The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “However, we toddled back with McIver, and as we got to the gate we saw shadows moving in the room where Sanderson’s body was. So thinking we’d nab them we beetled round to the back door and got in at just about the same moment that the men upstairs were starting the bonfire. And it was some blaze, believe you me. They had emptied a young reservoir of petrol over the place, having previously knocked out that old bird Perkins and lashed his wife up in the kitchen. They must have been waiting for Standish and me to go, because we weren’t away for more than twenty minutes at the outside.

  “Well, to cut it short, we just had time to get the two old fruits out before the place was blazing like a furnace.”

  “And the men got clean away?”

  Drummond nodded.

  “They had a motor handy which must have been standing up the road a bit without lights, because we none of us saw a car before we went into the house. So that was point two to them: any clue they might possibly have left has been destroyed, for even before Standish and I left, the house was completely gutted.

  “Then came their next little effort. I went back with him to his rooms for a spot, and the instant he got in he noticed his desk had been tampered with. However, as he had nothing which could give anything away, that didn’t amount to a row of pins, except that it showed rapidity of movement on the part of the opposition. Then came point three. Standish had a whisky and soda, while I lapped up a beaker of ale. And, Peter, my lad, they’d doped the whisky. Our one and only Standish went down like a pole-axed bull and passed clean out of the picture. And it was then that little Willie did a bit of thinking. What was the object of doping him unless they meant to come back?

  “At any rate it was worth having a dip at. So I washed out the beer glass: half-filled it with whisky and soda and sat down to wait. I was going to sham being doped if they arrived, and see if I could find out anything. And that is exactly what happened, though I can’t say I found out much. Three of ’em came about two hours later: a man in evening clothes who looked capable of murdering his mother for the gold in her false teeth; the bloke who had done the policeman trick on us and whose name is Gulliver; and a little sandy excrescence who looked like a ferret and answered to the name of Jackson.”

  “Do you think they were the three who had fired the house?” asked Darrell.

  “The man in evening clothes, whose name I never heard, was not: that was clear from the conversation. With regard to the other two—I don’t know: they may have been in the party. However, to get on with it: there was I playing ’possum in the chair and Standish stretched out genuinely on the hearth-rug. Well, it soon became evident that they intended removing him and leaving me, and I was just wondering if I’d have at ’em or not when I saw that Standish’s eyes were open. The effects of the drug had worn off, and he was doing just the same as I was—playing ’possum.

  “Well, now there were two of us and we were both armed. Moreover, the man in evening clothes and Gulliver were chatting on this and that by the writing desk, with their backs to us. So it would have been easy money to round ’em up. But your pal wasn’t having any, and he got it across to me to do nothing. He’d decided, and I think he was perfectly right, to let ’em take him away.

  “Of course I don’t know how long he’d been foxing and how much he’d heard. But it was clear to me that though the blighter in glad rags was pretty high up in the list of starters, there were others who were even higher. And presumably it is into their august presence that Standish is to be introduced. I know it’s a risk, but since he was on for it himself I think it was worth taking, don’t you?”

  Darrell grunted.

  “I should think you’ll be as popular as a skunk in a drawing-room when McIver hears about it,” he remarked.

  “But, my dear Peter,” said Drummond in a pained voice, “McIver isn’t going to hear about it. Hasn’t your mind yet grasped the elementary fact that I was drugged myself, and know no more what happened than you do? I spent the night unconscious in one of Standish’s armchairs.”

  “Well,” said Darrell doubtfully, “it’s done now, old boy, and that is all there is to it. But I can’t help thinking you’d have scored a bit more if you’d pinched those three birds.”

  “Don’t forget I know them,” remarked Drummond, “and they don’t know I know ’em. Except, of course, Gulliver—the sham policeman, who we all know by sight. But it’s the man in evening clothes, Peter, that we’re going to have a bit of fun with. The others called him ‘sir,’ and he’s got some nasty habits. Which reminds me. While I have a tub, cast your eye through that paper and see if there is any mention of a man called Jean Picot, who was killed in a brawl down in the East End.”

  He wandered into the bathroom and Darrell picked up the paper. And after a few minutes’ search he found it under “News in Brief”:

  “A man named Jean Picot was stabbed yesterday afternoon in a fight in Mersey Street, a small slum running parallel to Whitechapel. He died before reaching hospital. The name of his assailant and the cause of the affair are unknown.”

  He read it aloud to Drummond, who listened thoughtfully.

  “They’re thorough, Peter,” he said, “devilish thorough. I can’t tell you the name of the assailant or his number, but I can give you the cause of the affair. Jean Picot had been giving information to Sanderson.”

  “You heard that last night?”

  “I did. Also that a gentleman called Number Four murdered Sanderson with some patent weapon that was being tried out for the first time, and of the efficacy of which my friend in evening clothes was doubtful. Further, the hairpin we found belongs to a woman with golden hair and a good figure, who I should think means something in his young life.”

  He came back into his bedroom towelling himself vigorously.

  “They seem to have chatted pretty freely,” said Darrell. “They did. Evening Clothes in particular at one period got distinctly shirty with Gulliver. He implied that a similar fate to Jean Picot’s awaited anyone who started talking out of their turn. So perhaps it’s as well that he knows nothing about Gulliver’s bloomer. Look in my pocket-book, Peter, and you will there find a scrap of paper which he accidentally dropped in the passage outside Standish’s room.”

  “This piece covered with letters?”

  “That’s the one. Now Gulliver was given his orders by this mysterious Number Four, after Sanderson had been murdered. His orders were in writing and in cipher, and that bit of paper you’re holding in your hand is part of them. Very considerately he has translated the cipher for us, so that it should not be a matter of vast difficulty for us to read any further message which may fall into our hands.”

  “How do you know these are Gulliver’s orders?”

  “Because when Evening Clothes was ticking him off for monkeying with the policeman his excuse was that his orders were to get into Sanderson’s house. And as you see, the letters he has scribbled in in pencil bear that out. That HO at the end must be either house or home, and of the two I should think house was the more likely.”

  Suddenly Darrell gave a little exclamation and picked up the newspaper.

  “I may be wrong,” he cried, “but I believe I saw something in the agony column of the same sort. Yes: here it is. Now, is that from the same source? It’s a long line of capital letters.”

  Drummond bent over his shoulder and studied it.

  IPHDTMICITYOOTIUNYIUT

  MNJICILPTNO

  “There you are, old lad,” he remarked complacently. “With a little care we’ll solve it in our heads. Look at the key: wherever you see R put an E, which as you know is the commonest letter in the English language, and meanwhile I’ll get dressed.”

  “All that you say may be correct,” murmured Darrell a few moments later, “but there would seem to be one trifling difficulty. There isn’t an R in the whole blamed sentence.”

  “Not an R.” Drummond paused with his shirt half on. “There must be an R. It stands for E. You can’t have a senten
ce without an E. Look again, Peter.”

  “I’m looking. Moreover, I’ve put in the other letters, and whoever wrote this has got ’em again.”

  DR ODHDUA UD AD UO DHDNRU

  “You can’t in common decency ask a man to Dhdnru.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” said Drummond. “You’ve probably got it wrong, you mutton-headed idiot.”

  “Try it yourself, old son,” grinned Darrell. “But that’s the solution, as far as it goes, if your key is correct.”

  “Damn it—the key must be correct,” cried Drummond. “We know that, because it makes sense.”

  “Then this can’t be the same cipher,” said Darrell. “Even if what you say is right, and E is the commonest letter, we don’t get any farther. That would mean that I in the message stood for E and you get UE and AE. No, laddie, much as I regret to say it, this is a wash-out completely.”

  “Cut it out of the paper anyway, Peter,” said Drummond.

  “Somebody might have a brainstorm later. Hullo! who’s that?” He paused in the act of putting on his tie and listened.

  “I believe it’s McIver himself. Put that bit of paper away, old boy: there’s no good mentioning it to him.”

  The door opened and the figure of the Inspector could be seen in the passage outside.

  “Good morning, Captain Drummond,” he said. “I fear I’m a little early, but the matter is rather important. Do you know where Mr Standish is?”

  “Come in, McIver,” said Drummond quietly. “I was expecting you. So Standish is not in his rooms?”

  “I’ve just come from them. Not only is he not there, but his bed has not been slept in.”

  “I was afraid of it,” remarked Drummond. “McIver—they drugged us both last night.”

  “Who drugged you and how?”

  “Dope in the whisky in Standish’s rooms. I had one when I got there, and so did he. And the next thing I remember was when I woke this morning in one of his easy chairs with a mouth like a tallow factory. Of Standish there was no trace. Of course I was a bit muzzy, and what I hoped was that he had come round before me and gone out for a walk to cool his head. But if he’s not back there now it looks rather bad.”

  “Are you certain he drank a whisky and soda himself?”

  “Quite: I saw him do it. And since both drinks came out of the same decanter it’s pretty certain he was laid out the same as me.”

  “You saw nothing suspicious?”

  “Immediately we got into his sitting-room. Standish noticed that his papers had been tampered with,” said Drummond. “But beyond that—nothing.”

  McIver frowned.

  “This is the most perplexing affair,” he remarked. “What the deuce do they want to kidnap him for?”

  “Because they don’t know how much he knows, McIver. They’re afraid of what he might say at the inquest.”

  “And how much do you know, Captain Drummond?”

  “Precious little,” said Drummond frankly. “And I don’t think Standish knew much more. There are one or two things that stick out a mile or so, of course. It’s obvious that we’re up against a powerful and utterly unscrupulous gang of criminals, and it’s further obvious that Sanderson was on their tracks. In fact, he said as much to me the other day, though at the time I didn’t pay much attention. Well, they’ve got him all right, and presumably because he was phoning Standish at the time they’ve removed Standish also.”

  “Did you see the wound in Mr Sanderson’s head?”

  “Both Mr Darrell and I did,” said Drummond. “It was straight through the right eye, and death must have been absolutely instantaneous. It might have been done with some implement like a very fine stiletto, or with a very small-bore revolver, were it not for the fact that Standish would have heard the latter over the wire. By the way, has PC 005 sat up yet and taken notice?”

  The Inspector grinned faintly.

  “He’s the sorest man in the London police force today,” he answered. “But he can’t tell us anything. All he knows is that he was suddenly set upon from behind just as he was passing the half-built house where we found him. There were two men in it, and before he could blow his whistle they’d got a cloth soaked in chloroform round his mouth and nose. And the next thing he remembers is coming to and being extremely sick.”

  “How long was it before they got the fire out finally?” asked Drummond.

  “About an hour after you and Mr Standish left,” said McIver. “But the whole of that end of the house is merely a shell.” Drummond looked at him thoughtfully.

  “What do you make of it all, McIver?”

  “Very much what you do, sir,” answered the Inspector. “It’s quite clear that we’re dealing with a mighty dangerous bunch, and that Mr Sanderson knew too much for their liking. Or at any rate they thought he did. When he was talking to you about it did he say anything definite?”

  “No. He mentioned two or three crimes that have taken place recently—one I remember was the Exminster pearl robbery—and said he had reason to believe that they were organised by the same brain.”

  “He mentioned the Exminster case, did he? That’s queer.”

  “Why?” asked Drummond.

  “Well, as you know, sir, most of the big burglaries are the work of one of perhaps half a dozen men. And each of them has a distinctive way of working. The police can almost always tell by the way a job is carried out which particular merchant has been on it. They may not be able to prove it, but that doesn’t alter the fact that they know. Then they keep a very wary eye on the fence he usually employs, and sometimes get him that way. But in the Exminster case it was different. None of the familiar traces were about, and Andrews, who was on it, told me he was pretty well certain it was the work of a new man and an expert at that.

  “And there’s another funny thing about that case,” he continued. “Lord Exminster offered an enormous reward for the recovery of the pearls. They are family heirlooms and he is a very wealthy man. And the reward he offered was considerably in excess of what the thief could get by selling them to a fence. In fact, it’s doubtful if any fence in England would buy them at all: you can’t cut pearls, and those stones are too well known. Moreover, his Lordship let it be known that if he got them back there would be no questions asked. But he has never seen a sign of them from that day to this.”

  “Possibly the thief is holding ’em and hoping for better terms,” said Drummond.

  “Maybe. But the reward was ten thousand pounds, which is good enough for the average burglar. No: I wonder if Mr Sanderson was right, and the burglar was acting under orders from someone else.”

  “Then it would seem funny that the someone else didn’t pouch the reward.”

  “That depends on whether he wanted the pearls or the money most. With an average thief there would be no doubt about it—the money every time. But there have been cases—I admit I’ve never come across one myself—where the man behind the actual working criminals was so big that money didn’t matter. He employed men to steal works of art, for instance, which under no conceivable circumstances could he hope to sell, or even display to his friends.”

  “You mean he merely gloated over them in secret,” said Darrell.

  “Just so, sir. He’d pay the man who did the job a lump sum down, through one or even two intermediaries, and the transaction was finished. And in all probability the actual criminal didn’t even know who he was working for.”

  Drummond lit a cigarette, and strolled over to the window. What McIver was saying not only bore out Sanderson’s theory, but also what he had observed himself. The allusion to other members of the gang by numbers—presumably if there was a Number Four there must be others as well; the giving of orders in cipher; the reprimand to Gulliver because of his curiosity with regard to someone else’s business—all tended to prove that there was a controlling force and very rigid discipline. So rigid, in fact, that anything in the shape of treachery was punished with death—vide Jean Picot. And for the first time he
began to feel uneasy over Standish. Had the risk been justified?

  He turned round as McIver rose.

  “What are we going to do about Mr Standish?” he said.

  “I don’t see that there is anything we can do,” answered the Inspector. “He’s a gentleman who is very capable of looking after himself, but I’m bound to admit I don’t like it.”

  “I shall have to mention the drugging at the inquest.”

  “Most certainly, sir. There’s no point in your not doing so. My hat!” he added with a short laugh, “this is going to supply the papers with some copy. Well, sir, I’ll let you know when and where you’ll be required.”

  “Will you want me?” asked Darrell.

  “Yes, sir. And the other gentleman, too—Mr Standish’s friend. The post-mortem is today, and the inquest will be tomorrow. And by then we shall know if there is anything in Mr Sanderson’s office that throws any light on the matter.”

  “I doubt it,” said Drummond as the door closed behind the Inspector. “Sanderson wasn’t the sort of bird who committed things to paper: he carried them in his head. What about strolling round and seeing Leyton, Peter: he ought to be told what has happened to Standish.”

  “I’m with you,” said Darrell, getting up. “But the more I think of it, old boy, the less do I like this stunt of his. Even if he does find out where their headquarters are he’s not going to be allowed to get away with it.”

  Drummond grunted: the remark expressed his own thoughts rather too nearly for his liking.

  They found Leyton eating breakfast very slowly and carefully, and Darrell’s description of his face overnight still held. Every colour from bright red to deep indigo was represented, and he apparently found it necessary to assist the working of his lower jaw with his hand.