The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  At last the lights of the car—for by now darkness had fallen—breasted the rise a few hundred yards away, and throwing away his cigarette the man stepped into the road. It was possible, though not likely, that this was not the car he was waiting for, but that risk had to be taken. It proved groundless. With a grinding of brakes the machine pulled up and a voice hailed him.

  “Is that you, MacPherson?”

  “Aye,” he answered laconically. “’Tis himself.”

  “Your proof?”

  MacPherson fingered the lapel of his coat.

  “The badge of the Key Club,” he said. “Any further proof you may be needing you’ll find in the camp. And who may you be?” he continued as the man who had accosted him came into the light. “Are you Doctor Belfage? I was told he was a little man.”

  “My name is Meredith,” said the other, “and I and my friends are acting for Doctor Belfage, who is ill. We are all enthusiasts for the cause. By the way, MacPherson, how was it your cousin found us at Horsebridge?”

  “Because I told him. Your doctor who is sick said you were there. Come, let’s be getting on with it. And I’ll thank you to give me a lift as far south as Inverness.”

  He led the way along the path, and a muttered colloquy took place behind him.

  “That will be all right,” said Meredith at length. “We will take you to Inverness. Have you the two men safe?”

  “You’ll be seeing for yourself in a minute,” answered MacPherson.

  “Because,” continued Meredith softly, “you had better remember we are all armed. In case, you know, Mr. MacPherson; just in case.”

  “Is that so?” said MacPherson quietly. “The grouse are good this year, but it is not yet the twelfth.”

  “What the devil is the man talking about?” came a harsh voice. “And why is he dressed like a damned woman?”

  “Shut up, Gregoroff, you fool,” snapped Veight. “Haven’t you ever seen a kilt before?”

  “Probably not,” said MacPherson affably. “Being true to our principles, he naturally did not wait to see them during the last war.”

  From behind came a chuckle, and Gregoroff snarled angrily.

  “If you laugh at me, you filthy little Dago, I’ll bash your head in.”

  “I did not laugh,” said Cortez venomously. “Keep your hands from me,” he screamed, “or I knife you!”

  “I didn’t touch you, you rat.”

  “Then who did? Something—it brush my face.”

  “It would seem, Mr. Meredith, that your friends do not like the spirits of the moor,” remarked MacPherson gravely. “Perhaps they are right. Strange things happen in my country. Maybe you will hear the death dirge if you are lucky—or unlucky.”

  “For God’s sake let’s hurry,” said Meredith uneasily. “This place gets on my nerves.”

  “It is because you are not used to it,” answered MacPherson. “But reassure yourself. We shall not be long now. The hut is just in front of us. If you will wait a moment I will light the lamp.”

  He opened the door and struck a match, while the four men crowded in after him.

  “There is the inventor, Mr. Graham Caldwell, and that is his mechanic.”

  Seated on opposite sides of the table and breathing stertorously were the two men. Their heads were sunk on their arms; between them stood an empty whisky bottle.

  “I put a little something in their whisky,” explained MacPherson calmly.

  “Good!” cried Meredith. “Where are the plans?”

  “In yonder cupboard,” said MacPherson.

  “And they are complete?”

  “They were finished yesterday.”

  “You are certain there are no others in existence?” cried Veight, putting the tracings on the table in front of him.

  “Absolutely certain,” answered MacPherson. “I myself have drawn the greater part.”

  The four men looked at him.

  “Could you redraw them?” asked Gregoroff.

  “From memory? No, I could not. But why should I be wanting to? You have them, and shortly the whole world will have them.”

  He spoke indifferently, leaning against the window.

  “Excuse me, Veight,” said Meredith suddenly. “Not all of them in your pocket, if you don’t mind. I will take half.”

  “Don’t be such a suspicious fool,” cried Veight angrily. “Anyone would think I was trying to double-cross you.”

  “Exactly what I do think,” answered Meredith calmly. “Hand ’em over.”

  “Just so,” said Cortez. “We will have half.”

  For a few moments there was a tense silence which was broken at last by the Scotchman.

  “Are you not then all together in this?” he asked mildly. “What does it matter who has the plans?”

  “Of course, of course,” said Meredith hurriedly. “Just a little personal matter, Mr. MacPherson. Mr. Veight is wanting all the credit himself at headquarters—aren’t you, Veight?”

  “Here are two sheets,” remarked the German, pushing them over the table. “And what the devil is the matter with you?” he continued to MacPherson.

  For the Highlander, his hand outstretched, was pointing through the window.

  “Look!” he whispered. “Look! The dancing light. The light of death!”

  Flickering up and down, moving first this way and then that, was a faint blue-white light.

  “It’s only a marsh flame,” cried Gregoroff harshly, but he crossed himself.

  “There is no marsh there,” said MacPherson sombrely. “It is the light of death. Soon you will hear the dirge.”

  “Don’t talk rot,” shouted Veight. “Are we children, to be frightened with such tales?”

  The Scotchman turned and stared at him: stared at him till the German shifted uneasily on his feet.

  “You poor ignorant man,” said MacPherson slowly. “Do not mock at the Powers on the other side, or maybe,” his voice rose, “they will strike you down. Do ye not ken that this moor is peopled with the dead—the dead who are earth-bound? Listen.” He held up his hand for silence. “What did I tell you?”

  From far away, clear through the still night air, came a faint wailing noise. It rose and fell, sometimes dying away to nothing, then increasing in volume, but always the same wailing dirge.

  “Bagpipes,” muttered Meredith through dry lips.

  “Aye—the pipes. But played by no human piper. It’s the dead playing their own lament. Never have I heard it so clearly.”

  “Dead men or no dead men,” said Veight angrily, “we’re not going till we’ve done what we came for. The machine must be burned. Where is it?”

  “Over yonder,” said MacPherson. “The petrol is ready.”

  “Then lead the way. That foul noise has stopped; let’s be quick before it starts again.”

  “You will not hear it again tonight,” said MacPherson. “They never play twice. Follow me.”

  They trooped out after him, leaving the two unconscious men still snoring at the table.

  “What a hell spot of a place,” muttered Gregoroff, stumbling over the uneven ground. “How far is it to the shed?”

  “Two hundred yards,” answered MacPherson from in front, and even as he spoke a bellow of fear came from the Russian.

  “God Almighty!” he yelled. “What was that? Something cold and clammy hit my face.”

  He thrashed his arms round his head like a madman, uttering the foulest imprecations.

  “Blaspheme not,” came the quiet voice of the Scotchman, “or maybe they that hear will take you at your word. Here is the shed; the aeroplane is inside.”

  A door creaked in the darkness, and then by the light of a match they could see the vague outline of the machine inside.

  “The tins of petrol are against the wall,” said MacPherson. “Pour two or three over the wings and fuselage. Tip the remainder on the floor, and let this invention of the devil be destroyed by the fire that purifieth.”

  “I would have liked t
o have seen it in action,” said Veight, “but unfortunately that is impossible. The inventor is satisfied, is he?”

  “More than satisfied,” answered MacPherson. “There is no existing aeroplane that comes within thirty percent of it for all-round performance.”

  The reek of petrol filled the air as they emptied the spirit over the machine, and a few minutes later the shed was a raging furnace.

  “So may all such abominations perish,” said MacPherson gravely as they watched the flames roaring up in the darkness. Fantastic shadows danced over the moor, and a heavy cloud of smoke drifted sluggishly away. But at length it was over; the blaze died down, and only a few smouldering embers remained of the Graham Caldwell aeroplane.

  “Excellent!” cried Veight. “You have deserved well of the cause, Mr. MacPherson, and we will see that your name is brought before headquarters.”

  They were walking back to the hut, where they could see the inventor and his mechanic still sprawling over the table. But even with the light from the window the darkness seemed the more intense after the fierce bonfire they had witnessed. And so, when there came from behind them a thud, followed by a bellow of pain and a hideous gurgling noise, they peered backward, unable to see what was happening.

  “Murder!” The word was a gurgle. “He murder me.”

  “You little devil, Cortez!” Gregoroff’s voice was animal in its fury. “Ah-h-h! You’d knife me, would you?”

  “Stop it, you two,” shouted Veight furiously.

  “I tell you he’s smashed my face in,” roared the Russian, “and now he’s stabbed me.”

  “I did not touch your face,” screamed Cortez. “I touch you not at all.”

  “For men of peace,” murmured MacPherson, “you would seem a little excitable. And indeed it appears that Mr. Gregoroff has not only a knife in his arm, but that he has lost much of his beauty.”

  He had produced an electric torch, which he flashed upon the Russian. And in all conscience Paul Gregoroff was a parlous object. His nose was smashed and blood was streaming down his face. A knife still quivered in the upper part of his arm, and his teeth were bared like those of a snarling dog. He had let go of the Mexican, who, crouching vindictively, was watching him.

  “Who did hit me?” mouthed the Russian.

  “Not me,” snarled Cortez. “I knife you, yes, because you throttle me. I never touch your dam’ face.”

  “Somebody has,” said MacPherson profoundly. “That could not occur on its own. Maybe it was one of the more dangerous earth-bound spirits that haunt the moor as I have told you. It would be safer to come to the hut, I think.”

  “To hell with you and your earth-bound spirits,” roared the Russian, who was beside himself with pain and rage. “If it wasn’t Cortez, it must have been you, Meredith.”

  “I was nowhere near you,” cried that gentleman hurriedly. “Let’s get inside the hut, away from the damned moor.”

  “Sensibly spoken, Mr. Meredith,” said MacPherson. “For though Mr. Gregoroff’s face is doubtless very painful, it is fortunate for him that he is still alive. It is certain that there is present an influence that does not like him: next time it may be his neck and not his nose that is broken.”

  He entered the hut and the others followed.

  “Do you really mean to say,” stammered the Russian, “that…that it was a ghost?”

  The deep-seated superstition of the Slav was asserting itself, and MacPherson shrugged his shoulders.

  “You may call it a ghost if you wish,” he said. “I would prefer to say that it was one of the elemental forces that are abroad upon the moor this night. You have seen the light; you have heard the pipes: and you have escaped with your life. As I said, you are lucky.… What will you be doing with the two yonder?”

  “Well, Mr. MacPherson,” said Veight, “our idea was to take them south with us. We feel it will be safer to have them under restraint while the actual plans are being prepared for the various governments. That is the reason for the caravan.”

  “A grand idea,” remarked MacPherson. “They should travel comfortably inside it. So if you would care to lift them into the car outside, I will drive them to the road.”

  “How will you explain their absence?” said Meredith suddenly.

  “There is no one to explain it to,” answered MacPherson. “But should any questions be asked I shall say they have gone south to the English and more than that I do not know. Dear me! and what is that?”

  A sharp yell of pain had come from outside the hut, and Veight entered, wringing his hand.

  “Something has bitten me,” he cried angrily. “Something in your car.”

  “There, now! I’d forgotten her. It’s the wee Aberdeen bitch. She does not take kindly to strangers. Winkie! Come here, lassie.”

  The little dog came trotting in, to receive a vicious kick from the infuriated German. And the next moment Veight was lying in the corner nursing his jaw, with a blazing-eyed man in a kilt standing over him whom he almost failed to recognise as the mild-mannered MacPherson.

  “How dared ye kick my dog?” The voice was soft and incredibly menacing. “How dared ye?”

  Veight scrambled to his feet, but a second look at the Scotchman’s face was enough.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Lost my temper, I’m afraid.”

  “Then be careful you don’t lose it again,” continued the soft voice. “Or maybe I might lose mine.”

  For a space the two men stared at one another; then the German turned away, and MacPherson, picking up his dog, made much of her. But though he said no more there was tension in the air. Four to one, and armed at that, but no one suggested that the Scotchman should help to lift the two bodies into the car.

  Gregoroff had roughly bandaged his arm—the wound was only a flesh one—but his face was still an appalling sight. And just before they started MacPherson turned to him.

  “You’ll find water in the basin,” he said. “I’d use it if I were you. And then we’ll be moving.”

  “What about your car?” asked Meredith.

  “It can bide here,” answered MacPherson shortly. “I’ll be out by the mail from Lairg tomorrow.”

  He turned out the light, and they jolted over the track to the road. And once again MacPherson was a spectator as they turned the caravan and put the unconscious men inside, where they were joined by Meredith and the Russian, who heaved a sigh of relief as the door shut behind him.

  “Will you sit in front with me, Mr. MacPherson?” said Veight as he took the wheel.

  “I will not,” answered MacPherson promptly. “There are some people I prefer to be behind, and yon little Dago with the knife is one of them. Come, girl.”

  The Aberdeen jumped in beside him, and they started off. A few spots of rain began to fall, but it was only a passing shower and they did not stop to put up the hood. But as a drive it was not a chatty one, and it was not until the car stopped on the bridge at Inverness and MacPherson got out that Veight spoke again.

  “What was it really that hit Gregoroff?” he said.

  The Scotchman looked at him with an expressionless face.

  “Something verra hard, mon,” he remarked, relapsing into a pronounced accent. “If it were not impossible I would say a croquet mallet. But I have never heard that the elementals play the game. Well, I will say good night, Mr. Veight. You have the plans; you have the inventor and his mechanic, and your friend’s nose should have recovered in a year or so. Heel, Winkie.”

  He strode away along the deserted road by the river, and after watching him for a while Veight let in his clutch and once more headed south. Perfectly correct: they had the plans and the men, there was no doubt on that score. But for all that a vague feeling of disquietude possessed him.

  True the Scotch are a peculiar race, and a Scotchman who was also a member of the Key Club could not be expected to be anything but most eccentric. But the episode which stood out most in his mind, apart from the pain he still felt in his jaw, was the k
icking of the dog. In an instant a man who up till then had seemed an inoffensive lunatic had become a dominant personality.

  That the aggravation had been great he admitted. Not that he cared the snap of a finger about dogs himself, but other people did. And if MacPherson had merely shown anger or resentment he would not have been in the least surprised. But MacPherson had done far more than that: he had cowed Veight, which was an extremely novel experience for the German. And the question he was asking himself as they drove up the long hill out of Inverness was, which was the real MacPherson?

  Of only academic interest, perhaps, but Veight was a keen psychologist. Men and their minds were supremely important factors in his profession, and he disliked being unable to classify one. And what was it really that had hit Gregoroff?

  He believed the little rat beside him, for the very good reason that he would never have been such a fool as to attack a man twice his size except with a knife. It certainly had not been MacPherson: he had been with him well in front. Equally certain it was not an elemental spirit, though—and this was the point—it was possible that MacPherson really believed it was. Highlanders, he knew, were fey: it was quite conceivable that he genuinely thought the whole thing was supernatural. Ridiculous, of course, to a man like Veight: the light was obviously a will-of-the-wisp, the wailing noise some bird.

  It left, therefore, only Meredith. What would have been more easy than for him to arm himself with some heavy piece of wood when they were burning the aeroplane, and attempt to kill, or at any rate stun the Russian in the darkness? It might have been done almost noiselessly, in which case he would have been up against Cortez and Meredith by himself, without realising the fact.

  A glint came into his eyes: the more he thought of it the more probable did this solution seem. And after a while he glanced sideways at his companion, whose head was nodding. Both sides could play at that game, and with infinite care he put his left hand over the back of the seat and felt for the jack which he knew was lying on the floor. He found it, and put it between his legs. If the thing was going to be done it would have to be done at once.