The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  She rose and held out her hand.

  “Good night, messieurs. You must assuredly be tired after your long run.”

  With a nod and a charming smile she dismissed them, and for a moment or two they stood talking in low tones outside her door. The bath was still occupied and Drummond eyed the door longingly.

  “I would greatly like to see the occupant,” he muttered.

  “So would I,” agreed Standish. “What do you make of her, Hugh?”

  “Genuine,” said Drummond promptly. “I believe every word she said. I hope to Heaven she’s in no danger.”

  “She is sure to lock her door,” answered Standish. “Anyway, old boy, I’m practically asleep as it is. We’ll make discreet enquiries from Monsieur Lidet tomorrow, and see if we can get a line on the listener. Night-night.”

  He opened his door, and Drummond went on to his own room, where he unpacked his bag. Then he undressed and got into bed, to find that all desire for sleep had left him. Light was streaming into his room through a frosted glass window over the door, and he grew more and more wide awake. And then the light went out; save for a faint glimmer from a street lamp outside, the room was in darkness.

  From across the road came the low murmur of the sea; except for that the night was silent as the tomb. Occasionally the leaves of an acacia tree outside his window rustled in a fitful eddy of wind, and once a belated motor passed the hotel at speed. Cannes slept; at length he began to feel drowsy himself.

  Suddenly he sat up in bed; a dim, flickering light was illuminating the glass above the door. It moved jerkily, increasing in power; then it died away again, and in a flash Drummond was putting on his dressing-gown. Somebody was moving in the passage outside carrying a torch or a candle.

  He crossed to the door, and with infinite care he opened it and peered out. And what he saw made him draw in his breath sharply. Some way along the corridor a circle of light was shining on a keyhole—a keyhole into which a hand was inserting a key. And the keyhole was that of Madame Pélain’s bedroom.

  Not for an instant did he hesitate. The possibility of his appearance on the scene proving embarrassing he dismissed as absurd; if Madame was entertaining anyone she would hardly expect him to pick the lock. And so it transpired that the owner of the hand, though blissfully unconscious of the fact, had behind him, two seconds later, a foe more dangerous far than anything he had ever imagined in his wildest dreams.

  At length the key turned, and inch by inch the hand pushed the door open. Then the torch illuminated the bed, and there came a sigh of relief. Madame, breathing a trifle heavily, was fast asleep.

  The torch moved forward; still she did not stir, even when it halted by the bed. And then things happened quickly. For the hand that had held the key now held a stiletto, and even as it was raised to strike, a scream like a rabbit caught by a stoat, came from its owner’s throat.

  The dagger and torch dropped from nerveless fingers and still Madame slept. Came a crack and a howl of agony, and the room was flooded with light. And the owner of the hand, the arm of which was now broken, stared fascinated at the terror which had come on him out of the night—a terror which had just been joined by a companion.

  “I heard the commotion, Hugh,” said Standish. “What’s the trouble?”

  “Attempted murder,” answered Drummond, picking up an empty tumbler from beside the bed and sniffing it. “Drugged,” he said laconically.

  “Who is this little swine?”

  “The would-be murderer. I’ve just broken his arm. Well, you rat, who and what are you?”

  The man scowled and said nothing.

  “Ring the bell, Ronald,” said Drummond. “Presumably there’s a night porter about. We must get Lidet up.”

  At length a sleepy-eyed individual came padding along the corridor in carpet slippers, and he was promptly despatched to rouse the manager. Fortunately no one else seemed to have been awakened by the noise, and when Monsieur Lidet arrived a few minutes later he found the two Englishmen leaning up against the door smoking.

  “I fear, monsieur,” said Drummond, with a smile, “that we are rather stormy petrels.”

  “But what has happened?” cried the little man.

  “That engaging feller over there endeavoured to murder Madame Pélain, having previously drugged her, with the stiletto you see on the floor.”

  “Murder Madame,” stammered the manager. “But it is Louis—one of the floor waiters.”

  “Nice pleasant manners he’s got,” said Drummond. “Very suitable for bringing one’s breakfast.”

  “You vile scoundrel,” cried Monsieur Lidet in a frenzy. “Have you nothing to say?”

  “I should think he’s got a lot,” remarked Drummond. “But he doesn’t seem to want to say it.”

  “Villain, dastardly villain.” The manager was almost beside himself with rage. “What did you want to murder Madame for?”

  The man shook his head sullenly, and then a groan burst from his lips.

  “I broke his arm for him,” explained Drummond. “Well, m’sieur, I suggest that you send for the police. Perhaps they will loosen his tongue. And since Madame may wake at any moment, I suggest also that we await their arrival somewhere else. It might embarrass her to find cohorts of men in the room.” They went down to the lounge, where he turned to the waiter. “And if you try to bolt, you scum, I’ll break your other arm.”

  But there was no fight left in the would-be murderer; he sat dejectedly in a chair with his eyes fixed on the ground awaiting the gendarmes.

  “What do you make of it, Ronald?” said Drummond in a low voice.

  “It’s clear that the motive was not robbery,” answered Standish. “Having drugged her, there was no need to murder her if that was the case. I’m inclined to think, old boy, that it was an attempt to kill two birds with one stone.”

  “You mean—”

  “I mean that if Madame Pélain had been found dead when she was called tomorrow morning, you and I would have been in a very awkward position. We were the last people to be with her; our arrival at the hotel and our whole interview with her was unusual. And I think we should have found ourselves very seriously inconvenienced by enquiries.”

  “I’m afraid we still shall,” said Drummond.

  “Not if we can persuade Lidet to keep his mouth shut. There is no doubt, of course, that it was Louis you heard in her bedroom, and there is no doubt that it is our arrival here and our interview with her that has caused the whole thing. But I don’t see why we should tell the police all that—at any rate, at present.”

  “He may speak.” Drummond jerked his thumb at the waiter.

  “On the other hand he may not. If, as seems fairly obvious, we are up against some powerful organisation, he may be frightened to tell the truth. Here is Lidet.”

  “The police are coming at once,” said the manager as he joined them. “It is a terrible thing this, gentlemen.”

  “It might have been very much worse, m’sieur,” answered Standish. “Thanks to Captain Drummond no harm has actually been done. Which brings me to a request I am going to make to you. Had Madame Pélain been murdered it would, of course, have been impossible to keep back anything. But since she is unharmed I am going to ask you not to mention what we told you last night about Major Latimer.”

  “You think there is a connection between the two things?”

  “Undoubtedly. Otherwise the coincidence would be too incredible. We are moving in deep waters, M’sieur Lidet; how deep neither Captain Drummond nor I have at present any idea. But it will seriously hinder our enquiries if what we have told you is made public.”

  The manager looked doubtful.

  “But is it fair to Madame?”

  “Let us leave that until Madame can answer the question herself,” suggested Standish.

  “What then will you say?”

  “The truth—so far as it goes. That Captain Drummond being wakeful, heard a sound in the corridor and looked out of his room. He saw Ma
dame’s door being opened, and fearing foul play he dashed along just in time to avert a brutal crime. Believe me, m’sieur,” he continued earnestly, “there is much at stake. We are only on the fringe of things at the moment, and it is vital that we should remain free to carry on our investigations. As I said to Captain Drummond, I am sure that one object of the attempted crime was to incriminate us. Had it succeeded he and I would have been in a nasty hole. And that is why I don’t want a word said which will enlarge the scope of the police enquiry. Let it remain what it appears to be on the surface—an inexplicable attempt at murder.”

  “Very good, gentlemen,” said the manager. “I will do as you ask. But only on the condition that Madame, when she recovers from the effect of the drug, must be consulted.”

  “Certainly,” answered Standish. “I quite agree with you. And now,” he continued to Drummond as the manager went forward to greet the police who had just arrived, “all we can hope for is that that little worm of a waiter keeps his mouth shut.”

  Which was precisely what he did do. No amount of cross-questioning—an art at which the French police are adept—had the smallest effect. He maintained an air of sullen silence, which even threats could not shake. And at length he was removed in custody by the two gendarmes, while the sergeant remained behind at the hotel to make a search through his belongings. This, too, proved abortive; nothing of the smallest interest was discovered. In fact the only information of any value came from the head waiter who had been fetched from his bed. According to him the man, Louis Fromac was a good and reliable waiter in every way: he would have to be so in order to be promoted to a floor, which was always regarded as a prize. But, though he never talked of such things in the hotel, he spent most of his leisure in a small inn, situated in the old part of the town, which was the headquarters of a revolutionary club. So far as he knew the members did no harm; they drank much wine and talked interminably.

  “I, too, know that club,” said the sergeant. “It is the headquarters of the Communists in Cannes.” He shrugged his shoulders. “They shout at one another without waiting for an answer, and think they are rebuilding the world. No, gentlemen, the more I think of it the more do I believe that this is one of those strange sex crimes of which one hears from time to time. It is more a matter for a doctor than for the police. But I will return tomorrow morning when Madame is recovered, and see if perchance she can throw any light on his motive.”

  He bowed to the three men, and left the hotel.

  “His theory suits us, Hugh,” said Standish as they walked up the stairs. “And the one thing we’ve got to do is to get Madame’s ear before the worthy sergeant does his stuff.”

  “Anything in this Communist business?” remarked Drummond thoughtfully.

  “It seems to me to be the one ray in the darkness,” said Standish. “Though what the links are between Charles Burton, millionaire, and Louis Fromac, waiter, is a bit obscure.”

  “Think so, Ronald? I don’t. The links are two sleepy Englishmen, one of whom, at any rate, is now going to bed. Night-night.”

  CHAPTER IV

  FAIR WARNING

  Their luck was in next day. It seemed to Drummond that his head had only touched the pillow when he was awakened by a waiter with a note. It was from Madame Pélain.

  “Please come to my sitting-room at once.”

  The sun was pouring in at the window as he shaved rapidly, and then scrambled into his clothes. And as he stepped into the corridor he ran into Standish evidently bound on the same errand.

  Madame was in a peignoir, and though pale she was completely self-possessed.

  “There is no time to lose,” she began at once. “The sergeant of police is waiting below to see me. I have heard what has happened from Monsieur Lidet; I have heard, Captain Drummond, that I owe you my life. But the immediate point is, what am I to say to the sergeant? Lidet has told me the line you took up last night; is that what you want me to stick to?”

  “It is, Madame,” said Standish promptly.

  The telephone jangled on the table, and she picked up the receiver.

  “En cinq minutes,” she said.

  “You wish me to profess complete ignorance as to the reason of this waiter’s action?

  “Please, Madame.”

  “It was, of course, connected with Jimmy’s death and our interview last night.”

  “I see no other possibility,” said Standish. “But with all due deference to the worthy sergeant, I think we are more likely to progress if he knows nothing about it.”

  “Very good, messieurs. I will do as you say. It will be well now if you return to your rooms. We must not let the sergeant think that we have been arranging things. Come back in half an hour.”

  They bowed and left her.

  “A worth-while ally, Ronald,” said Drummond. “I liked that prompt, unquestioning acquiescence. Come and bite a roll in my room.”

  Standish poured himself out a cup of coffee and strolled over to the window.

  “Worth while she may be, old boy,” he agreed, “but it complicates matters. I don’t quite know what we’re going to do about her. There are other Louis Fromacs, and next time you may not be awake.”

  “You think they’ll have another dip at her?”

  “We dare not risk them not doing so. Though everything depends, of course, on the motive behind the attempt on her life. If it was merely to involve us with the police, and keep us tied by the heels here for some days, then she would be safe the instant we leave Cannes. But if there was any question of revenge in the matter, or if they have decided that she knows too much, she won’t be safe wherever we are.”

  “If it was a question of her knowing too much, why did they wait to strike? They could have doped her two nights ago.”

  “That’s perfectly true.” Standish lit a cigarette. “And yet there is a certain Machiavellian cunning in getting at us through her which I should have said was a bit above a waiter’s form.”

  “But, my dear fellow, Fromac is very small beer. He was only carrying out instructions.”

  “When did he get ’em? No one knew we were coming here till we arrived.”

  “Not you and I personally, I grant you. But they must have guessed that somebody would arrive here to pump the lady. At any rate they took precautions in case anybody did come. If they were wrong, and no one came, then she was safe. There was no point in murdering her unnecessarily. What is more,” continued Drummond, “it seems to me that there is no object in murdering her at all now. So far as they know we two are in possession of all the dope, so that getting her out of the way is merely bolting the stable door after the horse has hopped it. It’s you and I, old son, who will have to watch our step.”

  “That’s nothing new,” said Standish with a grin. “I wonder who this man Gasdon is she wants us to meet,” he went on thoughtfully.

  “What I wonder a darned sight more,” remarked Drummond, “is what poor old Jimmy meant by sealed fruit tins.”

  There came a knock at the door, and Monsieur Lidet entered.

  “None the worse, I trust, gentlemen,” he asked solicitously, “for your disturbed night?”

  “Not a bit, thank you,” answered Drummond.

  “Since the matter was bound to come out, I have let it be understood that the whole thing was an attempt on Madame’s jewels,” continued the manager. “It is as good a story as any other and it will satisfy the visitors. By the way, the sergeant is interrogating Madame now.”

  “We have already seen Madame,” said Standish. “She has agreed to follow our suggestion as to what she tells him.”

  “Then the condition I made is fulfilled, gentlemen. And as for me, my lips are sealed. But I confess to an overwhelming curiosity.”

  “Which I can assure you we would gratify if we knew the answer ourselves,” said Standish frankly. “But we are every bit as much in the dark as you are. There is, perhaps, one thing you could do for us,” he added as an afterthought. “A Mr. Charles Burton was
stopping at Nice about a week or ten days ago. Could you find out at what hotel he was staying and when he left? He is a man of considerable wealth, and so it would probably be one of the biggest.”

  “I will do so at once,” cried Monsieur Lidet. “I have below the listes des etrangers of the past month.”

  He bustled out of the room, and a few moments later the telephone rang. Drummond answered it.

  “Thank you, m’sieur,” he said when the voice ceased. “That is just what we wanted to know.”

  He replaced the receiver.

  “Burton stayed at the Ruhl for the inside of a fortnight,” he said. “He left last Friday.”

  “Before the Pilofsky episode at Chez Paquay.”

  “Exactly. Before that episode. It is, therefore, clear that Burton’s departure was quite unconnected with Jimmy getting those papers.”

  “So that if Burton murdered him it was because of what he learned from Pilofsky.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Drummond. “Pilofsky followed Jimmy to Paris, and there told Burton what had happened. My hat! old man, those papers must have been important. Remember Pilofsky had no proof that Jimmy had got them. And yet the bare chance of his having them was enough for murder.”

  “Jimmy’s sudden change of plan was suspicious. Pilofsky would have had no difficulty in tracing him to this hotel. He could have made enquiries from the driver of the car the instant he first suspected anything at Chez Paquay. Then it was easy money to discover that Jimmy, after taking on his room that very morning, had suddenly decided to leave. And a bloke who’s running round with a delightful woman like Madame Pélain doesn’t do that without a mighty good reason.”

  Once again the telephone rang; this time it was the lady herself to say that the police had gone and that she would like to see them.

  “First and foremost,” she said as they entered her sitting-room, “I want to thank you, Captain Drummond, for what you did.”

  “It was nothing, Madame,” said Drummond lightly. “The astounding piece of luck was that I happened to be awake, in view of how infernally sleepy I’d felt a bit earlier on.”