The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “I heard you,” said Drummond, “but I was locked in and could do nothing.”

  “There was nothing to be done in any case, old boy: there must have been at least twenty of ’em. They trussed me up and gagged me, and chucked me into an outhouse, where three or four of them mounted guard. And it was from remarks they made that I gathered they none of them expected to be in England more than another ten days, which shows that the coup, whatever it is, is coming shortly. From their accents and conversation generally I put them down as American and Irish gunmen, and quite obviously they were a bunch of toughs who would stick at nothing. Every now and then a new one would drift in: your late visitor—Number Four—came in two or three times.

  “About twenty minutes after they’d got me something occurred which evidently surprised them. Did any woman appear on the scene?”

  “Corinne Moxton and dear Richard,” said Drummond.

  “I wondered if it was her. In any case her arrival caused a change of plan as far as you were concerned.”

  “Bless her kindly heart,” said Drummond grimly.

  “Something spicy was to be staged for her, apparently in the squash court. And what was more, as they were at pains to inform me, when you were disposed of I was to be the next item on the programme. What happened to you in there?”

  Briefly Drummond told him and Standish whistled.

  “A merry little piece of work—our Corinne,” he exclaimed as Drummond finished. “What an extraordinary kink for a woman to have. However, the rest you know. I heard Peter and the boys arrive, and for a time there was some deliberation as to whether they should have a pitched battle or not. But orders must have come through from the boss, because the whole lot just vanished. Whether they scattered and lay doggo in the grounds, or what they did, I don’t know: I was having a whole-time job trying to get free. Then I heard you shouting my name, so I knew that you had survived the entertainment in the squash court. But I was still gagged and couldn’t answer. And then when at last I did get free you had all gone. Providentially, however, I found that a car had been overlooked by the opponents in their hurried departure, and getting into it I trod on the gas, stopping only to retrieve the gun which I had left in the bushes. Then I came round to see you and fortunately arrived in the nick of time. But what has been puzzling me is what was the reason of Peter’s opportune arrival?”

  “That had me guessing too,” said Drummond, and then he told Standish of Daphne Frensham.

  “Are you sure she is to be trusted?” remarked Standish when he finished.

  “As sure as one can be over anything in a show of this sort,” answered Drummond. “And the fact remains that but for her getting into touch with Peter neither you nor I would be sitting in this car at the present moment.”

  “That’s true,” agreed Standish.

  “There’s another thing too,” went on Drummond. “She doesn’t know where I’m going to: I didn’t know myself when I left. But she’s all right, old boy: I’m certain of it. And she should prove an invaluable ally sitting, as she will be, right in the heart of the enemies’ country.”

  “This man Demonico—you say he was bald.”

  “As a billiard ball. With repulsive hands manicured like a woman’s.”

  “I’m trying to tape him,” said Standish thoughtfully. “I’ve got a fairly extensive acquaintance with international crooks, but he seems a new one on me.”

  “A dangerous customer, if I’m any judge,” remarked Drummond.

  “My dear fellow, they’re a dangerous gang. I think you’re perfectly right about Corinne Moxton: she’s in it simply to gratify her sadistic tendencies, and is, in reality, the least dangerous, even if the most unpleasant, of the whole bunch. Pendleton is on a different footing. He—if what Miss Frensham told you is correct—is obviously mixed up in their bigger schemes. In fact, that was clear when they drugged me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t second-in-command, with this man Demonico the boss. But what is agitating my grey matter at the moment is what sort of a coup they can be proposing to pull off that necessitates keeping a young army of low-class riff-raff about the place. If one could only get a line on the type of thing they’ve got in view. It can’t be high-class burglary: all those men are capable of is smash-and-grab or a hold-up in a shop. If it’s political, as poor old Sanderson said, what do they want ’em all for? They’re not the slightest use for any delicate work.”

  “I suppose it couldn’t be a question of abducting someone: kidnapping him, and holding him prisoner,” said Drummond thoughtfully.

  “That’s certainly a possibility. There are quite a number of people who would like to see the Prime Minister out of the way, and Legrange and Daly are two of them. At the same time, even if they were planning such a fantastic scheme as kidnapping Dermot, what can they want that number of men for? There’s another thing too that I gathered from their remarks: a lot of them have only just arrived in the country. Recently arrived: leaving in a week. It all points, old boy, to some very big coup for which these ruffians have been specially brought over. And the devil of it is I can’t even begin to imagine what it can be.”

  “We’ve got to solve that cipher somehow,” said Drummond. “By the way, did I tell you that Daphne Frensham has a hunch that it may be something to do with the day of the week. Apparently Pendleton… Great Scott!”

  He broke off suddenly, and Standish glanced at him. “What’s stung you?” he asked.

  “Do you remember,” answered Drummond slowly, “that bit of paper we found in Sanderson’s desk? Wait a minute: I’m trying to get it exactly. ‘Day of the week backwards. If two, omit first.’ That was it, wasn’t it?”

  “As near as makes no odds,” agreed Standish. “What about it?”

  “Only that that also points to the key being dependent on the day of the week. Pendleton’s annoyance when he found he’d been trying to solve a Wednesday message under the impression it was Tuesday: the fact that we made complete gibberish of yesterday’s message, which was Saturday, simply and solely because we were using letters obtained from Friday’s code; and last but not least, that apparently nonsensical sentence in Sanderson’s desk—surely those three things taken together make it almost a certainty.”

  “I believe you’re right, old boy,” said Standish thoughtfully. “It undoubtedly supplies a meaning to what you say was a nonsensical sentence. At the same time I don’t know that it puts us much forrader.”

  “I know,” said Drummond gloomily. “That’s what Peter said. Still, it’s something to be on the right lines: it might help you. Personally I’m hopeless. The simplest crossword sends me into a muck sweat, and a child can outwit me with the most footling riddle. But a brainy feller like you ought to be able to cough up something.”

  “I’ll have a shot,” said Standish, “but I won’t promise anything. And if I can’t make it out I know a bloke in London who probably can. The devil of it is, you see, that the messages will almost certainly be short ones. Further, since the majority of the members of the gang have only recently arrived, not many are likely to have been sent. And so, even if we got a lot of back papers, you would be lucky if you found more than two Tuesday codes, or two Fridays. Which is awkward. For though it is quite true that any cipher invented by man can be solved by man, it is essential to have a lot of it to work on. And that is just what we shan’t get. Still—we can but have a dip at it.”

  They drove in silence for some miles. A watery sun that gave no heat gleamed fitfully through the flying clouds, and a strong desire for breakfast grew in both men.

  “Eggs and bacon, laddie,” said Drummond cheerfully. “Lots of coffee, and then little Willie proposes to hit the hay.”

  “Only about another twenty miles,” cried Standish. “And I can do with a bit of shut-eye myself. Do you think you killed that blighter in the squash court?”

  Drummond grinned happily.

  “I’m afraid I did,” he said, “because I should very much like to have had a furthe
r chat with him. I wonder whose great brain thought of those spikes. Demonico’s presumably. By the way, did you hear any gup about Gulliver? Why did they do him in?”

  Standish shook his head.

  “No: I didn’t hear his name mentioned. Talking out of his turn, I suppose, or a small token of their respect and esteem for letting me get away.”

  “There’s another point that arises,” said Drummond after a while. “What about this inquest tomorrow? We are two of the principal witnesses.”

  “Leave that to me, old boy. I’ll fix it with McIver and Co.: the police can be very discreet when they want to. Tomorrow’s affair will be merely a matter of form, and then an adjournment for a week. I shall tell ’em about the Old Hall, of course, and your pal Demonico.”

  “What about that swab Pendleton and Corinne?”

  “I think it’s best to put all the cards on the table: they can be trusted not to act precipitately. We must do it, old boy: it would be unpardonable if these swine pulled their game off because we said nothing about them.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Drummond, “I was on the point of ringing them up myself just as Number Four arrived.”

  “I shall tell McIver that you and I are going to lie doggo for a while. And I’ll tell him why. He’s a sensible chap, and if I give him the situation from our point of view he’ll see it at once.”

  “It goes against the grain running away from that bunch of toughs,” said Drummond gloomily.

  “I agree: it does. But it would go a darned sight more against the grain to get plugged from behind by some unknown man. And that, old lad, would have been our portion for a certainty if we’d stopped on in London.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” agreed Drummond, as Standish swung the car off the road up to the entrance of an hotel. “Anyway, let’s hope the staff is up: my stomach is flapping against my backbone. What’s this pub? The Falconbridge Arms. Seems good to me.”

  * * * *

  And it is not too much to say that the sum of ten thousand pounds would willingly have been paid by the occupants of a room in Sir Richard Pendleton’s Harley Street residence for the information contained in Drummond’s last few sentences. It was the doctor’s consulting room, and Sir Richard himself was seated at his desk. Opposite him Number Four, his hand bound up, sprawled sullenly in a chair: whilst, huddled over the fire, crouched a figure whose completely bald head proclaimed him as Demonico. And the prevalent atmosphere was one of tension.

  “It’s no good putting that stuff over on me.” Number Four was speaking. “I tell you I had that sucker as stone cold as I had Sanderson. He was just putting his eye to it when that pal of his got me through the window.”

  “You’ve said all that before,” snarled Demonico. “The plain fact remains that you bungled the thing hopelessly.”

  “I bungled, did I?” answered the other, white with anger. “What about you down at the Old Hall? That was a pretty piece of work, wasn’t it? A howling success, I should say. You had ’em both for the asking, and then you let ’em get away, just because you wanted to put up a peep-show for that blasted woman.”

  Pendleton’s fist crashed on the desk.

  “If you make another remark like that,” he said thickly, “I’ll smash your face in.”

  “Will you indeed, Sir Richard Sawbones?” snarled Number Four. “I agree it’s about all you are capable of—hitting a man with one arm. I tell you—I’m fed up with this. Who has done all the dangerous work up to date? I have. And what have you done, you damned pill pusher? Gone messing round the place to little parties and things with that tow-haired…”

  “Stop!”

  Demonico’s imperious command rang out, and the two furious men pulled themselves together.

  “This is no time for childish squabbles,” he went on sternly. “The stakes are altogether too great. We must co-operate—not fight.”

  “Sorry, Doctor,” said Number Four sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  Pendleton accepted the apology with a curt nod.

  “Now,” continued Demonico, “let’s get back to the beginning. Who is this man Standish that Sanderson should have telephoned to him particularly?”

  “I can tell you that,” said Pendleton, “for I’ve been making enquiries. He was a friend of Sanderson’s, and is apparently a sort of amateur dabbler in crime with very distinct detective ability.”

  “That’s right,” said Number Four. “That’s what Sanderson said. Miss Moxton and I had been codding him up about the cipher—the same as I did Drummond, and he suddenly decided to ring up Standish. And I couldn’t miss the opportunity. His head was steady: he suspected nothing when I pretended to fill the pen.”

  “So much for him,” continued Demonico. “Now what about Drummond?”

  “As far as I can make out he’s a friend of Standish,” said Pendleton. “He and the other two were playing bridge when Sanderson telephoned. But to my mind Drummond is the most dangerous of the lot. He’s immensely powerful, as we have found out to our cost, and he knows you.”

  “He won’t the next time we meet,” said Demonico quietly. “That is, if there is a next time. The point is not, however, whether he knows me, but whether he knows anything of our plans.”

  “He knows we use a cipher, boss,” remarked Number Four, “but he doesn’t know what it is.”

  “It might be advisable to change it,” said Pendleton uneasily.

  “Impossible, so late as this,” answered Demonico decisively. “It would result in hopeless confusion. Besides, no one can solve it without the key.”

  “What’s got me stung,” said Number Four, “is that whoever it was who shot me—and I can’t think who it can have been except Standish—must have known about the pen. If he didn’t, why did he aim for my hand?”

  “That weapon has served its purpose,” said Demonico, “though I admit it’s very disconcerting. It shows knowledge on their part which is not reassuring. You think it was Standish?”

  “Who else could it have been? Darrell and that guy with an eyeglass were both shadowed to their flats: Leyton hasn’t left his rooms at all: it can’t have been the police. So it must have been Standish.”

  “Then one wonders excessively why, having incapacitated you, they didn’t make you a prisoner.”

  “Exactly, boss. I haven’t stopped wondering about that since it happened. They had me cold, and with the pen found on me I should have been taped direct for Sanderson.”

  Demonico rose and began pacing up and down the room, whilst the others watched him anxiously. That he was worried was clear, though his voice when he spoke was quite calm. “You say that Standish has not returned to his rooms?”

  “Not when the last report came in an hour ago,” said Pendleton, and at that moment the telephone rang on his desk.

  He picked up the receiver.

  “Yes. Sir Richard Pendleton speaking.”

  The others waited in silence: the message was obviously surprising the listener. At length he replaced the instrument. “An unexpected development,” he said. “Drummond left early this morning for Paris.”

  “Who was that speaking?” asked Demonico.

  “Spackman. Apparently he picked up one of the maids who was having her day out and she told him.”

  “What can have caused that?” said Demonico thoughtfully.

  “Possibly he found that things were getting too warm,” remarked Pendleton. “So he came to the conclusion that discretion was the better part of valour.”

  Demonico shook his head decidedly.

  “That is not my valuation of Captain Drummond at all,” he said. “In fact, I should not be at all surprised if it isn’t true. He may have said he was going to Paris for the benefit of his household staff and possible callers, whereas in reality he has done nothing of the sort. In any event, for the time we must regard both him and Standish as lost and make our plans accordingly. To start with, neither of them has an inkling that you are involved, Pendl
eton?”

  “So far as I know it’s impossible that they should,” said the doctor. “They were both unconscious when I saw them in Standish’s rooms. And yet I must confess that the tone of the few remarks Drummond made to me at a cocktail party where we met yesterday gave me to think a bit.”

  Demonico shrugged his shoulders.

  “We must chance it. Now that the Old Hall is useless, I shall have to stay in London. It won’t be for long: I had absolute confirmation last night that it will be Tuesday week. Your yacht will be ready by then?”

  “She’s ready now,” answered the doctor. “Who did you get your confirmation from?”

  “One of the chief cashiers,” said Demonico, “whom I’ve bought.”

  “A difficult thing to do,” said Pendleton dubiously. Demonico laughed cynically.

  “Not if you’re prepared to pay big enough,” he said. “How can he be so certain?” persisted Pendleton.

  “He knows the liner that the stuff is consigned to,” answered Demonico. “But if by chance there should be a change he will let me know at once. I had two other interesting visitors yesterday evening,” he continued. “Legrange and Daly.”

  “Good Lord! they know nothing about it, do they?”

  “No; though Daly wouldn’t mind if he did. I’ve met some Irish-Americans who are rabid against England, but he wins in a canter. However, don’t alarm yourself—they know nothing about our little coup. But they do know a lot about the financial condition of this country, and I was amazed at what they told me. If you want to pick up a packet for the asking—sell sterling short.”

  Pendleton stared at him.

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “Because England has either got to go bankrupt or get off the gold standard. That’s what they tell me and they should know.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Pendleton. “As bad as that, is it? But why the deuce did they bother to tell you?”