The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “You have no idea who the writer is?” said Gregoroff.

  “Not the slightest,” answered Drummond.

  “Why did you cause that fake message to be sent?”

  “My merry disposition,” said Drummond calmly. “I don’t like you or any of your friends, so I thought I’d have a spot of fun at your expense.”

  “How many other people know of this message?”

  “So far as I know, only the police at Belmoreton. I told them when I reported the death of the wretched bloke who was murdered at the cottage.”

  Gregoroff turned to the chauffeur.

  “Verify that tomorrow,” he said curtly. “And now, Captain Drummond, one or two more questions. What do you know of the girl Doris Venables?”

  “Nothing at all, except that she’s no beginner at telling the tale.”

  “I have no doubt in my own mind, Paul,” remarked the German, “that her story was the truth. What is of more interest is that I have at last remembered who that man is.”

  He pointed to Standish.

  “You were in the British War Office on the Intelligence side. Your name is Standish. How did you get mixed up in this?”

  “That again is a matter of supreme indifference to everyone except me,” answered Standish.

  Emil Veight whispered to the Russian, who gave a low whistle of surprise.

  “That puts a different complexion on matters,” he remarked. “I thought we were only dealing with meddling fools. Are you still at the War Office, Mr. Standish?”

  “I am not.”

  “But you were there a year ago. Things become clearer. So your attendance at that meeting tonight, even if not professional, was at any rate inspired by inside knowledge.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” said Standish. “I attended the meeting of the Key Club at the invitation of Doctor Belfage.”

  “And then remained in the garden spying with your three friends. What did you hear at the meeting that caused you to do that?”

  “Nothing,” remarked Standish. “We heard a woman scream.”

  “Twenty minutes after the meeting was over,” said the Russian harshly. “You lie, damn you! That scream was the bait to catch you, if you were there. And I knew you were there. Why? I’ll tell you. Because you wanted to find out things that don’t concern you.”

  “My dear Hugh,” drawled Standish, “the man is a veritable genius. How does he think of it?”

  “I don’t know, old lad,” answered Drummond. “Must have some asset, I suppose, to make up for his ghastly shooting.”

  Gregoroff stared at him in silence. And the utter lack of concern in Drummond’s face seemed suddenly to madden the Russian.

  “You damned Englishman,” he said at length. “And you really imagined you could come blundering in on my plans with impunity! Well, you’ve learned your lesson.” He turned to the Spaniard. “Cortez, pick up that revolver and search them all for guns.”

  He waited whilst his order was carried out; then he threw back his head and laughed.

  “You fools,” he cried. “You unutterable fools! And did you really imagine you were going to get away? Here you are, and here you remain till you die. You won’t be able to expedite matters by shooting yourselves; you’ll just die the slow, agonising death of starvation. Don’t sneer at me, damn you.”

  With all his strength he struck Drummond in the mouth.

  “You’ll die,” he shouted. “And my only regret is that I shall not be here to see it.”

  The man was beside himself with rage. A strange red light was glowing in his eyes, and his teeth were bared in a snarl.

  “And now I am going. I shall leave the light on, so that you may watch one another growing weaker and weaker. Untie that one.”

  He pointed to Gregson, and the Spaniard cut the ropes that bound him.

  “How long to Horsebridge?” he asked Veight.

  “Two hours,” answered the German.

  “Good-bye and good luck.” Gregoroff from the door bowed ironically. “I fear I’ve spoilt your beauty somewhat, Captain Drummond, but it will be all the same in a fortnight or so. And I owed you one for stealing my car. Not quite so chatty as usual? Well, well—it’s quite understandable.”

  And with one final mocking laugh the door clanged to behind them.

  “One man and one man only has done that to me before.” Drummond broke the long silence. “And later I killed him. You’d better unlash us, Cabbageface.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t give him the real message, Hugh,” said Darrell.

  “I thought you blokes wouldn’t mind, and I was certain the swine would have crossed us, anyway.”

  Drummond rose and stretched himself.

  “Is there any way out, chaps?”

  “If this room is to all intents sound-proof,” answered Darrell quietly, “and it must be, or he wouldn’t have left us here—none, so far as I can see. It will be days before anyone starts looking for us at all, and then they won’t dream of trying an empty house. What do you say, Ronald?”

  “That I ought to be dropped into boiling oil,” answered Standish. “That my brain would shame a louse. Who is A5, Humphrey?”

  “Ginger Lovelace. What’s stung you, Ronald?”

  “That Spaniard wasn’t a Spaniard, but a Mexican,” was his unexpected answer.

  The other three stared at him in amazement.

  “What the devil has that got to do with it?” cried Drummond.

  “Only that I’ve solved the real message,” cried Standish savagely.

  He got up and shook his fists in the air.

  “Solved it,” he muttered. “And we’re helpless. Absolutely helpless.”

  BULLDOG DRUMMOND AT BAY [Part 2]

  CHAPTER IX

  “I trust that everything is to monsieur’s satisfaction?”

  The head waiter bowed obsequiously as an underling replaced the gold-foil bottle in the ice bucket. The silver gleamed in the shaded light; a big jar of caviare shone like black velvet in the centre of the table. From outside came the dull roar of the Strand by night; save for that, no sound disturbed the occupant of the suite in the Ritz-Carlton.

  “Thank you, Henri. All is excellent as usual. Let my friend be shown up the instant he arrives.”

  “I will see to it personally, m’sieur.”

  With another low bow befitting a man whose wealth was reputed to be fabulous, and who, unlike some others of the millionaire variety, dispensed largesse freely, Henri marshalled his attendants and left the room, leaving the diner alone.

  For a while he ate with the quiet deliberation of a man used to feeding by himself—sparingly and yet with the appreciation of the true epicure. Every now and then his eyes rested on the ormolu clock which occupied the centre of the mantel-piece. They were strange eyes—almost repellent. Very light blue in colour, they protruded slightly, giving the impression of a fish. But what was most noticeable about them was their unwavering stare: they never seemed to blink. Hypnotic, frightening, eyes to which it would take a bold man to lie; eyes which made women turn away with a shudder; eyes which had done more than anything else to make Ivor Kalinsky one of the most powerful forces in Europe.

  He finished the caviare, and pouring himself out another glass of champagne, he lit a cigarette. He smoked as he had eaten, slowly and with deliberation, using an amber holder. And after a time he rose and began to pace slowly up and down the room. The clanging bell of a passing fire-engine grew to a crescendo and died away in the distance, but he scarcely heard it: his mind was engrossed in other matters, for Ivor Kalinsky was confronted with the biggest problem of his career. On which side should he tip the balance—for or against another European war?

  To the countless thousands hurrying through the streets of London to their favourite cinema it would have seemed fantastic that such a thing could be possible. Had they been asked to swallow such a situation even in their most hectic melodrama, they would have poured scorn upon the me
ntality of the producer of the film. Governments and politicians made wars—not one lone individual pacing to and fro in a dim-lit sitting-room. Who wanted a war, anyway? Hadn’t the last one been bad enough?

  For or against! For or against! Ceaselessly his brain was working, weighing factor against factor, as coldly and analytically as a chemist conducting an experiment. To the moral side of the issue he gave no thought; it simply did not enter into his calculations. To him the matter was a game of chess, and it was imperative that he should not make a false move.

  He drew back the curtains and stared out over the city. As always, his room was high up: he preferred it because of the increased airiness. Below him lay the river, grey and sombre, with the reflection of countless lights gleaming from the Surrey side. A tug went past drawing some barges down to the Pool, and he watched it till it was hidden by Waterloo Bridge. For or against! That would not be the only bridge that would have to be reconstructed if the answer was “For.”

  In the distance signs shone and glittered—red and white and blue. One showed a glass of port being filled and emptied; another extolled a boot polish. Red and white and blue: was it symbolical? And in imagination Ivor Kalinsky saw another scene. The lights were extinguished, save for beams piercing the sky like pencils from different directions. The noise of the traffic was stilled; another sound had taken its place, and that came from overhead. It was the roar of countless aeroplanes, punctuated every few seconds by the crash of bursting bombs. And in the streets mobs of screaming men and women rushed frenziedly about, trampling, fighting, mad with terror. The tube stations were full—too full; already people were being suffocated to death. And on the platforms below those in front were being pushed on to the lines unable to withstand the pressure of those behind.

  Still the bombs came in ever-increasing numbers. Great blinding flashes stabbed the night as houses crashed in ruins, and then, utterly inadequate, came the staccato crack of bursting shrapnel. The anti-aircraft guns at work, manned by the few volunteers who had reached them in time. And suddenly, like a flaming meteor, one stricken aeroplane shot downwards through the night. A pitiful, ragged cheer, and then it crashed, and the bombs it still carried burst in a roar so titanic that the aftermath was silence. The droning above died away; the raiders had departed, the shambles were left. And war had not yet been declared; only a state of tension existed.

  A knock came at the door, and Ivor Kalinsky turned round, letting the curtains swing to behind him.

  “Come,” he called, and the head waiter entered.

  “Sir James Portrush,” he announced, and a portly man of about fifty came in. He was dressed in the conventional morning coat, and he carried his top-hat and a dispatch-case.

  “Ah! my dear Mr. Kalinsky,” he cried, coming forward with outstretched hand. “I am delighted to welcome you once more to our shores. You had a good crossing, I trust.”

  “One or two air pockets, Sir James,” said the financier. “Otherwise quite comfortable. You will have a glass of wine with me?”

  Sir James held up a protesting hand.

  “Thank you; I never touch it. My digestion, you know. I have to be careful—very careful.”

  “A cup of coffee, then?”

  “Again no. Just a little weak whisky and water before I go to bed is all I allow myself.”

  “Quite a Spartan diet, Sir James,” said Kalinsky with a smile. “That will do, thank you, Henri, and see that we are not disturbed under any pretext whatever.”

  “Very good, m’sieur. I will give the necessary instructions.”

  The door closed; the two men were alone. And for a space Kalinsky watched his visitor as he settled down. The top-hat was placed carefully on a chair, the dispatch-case on the table. Then, with trousers slightly hitched up and plump legs crossed, Sir James Portrush beamed on his host from his chair. And restraining with an effort a strong desire to say, “Now we’re all ready for a nice cup of tea and a good gossip,” Kalinsky sat down too.

  “I am very glad indeed, Mr. Kalinsky,” began Sir James urbanely, “to have this opportunity of a chat with you so soon after your arrival. Indeed, the Prime Minister himself would have liked to be present, but an extremely important measure dealing with the totalisator at greyhound racing tracks is occupying all his time at the moment. You cannot perhaps realise the great volume of public opinion in this country that is opposed to betting in any form, and it is very essential to effect some suitable compromise that will prove acceptable to all schools of thought.”

  The faintest perceptible smile twitched round his listener’s lips, but Sir James was busy opening his dispatch-case and it escaped his attention.

  “At the same time, my dear sir,” he continued, “you must not imagine for one moment that our entire attention is centred on these pressing domestic problems to the exclusion of other matters. And we should indeed be foolish if we were to blind our eyes to the fact that the temper of Europe at the present moment leaves much to be desired: much—ah—to be desired. You agree with me, Mr. Kalinsky?”

  “I do, Sir James.”

  “Good. And though we have, of course, our recognised channels of information, and are closely in touch with the whole situation, it struck me that a little private and confidential chat with you might help matters considerably.”

  “You flatter me, Sir James.”

  “Not at all, not at all. Your interests are world-wide: you have a finger on every important pulse. Now, in brief, what is your view of the situation? I need hardly say that any remarks you may care to make will be for the ears of my colleagues and myself alone.”

  “Since you have done me the honour of asking me my opinion, Sir James, I presume you want a candid answer.”

  “Naturally, naturally.”

  “You do not, for instance, want me to prophesy smooth things, so that, with an easy conscience, you can return to your legislation for totalisators on greyhound tracks.”

  Sir James ignored the veiled sarcasm, though it did not escape him.

  “I am sure that anything you may care to say, Mr. Kalinsky,” he remarked with quiet dignity, “will be of great value.”

  “I doubt it,” said the financier quietly, “because the gist of what I have to say may be summed up in one question. Why have you gone out of your way to make another European war inevitable?”

  Sir James sat up with a jerk.

  “Inevitable!” he stuttered. “Inevitable! My dear sir, we have led the way in every disarmament conference that has been held.”

  “Which would have been quite admirable if any other country had followed you. Unfortunately they haven’t. They—forgive my saying so, Sir James—have merely laughed.”

  “What else could we have done? It was essential to follow the trend of public opinion in this country.”

  “Follow! Surely a novel method of regarding your stewardship.”

  “You misunderstand me, Mr. Kalinsky. It is essential that leaders should sense the temper of those they are called upon to govern. And I say frankly that this country would not stand for another war.”

  “I can quite believe you. Which is why, as I said to start with, it makes it even more unfortunate that they have brought it on themselves. Sir James, let us be perfectly frank. You, to day, are in the invidious position of a small boy telling two bigger ones not to fight. And the result in that case is that he gets kicked in the seat of his pants by both.”

  Ivor Kalinsky lit another cigarette, whilst Sir James fidgeted in his chair.

  “Unpleasant,” continued the financier, “but you asked for the truth. Governments today can be divided into three categories: dictators, knaves and fools. You have no dictator in England, and… Well, what would be the result, Sir James, if I offered you half a million down, here and now, if you would pursue some line of action dictated by me?”

  “I should be shocked and horrified, sir.”

  “Precisely. But there are many other countries where a man in your position would be shocked and horr
ified if that offer was not made. And so we are only left with the third category.”

  Sir James flushed angrily.

  “You speak bluntly, Mr. Kalinsky.”

  “In God’s name, why not?” cried the other, thumping the table. “If you’d thought bluntly these last few years this situation would never have arisen. England would still have been the deciding factor in Europe. As it is, you are negligible. And your funny little men who preach pacifism, though they have never heard a shot fired in anger in their lives, flatter themselves that they deserve well of their country. No one wants war, Sir James, but the only way to prevent it is to take the line you have not taken. To stop two strong men fighting you must at least be as strong yourself.”

  “Come, come, Mr. Kalinsky, there is such a thing as an alliance.”

  “Who would deny it? Let us, however, look on your value as an ally. Your army is negligible, and there will be no time in the next war to expand it as you did in the last. Your navy is still a magnificent striking force, but, to be perfectly frank, what is it going to strike against? A few sea forts; another fleet? Who cares? The results in the big scheme of things would be negligible. And as a means of defence, out of date. Command of the seas is still important, but command of the air is infinitely more so. And there you simply fade right out of the picture. Just before you arrived, Sir James, I was standing in the window looking out over this great city of yours, and in my imagination I heard the drone of an attacking air fleet. I saw the holocaust below. It was no trumpery raid such as you experienced in the last war, and by which, so it would seem to the onlooker, you still set your standard. They were up there by their hundreds and the raid itself was the actual declaration of war.”

  “Really, Mr. Kalinsky, it sounds like an extract from the alarmist press. I can hardly believe that you are serious.”

  “My dear Sir James, your countrymen never have believed that anything was serious until it actually happened. But in the past you have had time to repair your mistake, and somehow or other to muddle through. In the future you won’t have that time.”