The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Her eyes opened wide.

  “How perfectly thrilling! Promise you’ll tell me sometime what it’s all about?”

  “Thumbs crossed. Waiter, let me have my bill. I’ve put my name on the whisky; keep it for me for next time.”

  “Come again soon, Hugh,” said the girl.

  “I sure will. Good night, dear. I really am infernally sleepy.”

  The rain had ceased when he got outside, and refusing a taxi he started to walk to his flat. Though the Golden Boot was much better ventilated than the average night club, it was a relief to breathe fresh air again. The streets were wet and glistening in the glare of the arc lights; the pavements almost deserted. Every now and then some wretched woman appeared from seemingly nowhere, and it was while he was fumbling in his pocket for some money for one of them that his uncanny sixth sense began to assert itself.

  “Bless you! You’re a toff,” said the girl, but Drummond hardly heard her. He was staring back the way he had come. What was that man doing loitering about, some fifty yards away?

  He walked on two or three hundred yards; then on the pretext of doing up his shoe he stopped. The man was still there; he was being followed. With a puzzled frown he strode on; how in the name of all that was marvellous could he have incurred anybody’s suspicions?

  He decided to make sure, and to do so he employed the old ruse. He swung round the corner from Piccadilly into Bond Street; then he stopped dead in his tracks. And ten seconds later the man shot round too, only to halt, in his turn, as he saw Drummond.

  “Good evening,” said Drummond affably. “You are not, if I may say so, very expert at your game. Possibly you haven’t had much practice.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” muttered the other, and Drummond studied him curiously. He looked about thirty, and was decently dressed. His voice was refined; he might have been a bank clerk.

  “Why are you following me?” he asked quietly.

  “I don’t know what you mean. I’m not following you.”

  “Then why did you stop dead when you came round the corner and saw me? I fear that your powers of lying are about equivalent to your powers of tracking. Once again I wish to know why you are following me.”

  “I refuse to say,” said the man.

  “At any rate we advance,” said Drummond. “You no longer deny the soft impeachment. But as it’s confoundedly draughty here I suggest that we should stroll on together, chatting on this and that. And in case the point has escaped your notice, I will just remind you that I am a very much larger and more powerful man than you. And should the ghastly necessity of hitting you arise, it will probably be at least a week before you again take your morning Bengers.”

  “You dare to lay a hand on me,” blustered the man, “and I’ll…”

  “Yes,” said Drummond politely. “You’ll what? Call the police? Come on, little man; I would hold converse with you.”

  With a grip of iron he took the man’s right arm above the elbow, and turning back into Piccadilly he walked him along.

  “Who is employing you?”

  “I refuse to say. God! you’ll break my arm.”

  “Quite possibly.”

  And at that moment a policeman came round Dover Street just in front of them.

  “Officer,” cried the man. “Help!”

  For a moment Drummond’s grip relaxed, and like a rabbit going down a bolt-hole the man was across the road and racing down St. James’s Street.

  “What’s all this, sir?” said the constable as Drummond began to laugh.

  “A gentleman who has been following me, officer,” he said. “I’m afraid I was rather hurting him.”

  “Oh! I see, sir.”

  The constable looked at him significantly and winked. Then with a cheery “Good night, sir,” he resumed his beat.

  But the smile soon faded from Drummond’s face, and it was with a very grave expression that he walked on. He had only got down from Scotland that day, so under what conceivable circumstances could he be being followed? That it was added confirmation that the Chief was right was indubitable; it could not be anything else than the Jimmy Latimer affair. There was a literally nothing else that it could be. But how had they got on to him—Drummond? That was what completely defeated him. For one brief moment the possibility of Alice Blackton being a wrong ’un crossed his mind; then he dismissed it as absurd. What could be her object? She had his address; she knew his name, so what purpose would it serve to have him followed home? But if it was not her who could it be?

  He reached his house and produced his latch-key. The road was deserted; there was no sign of the man who had bolted so precipitately. But as he mixed himself a final night-cap he was still frowning thoughtfully. For he had suddenly realised that all the arguments that applied to Alice applied equally to Charles Burton. He, too, knew Drummond’s name, and even if he did not know the address he could easily find it in the telephone directory. So again what was the object in having him followed? And the problem was still unsolved when he met Standish lust before lunch next day.

  “There can be only one solution, Hugh,” said that worthy when Drummond had finished telling him. “They picked us up at the Chief’s flat. It was he who was being watched, and anybody who went to see him.”

  He sipped his sherry thoughtfully.

  “We ought to have been more careful,” he went on. “However, the mischief is done now, so it can’t be helped. You see we gave the club address to the taxi-driver, which made it easy to follow us here. Then you were shadowed to the Golden Boot; I was almost certainly traced to my flat. As a matter of fact there was a loafer hanging about to open the door of the taxi who could easily have heard the address. And, finally, your friend tried to follow you home.”

  “But if Burton is at the bottom of it, why worry about me? You, I can understand, but he knows me.”

  “True, old boy,” said Standish, “but he doesn’t know, or didn’t know then, that you were mixed up in the matter. Assuming for the moment that Burton is at the bottom of it, what happened, as I see it, is this. He issued orders for the Chief’s flat to be watched, and anything of interest to be reported to him today. So by this time he knows that I’ had an interview with the Colonel last night, and that a large man who left the Golden Boot in the early hours was also present at that interview. Which, I fear, points unerringly to you.”

  “There were a lot of people there, Ronald.”

  “Well, let’s hope for the best. But we mustn’t bank on it. We must play on the assumption that Burton knows we’re both in the game.”

  “You are definitely converted to the Chief’s theory.”

  “I am becoming more and more so. Would they have bothered to watch his flat if Jimmy’s death had been a natural one? No; the cumulative effect of all this evidence, to my mind, is that Jimmy was murdered. And if he was murdered there is a strong probability that Burton had something to do with it.”

  “I hope to Heaven I’ve not put that girl in any danger,” said Drummond in a worried voice.

  “Drop her a line and tell her to watch her step.”

  “And this Tomesco woman means nothing in your life?”

  “Not a thing. But a name is a matter of small moment.”

  “Did you find out anything this morning?” asked Drummond.

  “Merely additional confirmation that there doesn’t seem to be anything to find out. Which in itself is suspicious. He has an office in Fenchurch Street with a small staff. Frequently for days on end he is not there. He doesn’t appear to have many clients, and nobody seems to know exactly what his business actually is. One line, apparently, consists of considerable speculation in foreign currencies.”

  A page boy came up with a letter on a salver.

  “From the Chief,” said Standish quietly. “Let’s see what he’s got to say.”

  He read the letter through; then handed it to Drummond.

  “DEAR RONALD” [it ran],

  “I have been
in touch with manager of the Metropole at Cannes. Jimmy died (?) on Wednesday night; he left the hotel most unexpectedly on the Tuesday and caught the Paris express. It came as a complete surprise to the manager as, only that very morning, he had booked his room for another week.

  “That was all I could get over the phone, Evidently something happened on Tuesday which caused this sudden change of plan. But there is another peculiar feature, He must have arrived in Paris early on Wednesday morning. Why did he not cross earlier, or fly over? What was he doing in Paris all that time? And if the matter was not so very urgent why didn’t he wait till Thursday and cross in comfort?

  “I can’t help thinking that one or both of you should go to Cannes, and see if you can pick up any threads there. Possibly also a few discreet enquiries at the Hotel Crillon might help.

  “Yours,

  “HENRY TALBOT.

  “PS. Am sending this from my club. I shall be here for the next hour.”

  “I agree,” said Drummond. “And since we know we’ve been shadowed, the objection to our being seen together no longer exists. I suggest that we both go.”

  “O.K. by me,” answered Standish, “just one moment, old boy; I’m going to drop a line to the Chief. Then we’ll discuss plans.”

  He went to a writing-desk, whilst Drummond lit a cigarette and ordered another glass of sherry. Undoubtedly the Chief was right; they were at a dead end here in London. And in Cannes they might stumble on something.

  “Read what I’ve said, Hugh. I’ll send it round by hand to his club.”

  “DEAR COLONEL,

  “We will both go as you suggest. Do you know that Burton was in Nice while Jimmy was at Cannes?

  “Your flat is being watched; we were both shadowed last night when we left you. Hugh caught his sportsman who admitted the fact. This looks to me to be strong confirmation of your theory that Jimmy was murdered.

  “Have you a line on a Madame Tomesco? She was with Burton last night, and according to Hugh she knocked even the habitués of the Golden Boot—which is financed by Burton—quite flat.

  “Yours sincerely,

  “RONALD STANDISH.”

  “PS. The messenger will wait for an answer.”

  It came in five minutes, scribbled characteristically On the back of the note itself.

  “Good. Was he, now? That’s interesting.

  “I’m not surprised. But if it continues they will be! Of course he was murdered.

  “Afraid not. Will make enquiries.

  “H. T.”

  “How shall we go?” said Standish as they sat down to lunch.

  “Since there are no papers or triptyques required for France, I suggest we go by car,” remarked Drummond. “It takes a little longer, I know, but once we’re there it gives us much more freedom. Shall we do Paris before or after Cannes?”

  “After,” said Standish decidedly. “Let’s begin at the beginning if we can, and work forward.”

  “And when shall we cross?”

  “As soon as possible. What about the four-thirty service via Folkestone? The boat leaves at six-thirty. We can be alongside by a quarter to six.”

  “On our heads,” said Drummond. “What’s the distance from Boulogne to Cannes?”

  “Seven hundred miles odd.”

  “We can do that tomorrow driving turn and turn about if we start early.”

  “Right. All settled. And I for one, old boy, am taking a gun.”

  “You stagger me,” grinned Drummond, as he inspected the Stilton. “Personally, I think a piece of this would be just as efficacious.”

  CHAPTER III

  Midnight Interview

  The lounge in the Metropole was full of middle-aged women knitting incomprehensible garments when they arrived there at ten o’clock the following night.

  “What a galaxy!” muttered Drummond. “I wonder why Jimmy stopped here.”

  “I shouldn’t think he was in much,” laughed Standish.

  They were standing by the concierge’s desk registering. The management had been enchanted to give them rooms on the third floor facing the sea, and as they signed their names, the manager himself approached with the air of a high priest.

  “You are staying long, gentlemen?” he enquired.

  “Probably three or four days,” said Standish.

  The manager sighed. Extras were his life, and these two Englishmen did not look of the type who made a small bottle of vin ordinaire last a week, like most of his visitors.

  “I wonder if we could have a little private talk in your office,” continued Standish. “Perhaps you will join us in a bottle of wine, and we could have it sent in there.”

  “But certainly,” cried the Frenchman. “Henri! la carte des vins. Messieurs; vous permettez? Une bouteille de dix neuf, et trois verres. Au bureau. Follow me, gentlemen.”

  He led the way along a passage, and opening a frosted glass door, he gave a brief order to a girl who was immersed in a vast ledger. She left the room, and, having sat down at his desk, the manager waved Drummond and Standish to two chairs.

  “Now, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

  “You have recently had staying here, m’sieur,” said Standish, “an English officer called Latimer—Major Latimer.”

  The Frenchman nodded.

  “I had guessed, gentlemen, that that was your business. Only yesterday I was on the telephone to London about him.”

  “You know, of course, that he is dead.”

  “Dead!” The manager sat up with an amazed jerk. “Dead! Ce n’ est pas possible. How did he die?”

  “We can rely on your discretion, m’sieur?”

  A superb gesture indicated that they could.

  “Major Latimer was found dead in his cabin in the Dieppe-Newhaven boat on Wednesday night. And we are not quite sure what caused his death. On the face of it, it appears to have been natural, but he was a singularly healthy man. We know that he was in possession of certain information which he was bringing back to England, and we are very anxious to find out what that information was. Now, in view of what you said over the telephone to London we cannot help thinking that his abrupt departure from this hotel has some vital bearing on the case. What we, therefore, would like to find out is what Major Latimer’s movements were on Tuesday last, after he had renewed his room for another week. Because it seems clear that it must have been then, that whatever it was took place.”

  The waiter paused in the act of pouring out the wine.

  “Pardon, m’sieu. Vous dites mardi? M’sieur le majeur a accompagné Madame Pélain en auto. Ils sont sortis à onze heures.”

  “Merci, Henri.”

  He dismissed the man, and himself handed the wine to his guests.

  “Gentlemen,” he cried, “I go—how do you say it—wool gathering. One must be of a discretion, naturellement, but since the poor fellow is dead one may be permitted to speak. As you will understand, most things in an hotel like this come to my ear sooner or later, and it would not be an exaggeration to say that the major and Madame Pélain saw much of each other during his stay here. He seemed to prefer her company to that of the other charming ladies whom you saw in the lounge as you passed through.”

  His mouth twitched behind his moustache, and with one accord Drummond and Standish burst out laughing.

  “Precisely, messieurs,” continued the manager, laughing himself. “In fact, though perhaps I should not say it, if Madame had not been here, I fear your poor friend would not have remained. It was reported to me by Henri that at dinner the first night he did nothing but call ceaselessly upon the good God to deliver him.”

  “Do we understand,” said Standish, “that Madame Pekin is still in your hotel?”

  “Mais oui, m’sieu. It is for that I say I go wool gathering. For it is she who can tell you far more than I. But almost certainly will she be at the casino now. It will be a great shock to her. I will swear that she has no idea that he is dead.”

  He lit a cigarette and looked curiously
at the two men.

  “Is it permitted to ask, gentlemen, what it is that you think has happened? Is it that you fear he was the victim of foul play?”

  “You have struck it, m’sieur,” said Drummond. “We think it more than possible that he was murdered.”

  “Mon Dieu! c’est terrible.”

  “But please keep that to yourself,” said Standish. “All that has appeared in the papers is that he died in his sleep on board the boat. Have you any idea when Madame is likely to return?”

  The manager shrugged his shoulders.

  “A minuit, peut-être. You would wish to talk to her tonight?”

  “The sooner the better, Hugh, don’t you think?”

  “Certainly. Unless she is too tired. Tell me, m’sieur, of what—er—type is Madame?”

  “Très chic; très élégante.”

  “Is there a Monsieur Pélain?”

  “I understand Monsieur Pélain resides in Paris,” said the manager diplomatically.

  “And you think we can rely on anything she may tell us?”

  Once again the manager shrugged his shoulders.

  “If I knew enough about women, m’sieur, to be able to tell that concerning any member of their sex, I would be President of France. She has a sitting-room; if she consents to receive you—as I am sure she will—you must judge for yourselves. You are not, are you, from Scotland Yard?”

  “No. We are just two friends of Major Latimer’s.”

  “And what would you wish me to tell Madame? That he is dead?”

  “No,” said Standish decidedly. “Just that we are two friends. And please impress upon her that if she is at all tired we would much prefer to wait till tomorrow morning.”

  A telephone rang on the desk, and the manager picked up the receiver.

  “Certainement, Madame. Tout de suite. Madame has returned,” he went on as he replaced the instrument. “She orders Evian. I will go to her at once and enquire if she will receive you.”

  “A nice little man,” said Drummond as the door dosed behind him. “Very helpful and obliging.”