The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Dawn was breaking, and again he glanced at Cortez, who was lolling against the side of the car fast asleep. Then he lifted the jack, and brought it down on the base of his skull. The Mexican lurched forward and was still.

  Veight still drove on, but fear was clutching him. He had not intended to kill the man; had he hit him too hard? He felt for his heart: there was no sign of movement. And Veight’s own began to go in sickening thumps. Cortez was dead: he had murdered him.

  Behind him the caravan bumped along, and instinctively he looked at his petrol gauge. It was only a quarter full, and he could not fill up with a dead man beside him. Why had he hit him so hard? He had only meant to stun him, and then do the same to Meredith. After which he intended to leave them both hidden somewhere off the road. But he had killed him.

  Veight thought furiously; the one essential thing was not to lose his head. And gradually he grew calmer. A plan was beginning to materialise in his mind.

  It would require nerve, but he realised all too clearly that this was no time for half-measures. He had not the faintest wish to be hanged by the neck till he was dead, and that was the finish that stared him inexorably in the face unless he could dispose of the body in such a way as to divert suspicion from himself. And to do that it would not be sufficient merely to hide it: sooner or later someone would be bound to find it. After which identification, and with MacPherson in the neighbourhood the certainty of his being implicated.

  The same consideration precluded any possibility of pretending to stage a motor accident. Apart from the fact that a car does not hit a man on the head, his connection with Cortez would be bound to come out. And why should someone who started as a passenger in a car be knocked down by it?

  No: there was only one thing to be done. And having made up his mind Veight felt all his customary coolness returning. It was an unfortunate complication, but it was not the first time he had been in a tight corner and got away with it.

  The first essential was a suitable place, and here fortune was with him. The road was running through a fair-sized wood, and as far as he could see there was no house within sight. So he stopped the car and putting on a glove he took the revolver out of the dead man’s pocket. Then he picked up the jack and went to the door of the caravan.

  “Puncture,” he said briefly, keeping the revolver out of sight. “Give me a hand, Meredith; here’s the jack.”

  Blinking his eyes sleepily, Meredith took it, and as he did so Veight shot him from point-blank range through the heart.

  “What the devil are you doing?” stammered Gregoroff. “Are you mad?”

  Veight looked up and down the road: no sign of anyone. Inside the caravan the two drugged men still slumbered peacefully.

  “Listen, Gregoroff,” he said quietly. “I’ve had an accident. I meant to knock Cortez on the head and stun him. Unfortunately I hit him too hard and killed him. You’ve got to help me stage this show, or we’re for it.”

  “You mean you are, you damned fool,” answered the Russian.

  “You seem to forget the man you killed in Drummond’s cottage, my friend. Be quick; there’s no time to lose. Get hold of his shoulders, and we’ll cart him into the wood. His hand has tightened on the jack, which is what I hoped for, and he’s hardly bled at all.”

  Between them they lifted the dead man out of the caravan, and carried him into the undergrowth for a distance of about thirty yards. Then they laid him down where he was screened from anyone passing by.

  “Now, Cortez,” cried Veight, and they made the second journey. “We’ll leave the two bodies together, and with luck they won’t be found for days. But if by chance they are found sooner, and we are implicated, our story is this. We all stopped here and those two began quarrelling. We got bored and left them, and know nothing of the affair at all.”

  “Pretty thin,” said Gregoroff, watching Veight lay the revolver in the Mexican’s hand.

  “We shan’t be in England when they’re found,” cried Veight. “And with that jack clutched in Meredith’s hand it isn’t by any means so thin as you think.”

  “What induced you to hit Cortez?” cried the Russian curiously.

  “Because the more I think of it the more do I become convinced that it was Meredith who hit you, and that if he’d laid you out he and Cortez would then have gone for me,” said Veight, taking a final look at the bodies. “That seems all right to me,” he continued. “The two things took place practically simultaneously. Meredith hit Cortez from behind; Cortez spun round and shot him as he died. No fingerprints on the gun except any that Cortez may have left there himself. In fact, my dear Paul—well staged. Now all we want are the plans from Meredith’s pocket, and we will resume our journey.”

  He stooped over and extracted the papers, and the two walked back to the road.

  “I think,” he went on, “that you had better still continue in the caravan. Your face is definitely noticeable. Put another quarter grain of morphia under both our passengers’ tongues. We don’t want any chance of them coming to and shouting.”

  Suddenly he glanced up, listening: in the distance could be heard the drone of an aeroplane. It grew rapidly louder, and, flying low over the trees, a scarlet monoplane came into sight. It roared overhead, and as it passed above them they saw a man leaning out and looking down. Then it was gone and the noise of the engine died away in the south.

  “An early flyer,” said Gregoroff uneasily. “And he’s seen us.”

  “What does that matter?” cried Veight irritably. “Your nerves seem pretty rocky this morning, Gregoroff. There’s nothing unusual, is there, about a caravan on a road? And it is ten to one he’ll never give it a second thought, even when the bodies are found. Get inside; the sooner we’re back at Horsebridge the better.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  During the long drive south Veight reviewed the situation from every angle, for, though he had denied it to Gregoroff, he realised that the whole thing was pretty thin. True it was the best that could have been done under the circumstances, but he saw only too clearly the dangers of the position if the bodies were found before he was out of the country.

  Meredith was known to the police, and through him the line would lead direct to Belfage. And with the ex-doctor in his present condition of nerves that might mean anything. He would certainly blurt out that Veight had been up to Scotland with the caravan, and that would mean a searching interrogation by the police.

  Why had Meredith gone into the wood with a jack in his hand? Why, if he and Cortez had quarrelled, had they not done so by the roadside? What had they quarrelled about? And finally, what had been the object of the whole journey? Why go up to the Highlands and return the next day?

  To the first three questions the answer was simple: since the tragedy had taken place after the car had gone, he could plead complete ignorance. Why had the car gone on, leaving two of its occupants stranded by the roadside? That was a bit of a poser. Because he, the driver, was the only one in the car. The others had all been in the caravan, and he had driven off believing they were inside again. When later he found they were not, he had gone too far to turn back, and assumed they would come on by train. That held water, and Gregoroff would come in there. He had thought they were in the car, and so he had said nothing.

  So far, so good; it was to the last question that, try as he would, he could not evolve a satisfactory answer. To pretend that an ex-convict, a dope peddler and two men like Gregoroff and himself had gone to Scotland in a caravan for fun or to see the view was too farcical for words. In addition to that there was MacPherson to take into account. The fact that his own part in the performance was not at all creditable might not be enough to prevent him speaking if he found out whom the dead men were—which he certainly would, since their names were bound to appear in the papers. That risk, however, being outside Veight’s control, would have to be ignored. But what was he personally to say to account for the trip? And the more he thought it over, the more did he come to the conclusion th
at a half-truth was the only possible solution. They had heard of the Graham Caldwell aeroplane, and they had gone up to see it. Unfortunately they found the inventor had left for England; and even more unfortunately the machine had accidentally caught fire while they were there.

  Yes, reflected Veight, that was the only solution, if he was interrogated. If! The whole crux lay in that word. With any luck, as he had said to Gregoroff, the bodies would not be found for at any rate two or three days. And by that time he would be well away, even if it entailed forfeiting the secret of the gas.

  Like most men who live by their wits, Veight was an optimist, and as the day wore on his spirits rose. Possibly the Cortez episode was the best thing that could have happened. He had realised all along that fooling them at the last moment was going to prove difficult, and now all need for that had disappeared. Belfage and old Hoskins would be child’s play, but Meredith had had a nasty suspicious mind. And so, by the time he turned the car in over the drawbridge, Emil Veight’s equanimity was fully restored. His story was cut and dried; Gregoroff was word perfect, and he felt that the first instalment of Kalinsky’s money was already as good as in his pocket.

  There was no one in the hall when he and Gregoroff carried the airman and his mechanic in, and the house seemed very silent. But as they laid them down on the floor Hoskins appeared from his study brandishing a paper.

  “It is you, is it?” he said. “I thought it might be Belfage. The formula, my friends: the formula of that devil Waldron’s gas.”

  “Excellent,” cried Veight. “And here are Graham Caldwell and his mechanic, to say nothing of the plans of the machine.”

  “A great day, gentlemen: a triumph for the club. But tell me—where are Meredith and Cortez?”

  Veight laughed.

  “A most absurd thing has happened, Mr. Hoskins. We all got out this morning just after it was light, and when we drove off again we left them behind by mistake. I thought they were in the caravan with Gregoroff, and he thought they were in the car with me. They will doubtless come along by train.”

  “Dear me!” said Hoskins, “how very unfortunate. But what have you been doing to your face, Mr. Gregoroff?”

  “I fell down on the moor up there and hit it on a rock,” answered the Russian.

  “Quite a chapter of accidents,” cried the old man. “I wish the doctor would return. I want him to see this formula, so as to be quite sure there is no mistake. Then by tonight’s post, my dear friends, it shall go to every government.”

  “Just so,” said Veight quietly, and his eyes met Gregoroff’s. “Just so, Mr. Hoskins. Where is the doctor?”

  “He went over to his own house after lunch. Something to do with the insurance people and Hartley Court. But he should be back at any moment now.”

  “Might I see the formula?” asked Veight casually.

  “Of course. Here it is. Waldron only recovered sufficiently a short time ago to write it. And even then I had to threaten him with more of the drug. Do you know anything of chemistry?”

  “I fear not,” said Veight, glancing at the formula he held in his hand. “Have you taken any copies of it yet, Mr. Hoskins?”

  “No; I was waiting for the doctor to make certain that devil has not deceived me.”

  “He is still below in the dungeon?”

  “Yes. And he remains there till the letters are dispatched.”

  “And Captain Lovelace and Miss Venables?”

  “Upstairs in their rooms.”

  Once again Veight glanced at Gregoroff, who gave the faintest of nods. And the next moment they closed in on the old man, who gave one frightened little squeal like a snared rabbit and then subsided limply, and his eyes roved from one to the other in terrified bewilderment as they forced him into a chair.

  “What are you doing to me?” he wailed.

  “Now listen, Mr. Hoskins,” said Veight quietly. “And pay very close attention to what I am going to say. We shall not do you any harm provided you do not give us any trouble. But knowing your strange outlook on life we shall have to take certain precautions. Gregoroff and I want this formula, which you have been kind enough to give us, and so we propose to keep it.”

  “But aren’t you going to send it to all the governments?” cried Hoskins incredulously.

  Veight roared with laughter.

  “We are not, my dear sir. Ah! would you, you old devil?”

  For with a furious shout of rage Hoskins had sprung out of the chair and had hurled himself at the German. His eyes blazed with fanatical fury; his hands clawed at Veight’s pocket, and his frenzied shrieks of “Traitor!” rang through the house. And it was not until Gregoroff joined in, and hit the old man on the point of the jaw, that he finally sank back in the chair mouthing incoherently.

  “You mustn’t do that sort of thing, Mr. Hoskins,” said Veight quietly, “or you may get hurt.”

  “You devil! You devil!” muttered the other. “Are you going to sell that formula to one of the Powers?”

  “Such, roughly, is our intention, my dear sir,” said Veight with an amused smile. “You don’t really imagine, do you, that we should have wasted our time in this depressing hole for nothing?”

  “Never, while I live,” cried the old man. “I will get the police… I will tell them…”

  “I rather feared that you might try something of that description,” said Veight calmly. “But I confess I did not imagine you would be quite so uncontrolled. So we shall have to take steps accordingly. You’re a stupid old gentleman, you know; very stupid. Where shall we put him, Paul?”

  “Down in the dungeon with Waldron,” said the Russian. “And we’ll have to gag him.”

  “What about the other two?”

  “Put ’em down there too. I want to discuss that part of the show with you.”

  “All right,” said Veight briefly. “I think I know what you’re going to say, but we’ll talk it over.”

  They deftly bound and gagged the old man in the chair where he sat, then they lifted him up and carried him down the stone steps to the dungeon below.

  “Someone to keep you company, Waldron,” said Veight amiably. “He tells me that you have at last seen reason.”

  The engineer officer glared at them in amazement.

  “What have you got the old swine tied up for?” he asked at length. His voice was still weak, but the cessation of the diabolical drug was already beginning to have its effect.

  “A little difference of opinion, my dear fellow,” answered Veight. “We have slightly divergent views on what to do with your formula. By the way,” he continued, taking the paper from his pocket, “I most earnestly hope for your own sake that you haven’t been trying any funny stuff. This is the correct formula?”

  “Go and try it for yourself,” said Waldron indifferently. “Are you going to set me free?”

  “All in good time,” cried Veight. “You look so attractive where you are. But I think I can promise you that in the course of a few days, at any rate, your troubles will be over.”

  “But that devil Hoskins swore he’d let me go at once,” shouted the soldier angrily.

  “Quite, quite,” said Veight. “But, as you can see for yourself, our friend and host is no longer in charge of the situation.”

  “Where are the rest of your foul brood?”

  “Getting along nicely, thank you. And now, Waldron, I have something to say to you. I am going to have this formula of yours examined by a qualified chemist. If he tells me that it is what you say it is—well and good. You will be free to go, and you can have a grand time getting your own back on that damned old bore over there. But if I find you’ve been playing the fool, you’ll pray for marijuana once again instead of what I’ll give you.”

  Waldron yawned.

  “I wish you’d go and play elsewhere,” he said. “I’m infernally sleepy.”

  “So,” continued Veight, “I would strongly advise you, if you have been so stupid as to write this down incorrectly, to rectify it
now.”

  “Do go away,” said Waldron irritably. “I’ve told you to try if for yourself. I can’t say more than that.”

  Veight turned away, and beckoning to Gregoroff, they went back to the hall.

  “We’ll have to chance it,” he remarked. “It might take days to have this thing properly tried out.”

  “Precisely,” said the Russian. “And we aren’t going to wait for days. Nor hours. We’re going to clear at once. Leave those two where they are for the time and come in here. I want a drink. But we’ve got to get this straight.”

  “You mean you want to quit without…”

  The German paused significantly.

  “I do,” said Gregoroff doggedly. “I know what we arranged, and I was prepared to risk it if Waldron was still sticking out. But now that you’ve got the gas and the aeroplane plans, I tell you it’s madness to stay one moment longer than is necessary.”

  “But it means dropping twenty-five thousand pounds,” cried Veight. “You’re a fool, Gregoroff.”

  “I’m a damned wise man. It’s you who were the blasted fool—killing Cortez. Look here, Veight, there’s no good our quarrelling. What’s done is done, and you know that the only reason why I regret the death of those two rats is that it’s made it dangerous for us.”

  “Dangerous,” sneered Veight. “Since when has our trade been anything but dangerous? If you think I’m going to lose twenty-five thousand pounds you’re damn well mistaken. The instant Belfage…”

  “Belfage!” shouted Gregoroff. “The drunken little sweep! We’ll probably never see him again.”

  “The instant Belfage,” continued Veight imperturbably, “has given those three adrenalin we go, and not before. There’s a machine waiting for us; we’ve got nothing to do except motor to the aerodrome and get in.”

  “And how long do you suggest we should wait for Belfage?” demanded Gregoroff.

  “You heard what Hoskins said; he’ll be back at any moment. Then we’ll make him drunk, which won’t be difficult, and voilà tout.”