The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Hanged! That had been acting: in her case it would not be. It would be reality. She would be awakened in the morning, if she had ever gone to sleep. And men would come in and drag her out, and there would be that dull thud, and—silence. But she would not be there to realise there was silence. She would be dead.

  The front-door bell rang shrilly. And when a few moments later Sir Richard Pendleton entered he was met by Daphne Frensham.

  “I don’t think, Sir Richard,” she said, “that Miss Moxton is very well this morning. She has just fainted.”

  “Fainted,” he cried. “I’ll go to her at once. When did it happen?”

  “Just after the bell rang,” she said, and as he hurried into the bedroom a little smile twitched round her lips. “I don’t think she was expecting you.”

  And if there was a slight emphasis on the last word, Sir Richard did not notice it: was not the lovely Corinne Moxton unconscious on the bed and in need of professional attention?

  “My dear,” he said solicitously when she opened her eyes, “what made you do that?”

  For a while she stared at him blankly: then she sat up and clutched his wrist.

  “Has he said anything?” she cried.

  Sir Richard frowned, putting a warning finger to his lips, and Corinne Moxton saw that her secretary was just behind him.

  “That will do, thank you, Miss Frensham,” she said. “Sorry to have given you the trouble: I suddenly felt queer. Now I want to talk to Sir Richard.”

  She waited till the door had shut; then she turned on him feverishly.

  “Well,” she cried, “what has happened?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” said the doctor gravely.

  “Drummond hasn’t split?”

  “Drummond wasn’t there.”

  “Is the inquest over?”

  Sir Richard nodded.

  “Yes. A purely formal affair with a formal verdict. And I don’t like it.”

  But Corinne Moxton was paying no attention. The inquest was over and Drummond had said nothing. All her fears were groundless, and she jumped up gaily.

  “And to think that I’ve been worrying myself sick,” she cried, “wondering if he was going to say something about you and me. That’s what made me faint: when the bell rang I thought it was the police.”

  “Don’t talk too loud, Corinne,” he said. “That girl of yours is in the next room. No; he said nothing, for the very good reason that he wasn’t there. Nor was Standish. And what I am wondering is, why they neither of them were there. I don’t like it, my dear: I don’t like it at all.”

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  “What’s stung you now?” she cried. “You surely didn’t want him to say anything.”

  “Not about you and me naturally,” he answered. “But I can’t understand why no mention has been made of other things connected with the case. And I can’t understand why two of the principal witnesses have not been called. It looks very suspicious to me.”

  But Corinne Moxton was in no mood for gloom: the reaction after her previous fears was too wonderful.

  “Gee, Richard, your face would turn the butter rancid. Go and shake a cocktail, and then take me out to lunch.”

  He went into the next room obediently, but he was still looking worried when she joined him.

  “Number Nine was present,” he said, closing the door. “I’ve just seen him. And what you don’t seem to grasp, my dear, is that a formal verdict such as the coroner instructed the jury to bring in is only possible at the instigation of the police. It means they’ve got something up their sleeves.”

  “As long as they haven’t got me,” she cried. “I guess they can keep what they like there.”

  “It’s not quite so easy as that, Corinne,” he remarked, handing her a drink. “Why has no mention been made of the Old Hall? Why has nothing been said about the drugging of Standish and Drummond? They are lying low at the moment, and I should feel a great deal happier if we had a few more of their cards on the table. The fact that no mention was made of those things rather discounts the value to us that no mention was made of you and me.”

  She put down her glass.

  “You mean,” she said slowly, “that they still may know we were involved.”

  “Precisely,” he answered. “If some of those points had been alluded to, and nothing had been said about us, I should feel absolutely safe. As it is I don’t.”

  “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

  Her voice was shrill: all the old terrors were returning.

  “There is nothing to do about it,” he said. “All we can do is to hope for the best. It may be all my imagination: Drummond probably suspects nothing at all. But”—he shrugged his shoulders—”I wish I could be certain. Anyway,” he continued reassuringly, “I don’t think it possible that anyone can have an inkling of the fact that you were present when Sanderson was killed.”

  Her spirits revived: that was really all that mattered.

  “It was very unwise of you to go, as I’ve told you before,” he went on, “and had I had the slightest idea that you proposed to I should have forbidden it. But it’s done and there is no more to be said about it. What we’ve got to do now is to concentrate on the future.”

  He paused and stood listening: then stepping swiftly across the room he flung open the door, almost colliding as he did so with Daphne Frensham, who was just outside.

  “Good gracious, Sir Richard,” she said calmly, “how you startled me. There’s one letter I forgot to give you, Miss Moxton: will you sign it now?”

  Sir Richard watched her closely as she crossed the room. Had she been listening outside? If so, it was a superb piece of acting. Not by the quiver of an eyelid had she given herself away.

  He waited until she had again left the room: then he swung round to Corinne Moxton.

  “Is that secretary of yours all right?” he said in a low voice. “I could have sworn I heard a sound outside just before I opened the door.”

  “I guess I was a little indiscreet this morning,” she answered, quite humbly for her. “I kind of got nervous, Richard: I kept on thinking over what you said yesterday about Drummond. And I suddenly began to wonder what would happen to me if they did find out I was there when Sanderson was killed.”

  “My God! Corinne, you didn’t say anything about it to her?” he cried, aghast.

  “No, honey, no. I just put a sort of hypothetical case.”

  “Well, if you take my advice, you won’t put any more. We’ve bitten off quite enough already, without adding anything else. And we don’t want that young woman butting into things. Now—I’ve got an appointment which I can’t get out of, but I’ll meet you at the Ritz for lunch at one-thirty. And don’t forget: no more hypothetical cases.”

  Corinne Moxton watched him go: then she mixed herself another cocktail. She had been indiscreet: she knew it. Especially that insane moment of panic when she had started to pack her dressing-case. Just blind, unreasoning fear had driven her, and now she cursed herself for a fool. But if only they could know for certain.

  Suddenly an idea struck her. It could do no harm, and it might settle matters once and for all. She picked up the telephone book and looked up Drummond’s number. She would ring up the house, and ask him round for a drink that night. If Paris was a blind; if he was either stopping quietly in his own house or was somewhere in England, she might be able to get at him.

  A man’s voice answered—Captain Drummond’s butler.

  “I am sorry, madam, but Captain Drummond is in Paris; I cannot say where. I do not know when he is returning. Can I give him any message from madam? To have a drink with you some evening after he returns. Very good, madam.”

  She replaced the receiver: whether it was the truth or not, the story was evidently being stuck to. And after a while, when a third cocktail had followed in the wake of its predecessors, life began to look a little better. It must have been Sir Richard’s imagination over his talk with Drummon
d: she was perfectly safe. And even if the doctor was suspected, there was no reason why she should be. Just because she had been about with him a good deal since she had been in London was no justification for the police to get at her. They might question her, but she was quite capable of dealing with questions. In fact, if she handled the thing properly it might prove a good advertisement.

  One thing, however, would be a good thing to do: get rid of Daphne Frensham. The girl must have suspected something that morning, even if she was not wise to the truth. And it would be as well to get her out of the flat before the night. The rehearsal did not matter, so if she gave her secretary a week’s notice it would just be right: she would be leaving on the Monday and it was booked for Tuesday. And it would seem more natural than giving her the sack on the spot.

  “Say, Miss Frensham,” she said, stopping on the way to her bedroom, “I guess it’s customary in this country to give notice, the same as in mine. Wal, I’m quitting early next week, and going to Berlin. So I shan’t be requiring you after Monday next. I hope that is convenient to you.”

  “Quite, thank you, Miss Moxton,” said Daphne Frensham. “It will give you time to look around for another situation, and of course I’ll give you a first-class reference.”

  She went on into her room: that was all right. The girl had taken it quite normally and evinced no surprise, and as she repassed the room on her way to the front door she saw her with her head bent low over the table absorbed in her work.

  Daphne Frensham waited until she heard the front door close; then pushing back her chair she lit a cigarette. She was frowning a little; being given the sack was not going to help matters. Had she played her part badly that morning: was that the reason? She did not see how else she could have played it. To have remained quite unsurprised at such an exhibition of nerves would in itself have been suspicious. Or was the woman really going to Berlin?

  After a while she went into the other room and rang up Peter Darrell.

  “Would you like to give me a spot of lunch today?” she asked. “You bet I would,” he said. “Where and when would suit?”

  “As soon as you like,” she answered. “And somewhere quiet.”

  They fixed on a small place off Wardour Street, and a quarter of an hour later she found him there waiting for her.

  “I’ve been followed,” he said, as they shook hands, “but that is nothing new during the past few days. My attendant is that nasty-looking mess eating spaghetti in the corner. Well—what news?”

  “I’ve been sacked,” she answered as they took a table as far removed from the follower as possible. “Given a week’s notice this morning.”

  “The devil you have,” he remarked, staring at her. “However, I don’t think it matters: a week will be enough. I’ve been in communication with Hugh Drummond and a fellow called Standish this morning early, and they think that whatever is going to happen is coming shortly. But why did you get the boot?”

  She told him briefly what had happened and he listened in silence.

  “The nuisance is,” she concluded, “that I’ve so far found out nothing new, and what is worse, that man Pendleton now suspects me. I only just straightened up in time when he flung the door open.”

  “Probably it’s that that got you the bullet,” said Darrell thoughtfully. “For Heaven’s sake be careful, my dear: this isn’t a bunch to play any monkey tricks with.”

  “Where is Captain Drummond?” she asked.

  “Falconbridge Arms in the New Forest,” he answered in a low voice. “They are battling with that cipher, and also lying low for a few days. You see, Bill Leyton and I don’t count: we’re only the small fry. It’s those two the other crowd want.”

  “What happened at the inquest?” she asked.

  “The whole thing was over in about ten minutes,” he said. “Bill and I said our little piece, and the coroner literally shut us up if there was any question of us talking out of our turn. The whole thing was run by the police.”

  “That’s what is making Sir Richard uneasy,” she remarked. “I could just hear enough to realise that this morning.”

  “By the way,” he said suddenly, “there’s no danger, is there, of any of their underlings recognising you?”

  She shook her head.

  “None of them have ever been near the flat,” she told him. “Sir Richard would, of course, but no one else.”

  “And he doesn’t know me,” said Darrell, relieved. “And since there is only one of them here, and he’s my portion, you can get back all right. But don’t forget Drummond’s address in case you want him urgently. His telephone number is Brockenhurst 028. But be careful where you phone him from.”

  “How long is he going to stay there?”

  Darrell grinned.

  “From what I know of him not long,” he said. “Vegetating in the country is not his line at all. And it’s only Ronald Standish who has persuaded him to do it.”

  “He struck me as being a very determined individual,” she remarked.

  Darrell laughed.

  “He is, as several people in the past have found to their cost. And he is one of the few beings I have ever met who does not know what the word fear means. That is why Standish must have brought some heavy guns to bear to get him to go and hide, because when all is said and done that is what they are doing.”

  “That reminds me,” she said suddenly. “I’d quite forgotten. That woman rang him up this morning.”

  “What’s that?” he cried. “But she doesn’t know where he is.”

  “His London house,” she explained. “And it must have been that dear old thing Denny who answered.”

  “He won’t give anything away,” said Darrell, relieved. “He doesn’t even know where Hugh is himself.”

  “She was evidently asking him to come round and have a cocktail,” she continued. “I heard her say, ‘Give him my message when he returns.’”

  “Rather amusing that,” said Darrell. “I wonder what she proposes to do with him when she gets him there—ask the dear doctor to poison him?”

  “She’d love that,” remarked the girl. “It would be a new sensation for her.”

  “She must be a unique case,” said Darrell thoughtfully, holding out his cigarette-case. “Think of having her lying about the house permanently.”

  “My temporary experience is quite enough, thank you,” she answered. “She’s inconceivably and utterly vile, and I simply hugged myself this morning when I realised that she was in a complete panic.”

  “She must have been to faint,” he said.

  “She thought she was going to be arrested, of course,” went on Daphne Frensham. “And since I’d pitched it in good and hearty about the hanging part of the business she simply blew up.

  “I hope to Heaven they don’t think you know,” he said anxiously.

  “No need to worry about that,” she answered decidedly.

  “They think that quite naturally I am curious over her strange behaviour this morning. I was worried myself to start with, but now I’ve thought it over I’m sure that’s how it stands. You see, to anyone who didn’t know the truth she would have seemed like a mad-woman.”

  “You know,” said Darrell earnestly, “we’re being most indiscreet.”

  “How do you mean?” she asked, surprised.

  “Well, I can see the follower,” he explained, “and he’s finished his second plate of spaghetti. Which shows that we’ve been here some time. Now, don’t you realise that he must be wondering what we’re talking about.”

  “He can’t hear what we’ve said.”

  “True, most adorable of your sex. But he can see our faces. And I ask you—what have our faces registered? Earnestness: grim resolve. Hence our indiscretion. We have made him curious. Why should any man register grim resolve who is lunching with you?”

  Her lips began to twitch.

  “What are we going to do about it?” she said.

  “Well, I have a suggestion to make,” he
answered gravely. “Supposing—you will, of course, realise that it is only made to deceive our spaghetti eater—supposing you moved your left knee a little nearer my right knee, they would certainly connect. And he would see the deed, and would think that our conversation, which had evidently been concerned with love, was beginning to reach a successful conclusion.”

  She pressed out her cigarette.

  “Conclusion?” she murmured.

  “Good God! no,” he cried, aghast. “Merely the opening gambit for the next half-hour. The conclusion I alluded to was that of the grim-resolve period.”

  “And what do our expressions register during the knee-touching spasm?”

  “That, Daphne, I leave entirely to you. But don’t forget, we’ve got to allay spaghetti’s doubts.”

  He grinned suddenly.

  “You’re the most adorable girl,” he went on, “and you must never forget one thing, for I never can.” His voice had grown serious again. “You saved the life of the man who is my greatest friend—Hugh Drummond.”

  “Rot,” she answered with a smile. “You saved him, Peter. And if you really think we ought to put spaghetti out of his misery, we’d better get on with it, because I must be off soon.”

  “But you said you’d got a day off,” he protested.

  “I’m not going to take it,” she said. “I might find out something. And after next Monday I shan’t be so busy.”

  “You topper,” cried Peter. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing much,” she answered. “But you’re a very conscientious actor, aren’t you?”

  “Spaghetti has an eye like a lynx, darling,” he said happily. “He’d know at once if we were faking things.”

  “And is ‘darling’ included in your part?”

  “You bet it is. Spaghetti is a lip reader. But if you prefer sweetheart I have no objection.”

  “It strikes me, Mr Darrell, that you’re a pretty rapid mover.”

  “Only in times of stress like this,” he assured her. “At others I’m a lay preacher.”