t do to stand on ceremony. However, those are all trifles: what on earth has happened here?”

  “The poor old chap has been murdered,” said Standish gravely.

  “I’m not altogether surprised,” remarked Drummond quietly. “He told me today that he thought the ice was getting darned thin. You’ve no idea who did it, I suppose?”

  Standish was silent for a few moments while he studied the other.

  “None,” he said at length. “May I ask what brought you here tonight, Captain Drummond?”

  “Nothing can prevent you asking what you like, Mr Standish,” answered Drummond affably. “And perhaps I’ll tell you if you’ll answer the same question yourself.”

  “Cut it out, you two,” said Darrell. “I personally guarantee each of you to the other. And it seems to me it would be best if we all pooled our knowledge.”

  “Bravely spoken, Peter,” said Drummond. “But as that may be a longish job, oughtn’t we to do something about this first? I suppose it will be necessary to get the police.”


  Standish glanced at him sharply.

  “Of course it will,” he cried. “What an extraordinary suggestion.”

  “Peter—I believe he suspects us,” said Drummond. “You must explain to him some time or other that in the past we have always tried to dispense with their help. And mark you, Standish, we’re on something pretty big: his murder proves it.”

  He went nearer the dead man and bent over him.

  “My God! what an awful wound. Shot clean through the eye.”

  “Not shot,” said Standish, “or I should have heard it. He was telephoning to me when he was killed. That’s what brought Leyton and me up here.”

  “Not shot,” echoed Drummond. “Then how in the name of fortune was that wound made?”

  “Exactly,” agreed Standish. “How?”

  “At any rate, Peter, we now know why we couldn’t get any reply on the phone,” said Drummond after a pause. “Which, if you want to know, Standish, is what brought us up here also.”

  But Standish was not listening: he was staring at something under the desk.

  “The plot thickens,” he remarked as he stooped down to pick it up. “There is a lady in the case.”

  He held in his hand a fine bronze hairpin.

  “It was lying half hidden,” he said, “and the light happened to catch it.”

  “And he wasn’t married,” remarked Drummond thoughtfully. “That certainly looks the nearest approach to a clue there seems to be. Of course, it may belong to one of the servants. By the way—where are the servants? We haven’t been exactly silent, have we?”

  And as if in answer to his question they heard voices in the hall below. A man was speaking, and then came a woman’s reply. They stood waiting, their eyes on the door. Someone was coming up the stairs; someone who evidently had no idea that anything was wrong, for they could hear him whistling under his breath. There came a perfunctory knock on the half-open door and a man appeared, who halted in amazement as he saw the four of them watching him. Then his eyes fell on the motionless figure at the desk, and with a gasp he staggered back against the wall.

  “What’s ’appened?” he stammered. “In Gawd’s name—what’s ’appened?”

  “Who are you?” said Standish quietly.

  “Mr Sanderson’s butler, sir. I’ve just come in.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Perkins, sir. I’ve just come in with my wife, sir. ’Ow did it ’appen, sir?”

  “That, Perkins, is what we want to try and find out,” said Standish. “Try and pull yourself together, my man, because I should like you to answer a few questions. Was that your wife I heard you talking to downstairs?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve just got in from the pictures.”

  “And when did you go out?”

  “Quarter to eight, sir. Mr Sanderson let us go before he finished his dinner.”

  “Was anyone having dinner with him?”

  “No, sir. He was alone.”

  “Did he say anything to you about expecting anybody after?”

  “No, sir—not a word.”

  “Now, Perkins, here’s a hairpin. Can you tell me if that belongs to your wife?”

  The butler shook his head decisively.

  “No, sir. That I know it doesn’t. The missus has black ones.”

  “Is there any other maidservant in the house?”

  Once again the man shook his head.

  “No, sir. My wife and I do all the work.”

  “And you’re quite certain, Perkins, that Mr Sanderson said nothing to you about expecting anyone this evening?”

  “Quite positive, sir. His last words to me were—’Come back when you like and I hope you enjoy yourselves.’ And seeing the light in the window, sir, I just came up to see if he wanted anything. What’s ’appened, sir? Lumme—this will break the missus’ heart. One of the kindest gentlemen I ever knew.”

  The man’s grief was obvious, and Drummond laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.

  “He’s been foully murdered, Perkins,” he said.

  “Who’s the swine what did it?” cried the butler. “Strewth! if I could get my hands on him he’d go the same way.”

  “That’s what we all feel,” said Standish. “And with luck we’ll do it. But I want you now to do something. Go out and get hold of the first policeman you see, and bring him back here.”

  “Very good, sir: I’ll go. As a matter of fact, there was one not far from the house when we came in.”

  With a last look at his master he left the room, and a moment or two later the front door slammed.

  “There’s no good interrogating the wife,” said Standish. “The police can do that if they want to, and we’ve found out all we can from Perkins. By the way, Drummond—what made you say a little while ago that we were up against something pretty big?”

  “I think that that had better keep,” said the other quietly. “There are footsteps on the drive which must be Perkins returning with the necessary peeler. Tomorrow we can compare notes. But there is one thing we must settle at once. The mere fact that you were talking to him over the telephone is sufficient to account for you being here, but not for Peter and me. So until we’ve compared notes shall we have it that we were all playing a quiet game of push-halfpenny in your rooms and came together?”

  For a moment Standish hesitated, and a faint smile flickered round his lips. He was beginning to remember one or two yarns Peter Darrell had told him on cricket tours in the past which concerned Hugh Drummond—stories which he had largely discounted in view of the obvious hero-worship of the teller. But now he began to wonder if they were exaggerated. As a pretty shrewd judge of a rough house he had to admit that Drummond was a past master and could give him points. A glance at the unfortunate Leyton’s nose, which was now a rich blue, and the feeling of his own elbow from which every particle of skin had been removed were sufficient confirmation of that fact.

  “Don’t forget,” continued Drummond quietly, “that unless you agree I shall have to give my real reason for being here. The mere fact that I could get no answer to the telephone is not enough. And that means that things will come out at the inquest.”

  He looked at Standish searchingly.

  “Things,” he went on, “of which I don’t think you are in complete ignorance yourself. Do we want them in the newspapers—yet?”

  Voices could already be heard on the stairs: Perkins, wild and incoherent—the other stolid and unemotional.

  “Right,” said Standish, making up his mind. “We were all playing bridge in my rooms.”

  “Would to Allah we had been,” muttered Leyton ruefully.

  “Then I shouldn’t be wanting a new face.”

  “This way, officer: here’s the room.”

  Perkins flung open the door, and a policeman entered who, after a glance at the dead man, gave the other four a look of keen scrutiny.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “This looks a bad business. May I ask what you know about it?”

  “I’ll tell you all we know about it, officer,” said Standish.

  The policeman listened attentively, making a note from time to time with a stubby pencil.

  “Nine-forty, you say, sir, when you were telephoning. And there was no trace of anyone here when you arrived.”

  “The house was empty,” said Standish.

  “Then may I ask, sir, how you got in?”

  “A very natural question, officer,” remarked Standish.

  “Feeling convinced that something was very much amiss I took the law into my own hands and broke in.”

  The policeman shook his head gravely.

  “That’s an offence, sir: you had no right to do so.”

  “I am fully aware of that fact,” said Standish. “And I will take full responsibility for it when the time comes. I may say my name is very well known at Scotland Yard.”

  “Well, sir—it’s your affair, not mine. And while I think of it, I’d just like the names and addresses o
f all you gentlemen.”

  They gave them to him, and he wrote them down in his notebook.

  “Now, sir,” he continued, “do you know of anyone who had a grudge against Mr Sanderson?”

  “I can’t say that I do,” said Standish. “But his job was one in which he would almost certainly have made powerful enemies.” The policeman nodded portentously, and then proceeded to examine the body. But after a short time he straightened up and shook his head.

  “Well, sir, this is too big a job for me to handle: I must get the Inspector. Will you gentlemen be good enough to remain here while I go to the station. I shan’t be long.”

  “All right, officer: we’ll wait.”

  The policeman picked up his helmet, and a few seconds later the front door slammed behind him.

  “You can wait downstairs, Perkins,” said Standish. “Don’t go to bed, of course, and you’d better tell your wife what has happened.”

  The butler left the room, and suddenly Standish began to laugh.

  “Sorry, Bill: can’t help it. Your face is one of the funniest sights I’ve seen for a long while.”

  “Glad you think so,” grunted Leyton.

  “I apologise, laddie,” said Drummond. “I apologise profusely. But it’s a dangerous hobby—hiding behind curtains. Look here, why don’t you toddle off and get a raw steak on it: if you beat up a butcher he’ll give you his whole shop as soon as he sees you.”

  “Not a bad idea,” agreed Standish. “In fact, it’s a good one, Bill. Luckily that policeman asked no questions, but the Inspector is bound to want to know what you’ve been doing. So you push off: I’ll say you weren’t feeling up to the scratch.”

  “And, Peter, you go with him,” said Drummond. “I’ve got a hunch, Standish—may be right, may be wrong. But we’re in a two-man show.”