The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “So there you are, my brave fellow,” cried Drummond in conclusion. “Murder and sudden death are loose upon your smiling country-side.”

  “It’s the most amazing story I’ve ever heard,” remarked the sergeant, scratching his head. “Have you your car here, sir?”

  “I have not,” said Drummond. “My friend has taken Mrs. Eskdale up to London in it. So you’ll have to raise another.”

  The sergeant gave an order to one of the constables, who left the police station; and returned five minutes later in a taxi. In some inexplicable way the news that something was afoot had filtered round, and a small crowd of listeners had collected in the street outside. And the instant Drummond appeared a young man, with eagerness shining all over his face, detached himself from the others and approached him tendering a card.

  JOHN SEYMOUR

  Eastern News

  “I’m a reporter, sir,” he whispered excitedly. “Just started. Is there anything big on, sir? It will mean a lot to me if I can get in first.”

  Drummond regarded him thoughtfully: a pleasant-faced lad quivering with keenness.

  “There is something very big on, Mr. Seymour,” he said with a smile. “But as the matter is now in the sergeant’s hands I’m afraid you must ask him.”

  The boy’s face fell.

  “Can’t you give me a hint, sir?” he pleaded.

  “Didn’t I see you standing by that perfectly good Norton over there?” said Drummond.

  “That’s mine, sir,” cried Seymour.

  “There is your hint,” said Drummond. “My knowledge of motor bicycles is not profound, but I would hazard a guess that you might be able to keep pace with this antiquated box on wheels that we are going to go in. Now, sergeant,” he added, as that worthy appeared. “Are you ready? Because I want to get on as soon as I can.”

  It took them about twenty minutes to reach the cottage, and only once during the whole drive did Drummond catch a glimpse of the Norton. A point which pleased him: evidently John Seymour was not unintelligent. And the possibilities of having a tame journalist in his bag had struck him immediately.

  The cottage was just as he had left it, and he led the way up the path followed by the sergeant and a constable. Then, having flung open the door he stood stock still. There lay Jerry as before, but of the man who had been stabbed there was no trace. The chair was empty: the man had gone. So had the gun and Doris Venables’ gloves.

  It was the sergeant who broke the silence.

  “Not much sign of the corpse, sir,” he remarked a little sarcastically.

  “Very little,” agreed Drummond, still looking about the room.

  “And you left the body lashed up in that chair?”

  “I did,” said Drummond.

  “I suppose you felt the dead man’s pulse?” asked the sergeant mildly.

  Drummond stared at him: so that was his reaction.

  “I did not,” he said. “It hardly seemed necessary when he had a dagger sticking into his heart. My dear sergeant, do you really imagine that I’ve invented this story?”

  The sergeant lifted his eyebrows.

  “No, sir—not entirely. What I do think is that the man was alive all the time and fooled you.”

  “In what way was that possible?” demanded Drummond.

  “Well, sir,” said the other kindly, “I can think of one way at once. Suppose he was just an ordinary sneak thief who came along to see what he could steal. You wouldn’t believe, sir, the amount of money some of these cottage folk keep hidden in their stocking. While he’s drugging the old lady, the bulldog goes for him: so he shoots it. Then as he’s searching the house he sees you and your friend arrive, and realises he’s caught. So he lashes himself up as well as he can, and sticks the dagger sideways through his clothes so that it looks as if he was stabbed.”

  “A damned ingenious fellow,” remarked Drummond enthusiastically. “Though I should have thought it would have been simple to do a guy through the back door.”

  Drummond was thinking hard. Not having done so already, it was impossible to tell the sergeant the whole truth, which, of course, put the worthy officer’s theory out of court.

  “The only other theory is that he was murdered, as you say, and that the murderer has since returned and removed the body,” continued the sergeant. “My objection to that is—why not have removed it in the first instance? Why leave it here at all?”

  “Possibly,” suggested Drummond mildly, “he had nothing to remove it in.”

  The sergeant continued to expound, but Drummond hardly listened. How did this new development affect the situation? He knew what had happened: he knew the man had been murdered. But was it worth while endeavouring to convince the sergeant? Or did it suit his book better to let that officer continue to think that he had made a mistake? And the more he thought about it, the more did he incline to the latter course. It would save bother and prevent any possibility of his being requested to remain at hand in case of further developments.

  A shadow fell across the floor: John Seymour was standing by the open window.

  “Here’s something for your paper, young man,” cried the sergeant cheerily. “Who killed the bulldog and why? Well, Captain Drummond, I can assure you I will not let the matter drop. And should we by any chance catch anyone answering to your description of the man we’ll get in touch with you for identification purposes. Can I give you a lift anywhere?”

  But an idea had been forming in Drummond’s mind, and he turned to the reporter.

  “Have you got a carrier on your machine?”

  “I have, sir.”

  “Then I wonder if you would give me a lift later? I want to bury poor old Jerry.”

  “Of course; only too delighted,” cried Seymour.

  “And possibly,” added Drummond, “I might be able to supply you with a paragraph for your paper. All about those holes in the window and trifles of that sort.”

  “Funny you should say that,” said the constable, speaking for the first time. “Other people seem interested in them ’oles.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Drummond.

  “When I was getting the car, sir,” explained the man, “bloke came up to me in the garage who seemed to know all about you. Leastwise, he knew you’d been here last night, and that a stone had been thrown through your window. ‘Funny thing to do,’ says he. ‘Must have had a message wrapped round it.’ ‘Maybe it did, and maybe it didn’t,’ I answers. ‘Anyway, I reckons it ain’t no business of yours.’”

  “Did he say any more?” demanded the sergeant.

  “He asked me point blank if there was a message,” said the constable, “so I told him to go to hell.”

  “Excellent advice,” remarked Drummond. “Well, sergeant, I’m sorry I haven’t been able to supply you with a corpse. I’ll try and do better next time. And if you get hold of the blighter I’ll come along and give him a thick ear.”

  “Now, young feller,” he said to Seymour when the two policemen had gone, “you and I have got to do a job of work.”

  “What’s that you were saying about a corpse, sir?” cried the reporter, open-eyed.

  Drummond laughed.

  “Bad break on my part, wasn’t it? If you advertise that you’ve got a corpse about the house it’s always advisable to produce it when called on. But before we go any farther we’ll bury this poor old chap. There are a couple of shovels outside.”

  It took them half an hour, during which time Seymour earned several medals for suppressing his curiosity. But when the ground was finally smoothed over he could contain himself no longer.

  “There must be a story here, sir,” he cried. “Couldn’t you let me have it?”

  “Have some beer,” said Drummond. “You don’t drink! Excellent. Nor do I when there is none. Now, Seymour, I’ve been thinking things over while we buried Jerry, and I’ve come to the conclusion that you may be of considerable use to me. Not only that: you may be of considerable use to yourself. In other word
s, if you follow my instructions implicitly I may be able to put you in the way of a thundering big scoop.”

  The youngster’s eyes gleamed.

  “Unless I’m much mistaken, Seymour, there are some very big doings afoot,” continued Drummond; “doings which by an extraordinary freak of fate started last night when a stone came through the window out of the fog. A message was wrapped round the stone—a message which certain people in this neighbourhood are very anxious to get hold of, as you may have gathered from what the constable said. That message has been destroyed, but I have it memorised in my brain. To keep them quiet, however, this morning I decided to fool them. So by methods which I won’t go into now I got another message through to them—a false message, which I hoped they would think was the real one. Well, whatever they may have thought of it at the time, subsequent events have left no doubt in my mind that they know the second message was a fake. And so I propose to plant them with a third. Which is where you come in, for you are going to do the planting.”

  The reporter leaned forward eagerly.

  “Now you’ve got to get one thing into your head; you will be dealing with some very clever and dangerous men—men whom it is extremely difficult to bluff. So the thing must be done in the most natural way possible. And this is the way I suggest. Can you get a small paragraph into your paper tonight?”

  “If it’s worth it, sir—of course.”

  “You must see that the sub-editor does think it’s worth it. Head it: ‘Extraordinary Story of Fen Cottage. Message from the Night.’ And then—darn it, I can’t do journalese. What I want you to imply is that this message came, and that you know the contents, but that you’re not allowed to divulge them as yet.”

  “I get you, sir,” cried Seymour, scribbling rapidly in a notebook. “How does this sound?”

  “‘From our special correspondent. Belmoreton.’

  “Your headings are good—then…

  “‘I have just heard a most mysterious story from Captain Drummond of London, who has been staying in a small cottage near here…’

  “Why were you staying here, sir?”

  “Duck shooting,” said Drummond briefly.

  “‘For the duck shooting. The night before last, during a period of dense fog, a large stone was flung through his window, with a piece of paper wrapped round it. On the paper was written a message. The fog was so thick that Captain Drummond was unable to find the man who did it. At first he thought it must be a practical joke, but yesterday afternoon, on returning to the cottage, he found his favourite bulldog shot dead on the floor. He at once got into touch with the police, who are investigating the matter. At present I am not at liberty to disclose the nature of the message.’

  “How’s that, sir?”

  “Excellent,” said Drummond. “Now we come to the next and more important point. And here I’ve got to rely entirely on you. Within an hour of that appearing—or I’ll eat my hat—you will be got into touch with by ingratiating gentlemen who will treat you as their long-lost brother. And then, young feller, it’s up to you. You’ve got to divulge the contents of that message, so that they really believe you’re speaking the truth. Register outraged indignation to start with at the bare thought of passing it on; then weaken gradually and sting ’em for a pony at least. And, above all, don’t let ’em think I told you: pretend you heard it from the police. Get me?”

  “You bet I do,” cried Seymour. “And what is the message?”

  “‘Rosemary. BJCDOR,’” said Drummond. “That will do as well as anything.”

  “And what was the real one?”

  “That, perchance, in due course you shall know. But not at present. It isn’t that I don’t trust you, Seymour, but in a case of this sort the fewer people there are in the secret the better.”

  “And where am I to get in touch with you again?”

  “The Senior Sports Club, St. James’s Square, will always find me,” said Drummond. “Drop me a line there if anything happens. And now get me to Norwich as quick as you can. I’ll hire a car there to take me to Cambridge.”

  “Aren’t you going back to London, sir?”

  “Not till tomorrow. So if anything happens before lunch, get on to the telephone to me at the Royal. Or, better still, come over on your bike and see me personally.”

  He took a last look round the room; then, having closed the front door, he walked down to the gate. The road was apparently deserted, but for a long time he stood under cover of the bushes, peering up and down it, while Seymour stared at him in surprise.

  “Never forget, young feller,” said Drummond, “that there are games in this world where one mistake is one too many. And this particular game comes into the category. We go to the right, don’t we, to get to Norwich? But before we finally decide we’ll just try a little experiment. If we get the gate open, can you start the bike on the path here?”

  “I can,” said Seymour.

  “I have a hunch,” continued Drummond, “that in a moment or two we are going to have some fun. Hold the gate, and I’ll get the bike in.”

  He was out in the road, and back with the bike in something under a couple of seconds, and Seymour gazed at him open-mouthed. For Drummond was smiling grimly, and in his eyes was a queer look of excitement.

  “As I thought, Seymour. Was it my sudden appearance that frightened those birds in that small tree down the road there, or was it someone who moved on the ground underneath them? Moved when he saw me. Now, look here, my lad, are you game to take a risk?”

  “Of course I am. But what sort of risk?”

  “The risk of being shot. Because, unless I am much mistaken, you will shortly have what is generally alluded to in all romantic literature as your baptism of fire.”

  “I’m on, sir. What am I to do?”

  “Stout feller. Start your engine, and when I’m up behind you, go out through the gate and turn left. Then swerve. Keep on swerving from one side of the road to the other till we are round the bend. Then go all out. Ready? Let her rip!”

  The bicycle shot into the road, with the two men up on it.

  “Swerve!” shouted Drummond as something spat through the air close to their heads. “And again.”

  Phit! Phit! Two more bullets pinged past them, and then they were round the bend.

  “Now all out,” said Drummond quietly. “Well done, boy, well done. There aren’t many fellows of your age who can say they’ve been under fire.”

  “But this is grand,” cried the youngster as the bike touched sixty miles an hour. “What next?”

  “See that barn in front of us? Turn in there. We’ll wait and see.”

  The Norton slowed down, shot through an open gate and into an empty barn.

  “Quick!” cried Drummond. “Out of sight, and stop the engine.”

  And the instant he had done so they both heard away in the distance the roar of a racing engine. It was rapidly coming nearer, and through a chink in the wall they both peered out. Rocking from side to side like a thing possessed, a long, low, black car hurtled past the barn. The driver was crouching over the wheel, and the man behind him seemed to be urging him on to even greater speed.

  “Just as well we pulled in,” said Drummond calmly. “They’ve got the legs of us. Now back the way we’ve come, and stamp on her again, Seymour.”

  And twenty minutes later Drummond found himself in Norwich for the second time that day.

  “Cheery little bunch, aren’t they?” he said with a grin. “It’s lucky for us I had that hunch at the cottage. Otherwise I’m afraid there would have been a little advertisement in the paper: For Sale. 1933 Norton. Property of the late Mr. John Seymour.”

  “How dared they do it, sir? It would have been murder on the high road.”

  Drummond laughed.

  “You’ll see quite a lot of that before you’ve finished this trip,” he answered. “But don’t forget: no mention of what’s happened in the paper.”

  When suddenly Seymour gripped his arm.


  “Look, sir, look!” he stuttered; “there’s the car itself!”

  Drummond glanced across the square: there was no mistaking that long black body. The two occupants were just getting out, and he noted that the one who had sat beside the driver was immensely tall, even as the man Peter and he had watched striding away from the cottage had been. And at that moment an impulse that could not be resisted overcame him. Straight across the square toward them he sauntered, and they met in the middle. And meeting, stopped dead in their tracks while a man may count thirty. Then Drummond spoke.

  “You exceedingly damnable swine,” he drawled. “Unless you’d proved it to me I wouldn’t have believed it possible that anyone could be such an incredibly lousy shot. Do you want a stationary hayrick at five yards?”

  Not a muscle moved in the tall man’s face; for all the effect it produced the remark might never have been made. He just stared fixedly at Drummond with a thoughtful look in his eyes, whilst past them drifted the sleepy afternoon traffic. Then, still in absolute silence, he signed to his companion and the two of them continued on their way.

  Drummond watched them till they were out of sight, then he lit a cigarette. And being perfectly fair with himself he had to admit that that round was the tall man’s. Though absolutely without nerves himself, there was something far more ominous in that complete silence than in any threats he might have used. And since he never made the fatal error of underrating an opponent, it was in a somewhat contemplative mood that he rejoined Seymour.

  “What did he say, sir?” cried the youngster eagerly.

  “He didn’t,” said Drummond shortly. “I rather wish he had. And you can take it from me, young feller, that it’s going to be a case of watching your step from now on. There’s a phrase about sticking at nothing, which is generally more metaphorical than literal. In his case it isn’t.”

  His eyes strayed across the square to the big black car, and he grinned faintly.

  “Why not?” he murmured. “Why indeed not? I must now get a taxi—or its equivalent. Follow me in a few minutes towards Cambridge. But wait a bit and see if anything happens.”