The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “Belfage put that up, did he?”

  “On my instigation. The instant I heard about the fire I realised this complication would occur, and it is quite natural for a doctor to have some in his house.”

  “Why shouldn’t it continue to hold good?”

  “However fierce the fire, and I gather it was an absolute inferno, there are bound to be some traces left besides the actual skeletons. At least I should imagine so.”

  “Trapped as they were in that room, it seems possible to me that the process would be pretty thorough. However, that is beside the point. Let us assume that you are right. What then?”

  “To start with, Meredith will undoubtedly split on us if he finds himself in any trouble. Up to date he has kept out of the way, and Belfage has done the talking. But once the insurance people come on the scene Meredith will have to appear.”

  “Even if he does, what is he going to say? Unless he is completely insane he must stick to our original story and profess entire ignorance of anybody having been left in the house. Burglars who inadvertently shut themselves into that room would be a plausible theory.”

  “Supposing something is found which identifies the bodies, such as a cigarette case?”

  “Once again—entire ignorance. The house was shut up after the meeting of the Key Club—the tradesmen can confirm that—and he has absolutely no idea what has happened since. And there’s one thing you can be sure of. Any story they may have written down on paper will have been destroyed.”

  “There’s something in what you say,” said Gregoroff slowly. “At the same time, I wish it had happened after we were clear away. If Meredith can queer our pitch he will.”

  “On that point I certainly agree with you,” said Veight. “He and that damned little quitter of a doctor have got to be watched. To say nothing of Cortez. And it’s on that very matter that you and I have got to come to a decision. I’ve seen Kalinsky; Morgenstein was with him.”

  “Satisfactory?”

  “Very. Five thousand for current expenses; fifty when they handle the goods, provided—”

  “Provided what?” said Gregoroff softly as the eyes of the two men met.

  “There is no chance of anyone else handling them.”

  “Just as we thought,” remarked Gregoroff. “Damn Drummond and his friends! That gas would have been invaluable.”

  “There’s no good worrying about that now,” said Veight. “What we have got to decide on is a plan of campaign, and it’s not going to be too easy.”

  He pulled up a chair closer to Gregoroff and lowered his voice, though the lounge was quite deserted.

  “Let us first of all eliminate the impossible. What I would have liked to have done would have been for you and me to have gone on our own to Scotland after the aeroplane plans. But there is no object in discussing that. If we attempted it Meredith would communicate anonymously with the police. And I know Scotland—particularly the Highlands. I did some work there in 1914. Those cursed Scotchmen can spot a foreigner a mile off, and they don’t like us. It is equally impossible for us to let them go on their own. They would either bungle the whole thing and put the inventor on his guard, or else they would disappear with the plans. So we’ve got to go together. Do you agree?”

  “I do,” said Gregoroff.

  “Let us go a bit farther. Meredith is only after the tracings; we, on the other hand, want rather more than that. And the point we have to decide is the best method of getting rid of Graham Caldwell and his assistants without being suspected ourselves.”

  “Meredith and the doctor may have to go too,” put in Gregoroff.

  “They may, and nothing would please me more than if they did. But we’ve got to think of ourselves, my friend. You can’t get away with things in this country as easily as on the Continent. And what I am wondering is this: Would it be possible to dispose of Graham Caldwell and his man in such a way that Meredith and the rest of his precious brood get run for murder?”

  The Russian stared at him.

  “That’s a grand idea if it can be worked,” he said at length. “But can it?”

  “I believe it can,” answered Veight. “Always provided one thing—that we get the two of them to Horsebridge.”

  “I don’t quite follow you,” said Gregoroff.

  “While we had the gas, as I explained to Kalinsky, their death up in Scotland could be attributed to accident. As you know, our plan was based on that. Now it can’t be; at least it wouldn’t be safe to rely on it. Now we are agreed that they have to be killed, and we are agreed that it is necessary for us to go there ourselves. Now you, my dear Gregoroff, are not exactly an inconspicuous member of the society, and I have already mentioned that I know something about the inhabitants of the district. And since it would be out of the question for us to avoid being seen, the result is obvious. With one accord they would connect you, and through you, me, with any murder, however skilfully it was done. The very loneliness of the place doubles the difficulties. Within five minutes of the thing being discovered every policeman in Scotland would be on the look-out for us. Which would prove singularly awkward when the plans of the machine were found in our possession.”

  “Very true,” admitted Gregoroff.

  “I have therefore come to the definite conclusion that by far our best chance of success—I go further, our only chance of success—lies in getting these two men to Horsebridge.”

  “And how the devil do you propose to do that, seeing that it is the one thing Belfage and Meredith don’t want? Their whole idea is to keep that fool Hoskins from knowing anything about the aeroplane.”

  “They must be made to want it,” said Veight calmly. “And it can be done by pointing out to them the vital importance of keeping the airman’s mouth shut while negotiations for selling the plans are in progress. What does it matter if Hoskins does know? I admit that before we used the gas we were not going to tell him. But now that is all changed. And, as I say, what does it matter if he does know? The only plans will be in our possession. Let the old man think what he likes. We can pretend to have copies made for distribution to every government. That will keep him quiet. To Meredith we can pretend that we are only waiting for Waldron to speak, when both secrets can be sold to the highest bidder.”

  “And then? What then?”

  Veight leaned even closer to the Russian.

  “Have you ever heard of adrenalin?”

  Gregoroff shook his head.

  “Adrenalin,” continued Veight, “is used for asthma. I know, because I suffer from it at times myself, and I always carry a supply with me. And it has one very strange property. Though quite harmless when taken in the proper way, it causes death if it is injected into a vein. Now it will be necessary to keep the two airmen under the influence of drugs to prevent them raising a disturbance, which will be Belfage’s job as usual. And my suggestion is quite simple. When we have got what we want we will kill both of them and Waldron by giving them an injection of adrenalin. The fact that the doctor is more or less permanently drunk is all to the good. He will think he has killed them by giving them an overdose of morphia. And then, my dear Gregoroff, we will fade rapidly out of the picture, leaving the dear doctor and the rest of the crowd to explain away three dead men as best they may.”

  “But it is a marvellous scheme!” cried the Russian with genuine admiration. “It is sheer genius.”

  “I flatter myself,” said Veight complacently, “that it has a certain merit. Small unforeseen details are, of course, bound to crop up, but we must deal with them as they arise. In the main, however, I think the scheme is workable.”

  “Eminently so,” said Gregoroff. “I congratulate you most heartily. There is, however, one point that occurs to me. How do you propose to get Graham Caldwell and his mechanic to Horsebridge? They will have to be drugged, and the sight of two unconscious men in a motor-car travelling through the country will be apt to cause some comment.”

  Veight rubbed his hands together.

&n
bsp; “Once again, my friend, I think I have solved your difficulty. The English, as you know, are a peculiar race, and at this time of year many of them are in the habit of attaching to the backs of their cars a strange-looking contraption on two wheels called a caravan. In this they tour the country, eating tinned foods and living in the height of discomfort. But what could be better suited to our purpose? In the first place it supplies a raison d’être for our going to the Highlands at all. We are tourists—sight-seeing. In the second place, it supplies an admirable hiding-place for our prisoners. There are two bunks, and curtains which can be drawn, so that one can drive with absolute safety through the largest towns, with both of them inside.”

  “Upon my word, Veight, it is a pleasure to work with you,” cried Gregoroff. “So far as I can see, the scheme is as nearly fool-proof as it is possible to make it.”

  “Two heads are better than one,” said Veight. “If you can see any flaws, mention them.”

  “How do we do our final get-away?”

  “Private machine and fly,” answered Veight without hesitation. “There’s an aerodrome not twenty miles from Horsebridge. We’ll deliver the stuff to Kalinsky in Paris.”

  “I suppose there is no chance of him double-crossing us?”

  Veight shrugged his shoulders.

  “All I can say is that I don’t think so. He’s too big a man to make it worth his while. I certainly have never heard of him letting an agent down.”

  He got up, rubbing his hands together.

  “Don’t fear: he will pay up if we give him the goods. And unless something entirely unforeseen occurs we can’t fail. Drummond and his damned friends are dead; Lovelace is helpless, and the Venables girl…” He paused. “That young woman is a bit of an enigma. I can’t make out where she fits in.”

  Gregoroff laughed coarsely.

  “Not for want of trying, from what I’ve seen of you,” he remarked. “And as for that fool Meredith, he eats out of her hand.”

  Veight looked at him through narrowed eyes.

  “Don’t fall into that error, Gregoroff. I have never been in the habit of letting a woman interfere with business. And I repeat, I can’t make out where she comes in. Ostensibly she is an enthusiastic member of the Key Club. But what is she really? Was it, as Meredith maintains, just feminine curiosity that sent her back to that cottage? Or is she in their secret service?”

  “In either event it doesn’t seem to me to matter much,” said the Russian. “She’s safely under the influence of dope and will remain in that condition until we are clear of the country. And after that it doesn’t matter a kopeck who or what she is. What is far more to the point is what happened at your interview this evening. I must be going soon, and so far you’ve only given me the barest details.”

  For a few moments Veight was silent; then, sinking his voice, he uttered one word—”War.”

  “Did they say so definitely?” cried the other eagerly.

  “My dear Gregoroff,” said Veight, “the Kalinskys and Morgensteins of this world very rarely say things definitely. But I waited a little before actually entering their room, and I heard one or two of their remarks. And even had I not done so the thing is obvious. We both know quite enough to realise how matters stand in Europe today. And the only doubtful point was what Kalinsky was going to do about it. Tonight’s interview has answered that question. He means war, and I believe he means it soon. And that is where you and I can considerably increase that fifty thousand pounds. We may only be small men financially, but when a small man has certain inside information he can soon become big.”

  The Russian nodded.

  “That is true,” he said.

  “Kalinsky is not buying our stuff to frame it. Kalinsky isn’t insisting on having the monopoly of it for nothing. Kalinsky is playing deep, and it is up to us to play his tune. And there’s one place I shall not be visiting when the music starts—London. There won’t be any preliminary orchestra this time. No question of ultimatums expiring in twenty-four hours.”

  “Which is what these fool English can’t believe,” remarked Gregoroff.

  “My friend, they are incredible. With London a mass of smoking ruins, they would send an indignant note, saying, ‘Play the game, you cads: we weren’t ready.’”

  Gregoroff laughed.

  “At the same time,” continued Veight, “since we are playing for big stakes ourselves, I would like to be sure that the counters are full value. I don’t think there can be a possibility of error, but all the same, I would like to see that aeroplane in action. Even if it is not all that has been claimed for it, and all that I told Kalinsky it was, we can still sell the plans to him. But in the jargon of the people who race over here, we shall know the true form of the horse. And that will help us in making our bet.”

  “I gather they try it out every day,” said the Russian.

  “Exactly. And I suggest we see it on its trial flights, before we finally destroy it. With my caravan idea it should be easy. We can take our hotel with us to within a couple of miles of the place.”

  “It’s a beautiful idea—that caravan. But you realise Meredith, and probably Cortez as well, will insist on coming with us.”

  “Of course. Let ’em. I allowed for that. They can do the dirty work,” he added with an evil laugh. “If you and I, Gregoroff, are not capable of dealing with those two miserable specimens we’ll give up the game for good.”

  He glanced at his watch.

  “I think I’ll come back with you tonight to Horsebridge. Not expecting you, I had intended to sleep here and go up tomorrow, but there’s nothing to keep me.”

  “Where are you going to get this caravan?” asked Gregoroff, as Veight rang the bell.

  “You can get them all over the place. I’ll hire one locally. Let me have my bill,” he continued, as a bleary-eyed youth appeared round the corner.

  “Bill! You can’t ’ave no bill. H’everybody ’as gone to bed.”

  “Then somebody has to get up, or I shall go without paying it.”

  “Ho! you would, would yer? Can’t go without paying yer bill. Send for the perlice, I will, if yer tries them gaimes wiv me.”

  Veight turned to the Russian.

  “In some ways I would like to be in London on the date we have been discussing,” he remarked softly. “You’ll send for the police, will you?” he continued to the night porter. “Now I’ve been here one night. I am still alive because I have eaten no food here. I will therefore pay you for two nights, as it is so late. How much will that be, Schweinehund?”

  “’Oo are yer calling naimes? Mine’s ’Orace.”

  He hiccoughed loudly.

  “Pardon! ’Ad tripe for me supper. Comes back on one like, don’t it? Two quid, yer said. Right oh! Suppose it’ll be orl right.”

  He pocketed the notes and shuffled off into a noisome recess under the stairs, from which there emerged a series of devastating explosions, showing that the tripe was still active.

  “’Ere’s yer receipt,” he said, appearing once more. “Shall I get yer bag?”

  “No,” said Veight. “All you can do is to get out of sight and hearing. I won’t be a moment, Gregoroff: I’ve a few things to put in. I’ll join you in the car.”

  He went upstairs, and the Russian, lighting a cigarette, went down the steps into the street. It was past two o’clock, and not a soul was in sight. An occasional car flashed past the end of the street along the Bayswater Road, and in a neighbouring basement an amatory cat made music. There was no moon, but in a couple of hours it would be dawn, and it would take him just about that time to reach Horsebridge.

  He got into the car and started the engine. It was a fast machine, though a good deal slower than the one stolen by Drummond, and as he thought of that episode he cursed under his breath. Even the fact that he had struck the damned Englishman in the face, and that the swine had since died in agony, was not enough. He would have liked to have murdered him personally.

  Unlike Emil Veigh
t, who only killed as an absolutely last resource, Paul Gregoroff gloried in it. Beneath a very thin veneer the man was a merciless savage. Human life meant less than nothing to him. Willingly would he have done in the four men in Hartley Court with his own hands, had he not been dissuaded by the others. In fact his readiness to kill was a constant source of anxiety to those with whom he worked. He never seemed to realise that what might be done with impunity in Russia was a very different matter in Western Europe.

  With an effort he dismissed Drummond from his mind, and concentrated on the work ahead. He felt a genuine admiration for Veight’s scheme, which he readily acknowledged as a masterpiece. Try as he would he could see no flaw in it. There were difficulties which he could see, and unforeseen ones which would almost certainly arise. But in the main the conception was magnificent. Particularly the idea of the caravan. It tickled his sense of humour to think that they would be able to stop and ask a policeman which way to take the two men they were going to murder. And the adrenalin. Very, very good.

  “My dear Veight,” he said as the German flung his bag in the car and sat down beside him, “once again I congratulate you. I have been thinking it over while I waited for you, and I cannot see any possibility of failure.”

  “Nor can I,” said Veight. “But I’m glad you confirm my opinion. Yes, Gregoroff, my friend, I think we shall be able to retire in the near future. How long will it take us to get there?”

  “Two hours. One must admit one point in favour of this country: its roads are wonderful.”

  Save for an occasional lorry there was no traffic at all. Villages loomed up in the glare of the headlights and fell away behind them as the car ate up the miles. And gradually over the flat country towards the east the dawn began to break.

  There was a coolness in the air. Here and there little patches of ground mist lay in the fields, and the smell of damp earth came faintly to their nostrils. And suddenly Veight spoke.

  “I remember it like this away back behind the line during the last war.”

  Gregoroff glanced at him quickly, but did not speak.

  “Strange, isn’t it,” he continued, “that we two are helping to start another. Don’t think I’m becoming sentimental,” he added with a laugh, “but at moments like this one cannot help marvelling at the congenital idiocy of mankind.”