The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “I wonder if we’ll get anything out of this woman,” remarked Standish thoughtfully. “I shall be interested to see her reaction when she hears that Jimmy is dead. Who’s going to do the talking—you or I?”

  “You do it,” said Drummond. “You’re better at it than I am.”

  The door opened and the manager returned.

  “Madame will receive you, gentlemen. I have told her nothing save that you are two friends of Major Latimer. Will you come this way? Her rooms are an the same floor as yours.”

  The lounge was deserted as they crossed it to go to the lift, and Drummond glanced at his watch. It was just half-past eleven, and he was beginning to wish that the interview had been postponed till the following morning. They had started from Boulogne at five o’clock, and though each of them had had an occasional doze while the other drove, he was feeling distinctly weary. At the same time he was conscious of a little tingle of excitement; would they find out anything worth while, or would they draw blank?

  The manager knocked at the door, and a woman’s voice called “Entrez.”

  Madame Pélain was standing by a table in the centre of the room, with the fingers of one hand lightly resting on it. She had not yet removed her cloak, which was open, revealing her evening frock underneath. Her hair was dark and beautifully coiffured; her nails were red though not outrageously so. Attractive, decided Drummond; more attractive than pretty. But, emphatically, a charming woman to look at.

  As the manager introduced the two men she gave each of them a keen searching glance; then sinking gracefully into an easy chair she lit a cigarette.

  “Do smoke,” she said. “Monsieur Lidet tells me that you are friends of Major Latimer.”

  Her voice was musical; her English almost devoid of accent.

  “That is our excuse, Madame,” said Standish, “for intruding on you at this hour.”

  With a murmured apology the manager left the room, and she leaned forward in her chair.

  “You have a message for me from him?” she asked.

  “I fear, Madame,” answered Standish gravely, “that you must prepare yourself for a shock. Jimmy Latimer is dead.”

  She sat staring at him speechlessly, her cigarette half-way to her lips. And it was obvious to both men that the news had come as a complete shock to her.

  “Dead,” she stammered at length. “Mais c’est incroyable. How did he die, m’sieur?”

  Briefly Standish told her and she listened in silence. And when he had finished she still did not speak; she sat in a sort of frozen immobility with her eyes on the carpet. At length she drew a deep breath.

  “I wonder,” she whispered.

  “Yes, Madame?” said Standish quietly.

  “You think poor Jimmy was murdered?”

  “I think nothing, Madame. But something must have happened on Tuesday to make him change his plans so suddenly, and since you were with him all that day we think you might know what that something was.”

  For a space she stared at them without speaking.

  “How am I to know that you are what you profess to be?” she said at length. “How can I be sure that you are Major Latimer’s friends?”

  “I fear, Madame,” said Standish frankly, “that you can only take our word for it.”

  Once again she studied them thoughtfully; then, rising, she began to pace up and down the room.

  “I’ll trust you,” she said suddenly; “I will tell you all I know, though I fear it is not very much. On Tuesday Jimmy and I lunched Chez Paquay, a restaurant on the Corniche road between here and St. Raphael. Our table was laid in a covered balcony with no window. Almost was it a room from which the window had been removed, with a red brick wall along the side that faced the sea. Another table was laid, but it was empty, and so we had the place to ourselves.

  “Suddenly there came a gust of wind. The dust outside swirled in eddies; we gripped the tablecloth to save it blowing away, for it was fierce, that gust. And even as it died away two sheets of paper blew in and settled on the floor. Quite casually Jimmy bent down and picked them up. He glanced at them, and in an instant, m’sieurs, his face changed. To my amazement he crammed them in his pocket, and, even as he did so, we heard footsteps rushing down the stairs.

  “‘Not a word,’ said Jimmy to me.

  “The glass door was flung open, and a man dashed in.

  “‘Pardon,’ he cried, ‘but have you seen two pieces of paper? They blew out of my bedroom window in the wind and fluttered in here.’

  “Jimmy made a pretence of helping him to look.

  “‘I’m afraid they must have fluttered out again,’ he said. ‘What sort of size were they?’

  “‘The size of a piece of note-paper,’ answered the man, and he was staring hard at Jimmy. ‘And they did not flutter out again.’

  “‘Then they must still be here,’ said Jimmy indifferently.

  “He sat down and poured me out some more wine, whilst the man stood hovering by the other table in a state of the most obvious indecision. He was, of course, in a quandary. It was clear to me that the papers were important, otherwise Jimmy would not have acted as he had; it was clear also that the man was convinced that they had not blown away. But what was he to do? Twice he made a step forward as if to speak; twice he drew back. And then he made up his mind.

  “‘As a mere matter of form, sir,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you would mind turning out your pockets? The papers are of the utmost importance, and—’

  “‘What the devil do you mean, sir,’ remarked Jimmy, slowly getting up. ‘Your suggestion is the most monstrous piece of impertinence I have ever heard. Emphatically I will not turn out my pockets. Why, damn it, it’s tantamount to accusing me of having taken your two confounded pieces of paper! Get to hell out of it.’

  “And then the lobster arrived, and Jimmy resumed his seat, the picture of righteous indignation, while the man, with one last vindictive look at both of us, left the room.

  “‘Jimmy,’ I said, when we were once more alone, ‘that was very naughty of you. Why have you stolen the poor man’s papers?’”

  “He looked at me, and I had never seen him so serious.

  “‘I’ve only had one fleeting glimpse at them,’ he said, ‘and I don’t propose to do more than that here. But that glimpse was enough to make me wish I could steal all his other papers as well.’

  “And it was then, m’sieurs, he told me that he was in your Secret Service, and not, as I had thought, just an army officer en permission.”

  “Just one moment, Madame,” said Standish. “This man—was he English?”

  “No. He spoke it well, but with a strong accent.”

  “I see. Please go on, Madame, you are interesting as profoundly.”

  “We finished our lunch,” she continued, “but Jimmy was distrait. All the time I could see that he was itching to be gone so that he could examine the papers at his leisure. But he was far too clever to appear to he in a hurry.

  “‘When one comes,’ he said, ‘to a restaurant where the food is as famous as here, one takes one’s time. It is over little things like that, that mistakes are made. And mistakes in my trade are apt to be dangerous.’

  “So we had our coffee and liqueurs, and it was while we were drinking them that the man again came in, this time with a woman of most striking appearance. They took the other table, so that I had ample opportunity to study her. She was tall, slender, and very made-up, with an expression of insolent arrogance. But her expression did not ring true. It was a pose, a mask. The woman was bourgeoise.

  “They talked in French, but again that was not their native language. The man’s was better than his English; the woman’s very good. But they were neither of them French. I tried to listen, but could hear nothing of any interest. Just banalities on food and wine and the beauty of the coast.

  “When our bill was brought, the man came over to our table. I saw Jimmy stiffen, but this time it was only to apologise for his apparent rudeness. He again st
ressed the importance of the papers as his excuse, and there the matter ended, except that as we got into the car escorted by the patron Jimmy enquired their name. It was Pilofsky.”

  Madame Pélain paused and took a sip of Evian water.

  “On the way back,” she continued, “we examined the papers. The first was covered with writing in a foreign language which Jimmy told me was Russian. It was numbered three, and was evidently one of a series. I couldn’t read a word of it, and was more interested in the second which, at any rate, was intelligible. It was a map of England and Scotland in outline. Jimmy said it was what you would give to children to fill in the counties. On it were a large number of red dots; I should say thirty or forty. In some places they were closely grouped together; in others they were scattered. And against each dot was a number.

  “These numbers varied considerably. The lowest I saw was 50, the highest 2,500. But you will understand, m’sieurs, that it was difficult to read in the jolting car. However, one thing I did notice. It was in your manufacturing districts that the dots were close together, whereas in the agricultural areas they were few and far between.

  “I asked Jimmy what he made of it, and he shrugged his shoulders.

  “‘When I get back to the hotel,’ he said, ‘I’ll try and make a rough translation of this other document. I know a certain amount of Russian, and I may be able to get the gist of it.’

  “He left me the instant we got back, and went to his room, whilst I awaited him here. One hour passed, two—and then he came.”

  Once again she paused and the two men craned forward eagerly.

  “M’sieurs,” she said deliberately, “I have never seen anyone in such a state of suppressed excitement. He was like a man in a fever; he paced up and down the room like a maniac.

  “‘God!’ he exclaimed again and again, ‘if only I could get the rest of those papers.’

  “At length he calmed down a little, and threw himself into a chair.

  “‘A plot,’ he said, ‘the like of which out-Vernes Jules Verne himself. And I’m only on the fringe of it. Or is it the wild fantasy of a diseased brain?’

  “Once more he began pacing up and down, talking half to himself.

  “‘It’s possible…Given the organisation it’s possible…And the will to carry it through…Listen, Marie, I have made a rough translation of that paper. I cannot tell even you what it is; the whole thing is too gigantic—too incredible. It might put you in peril yourself. But I must leave for Paris tonight, and then return to England.’

  “Naturally,” she continued, “I was very disappointed, but I made no effort to dissuade him. To do so would have been wrong, for with a man duty must always come first. But I went with him to the station to see him off. And as he was stowing his baggage in the sleeper I happened to look along the train. Getting into another coach were the Pilofskys; there was no mistaking that woman even at a distance. So I told Jimmy, and his face became grave.

  “‘I wonder if that means he still suspects me,’ he said.

  “‘I don’t see how he can,’ I answered, though I was wondering the same thing myself.

  “And then just as the train was starting, he leant out of the window.

  “‘If by any chance something happens to me,’ he said, ‘will you remember one thing? Sealed fruit tins.’”

  “Sealed how much?” ejaculated Drummond incredulously.

  “Sealed fruit tins,” she repeated. “M’sieur, I was as amazed as you. I stared at him with my mouth open, almost wondering if he’d taken leave of his senses. And then the train steamed out, and I returned here. Which is all, messieurs, that I can tell you.” She sighed. “Poor Jimmy!”

  For a space there was silence, whilst Drummond stared at Standish, and Standish stared at Drummond. The same thought was in both their minds; was the woman trying to pull their legs? All the first part of her story had the genuine ring of truth; but the climax was so utterly bizarre, so apparently fatuous that it had acted like a douche of cold water.

  “You have no idea what he meant by this strange remark, Madame?” said Standish after a while.

  “Mais non, m’sieu,” she cried. “It was as incomprehensible to me then as it is to you now.”

  “There was no little joke that had arisen between you during your acquaintanceship that could account for it,” he persisted.

  “Monsieur Standish,” she said with a certain hauteur, “is this the moment I would choose to mention little jokes?”

  “I apologise, Madame. But you will, I am sure, agree that the remark seems so meaningless that I was trying to exhaust the possibilities of there being some commonplace explanation. But if there is none then it is quite certain that the words have a definite significance. And what that significance is, it must be our job to find out.”

  Madame Pélain lit a cigarette.

  “Both of you are also in the Secret Service?” she asked quietly.

  “Something of the sort,” admitted Standish with a smile.

  “Then you realise that it is tantamount to signing your death-warrant if you proceed.”

  “Our death-warrants have been signed so often in the past, Madame,” said Drummond cheerfully, “that we keep carbon copies to save trouble. As a matter of interest, however, why are you so very pessimistic?”

  She looked at him gravely.

  “If it was worth while murdering one man because he was in possession of certain information, it is worth while murdering two. And the fact that in reality you have not got that information won’t help you, if it becomes known that you have met me. So far as the other side is concerned, they have no idea what Jimmy told me. He might have told me everything, and I might have passed it on to you.”

  “That is true, Madame,” agreed Standish. “What alarms me, however, far more than that, is the possibility that you may be in danger.”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Fortunately, m’sieur, I am a fatalist. I don’t know if you have been out East; if so you will understand. Tid apa. Nothing matters. Jimmy was a dear; I liked him immensely. And if I can do anything to bring his murderer to book, you can count on me.”

  “Good for you, Madame,” cried Drummond approvingly. “At the same time, speaking on behalf of all my sex, please be careful.”

  She flashed him a swift smile.

  “Merci, m’sieu,” she murmured. “Vous êtes gentil. But what,” she continued, becoming practical again, “do you propose to do now?”

  “That requires a little thought,” said Standish. “At the moment, it doesn’t seem to me that there is much more to be found out here.”

  “I suppose, Madame,” put in Drummond suddenly, “that you have never met a man called Charles Burton on the Riviera? He was staying at Nice recently.”

  She shook her head.

  “I do not recall the name,” she said. “Burton; no. Do you know at what hotel he put up?”

  “I have no idea,” answered Drummond. “Though one should have no difficulty in finding that out. He is a gentleman of great wealth, who would certainly stop at one of the best.”

  “Is he involved in this matter?”

  “We do not know,” said Drummond. “We think that possibly he may be. He was at Nice while Jimmy was here.”

  “Jimmy never mentioned him to me.”

  “There was no reason why he should. I doubt if he even knew the man. Well, Ronald,” he went on, “I think we have kept Madame up quite long enough. What about a spot of bed?”

  The two men rose.

  “One minute before you go,” she said. “With regard to this Mr. Burton. There is a man in Nice—an Englishman—who has made it his headquarters for years. He is a strange character; very intelligent; very cultured; very cosmopolitan. But if anybody can give you information about any well-known visitor, he can. His name is Humphrey Gasdon, and he lives at the Negresco. If you like you can easily meet him.”

  “It must be done with great discretion, Madame,” said Standish. “The la
st thing we want is even a hint that Charles Burton is anything but what he professes to be.”

  “But why should there be any hint? Go, tomorrow, and lunch at the Negresco. Humphrey is invariably in the bar before lunch. Equally invariably does he talk to all and sundry whom he meets there. Mention that you come from this hotel in the most casual manner, and he will almost certainly ask if you know me…”

  “Which we don’t, Madame,” cut in Standish. “Don’t forget that. So far as is humanly possible we wish to keep you out of this. Tomorrow we meet as strangers.”

  He paused suddenly, staring at Drummond.

  “What is it, Hugh?”

  Moving with the silence of a cat, Drummond was crossing towards the door that led to Madame Pélain’s bedroom. Crouched double, he flung it open, and even as he did so, there came the sound of the door leading into the corridor being closed.

  He darted across the room, and opened it. The corridor was empty, but just opposite the splash of water proclaimed that someone was turning on a late bath.

  He returned to the sitting-room and his face was grave.

  “Too late for that pretence, Ronald,” he said. “Someone has been listening.”

  “Their espionage system is certainly efficient,” remarked Standish after a pause, watching Drummond who had gone to the sitting-room door and was peering out.

  “Still running the water,” he said. “This complicates matters,” he continued, coming back into the room.

  “It’s obviously a guest or an employee of the hotel,” said Standish thoughtfully. “Have you noticed anyone particularly these last two or three days, Madame?”

  She shook her head.

  “Because it is clearly you who are being watched. The same as in London, Hugh. They got on to us there through the Chief; they’ve got on to us here through Madame.”

  “But, m’sieur,” she cried, “have you no inkling at all as to who ‘they’ are?”

  “Not the faintest, Madame,” he answered. “But they are thorough in their methods, to put it mildly.”

  “In any case it simplifies one thing,” she said quietly. “Since they know you have met me I shall come with you openly to Nice tomorrow for lunch. I do not like being spied upon from my bedroom.”