The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  The Russian’s scowl deepened as he looked at the young reporter.

  “With becoming modesty he maintains that it was a sheer fluke. I, on the other hand, consider it was an extremely quick piece of work for which he deserves the greatest credit. I had arranged to meet him the day after you so kindly locked us up, and somewhat naturally I failed to keep my appointment. He waited and waited, and under the inspiration of a ginger ale he fell into conversation with that lovely girl who dispenses gin in the bar. They talked of this and that, and after a while she mentioned the jolly little party overnight when we had met Doctor Belfage. She also mentioned Hartley Court. So Seymour decided it could do no harm to call there. I trust I interest you.”

  “Go on,” muttered Gregoroff.

  “Naturally he found the house empty. But the sight of an unlatched window downstairs was too much for him and he entered. It was all very still and silent, but as he stood on the kitchen stairs wondering whether to explore there came from close by his head a little click. He looked up: it was the electric-light meter, and subconsciously he noted the reading. Then he went all over the house and found nothing. It took some time, and at last he decided to go. And then occurred, Gregoroff, one of those little things which sometimes alter the fate of nations. As he passed the meter he happened to glance at it again: the reading was different. Somewhere in the house current was being consumed. Where?”

  “You cursed fool, Gregoroff!” cried Veight. “It was you who insisted on leaving the light on.”

  “Come, come,” said Drummond. “Mutual, I think. But with unerring accuracy, Veight, you have spotted what you gave away. To make certain, Seymour continued to watch the meter until it changed, again; then, being a determined young man, he once more went over the house. And this time, by taking a few rough measurements, he realised there was an inner room, the existence of which he had not suspected before. The rest was easy. He tapped: he heard a faint answer. And four hours later a nice gentleman with a blowpipe affair had cut through the door. That is how we got out, Gregoroff, and had you and Veight met us then we should assuredly have killed you both. We were not amused.”

  Drummond lit a cigarette.

  “But saner counsels prevailed. Mr. Standish had already solved the real message which was flung through my window by Captain Lovelace. But you haven’t seen that one, have you? How stupid of me. There have been so many flying round, haven’t there? It was in code too—’Mary Jane. Urgent. G G Font.’”

  Sullenly the two foreigners stared at him.

  “In code,” Drummond continued quietly, “to minimise the chance, if you found it, of your moving poor Waldron elsewhere. Mary Jane, with Cortez introducing the Mexican atmosphere, gave us Marijuana: G G—Horse: Pont—bridge, in French. Not a very clever code, as I am sure Captain Lovelace would be the first to admit, but men who are half murdered, Veight, are not very clever.”

  “He shouldn’t have tried to escape,” muttered the German.

  “Shouldn’t have tried to escape, you rat!” roared Drummond. “A British officer from a damned foreign spy! Don’t scowl at me, blast you, or I’ll give you a taste of Gregoroff’s medicine. To resume, however,” he continued. “Fearing you might return to Hartley Court and find the birds had flown, we decided to burn the house down. It was a pity that two of the skeletons we obtained with great difficulty were those of the fair sex, but they served their purpose.”

  “What purpose?” said Veight angrily. “Why didn’t you strike then instead of waiting?”

  “For two good reasons,” answered Drummond. “First and foremost in order to touch that blackguard Kalinsky for ten thousand pounds. Secondly—but I presume you have never read the immortal Stalky—we wanted to jape with you. And you can’t imagine the amount of fun you’ve given us.”

  “And what do you propose to do with us now?” asked the German. “Put us in the lake too?”

  “No, Veight: you have a more important role to play which you will discover in due course. Doctor Belfage as well, and the incredible old gentleman downstairs. I would have liked Meredith and Cortez.… By the way, have you any idea where they are?”

  “I have not, and for a very good reason,” said Veight quietly. With the realisation that the situation was desperate, his self-control had come back. “Since you appear to know everything, it is quite refreshing to find that you do not. Just after it was light this morning we all got out to stretch our legs, and when we started off again I thought they were in the caravan, and Gregoroff thought they were in the car. So between us we left them behind.”

  “What an annoying contretemps!” cried Drummond. “If only I’d known that, it would have quite allayed my childish fears. But when I saw you and Gregoroff emerging from that wood this morning—”

  “You saw us!” Veight almost screamed.

  “I was in the scarlet monoplane,” explained Drummond patiently. “The Graham Caldwell machine. You didn’t burn it, you know: when we gathered your intentions an ancient glider was put inside the shed. To resume, however. When I saw you coming out of the wood, and there was no sign of the other two, I was filled with unworthy suspicions. So we landed a little later, and I communicated those suspicions to the police.”

  Veight swallowed twice, and his knuckles gleamed white on the back of the chair he was gripping.

  “What a waste of time!” He forced himself to speak calmly. “They should be here at any moment now.”

  “I fear not,” said Drummond sadly. “Veight, you must prepare yourself for a shock. The dead bodies of your poor friends were found in the wood.”

  The German had again recovered his self-control: his start of amazement was admirable.

  “Gott im Himmel!” he cried. “Dead! But how?”

  “Clutched in Meredith’s hand was a motor jack; in that of Cortez a revolver. Meredith was shot through the heart; Cortez had his skull broken.”

  “They were quarrelling when we all got out of the car, Gregoroff, if you remember,” said Veight thoughtfully.

  “That is so,” assented the Russian.

  “And did you leave them there quarrelling: one armed with a jack and the other with a gun?” asked Drummond politely.

  “I have already told you,” said Veight, “that it was quite by accident they were left behind at all.”

  “Of course! Of course! How stupid of me. What were they quarrelling about, I wonder? The plans of the wheelbarrow; or can it have been the flying cheese? Or perhaps,” he added hopefully, “it was just naughty temper at being left to walk. Anyway, that is your next role—the two principal witnesses at the inquest on Meredith and Cortez.”

  The German’s jaw tightened but he said nothing.

  “I don’t understand,” stammered Veight, after a pause. “If he shot Meredith…”

  “Precisely,” remarked Drummond. “If! You see, the revolver was in his right hand: the fingerprints are those of his left. Playtime is over,” continued Drummond. “Serious business begins. And when through the medium of a nice double murder the public are put wise to your recent activities, even they may begin to realise that this country is living in a fool’s paradise over armaments.”

  The telephone bell started to ring, and he picked up the receiver. And as he listened a look of amazement appeared on his face. At length the metallic voice ceased, and Drummond very slowly replaced the instrument.

  “The police, Veight,” he said gravely. “They want to know if you and Gregoroff are here. As you heard, I told them you were. They are coming to ask you some questions.”

  The German moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

  “You will be interested to hear that they have found Cortez’s fingerprints on his revolver,” continued Drummond.

  “Naturally,” said Veight. “You told me he shot Meredith, and that the revolver was found in his hand.”

  “Yes: lying very loosely. And the police want to know how it got there.”

  For a space in which a man may count five there was
silence, while the German, his face ashen, swayed on his feet. Then with a roar like a beast Gregoroff hurled himself on him.

  “Damn you!” he shouted. “What did you want to kill him for?”

  “So,” said Drummond when they were finally separated, “it would seem that my unworthy suspicions were justified after all. But I think your message to the British public will be even more valuable when it comes from the dock and not from the witness-box.”

  CHAPTER XV

  “The Chief wants to see you, Hugh,” said Gregson. “You, too, Ronald, and Seymour as well. Old Portrush is with him cluckling like an agitated hen.”

  Drummond grinned faintly, and followed the speaker along the passage to a large airy room overlooking Whitehall. Behind a big desk sat a grey-haired man with a pair of keen, penetrating eyes, while beside him Sir James Portrush clutched the inevitable attaché case.

  “So you are the sinners who have been corrupting my young gentlemen,” said Colonel Talbot genially. “The tale I have listened to from Gregson is just about the most completely immoral recital of utter illegality I have ever heard. In fact at a rough guess I should think you have all laid yourselves open to at least ten years’ penal servitude.”

  “At least,” agreed Drummond happily. “But we’ve had a grand time, Colonel.”

  “What staggers me,” cried Sir James, “are these disclosures about Kalinsky. I can scarcely credit them. Why, only a few nights ago, I was having a long conversation with him on the European situation at the Ritz-Carlton.”

  “I heard it all,” said Drummond, lighting a cigarette.

  “You heard it?” spluttered Sir James. “But we were alone.”

  “I heard it through the keyhole,” said Drummond calmly, and Colonel Talbot hurriedly bent down to pick up a paper. “I was the waiter.”

  “Really, Captain Drummond,” cried the minister angrily, “that is quite inexcusable.”

  “If I hadn’t,” said Drummond, “Kalinsky would now have the Graham Caldwell plans. And Morgenstein. He was in it too.”

  “Nevertheless unpardonable,” continued Sir James. “To listen to a private conversation! It’s…it’s not done.”

  “It was that night,” laughed Drummond. “‘Dictators, knaves, or fools’—do you remember?”

  Sir James flushed scarlet.

  “This is intolerable,” he snapped.

  “Come, come, Sir James, be reasonable. You must judge every case on its own merits. And in this instance I consider I was justified. I knew Veight was coming to see Kalinsky, which by itself was enough to prove he was a wrong ’un. But if I may be permitted to say so—wrong ’un or not, the advice he gave you was the goods.”

  “I am infinitely obliged to you for your opinion,” remarked Sir James sarcastically.

  “And,” continued Drummond imperturbably, “it will not be through any fault of mine if that advice is not broadcast to the country when Veight and Gregoroff come up for trial. They’ll hang ’em as high as Haman—both of ’em, and that always interests the public.”

  “Do you mean to tell me”—Sir James appeared to be on the verge of a seizure of sorts—”do you mean to tell me that you have the audacity—the damned audacity—to pass on a private conversation you heard through a keyhole?”

  “Most certainly,” answered Drummond. “I won’t say it was you, but I’m undoubtedly going to tell the public Kalinsky’s remarks that night. Wait, Sir James!”

  He held up his hand, and after an abortive splutter the minister subsided.

  “You did not go through the last war as—er—as a combatant. We did, and we don’t want another, any more than some of the pacifist young gentlemen today, who have never heard a shot fired in anger. We know the horrors of it first-hand; we are all out to prevent it again if we can. But we maintain that the present policy of cutting down our fighting forces to the extent they have been reduced, is the most certain way of precipitating it. Do you realise that if this young feller here had not got us out of that house, war would have come? I ask you—do you realise that? But for the tick of an electric-light meter war would have come. As you know, they intended to kill Waldron and Graham Caldwell, so that those two secrets would have been Kalinsky’s sole property. Do you suppose he was going to use ’em for shaving-paper?”

  “Really, Captain Drummond, I am not accustomed to being hectored in this way.” Sir James had at last found his voice. “The Government’s policy on such matters is—er—a matter for the Government alone.”

  “Well, at any rate, you know Kalinsky’s opinion of that policy. And,” Drummond added pleasantly, “though he may be a knave, Sir James, he most certainly is not a fool.”

  With a snort like an angry bull, Sir James snatched up his hat and rose to his feet.

  “You, it seems to me, Captain Drummond, combine both qualities. Good morning, Colonel Talbot; I am already late for a Cabinet meeting.”

  “Totes on greyhound tracks still worrying the old grey matter?” asked Drummond anxiously. “But they tell me Flying Fish for the third race at the White City tonight is a cinch. Shall I put on a quid for you?”

  “I am not interested in dog-racing, thank you.”

  “Great fun, you know. And you could always earn a spot of honest dough as a tick-tack man. All you’ve got to do is to wave your arms and legs about and make faces. Just like a Cabinet meeting.”

  The door shut with a crash, and then Drummond threw up his hands in despair.

  “How long, O Lord, how long?” he cried. “It isn’t that his opinion differs from mine, but it is that ghastly air of smug self-complacency that gets my goat. What’s your opinion, Colonel?”

  But that worthy officer was beyond speech. Tears were pouring down his face; his shoulders heaved convulsively.

  “Portrush as a tick-tack man!” he gasped at length. “You’re a thoroughly reprehensible scoundrel, Drummond,” he continued in a shaking voice, “and your proper fate is to be hanged between Veight and Gregoroff. But at any rate you’ve made me laugh. Now tell me, how many crimes have you committed in the course of the last few days?”

  “How many, Ronald?” asked Drummond cheerfully.

  “The only one, Chief, is burning down the house,” said Standish. “And a few odd trifles against some lower excrescences of the Key Club, which they brought on themselves. But with regard to Hartley Court, I do not think there will be any trouble. Hugh and I will settle matters with Doctor Belfage.”

  “All right. But I don’t want to hear anything about it,” laughed the Colonel. “You’re a bunch of miscreants, and the whole thing is hopelessly irregular. Get out. And I shall be delighted if you’ll all dine with me tonight. Cabbageface knows the house, and the port is passing fair. Incidentally Ginger and that delightful girl are coming. We must drink their health.”

  “Bye-bye, Hugh, for the moment,” said Standish, as they reached the street. “I’m going round to the insurance wallahs now. See you again this evening.”

  The traffic roared past in a ceaseless stream, and for a space Seymour stood staring at it beside a man grown suddenly silent.

  “I can still hardly believe that it has all happened,” he said at length.

  Drummond turned to him slowly.

  “Make England believe that it will happen, unless…”

  The sentence uncompleted, he strode oft, and Trafalgar Square swallowed him up.

  CHALLENGE (1937) [Part 1]

  CHAPTER I

  THE GAME BEGINS

  Colonel Henry Talbot, C.M.G., D.S.O., pushed back his chair and rose from the dinner table. His wife had gone to the theatre, so that he was alone. And on that particular evening the fact caused him considerable relief. The lady of his bosom was no believer in the old tag that silence is golden.

  He crossed the hall and entered his study. There he lit a cigar, and threw his long, spare form into an easy chair. From the dining-room came the faint tinkle of glass as the butler cleared the table; save for that and the ticking of a clock on t
he mantelpiece the flat was silent.

  For perhaps ten minutes he sat motionless staring into the fire. Then he pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and studied the contents thoughtfully, while a frown came on his forehead. And quite suddenly he spoke out loud.

  “It can’t be coincidence.”

  A coal fell into the grate, and as he bent over to replace it, the flames danced on his thin aquiline features.

  “It can’t be,” he muttered.

  The clock chimed nine, and as the final echo died Sway a bell shrilled out. Came a murmur of voices from the hall; then the butler opened the door.

  “Captain Drummond and Mr. Standish, sir.”

  Colonel Talbot rose, as the two men came into the room.

  “Bring the coffee and port in here, Mallows,” he said. “I take it you two fellows have had dinner?”

  “We have, Colonel,” said Drummond, coming over to the fire. “And we’re very curious to know the reason of the royal command.”

  “I hope it wasn’t inconvenient to either of you?” asked the colonel.

  “Not a bit,” answered Standish. “Not only are we curious, but we’re hopeful.”

  The colonel laughed; then he grew serious again.

  “You’ve seen the evening papers, I suppose.”

  “As a matter of fact I haven’t,” said Drummond. “Have you, Ronald?”

  “I only got back to London at eight,” cried Standish. “What’s in ’em?”

  There was a short pause; then Colonel Talbot spoke deliberately.

  “Jimmy Latimer is dead.”

  “What!” The word burst simultaneously from both his listeners. “Jimmy—dead! How? When?”

  “Put the tray on my desk, Mallows,” said the colonel. “We’ll help ourselves.”

  He waited until the butler had left the room; then standing with his back to the fire he studied the faces of the two men who were still staring at him incredulously.

  “A month ago,” he began, “Jimmy put in for leave. Well, you two know what our leave frequently covers, but in this case it was the genuine article. He was going to the South of France, and there was no question of work. I got a letter from him about a fortnight ago, saying he was having a damned good time, and that he’d made a spot of cash at Monte. He also implied that there was a pretty helping him to spend it.