The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Neither of them was under any delusions as to the risk they were running, and it was characteristic of them that the nearer they got the higher became their spirits. They were walking straight into the lion’s den, and if anything went wrong their chances of coming out of that den alive were remote.

  “We’re nearly there,” said Standish at length. “In fact, I think that’s the wall in front of us.”

  Drummond pulled up, and handed the wheel over to his chauffeur.

  “You know what to do, Mervyn,” he said. “Go on straight past the lodge gates, and then wait for us. And you may have to wait quite a while,” he added with a grin.

  The road was deserted, and as the tail-lamp disappeared in the distance the two men approached the wall and examined it. It was about ten feet high, but fortunately there was no glass on the top, and in a moment Standish was on Drummond’s shoulders and on top. He took a rapid look round: there was no one in sight. Then lying across it he held down his hands to Drummond, who joined him at once.

  Some bushes lay beneath them, and they lowered themselves gently to the ground. Standish was carrying the rifle: Drummond’s revolver was to hand in his pocket, and they started off steadily in the direction of the house. Fortunately the undergrowth was not thick, though blackberry brambles tore at their trousers. The moon was shining fitfully through the clouds that scudded by overhead: the trees were sighing and creaking in the wind. Otherwise all was silent.

  Suddenly there came a sound which brought them both to a standstill. It was the deep-throated bay of a dog, and it was twice repeated. It came from in front of them and from some distance away.

  “No Pomeranian did that,” remarked Drummond thoughtfully. “And I didn’t reckon on live stock, did you?”

  “I did not,” said Standish, “and it’s a nuisance. If once the brute winds us it will give the show away, and we’re to windward of it.”

  They went on a little more cautiously, and Drummond was now holding his revolver in his hand. The undergrowth was becoming thinner, though it still impeded their progress considerably. And then, but from very much closer at hand, the hound gave tongue once again.

  They stood motionless, peering ahead. A small clearing lay in front of them, and they skirted round the edge, and took cover behind two trees. For something was moving twenty yards ahead. A cloud had obscured the moon, and it was impossible to see anything, but they could distinctly hear the sound of some animal crashing about in the undergrowth.

  Suddenly the cloud cleared away, and the moonlight flooded the ground in front. And now they could see the movement in the bushes, though whatever it was that was there was still invisible.

  “If it scents us,” whispered Drummond, “you let drive first, old boy. That machine of yours is silent.”

  They waited, and now it seemed as if the brute opposite was waiting too. And then quite unexpectedly a huge mastiff came into the clearing and stood facing them, its head moving slowly from side to side. It was the size of a donkey, and Standish, the rifle cuddled to his cheek, steadied himself against a tree. It was not an animal it would be wise to miss the first time.

  It lifted its head, and again the deep bay rang out into the night. Then it came towards them at a steady lope: it had spotted them.

  “Now,” muttered Drummond, and from beside him came a sharp hiss.

  The hound paused for a second, only to come forward two or three steps. Then it paused again, and this time its legs slowly gave from under it. It collapsed in the centre of the clearing, and they watched it twitching convulsively: then it lay still.

  “Shooting,” said Drummond tersely. “A pity, too, because it is a fine dog.”

  They approached it cautiously, but it was quite dead.

  “One I’d sooner have as my own than meet as somebody else’s,” said Standish. “But what I’m just wondering is what was causing all the excitement in the undergrowth there. It hadn’t got wind of us then.”

  They plunged into the bushes, and it was Standish who spotted it first. Lying half concealed was the body of a man, and his throat had been completely torn out.

  “Good Lord! it’s Gulliver,” cried Drummond. “Poor devil! What a death.”

  But Standish was looking at him queerly.

  “I didn’t see any blood on that mastiff’s muzzle,” he said. Drummond stared at him.

  “By Jove! you’re right. There was no blood on him. What do you make of it?”

  “If that wound had just been inflicted blood would still be flowing.”

  “It may have been returning to its kill,” said Drummond.

  “Gulliver was never killed here,” said Standish decidedly. “There would have been far more blood on the ground. As you see, there is practically none. The thing was done somewhere else and the body carried here.”

  “And the hound found it again.”

  For a moment or two Standish stood frowning thoughtfully: then switching on his torch he again bent over the body.

  “My God! Look at his eye,” he cried suddenly. “The same wound as Sanderson’s.

  “So it wasn’t the mastiff at all,” he went on slowly.

  “How do you mean, it wasn’t the mastiff?”

  “That tore his throat out.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because no one unless he was crazy would have shot him in the eye after he was dead. Therefore he was shot first.”

  “Granted,” said Drummond. “But what of it?”

  “This,” said Standish. “No hound would ever touch a dead man.

  “By Jove! you’re right,” cried Drummond. “I hadn’t thought of that. Then if it wasn’t the hound—what was it that went for his throat?”

  “Exactly. What was it?”

  “Queer doings,” said Drummond thoughtfully. “What do you make of it?”

  “Supposing that mastiff hadn’t found this body and given tongue, do you think we should have found it either? The chances arc a thousand to one against. It might have lain here for days undiscovered, and by that time it would have been almost unrecognisable. And when in the course of time someone did stumble on it the whole thing could then be put down to the hound: in other words, a ghastly accident. What is it?”

  For Drummond had suddenly gripped his arm.

  “I heard footsteps,” muttered the other. “Quick—let’s move from here.”

  Like a shadow he vanished, and Standish who followed had only an occasional glimpse of him as he dodged through the bushes with the uncanny silence of a cat.

  “See and not be seen,” breathed Drummond as Standish joined him. “That’s the motto at present.”

  “It’s about here,” came a voice from the direction of the spot they had just left. “And mind that damned dog. He’s queer—even with me. Brutus! Brutus! My God! Look there.”

  Two men came out into the clearing, and going over to the mastiff bent over it.

  “He’s dead! Shot!”

  “Who by?” cried the other fearfully. “Here—this ain’t no place for us. Hook it.”

  The speaker darted back under cover, followed more slowly by the other, and as the sound of their footsteps died away Drummond laughed.

  “Wind slightly vertical,” he remarked.

  “Agreed,” said Standish, “but it’s a nuisance. They’re hardly likely to keep the news to themselves. So if we’re going to have a closer look at the house, old boy, we’d better get a move on.”

  “Spoken bravely, Horatio,” cried Drummond. “Up and at it.”

  They pushed forward rapidly in the direction taken by the two men, indifferent as to whether they were heard or not. In a few minutes the inmates of the house would be bound to know that someone was in the grounds, so the vital need for secrecy was over. All that mattered now was that they should not actually be seen: the gun Standish carried was probably not the only one of its kind.

  After about two hundred yards the undergrowth began to get thinner, and they slacked up a little. And a moment or two
later they saw the outlines of the house in front of them. It was a large one, and to all outward appearances its occupants had blameless consciences. Two of the downstair rooms were brilliantly illuminated, and through the open front door light streamed out on to a big limousine standing in the drive.

  For a while they crouched down watching. A man in evening clothes came to one of the windows and leaned out, and shortly after two others joined him. A weather conference evidently, for the first held out his hand to decide whether by chance it was raining, and then they all withdrew.

  “Too far off to see their faces, blast it,” said Standish. “Hullo! There they are in the hall.”

  The chauffeur had got down and was holding the door of the car open, whilst the butler helped two of them into their overcoats. And then for a space the three of them remained in earnest conversation just inside the front door.

  “If we move a bit over to the left we might get a glimpse of the two who are going,” said Drummond. “The inside of the car is lighted, and they may keep it so.”

  They skirted cautiously round the edge of the undergrowth until they were only a few yards from the drive. And they had barely taken up their position when the scrunch of wheels on the gravel announced that the car had started. They cowered down as the headlights swung round and passed over them: they peered eagerly out as the car came level.

  Luckily the light in the back was still on, and they got a clear view of the two occupants. The one nearest them had a small pointed beard and was smoking a cigarette: his companion, a long, hatchet-faced man, had an unlighted cigar between his lips. And Standish, after one silent whistle of amazement, ejaculated—”Well, I’m damned.”

  “Who are they?” said Drummond curiously.

  “The little man nearest us was Monsieur Julian Legrange, who occupies an almost unique position in French politics. He holds no portfolio, but his influence is enormous. Also, as one might expect, his knowledge of inside information is equally great. The other one is an Irish-American millionaire by the name of Daly—Jim Daly.”

  “What the devil are two men like that doing in this outfit?”

  “I can’t tell you, old boy. Though methinks the mystery of Sanderson’s death is becoming a little clearer.”

  “But they couldn’t be mixed up in that, surely?”

  “Not directly, of course, though there is precious little Jim Daly would stick at if his pocket benefited, and he loathes England like poison. No, what I meant was that the political side of the matter is beginning to manifest itself.”

  “In the shape of the Frenchman?”

  “In the shape of both. I grow more and more anxious to see their late host, for I’m thinking he must be an interesting individual. A man of many parts, who can entertain for dinner one of the most sought-after men in Europe, and at the same time carry on with the odd murder or two. I’m glad we came, old boy: a development such as that is the last I expected.”

  “Look at the house,” said Drummond suddenly. “There are our two beauties running round in circles in the hall and telling the proud owner the worst about the little dog.”

  The two men were plainly visible talking agitatedly to a third whose shadow only could be seen. And the effect was rapid. The front door was shut, and the blinds were drawn down in the rooms, though the light still filtered out.

  “Damn!” muttered Standish. “But we’ve got to see the gentleman somehow.”

  “And we will, old lad: at least I will. You can’t.”

  “What are you getting at?” said Standish.

  “Too many people in that house know you by sight,” answered Drummond. “There are the birds that chivvied you this morning, to say nothing of the two this afternoon who may be there, when I luckily was disguised. None of ’em know me, so it’s money for jam.”

  “But what do you propose to do?”

  “Leave it to me, boy,” said Drummond, grinning gently. “It’s just the sort of show that Mother trained me for.”

  “It’s madness, Drummond,” said Standish uneasily.

  “Madness your foot,” remarked Drummond. “If there’s anything at all in the visit of those two guys who have just left, it’s something big and not too healthy. Now, there’s no good kidding ourselves that the big noise in there is going to put his head out of the window if we go and sing a duet on the lawn. Therefore if we’re going to do anything about recognising him when we next meet him it’s got to be done and done quick. You can’t help for reasons already stated: so I’ll function. And for the purposes of this entertainment you aren’t here at all: I’m alone. So stay put, laddie, till I join you.”

  He dodged on to the drive, and then without any attempt at concealment walked straight up to the front door and rang the bell loudly. That he was running a grave risk he knew, but trifles of that sort were not in the habit of deterring Hugh Drummond. And it seemed to him imperative that at any rate one person on their side should be able to recognise the opposing principal by sight.

  After a considerable delay, during which he thought he could hear voices muttering on the other side of the door, it was flung open by a butler whose evening clothes left nothing to be desired—in fact, a man who looked a gentleman’s servant.

  “Yes, sir?” he remarked coldly.

  “There has been a spot of trouble,” said Drummond, “and I would like to see the owner of the house for a moment.”

  “At this hour, sir?” said the butler, even more coldly.

  “Naturally,” remarked Drummond genially. “Since I wish to see him now, it follows that I wish to see him at this hour. Does my reasoning seem faulty to you?”

  “My master is not in the habit of receiving strangers without a previous appointment at this or any other hour, sir,” answered the butler.

  “And I am not in the habit of being made to run for my life by wild beasts,” said Drummond curtly. “Nor am I in the habit of standing on the doorstep chatting of this and that with butlers. So get a move on, my lad, unless you want a belt in the jaw that will keep you on bread and milk for the next week. Tell your master that Mr Atkinson wants to see him, and that if, by chance, he does not want to see Mr Atkinson, the said Mr Atkinson will return in an hour or two with several members of the Sussex constabulary.”

  For a moment or two the butler hesitated, and then seeing that Drummond had already pushed past him and was glancing round at the heads that lined the walls, he closed the front door.

  “Kindly wait here,” he said.

  “I intend to,” answered Drummond, still studying the trophies. “Get a move on.”

  He heard a door open and shut behind him, and took a quick look round. From a room on the other side came the sound of voices, but except for that the house was silent. A big staircase occupied half one end of the hall: a door beside it led evidently to the kitchen quarters. Over the fireplace, in which some logs were blazing, hung a large oil painting of a man dressed in clothes of the Stuart period, and in the centre a big bronze bowl filled with ferns stood on a refectory table. In short, the whole atmosphere of the place was what one would expect in an ordinary English country house.

  At length a door opposite opened and the butler reappeared. “Will you come this way, sir,” he remarked. “Mr Demonico will receive you.”

  The room into which he was ushered was in striking contrast to the hall. The heavy scent of hot-house flowers filled the air, and the heat was stifling. Moreover, the whole furnishing scheme was the very last one would have expected to find after what had gone before, especially in a room belonging to a man. Heavy brocades adorned the walls: glass cabinets containing enamel and other objets d’art stood in the corners, and on a table in the middle was a beautiful cut-glass bowl containing potpourri.

  Seated in a chair on the other side of a roaring fire was a strange-looking individual, whose first and most dominant characteristic was his almost incredible baldness. He seemed to consist of a brightly polished white dome to which a body was attached as an afterthoug
ht. His eyes were concealed by dark glasses: he was clean shaven. But once over the hurdle of that hairless head it was the man’s hands that attracted one’s attention. Long and clawlike, the nails were manicured like those of a woman to the extent of being varnished pink, and on the third finger of each a magnificent ring glistened in the soft light.

  For a few seconds Drummond stared at him fascinated. The butler had withdrawn: he was alone with this incredible apparition. And then he pulled himself together: Mr Demonico was speaking.

  “I am at a loss to understand this intrusion, Mr—ah—Mr Atkinson,” he said, “but my man tells me that you forced your way in after making some rambling remarks about the police. May I ask you to state your business with the utmost expedition, as your presence here offends me intensely.”

  His voice was soft and melodious, but in it there lay a note of deadly menace.

  “Sorry about that, Mr—ah—Mr—sorry, but the old footman wilted a bit over the introduction, didn’t he? However, my business is to speak to you in honeyed accents about your live stock. Are you aware that but for some fine agility on my part I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Then I wish to God you were not quite so agile,” remarked his host languidly.

  “Not good, laddie,” sighed Drummond. “I hoped for better things from you than taking such an obvious opening. To resume. Are you aware that I’ve been chased all over your confounded grounds by an animal that looked the size of an elephant?”

  “May I ask what you were doing in my grounds at all?”

  “Certainly; certainly. No secrets shall mar our friendship. Motoring along the road, carefree and with song bursting occasionally from a heart full of joie de vivre, there came an ominous spluttering: a pop or two: then silence. I realised I was out of juice. Now I had recently passed your place, and so I decided to walk back and see if perchance I could borrow sufficient petrol from you to get me to my destination, my dear old aunt’s house near Pulborough. Still yodelling merrily I made my way up the drive, when to my horror a large animal which, as I say, seemed to me the size of an elephant, barred my path and began to yodel also. Moreover, it didn’t seem a friendly yodel to me. And so, though I blush to admit it, I deserted the drive and plunged into the bushes, uttering shishing noises to tell it not to come too. Will you believe it, Mr—ah—Mr—well the same as before—that that stupid animal didn’t understand my shishes: it followed me in a most tactless manner. Further, it ran much faster than I did, and it suddenly dawned on me that I had a revolver in my pocket. I drew it, and to cut a long story short, I regret to have to tell you that the elephant is defunct.”