The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “Let’s go to your place,” he remarked, “and have a spot while we talk it over.”

  Standish sat back in his corner and lit a cigarette. There was undoubtedly something in what Drummond said. The case would inevitably cause a tremendous sensation in the papers: the details were so bizarre and extraordinary. But it was possible that if they kept their mouths shut over certain points public interest would die down after a few days, and as Drummond had said, the other side would be lulled into a sense of false security.

  That the other side was not to be sneezed at was evident. Their actions that night proved that they were bold to a degree: also that there were several of them. But, however bold they were, he once again began to ask himself why they had run such a foolhardy risk in coming back to fire the house. It could not have been a question of papers, for another reason besides the one he had given Drummond. Whoever it was who had done the murder would have had ample time to go through all the drawers and get away at leisure. What, then, could have caused them to take such a well-nigh incredible chance? Was there some clue left behind in the room that he had overlooked, and which it was imperative for them to destroy: a clue which possibly the man masquerading as the policeman had spotted? One thing at any rate was certain. Whatever had been their reason for doing it, they had succeeded only too well. No vestige or shadow of evidence remained for investigation.

  “Our last remaining hope, as far as I can see at the moment,” he remarked as the taxi stopped, “is that PC 005 will be able to throw some light on the matter. Though,” he added grimly, “I don’t think it’s likely. There is an atmosphere of thoroughness about these gentlemen that appeals to me.”

  “My dear fellow, they’re the goods,” cried Drummond. “And I sincerely hope you’ve seen the force of my arguments. Hullo! what’s stung you?”

  For Standish had paused in the doorway of his sitting-room and was staring at his desk.

  “Somebody has been at my papers,” he said quietly. Drummond raised his eyebrows.

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “Absolutely certain. They are none of them in the same position as I left them.”

  “Your man, perhaps.”

  “He knows it’s as much as his life is worth,” grunted Standish. “And confound ’em, whoever they are, they’ve forced all the drawers.”

  Drummond let out a bellow of laughter.

  “Gorgeous,” he cried. “We very considerately gave them all our addresses and they’ve wasted no time.”

  “You’ll probably find they’ve done the same to you,” said the other.

  “They’re welcome to anything they can find in my rooms,” grinned Drummond, “provided they don’t take my book of stories. But they aren’t going to worry about me—at any rate not at present. It was you he was ringing up when they got him, and it’s you they’re after at the moment.”

  Standish nodded thoughtfully.

  “You’re probably right there,” he agreed. “Anyway, I see no vast reason against a drink.”

  He walked over to the cupboard and produced two glasses. “You haven’t perchance got a spot of ale, old lad?” said Drummond. “I’d sooner have it than whisky if it can be managed.”

  “Sure thing,” cried Standish. “There are a dozen Lager in the corner. Help yourself.”

  He mixed himself a stiff whisky and soda, whilst Drummond opened a bottle of beer.

  “Poor old Sanderson!” Standish sat down with his drink. “I can’t get over it. By Jove! he’ll be a loss to the country.”

  “A loss for which payment is going to be extracted in full,” said Drummond grimly. “We’ll get ’em, Standish: you can stake your bottom dollar on that.”

  He took a long drink of beer, and the next moment choked violently as a hand clutched his arm so suddenly that the contents of his glass were spilled all over the carpet. He swung round: Standish was swaying beside him. His eyes were half closed, and he seemed to be trying to say something. Then with a grunt he pitched forward on the hearth-rug.

  For a while Drummond stared at the recumbent figure dazedly: what on earth had happened to the fellow? He was breathing stertorously: his cheeks were flushed, and at first it seemed to Drummond that he must have had some kind of fit. And then as he bent over him he distinctly smelt something strange about his breath—something that was certainly not entirely due to whisky.

  He straightened up, and stood looking thoughtfully across the room. Drugged, and the drug was evidently no weak one. And if he hadn’t been drinking beer they’d both be lying unconscious on the floor.

  The first shock over, his brain began to work at speed. As always in an emergency his head became ice cool, and though at the moment there was nothing to be done it was his course of action in the next half-hour or so that had to be decided and decided upon quickly.

  He went to the door and opened it cautiously: there was no sound of movement in the house. Clearly, therefore, Standish’s fall had not aroused anyone. Then he returned to the fireplace and once more bent over the unconscious figure. The breathing was easier; the colour in the cheeks more natural: he had been caught with the most ordinary of age-old tricks. But why? What was the good of drugging Standish, merely for the pleasure of drugging him? To shut his mouth at the inquest? Absurd. Standish was the principal witness, and if he was unfit to give evidence the proceedings would be adjourned till he was fit. There must be some other more cogent reason than that, and as far as he could see there was only one that held water. The other side was going to have a shot at kidnapping Standish altogether. They had gambled on the fact that he would have a drink before going to bed, and they proposed at their leisure to remove him that night.

  A grim smile flickered round Drummond’s lips: it was a situation after his own heart. One obvious line of action stood out: to call the nearest policeman and await further developments. But as a stealthy glance through the window showed him the figure of a man lurking on the other side of the street a difficulty at once arose if he took that line. There would be no further developments. And since the policeman would inevitably assume that Standish was drunk and not drugged, it might prove a little hard to keep him there the entire night. He would insist on putting Standish to bed, and then departing about his lawful occasions. Besides, his every instinct rebelled against such a defensive policy. Here was a chance to get information, and not to miss it. The point to be decided was the best way to set about it.

  The man outside knew that he was there. He must have been seen going in with Standish, and since there is no back exit from the houses in Clarges Street he could not have left. So would it be feasible to leave ostentatiously by the front door: call up some message from the pavement to Standish, and then return later? If the light continued for a couple of hours in the sitting-room they would assume that the drug had worked, especially if he made some allusion from outside to Standish having a night-cap.

  But here another difficulty arose. The street outside was almost deserted, and it would remain so for the rest of the night. It would be next door to impossible for him to return to the house once he had left it without being seen. Further, there was no hiding-place where he could remain concealed and hope to find out anything worth knowing. So that scheme would not hold water.

  What about going to ground somewhere in Standish’s rooms: the bathroom or his bedroom? Again he dismissed the idea. The others, if they came at all, would be bound to search the place, when he would certainly be discovered. And though it might lead to a pleasing rough house, that was not what he wanted. It was information he was after: to see without being seen.

  Suddenly the only possibility struck him. It was a risk, but taking risks was the main creed of his life. What made him hesitate temporarily was a doubt if he could pull it off, and if it was not successful he might get better results by one of the methods he had already discarded. Could he bluff them into thinking that he too was drugged? Remain in the room the whole time and see what took place: see who came; get a line on
what they were up against. Could he act sufficiently well to deceive them? That was the crux of the matter.

  Standish was now snoring peacefully, and he realised the decision must be made soon. And for a moment or two Drummond was even tempted to get a taxi and take him back to his own rooms. Then he dismissed the idea as unworthy of consideration: it was worse, if possible, than calling in the law. He would chance it.

  Creeping on hands and knees lest his shadow should be seen from outside, he took his beer glass to the bathroom to wash it. Then still on all fours, he returned and half-filled it with whisky and soda. He took the chair facing the door and placed the glass on the coal scuttle beside him. Then he suddenly noticed the empty beer bottle, and once more he crawled across the carpet to hide it amongst its full brethren. There was nothing more to be done now except to sit and wait.

  The sound of the traffic from Piccadilly was growing less and less, and he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Nearly two: how much longer would it be? He dared not smoke for fear it might be noticed, and as the minutes dragged on he began to wonder if he was not making a fool of himself. Were they coming at all? Had he misjudged the whole situation completely?

  Three o’clock, and his head began to nod. He pulled himself together: to be found asleep would wreck everything. The fire had died down, but to make it up would be fatal, though the room was getting cold. Everything must appear to be normally consistent with them both having been unconscious for a couple of hours at least.

  And then suddenly there came a sound which made him wide awake in an instant. A car had drawn up just outside. He could hear the faint purring of the engine; the opening of a door; finally the noise of a key being inserted in the lock below. There was a muttered conversation on the pavement, and then the front door was quietly opened.

  Now Hugh Drummond was about as free from the needle as any living man, but he felt his pulses quickening a little. Had he been able to meet these people—and every instinct told him they were coming to the room he was in—had he been able to meet them in the ordinary way as himself he would not have turned a hair. Two or four—numbers never mattered to him in the slightest. But to have to sit there pretending to be unconscious, unable to do anything whatever happened, was a very unfamiliar role.

  He let his head sprawl back on the chair in such a position that he could see with the minimum opening of his eyelids. Then listening intently he waited. The door was just ajar: the landing outside was in darkness. And through his almost closed eyes he watched the black opening.

  A belated taxi travelling at speed passed in the distance, and then, as the noise died away, there came the sharp crack of a board from just outside. And the next instant he saw a man’s face peering into the room. It was their friend of earlier on, who had impersonated PC 005, and who was now dressed in his ordinary clothes.

  The door was pushed open, and he came into the room. “All right,” he whispered. “They’re both here.”

  Two other men entered, and Drummond studied them cautiously. His breathing was heavy and regular: his limbs were relaxed; and after one searching glance through almost closed lids to ensure that he would recognise them again he shut his eyes completely. Were these the three, he wondered, who had fired Sanderson’s house?

  Of the two new ones, the first who came in was small and looked like a ferret. He had a sharp nose and prominent teeth: his hair was sandy and his ears stuck out. Moreover, in sharp contrast to the other two his clothes were shoddy. In fact, he looked rather like a cheap bookmaker’s tout.

  The third man on the other hand was the exact contrary. A top hat was slightly tilted on the back of his head; his evening overcoat, complete with red carnation, was open, revealing a white waistcoat and boiled shirt. His features were aquiline: his eyes a strikingly vivid blue. But what might have been a very good-looking face was spoiled by thin lips and a sneering expression. His character was plain for all to read: cold and merciless to the last degree.

  He approached Standish and turned him over with his foot, whilst the other two watched him: there was no doubt as to who was the leader. Then he crossed to Drummond, and lifting up one hand pinched it hard. But Drummond, who had anticipated something of the sort, gave no sign, and with a grunt the man turned away.

  “They’re both under,” he said curtly. “Which is which?”

  “The one on the hearth-rug is Standish,” answered the bogus policeman, while the man like a ferret went to the window and peered out.

  “Who is the big guy in the chair?”

  “His name is Drummond: I can’t tell you more than that.”

  “You said there were four of them in Sanderson’s house.”

  “So there were, sir. I suppose the other two have gone back to their rooms.”

  There came the scrape of a match, and the man in evening clothes lit a cigarette.

  “You’ve been through all his papers?” he demanded. “Every one, and found nothing,” answered the other. “I didn’t think you would. What he knows is in his head—if he knows anything at all. You say Sanderson was actually telephoning to him at the time.”

  “So Number Four told me.”

  “And that over the telephone at any rate no information was given?”

  “That’s so, sir.”

  The leader, having crossed to the desk, was going methodically through the papers on it, and once again Drummond cautiously opened one eye. Ferret-face was still by the window, the other two had their backs to him, and for a moment or two he was tempted to take them by surprise. There would not be much difficulty in laying the pair of them out, summon the police and have the whole lot arrested. But he hesitated. As yet he had heard nothing of importance. Apparently some mysterious individual known as Number Four had murdered Sanderson, but obviously he was not one of these three. And there was still a possibility that some remark might be made which would give some valuable information.

  Evidently the man in evening clothes was one of the louder noises in the gang: possibly even the loudest. Apart from the “sir,” his whole demeanour placed him in a different class to the other two.

  “When did you get your orders?” he demanded suddenly. “Number Four gave them to me after he’d done the job,” answered the other.

  “Did they include laying out that policeman?”

  “No. But it was necessary to get into the house somehow.”

  “You’re a fool, Gulliver,” said the man in evening clothes softly. “The last thing you want to do in this country is to monkey with the police.”

  “How else was Ito get in?” muttered Gulliver sullenly. “And my orders were to get all names and addresses, and find out anything I could.”

  For a while the other made no reply, but continued methodically going through the papers on the desk.

  “Did you find out anything?” he demanded after a while. Gulliver shook his head.

  “Not a thing. But a man like Standish wouldn’t be likely to say much to an ordinary policeman in any case.”

  “Where is Number Four now?”

  “I can’t tell you, sir: I don’t know. He handed me my orders, and then got straight into the car and drove off. A lady was with him.”

  “What’s that? A lady. What sort of a lady?”

  The man in evening clothes had swung round, and his voice had risen.

  “Couldn’t see very well: she was all muffled up. Young, I should think; anyway, she had a very good figure. Golden hair, too: I saw that.”

  “Good God! it’s impossible.”

  The other had risen and was pacing excitedly up and down the room.

  “She promised me,” he muttered. “Damn it! she promised me. Look here, Gulliver, was she with Number Four when he did it?”

  “I can’t say, sir,” answered Gulliver. “They were together when they came to the car, but whether she was with him when it happened I don’t know. Do you know who she was by any chance?”

  “Mind your own infernal business,” snarled the other. “W
hat the devil has that got to do with you?”

  He continued to pace the room, and when he next spoke his voice was calmer.

  “It was completely successful, was it? Sanderson was killed instantaneously?”

  “Clean through the eye, sir, just as if he’d been pole-axed.”

  “Good. I hadn’t much faith in it myself, but evidently I was wrong.”

  The last remark was made almost to himself, and Drummond, half opening one eye, saw that the man called Gulliver was looking curious.

  “What is it, sir?” he said. “Is it something new?”

  “It strikes me, Gulliver,” answered the man in evening clothes, “that you’re going to get into pretty considerable trouble shortly. May I ask you to repeat Rule Number Three.”

  “No member shall ask the business or question the orders of any other member,” quoted Gulliver sullenly.

  “Don’t forget it, my friend,” said the other softly. “You get your reward in strict proportion as to how you do your work. How another member does his is nothing whatever to do with you. Curiosity is only one degree less dangerous than treachery. And lest you should doubt it, Gulliver, you will find if you search the papers tomorrow that there will be an account of a second murder in them. Not as important as Sanderson’s: in fact, it will probably be tucked away in a back page somewhere. You remember Jean Picot, Gulliver?”

  “Yes,” said Gulliver, moistening his lips.

  “Tomorrow you will read an account of his death in an East End brawl. Most regrettable, and I am sure that no one will trace any connection between it and the flamboyant headlines announcing Mr Sanderson’s. Which is where everyone will be wrong, Gulliver. Jean Picot was ill-advised enough to try to run with the hare at the same time as he hunted with the hounds. So incredibly foolish,” he continued even more softly, “as to give information to Mr Sanderson. Well! he will give no more, and Mr Sanderson will receive no more.”

  “You know I’d never split,” muttered Gulliver.

  “I don’t think you will,” said the other contemptuously. “You haven’t the brains—or the guts. However—enough of this. Is the street clear, Jackson?”