The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

“It would seem,” said Drummond quietly, “that when we get back to England there will be several scores to settle.”

  “When,” remarked Standish with a short laugh. “We’ve been in many tight corners before, old boy, but we’ve never been in such danger as we are at the present moment seated in this bar. There is an efficient ruthlessness about our opponents that I find most refreshing. And it piles proof upon proof that the issue is big.

  “You’re right there, by Jove!” Drummond’s jaw was sticking out. “So much the better. For after this”—he tapped the paper—”it’s war to the knife. No quarter given and none asked.”

  “That’ll be grand when we’re in a position to give it,” said Standish grimly. “Just at the moment I’m afraid the mouse has to be rather tight before he says it to the cat. Everything depends on whether we can do a get-away from here. And it’s not going to be so easy as those swine found it at Marble Arch.”

  The bar gradually filled, but of Gasdon there was no sign. Menalin—if it was Menalin—and the woman had gone shortly after the episode of the paper, but they neither of them felt any the easier for that. They were marked men, and they knew it. There was not the remotest chance of their leaving the hotel unnoticed.

  At last they saw Gasdon coming towards them, and he looked worried.

  “Madame Pélain is safe,” he said as he sat down. “I am tolerably certain we were not followed. But she rang up Lidet while I was there. And the police have been round asking for you two, over last night’s effort. At my instigation she said you were both returning to the Metropole for dinner, but that she did not know where you were at the moment. Now it is essential that you should not go back. There will be delays; possibly engineered delays…”

  “Not possibly, but certainly,” said Standish. “Read that.”

  “Good God!” said Gasdon as he put the paper down.

  “Worse still,” continued Standish, and told him of the woman and her companion.

  “That’s Menalin right enough,” said Gasdon. “And he’ll fix the police. You’ll be kept there hanging about till there is a suitable opportunity to murder you.”

  “The only chance,” said Drummond, “is to walk calmly out of the hotel as if we were going back to Cannes—all three of us. We can talk as we go for the benefit of anyone in the hall. And it is just possible that if they think we are going to Cannes they will not bother to follow us.”

  “I doubt it.” Gasdon shook his head. “But it’s the only thing to try. And at once. If that was Menalin, and from your description I’m sure it was, it is more than likely that he will put a call through to the police to say you’re here. And if that happens you’re done. Come on. We’ve got to make plans as we go.”

  They rose and strolled into the hall, and a man studying some travel brochures drew slightly nearer.

  “Let’s go back to the Metropole now and order the dinner,” said Drummond. “Though personally I would sooner feed at the Reserve at Beaulieu.”

  “Too far afterwards, old boy,” objected Gasdon. “It’s only a step to the Casino from the Metropole.”

  “All right, have it your own way,” said Drummond languidly. “En voiture.”

  They sauntered outside, three care-free Englishmen, and got into the car. And the brochure studier sauntered also, at the same time giving the faintest perceptible nod to two men in a low-bodied, powerful racing car whose bonnet was almost touching the tail of Drummond’s car.

  “Actual performers are poor,” drawled Drummond.

  “That nod was quite unnecessary and settles things. We have equerries in attendance.”

  He was fumbling in the cubby-hole in front of him as he spoke.

  “Stupid of me, Ronald,” he cried. “I never put a lashing on that luggage grid. Do you remember how it rattled like hell?”

  “Hardly could hear yourself speak, old boy,” agreed Standish, lighting a cigarette, and watching Drummond out of the corner of his eye as he got out of the car.

  The brochure studier had disappeared; the light was failing, and Gasdon was fidgeting.

  “What the devil does it matter about the luggage grid?” he muttered. “Every second is precious.”

  “My dear Gasdon,” said Standish quietly, “you can take it from me that there is generally a reason for everything that Drummond does. In due course you will find that out for yourself—perhaps sooner than you think. There was no squeak in the luggage grid.”

  Gasdon’s lips twitched into a grin.

  “I’m beginning to like you two blokes,” he remarked. “You’re going to wake me up. I was getting fat and lazy.”

  “Lucky they were so close to us,” said Drummond, getting back into the car. “And now, my loved ones, hey—nonnie—no, for the great open spaces.”

  “What on earth have you been doing?” asked Gasdon curiously as Drummond let in the clutch.

  “Adjusting my maiden’s helps,” answered Drummond. “Never known to fail. Entirely my own invention. If the little pretty wants to escape with boy friend from parents in attendant car so that she may daily awhile in leafy glades, she puts one of these under the front wheel of said parents’ car after lunch. The most infallible puncture producer of this or any other age. I am never without ’em.”

  Gasdon was shaking helplessly as he looked at the maiden’s help. It consisted of a very sharp three-inch nail which, instead of possessing the usual head, was fitted with a small triangular stand so that the nail would stand upright in the road.

  “Placed so that the point of the nail just touches the tyre,” explained Drummond, “and it’s through Pop’s reinforced Dunlop before the old boy has begun to digest the salmon mayonnaise. What’s happened to our escort?”

  “They’re about a hundred yards behind us,” said Standish. “Yes…yes…O.K., boy. They’re pulling up. They’re out. By Jove! they’ve got two punctures. Both front wheels…”

  “Excellent,” remarked Drummond calmly. “And they have only one spare. It would, I feel, be vulgar to wave. Now what’s the plan; to Cannes or not to Cannes?”

  “I think not,” said Gasdon, grown serious again. “We could, of course, go by the Rue d’Antibes, miss the hotel, and head for Brignoles. But if they do warn the police to stop the car that route will be watched for an absolute certainty. And we’ve got to run the gauntlet of every gendarme between here and Cannes. Our best hope is Grasse. Swing right-handed when we get to Cagnes golf course.”

  “Your slightest word is law, dear boy,” said Drummond. “You know this country a deuced sight better than we do, so we are in your hands. The car, I am glad to say, is fast.”

  “Very fast,” agreed Gasdon. “The trouble is that there is something which is a damned sight faster—the telephone. Drummond, we’ve got to abandon car mighty soon, I’m afraid. I know of a by-road by which we can skirt round Grasse, but after that the trouble begins. We get up into the mountains, and roads are few and far between.”

  “What do you suggest?” asked Drummond. “As I said, you know the geography.”

  “We’ve got to concentrate, chaps, on getting out of France. Now let us assume the worst. When it is discovered that we have bolted, the first thing the police will do is to issue a general warning to look out for the car. Therefore, as we have already agreed, the car must be abandoned, though possibly it might be safe to drive through tonight.”

  “I doubt it,” said Standish, “but go on.”

  “What is the next thing the police will do? They know our names, and when no information of the car comes to hand, they will assume we have taken to the railway. Which is what, incidentally, I suggest we should do at the earliest possible moment. And here comes the vital difference between our cases. Whatever Menalin and Co. may think of me, the police don’t want me. You two are all that count in their young lives. And so I propose that we separate. I’ll go to Paris and cross to England in the ordinary way, but what are you going to do? Let’s work it out. Every railway frontier will be watched for you two by name
. It is just possible, and it seems to me to be your only hope, that the road frontiers will be watched for by car.”

  “My God!” cried Drummond, “you don’t suggest we should walk across France, do you?”

  Gasdon laughed.

  “Not quite. I suggest that we should all make for the Grenoble line. That I should go to Paris, and that you should make for Geneva. Go to Aix-les-Bains. There hire a car and drive to Evian on the Lake Geneva, where you can pick up one of the steamers. And once you’ve done that you’re in the straight run home.”

  “It sounds feasible,” said Standish. “The only drawback to my mind is that if we are caught, such a very elaborate scheme makes us look infernally guilty.”

  “You’ll have to chance that,” answered Gasdon. “Don’t forget you can always tell the police the real reason for what you’ve done.”

  “That’s so. Just now, however, the pressing need is the immediate future. It is almost dark, and, I take it, that’s Grasse in front of us.”

  “Go slow,” said Gasdon. “Here is the turning to the left. It’s a bad road, but we can skirt the town and come out beyond it on the Digne road. Then we’re safe as far as Castellane.”

  “Thank the Lord you know the old terrain,” laughed Drummond. “What a fun, boys, what a fun! But could little Hugh do with a pint? The answer, jolly old speaker, is in the affirmative.”

  “It is definitely a sound idea, Gasdon,” said Standish after they had driven in silence for some time. “If we can make Switzerland, we’re on velvet. Through Germany to either the Hook or Ostend.”

  “Just so,” said Gasdon. “And before we separate we’ll agree where we meet in England.”

  “Sure bill,” cried Standish. “But since you will certainly be there first, get in touch at once with Lawson—Major Lawson—at the War House, and tell him the whole story.”

  Once more silence fell. By now it was quite dark, and the road was rising rapidly, though the car made light of the gradient. Mile after mile fell away behind them, and soon the lights of Castellane appeared ahead. And it was then that Drummond had a brain-storm.

  “What’s wrong with you taking the car on, Gasdon?” he exclaimed. “As you said, the police don’t want you. Standish and I will get out now and walk to the town. It goes to my heart to leave her in some wretched little garage here. If the police should stop you, you are merely driving the car to Paris at my request, and we are still, as far as you know, on the Riviera.”

  He stopped the car and lit a cigarette.

  “If the police don’t stop you, you might even take her on to Boulogne,” he continued. “But if you think that’s unwise park her in some good garage in Paris.”

  “I’m not sure you’re not right,” said Gasdon. “It might help to throw ’em still off the scent. What do you think, Standish?”

  “I think it’s a good idea. Where’s our nearest station?”

  “Hire a car and make for Sisteron. It’s about sixty miles. And now about England. Where do we meet?”

  “Keep in touch with Lawson. We’ll get at you through him.”

  “Right. Well, so long, chaps. And good luck.”

  “Little did I think, old boy,” said Drummond resignedly as the lights of the car vanished round a bend, “that I should ever be marooned amongst the virgin snows in the middle of the night. Come on, I could do with a spot of solids.”

  Ten minutes’ walk brought them to the bridge over the river Verdon, that marks the entrance to the town; another five and they were in the main square. And there with a gendarme on each side, stood the car.

  Matters had evidently reached a deadlock. One gendarme was scratching his head, the other was sucking a pencil. And Gasdon, a picture of outraged innocence, was haranguing them from the driver’s seat in fluent French.

  “It is monstrous,” he cried. “It is of an imbecility incredible. Is it the car that is required for these formalities at Cannes? The owner, my great friend, knowing he must await the police investigation, lends me his car to go to Paris. Is not that sufficient proof, you fatheads, that he is still there? If he had wished to go himself, would he not have been in the car? And in any case, why should he go? He was not accused of anything. It is merely a question of his evidence.”

  “Our instructions are that there are three men in the car.” The pencil sucker had produced his notebook. “Le Capitaine Drummond; M’sieur Standish and M’sieur Gasdon. And the M’sieur Gasdon has a scar on his face.”

  “Name of a name,” cried Gasdon. “Regard the scar. Obtained, mon brave, at Fricourt. I am Monsieur Gasdon, and when I left Nice le Capitaine Drummond and Monsieur Standish were with me in the car. But I dropped them near Cagnes.”

  “At what house, m’sieur?” demanded the gendarme.

  “The house of a lady friend.” Gasdon dug the pencil sucker in the ribs, and they all laughed. “And now since you are both satisfied that neither of them are in the car, I must get on.”

  He let in the clutch and drove off, and after a while the two gendarmes went indoors. Assuredly very peculiar; if three men were reported to be in the car, it was obviously most irregular that there should only be one. And, as they disappeared the two onlookers did likewise in the opposite direction.

  “They lose no time,” said Standish gravely. “And I have my doubts if Gasdon gets through.”

  “Which makes it the more imperative that we should,” answered Drummond. “There’s a garage on the other side of the road. Let’s see if we can raise a car.”

  They could—an incredibly ancient Renault. And three hours later they bumped into Sisteron. The first part of their journey was over.

  “And now, old boy,” said Drummond as they paid off the car, “we separate. It gives us two chances instead of one. Make for the Hotel les Bergues at Geneva.”

  CHAPTER VI

  DRUMMOND ALONE

  During the season Evian-les-Bains is a charming spot. On the high ground behind the town there are tennis courts and golf links set in delightful surroundings, for those who will to use. A tiny harbour filled with gaily coloured boats abuts the casino; beautiful women and brave men lounge gracefully over their “five o’clock.” That is during the season.

  Out of the season Evian-les-Bains resembles a town of the dead. The links are shut; holland covers encase the casino furniture. The beautiful women have departed long since; the inhabitants appear to have fallen into a coma. And it was out of the season when Drummond, paying off his taxi on the outskirts of the town, proceeded to enter it on foot.

  The time was midday, and the boat, so he had discovered from the concierge at Aix, arrived at two-thirty. Which left him two and a half hours to put through, and made him regret that he had left his hotel quite so early. Not that he hankered after Evian in gala mood, but because, if the police were on the look-out, he was so much more conspicuous in the deserted streets.

  Strolling towards the harbour he espied a sports shop, in the window of which some rucksacks were hanging. And it struck him that it might help to account for his presence if he pretended to be on a walking tour. So he purchased one, and a long stick with an embossed handle. A hunting horn he refused; likewise a little green hat with feathers in it. To overdo a part is bad art…

  Leaving the shop he walked on towards the lake. And then, finding a small café within sight of the landing-stage, he entered and enquired about lunch. It seemed that an omelette and a bottle of wine was all that Madame could run to, so he ordered it and lit a cigarette.

  Since the morning before he had practically not seen Standish. They had travelled in the same train from Sisteron to Aix, but in different compartments, whilst at Aix they had stayed at different hotels. And now Drummond began wondering where he was. The two-thirty was the only boat he could catch, since the service was greatly curtailed as soon as the summer tourist season ceased.

  Slowly the time went by, until suddenly Madame pointed over the lake.

  “Voilà, m’sieu; le bateau.”

  The p
addle boat had just heaved in sight coming from St. Gingolph, and he frowned a little. Standish was cutting it fine. Faint human stirrings in the square outside began to manifest themselves; evidently this was the event of the day. He could hear the thresh of the paddles now, so, paying his bill, he rose to go. And at that moment a car drove up with Standish inside.

  From the doorway Drummond watched. The engines of the boat were in reverse; cables fore and aft were being flung ashore. And then he saw them. Advancing majestically towards the shore end of the gangway were two gendarmes in gorgeous uniforms. Moreover it appeared that they wished to see Standish’s passport.

  Drummond’s eyes narrowed; rapid thought was necessary. They were stopping Standish in spite of his indignant protestations. And if they stopped Standish they would also stop him. Madame was adjuring him to hurry if he wished to catch the boat, but he only smiled at her and came back into the café. It would not do to arouse her suspicions in any way, so he told her that he had decided to continue walking, and ordered another bottle of wine. From outside came again the sound of paddle wheels; the boat was leaving. And in a few minutes peace once more reigned in Evian.

  Convinced by now that the large Englishman was more than usually mad, Madame had retired into some inner fastness, leaving Drummond alone in the café. What was the best thing to do? Any attempt to rescue Standish or even to communicate with him would be madness. The police were merely doing their duty, and the only result would be that he would be stopped as well.

  Equally would it be madness to wait on with the idea of catching the boat on the following day; the police would still be on the look-out. In fact any idea of leaving France by Evian must be abandoned. Where, then, could he go?

  A map was hanging on the wall, and he rose and studied it. There, just across the water—so near and yet so far—lay Lausanne and safety. Should he wait for darkness, steal one of the boats in the harbour, and row across the lake? But after a few moments’ reflection he dismissed the idea as too dangerous. The police headquarters were too close; the risk of being seen or heard too great. So the only alternative was to cross the frontier by land.