The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

“Tell Drummond to come as soon as he can. 34 Lower Wood Street. Disguise if possible.”

  “You are sure this is in Standish’s writing?” said Drummond. “If it isn’t, it’s a very fine forgery,” answered Leyton.

  “Tell you one thing, guv’nor,” chipped in the urchin eagerly, “the gent wot give me the note looked to me as if ’e was dodging for ’is life.”

  “What made you think that, infant?” demanded Drummond. “Way ’e was looking over ’is shoulder all the time. Just like wot one sees at the pictures.”

  “Good. Well, here’s half a dollar for you, and just listen to me for a moment. When you get into the street I shouldn’t be at all surprised if somebody or other speaks to you and asks you what you’ve been doing up here, and what we’ve been talking about. And if anyone does, tell him to go to hell.”

  “Right-’o, sir!”

  A grimy finger was raised in salute, and the next moment the little Arab had disappeared.

  “I thought so,” said Drummond, who had gone to the window. “A man has stopped him. Damn it! the little blighter is taking money from him.”

  He peered through the curtains, and then suddenly grinned.

  “OK,” he remarked, coming back into the room. “He pocketed the money, and then cocked a snook at the donor. Now then, chaps, this requires thinking out a bit. I feel pretty sure in my own mind that that note is genuine. If it was a forgery with the idea of trapping me, surely they would have sent it direct to my house. But Standish, even if he remembered my address, which I doubt, knew that the surest way of getting me would be through Leyton, who is, so to speak, on our list of distinguished invalids.”

  “Confound you,” laughed Leyton. “But to come back to the note; I’ll swear that’s his writing.”

  “At any rate we’re going to act on the assumption that it is genuine,” said Drummond.

  “Can you manage the disguise part of it?”

  “Can I manage my foot? That’s easy, old lad. The slight difficulty at the moment is the undoing of the gentleman outside. He has got to be shaken off, and any friend of his who may be about. So we’ll try the simplest method first.”

  He went to the telephone and dialled a number.

  “Hullo! is that Smith’s hotel? Put me through to the hall porter, please, Dover Street entrance, at once. Is that you, Robins? Captain Drummond speaking. I want you to have a taxi waiting for me with the flag down and the engine running in a quarter of an hour from now. Tell the driver that the instant I get into the car he is to start at once without waiting for any orders, drive down Hay Hill and into Berkeley Square, where I’ll give him further instructions. Got that? Good. And, Robins—get a good machine.”

  “What’s the great idea?” said Leyton as he hung up the receiver.

  “As old as the hills, old boy,” answered Drummond, “but it often comes off. Smith’s has another entrance in Albemarle Street.”

  CHAPTER IV

  “By Jove! Peter, that note from Standish has taken a load off my mind,” Drummond remarked, as ten minutes later he and Darrell turned into Piccadilly. “I wonder what he’s found out.”

  He stopped for a moment to look into a shop window, and make sure the follower was not lost.

  “He’s better than the other one, I think, but that ain’t saying much: anyway, he’s still there.”

  “What about a gun, Hugh?” said Darrell as they resumed their walk.

  “I’ll borrow one from Aaronstein,” answered Drummond.

  “Whom, by the same token, Peter, I want you to ring up for me. Tell him I’ll be down in three-quarters of an hour, and I’ll want some lunch. Any rig will do which will not attract attention amongst the denizens of Lower Wood Street.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “Not an earthly. But old Aaron has a very good map.”

  “Shall I come into Smith’s with you?”

  “Yes, please, old boy. And should the gentleman behind smell a rat and try to follow me, stop him some old how.”

  They turned up Albemarle Street, with their attendant about ten yards behind them.

  “Shall I let McIver know we’ve had this note?” asked Darrell.

  “Leave it for a bit, Peter, until we know what Standish’s game is. Maybe he wants to lie doggo, which would be impossible if McIver once hears he’s free again. And as far as I’m concerned don’t worry if you don’t hear from me tonight, but at the same time stand by to act on any message you get. To prove it’s genuine I’ll sign it ‘Cuckoo.’ Here we are, old boy: keep your eye skinned on that bird. He may not know the architecture of Smith’s, but on the other hand he may.”

  The two men swung into the hotel and parted at once, Darrell remaining by the Albemarle Street entrance whilst Drummond walked rapidly along the passage that led to the Dover Street one. And it soon became obvious to him that the man did know the plan of the building and had spotted the trick. From behind came Darrell’s voice hailing him as a long-lost friend, and glancing round for an instant he had a glimpse of the man’s face distorted with anger, dodging wildly from side to side whilst Darrell dodged in time. Then he was in the taxi which was off in a second. And he was the other side of Berkeley Square before his infuriated pursuer finally shook off Darrell and dashed out into Dover Street.

  “A quid if you’ll tell me where that taxi went,” he shouted to the porter.

  “What, that taxi that’s just gone?” said Robins blandly. “With the big gentleman inside?”

  “Yes, you fool,” snarled the other. “Quick—I’m police.”

  “Are you now?” remarked Robins with a wink at Darrell. “Well, that being so, you ought to know that divulging the destinations of taxis is strictly forbidden in the regulations laid down for hall porters.”

  But the man had seen the wink, and with a venomous look at Darrell, who was grinning broadly, he disappeared.

  “The Captain up to his old games, sir?” asked Robins. “Can’t keep him off ’em,” laughed Darrell. “Thank you, Robins: you worked it splendidly.”

  “The best machine I could get, sir, and I know the driver. He’s a good man. Thank you, sir: though it’s a pleasure to help the Captain at any time. He’s clear away this time.”

  And though Drummond was even then thinking the same thing he was far too old a stager to leave anything to chance. The Park had been his first order, and he followed it by doing a little tour of the less-frequented roads in Bayswater. And not until the machine had remained stationary for five minutes in an almost deserted road did he feel absolutely confident that he’d got away with it.

  “Dodging the wife, sir, or treasurer of a slate club?” grinned the driver.

  Drummond laughed.

  “Seems a bit like it, doesn’t it? We will now go to the nearest tube station.”

  “Right, sir. Queen’s Road.”

  His destination, the emporium of Samuel Aaronstein, lay in the purlieus of Whitechapel. It was a peculiar shop, in which everything from a bootlace to a grand piano could be obtained, and one of the principal side-lines was the sale of second-hand clothes. It was that that had first attracted him there, coupled with the fact that old Samuel had the invaluable gift of holding his tongue. Many times in the past had Captain Drummond of Brook Street vanished into a private room at the back of the shop to emerge later in one of Samuel’s outfits as Mr Jones of Houndsditch.

  Moreover, the old Jew was perfectly honest, as he had often proved. It was quite safe to leave money or valuables in his charge for any length of time: everything would be accounted for to the uttermost farthing.

  The shop, as he had anticipated at that time of day, was not very full: the evenings are the rush hours in those parts. And with a quick nod to Aaronstein he walked straight through into his own particular room behind, where he was immediately joined by the proprietor.

  “Morning, Samuel,” he said. “Has Mr Darrell telephoned?”

  “Half an hour ago, sir. I’ve laid out three different rigs that vill fit you.
”

  “Good for you, Sam,” cried Drummond, beginning to undress rapidly. “What are they?”

  “Ordinary vorking man, Captain; commercial traveller; seafaring rig.”

  “Do you know anything about Lower Wood Street down Elephant and Castle direction? I’m going there, and I want the most suitable of the three.”

  “I’ll go and ask young Joseph,” said Aaronstein. “That boy knows every district in London.”

  He returned in a couple of minutes.

  “Not the seafaring one, sir,” he said, “but either of the other two. There are shops there and tenement houses, so vhichever you decide upon it von’t be conspicuous.”

  “I’ll chance the commercial traveller,” said Drummond after a moment’s thought. Number 34, he reflected, might be a shop or it might not: if it was he could do the traveller act, if it wasn’t he could pretend to be looking for a room.

  “And I’ll want a revolver, Sam: no good saying you haven’t got one, you old devil, for I know you have.”

  The Jew shook his head dubiously.

  “Vell, Captain Drummond,” he said, “you vill be careful, von’t you? If the police knew I had firearms in the shop…”

  “They won’t, Sam: if any question arises I’ll say I got it out of a Christmas cracker. Then I want a good map of London, and that lunch which I trust Mr Darrell ordered.”

  “Certainly, sir; certainly. The lunch vill be ready in ten minutes: Rebecca is cooking it now. I vill go and hurry her up.”

  Over his meal Drummond studied the map. From Standish’s note it was clear that he thought he had been followed, otherwise there seemed no object in suggesting disguise. And it was therefore in Lower Wood Street that danger was to be anticipated.

  Drummond marked its position clearly in his mind: the fewer questions he had to ask the more likely was he to be taken for a local resident. And the great thing was to attract as little attention as possible. For though his ability to make up was considerable there was one thing he could not disguise—his size. And it seemed to him to be more than likely that anyone who was keeping Number 34 under observation would have been warned to keep a look-out for a big man going in there.

  “Marvellous,” said Aaronstein, returning half an hour later to remove the lunch. “Your own mother vould not know you, Captain.”

  “Not bad, Sam,” agreed Drummond. “Give me the gun, and I’m off. Keep my things for me as usual.”

  The old Jew’s praise was deserved: Drummond was a commercial traveller to the last button. A moustache completely altered his face, and by walking with a pronounced stoop he managed to conceal his height. And though he knew for certain that he had not been followed to Aaronstein’s shop, he assumed his proposed role at once. No mistakes was the order of the day, and the stoop wanted practice.

  Lower Wood Street proved to be one of those depressing localities which abound in outer London. It was long and straight and featureless: two rows of drab houses, each one exactly like its neighbour. At one end were a few cheap shops, and half-way along some stalls almost blocked one of the pavements. As usual the houses on one side were even numbers, on the other odd, and deciding that any watch that might be kept on Number 34 would probably be from opposite, he chose the odd side for his first survey.

  The numbers at the end of the street where he had entered were high ones: his goal therefore was some distance off. And his plan was to walk right to the other end of the street, giving Number 34 a preliminary inspection as he passed; then return on the even-numbered side and begin playing his part.

  The road was fairly crowded, particularly near the stalls, a state of affairs that cut both ways. It made him less conspicuous, but the same thing applied equally to any possible watchers of Number 34. And one of his main objects was to try to spot those watchers if he could.

  He reached the stalls: the house numbers had now reached the fifties. And at the last one he stopped, apparently listening to the proprietor bawling his wares. But his eyes were busy searching the bit of road in front of him. Some children were playing in the gutter: two or three women were gossiping by an area railing. But so far as he could see there was no one about who looked in the smallest degree suspicious.

  He walked on slowly until he was almost opposite his goal: then he stopped, and pulling a packet of Gold Flake out of his pocket he lit a cigarette. Was it his imagination, or had the curtain in the sitting-room of Number 34 quivered slightly?

  He strolled on: one thing seemed sure. Whether it had moved or whether it had not, there was no one in the street who was watching the house. He reached the end of the road, crossed over and retraced his steps. And at Number 20 he began to act his role. Specimens of table linen were his stock-in-trade, and fortunately none of the good ladies in any of the houses he called at evinced the slightest interest in them.

  At last he reached Number 34 and rang the bell.

  “Good afternoon, missis,” he began, as a buxom, homely faced woman opened the door.

  But he got no farther: to his unqualified amazement she flung a pair of ample arms round his neck and kissed him.

  “Why, it’s Arthur,” she cried. “Blessed if it isn’t little Arthur come to see his old Aunt.”

  And simultaneously from a room behind came Standish’s voice: “Play up, old boy.”

  Drummond needed no second bidding: he dropped his case of samples and kissed the old lady heartily in return.

  “Aunt Marie,” he exclaimed. “Well, I never did. To think of that now. When did you move here?”

  “A year ago, Arthur. George,” she called loudly to someone at the back of the house, “here’s Arthur. He’s coming to have a cup of tea.”

  Drummond followed her inside and she shut the front door.

  “Well done, Mrs Bordon,” said Standish, joining them in the passage. “I don’t know whether we’ve bluffed ’em or not, but you couldn’t have acted better.”

  “Where are they?” asked Drummond.

  “In the house opposite. Two of them. Jove! old man, I’m glad to see you.”

  He led the way into a back sitting-room.

  “Not half as glad as I was to get your note,” answered Drummond quietly. “I had the needle badly all this morning. You spotted me as I went up the other side, did you?”

  “Yes. The instant you stopped to light that cigarette. And then, knowing you were coming here, I fixed that little performance with Mrs Bordon. She was my old nurse. This isn’t the only house you’ve been to, is it?”

  “No. I called at seven others. I’m touting table linen.”

  “Excellent,” cried Standish. “Any fresh news from your end?”

  “I see you’ve got the midday papers,” answered Drummond, “so you’ve read the official story. But there’s one thing that will surprise you: I heard it this morning from McIver. Sanderson was shot: they found a small bullet in his brain.”

  “The devil he was,” said Standish thoughtfully. “I did hear a faint hiss.”

  “So Leyton told me. But that will keep: let’s hear what you’ve been doing. For I don’t mind admitting that we’ve all been damned uneasy. You see, the devil of it was that that blighter in evening clothes stayed on after the other two had taken you off and I couldn’t even get the number of the car.”

  “You know who that was, don’t you?” said Standish.

  “I don’t: do you?” cried Drummond, sitting up abruptly. The other nodded gravely.

  “Yes,” he said. “I do. And when I saw him last night I very nearly gave the whole show away I was so dumbfounded.”

  “I don’t know when you actually came to,” said Drummond, “but he didn’t know you. He had to ask which of us was which when he came in.”

  “No: he wouldn’t know me. I was but a humble guest at the City dinner at which he was the guest of honour two or three months ago.”

  Drummond stared at him.

  “Guest of honour! Then who the deuce is he?”

  “Sir Richard Pendleton.”<
br />
  “Pendleton—the surgeon,” cried Drummond in amazement; “man—you must be mistaken. What on earth would he be doing mixed up with that outfit?”

  “Exactly what I’ve been asking myself all day,” said Standish. “I tell you I nearly gave it away last night when I realised who he was. I’d been awake for quite a while before you spotted it, and I’d heard his voice. That sounded familiar, but of course I couldn’t turn round and see who it was. So I possessed my soul in patience till the other two picked me up, and then I risked a peep. And there’s no doubt about it, old boy, it was Pendleton.”

  “But it’s incredible,” said Drummond. “I’ve never happened to meet him, but he dines out all over the shop. Half the women in London sit on his doorstep.”

  “I know all that,” agreed Standish. “And there is only one possible explanation to my mind. It’s a case of Jekyll and Hyde in real life. Mark you, there are quite a number on record. It’s a peculiar form of perversion, that’s all.”

  “Well, if you’re sure it was Pendleton, there’s no more to be said,” remarked Drummond. “Let’s hear what happened after they took you off.”

  “They dumped me in the bottom of the car and we started. And after a while Mr Gulliver—the police impersonator—began to snore. A little later his friend Mr Jackson followed his example, and the situation became rather amusing. There was the prisoner wide awake with a gun, whilst the guard slept peacefully. The driver was the only other occupant, and he was separated from us by a partition. The car was going fast, but I couldn’t tell in what direction until the sun suddenly rose, and I realised by the shadow we were travelling south. I didn’t dare move to see if I could recognise the country, because I was afraid of waking them, in which case it would have been necessary to act at once. My object, of course, was to find out where they were taking me without letting them get me there. It struck me that wherever my destination was it would be easier to get in than to get out.”

  “Exactly what struck us,” said Drummond.

  “Then came an extraordinary piece of luck: the car stopped and they both woke up.

  “‘The damned gates are shut,’ said Gulliver, and I heard the driver get out of the car. The Lord had delivered ’em into my hands.”