The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “What place? His house in Park Lane?”

  “No; no. The Golden Boot.”

  “The new Club that’s just opened? It’s Burton behind it, is it?”

  “Entirely. He found all the others so ghastly boring that he decided to have one run on his own lines. More than likely he’ll be there himself. However, what is it you want to know about him?”

  “Everything you can tell. What sort of a bloke is he?”

  “He’s all right. Throws a damned good party. Stinks of money. Clean about the house and all that kind of thing.”

  “D’you know where he got his money?”

  “Haven’t an earthly, old boy. Cornering lights for cats, or something of that sort, I suppose. Why?”

  “Where is his house in the country?”

  “West Sussex. Not far from Pulborough. I went and stayed there last July.”

  “I remember you telling me about it,” said Drummond. “Algy, would you say he was English?”

  Algy stared at him, his glass half-way to his mouth.

  “I’ve never really thought about it,” he said at length. “I’ve always assumed he was, especially with that name. He speaks the language perfectly, but for that matter he speaks about six others equally well. I’d put it this way—he isn’t obviously not English.”

  “That I know,” said Drummond.

  “And I should think Sir George would have satisfied himself on that point,” continued Algy. “You know old Castledon—the most crashing bore in Europe?”

  “His wife is the woman with a face like a cablose, isn’t she?”

  “That’s it. Well, Molly, their daughter, is an absolute fizzer. When you see the three of ’em together you feel that you require the mysteries of parenthood explained to you again. However, Burton met Molly at some catch-’em-alive-’o dance in Ascot week, and as our society writers would say, paid her marked attention. So marked that Lady Castledon who was attending the parade as Molly’s chaperon had a fit in a corner of the room, and was finally carried out neighing. She already heard the Burton doubloons jingling in the Castledon coffers, which by all accounts sadly need ’em.”

  “What’s the girl’s reaction?” asked Drummond. “Definitely anti-click. After all, she’s young; she’s one of this year’s brood of debs. But what I was getting at is, that though Sir George can clear a room quicker than an appeal for charity, he’s a darned fine old boy. And he’s not the sort of man who’d let his daughter marry merely for money, or get tied up with anyone he wasn’t satisfied about.”

  Algy drained his glass.

  “Look here, chaps,” he said, “it seems to me I’ve done most of the turn up to date. Why this sudden interest in Charles Burton?”

  “We’ve got your word you’ll keep it to yourself, Algy?”

  “Of course,” was the quiet answer.

  “Good. Then listen.”

  He did—in absolute silence—whilst they put him wise.

  “Seems a bit flimsy,” he remarked when they had finished. “Though I agree that it’s not like Burton to cross via Newhaven.”

  “Of course it’s flimsy,” said Drummond. “There’s not a shred of evidence to connect Burton with Jimmy’s death. It’s just a shot in the dark on the Chief’s part. And if we find out nothing, no harm is done. On the other hand it is just possible we may discover that it was a bull’s-eye.”

  “I must say that he’s not a man I’d like to fall foul of,” remarked Algy thoughtfully. “I don’t think he’d show one much mercy. He sacked the first manager he put into the Golden Boot at a moment’s notice for the most trivial offence. But murder is rather a tall order.”

  “My dear Algy,” said Standish, “the tallness of the order is entirely dependent on the largeness of the stake. And if Jimmy was on to something really big…”

  He shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Algy. “Well, boys, I’m afraid I haven’t been of much assistance, but I really know very little about the fellow myself. Why don’t you come round to the Golden Boot with me now?”

  “Short coats all right?”

  “Good Lord! yes. Though he insists on evening clothes. Of course, I can’t guarantee that he’ll be there, and even if he is I don’t see that it will do any good. But you might stumble on something, and you’re bound to find a lot of people there that you know.”

  “What about it, Ronald?” said Drummond. “It can’t do any harm.”

  “It can’t. But I don’t think we’ll both go, Hugh. If anything comes out of this show it would be well to have one completely unknown bloke on our side—unknown to Burton, I mean. Now he knows you and he knows Algy; he does not know me. So for the present, at any rate, we won’t connect you and me. You toddle off with Algy; as he says, you might find out something. Let’s meet here for lunch tomorrow, and I’ll put out a few feelers in the City during the morning.”

  Drummond nodded.

  “Sound idea. You’ve got a wench with you, I suppose, Algy?”

  “I’m with a party. Why don’t you join up too?”

  “I’ll see. It’s one of these ordinary bottle places, I take it?”

  “That’s right. Same old stunt in rather better setting than usual—that’s all. Night-night, Ronald.”

  CHAPTER II

  THE GOLDEN BOOT

  As Algy Longworth had said, it was the same old stunt. After a slight financial formality at the door, Drummond became a guest of the management for the evening with all the privileges appertaining to such an honoured position. Though unable to order a whisky and soda, he was allowed—nay, expected—to order a bottle. To consume one drink was a crime comparable to murdering the Archbishop of Canterbury; to consume the entire bottle was a great and meritorious action.

  Accustomed, however, as he was to these interesting sidelights on our legal system he gave the necessary order, and then glanced round the room. Being only just midnight there were still many empty tables, though he saw several faces he recognised. It was a long, narrow building, and a band, in a fantastic red and green uniform, was playing at the far end. But the whole get-up of the place was, as Algy had said, distinctly better than usual.

  Algy’s party had not yet arrived, so they sat down at an empty table, near the microscopic dancing-floor, and Drummond ordered a kipper.

  “I’ll wait, old boy,” said Algy, and at that moment a girl paused by their table.

  “Hullo! darling.” He scrambled to his feet. “You look absolutely ravishing. Hugh, you old stiff—this is Alice. Around her rotates the whole place; she is our sun, our moon, our stars. Without her we wilt; we die. Hugh; Alice.”

  “You blithering imbecile,” said the girl with a particularly charming smile. “Are you his keeper, Hugh?”

  Drummond grinned—that slow, lazy grin of his, which made so many people wonder why they had ever thought him ugly.

  “Lions I have shot, Alice; tigers, even field mice; but there is a limit to my powers. When this palsied worm joins his unfortunate fellow guests will you come and kipper with me?”

  “I’d love to,” she answered simply, and with a nod moved on.

  “I’m glad you did that, Hugh,” said Algy. “She’s an absolute topper, that girl. Name of Blackton. Father was a soldier.”

  “What’s she doing this job for?”

  “He lost all his money in some speculation. But you’ll really like her. There’s no nonsense about her, and she dances like an angel.” He lowered his voice. “No sign of C. B. so far.”

  “The night is yet young,” said Drummond. “And even if he does come I’m not likely to get anything out of him. It’s more the atmosphere of this place that I want, and sidelights from other people.”

  “Alice might help you there,” remarked Algy. “She’s been here since it opened. Hullo! here come my crowd. So long, old boy, and don’t forget if anything does emerge the bunch are in on it.”

  He drifted away and a smile twitched round Drummond’s
lips. How many times in the past had not the bunch been in on things? And they were all ready again if and when the necessity arose.

  If and when…The smile had gone, and he was conscious of a curious sensation. Suddenly the room seemed strangely unreal; the band, the women, the hum of conversation faded and died. In its place was a deserted cross-roads with the stench of death lying thick like a fetid pall. Against the darkening sky green pencil lines of light shot ceaselessly up, to turn into balls of fire as the flares lobbed softly into no-man’s-land. In the distance the mutter of artillery; the sudden staccato burst of a machine-gun. And in the ditch close by, a motionless figure in khaki, with chalk white face and glazed staring eyes, that seemed to be mutely asking why its legs should be lying two yards away being gnawed by rats.

  “A penny, Hugh.”

  With a start he glanced up; Alice was looking at him curiously.

  “For the moment I thought of other things,” he said quietly. “I was back across the water, Alice; back in the days of the madness. I almost seemed to be there in reality—it was so vivid. Funny, isn’t it, the tricks one’s mind plays?”

  “You seemed to me, Hugh, to be staring into the future—not into the past.” She sat down opposite him. “The world was on your shoulders and you found it heavy. This is the first time you’ve been here, isn’t it?” she continued lightly.

  “The future.” He stared at her gravely. “I wonder. However, a truce to this serious mood. Yes, it is the first time I’ve been here; I’ve been up in Scotland since it opened. And as such places go it seems good to me. I gather that one Charles Burton is behind it?”

  “Do you know the gentleman?” Her tone was non-committal, but he glanced at her quickly.

  “Very slightly,” he said. “You do, of course.”

  “Yes, I know him. He is in here most nights when he’s in London.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “My dear Hugh, girls in my position neither like nor dislike the great man. We exist by virtue of his tolerance.”

  Drummond studied her in silence.

  “Now what precisely do you mean?” he enquired at length.

  “Exactly what I say. Caesar holds the power of life or death. There is no appeal. If he says to me, ‘Go’—I go. And lose my job. Which reminds me that you’ll have to stand me a bottle of champagne for the good of the house. Sorry about it, but there you are.”

  Drummond beckoned to a waiter and glanced at the wine list.

  “Number 35. Now tell me, Alice,” he said when the man had gone, “do you like this job?”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, can they? And since secretaries are a drug on the market what is a poor girl to do?”

  “Does he expect you to—?”

  “Sleep with him?” She gave a short laugh. “So far, Hugh, I have not been honoured.”

  “And if you are?”

  “I can think of nothing I should detest more. I hate the swine.”

  “Steady, my dear.” For a moment he laid his hand on hers. “The’ swine’ has just arrived. And I don’t think you’ll be honoured this evening at any rate.”

  A sudden silence had fallen on the Golden Boot. Head waiters, waiters, under waiters were prostrating themselves at the door. And assuredly the woman who had entered with Charles Burton was sufficient cause. Tall, with a perfect figure, she stood for a moment regarding the room with an arrogance so superb, that its insolence was almost staggering. Her shimmering black velvet frock was skin-tight; she wore no jewels save one rope of magnificent pearls. Her eyes were blue and heavy lidded; her mouth a scarlet streak. And on one finger there glittered a priceless ruby.

  As if unconscious of the effect she had created she swept across the room behind the obsequious manager, whilst Charles Burton followed in leisurely fashion, stopping at different tables to speak to friends. At length he reached Drummond’s and the eyes of the two men met.

  “Surely…” began Burton doubtfully.

  “We met at a cocktail party, Mr. Burton,” said Drummond with a smile. “I trod on your foot and nearly broke it. Drummond is my name.”

  “Of course, I remember perfectly. Ah! good evening, Miss Blackton.” He gave the girl a perfunctory bow; then turned back to Drummond. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

  “For the very good reason that it is the first time I’ve been. I’ve only just got back from the north.”

  “Shooting?”

  “Yes. I was stalking in Sutherland.”

  “Well, now that you’ve been here once I hope you’ll come again. It’s my toy, you know.”

  With a nod he moved on, and Drummond watched him as he joined the woman. Then he became aware that a waiter was standing by him with a note.

  “From the gentleman with the eyeglass, sir.”

  He opened it, and saw a few words scrawled in pencil.

  “Charlie B. He make whoopee. But what about poor Molly C.”

  Drummond smiled and put the note in his pocket.

  “From the idiot boy,” he said. “Commenting on Mr. Burton’s girl friend.”

  “She’s an extraordinarily striking woman,” said Alice Blackton. “I wonder if he picked her up at Nice.”

  Drummond stared at her.

  “Did you say Nice?”

  “I did. He’s just come back from the Riviera, you know.”

  “Has he indeed? That is rather interesting.” She raised her eyebrows.

  “I’m glad you find it so. I’m afraid that Mr. Burton’s comings and goings leave me stone cold.”

  “Tell me, Alice, why do you hate him?”

  “Hate is perhaps too strong a word,” she said. “And yet I don’t know. I think it’s because I don’t trust him a yard. I don’t mean only over women, though that comes into it too. I wouldn’t trust him over anything. He’s completely and utterly unscrupulous.”

  “Are you speaking from definite knowledge, or is that merely your private opinion?”

  “If by definite knowledge you mean do I know that he’s ever robbed a church—then no. But you’ve only got to meet him in a subordinate capacity like I have, to get him taped.”

  She looked at Drummond curiously.

  “You seem very interested in him, Hugh.”

  “I am,” said Drummond frankly. “Though the last thing I want is that he should know it.”

  “You can be sure that I won’t pass it on. Why are you so interested, or is it a secret?”

  “I’m afraid it is, my dear. All I can tell you is that I’m very anxious to find out everything that I can about the gentleman. And though I can’t say why, your little piece of information about his having been on the Riviera recently, is of the greatest value. Do you know how long he was there for?”

  “I can tell you when he left England. It was exactly a fortnight ago, because he was in here the night before he flew over.”

  “I gather he always flies,” said Drummond.

  “He’s got his own machine,” remarked the girl. “And his own pilot.”

  “Did he go over in it this time?”

  “I suppose so. He always does.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” said Drummond. “I know,” he went on with a smile, “that this must seem very mysterious to you. Really, it isn’t a bit. But at the moment I just can’t tell you what it is all about. Your father was a soldier, wasn’t he?”

  “He was. Though how did you know?”

  “Algy told me. Now I can let you in to this much. It is the army that is interested in Mr. Burton. I tell you that, because I’m going to ask you to do something for me.”

  “What?” said the girl.

  “Keep an eye on him—that’s all, and let me know anything about his movements that you can find out, however seemingly trivial.”

  “My dear man, I can’t do much, I’m afraid.”

  “You never know,” said Drummond quietly. “As I’ve already told you, that piece of information about Nice is most valuable. Another thing. Not only his move
ments, but also the people he brings here. Now would it be possible to discover the name of that woman?”

  “Presumably he’s signed her in, but whether under her real name or not is another matter. I can find out if you like.”

  “Do—like an angel.”

  “All right. I’ll go and powder my nose.”

  A good wench, reflected Drummond as he watched her threading her way through the tables. Definitely an asset. And though probably ninety percent of what she could pass on would be valueless, the remaining ten might not. Witness the matter of Nice. True that would certainly have come out in the course of time—Burton’s visit there was clearly no secret. At the same time it was useful to have it presented free of charge, so to speak. But the really important thing was the installation in one of the enemy’s camps of a reliable friend.

  “O.K., baby?”

  Algy had strolled over to his table.

  “Very much so, old boy. A damned nice girl.”

  “That’s a bit of mother’s ruin our Charlie has got with him.”

  “Alice is just trying to find out who she is. Algy—Burton was at Nice, while Jimmy was at Cannes.” Algy whistled.

  “The devil he was. Have you told Alice anything about it?”

  “No. Safer not to at present. She doesn’t like him, Algy.”

  “None of the staff do, old lad. Alice—my life, my all—this revolting man hasn’t been making love to you, has he?”

  “Not so that you’d notice, Algy,” laughed the girl, sitting down. “She is a Madame Tomesco, Hugh.”

  “It has a Roumanian flavour,” said Drummond.

  “And mark you, boys and girls, I could do with a bit of Roumanian flavouring myself,” declared Algy. “I could do that woman a kindness; yes, I could. Well, au revoir, my sweets. If he plucks at his collar, Alice, its either passion or indigestion, or possibly both. You have been warned.”

  “Quite, quite mad,” said the girl. “But rather a dear. You must give me your address, Hugh, before you go, so that I can send along the doings.”

  He scribbled it down on a piece of paper and his telephone number.

  “Be careful, my dear,” he said gravely. “I have a feeling that if the gentleman got an inkling that you were spying on him he would not be amused. I’ll go further. If there is anything in what we suspect you’d be in grave danger.”