The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “There certainly wouldn’t be much time if what you have described took place,” agreed Sir James tolerantly. “And should any nation be so inconceivably barbaric, I don’t see how we could prevent them.”

  “By one method and one method only: fear of reprisals. And that presupposes existing strength in the air as great if not greater than they possess themselves. Which is what you have not got.”

  “But what good would such a senseless act do, my dear fellow? If London was flattened out no other nation would be a penny the better off. Surely the utter futility of war as a road to material gain was amply proved by the last one.”

  “And you think that lesson has been learned? I envy you your complacency, Sir James. Further, if that is your considered opinion, why did you come here tonight? Our discussion is purely academic.”

  “Touché, Mr. Kalinsky, touché. I admit that I fear the lesson has not been learned; and I also admit that we have cut down our fighting forces to the nearest minimum. But the country simply would not stand any large increase in the estimates.”

  The millionaire shrugged his shoulders.

  “That, of course, is entirely your affair, Sir James, and one on which it would be presumption on my part to express an opinion. If you are right there is no more to be said.”

  “But surely you agree with me that another war on a large scale would be an irreparable disaster to the world?”

  “Possibly; possibly not. Who can tell? Just as there was no criterion to judge by before the last war, so there is none today. For the next war, Sir James, will be as different from 1914 as 1914 was from your war in South Africa. But in any event, whether it proves an irreparable disaster or not has got no bearing whatever on its coming.”

  “You seem to have definitely made up your mind that sooner or later it is unavoidable.”

  For a while the millionaire did not reply; then he nodded.

  “Yes, I think I may safely say that my mind is made up. Sooner or later war is inevitable. And the whole point, Sir James, is whether it is to be sooner or later.”

  Sir James lay back in his chair with a worried look on his face.

  “I must confess, Mr. Kalinsky,” he said at length, “that such a very definite opinion coming from a man in your position is most disquieting. But surely you and the other big financial interests are against such a catastrophe.”

  “Certainly. But we are not all-powerful. Whether we like it or whether we don’t, we can’t stop it. The irresistible urge is there. At the moment it is under control, but believe me that control is very precarious. One spark, and the whole of Europe will be a roaring bonfire. And all that we can do is to try and control the direction of the flames.”

  “Grave words, Mr. Kalinsky.”

  “The situation is grave, Sir James. And England’s unpreparedness makes it all the graver.”

  For a while there was silence in the room, then Sir James rose to his feet.

  “I must thank you, Mr. Kalinsky,” he said quietly, “for the frank way in which you have spoken. Needless to say I shall put your opinions before my colleagues. And I can only utter a pious hope that you may be wrong. Is there no limit to human madness?”

  “If there is I fear I have not plumbed it,” answered the millionaire. “Good night, Sir James; I hope to see you again before I leave England.”

  The door closed behind his visitor, and Ivor Kalinsky sank back in his chair. From many points of view the conversation had been a valuable one: it had enabled him to crystallise his own thoughts, though it had still not solved his problem. He had said nothing that he did not believe to be the truth; and if he had not said everything that he might have, that was nothing to do with Sir James. One spark would be enough: it was no business of the Englishman if his was the hand that kindled it.

  He got up and once again began to pace restlessly up and down the room. Was the time ripe? A hundred different factors had to be weighed in the balance; a hundred conflicting interests taken into consideration—interests which overlapped and interlaced in a way that made their mutual reactions wellnigh incalculable.

  There came another knock on the door, and his second visitor was ushered in. It would have been hard to imagine a greater contrast to the one who had just left. The new-comer wore a heavy fur coat, though the evening was warm. A silk scarf was wrapped round his neck; an opera hat was on his head. His face was swarthy; his dark eyes gleamed with vitality. And his hooked nose proclaimed his race.

  “Some more wine,” said Kalinsky as the other flung his coat in a chair, revealing immaculate evening clothes.

  “I see you’re a pillar of society, Morgenstein,” he continued with a faint smile.

  “I’ve just come from Covent Garden,” said the other. “Carmenita was in perfect voice, and I waited to hear the Swan Song.”

  Again the smile flickered round Kalinsky’s lips.

  “I, too, have been listening to a Swan Song,” he remarked. “Sung by the excellent Sir James Portrush.”

  The Jew eyed him keenly, and then murmured some banality as the waiter returned with the champagne.

  “Was he in good voice also?” he asked when they were once more alone.

  “He croaked a little towards the end, when he left me to continue vital legislation on greyhounds.”

  Kalinsky lifted his glass.

  “Well, Morgenstein, and what conclusion have you come to?”

  “I have not as yet come to any. It is a grave issue, Kalinsky.”

  “That was the croak in Sir James’s Swan Song. He admits, quite frankly, that this country is not prepared for war. Of course that fact is well known to both of us. At the same time it is illuminating when a man in his position says so openly.”

  The Jew lit a cigar before replying.

  “Are they contemplating taking any steps to remedy the state of affairs?”

  Kalinsky shrugged his shoulders.

  “How can you ever tell with these people? I drew him a picture of the air raid of the future carried out before war was declared. He merely smiled. And yet the man is uneasy.”

  “Are you prepared to put your cards on the table, Kalinsky, and give me your views of the situation?”

  “I certainly am. And I can express it in a nutshell. Unless England increases her fighting forces, war is absolutely inevitable. Nothing can stop it. The point, therefore, that we have to decide is whether we precipitate the crisis now, or whether we wait. If we wait, it is possible that this country may again become the dominating factor in the situation. If we act now, Europe as we know it ceases to exist. Which suits our book best?”

  “Absurd though it may sound, I am still frightened of England,” said Morgenstein. “She has such an astounding way of pulling her weight at the last moment.”

  “I think it is far from absurd. More, I may be illogical, but I agree with you. And I can assure you that that very point has weighed largely in my calculations. Could I but find some method of weakening her still more, or alternatively of strengthening others whom we need not name, so that the disparity of power was greater, I would not hesitate for one moment.”

  “You mean you would favour immediate action.”

  “Precisely. Would that suit you?”

  “It would. But is there any possibility of such a thing occurring?”

  “That I shall know more about a little later in the evening. Have you to return to your guests, or would you care to remain and hear for yourself?”

  “I will certainly remain. You are expecting some fresh information?”

  “I am. What its value will prove to be I cannot say: my correspondent was guarded in his letter. But hitherto I have found him a most reliable man. Emil Veight is his name.”

  “I cannot recall it,” said Morgenstein. “A good man, is he?”

  “First class.”

  Kalinsky smoked in silence for a time; then he changed the conversation abruptly.

  “Have you ever come across a peculiar institution known as the Key Club
?”

  “I have heard of them,” said Morgenstein, looking slightly surprised. “Are they to be taken seriously?”

  “They take themselves very seriously indeed. Their principal aim is world peace, and the brotherhood of man. And though their aims may be idealistic, their methods are severely practical. They consist, in short, of buying confidential information on armaments from whoever they can bribe and then publishing it broadcast so that all the world shall know. And if you think into the matter it is quite an efficacious way of preserving equality between nations.”

  “You amaze me, Kalinsky. Have they done it often?”

  “On two or three occasions to my certain knowledge quite successfully. And it was in connection with them that I first met Veight. On that occasion, I fear, they were not quite so successful, though they were very useful to me. An Italian, whose name I forget, sold to one of their agents the plans of a new submarine, and Veight, by some means, heard of it. He acted with commendable promptitude. The Italian and the agent, who was returning to England with the plans, were both murdered, and Veight brought the tracings to me on the chance of my buying. I did, and they came in very useful.”

  “Really! Most interesting. But what exactly has your story got to do with the present situation?”

  “That we shall know in a few minutes: Veight said he would be here at half-past ten. And since he mentioned the Key Club in his letter, I can only conclude that something of the same sort has happened.”

  “He is a reliable man?”

  “When it pays him to be. As it does with me. And of one thing I am sure. He would not waste my time or his own unless he thought it worth while. Whether what he has to tell us is sufficiently worth while is for us to decide.”

  The sound of voices came from the lobby outside and Kalinsky glanced up.

  “The man himself, I think. Good evening, Herr Veight,” he said affably as the door opened. “You are punctuality itself. You know Herr Morgenstein?”

  “By sight and name only,” said Veight with a bow, coming into the room. “I trust you are well, m’sieur.”

  “Quite, thank you. Waiter—bring another bottle of wine. Now, Herr Veight,” he continued, as the man left the room, “I gather from your letter that you have something of interest to report. You can speak quite freely in front of Herr Morgenstein.”

  Once again Veight bowed; then he sat down and lit a cigarette.

  “Am I right in supposing, gentlemen,” he said, “that the state of tension in Europe is acute?”

  “Let us proceed on that assumption,” remarked Kalinsky.

  “Am I further right in supposing,” continued Veight, “that confidential information on military matters would be particularly valuable today?”

  “That would be for us to decide,” said Kalinsky curtly.

  “Normally, m’sieur, I would agree. In this case, however, I must have something a little more definite. Naturally I am not asking you to pledge yourselves blindly in any way. But if I guarantee to deliver to you within forty-eight hours, or at the utmost seventy-two, the most closely guarded military secrets in England, what will it be worth to me? Let me make myself quite clear. You remember, m’sieur, the Giuseppi affair?”

  “Giuseppi! That was the name, Morgenstein. Yes, Veight, I do. I was discussing it before you came tonight.”

  “Good. Well, each of these secrets, gentlemen, is as valuable as those submarine plans.”

  The two financiers looked at one another.

  “If that is the case,” said Kalinsky after a pause, “I think we would be prepared to guarantee you twenty-five thousand pounds.”

  Veight shook his head.

  “Not enough, gentlemen,” he said decisively. “I have to split with a man who has been working with me. The risks we have already run are enormous, and the greatest are still to come. Will you make it twenty-five thousand each?”

  Again Kalinsky glanced at Morgenstein, who gave a barely perceptible nod.

  “All right, Veight,” said Kalinsky. “Fifty thousand in all. But we must be the judges.”

  “Of that I have no fear,” said Veight quietly. “You will be satisfied with your bargain.”

  He paused as the waiter re-entered the room, and there was silence till he had finally withdrawn.

  “No fear at all, gentlemen,” repeated Veight. “Does Herr Morgenstein know anything about the Key Club, m’sieur?”

  “I told him a certain amount when discussing your letter,” said Kalinsky.

  “Then I will not waste time in explaining that part of it to him. Because, I fear, gentlemen, a certain amount of explanation is necessary over what has happened already. I will make it as short as I possibly can, but it is essential that you should understand the situation.

  “The story starts in Warsaw, two months ago, with a man named Gregoroff—Paul Gregoroff—as the chief character. The business which had taken him there was completed, and as he was sitting in the lounge of his hotel after dinner, listening to the band, he became aware of two men who were talking English at the next table. One was clearly an Englishman, the other was a Pole, and both of them were wearing the badge of the Key Club. At first he paid but little attention. Their voices were low; their general appearance was consistent with the fatuous imbecility which one expects in members of that ridiculous organisation. And then one word caught his ear very clearly. That word was ‘Gas.’

  “He endeavoured to listen more closely, but as luck would have it the band was making such an infernal din that it was quite impossible for him to hear what they were saying. But bearing in mind the recent activities of their society, he deemed it advisable to make some further inquiries. So he squared the police to have the Englishman arrested later on some trumped-up charge connected with his passport, but to treat him with the utmost consideration. Then, wearing a key himself, he went round to the police station.

  “The young man was, of course, overjoyed to meet a fellow-member; and when that fellow-member procured his release on the spot, accompanied by voluble expressions of regret from the police, his gratitude knew no bounds. In fact within half an hour Gregoroff was in possession of the whole story.

  “It transpired that this youth was by way of being a chemist. And he had been acting as assistant to a man in England who for some months past had been working on a new form of gas. At first Gregoroff was not greatly interested: new gases come and go, each one bringing its own antidote. But when he began to realise the properties of this particular gas, matters assumed a different aspect.

  “It seemed, then, that this young fellow had been experimented on himself, not once but many times, by the man he had been assisting. The gas was colourless, odourless, and a fraction lighter than air. It was also harmless—after its effects had worn off. But it was the effect that was interesting: complete paralysis of the limbs, absolute inability to move or speak, though hazily conscious of what was going on around, and finally loss of all feeling. According to the amount administered the duration of this condition lasted. The dose could be graded so as to produce effect for ten minutes or half an hour. But, and this was the vital fact, you were in the grip of the gas before you realised you were. And then it was too late to save yourself.

  “I will not insult your intelligence, m’sieur,” continued Veight after a pause, “by stressing the marvellous possibilities which opened out in front of Gregoroff if what this man told him was true. Moreover, since it was unlikely that he would have come all the way to Poland merely to tell a stupid lie, Gregoroff decided to proceed on the assumption that he was speaking the truth. And so, still keeping up the role of an enthusiastic member of the Key Club, whose aim was universal peace, he proceeded to pump him dry.

  “He discovered that the inventor of this gas was a man called Waldron. He was a Territorial officer in the English Royal Engineers, and in addition to being a chemist he was also a very keen soldier. It was clear, of course, that the military value of this gas was great. It could be used alone, or mixed with
something else, and in either case its presence would not be detected until too late. And Waldron, being a patriotic Englishman, proposed to place his discovery so soon as it was perfected at the disposal of the British military authorities—an idea abhorrent to his assistant, though that was a fact of which Waldron was naturally unaware.

  “He blathered on about ideals—their common ideals, since he assumed Gregoroff thought as he did. And Gregoroff let him talk, though he hardly heard what he said. Because, M’sieur Kalinsky”—the speaker leaned forward in his chair—”his mind was busy with the potentialities of this gas apart from its military value. If it was all that this boy claimed for it: if it could be manufactured without too elaborate a plant: if—well, there were many ifs, but the germ of a stupendous idea was there. Imagine the position if one was able to render a man powerless in a room in an hotel without using force, and without the slightest risk of detection from outside. No other gas would do it: it would be smelt in the passage. The same objection applied to an anaesthetic such as ether. Here, then, was the possibility of the ideal weapon. Do I interest you?”

  “Go on,” said Kalinsky quietly.

  “So Gregoroff started on the practical details, and the more he heard the better it sounded. It was cheap to make, and was easily compressible in steel cylinders. These could be of any size desired, from the massive ones suitable for work in war to smaller cylinders which could be moved by hand. Moreover, the respirator was not at all complicated, and could be carried unnoticed in a man’s pocket till it was required. In fact, there was only one hitch. This miserable youth did not know the formula. A great deal of the process he was conversant with, but there were one or two points of which he was ignorant. They were known to Waldron and Waldron only. A definite set-back, as you will agree, but it had to be faced. Because by now Gregoroff was fully determined to go on with the matter.

  “The first problem was the young man himself. He was, so he told Gregoroff, in accordance with their custom, and acting on the orders of one of the leaders of England, paving the way for the secret of this gas to become world-wide. He was arranging for a Key Club representative from every country to come to England in a month or so, by which time he would have the full details at his fingertips, and he would then pass the information on to them. Fortunately he had started in the east and was working west through Europe, so he’d been caught in good time. He had given Gregoroff Waldron’s address in England, and therefore there seemed no possible object in his continued existence. And so he—er—fell in front of an express train and passed out of the picture.”