The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “I’ve been thinking of that, Captain Drummond,” she said thoughtfully. “Do you think it possible that he wrapped a piece of paper round it: some message or other, which he hoped you would get?”

  “Good Lord!” cried Drummond, “that’s a darned brainy idea. Now you mention it, that’s probably why our old friend Emil was so interested in the contents of my pockets. And to think I never thought of that!”

  He stole a glance at her: her forehead was puckered in thought. And once again he gave her full marks for her acting. How much of the Harold sobstuff yarn was true he had no idea: but he had to admit that it was a very plausible tale, very plausibly told. Further, that if he had not seen what he had seen in the mirror; and if the mechanic had not made his illuminating remark about the oil, he would probably have believed it. And if he had believed it, there would have been no reason against passing the message on to her.

  He was growing more and more intrigued over the whole affair, and increasingly anxious to meet Uncle John. The girl by his side was obviously English: would her relative prove the same? Was he even her uncle at all? And what terms was she really on with the man called Emil? In fact only one certainty seemed to him to stand out in the confusion. They had correctly surmised what the stone had been used for, but after that they were floundering in the dark. Had he received the message, or had he not? And to find that out they were obviously prepared to go to considerable lengths.

  He pulled himself together: the girl was speaking again.

  “What’s that?” he cried. “See any sign of a piece of paper? Not a trace. There was certainly nothing wrapped round the stone when it came into the room, so if there was anything there to start with it must have fallen off earlier. In which case it might be somewhere in the garden, unless it has blown away. Pity you didn’t have your brain storm earlier, Miss Venables: we could have had a look. For if it comes under Mrs. Eskdale’s eagle eye it will instantly cease to exist. But in any event I don’t see really that it could prove of much value. What could your cousin have written which would help matters? You’ve got to remember that so far as he knew the house was occupied by a labourer.”

  “He might have found out where they were taking him to, Captain Drummond, and flung the name as a despairing SOS through the first lighted window he saw.”

  Drummond gazed at her in admiration.

  “’Pon my soul, Miss Venables,” he boomed enthusiastically, “it’s a pleasure to work with you. Now I should never have thought of that. SOS, by Jove! That’s the stuff to give the troops.”

  “If we’re going to save him,” she went on, “it’s vital we should know where they’ve taken him to as soon as possible. And I know my uncle won’t want to call in the police.”

  “What about sending a wire to Mrs. Eskdale telling her to give the dustbin a once over?” said Drummond helpfully. “The old dear will think I’ve gone bughouse, but what matter.”

  “It can’t do any harm, can it?” cried the girl. “A very good idea, Captain Drummond.”

  “Splendid. We’ll stop at the first post office we come to. Incidentally, I suppose she’d better send the answer to your uncle’s house. What address shall I give her?”

  “Hartley Court is the name of the house. Just Hartley Court, Cambridge, is enough.”

  “And your uncle’s name?”

  “Meredith: he is my mother’s brother.”

  “Right,” cried Drummond. “It shall be attended to. She’s a sensible old dame, and if she finds the paper and there’s anything on it we shall know. Is that a post office ahead? It is. I won’t be long.”

  He pulled up beside the kerb, and leaving the girl sitting in the car he went inside. A faint smile was twitching round his lips, and he stood for a few moments tapping his teeth with the pencil. Then he suddenly gave a little chuckle and seizing a form he began to write quickly. It was a long message, and when it was completed he re-read it carefully. It was perfectly clear: Mrs. Eskdale could make no mistake. He tore it off the block, removing at the same time the two next forms which he rolled into a ball and threw into the paper basket.

  “If by any chance,” he said to the man behind the counter, “any inquiries are made later in the day about this wire by anyone—it doesn’t matter who it is—you’ll be careful to say nothing, won’t you?”

  “Trust me, sir,” said the operator. “The contents of that there telegram is a secret. Not even the King of England has the right to ask to see it.”

  “Quite, quite,” cried Drummond soothingly. “But it might be put in such a way that it would seem to you that you were doing no harm. But when I tell you there’s a big bet at stake you’ll understand.”

  “Think no more about it, sir. I knows my duty, and I does it.”

  “The deed is done,” said Drummond as he got back into the car. “I’ve asked the old girl to look in the garden for a piece of paper with writing on it, and if she finds anything to wire the contents to your uncle. It should be through in a couple of hours: there’s a post office not far from her cottage.”

  “Thank you so much,” she cried. “It’s a shame to give you all this trouble.”

  “Devil a bit, bless you. But we’d better get a move on, or your uncle will pair off the wrong people.”

  “He’s cancelled the party, so that doesn’t matter,” she said, “He told me so on the telephone: he felt too worried over Harold, so he’s put them off. For all that I would like to hurry: you see, he doesn’t know what we know.”

  “Of course not,” agreed Drummond. “I’ll stamp on the juice. I make it that we’ve got about twenty more miles to go to Cambridge itself.”

  “The house is about three miles this side,” she said: a spot where even at that moment an earnest council of war was in progress.

  In an upstairs room stood a grey-haired man of about fifty-five: facing him across the table was the German called Emil. And he had only just arrived.

  “I don’t understand,” he was saying harshly. “You say that this farm labourer is motoring Doris here.”

  “Farm labourer,” sneered the other. “Do farm labourers have Rolls Royce coupés? He fooled you to the top of his bent, Emil. He’s a man called Captain Drummond.”

  “So,” said the German softly. “What was he doing then in that cottage all by himself?”

  “He goes there for duck shooting. But a far more important point is why he pretended to be a labourer. That’s what I can’t make out. What was his object?”

  The German lit a short and dangerous looking cigar.

  “What was his object?” repeated the grey-haired man. “It looks to me definitely as if our friend knew where he was going.”

  “In that fog?” The German shook his head. “Not possible, Meredith. Besides, he was more dead than alive even then.”

  “Then it is a very strange coincidence,” cried Meredith. “There must have been a message round that stone in view of who it was who threw it. He would never have done such a senseless thing as to smash a window for fun.”

  “Well, I couldn’t find it, and from what you say Doris has not succeeded either. And don’t forget, Meredith, that all that matters is that no one should find it. Provided it’s lost, we’re safe.”

  “But is it lost? So long as I thought this man was a labourer I didn’t mind. Now a totally different complexion is put on things.”

  The German shrugged his shoulders.

  “We went through his house with a fine tooth comb,” he said.

  “What’s the good of that?” cried Meredith impatiently. “A message can easily be committed to memory.”

  “Now look here, Meredith,” said the German quietly, “you’d better pull yourself together. If what you’re getting at is correct, and this man Drummond is one of them, why didn’t our friend here go up to the cottage? Or why didn’t he call out for help? It’s folly to suppose that he’d have adopted the method he did, if he knew who was inside the room. No, no, my dear fellow: you’re alarming yourself unnecessa
rily. Knowing that he’d only got a short time he took a chance with the first house where he saw the owner was still awake. It might have been a genuine labourer: it might have been Jones or Smith, but it happened to be this fellow Drummond. Why he should have pretended to be a farm hand I can’t say: possibly my gun frightened him and he thought it was safer.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Meredith hopefully. “At any rate we can only wait till we see Doris.”

  “Which reminds me, Meredith,” remarked the German. “There’s a question I’ve long been wanting to ask you. What are we going to do with that young woman when we’ve finished?”

  “The same as with the others, I suppose.”

  “And you think she’ll stand for it? I wonder. I have sometimes thought of late that she has become unduly inquisitive.”

  He stared at the ash on his cigar.

  “Increasingly desirous, shall we say,” continued the German, “of finding out what only the Inner Council know. Particularly with regard to the whereabouts of our—how shall I put it—our headquarters.”

  “Feminine curiosity,” said Meredith. “Perfectly natural.”

  “It is now my turn to say perhaps you’re right,” said the German. “Anyway, here comes the car. Her wisdom in bringing him here is doubtful, but since she has, I, naturally, must not be seen.”

  “He is certainly no chicken,” remarked Meredith, staring through the curtains.

  “He is one of the largest individuals I’ve ever seen in my life,” said the German. “Let us hope his brain is not equivalent to his brawn.”

  They watched the car drive up to the door and the girl get out. And a few moments later she entered the room.

  “Well?” cried both men.

  “He’s got no message,” she said quietly. “Of that I’m certain. But how on earth did you come to make such an idiotic mistake, Herr Veight? I very nearly gave the whole show away this morning when I saw him. And I had to change my entire plan of campaign on the spot.”

  “Was it wise to bring him here?” said Meredith.

  “I had to. First I tried to dope his tea: that failed. Then I had another look in the garden whilst he and the mechanic were tinkering with the car up the road. But the old woman who owns the cottage was with me and I had to be careful. I could see nothing, and so to make perfectly certain I had to concoct a scheme. Now listen, Mr. Meredith, because you’ll have to go down and see him. You’re my uncle, and it’s your son Harold in the Foreign Office who has been abducted by the German gang of Der Schlüsselverein.”

  “Great heavens!” cried Emil, “you haven’t told him that, have you?”

  “Of course I have. What you don’t seem to be able to get into your thick head,” said the girl angrily, “is that this man is not a farm labourer. He’s a gentleman even if he is a fool. And do you suppose he’s going to keep quiet over last night unless something is done about it? The only possible way of keeping his mouth shut is to enlist his sympathy. And that’s what I’ve done: and this is how I did it.”

  “Upon my soul, my dear, I don’t think you could have done better on the spur of the moment,” said Meredith when she had finished. “I’ll keep the good work going.”

  “If there is no answer to his wire we can assume that whatever message there was is definitely lost. If there is an answer, well—”

  She paused significantly.

  “Captain Drummond is certainly entitled to a drink,” murmured Meredith, and Emil smiled. “And the nature of the drink will depend on the nature of the message.”

  “Exactly,” said the girl. “And now come on. He’ll think it strange if we keep him waiting too long. Don’t forget you’re the broken-hearted father. Incidentally, how much longer have we got to wait?”

  “Three days: four. Certainly a week should do it. He’s nearly cracked, so I was told this morning.”

  “Then for a week at least this man Drummond has got to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Wouldn’t it be far better—” began Meredith tentatively.

  “No,” she said emphatically. “Only as a last resort. He can be traced here through Cannaby’s garage. Let’s go down, dear Uncle John.”

  They found Drummond apparently dozing over the wheel.

  “My dear Captain Drummond,” said Meredith courteously, “I cannot thank you sufficiently for all you have done for my little Doris.”

  “Not at all,” cried Drummond, getting out of the car and shaking him warmly by the hand. “A pleasure, sir: a pleasure.”

  “I hear she has told you the whole terrible story.”

  “About your poor son, George…”

  “Harold, Captain Drummond,” said the girl with a smile.

  “Of course. Stupid of me: I’ve got a shocking memory for names. Yes, Mr. Meredith, your niece has told me, and I can only hope my wire may result in something helpful. Though I confess I am not optimistic. There was a bit of a breeze this morning, and any loose piece of paper would, I fear, have been blown away.”

  “Still it is a hope which I cling to. I am an elderly man, Captain Drummond, and this affair has shaken me dreadfully: you can understand a father’s feelings under the circumstances.”

  “Only too easily,” said Drummond sympathetically.

  “And I was wondering if I might trespass even further on your kindness. Are you in a very great hurry to go?”

  “My time is yours, Mr. Meredith. I must be up in London for dinner, but until then I am at your disposal.”

  “Not so long as that, I assure you,” said Meredith with a deprecating smile. “But if you would not mind waiting till the answer to your telegram comes, it would indeed be a relief to us.”

  “Delighted,” cried Drummond. “It should not be long now.”

  “I gather that my niece has explained to you our difficulty with regard to the police, though I cannot believe that Harold has given away anything of importance. But even so I would like to keep them out of it. And if, as my niece thinks—and I am inclined to agree with her—the dear boy knew where those devils were taking him to and managed to scribble it down, I would so like your advice and help.”

  “It’s yours for the asking,” said Drummond heartily. “And of one thing I can assure you. If there is the smallest fragment of paper in her spotless garden, Mrs. Eskdale will find it.”

  He glanced out of the window.

  “Great Scott! That’s pretty quick. Here’s a telegraph boy on a bicycle coming up the drive. The old lady hasn’t wasted any time.”

  “Get it, my dear,” cried Meredith. “And see what it is. Captain Drummond,” he continued, as she left the room, “I’m so nervous I don’t know what to do.”

  “Bite on the old bullet, Mr. Meredith,” said Drummond soothingly. “We shall know soon. Here comes your niece now.”

  The girl came in reading the telegram with a puzzled look on her face.

  “Well, my dear: well?” cried Meredith.

  “It’s from Mrs. Eskdale all right,” she said. “But it does not seem to make sense.”

  And for the fraction of a second Drummond’s jaw tightened.

  “‘Found paper in garden,’” read the girl, “‘on it written S B Z…’ Just a jumble of letters. They don’t make sense. About ten of them. Then signed ‘Eskdale.’”

  Drummond’s jaw relaxed, and suddenly the girl gave an excited cry.

  “Uncle John! I’ve got it. It’s Harold’s code—the code he and I used to use when we were children. We wrote letters to one another in it. I’ve got it upstairs somewhere.”

  She darted out of the room, and Drummond lit a cigarette. Also he glanced at Meredith, and having done so suppressed a smile. For Meredith’s face was a study, and continued as such till the sound of rapid footsteps announced his niece’s return.

  “I’ve got it,” she cried, waving the form triumphantly. “It is the name of a place. How clever of him! Don’t you see, Uncle John? Harold saw the light in the window and assumed the owner or whoever was there woul
d take the message to the police. Then it would have come out in the papers, and though no one else would have spotted it, we should.”

  “And what is the name of the place, Miss Venables?” asked Drummond with interest.

  “Kessingland,” she said. “I know I’ve heard of a place of that name.”

  “There is a place called Kessingland a few miles from Lowestoft on the coast,” said Drummond thoughtfully. “So you think that wire means that your cousin has been taken there?”

  “What else can it mean, Captain Drummond? There are probably isolated bungalows there and he has been hidden in one of them.”

  “My poor boy,” said Meredith, passing his hand across his forehead. “What shall we do?”

  “Look here,” said Drummond after a pause, “can I be of any assistance? True, I don’t know your son, but I fear we must assume he’s been badly hurt. Now would you like me to go to Kessingland and make a few careful inquiries? I will be most discreet, but it’s probably not a very big place and the tradesmen or somebody will be sure to know if any foreigners have turned up there.”

  “But, Captain Drummond, we couldn’t think of bothering you. Could we, Uncle John?”

  “Of course not. Besides, my dear fellow, you’ve got to go to London. And it may take days.”

  “What matter, Mr. Meredith? My dinner party in London can easily be put off. And I feel that in a case like this one should sacrifice everything to help. It may, as you say, take two or three days—perhaps more; but that is a trifle compared to your son’s safety. I will start at once.”

  He waved aside their half-hearted protests, and rose to his feet.

  “I will keep you posted of anything I find out,” he continued. “And all we can hope is that I shall not be too late.”

  “I wish I could come with you, Captain Drummond,” said Meredith, “but I fear my health is hardly equal to the strain.”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it, Mr. Meredith,” cried Drummond. “Your place is here—with your niece. I hope that very soon I shall have good news to report.”

  He pressed the girl’s hand gently, and her eyes fell before his.