The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “Now you come to mention it, Peter, one did. Came in, sat down, and when we mildly pointed out it was a private room she apologised profusely and withdrew. Why do you ask?”

  “She’s the girl friend who did it,” said Darrell. “She must have left a bomb behind her. Don’t look so surprised, old man: lots of funny things have taken place since we last met. Do you feel fit to listen?”

  “Fire ahead, boy. I’m fine.”

  He listened in silence whilst Darrell told him everything that had happened: then without a word he got out of bed and rang the bell. He was still shaky on his legs, but on his face was the look of grim determination that Darrell knew well of old.

  “Sister darling,” he said as the nurse came in, “would you bring your baby boy his trousers, please?”

  “But you aren’t going to get up,” she cried aghast.

  “Not only that, my poppet, but I’m going to London. And I feel I shall attract less attention if I’m wearing my trousers.”

  “But it is madness, Captain Drummond,” she said. “I’m sure the doctor will never allow it.”

  Drummond smiled cheerfully as she left the room.

  “Is it wise, old lad?” said Darrell anxiously. “I don’t quite see what you are going to do when you get there.”

  “I am going to have a heart-to-heart talk with Sir Richard Pendleton,” answered Drummond quietly. “And what I’ve got to say to him will give that gentleman to think pretty furiously.”

  “What’s this I hear, Captain Drummond? You say you’re going to London?”

  The doctor had come bustling in.

  “That’s correct, Doc.,” said Drummond. “In a nice fast motor-car. Now, it’s no good saying I mustn’t, my dear fellow, because I’m going—with or without trousers. There are times—and this is one of them—when trifling considerations of health simply do not come into the picture. By the way, how is my fellow sufferer?”

  “Just the same,” answered the doctor. “Well, I suppose I can’t keep you here by force, so you’d better get his clothes, Nurse.”

  “Haven’t got such a thing as a spot of ale about the premises, have you?” said Drummond hopefully, and the doctor laughed.

  “You’re a hopeless case,” he cried. “I’ll see whether there is any.”

  “If only that damn bomb had gone off five minutes later,” said Drummond, as the doctor left the room. “You realise Standish had solved the cipher.”

  “The devil he had,” said Darrell. “That should help.”

  “Unfortunately it doesn’t. He was just going to explain it to me, when up she went. And so until he comes to we’re no better off than we were before. Thank you, light of my eye.”

  “You idiot,” laughed the nurse, putting his clothes on the bed. “And matron is sending up some beer in a minute.”

  “What a woman,” said Drummond. “I like it by the quart. Yes,” he continued as she left the room, “he’d just said to me ‘I’ve got it’ when that blasted bomb burst.”

  “There haven’t been any more messages so far as I know,” said Darrell. “None at any rate that have appeared in the papers.”

  “By the way, Peter, are they watching this hospital?”

  “I don’t know,” said Darrell, “this is the first time we’ve actually been over here: we’ve rung up every day.”

  “The betting is five to one on,” remarked Drummond thoughtfully. “Sister, dear,” he said, as she returned with the beer, “is there a way out by the back?”

  “There is. Why?”

  “Because, darling, I want to use it. I feel tolerably certain that these kindly people in London who take such an interest in my welfare have got someone watching this place.”

  “Funny you should say that. A strange man has been loitering about these last few days. Look—there he is now.”

  “Don’t go to the window, my dear,” said Drummond quickly. “Where is he? I see. Peter, do you spot him? When you and Leyton go, make sure he hears you discuss my condition in voices choked with tears. And, Sister, you pass it around the staff that I had a brief moment of consciousness, and have now become completely gaga again. I want that bird to think I’m still here. Then I’ll join you, Peter, somewhere down the road.”

  “We’ll just have to pop over to Bournemouth and pay the bill,” said Darrell.

  “I think I’ll stop on there,” said Leyton. “Ronald may come to just as unexpectedly as Drummond did, in which case I’d like to be close at hand.”

  “Not a bad notion,” remarked Drummond. “And if he does, get in touch with us at once. Now then—are we ready? If so, let’s get a move on.”

  They went downstairs, and ten minutes later Drummond joined them in the car out of sight of the hospital.

  “I don’t think he suspected anything,” said Darrell. “We left him still standing about the place.”

  “Good!” cried Drummond. “Because I have an idea that the sweet Corinne is more likely to be at home if she doesn’t know I’m coming.”

  “I should think that the chances are that she may be genuinely out on a Sunday,” said Leyton.

  “Then I’ll wait till she’s genuinely in,” said Drummond quietly. “And that lantern-jawed swine of a saw-bones.”

  Leaving Leyton in Bournemouth, and stopping on the way for lunch, they reached London at four o’clock, and Drummond went straight to his house.

  “I’d like you to come with me, Peter,” he said, “but I shouldn’t think there is much good arriving before about six.”

  And it was then that Denny gave him Corinne Moxton’s message.

  “I heard about that and forgot to tell you,” said Darrell.

  “Shall we ring her up or not?” remarked Drummond thoughtfully. “Taking everything into account, I think it would be better if we arrived unexpectedly.”

  “Are you all right again, sir?” asked Denny anxiously.

  “Fit as an army mule, old soldier,” said Drummond. “I only feel as if I’d been trodden all over by an elephant. Now, Peter—a slight change of apparel, and then we must decide on what line we are going to take at the interview. Also, I suggest that anything we want we have before we go. She’d probably adore to see someone die of a poisoned drink.”

  At six o’clock they left: point-blank accusation was to be the order of the evening. Only two things had they decided to leave out. The first was any mention of Daphne Frensham, which ruled out the Ardington disaster; the other was the fact that Standish had solved the cipher.

  “He may come to soon, Peter,” said Drummond, “and if so, we don’t want him to have another one to solve. And now is luck going to be in?”

  It was: they found Corinne Moxton and Sir Richard Pendleton in the drawing-room. And the doctor’s violent start and the sudden blanching of the woman’s cheeks under the rouge did not escape Drummond’s notice. But it was only instantaneous: whatever else she might be she was an actress.

  “Why, Captain Drummond,” she said, rising and coming towards him with hand outstretched, “this is bully. I’d heard you’d had an accident.”

  “You heard perfectly correctly, madam,” answered Drummond, folding his arms. “And it is about that accident and one or two other things that Mr Darrell and I have come to talk to you. Moreover, it is very fortunate that Penholder, or whatever his name is, is here. Saves the necessity of sending for him.”

  “What the devil do you mean, sir?” cried the doctor angrily. “You know perfectly well that my name is not Penholder. Are you trying to be gratuitously offensive?”

  “Is it possible to be offensive to carrion like you?” asked Drummond languidly. “Great pity I didn’t throttle you that night, Penwiper. If I’d known who you were, and one or two other things which I subsequently discovered about your character, I should have done.”

  Sir Richard lit a cigarette with ostentatious deliberation.

  “I saw in the papers, Captain Drummond,” he said, “that you had recently been blown up, and sustained concussion.
I can only come to the charitable conclusion that you are still suffering from it.”

  “That you would take that line was fairly obvious from the word ‘go,’” said Drummond. “The spot of bother as far as you are concerned, however, is that I was not suffering from concussion on the night Sanderson was murdered by that engaging individual with the fountain-pen, so ably assisted by Miss Moxton’s admiring plaudits.”

  But this time she was ready, and her laughter was admirably natural.

  “My dear man,” she cried merrily, “you must have been worse than was reported in the papers. Richard, ain’t he cute?”

  “Cute or not cute: sane or not sane,” said Pendleton furiously, “his statement is absolutely monstrous.”

  “Oh! yeah,” Drummond drawled. “Pity I drank beer that night in Standish’s room, isn’t it? You hadn’t doped the beer.” For a moment or two there was dead silence.

  “I fear you’re a bit of an ass, Penworthy,” Drummond continued. “How anybody in their senses can employ you as a surgeon, Heaven alone knows. Incidentally, I don’t think many people will by the time I’ve done with you. And your market value, madam, isn’t going to soar through the roof.”

  “Say, Richard, isn’t there some law in this country to prevent this man insulting me?”

  Her voice was shrill with anger.

  “None; until he does it outside these four walls. Then he’ll soon find out one or two truths. I suppose, Captain Drummond, that even you are capable of realising the disgraceful cowardice of coming to a lady’s flat and then advancing these preposterous threats. Why, if you are suffering from these delusions, have you not been to the police?”

  “I have,” said Drummond calmly. “So put that in the old meerschaum and set fire to it, Penturtle.”

  “And they, I imagine, treated your demented ravings with the contempt they deserve,” said the doctor, but to Drummond’s keen ear there was fear in his voice.

  “But I wasn’t demented,” explained Drummond cheerfully. “Scotland Yard has known all about you two for a week.”

  Corinne Moxton caught her breath with a sharp hiss.

  “I don’t believe you,” said Pendleton contemptuously. “If you had really gone with these incredible stories to the police, Miss Moxton and I would have heard from them by now.”

  “Not of necessity,” remarked Drummond. “Rightly or wrongly, Standish and I came to the conclusion that you and Miss Moxton were very small beer. In fact, except for your repulsive habits, you cut no ice at all. The man we want to lay our hands on is that strange individual with a head like a pumpkin, who apparently answers to the name of Demonico, and who I last had the pleasure of meeting at the squash-court entertainment. By the way, I hope you enjoyed it: you had excellent seats.”

  Pendleton turned to Corinne Moxton.

  “It’s all right, my dear,” he said reassuringly. “I have met cases like this before, though this is a very remarkable one. I don’t know what hospital he has been in, but the doctor in charge deserves the gravest censure for allowing him out so soon. And I warn you seriously, Mr Darrell I believe your name is, that unless you take the greatest care of him his reason may be irreparably impaired. As you see for yourself, the poor fellow is talking gibberish.”

  “My fee is three guineas,” remarked Drummond. “Stick to a light diet of porterhouse steak and onions, and don’t trip over the mat as you go. No, Pendleton, it won’t do: I’m as sane as you are, and you know it.”

  “May I have a word with you in private, Mr Darrell?” said Sir Richard, ignoring Drummond completely.

  “You may not,” said Darrell decidedly.

  “Then I must say it in front of him. The symptoms are clearly defined, but if proper care is taken of him there is no reason why in a month, or perhaps less, he should not make a complete recovery, and these delusions, which are the direct outcome of his concussion, will disappear like the morning mist. But I again emphasise—proper care. You must get him home, keep him very quiet, and get his doctor to see him. And for everybody’s sake, in view of the bent his particular delusions have taken, it would be as well if he saw as few people as possible.”

  “Peter, hasn’t he got a charming bedside manner?” said Drummond admiringly. “A voice at once soothing and firm. Well, Pendleton, as I said before, I thought it probable you would take up this line: when one comes to think of it, it would be impossible for you to take up any other. And yet I am quite prepared to admit that, as far as other people are concerned, it’s a very good one. To them it would seem more likely that I was suffering from delusions than that a celebrated surgeon and a well-known film star are a pair of devils incarnate. But I warn you that you are in very dangerous waters, because, as I have already told you, there can be no question of my having had the jimjams at the time when the police were notified that you were in Standish’s room on the night of Sanderson’s murder. I was not drugged, though you thought I was, and I saw you there.”

  “And you expect the police to believe such a preposterous statement on your uncorroborated word? I’d never heard of Standish in my life till I saw his name mentioned with yours in connection with the bomb outrage. And I haven’t an idea where his rooms are. If you thought you saw me there it was a case of mistaken identity.”

  “This is beginning to bore me,” said Drummond. “So I will deliver my ultimatum, Pendleton, and then go. I have the best of reasons for knowing that some big crime is planned early this coming week. What it is I don’t know. But unless the police are informed anonymously as to what it is going to be, in time for them to prevent it, my depositions to them with regard to you will stand. And since they connect you intimately with the gang who murdered Sanderson they will not do you much good. If, however, the police are informed, it is conceivable that I might come to the conclusion that it was a case of mistaken identity. So choose, you damned swine—choose. Come on, Peter.”

  The front door closed behind them, and then the tension broke.

  “Richard,” screamed Corinne Moxton, “ring up Scotland Yard now and tell them. It’s our only hope.”

  “Hush, my dear, hush: I must think.” His face was grey: his hands were shaking. “God! how did they find out?”

  “Find out what?”

  Mrs Merridick was standing by the door.

  “Drummond has been here, and he knows all about us,” said Pendleton. “He wasn’t drugged at all that night, and he saw me.”

  “My dear Sir Richard, for a doctor that seems singularly stupid of you. What do you propose to do about it? Did I hear Corinne say something about ringing up Scotland Yard?”

  She bit her lip, as Pendleton flashed her a warning glance.

  “No, no,” she cried. “Of course not.”

  “Let us all have a drink and consider the matter carefully,” said Mrs Merridick, going to the sideboard, and picking up the cocktail shaker. “You say that Drummond knows all about us. I don’t think he can know much about me.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Pendleton. “But there are other people besides you in the world. And he knows that something is going to happen early this week.”

  “Something. So he doesn’t know what that something is?”

  “No; he doesn’t know that.”

  “Then am I right in supposing that the object of his visit here was to try to threaten you into telling him what it was?”

  “More or less.”

  “Naturally you didn’t.”

  “Of course not,” said Pendleton. “How could you imagine such a thing for an instant?”

  A faint smile twitched round Mrs Merridick’s mouth; then she turned round with three drinks on a tray.

  “Then I don’t think we need worry,” she remarked. “Let us drink a toast to the successful issue of our plans.”

  They all drained their glasses, and Mrs Merridick lit a cigarette. And then, quite suddenly it happened. Sir Richard, his face convulsed with agony, clutched at his side.

  “You devil,” he croaked. “You’v
e poisoned us.”

  On the floor writhed Corinne Moxton, and Mrs Merridick watched them in silence.

  “I have,” she said at length. “Your intentions with regard to Scotland Yard did not appeal to me.”

  A few moments later, without a backward glance at the two motionless figures, she left the room. And it was only when her hand was on the latch of the front door that she remembered something and went back. Into her bag she placed her own glass: to stage what would inevitably be taken for a suicide pact three glasses would be a mistake. Then once again the door closed behind her, and Mrs Merridick went downstairs to her waiting car.

  CHAPTER X

  With a frown Hugh Drummond lit a cigarette: then he picked up his morning paper from the floor where he had thrown it. Not that they really deserved any other fate: it was the complete unexpectedness of the thing that had upset him for the moment.

  TRAGEDY IN WEST-END FLAT

  DEATH OF WELL-KNOWN SURGEON AND FILM STAR

  “A shocking tragedy occurred last night at Number 4A Barton Mews, the charming residence of the beautiful film star Corinne Moxton. The discovery was made by her chauffeur, who had been ordered to call for her at seven o’clock. When he had waited till eight he began to fear that something was amiss, since he could see the light shining from her sitting-room. At nine o’clock he decided to summon a policeman, and between them they forced the front door. To their horror they discovered the actress lying dead on the floor, and by her side was the body of a man, also dead. This man the chauffeur at once recognised as Sir Richard Pendleton, the celebrated Harley Street surgeon. Their faces were convulsed with agony, showing that they had died in great pain.

  “A doctor was at once summoned, who gave it as his opinion that they had been dead between two and three hours. It appears that two empty glasses were on the table; also a cocktail shaker half-filled with liquid. The contents were immediately analysed, and were found to contain a high percentage of a very rare and deadly poison, barely known outside the medical profession. The inquest will be held today.”

  Drummond put the paper down: so they had taken that way out. And he was just finishing his coffee when the door opened and Peter Darrell came in.