The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “What do you mean?” asked Standish, looking a little mystified.

  “A show when it will be better for all concerned to move in couples,” answered the other quietly. “There’s every reason for Peter going with him if he’s under the weather, and it would be a ghastly thing if he was knocked out properly before the fun begins.”

  “But you don’t think…” began Standish.

  “I do,” said Drummond shortly. “The game has begun, I tell you, and Rule A is—Take no unnecessary chances. So get a move on, you two, or you’ll be butting into the Inspector. And vet the taxi, Peter, if there’s one loitering about near the house.”

  “You seem to have had a certain amount of experience in this sort of thing,” said Standish when the other two had disappeared down the road.

  Drummond gave a short laugh.

  “Just a little,” he confessed. “There have been times in the past when Fate has been very kind to me. And I’m thinking that she is still smiling. Tell me, Standish, did poor old Sanderson say anything important over the phone? Give you any names or information?”

  Standish shook his head.

  “Not a word. What about you at lunch today?”

  “Nothing at all. He told me that he had been aware for some time of a big organisation in England which was definitely hostile to the country. Some of the smaller fry had been laid by the heels, but that until a few days ago he had had no idea who the big men were. He also said that things were getting very ticklish and that there might be something doing in my line.”

  “Which, I gather,” said Standish with a smile, “is hitting first and talking after.”

  “Something of that sort,” agreed Drummond vaguely. “I can push a feller’s face in rather quicker than most.”

  “It’s much the same as what he said to me,” said Standish, growing serious again. “And I’m afraid I was rather inclined to laugh at the old chap. By Jove! there’s not much to laugh at over this development.”

  “That’s a fact,” agreed Drummond. “Who the devil was here, I wonder. Can it have been a woman alone?”

  “A woman do that?” Standish pointed to the dead man. “Why not? I’ve known at any rate one in the past who’d do it and ask for more.”

  “It’s the actual wound that staggers me, Drummond, as I was saying to Bill Leyton earlier. It was either the most astounding fluke that the aim was so accurate, or else his head must have been held from behind.”

  “Then,” objected Drummond, “he would surely have bellowed down the phone. Anyway, one thing is clear: this organisation he was talking about is a reality and he had found out too much for their peace of mind.”

  “It looks like it, I agree.”

  Standish glanced at his watch.

  “It strikes me that that inspector is a damned long time coming,” he remarked. “The station is only about a quarter of a mile away.”

  “Do you know him by any chance?”

  “Yes. A man called McIver: he’s quite capable.”

  “Not old McIver?” cried Drummond. “Why, he and I are the greatest pals. We once chased an elusive gentleman called Peterson together, though I must admit that I did most of the chasing, and he didn’t altogether approve of my methods. By the way, have you been through the drawers in the desk?”

  “I haven’t,” said Standish. “Your somewhat unexpected arrival interrupted matters.”

  “We might fill in the time till the police come having a look, don’t you think? There are his keys on that steel chain.”

  He gently removed the bunch from the dead man’s trouser pocket, and unfastened it from the chain. The centre drawer they could not get at, as it would have entailed moving the body, but they went through all the side ones systematically. But save for one small scrap of paper they found nothing of interest. It had evidently been torn out of a cheap note-book, and on it was scrawled in an illiterate handwriting—”The day of the week backwards. If two, omit first.”

  The two men stared at it mystified.

  “That’s certainly not his writing,” said Standish. “What the deuce does it mean?”

  “Must be something important,” remarked Drummond, “or he wouldn’t have kept it. But it’s got me beat.”

  “Same here,” admitted Standish, and once again he looked at his watch. “Do you realise,” he said, “that it’s forty minutes since that policeman left? Even if McIver was out someone else ought to have come by now.”

  They looked at one another thoughtfully.

  “Can’t have done the policeman in, can they?” said Drummond. “No object that I can see.”

  “Well, I’m not going to stop here any more,” cried Standish. “I’m going to the station myself. Will you come too?”

  “Yes,” said Drummond. “I will. I’ve still got that hunch about a two-man show, and I can’t do any good here.”

  They relocked the drawers, leaving everything, including the mysterious scrap of paper, exactly as they had found it. Then with a hail to Perkins to tell him what they were doing, they left the house.

  It was still blowing hard, and the road was deserted. Most of the houses they passed were in darkness: that district of London contains an early-to-bed population. And they had walked some little way in silence, when suddenly Drummond caught Standish’s arm and the two men halted. On the other side of the street were four or five new buildings in various stages of construction, and it was at one of these that Drummond was staring.

  “I thought I saw something move,” he muttered. “Hullo! what’s that?”

  Quite clearly above the howling of the wind had come a peculiar noise which sounded as if a pile of bricks had fallen down. And it came from the half-built house opposite.

  “The gale blown something over,” said Standish, but Drummond was already crossing the road. And with a shrug of his shoulders Standish followed him.

  The usual litter of planks and heaps of cement that accompany building operations made walking difficult, and suddenly Drummond swore under his breath. He had stumbled over something—something that he at first thought was a sack, but which immediately afterwards he realised was nothing of the sort.

  “Standish,” he called out. “Come here.”

  The other joined him, and Drummond flashed on his torch.

  “Well, I’m blowed,” he muttered. “Is the joker drunk?”

  Lying on the ground breathing stertorously was a man. He had evidently just slipped down from a sitting position, for a number of displaced bricks were behind him. But the thing that made them both stare at him in amazement was his costume: he was clad only in underclothes and a shirt.

  Suddenly Standish bent over him and sniffed.

  “Drunk be blowed,” he cried. “The man’s been chloroformed. His breath reeks of it.”

  And then he in his turn caught Drummond’s arm.

  “Look at his boots, man, look at his boots. If those aren’t police regulation boots I’ll eat my hat. Great Scott!” he almost shouted. “I’ve got it. We’ve been fooled, my boy. The police station—and run like the devil.”

  And three minutes later an astonished sergeant woke up from a slight doze as two somewhat breathless men came dashing in. “Has PC 005 made a report, Sergeant?” cried Standish.

  The Sergeant gaped at him stupidly.

  “No, sir. He’s not been in here since he started out on his beat. A report about what, if I may ask, sir?”

  “Murder,” said Standish shortly. “Mr Sanderson’s been murdered.”

  “What’s that? Mr Sanderson murdered?” came an incredulous voice.

  Inspector McIver had entered from another room.

  “Hullo! Mr Standish. And you, Captain Drummond. What’s this you say, gentlemen?”

  “Come straight along with us, McIver,” said Standish. “There is not a moment to be lost. He’s been killed in his own house, but I want to stop at one of the partially built ones half-way there. Stabbed in the eye, McIver,” he explained as they started. “It’s o
ne of the most amazing crimes of modern times, as you’ll see for yourself in a few minutes. But first of all I want you to have a look at this. Now then,” he said as he led the way over the rubble, and Drummond flashed his torch on the unconscious man, “who is that?”

  “PC 005,” grunted McIver. “What the devil is the meaning of this?”

  “He’s been chloroformed,” said Standish quietly, “with the sole object of stealing his uniform. And the man who stole it calmly interviewed us in his role as a policeman in the room where Mr Sanderson was murdered.”

  “Quick,” said Drummond, “darned quick. This is beginning to look like the goods.”

  “Why should he want to interview you?” demanded McIver.

  “Lots of reasons. Perhaps he didn’t know how many of us were there: I don’t know what the butler told him. But he wanted to get back into that room unsuspected. And he did so. Then he found four of us…”

  “Four,” echoed the Inspector.

  “Yes,” said Standish. “You know Mr Leyton, don’t you, McIver? A great friend of mine. Tall, thin man.”

  “And you certainly know Peter Darrell,” remarked Drummond.

  “Yes: I know most of your friends, Captain Drummond,” said McIver grimly. “Are they at the house now?”

  “No,” remarked Standish gravely. “Bill Leyton felt—er—a bit ill, and he and Mr Darrell left about an hour ago.”

  “An hour,” cried McIver. “Do you mean to say…”

  And the words died away on his lips as he suddenly felt Drummond’s vice-like grip on his arm.

  “Not a word,” whispered Drummond. “Look there.”

  They had reached the gate of Sanderson’s house, and Drummond was pointing at the lighted window.

  “Get back under cover,” he muttered. “That’s the room where the body is, McIver, and there are men in it. I saw their shadows moving.”

  CHAPTER II

  They crouched down in the shadow of some bushes, staring at the house.

  “Three of ’em,” said Drummond in a low voice. “The Lord has delivered them into our hands.”

  “Couldn’t be the butler and your two friends, I suppose?” whispered McIver.

  Standish shook his head.

  “Most improbable,” he answered. “And if they are, there’s no harm done. The point is, how we’re going to get into the house. The front door is bolted with a Yale lock, and if we ring the bell the element of surprise has gone. I’ve tackled the back door once tonight: what about trying it again?”

  McIver grinned faintly, but made no comment, and the three men keeping close to the wall tiptoed round the side of the house. As before, it was in darkness and Standish frowned uneasily.

  “Where are Perkins and his wife?” he whispered. “I don’t like it.”

  For the second time he produced his peculiar-looking implement and inserted it in the keyhole, and once again McIver grinned faintly as the lock shot back.

  “Quite a professional, Mr Standish,” he remarked. “I didn’t know that that was one of your accomplishments.”

  They crept along the passage only to stop suddenly as they came opposite the kitchen door. For the fire had been made up, and by its light they could see the motionless figure of a woman sitting in a chair. She was lashed to it with rope, and a cloth had been tied tightly round her mouth. But her eyes were open, and as she saw them an ominous glitter shone in them. Clearly Mrs Perkins was not in the best of tempers.

  “We’ll set you free in a moment, Mrs Perkins,” whispered Standish. “But the first thing to do is to catch the swine. My God! what’s happened?”

  For there had suddenly come from upstairs a hissing, crackling noise, and shadows began to dance fantastically on the stairs. Then a great cloud of smoke eddied towards them, followed by a strong smell of burning.

  “They’ve fired the house,” shouted Drummond, dashing up into the hall. The other two were just behind him, and the next moment they were all sprawling in a heap on the floor. They had tripped over something, and the something was the unconscious body of the butler. And as they scrambled to their feet there came a mocking laugh and the front door slammed.

  “Get Perkins and his wife out of it,” cried Drummond. “I’m after ’em.”

  But when he reached the road all that he saw was the red tail-lamp of a car disappearing in the distance: the men had got clean away. Behind him the upper part of the house was like an inferno: flames were roaring out of the window of the room where Sanderson’s body lay, and were rapidly spreading all along the story. Then McIver appeared dragging Perkins, and a few moments later Standish came round the corner of the house supporting his wife.

  “Petrol,” said the Inspector shortly. “The place reeks of it. If only we’d waited here a minute or two longer we’d have caught em.”

  “True, laddie,” murmured Drummond. “But these two wretched souls would probably have been burned to death.”

  Windows had been flung up in the neighbouring houses, and McIver, going out into the road, hailed a man opposite and asked him to ring up the fire brigade. He had to shout, so great was the noise of the flames which, fanned by the wind, were now sending out showers of sparks into the night. And then at last from the distance came the clang of a bell and the fire engine arrived.

  “I wonder what was the inducement that made them run such a risk?” said Standish thoughtfully. “We almost got ’em.”

  He was standing in the road with Drummond watching the firemen at work.

  “Papers possibly,” answered the other. “Don’t forget the keys were in my pocket, and that was a very substantial desk. They may have decided it would take too long to force the drawers—they knew we must come back shortly—and so they fired the place.”

  “Doesn’t quite work, old boy,” said Standish. “Since they used petrol they must have gone there with the intention of firing the house.”

  “That’s true,” admitted Drummond. “I wonder if Mrs Perkins can throw any light on the matter?”

  But that worthy woman was not much help. She and her husband had heard their hail as they left the house, and then very shortly afterwards had again heard voices upstairs. Thinking they had returned, Perkins had gone up to the hall, and the next thing she had heard was the sound of a fall. She had called out, and receiving no answer had been on the point of going to see what had happened when two men rushed into the kitchen and seized her.

  “Would you recognise either of them?” cried Standish.

  Once again they drew blank. The men had been masked, and save for the fact that one was tall and the other short she could give no further description of them.

  “So it boils down to this,” said Drummond thoughtfully. “The only one of the whole gang that we should know by sight again is the bloke who masqueraded as PC 005.”

  Nor was Perkins of any assistance: less, indeed, than his wife. He had gone into the hall where he saw the outlines of three men. And he was on the point of switching on the light, when he received a stunning blow on the back of the head, and remembered nothing more.

  “All the more fun, old lad,” said Drummond earnestly to Standish. “I don’t like these little performances when they are too easy. And unless I’m much mistaken the next move will come from them.”

  “What makes you think that?” said Standish doubtfully. “Because they can’t be sure how much we know,” answered the other.

  The fire, by this time, was more or less under control. Some of the bottom story was still intact, but the whole of the upper part of the house was completely gutted. Naturally the end which had suffered most was the one in which Sanderson’s room had been, and where the petrol had been poured. And even as they watched, the floor of his study gave way, and what was left of the desk and the rest of the furniture fell with a crash into the room below.

  “Two hours at least, gentlemen, before anyone can get in,” said McIver, joining them. “Are you going to wait?”

  “I don’t think there’s much u
se,” answered Standish. “Presumably we shall be wanted at the inquest, and you know where to find us. And if you come round and see me tomorrow I can give you full details, though I warn you they aren’t very full.”

  “You said he’d been stabbed through the eye,” said the Inspector.

  “That’s right. And it was done in the middle of a telephone conversation with me.”

  “Most extraordinary,” said McIver. “Well, the post-mortem may reveal something if there’s anything left after that blaze to hold a post-mortem on. Good night, gentlemen.”

  He turned away with a nod, and the two men pushed their way through the fringe of spectators that a fire alarm draws together no matter what the time or locality. And it was not until they had walked some way in silence that Drummond glanced sideways at his companion.

  “Are you going to give him full details?” he said quietly.

  “Confound you, Drummond,” laughed Standish. “I know what you’re driving at. But you’ve got to bear in mind that I’m almost in a semi-official position.”

  “But not quite. That’s just the point. And don’t forget one thing: even the police have been known to suppress evidence at an inquest when they think it undesirable for it to be made public. Laddie,” he continued earnestly, “it would be nothing short of a crime to run the slightest chance of spoiling this show. I may say that as a fairly good judge I have seldom known one start more auspiciously.”

  “There are points about it, I agree, which promise well,” conceded the other.

  “Certain things, naturally, you will have to tell: the telephone conversation, the wound—all that does no harm. But as for his suspicions which he passed on to us concerning the existence of this organisation, what is the use of mentioning anything about it? You know nothing more than that he had suspicions…”

  “Which have now been amply justified,” interrupted Standish.

  “Exactly. Which is all the more reason why we shouldn’t let the other side know that we know they’re justified. Lull ’em, old lad, into a false sense of security. Then when we finally get on to ’em, we’ll shake ’em to the marrow.”

  He waved a vast hand at a passing taxi.