The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “How lucky for you,” murmured Mr Demonico. “May I ask if you usually carry a revolver when visiting your dear old aunt near Pulborough?”

  “Invariably,” said Drummond. “She’s deuced queer-tempered in the morning. She bit the butcher in the leg the other day.”

  “For heaven’s sake spare me your childish attempts at humour,” remarked the other, “and try to concentrate on one thing. What is your object in inflicting this tissue of lies on me?”

  “Lies be damned,” cried Drummond. “If you send out you’ll find that that mastiff of yours doesn’t think it a lie, and I wish to protest most strongly against such a dangerous brute being allowed to wander loose. If I hadn’t been armed it might have killed me.”

  “An eventuality I could have contemplated with perfect equanimity,” said Mr Demonico. “You have, however, not answered my question. What is your object in inflicting this tissue of lies on me? I do not allude to the death of the dog, of which I had already heard, but to the rest of the rigmarole.”

  He lit a cigarette from a small enamel box on a table beside his chair, and blew out a cloud of smoke.

  “You see, Mr Atkinson,” he continued, “your story crashes on one vital point. No one is allowed to pass my lodge gates under any pretext whatever without previous permission being given by me over the telephone. Therefore you must have climbed the wall. So will you be good enough to inform me, and at once, how you dared to be trespassing in my grounds at this hour of the night.”

  His voice had sunk to a whisper: his head was thrown a little forward, and the hand clasping his left knee seemed more talon-like than ever. And Drummond, watching him thoughtfully, realised that there was no good in prolonging the interview. His bluff had been called, but it had succeeded in so far as it had enabled him to do what he wanted—to see the man now sitting opposite him.

  He rose, and lit a cigarette also.

  “I fear your lodge-keeper must have been napping for once,” he remarked. “Why on earth should I bother to climb your bally wall? However, since the dog is dead and did me no harm, I am prepared to overlook the illegality of your having such a dangerous brute loose without warning possible callers. But the least you can do is to ante up a tin of petrol.”

  He stiffened suddenly: from outside had come a shout for help. And it seemed to him that it had been the voice of Ronald Standish.

  “Dear me,” said the man by the fire softly. “Can it be that other people are visiting their old aunts at Pulborough?”

  Without another word Drummond crossed to the door: if it was Standish who had called out, rapidity of action would be necessary. And the door was locked.

  He looked at Mr Demonico, still motionless in his chair, and saw that an evil smile was twitching round his lips.

  “Do you want me to break this door down?” he asked quietly.

  “If you can, my friend, do so by all means. You appear to me to be a large individual. But I fear you may find, as others have done before you, that it is easier for the fly to get into the spider’s web than it is for it to get out.”

  Drummond took a run and charged the woodwork with his shoulder, only to realise at once that it was hopeless. This was no ordinary door, but one that had been specially fitted, and he might as well have charged the wall itself.

  “The window will serve equally well,” he remarked, going over and pulling the curtains. And this time the man in the chair chuckled.

  “So that’s the game, is it?” said Drummond, as he looked at the steel shutter that stretched from floor to ceiling. “Well, laddie, what’s the great idea? Do we sit here all night?”

  “We sit here,” snarled the other, “for exactly as long as I choose.”

  “And what happens if I wring your darned neck?” asked Drummond pleasantly.

  “We sit here,” repeated Mr Demonico, as if Drummond had not spoken, “until I satisfy myself as to who you are, and what you were doing outside there tonight.”

  A whistle sounded beside his chair, and he picked up a speaking-tube. And as Drummond watched him listening to the message, he saw his face change and realised instinctively that there was danger. But he said nothing, and having replaced the tube he pressed a button on the arm of his chair, and a moment later there came a clang in the wall. A small metal grille opened, through which Drummond could see two eyes looking into the room. The man in the chair gave a rapid order in a language which Drummond could not understand, and which to the best of his belief he had never heard before, and the grille closed again.

  And now Drummond was doing some pretty quick thinking: if somehow or other they had caught Standish, the situation was undeniably serious. There was no hope of any outside help till the next morning, since there was little chance of Peter arriving earlier; until then they would have to rely entirely on themselves. And the devil of it was they were separated. Further, for all he knew Standish might have been knocked out, in which case everything depended on him.

  The first thought that automatically came into his mind was that he was alone with Demonico and he had a gun in his pocket. Even without the revolver the man in the chair would be a child in his hands, and the possibility of using that fact as an asset for bargaining struck him immediately. Instinctively his hand went towards his pocket and Demonico laughed.

  “You pain me, Mr Atkinson,” he said. “I really wouldn’t if I were you. Surely you cannot be such a complete imbecile as to imagine that I should have remained in here alone with you all this time without taking a few rudimentary precautions against such an action on your part. You have been covered by two of my men ever since you came into this room, and if you look carefully round the walls you will see where they are. The grille that opened is not the only one, believe me.”

  Drummond’s hand fell to his side; he knew without bothering to confirm it that Demonico was speaking the truth.

  “This is beginning to bore me,” he drawled. “And the stink in this room is something grim. What is the next item in the programme?”

  “One that I trust will not bore you, Mr Atkinson. In fact, I think I can guarantee that it won’t.”

  “That’s good,” said Drummond. “Up to date this performance would have been given the bird by an audience of deaf mutes. I come here to ask for the loan of some petrol, and because I have the common civility to tell you about the death of your hound, you keep me here as a virtual prisoner.”

  “Virtual is a good word,” remarked the other with a faint smile. “However, it won’t be for long now.”

  Drummond stared at him.

  “Before what?” he said.

  “Before you get your tin of petrol, and resume your interrupted journey to your dear old aunt,” answered Demonico pleasantly. “You see, Mr Atkinson, I am a great recluse, and I have to take precautions against strangers invading my privacy.”

  He rose and walked to a desk in the corner of the room, and once again Drummond’s hand stole towards his pocket. Then he checked the impulse: what was the use? That Demonico was lying he was certain, but as things were, he was at a hopeless disadvantage. A glance round the room had shown him one of the two open grilles, with the muzzle of a gun fixed on him unwaveringly. He was a sitting target without a chance of escape.

  If only he knew about Standish: it was that that was worrying him. Had that cry come from him? Had they got him somehow? If they had, someone in the house would almost certainly have recognised him. And if Standish had been spotted, did Demonico know that Atkinson was a false name? Did Demonico know that he was Drummond, and therefore mixed up in the whole affair?

  The whistle in the speaking-tube sounded again, and Demonico crossed to it.

  “Splendid,” he said, as the voice finished. “Well, Mr Atkinson,” he continued, replacing the tube, “your tin of petrol is all ready for you. I have thoroughly enjoyed your little visit, and I can assure you that there is no companion to poor Brutus to annoy you on your return journey. So that being the case, there will be no necessity for you
to be armed. I must therefore request you to remove the revolver from your pocket and place it on the table beside you.”

  “Why the devil should I?” cried Drummond. “It’s my gun.”

  “And it will be returned to you at the lodge gates by one of my servants,” said the other gravely. “To be quite frank, Mr Atkinson, you seem to me to be a very excitable young man, and I have a rooted objection to excitable young men with revolvers.”

  “And what if I refuse?”

  “Then it will be taken from you and not returned at the lodge gates. May I beg to remind you that you are still covered from two directions, so that even the great strength you so obviously possess will avail you but little. And one other point. When you take it out of your pocket hold it by the muzzle.”

  For a moment or two Drummond hesitated. He was convinced now that it was a trap, but what was he to do? He did not even know where the second grille was, so that the hope of getting a couple of shots through the two of them was not only forlorn but impossible.

  “I trust you will not exhaust my patience, Mr Atkinson,” continued Demonico. “I give you ten seconds to do as I tell you: after that you will be used as a target. My men are only awaiting my order.”

  “It’s a most monstrous thing,” cried Drummond with well-feigned indignation. “And I shall certainly complain to the police about it.”

  He threw the revolver on the table, and the other picked it up.

  “Certainly,” said Demonico smoothly. “I would if I were you. Though you may find it a little difficult to explain to them why you wished to shoot your aunt.”

  He paused suddenly, and stood listening: a car was coming up the drive. It stopped outside the front door, and into Drummond’s mind there leaped a wild hope that it might be Peter. Demonico was frowning: evidently he was puzzled himself as to who was the late caller. And when the speaking-tube whistled again he picked it up quickly.

  “Who?” he cried. “At this hour?”

  And then a slow smile spread over his face.

  “Ask them to wait in the drawing-room,” he said.

  He turned to Drummond with the smile still on his lips.

  “The calls of business, Mr Atkinson, are indeed exacting. However, you would doubtless like to have your tin of petrol and resume your journey. Good night: you will have no difficulty with the door this time.”

  “What about my gun?” demanded Drummond.

  “It shall be handed to you as I promised at the lodge gates. Good night.”

  He resumed his chair, and Drummond walked to the door. It was no longer locked, and he walked into the hall, which was empty save for a man by the front door. And he was at once acutely aware of one thing: someone using scent had just been there—the perfume still hung in the air.

  “This way, if you please, sir,” said a voice in his ear, and he turned to find the butler beside him. “The petrol is in the garage.”

  Should he bolt for it? A glance at the man near the door revealed an unmistakable bulge in his coat pocket: he had not been disarmed. And what about Standish? He must find out about him.

  With eyes that took in every detail he examined the place as he followed the butler. Everything seemed normal, but with that uncanny sixth sense of his he knew that it was not. He knew that he was being watched by hidden eyes: he knew the house was alive with men. But no sign of that knowledge showed in his face: not for nothing was he known as one of the best poker players in London.

  And now an intense curiosity was beginning to possess him: what was going to happen? That they were going to present him with a tin of petrol and let him go was inconceivable: if that had been the case Demonico would not have troubled to relieve him of his revolver.

  They were now in a long passage with a door at the farther end. There were no windows, and it seemed to Drummond that it was a covered communication way between the house and some outbuilding. Could it be the garage? Could it be that, after all, he was wrong, and they were going to let him go?

  The butler flung open the door, and he found himself in a room one side of which was occupied by a flight of wooden stairs. There was no light save that which filtered in from the passage they had come along, but by that he saw another door in front of him the whole appearance of which seemed very familiar. Again the butler opened it: there on the floor just beyond was a tin of petrol.

  “There you are, sir,” said the man, standing aside, and Drummond stepping forward picked it up. And even as he did so the second door clanged behind him and he found himself in darkness.

  He stood for a moment cursing himself for a fool: then reaching out his hand encountered a smooth cold wall. He ran his fingers along it to find the door: all they met was a barely perceptible crack in the shiny surface. And he suddenly remembered his torch.

  He switched it on, letting the beam travel round. And the first thing it picked up was a slanting red line above his head on one of the side walls; then the countersunk door he had just come in by. He was in a squash court: the wooden steps outside led to the gallery, and that was why it had all seemed so familiar.

  He tried the door at once, but as he expected it had been bolted on the other side. And once again he began to do some rapid thinking. Escape was impossible: he could not reach the gallery with his hands even by jumping.

  He took a step backwards, and nearly fell over the petrol tin, which he picked up and put against the wall. Then still trying to puzzle things out he commenced to walk about. Why had they taken the trouble to put him in a squash court? Was it just a prison, or was there some deeper motive?

  There was no overhead glass, but at the back of the gallery he could see the faint outline of two windows. There lay a way out if only he could get there—a way out which short-circuited the passage back to the house. And then another idea struck him. Using his torch he went carefully round the four walls to find out if by chance there was another entrance. But there was no sign of one: the court was a genuine one, untampered with in any way.

  Suddenly he stiffened and switched out his torch: someone was going up the wooden staircase that led to the gallery. He listened intently: more than one person was there. He backed into the centre of the court, his eyes fixed on the window across which whoever it was would have to pass. He counted three dim shadows: then came the sound of a chair being moved: the audience had arrived.

  There was no doubt about it now: the court was not merely a prison. Something was going to happen which the three spectators had conic to watch. And even as he arrived at that conclusion he got a whiff of the same scent that he had noticed in the hall. A woman was up there in the gallery—the woman who had just arrived by car. Could it be Corinne Moxton with Pendleton?

  He stood undecided: should he call out to them and ask what the devil the game was? Or should he switch his torch on and endeavour to see them? And he was still trying to make up his mind when suddenly the court was flooded with light. But it was not the ordinary lighting which comes from the roof and illuminates the floor and the gallery equally. A powerful arc lamp had been fitted at the top of the back wall in the centre, with the result that the gallery behind it was in impenetrable darkness as far as he was concerned. Of the three spectators he could see no trace, though he knew they were there behind the light.

  A pulse was beginning to beat in his throat, and he was white round the nostrils. Seldom in his life had Hugh Drummond been in the grip of such overmastering rage. His great hands hung clenched by his sides: his breathing had quickened. Was somebody going to plug him like that, a sitting target? Or what was going to happen? And the next instant he knew it was not the former. For the door in the back wall underneath the arc lamp was being slowly opened.

  KNOCK-OUT [Part 2]

  CHAPTER VI

  The sight steadied him: if there was going to be a gladiatorial exhibition, the audience should have their money’s worth. And it would not be his fault if the result proved different to what they expected. The door was still opening, but as yet he
could not see who was outside. And it struck him that his present position was strategically unsound. In an instant he was across the court and standing by the door, so that when it was fully open it would be between him and whoever was coming in. At any rate they would start fair.

  A board close to him creaked slightly, and he saw the shadow of a head just beyond the edge of the door which was now at right angles to the back wall. And at that moment came Demonico’s voice from the gallery.

  “Well, Mr Atkinson Drummond, let’s see if you prefer this to the dog.”

  So he did know: that point was settled anyway.

  “I’m sure I shall, you bald-headed old swine,” said Drummond cheerfully, at the same time dodging back a couple of yards.

  It was a sound move: thinking he had located Drummond the maker of the shadow was round the door like a flash. And for a second Drummond stared at his adversary aghast. He was a gigantic individual with the coarsened, vicious features of a lowdown professional pug. But it was not at his face Drummond was looking, nor at the great torso and shoulders; it was at his hands. Encasing each of them was a canvas glove from which steel spikes stuck out front and back. The spikes were about an inch long and sharp-pointed, and after that one momentary pause Drummond moved, and moved quickly. The best method of dealing with this gentleman would have to be thought out, and until he had made up his mind anything in the nature of close quarters must be avoided.