The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Standish grinned at the recollection.

  “I had already taken the precaution of removing my gun from my pocket, so I plugged each of ’em through one foot—a painful but most efficacious proceeding.”

  “Gorgeous,” cried Drummond. “Man, it’s a pleasure to hunt with you.”

  “I then got out of the car and had a look round. The din from inside was indescribable: the driver, with his eyes popping out of his head, was standing with the gate half open staring at me. And then the silly ass decided to have a dip himself: he let the gate swing to and came for me. That was short and sweet: a poor fighter. I got him one on the point of the jaw, and he departed into a ditch that must have been very wet, judging by the splash. And after that I decided it was time to hop it: the band inside the car was now playing fortissimo. I took a glimpse through the gate, and saw a big house in the distance: then having put a shot into both front tyres I went off at a steady double up the road.

  “I didn’t know where I was—the country was quite unfamiliar—but I’d found out all I wanted to. Sooner or later I must come to a village, when I should be able to get my bearings. The danger was that I should be pursued before I could reach it. I’d delayed that particular car, but it was almost certain there would be another one available. And if my supposition was right and I’d found their headquarters, it was not going to be long before that other one was on the road. Moreover, our friends struck me as being of the type that would not hesitate to use a rifle if necessity arose.

  “The gates were now out of sight, and the road stretched straight in front of me for half a mile. In the distance I could see the South Downs, but what was far more to the point was that there was a small but thick copse about a hundred yards away on my right. And I decided to sprint for that. I knew they must overtake me if I stuck to the road, and then I was for it. So I dashed across a field and went to ground in the undergrowth—just in time. For I had hardly disappeared in the bushes when I heard the roar of a racing car coming from the direction of the house. A big yellow Bentley came madly round the corner, and for a moment or two I thought it was going on. But the people inside were no fools: they knew I couldn’t have got away up the road in the time. The car halted about two hundred yards beyond the wood and six men came tumbling out, each one armed with a shot-gun. And what was a darned sight worse, they had evidently spotted the wood as my most likely hiding-place, and they made a bee-line for it.

  “The next few minutes were not too pleasant. I knew darned well that if they caught me they’d shoot on sight, and as they were forming into a line of beaters the chances were all Lombard Street to a china orange that they would catch me.

  “The undergrowth was the sort that looks dense from outside, but turns out to be quite thin when you’re in it. So little Willie did some pretty rapid thinking. I was close to the edge of the copse, and by the mercy of Allah I noticed a shallow ditch with a hedge beside it that ran almost to the road. And keeping on the blind side of the hedge I left that wood at speed.

  “I could hear the men behind me going through the undergrowth and I knew that if one of them happened to break covert I was a goner. But no one did, and I reached the road OK. And then came the dangerous moment: get across the road I must, or they’d spot me as soon as they left the wood. Once again my luck was in: the ditch I’d been following went under the road through a small culvert. And so did yours truly: it was a bit of a tight fit, but I managed it.

  “Now came the point. The road was above the level of the field the other side, but there was no trace of cover. They would be bound to see me when they got back to the car. Should I stop in the drain or what? Well, I didn’t like the idea of that drain at all. They would almost certainly spot it, and that meant being plugged sitting. So there was only one chance, and it had to be taken at once. Crouching down, I hared as fast as I could towards the car.”

  “Priceless,” cried Drummond. “As I said before, you’re a pleasure to hunt with.”

  “Well—it worked. There was no one in the car, and I’ve driven a Bentley since the year dot. Of course they heard the engine start, and two of ’em came crashing out of the wood and let drive. But the range was far too great, so I waved ’em a tender farewell and trod on the juice.

  “I drove for about a mile when I saw a village in front of me. And at that juncture I decided it would be safer to leave the car and walk. It was probably well known in the neighbourhood, and I wanted to run no risk of the local policeman asking me how I came to be driving it, especially as I didn’t even know where I was, which would make it seem all the more suspicious.

  “The village turned out to be a place called Fastington—one of those sleepy little Sussex places that lie round the foot of the Downs. The nearest railway station they told me was at Pulborough, and with that I got my bearings. I’d played a lot of golf there last summer, and knew a retired naval officer very well who lives close to the links. So I hired an ancient Lizzie, and drove to his house to see if he would send me up to London in his car.

  “I found him in his garden dreaming of new and damnable bunkers to be added to the course, but when he descended from these realms of pure thought I got a set-back. His Lancia was hors de combat: I should have to hire or go by train. So I decided on the latter, and then asked him if he knew the name of a man owning a large yellow Bentley who lived near Fastington.

  “‘There’s a parson comes from there with a pronounced hook on all his drives,’ he told me, ‘but I think he’s only got a baby Austin. And I did hear that some new tenant has taken the Old Hall, but I don’t know if he plays golf or not.’

  “‘Is the Old Hall a big house standing some hundred yards from the road in its own grounds?’ I asked him.

  “I gathered it was, and then departed for the station. And here is where the bad luck came in, for I am convinced it was a sheer fluke. I got on the train, and it was just moving when, happening to look out of the window, who should I see but the chauffeur I had knocked out early that morning. He gave a violent start: evidently he was just as surprised to see me as I was to see him. But the devil of it was that he did see me, and bolted out of the station like a scalded cat. I couldn’t get out: we were almost clear of the platform. I could do nothing till we got to the first stop, Horsham, at any rate. You see, I had hoped that I’d completely shaken ’em off, and as I had no intention of returning to my own rooms in Town, I had intended to work secretly from an unknown hiding-place. And now if this damned chauffeur got through on the phone it might be possible for them to get someone on the train at Horsham. Which, I regret to state, is precisely what happened. That blasted engine positively crawled, and when we finally crept into the station there were two of the men who had been after me that morning. At least I recognised one for certain.

  “Well, I was in a carriage by myself, and had no intention of having their company to London. So I was out like a flash and into a full third non-corridor. It may seem a childish precaution to you, but I think we’ve got to get one thing pretty firmly in the grey matter. We’re dealing with a bunch who will no more hesitate to shoot openly than the ‘on the spot’ brigade in the States.”

  “I agree,” said Drummond quietly.

  “That stung ’em as far as London, and then the fun began. I’m no slouch at covering tracks, but those two had me beat. And, of course, they had one big advantage. They knew that I knew they were shadowing me, and so they didn’t trouble to disguise the fact. But at last I really thought I’d shaken ’em off in one of those small streets north of the Elephant. I was making for here the whole time, and I scribbled that note the urchin gave you. But I’d reckoned without my friends: they had picked up the trail again. And five minutes after I’d come in here I saw the blighters the other side of the street.”

  “Is there any bolt hole at the back?” asked Drummond.

  “Only by climbing the wall and going through somebody else’s house,” answered Standish. “And as the old girl here doesn’t know the people it bel
ongs to, it’s a bit awkward.”

  “Washing out the birds opposite for the moment,” said Drummond, “what are your ideas for the near future?”

  “A closer investigation of the Old Hall,” said Standish promptly. “Tonight, if possible. And I hoped you’d come with me.”

  “It would take a machine gun to prevent me,” grinned Drummond.

  “But,” continued Standish, “it’s imperative to dodge those two blighters.”

  “We’ll fix that: don’t you worry. We’ve got just the same advantage as they have: no finesse is necessary. And now that there are two of us I suggest that we draw ’em from their lair: then go straight up to ’em and knock ’em out.”

  “Simple and direct,” said Standish with a smile.

  And even as he spoke his eyes narrowed as he stared through the windows into the area at the back.

  “Duck,” he yelled suddenly, and both men hurled themselves on the floor as the glass shivered to pieces and a china ornament on the other side of the room split into a thousand fragments.

  Simultaneously the door swung open: in the passage a man was standing with a revolver in his hand.

  “Against the wall, both of you,” he said curtly. “Put your hands above your heads.”

  And Drummond gave one short laugh. As Standish said afterwards, it was the most amazing piece of shooting he had ever seen, especially in view of the fact that the gun was a strange one. Drummond fired from the hip, and with a fearful curse the man let his revolver fall from a hand which now had a shattered wrist. And then he ceased cursing. Something that seemed like the buffer of an express engine hit him in the face: he was lifted bodily off the ground into a hat-rack behind him, and collapsing into its debris he lay still.

  “So much for Number One,” said Drummond quietly. “But I fear Number Two has escaped us for the moment. By Gad, Standish, you’re right about these toughs: they go for the big thing. Never wanted to shoot quite so openly.”

  “They’ll do anything to get us,” answered Standish. “Lucky I saw that swine outside in the dusk. Come on, old boy: let’s leg it now. If Number Two is round there the coast is clear in front.”

  He gave a hail to Mrs Bordon, and the next moment the two men were in the street.

  “This way,” said Standish. “If that fellow who fired is coming back he’ll take the shortest route. And as I live, there he is rounding the corner now.”

  “We’ll out him,” said Drummond briefly.

  The man had seen them, and for a moment he stood hesitating. And that moment was fatal: a fox in the middle of a pack of hounds would have had more chance. The two of them were on him like a flash: came a thud and the sound of a breaking jaw; then oblivion. And stopping only to snatch what looked like a heavy walking-stick from the unconscious man in the gutter, Drummond and Standish disappeared at speed into the gathering darkness.

  “As tasty a five minutes as I can recollect,” laughed Drummond, hailing a taxi. “That’s larned ’em, old boy.”

  “Why Whitechapel?” cried Standish.

  “To meet my old friend Aaronstein and become myself again.”

  Drummond was examining the stick as he spoke with a professional eye.

  “A very pretty weapon,” he remarked, passing it to Standish.

  “A spring gun and about the most powerful I’ve handled.”

  “Can it have been this they did poor old Sanderson in with?” Drummond shook his head.

  “McIver said the bullet was of very small calibre and only just inside the brain. This thing would have blown the back of his head off.”

  Standish nodded.

  “That’s true. That weapon, whatever it was, defeats me.”

  “So it does me,” said Drummond. “But what defeats me even more is what you tell me about Pendleton.”

  “I grant you, it’s amazing. But there’s no possibility of my being mistaken.”

  “I wonder who the yellow-haired lady is,” remarked Drummond thoughtfully.

  Standish stared at him.

  “What yellow-haired lady?” he demanded.

  “Were you still unconscious when they were talking about her last night? Gulliver mentioned her as having been with Number Four just about the time when the murder was committed. The hairpin must have been hers. And Pendleton seemed quite upset when he heard about it. By the way, to go back to the weapon they murdered him with, I can tell you this much. It’s something new that they were trying out for the first time, and Pendleton admitted he was doubtful as to whether it would be a success.”

  But for the moment Standish’s thoughts were not on the mysterious weapon: he was trying to recall a piece of scandal he had heard recently in his club.

  “Is Corinne Moxton a blonde?” he asked suddenly.

  “The film wench?” said Drummond in some surprise. “Very muchly so, I believe. As a matter of fact, I was asked to a cocktail party this evening to meet her. But why the enthusiasm?”

  “Because I heard her name coupled with Pendleton’s the other day,” answered Standish. “A fellow in the club was talking, and mentioned en passant that the gentleman had a pretty expensive taste in women.”

  “Even so,” remarked Drummond, “I don’t quite see the relevance.”

  “I was wondering if perchance she was the owner of the hairpin,” said Standish.

  “She’s a fairly hectic mover, so I gather,” answered Drummond, “but that’s not saying that she is tantamount to being a murderess. If you like, I’ll go to this bally party—much as I loathe ’em—and vet the lady.”

  “Who is giving it?”

  “Some darned woman in Park Lane. I’ve got the card in the pocket of my clothes at Aaronstein’s.”

  “You don’t know if she knows Pendleton?”

  “I don’t. But she’s the type that knows everybody one ought to know.”

  “I wish you’d chance it, old boy,” said Standish. “It really would be rather humorous if you ran into Pendleton himself. I’ll stay at the place you’re changing at.”

  “Right you are,” cried Drummond. “I’ll go and lower some of the old girl’s gin. And here we are at Sam’s. Follow me straight through the shop.”

  He paid off the taxi, and led the way to the room at the back. The shop was crowded, but he caught Aaronstein’s eye and beckoned to him to come too.

  “All yell, Captain?” asked the old Jew.

  “Quite, Sam, thank you. This is Mr Standish, who is going to remain here for a time.”

  Aaronstein bowed obsequiously.

  “Pleased to meet any friend of yours, Captain,” he said. “About tonight,” continued Drummond to Standish. “Disguise or not?”

  “Not,” said Standish. “If by chance they catch us a disguise is no good, and if they don’t it isn’t wanted.”

  “Make it so,” said Drummond. “Sam, send out that young scoundrel of a son of yours for a gallon of ale. I’ve got a mouth like a lime-kiln. Here’s the card,” he continued as the Jew left the room. “‘Mrs Charles Dingle—to meet Corinne Moxton. Do come—angel man,’ written in the corner. ‘6.30-9: Ever heard of her?”

  “No, thank God,” said Standish. “By Jove! old boy,” he cried in genuine admiration as Drummond peeled off his shirt and vest, “you have got some muscle on you.”

  “Not bad,” said Drummond modestly. “I keep pretty fit, this way and that.”

  He paused, struck by a sudden thought. Standish’s words had brought back those ghastly minutes that morning when the man he now knew to be Pendleton had run his fingers up and down his arm, and he heard again that devilish chuckling laugh of gloating anticipation.

  He retailed it, and Standish listened in silence.

  “Interesting,” he remarked after a while. “It may be that he hopes you will be involved in some trial of strength at which he will be a spectator. It bears out that Jekyll and Hyde theory.”

  Drummond continued dressing as young Joseph entered with the beer.

  “And there’s another t
hing I haven’t told you about,” he said, “which will keep you amused while you’re waiting here. Are you an expert on ciphers?”

  “Pretty fair,” said Standish.

  “Then have a dip at this,” cried Drummond. “The torn-off scrap was dropped by Gulliver in your rooms, translation and all complete. The other came out of the Telegraph this morning, and it struck me that it might be the same code. Unfortunately it makes absolute gibberish.”

  “I’ll have a look at it when you’ve gone,” said Standish. “What we’ve got to fix now is where we meet tonight. We’ll want a car, and mine is in the garage close by my rooms.”

  “Which are being watched for a certainty,” remarked Drummond. “We’ll take mine: the garage is a quarter of a mile from my house. But I don’t think it’s wise to bring her down here: she’s one of those super-charged Mercedes and might seem a bit out of place in Whitechapel. Tell you what, old boy: you and I will go independently by train to Epsom—it’s on our road. We’ll dine at the Crown, and I’ll phone my warrior to take her there. How does that strike you?”

  “OK, baby,” said Standish. “I’ll be there about eight.”

  “Good. I doubt if I’ll manage it by then, but I’ll make it as soon as I can.”

  Drummond sank a final pint of beer, and sighed.

  “Now for Dingle’s pestilential party,” he remarked. “If the cursed woman ‘angel man’s’ me in a corner Charles will be a widower. I only hope I recognise her.”

  And had it not been for the fact that she was standing just inside the door as he entered the drawing-room he certainly would not have done so.

  “My dear,” she cried, “how utterly toothsome of you to come. I expect you know everybody, but it doesn’t matter if you don’t. Do keep an eye for me on young Henry over there: I think he’s going to be sick.”

  “Is he the pale-green thing in the corner?” asked Drummond languidly. “If so, the catastrophe seems imminent.”

  “Corinne hasn’t come yet,” she continued. “Don’t you think she’s too utterly ravishing?”