The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “It’s risky,” grumbled the Russian. “But I suppose we’ll have to chance it.”

  “It’s worth while chancing something for twenty-five thousand apiece,” remarked Veight calmly.

  “That’s true,” admitted Gregoroff grudgingly. “But I confess I’d feel a great deal easier in my mind if you hadn’t hit Cortez quite so hard.”

  He was staring out of the window, and his eyes narrowed suddenly.

  “Who the devil is this crossing the drawbridge?” he cried.

  Veight joined him, and gave a prolonged whistle of astonishment.

  “It’s Kalinsky himself. Now, what in the name of all that is marvellous has brought him down? You stay here; I’ll deal with him.”

  He hurried into the hall, and got to the front door just as the limousine pulled up outside.

  “This is a most unexpected pleasure, m’sieur,” he said.

  “Unexpected!” snapped the financier, who was obviously not in the best of tempers. “What do you mean by unexpected? After the urgent message you sent me I had no alternative but to come, though it was exceedingly inconvenient.”

  He entered the house and Veight closed the door in a complete daze.

  “Urgent message, m’sieur? I haven’t sent you any urgent message.”

  “Then who was that stammering fool who forced himself on me this morning in my hotel? Belfage he called himself; the doctor you told me about. Said he came from you, and that it was of vital importance I should come here this afternoon.”

  Veight gave a sigh of relief. The thing was now comprehensible, though why Belfage should have done it was beyond him. And then came a sudden stabbing doubt. How did Belfage know anything about Kalinsky?

  “Confound it, Veight, have you lost the use of your tongue?” Kalinsky’s angry voice broke in on his thoughts. “Twice have I asked you who these two men are lying about in the hall.”

  “I beg your pardon, m’sieur.” With an effort he pulled himself together. Whatever had caused Belfage’s action, it could wait. At the moment the vital thing was not to let Kalinsky even have an inkling that anything could be amiss.

  “To tell you the truth,” he continued, “I have had so little sleep during the past forty-eight hours that I hardly know what I’m doing. Those two men are Graham Caldwell and his mechanic.”

  “What’s the matter with them?”

  “Doped with morphia. We brought them down from Scotland in that caravan you saw outside.”

  “And the plans of the machine?”

  “Here in my pocket.”

  He handed them to the millionaire, who glanced at them and then threw them on the table.

  “They convey nothing to me,” he said. “You are sure those are the correct ones?”

  “Absolutely certain, m’sieur. They were in the safe in Caldwell’s office, and the man who had actually done some of the drawing himself gave them to me.”

  “Did you see the machine?”

  “It was dark when we arrived, m’sieur,” explained Veight, “and so it was impossible to inspect it closely. We burned it.”

  “Then you didn’t see it in flight?”

  “No, we did not. But the member of the Key Club whom you may remember I told you about, and who was responsible for our information in the first place, confirmed the fact that its performance is simply amazing.”

  The financier lit a cigarette.

  “Well, Veight,” he said more cordially, “so far you seem to have done well. I may say that I myself through a roundabout source heard only yesterday that this machine is a marvel. I also heard that, so far as my informant knew, no plans, save these, were in existence. And so I say again that I consider you one to be congratulated.”

  “Thank you, m’sieur.” Veight bowed. “Things have gone very well. Because I have here the other thing I promised you—the formula of the gas.”

  With a triumphant flourish he produced the paper from his pocket.

  “This again conveys nothing to me,” said Kalinsky. “Have you any proof that it is correct?”

  “Frankly, m’sieur—I have no proof. I am not a chemist myself. But the English officer Waldron is below in the dungeon, and he realises that if it is not correct it will be even more unpleasant for him in the future than it has been in the past. You would perhaps like to see for yourself?”

  “Later—possibly. At present I am rather more interested in the future of the two gentlemen I see upon the floor.”

  “That, m’sieur, you may safely leave in my hands,” said Veight. “And I think it would be better for you not to know any more about it. I have thought out a scheme, which I flatter myself is not lacking in ingenuity, and which is certain to result in Belfage being hanged for the murder of these two and Waldron below.”

  “And what are your immediate plans?”

  “To leave England at the first possible opportunity,” answered Veight. “After which I shall report to you in Paris for the balance due.”

  “You shall have it,” said Kalinsky.

  He took out a bulky pocket-book, and Veight’s eyes glistened.

  “You have done well, Herr Veight,” he continued. “And though for the life of me I can’t see quite what was the need for dragging me down here, I am glad I came and saw with my own eyes. Here are ten thousand in notes as we arranged, and the balance of forty will be handed to you in Paris when—er—the remaining conditions have been complied with.”

  Veight took the notes and bowed.

  “Thank you, m’sieur. I can assure you they will be.”

  Now that the first instalment was actually in his pocket he was itching for Kalinsky to go. Unfortunately, however, the financier showed no signs of so doing; he was inspecting his surroundings with obvious interest.

  “Extraordinary,” he said at length. “Most interesting. By the way, where is the madman you told me about who owns this house?”

  “Keeping Waldron company in the dungeon,” answered Veight. “He became quite annoyed when he realised the formula for the gas was not going to be used as he intended.”

  “Of course; I remember. These strange people send things to everybody, don’t they? I should very much like to see the dungeon, Veight.”

  Concealing his impatience with an effort, the German led the way.

  “Be careful of the steps, m’sieur. They are rather dark.”

  “Good gracious me!” said Kalinsky, staring about him. “It is unbelievable. And is this the wicked old man who tortured the gallant young inventor?”

  Veight swore under his breath; the great man had evidently quite recovered his temper and was pleased to be facetious. Pray Heaven he would be quick about it.

  “That is the gentleman,” he answered, forcing a laugh.

  “Well, well,” said Kalinsky genially, “it takes all sorts to make a world, doesn’t it? But what a bloodthirsty old ruffian you must be!”

  He lit another cigarette and turned away.

  “Well—I think that is quite enough, Veight. I do not find the atmosphere of this apartment very much to my liking. I think I will now return to London.”

  Veight heaved a sigh of relief; then grew suddenly tense as he heard the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall above.

  “Veight!” came a hoarse shout. “Veight—where are you?”

  The German stood very still: it was Belfage’s voice.

  “I’m below in the dungeon,” he answered. “What do you want?”

  “Who is that?” cried Kalinsky quickly.

  “Doctor Belfage, m’sieur,” said Veight, as the doctor, white and sweating, clattered down the stairs, to pause for a moment as he saw Kalinsky.

  “Belfage?” snapped the millionaire. “That is not the man I saw this morning. What the devil is the meaning of all this?”

  Icy fear was clutching at Veight’s heart. He knew now that something had gone wrong, but he forced himself to speak calmly.

  “It is quite all right, m’sieur,” he said. “Some small misunderstanding.�
��

  Already his quick brain was working: at any rate he had ten thousand in his pocket. And then he realised Belfage was pouring out some confused jumble of words.

  “Skeletons!” roared Kalinsky, now beside himself with rage. “What in God’s name is this madman talking about?”

  “Pull yourself together, you drunken swine,” snarled Veight, shaking Belfage like a rat. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “The skeletons, Veight. The skeletons at Hartley Court. Two of them were females.”

  The German’s hands dropped to his sides.

  “Females!” he muttered foolishly. “Females! What do you mean, females?”

  And from behind him Waldron began to laugh. And the laughter grew till it swelled to a mighty chorus. From all round him, from above him were unseen people laughing—just laughing.

  “Ein wunderschöner Abend, Herr Veight.”

  “Pardon! ‘Ad tripe for me supper. Comes back on one like, don’t it.”

  God above! The bleary-eyed youth at his hotel in London. And still that laughter went on rising and falling, until, as if it was a drill, it stopped abruptly. And the silence was more terrifying than the noise.

  He could hear the heavy thumping of his heart; dazedly, sickly, he realised that everything had miscarried. But how? How? Beside him Kalinsky, now thoroughly frightened, was clutching his arm convulsively; Belfage in a state of collapse had sunk down on the steps. And then came a well-remembered voice from above.

  “So we meet again, Herr Veight. Kindly come up into the hall.”

  Like a man in a dream the German obeyed Drummond’s order. All power of connected thought had temporarily left him: the sudden shattering of all his plans had numbed his brain. He realised subconsciously that the hall was full of men. He saw Standish, and Darrell, and Gregson and a dozen others he did not know; he saw Lovelace and Doris Venables standing at the foot of the stairs; he saw as a man sees the background of a picture in relation to the central figure. And that central figure was the man standing opposite him on whose face was no trace of mercy.

  Suddenly Kalinsky gave a cry, and pointed to one of the group.

  “There’s the man who came to me this morning and said he was Belfage.”

  No one answered; no one spoke, and then Veight heard a voice. It was his own.

  “How…did…you…escape?”

  He was still staring, hypnotised, at Drummond.

  “The court will now commence,” was the only answer. “Bring forward the other prisoner.”

  He pointed to Gregoroff, whose nerve had completely gone.

  “You fool!” he screamed at Veight. “I told you we should have got away at once.”

  “You’ve never had a chance, Gregoroff,” said Drummond. “For the past three days you have never been out of our sight.”

  “How…did…you…escape?”

  Once more Veight’s parched lips mouthed the sentence.

  “Sufficient for you, Veight, that we did.”

  “A truce to this play-acting,” snarled Kalinsky, who had recovered himself. “Do you know who I am, sir?”

  “I have that misfortune,” said Drummond dispassionately. “And anything that you may care to say in mitigation of your conduct will be carefully considered.”

  “Mitigation! Conduct!” shouted the millionaire. “This, sir, is an outrage.”

  “It is,” agreed Drummond pleasantly. “And a far worse one will shortly be perpetrated upon you. But before that takes place we will converse awhile, Kalinsky.”

  White with passion, the millionaire strode to the front door. It was locked and the key was not there.

  “Open this door, sir.” He was stammering with rage. “Open this door at once. I insist.”

  “Mr. Kalinsky insists. What an epoch-making moment! Ten thousand pounds is the sum, I think, you have just paid Veight for the documents in your pocket.”

  Very slowly the millionaire came back: the seriousness of the situation had come home to him. This ring of silent men meant business, and Kalinsky’s soul grew sick within him. But his voice was steady when he spoke.

  “Who are you, may I ask?”

  “That is quite immaterial,” said Drummond. “Shall we say that, at the moment, I represent justice? Perhaps a little rough and ready; nevertheless justice. What are the documents for which you have just paid Veight ten thousand pounds?”

  “That is my concern,” answered Kalinsky.

  “Assuredly. Give me those notes, Veight.”

  Completely cowed, the German handed them over.

  “Ten thousand pounds!” Drummond balanced the packet in his hand. “A lot of money, Kalinsky: they must be very valuable.”

  “They are worth it to me,” said the millionaire in an off-hand tone.

  And once again a chorus of laughter rose, fell and died away.

  “I am delighted to hear it,” said Drummond gravely. “True we all have different standards of value; but it is most impressive to realise yours. Have you by any chance made Mr. Graham Caldwell’s acquaintance?”

  Instinctively Kalinsky looked at the two men who still sprawled unconscious on the floor.

  “No, no; the real Graham Caldwell,” continued Drummond. “Those two were wished on Veight in Scotland. They belong, I believe, to the local branch of the Key Club. Here he is.”

  A freckle-faced young man with a cheerful grin stepped forward.

  “What are the plans Mr. Kalinsky has got?” asked Drummond.

  “Bits of a Puss Moth and an old Bristol fighter,” said Caldwell. “But even then there’s a lot missing. A wheelbarrow would fly better.”

  “I wonder,” remarked Drummond pensively, “if any government really wants a flying wheelbarrow. You can but try, Kalinsky. And you’ve always got the gas, haven’t you? I hope that’s all right for him, Waldron.”

  “Grand,” said the sapper. “I wrote it down in a hurry, but the final process should undoubtedly produce a form of cheese mould.”

  “Think of it, Kalinsky,” cried Drummond enthusiastically. “A wheelbarrow with wings, and a spot of gorgonzola. They’ll put up a statue to you.”

  Kalinsky turned on Veight in a cold fury.

  “So you’ve double-crossed me, you rat. Hand me back that money.”

  “You forget he hasn’t got it,” said Drummond, still balancing the notes in his hand. “And it is really we who have done the crossing—not Veight. So we shall be pleased to keep these for our trouble.”

  “I see,” said Kalinsky with a sneer. “Plain theft.”

  “Oh, no! A little present from Veight. And so that there shall be no misunderstanding, Kalinsky, an anonymous present of ten thousand pounds will be made tomorrow to the disabled soldiers and sailors fund.”

  His eyes bored into the millionaire.

  “You may, if you like, make trouble. I don’t somehow think you will. If your part in this affair comes out, your name will stink in the nostrils of the world. And there is a certain poetic justice, isn’t there, in this money going to men who fought, in view of what it was really intended for? War: another war. More millions in your pocket; more millions mutilated or in their graves.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” muttered Kalinsky.

  “Tidying up, sare,” quoted Drummond. “Having found out Veight was coming to see you, I came first. And as Henri is an old friend of mine, I had no difficulty in persuading him to let me act as floor waiter. He thought I was doing it for a bet.”

  “Confound your impertinence,” snarled Kalinsky. “My part in the whole affair was perfectly legitimate. I promised this damned fool Veight money for certain things. What I proposed to do with them is entirely my own affair. He has failed to get them, and that is the end of the matter so far as I am concerned.”

  “That, I fear, is where we must agree to differ,” said Drummond gravely. “I heard most of your conversation with Sir James Portrush; I heard your delightful bargain with Veight. And neither I nor my friends think you
at all funny. In fact we think you a profound bore, Kalinsky, a very tedious person. Which must be rectified. If you can’t make people laugh by fair means, you shall make them laugh by foul. Bring that rope, Peter.”

  “What are you going to do with me?” cried the now terrified millionaire.

  “You’ll see,” said Drummond as Darrell and Standish passed the rope under Kalinsky’s arms. “And I would advise you to keep your mouth shut for the next few minutes. In with him, boys.”

  Gibbering with fright, Kalinsky disappeared through the window, and a loud splash proclaimed his destination. Three times was he hauled up; three times was he dropped back. Then he reappeared, and again the chorus of laughter was heard.

  Dripping wet, with duckweed in his hair, the millionaire stood there emitting a powerful odour of stagnant slime, and almost crying with rage and mortification.

  “Very funny; very funny indeed,” cried Drummond approvingly. “I told you you could make people laugh if you tried. But it would be selfish on our part to keep you all to ourselves. Good-bye, Kalinsky; they’ll be tickled to death at the Ritz-Carlton. Run him out, Peter; the swine is an outrage and an offence against God and man. Here’s the key.”

  The front door closed behind him, and silence settled on the room, which was broken at length by Drummond.

  “And that brings us to the lesser fry,” he said quietly. “Veight; Gregoroff; even the egregious Doctor Belfage I see. But where are Meredith and Cortez? The party does not seem to be complete. And you were all so matey in Scotland, weren’t you?”

  “I believe you’re the devil himself,” muttered the German sullenly. “Were you up there too?”

  “Of course. As I told your Russian friend, you haven’t been out of my sight. By the way, Gregoroff, have you met any more elementals with croquet mallets?”

  “It was you, was it?”

  “It was. A ripe and fruity blow, I flatter myself. But, I think, if anything, it has improved your appearance.”

  “How the devil did you get out of that room?” said Gregoroff with a scowl.

  “I don’t think you have actually met Mr. Seymour, have you? You did your best to shoot him on his motor-bicycle, but that hardly constitutes a formal introduction. A rising journalist, Gregoroff, and a lad of sunny disposition as you can see. Moreover, it is entirely due to him that you are in your present unsatisfactory position.”