The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “Behold your handiwork,” he remarked as they came in. “I should think that a year might see my recovery. You’ll find cigarettes on the mantelpiece.”

  He uttered a sharp yell of pain.

  “God! there’s another bit of my face gone: I forgot I couldn’t turn my head.”

  Drummond regarded him with a professional eye.

  “As pretty a bit of furniture throwing as ever I did in my life, laddie,” he remarked. “I mean, the fact that you were the victim does not detract from it as a work of art. Have you thought how you are going to account for it at the inquest? A slight tiff with the girl’s brother, or what?”

  “Take him away, Darrell,” moaned the sufferer plaintively, “or I shall have a relapse. Where’s Ronald?”

  “Where, indeed,” said Drummond. “Pay attention, old boy, because one or two things have happened since we parted.”

  And once again he ran over the events of the past night.

  “So that’s how it stands, Leyton,” he concluded. “Peter thinks we were wrong, and I myself am beginning to wonder.”

  “You didn’t even get the number of the car,” said Leyton.

  “I couldn’t. Evening Clothes remained behind with me, so it was impossible to get out of the chair.”

  “Which means, then, that Ronald, in full possession of his senses, and with a revolver into the bargain, was really being guarded by two men.”

  “And the driver. Unless, of course, there was someone else in the car who didn’t come upstairs.”

  “I don’t think you need worry,” said Leyton at length. “If he went into it as you say yourself with his eyes open, he’ll come out of it OK. And McIver knows nothing of this?”

  “Not a word. And it’s essential that he shouldn’t. He would be bound to insist on it being mentioned, which not only will not help Standish, but will also wash out the one big card we hold. It’s obvious that the man in evening clothes is one of their star turns, who, as things stand now, will not be on his guard against me the next time we bump into one another. And if anything is said about this, that advantage is gone.”

  “The point is, are you likely to bump into one another again?”

  “One can but look,” said Drummond. “He had the expensive-restaurant appearance, and if the cause is good one is prepared to masticate a kipper in two or three of them nightly in the hope of meeting him.”

  “But what do you do then, old boy?” objected Darrell. “You can’t toddle up to him and introduce yourself.”

  “Peter,” remarked Drummond, “you pain me after all these years. You leave all that part of the programme to little Hugh.”

  “And in the meantime,” said Leyton, “there seems nothing for it but to wait and hope that Ronald gets away with it.”

  “That’s so,” agreed Drummond, getting up. “I’ll send you up a few more pounds of steak, and I should think you’d better say you impinged on a lamp-post when bottled. So long, old boy: you’ll be all right again in a month or so.”

  He strolled out, followed by Darrell, and paused undecidedly on the pavement. And then his eyes suddenly narrowed, though he still swung his stick as before.

  “We’re being shadowed, Peter,” he remarked, “as I rather expected we should be. Don’t look round, but he’s looking into a flower-shop window about twenty yards away. I noticed the same man as we came here.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” said Darrell.

  “Have a little fun and laughter to pass the time,” answered Drummond with a grin, walking towards a man in a blue-serge suit who was now engaged in lighting a cigarette.

  “Lovely blooms, sir, are they not?” he remarked affably. The man stared at him.

  “What the devil do you mean, sir?” he cried. “I don’t know you.”

  “A great love of nature should be a sufficient introduction to enable us to dispense with more formal methods,” said Drummond earnestly. “And when a man stands gazing at the hydrangeas or what-nots for twenty minutes, till his nose resembles a pomegranate in hue, he is at once admitted to the noble brotherhood of wurzel growers. Tell me, my dear new friend, have you ever shadowed anyone before?”

  “Do you want me to call a policeman, sir?” spluttered the other.

  “Rather: I’d love you to. But let’s finish our little chat first. Where were we? Ah! yes—this shadowing business. You know, my dear sir, you’re quite incredibly bad at it. I watched you with the greatest interest the whole way from my house, and I should love to know if I’m to have the pleasure of your company for the rest of the day. Because, if so, I must insist on your going home to get an overcoat. Wait, you little rat, till I’ve finished.”

  The man writhed impotently, as Drummond’s great hand closed round his arm.

  “You see,” he went on, “I’m going to my club in St James’s Square, and I fear you’ll find it somewhat cold waiting for two or three hours. And I don’t think you’d be very popular as a temporary member.”

  He relaxed his grip, and in a flash the man was gone.

  “Come on, Peter,” he grinned, “let’s go and have one. There is another of ’em we know, but I’m afraid the small fry aren’t much use to us. What a pity Evening Clothes stopped behind last night: if he hadn’t I might have been able to board the luggage grid of the car. But he’s our hope, Peter, unless Standish pulls off the trick. You and I will have to spend our substance in riotous living until we bump into him again.”

  He stopped and bought a midday paper.

  “Great Scott! they’ve got it all right. Look at the headlines.”

  AMAZING CRIME IN HAMPSTEAD

  HIGH HOME OFFICE OFFICIAL MURDERED

  HOUSE COMPLETELY GUTTED

  POLICEMAN CHLOROFORMED

  He skimmed rapidly over the letterpress: it was much as he would have expected. There was no mention of either Standish or himself, though Perkins, in an interview, had alluded to four strange gentlemen who had been in the house when he returned from the cinema—gentlemen whose names he did not know. But the account ran to two columns and finished up with the announcement that the elucidation of this unprecedented outrage was in the capable hands of Inspector McIver, and further developments might be expected shortly.

  They turned into Drummond’s club, and the first person they saw waiting in the hall was McIver himself.

  “I must apologise, sir, for coming round here,” he said, “but I went to your house to find you, and your servant said I’d probably catch you at your club.”

  “That’s all right, McIver,” said Drummond. “Come into this room and we shan’t be disturbed.”

  “Now, sir,” began the Inspector when they were seated, “a very strange development has taken place. Mr Standish has disappeared, and so I can’t ask him direct, but you’ll be able to tell me. He was quite positive, wasn’t he, that he heard no sound, no report, when he was speaking to Mr Sanderson on the telephone?”

  “That’s so, McIver,” said Drummond. “And that was why he was convinced that the wound was inflicted with an instrument.”

  “Well, sir,” said McIver, “the post-mortem on what was left of the body has been carried out. It was charred, of course, beyond recognition, but a great part of the head remained. And in view of where the wound was it was on the head we concentrated.”

  He leaned forward impressively.

  “Embedded in the brain, and not very far in, was found a bullet of very small calibre.”

  “Which knocks the stiletto theory out of court,” said Drummond. “But if he was shot, why didn’t Standish hear any report?”

  “A compressed-air pistol,” suggested Darrell.

  “Or something fitted with a silencer,” remarked McIver. “There are one or two very efficient ones on the market.”

  “Have you ever heard one being used, McIver?” said Drummond. “Because if you have you’ll know that the term silence is only relative. They undoubtedly muffle the report very considerably, but not enough to prevent it being hea
rd over the telephone.”

  “Supposing the man who was using it was some distance away from the instrument,” suggested the Inspector.

  “That would mean that he was some distance away also from Sanderson,” cried Drummond. “And you can hardly expect one to believe that the murderer, whoever he was, drew a large cannon from his pocket and took deliberate aim at one of Sanderson’s eyes. By the way, how did the bullet enter the eye—direct from in front?”

  McIver nodded.

  “Yes: straight from the front but a little upwards. Now it struck me that Mr Sanderson might have been leaning backwards looking up at the ceiling, as he was speaking into the receiver. Then he wouldn’t have seen what the other man was doing.”

  “I see two objections to that theory, old policeman. I lay claim to a certain modicum of efficiency with most kinds of firearms, but just think of the accuracy of shooting necessary if the man was some distance away from Sanderson to plug him through the eye. Why, it’s target shooting brought to a fine art. He would have had to take the most careful aim, and even if Sanderson was looking up at the ceiling, he would surely have seen the other fellow focusing the young field gun.”

  “Supposing he didn’t focus it: supposing he took a quick pot shot which by luck got Mr Sanderson in the eye. What about that?”

  “It’s possible, McIver,” agreed Drummond, “but I don’t think it’s likely. And I’ll tell you for why. If the bullet is of very small calibre, and has only gone in a short distance, there can’t have been much power behind it. Well, what was going to happen if he’d missed the eye, which was now more than likely with a quick pot shot. Damn it—he’d have done no damage at all. He might have chipped a bit off Sanderson’s ear or peppered him on the cheek, but he wouldn’t have killed him. And what possible object could there have been in doing that?”

  He lit a cigarette.

  “Just one moment before you speak,” he continued, “because there is another thing that I think puts your theory down and out definitely. Death was instantaneous: so if he was leaning back when he was killed, why did we find him sprawling forward over his desk?”

  “I admit all the difficulties, Captain Drummond,” said the Inspector a little peevishly. “Nevertheless, the fact remains that a bullet was found in his brain, and it can’t have been thrown there. Therefore he was shot by some form of gun, revolver, or air pistol, which amongst other things was so nearly silent that Mr Standish didn’t hear it over the wire. But whether it was fired at a long range or from close to it seems at present impossible to say.”

  “Agreed,” cried Drummond, “but I know which I’m betting on. Close to, McIver: I’d lay a fiver to sixpence on it. Incidentally there is one thing that I don’t think Standish told you last night. We found a hairpin on the floor under the desk—a bronze hairpin which did not belong to Mrs Perkins.”

  “So a woman was there?”

  “Well, old lad,” said Drummond with a grin, “I believe even Watson would have deduced that.”

  “She may have done it,” continued the Inspector unmoved.

  For a moment Drummond hesitated: should he tell McIver all he knew? Better not: there was no point in altering the plan of campaign now.

  “True,” he said calmly, “she may have done it. Or she may have assisted in the deed. Or she may have been there earlier and left before it happened. I don’t think it takes us much farther. All we know is that a woman with golden hair or auburn hair was in that room some time last night.”

  Inspector McIver rose with a grunt.

  “At any rate that is one positive fact which is something,” he said. “Have you seen the midday papers?”

  “I have,” answered Drummond. “They’ve let themselves go all right, haven’t they?”

  “Nothing to what they’ll be after the inquest when you’ve given your evidence,” cried the other. “You’ll find yourself keeping reporters off with an umbrella.”

  “I’ve done it before,” laughed Drummond. “So long, McIver: keep me posted if any fresh developments occur.”

  “I will. And that reminds me: I’ve circulated Mr Standish’s description to every Chief Constable, though I doubt if it will do much good. His salvation is going to lie in his own hands, and no one else’s. If they didn’t stick at murdering Mr Sanderson, they’re not going to stick at him either. And you’ll probably be the next on the list.”

  “Mother’s little ray of sunshine,” laughed Drummond. “See that Scotland Yard sends me a wreath.”

  The door closed behind the Inspector, and Drummond’s expression grew serious again as he turned to Darrell.

  “There’s a darned sight more in what he says than I like, old boy,” he remarked. “Your pal Standish has got to pull through on his own in this show.”

  “I thought for a while that you were going to tell McIver about Number Four and the rest of it,” said Darrell.

  “If it would have helped Standish in the slightest degree I would have. But it couldn’t have. He may literally be anywhere in the British Isles. There’s one point though, Peter, that strikes me. I think it would be a good thing to see Leyton once again. He is the only available person who was really present at the time of the telephone call, though McIver doesn’t know it. And now that we know he was shot and not stabbed, it would be just as well to find out for sure if Standish said anything at the time which throws any light on it. Because the more I think of that wound the more amazing does it seem to me.”

  “I agree,” said Darrell. “And so did Standish if you remember.”

  “Let’s have a stoup of ale and then go round and see him.” They found him applying fresh steak to his face, and told him the new development.

  “And what we were wondering,” said Drummond, “was whether he said anything which would help.”

  “Let me get things in order,” said Leyton thoughtfully. “I answered the telephone, and spoke to Sanderson. At least I assume it was Sanderson: he said it was. But as I never knew him it may have been somebody speaking for him. I then gave the receiver to Ronald, and he certainly spoke to Sanderson, or if it wasn’t Sanderson it was to someone who could imitate his voice sufficiently well to deceive Ronald. And Sanderson asked Ronald to go up and see him. Ronald said, ‘My dear fellow! on a night like this.’ Then Sanderson answered ‘I’ve got’ and never completed the sentence. Instead there came a noise which Ronald said sounded like a hiss, and the clatter of what was probably the receiver hitting the desk. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “Noise like a hiss,” repeated Drummond. “That seems to point to a compressed-air weapon of sorts, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, it completely defeated Ronald,” said Leyton. “Of course, he didn’t know about the bullet being found in Sanderson’s brain, and thought it was a question of stabbing. But he got deuced excited over a bottle of ink without a cord, and a piece of blotting-paper in the basket with damp ink on it.”

  “What was the great idea?” said Drummond curiously.

  “Ask me another, my dear fellow. The only thing I can tell you, and Darrell will bear me out in that, is that when Ronald sits up and takes notice over anything, however apparently trivial, there’s generally some reason for it. But as far as I’m concerned I don’t quite see that it matters vastly. From what you overheard, Drummond, when you were foxing they evidently tried out some patent brand of new weapon. And the damned thing succeeded only too well. They killed the unfortunate Sanderson, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Not quite all,” said Drummond quietly. “In fact very far from it. And it’s this point that I know was worrying Standish. Don’t you see the almost inevitable conclusion that Sanderson must have been in ignorance of the fact that it was a weapon at all?”

  The other two stared at him.

  “The bullet went in from straight in front,” continued Drummond. “And as McIver sapiently remarked, it can’t have been thrown in. It must have been propelled along a barrel of sorts. And that barrel Sanderson must have s
een in front of him, pointing at his eye for an appreciable time before the shot was fired. Now do you mean to tell me that anyone, particularly a man like Sanderson, is going to continue sitting calmly in a chair telephoning when he’s looking down the wrong end of a gun? Therefore he didn’t know it was a gun.”

  “Even so,” said Leyton after a pause, “I don’t see that it matters much.”

  “The devil you don’t,” cried Drummond. “Well—I do. If in addition to being up against a gang who don’t stop at murder, we have also got to compete with a weapon which is unrecognisable as a weapon until it is too late, the dice are loaded pretty well against us. Sanderson was no fool, and I don’t think that any of us can flatter ourselves that we would spot a thing that he didn’t. Hullo! old boy, you have a visitor.”

  Leyton swung round: a small and excessively dirty street Arab was standing in the doorway.

  “How the dickens did you get in, my lad?” he demanded. “Through the door, guv’nor,” piped the urchin. “Are you Mister Leyton?”

  “I am.”

  “A bloke give me this ’ere note to tike to yer. Give me ’alf a crown, ’e did, and ’e said you’d give me anuvver.”

  He produced a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Leyton, who gave an exclamation when he saw it.

  “Good Lord!” he cried, “it’s from Ronald.”

  “Hold hard a moment,” said Drummond. “Now, my stouthearted young sportsman, can you give us a description of the gentleman who gave you this note?”

  “Medium-sized bloke, sir: bit red in the face. Broad ’e was though.”

  “What was he dressed in?”

  “Blue-serge suit, sir; wiv mud on it.”

  “And where did you meet him?”

  “Dahn in Bishop Street, near the Elephant and Castle.”

  “Sounds all right so far, Leyton. May I see the note?” In silence the other passed it to Drummond.