The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  With which monstrous reflection on a worthy body of citizens Peter Darrell proceeded to concentrate on the matter in hand to such purpose that closing hours for drink passed unnoticed—a state of affairs that speaks for itself.

  “I think we ought to meet every day, don’t you?” he said as they finally rose from their table. “Just to report progress, you know. Anyway, give me your private address, so that if I feel nervous I can come round and hold your hand.”

  He scribbled it down in his note-book, and put her into a taxi.

  “I’ll tell him to drive to Selfridges,” he whispered through the window. “You can put him wise when you’ve started. So long, you angel.”

  He watched her drive away: then with a courteous smile he turned to the consumer of the spaghetti, who had just emerged from the restaurant.

  “Now, sir,” he remarked, “I am completely at your service. Let us talk of this and that for a while, and then with your kindly permission I propose to go to my club. You prefer not to? Well, well; as you please. In that case, I will leave you. I shall be dressing for dinner about seven-thirty.”

  And it was at that hour precisely that the telephone rang in his flat, and he heard Daphne Frensham at the other end. “Darling,” he said. “This is too wonderful.”

  “Listen, Peter,” came her voice a little urgently. “There have been developments this afternoon. I must see you at once. Where can we meet?”

  He thought for a moment or two.

  “Look here, dear,” he said quietly, “the last thing we want to do is to give away where you live. On the other hand, they all know where I live. If I come round and see you I shall be followed: do you mind coming here to my flat?”

  “Of course not, my dear,” she answered. “I’ll come at once.”

  He put down the receiver thoughtfully: developments, were there? And then for a while he forgot such minor matters in the very much more important question of Daphne Frensham. What an absolute fizzer she was, and where would they all have been without her? But when she arrived a quarter of an hour later he saw at once by her face that something serious had happened.

  “Peter, dear,” she said without any preamble, “I’m desperately afraid that I’ve given away Captain Drummond’s address.”

  He whistled under his breath.

  “That’s a pity,” he said. “How did it happen, darling?”

  He pulled off her cloak and pulled a chair up to the fire.

  “I’d better start at the beginning,” she said. “When I got back this afternoon the flat was empty, so I went on with the job of filing her rotten press cuttings to fill in the time till they returned. They didn’t get back till nearly five, and they went straight into the drawing-room and shut the door. I’d heard their voices in the hall, and it was pretty obvious that that beast Pendleton was feeling amorous. And as the last thing I wanted to listen to was the pig making love, I stayed on where I was.

  “Suddenly I heard the telephone go, and I crept along the passage. He was answering it, and of course I had no idea what was being said at the other end. Then I heard him say—’I get you. Ardington: tonight—four o’clock.’ That was all I got; in fact, that was all he said, but its effect was remarkable on her.

  “She jumped to her feet the instant he’d rung off, and rushed to him.

  “‘Tonight,’ she cried, and there was a sort of ecstasy in her voice. ‘Say, Richard, that’s too marvellous.’

  “‘Earlier than I expected,’ he said. ‘It was to have been next Thursday. Is that damned secretary of yours still in the flat?’

  “That was my cue, and I was safely back in my own room before he opened the door. Two collisions in the same day would have been asking for trouble.

  “‘You really are a model secretary,’ he said in that foul, sneering voice of his. ‘I thought Miss Moxton had given you the afternoon off.’

  “‘I’m badly in arrears with this work, Sir Richard,’ I answered, wielding a pretty scissor. ‘And I prefer to get up to date, thank you.’

  “He went back to the other room, and I heard the murmur of their voices. It wasn’t safe to do the keyhole act again, so I controlled my curiosity and went on pasting the wretched notices in a book. What on earth did it mean? I’d never heard of Ardington: I didn’t even know if it was the name of a man or a place. What could there be to make that woman get in a flat spin about?

  “Then she came along the passage to talk to me, and I took one look at her face. You know I told you, Peter, about the time she saw that street accident, and the episode of the dog. Well, the same expression was in her eyes as she stood by the table, though her voice was under perfect control.

  “‘Thank you, Miss Frensham,’ she said, ‘it’s good of you to finish them up. But I guess I’d sooner you didn’t come till after lunch tomorrow: I feel like a long morning in. So stay on now, and take your time off tomorrow instead.’

  “‘Certainly, Miss Moxton,’ I answered, and she went back to Pendleton. Again I didn’t dare to try to listen, and there I sat fuming, unable to hear a word of what they were saying. At last the door opened, and they came out, on their way to a cocktail party.

  “‘We’d better go, or we’ll be late,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I told Parker to wait.’

  “‘But you won’t take him tonight,’ she cried.

  “‘Good God! no,’ he answered. ‘I’ll drive myself.’

  “Then the front door shut, and they were gone, leaving me more puzzled than ever. Parker is Sir Richard’s chauffeur, and if there is one thing the doctor loathes doing it is driving his car. So why should he be so emphatic in saying that he was going to do so himself tonight? Evidently something is going to happen which Parker mustn’t see. Don’t you think so, Peter?”

  “Sounds like it, my dear, I must say,” said Darrell. “But how did you give Hugh away?”

  “I’m coming to that,” she continued. “I went on racking my brains as to what it could mean, and after a while I rang you up. There was no reply, and I didn’t know what your club was. And so, like an idiot, I put through a call to Captain Drummond. The flat was empty, and I knew they wouldn’t be returning for an hour at least. I got through to the Falconbridge Arms after a bit of delay, and asked for him. And as I was waiting while they went to see if he was in I happened to look round: standing in the doorway was a woman.

  “For a moment or two I stared at her in complete bewilderment: I couldn’t imagine where she had sprung from. She was middle-aged, with grey hair and very well dressed, and I was on the point of asking her who she was and what she wanted when Captain Drummond came to the telephone.

  “I should think he must have thought me an absolute idiot.

  “‘Is that you, Mr Johnson?’ I said, taking the first name I could think of.

  “‘Hullo! Miss Frensham,’ he answered, ‘I recognise your voice. What’s the great idea?’

  “‘Sorry,’ I cried. ‘Wrong number,’ and rang off.

  “‘How annoying it is when that happens, isn’t it?’ said the woman, coming into the room.

  “‘May I ask you who you are and how you got in?’ I cried.

  “‘You must be dear Corinne’s secretary, I suppose,’ she said, without answering my question. ‘She told me you were very charming.’”

  “First good point I’ve heard about Corinne,” said Darrell with a grin.

  “Shut up, Peter: this is serious. We went on talking for a while, and at last I discovered that she was a Mrs Merridick, who had known the Moxton woman for years, and had a key to the flat. Which in itself struck me as being very extraordinary. If she was such an intimate friend as all that, why had she never used the key before? To my certain knowledge it was the first time she had been in the flat, at any rate during the day, since I’d been in the job.

  “However, I am bound to admit that she was very nice: asked me about my prospects, where I lived…”

  “Which I hope you did not tell her,” interrupted Darrell anxiously.

 
“Of course not, bless you: I just said with my mother. But to cut it short, Peter, I didn’t hear her open the front door, and so I don’t know when she came in. And so I can’t be sure how long she had been standing there. Did she hear me ask for Captain Drummond, and did she hear me mention the Falconbridge Arms? Not a muscle in her face moved when I said Mr Johnson, but that means nothing.”

  “It does not,” agreed Darrell. “And there is no doubt whatever that Hugh must be warned at once. I’ll get through to him now.”

  “Wait a minute, Peter: we must try and think what this Ardington business means. At first, as I told you, I couldn’t make out if it was a man or a place or what it was. Now if it’s a man why four o’clock? And why shouldn’t Parker drive? Of course, Sir Richard may not want to keep him up so long, but I’ve never known him show any consideration before.”

  “Is there a place called Ardington?” asked Darrell.

  “Yes, there is. I looked it up in the AA book. It’s a tiny village with two hundred and fifty inhabitants somewhere up in the Midlands, and it’s one hundred and thirty-three miles from London.”

  “Old Cow Hotel; 13 brms.; unlic.; I know the sort of notice,” said Darrell with a grin. “But, my dear,” he went on seriously, “what under the sun can be taking ’em to a spot like that at the ungodly hour of four in the morning?”

  “Ask me another, Peter: I can’t tell you.”

  “You’re sure you got the name right?”

  “Absolutely positive.”

  Darrell shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well, I’m beat. But the first thing to do is to ring up Hugh and put him wise to the possibility of his hiding-place having been discovered. Then we’ll think about this Ardington business later.”

  He was walking towards the telephone when she put a hand on his arm.

  “Peter,” she said, “I’ve got a hunch. Don’t phone: let’s go down ourselves.”

  “That’s an idea, by Jove!” he cried. “I’ll guarantee to get away from any car spaghetti can get hold of.”

  “Doesn’t matter if you can’t. I’m certain in my own mind that Mrs Merridick heard, so their address is known. I’ve tried to kid myself that she didn’t, but in my heart of hearts I know she did. Let’s go down and tell them: you can’t make it clear over the telephone. Let’s start at once.”

  He grinned at her.

  “Right, angel; we will. I’ll ring up my garage and tell ’em to have the bus ready in ten minutes. Then we’ll step on the juice.”

  CHAPTER IX

  They arrived at Falconbridge at ten-thirty, and stopped in the village to ask the way to the hotel.

  “First on the left, sir,” said the local constable, “but if you and the lady are looking for rooms I doubt if you’ll get them there tonight. There’s been a terrible accident not half an hour ago.”

  “What’s that?” cried Darrell, a sudden fear clutching at his heart.

  “Half the hotel blown up,” said the policeman, and paused aggrieved as the car shot away like a mad thing: he was just getting into his stride.

  “What’s happened, Peter?” cried the girl in a frightened voice.

  “God knows, my dear,” he answered grimly. “But we’ll soon find out. Hotels don’t blow up without some good reason. Great Scott! look there.”

  The Falconbridge Arms had just come into sight, and though it was obvious that the policeman had exaggerated, something was clearly amiss. Numbers of men with lanterns were moving about, and by their light it was possible to see a great jagged hole in the wall nearest them.

  “Mind out, sir,” came a warning voice. “The whole of the drive is covered with broken glass.”

  “Is anybody hurt?” cried Darrell anxiously.

  “Two gentlemen, sir, who were in the room where the explosion took place.”

  “Are they dead?”

  He forced the question out and waited, sick with anxiety, for the reply.

  “No, sir, but how they escaped is a miracle. They’re both unconscious.”

  “Stay in the car, dear,” said Darrell, “while I go and make some enquiries. There’s been some devilry here.”

  He made his way through the gaping crowd of curious villagers to the front entrance of the hotel, where a man, who was obviously the manager, was in close conversation with two policemen.

  “Excuse me,” he said, breaking in without apology, “but what are the names of the two injured men?”

  “Captain Drummond and Mr Standish,” answered the manager. “Do you know them?”

  “Intimately,” answered Darrell. “In fact, it was to see them that I have just motored down from London.”

  “Then perhaps you can throw some light on this extraordinary affair,” said the other quickly.

  “First I should like to hear exactly what happened.”

  “I can only tell you what we all heard. It took place about three-quarters of an hour ago. I was in my office, and several people were sitting in the lounge. Suddenly there was a deafening explosion which shook the entire hotel. It came from the private sitting-room which your two friends had. The hall porter at once dashed in to find the whole place blown to pieces. All the windows had gone, and there was a huge hole in the wall. Mr Standish was lying in a corner quite unconscious: Captain Drummond had been hurled clean through the window and was found on the drive outside. May I ask, sir, if they were experimenting with some new form of explosive?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” said Darrell. “Where are they now?”

  “In their bedrooms. The doctor has seen both of them. Ah! here he is.”

  Darrell turned on him eagerly.

  “What news of your patients, Doctor?”

  “This gentleman is a friend of theirs,” explained the manager.

  “They’re both alive,” said the doctor, “though how they escaped being blown to pieces is more than I can tell you. Still more amazing, they don’t seem to have broken anything. Whether they are damaged internally or not I cannot at the moment say. The bigger man of the two, who was found in the drive, is the one who got off lightest. He’s cut his face a bit—probably that hit the gravel first. But I should think that he will recover consciousness before the other.”

  “And how long will it be before he does?” asked Darrell. The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

  “My dear sir, it is impossible to say. Cases have been known where people have remained unconscious for weeks. But luckily for them they are both of them extremely powerful men with magnificent constitutions, and I hope that that will not be so with them. Has anyone got any idea what caused the explosion?”

  “No one,” said the manager. “It must have been some form of bomb, I should think. You’re quite sure, sir”—he turned to Darrell—”that they were not carrying out any experiments?”

  “One can never be quite sure of anything,” said Darrell, “but I think it most unlikely. What I would like to know is, whether they had any visitors tonight.”

  “I’ll send for the hail porter,” said the manager. “Now, Dean,” he went on, as the man arrived, “did any visitor go into Number Three this evening?”

  “Not that I know of, sir,” answered the man. “There ain’t been no one come to the hotel at all except the lady after dinner what took a room.”

  “A lady came after dinner, did she?” said Darrell quietly. “What sort of a lady?”

  “Middle-aged lady, sir, with grey hair.”

  “Is she in the hotel now?”

  “I suppose so, sir: she took a room.”

  “Presumably after that explosion she wouldn’t have remained in it. Is she in the lounge?”

  “What’s the idea, sir?” said the manager.

  “Only that I’d rather like to have a look at her,” answered Darrell.

  “That’s easy. Let’s go inside. Now, Dean, where is the lady?” The hall porter looked around: then he shook his head. “She’s not in here, sir. Shall I go up to Seventeen and see if she’s there?”

 
The manager looked questioningly at Darrell, who nodded.

  “Make some excuse about hot water,” he said to the hall porter. “Now, sir,” he continued to Darrell, “it’s obvious you know something.”

  “Let’s wait until Dean comes back,” said Darrell. “I may be quite wrong.”

  A few minutes later the hall porter returned, looking puzzled. “She’s not there, sir. And I’ve made enquiries outside and her car has gone.”

  “What name did she register under?” asked Darrell. “We can find that out in the office, sir.”

  They crossed the lounge, and turned up the book. “Eve Matthews: London” was the entry, and the reception clerk supplied some further information.

  “Lady said she was terrified by the explosion and would not stay. So she paid her bill and cleared out.”

  “Well, I may be wrong,” said Darrell, “but I believe that if we could lay our hands on Eve Matthews of London we should catch the perpetrator of this little outrage.”

  “But what on earth was the object of it?” cried the manager. “Had she a grudge against them? Was it a love affair?”

  “I assure you not that,” said Darrell with a grim smile. “No: the reasons behind it are very simple. Captain Drummond and Mr Standish were mixed up in the Sanderson murder case which you must all have read about. And they are not at all popular with the gang of criminals who killed him. This was an effort to put them out of the way.”

  “But we can get hold of this ’ere Mrs Matthews,” put in one of the constables.

  “I doubt it very much,” said Darrell quietly. “She will never be seen again, and even if she is, we’ve got no shadow of proof. No one saw her go into the sitting-room, and the fact that she left the hotel after the explosion means nothing. Many ladies on their own would do the same thing. Hullo! my dear.”

  “I got tired of sitting in the car, Peter,” said Daphne Frensham as she joined them. “How are they?”

  “I’m going up to see them in a moment,” said Darrell. “They’re both unconscious.”

  He drew her away, and they sat down in a corner of the lounge.

  “I’m afraid your fears were justified, darling,” he said in a low voice. “I haven’t said anything to those warriors, but I’m convinced Mrs Merridick did this. A middle-aged, grey-haired woman calling herself Mrs Matthews arrived here after dinner and left again after the explosion. Said she was too frightened to stay.”