The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  To the east lay St. Gingolph only about twelve miles away. But to reach that he had to cross the square in front of the police station, and moreover do so fairly soon. For it had dawned on him that this café was not too safe. The gendarmes, exhausted by their labours, might decide to recuperate their strength with alcohol at any moment, and the café was very handy.

  So there was only one course open. He would strike westward towards Geneva and cross at Hermance. That they would be on the look-out for him there, was obvious, but the same thing applied to every douane. So the only thing was to hope for the best when he got there.

  He slipped into the street, and heaved a sigh of relief when he was out of sight of the police station. He had twenty-five miles to cover, and the prospect of walking did not amuse him. On the other hand if he hired a car and arrived in broad daylight, the attempt was foredoomed to failure.

  He strode along thinking things over, and wishing that he knew the country he would have to negotiate when he came to the frontier. For it had soon occurred to him that by far the best, if not the only, chance of getting through would be to cross between douanes. That would entail leaving the road before he got to the frontier: skirting round the village and rejoining the road again farther on when he was safe in Switzerland. What difficulties there would be he had no idea: as a performance it was a new one on him. But he assumed that in peace time any system of patrols between posts would be of a very perfunctory nature.

  And so, when it came to the point, it proved to be. Save for falling into a wet ditch the whole thing passed off without incident. As soon as the lights of the douane showed up in the distance he struck off left-handed across the fields. Once a dog began barking furiously, but, except for that, the night was still. Hardly a light was showing; the whole countryside was asleep. And at 11.41 p.m. Drummond stepped back on to the road with France a kilometre behind him. In the distance glittered the lights of Geneva; a far more welcome sight, however, was a faint chink filtering through the wooden shutters of an inn just ahead. A room was available, and ten minutes later Drummond, having taken off his shoes and coat, was fast asleep.

  It was past ten when he awoke next morning and the sun was streaming in through the window. So at peace with the world, and no longer feeling that at any moment he might feel a gendarme’s hand on his shoulder, he drank two large cups of coffee. Then, having hired a taxi, he drove into Geneva over the Pont de Mont Blanc.

  It was his first visit to the Hotel les Bergues and the concierge eyed him a little doubtfully. With a certain amount of excuse let it be admitted; Hugh Drummond’s general appearance was not such as is generally to be observed in that hotel. He wanted a shave, and his shoes still bore record to yesterday’s walk. But at that moment an exquisite individual came sauntering down the stairs, who paused, stared, then with a cry of amazement held out his hand.

  “What in the name of all that’s fortunate are you doing here, old boy? And why this strange garb with rucksacks and things?”

  “Hullo! potato face,” said Drummond. “Glad to see you. I didn’t know any of you blokes ever got up before midday.”

  The Honourable James Tagley grinned amiably. A younger son of old Lord Storrington, he had drifted peacefully into the Foreign Office, where he remained a monument of beauty and a joy for ever.

  “We do every second Friday,” he remarked. “But joking apart, Hugh, what does bring you here?”

  “A desire to study Swiss architecture first-hand,” said Drummond with a smile.

  “Are you up to some of your games?” demanded the Honourable James.

  “My dear potato face, I don’t understand you. I am now a respectable member of society.”

  “You’re a damned old liar,” said the other. “I say, what a shocking thing that was—those swines murdering Talbot.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Drummond. “Any inside information come through to this centre of gossip?”

  “No. But the motive must have been political.”

  Drummond raised his eyebrows.

  “I shouldn’t have said that he was much mixed up in politics. However, doubtless you know best, James. Tell me; how stands the international barometer?”

  The other lowered his voice.

  “Officially, old boy, set fair. Unofficially—not quite so good. There are vague mutterings and signs and portents.”

  “Are you allowed to tell?”

  “The devil of it is that there’s nothing to tell. Nothing definite, that’s to say. But in some ways, you know, this place is as sensitive as the Stock Exchange. Whispers go round in the most incredible fashion, and when you’ve been here some time it’s amazing how quickly you become aware of them. There’s something in the air, Hugh; there has been for some time.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “I don’t know; I can’t tell you.”

  “Do you mean there’s a possibility of war?”

  “My dear fellow, that possibility is always there—League of Nations, or no League of Nations. But I don’t mean war this time. It’s something else, and”—his voice sank to a whisper—”we are involved.”

  Drummond lit a cigarette.

  “You interest me profoundly, James,” he remarked. “Mind you, Hugh,” said Tagley, “this is not to go beyond you. Good morning, sir.”

  A well-known figure in English public life nodded as he passed through the hall.

  “Do you want a lift?” he called out.

  “Thank you, sir. I must go, Hugh. Shall I see you at lunch?”

  “Perhaps, potato face. I don’t know.”

  For a moment or two Drummond stood motionless as Tagley hurried after the great man to a waiting car. Then he turned to the concierge.

  “I want a call to London,” he said. “How long will it take?”

  “It depends, sir. But if you will give me the number I will get through for you. It would be well to remain at hand. Sometimes one connects almost at once.”

  Taking a pencil Drummond wrote down Ginger Lawson’s number at the War Office. Then he sat down on a chair near-by. So James Tagley confirmed the fact that something was in the wind…Strange—very strange…

  “God!” he muttered to himself. “If only Latimer had put those papers in an envelope and posted them in Paris!”

  For perhaps ten minutes he sat there, idly watching the people as they passed in and out of the hotel. Every nationality; every colour…Every nationality, that is to say, except three…What a farce; what a roaring farce.

  Suddenly he saw the concierge approaching him. “M’sieur’s call to London.”

  He entered the box and picked up the receiver. “Hullo! Ginger: that you?”

  With remarkable clearness he heard Lawson’s voice from the other end.

  “Drummond speaking from Geneva.”

  “Geneva! What on earth are you doing there?

  “Too long to tell you now, Ginger. I’m writing you a full report this morning, but it will be two or three days before I’m back. For reasons I can’t go into at the moment I’m not going through France. I shall either fly from Brussels or cross via Ostend or the Hook.”

  “Postpone it for a day or two, old boy,” came Lawson’s voice. “It’s providential you’re in Switzerland. Do you know young Cranmer—Archie Cranmer?”

  “Vaguely. He’s with you, isn’t he?”

  “That’s right. But he’s new on the game. At the moment he is in Territet at the Grand Hotel. Will you go over and get in touch with him? I’ll wire him to expect you.”

  “All right, Ginger. It’s urgent, is it? Because I want to get back to England as soon as possible.”

  “It is urgent, Hugh. It concerns the Chief’s murder. And I’d feel easier if you were helping Archie.”

  “’Nough said, Ginger. I’ll get off my report to you, and then go straight to Territet. By the way you have Ronald’s from Cannes, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. I recognised the writing and opened it. We are keeping an eye on the gentleman
he mentions from here. Is Ronald with you?”

  “No. I’ll explain everything in my report. So long, Ginger.”

  He rang off, and having paid for the call he wandered upstairs in search of the writing-room. It was the part of the job that he disliked most, but he dared not bank on the fact that Standish would get another report off from France. And so for an hour he toiled laboriously; then with a sigh of relief he addressed the envelope and slipped it in his pocket. A shave; a drink; Territet—that was the programme as he proposed it. And that was the programme as he carried it out.

  He arrived at Territet at three o’clock, having lunched at Lausanne Station, and went straight to the Grand Hotel. And the first person he saw sitting in the glassed-in verandah was Archie Cranmer.

  “How are you, young feller!” he said. “I don’t know if you remember me. My name is Drummond.”

  “Of course I do,” answered Cranmer getting up. “But it almost seemed as if you expected to find me here.”

  “I did,” laughed Drummond. “I’ve come over from Geneva especially to see you at Ginger Lawson’s request. Have you had a wire from him?”

  “No.”

  “It’ll come. And in the meantime let’s hear all about it.”

  Cranmer shook his head.

  “Very sorry, Drummond. I’m sure it’s all right, but…”

  And once again he shook his head deliberately.

  “Good for you,” said Drummond with a grin. “I was only trying you out. In our game, Cranmer, a man ought not to trust his own mother. However, I don’t think we’ll have long to wait. This page boy has the appearance of one who bringeth news. A telegram, my lad? There’s the gentleman.”

  Cranmer opened it; then with a smile passed it over to Drummond.

  “WORK WITH HUGH DRUMMOND.—LAWSON.”

  “So that’s that,” he said. “Sorry if I seemed suspicious, but your appearance was rather unexpected. How much do you know already?”

  “Merely that you are here in connection with the Chief’s murder,” answered Drummond.

  “I see. Then I’d better begin at the beginning. You remember, don’t you, that he always used to walk to and from the office?”

  Drummond nodded.

  “On the morning of his murder it so happened that for some reason or other he did not walk, but took a taxi. Incidentally both Lawson and I are convinced that if he had walked they’d have got him then. However, that is beside the point. The instant he reached the office he sent for both of us.

  “‘I had a visitor last night,’ he began. At my flat. A peculiar card.’

  “You remember that funny sort of clipped way he had of talking.

  “‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘a very peculiar card. At first I thought he wasn’t all there. Mallows showed him into the study, and he kept looking round as if he expected a trap. Little, short, dark man with a whacking great moustache. Obviously not English, though he spoke it quite well.

  “‘It transpired that he kept a barber’s shop down Elephant and Castle way, which he ran under the name of Timpson. Further, that he was naturalised.

  “‘I always believe,’ continued the Chief, ‘in letting a man tell his story in his own way, but after a bit I got a trifle bored.’

  “‘“Get down to it, Mr. Timpson,” I said. “I assume you haven’t come here merely to tell me you cut hair.”

  “‘He leaned forward impressively.

  “‘“Colonel,” he said, “I have very valuable information for you.”

  “‘“Good,” I answered. “Fire ahead.”

  “‘Then one got his real character in his cunning, greedy eyes.

  “‘“How much is it worth?”

  “‘“That,” I said, “depends entirely on what it is. If it really is valuable you won’t have any cause for complaint.”

  “‘“Very good. I will trust you. Now you will understand, sir, that many foreigners come to my shop, as well as English. And frequently I overhear their conversations. This afternoon there came two. They were speaking French, but it was not the French of Frenchmen. And as I listened to what they said I realised what they were. They were Swiss. After a while they were joined by two Englishmen, and they all talked together in low tones. Much of what they said I could not hear, but one or two things I did catch.”

  “‘The little man’s voice sank to a blood-curdling whisper.

  “‘“And one of them was your name often repeated.’”

  “Apparently,” continued Cranmer, the Chief sat up at this. Why four scallywags should be discussing him in a cheap barber’s shop was not easy to follow. He pressed this man Timpson as to how he knew it was him, since Talbot was not a particularly uncommon name. Answer was that Orme Square had been mentioned, which seemed fairly conclusive, and the Chief waited for more. He soon got it. The two Englishmen were known to Timpson as thoroughly dangerous characters, though he knew nothing about the Swiss. And it, therefore, seemed obvious that the conversation was not likely to have concerned a presentation of silver plate to the Chief.

  “‘Not that that worries me in the slightest,’ he went on. ‘In the ordinary course of events I should take no notice at all. But coming so soon after Jimmy’s death I have notified the Yard, and I expect to hear from them at any moment. Why I’ve sent for you two fellows concerns the one other item of interest that Mr. Timpson gave me. It’s an address which he heard the Swiss mention two or three times: Villa Bon Ciel, Veytaux.’

  “‘Where’s Veytaux?’ asked Ginger.

  “‘Just what I wanted to know myself,’ said the Chief. ‘It’s apparently a sort of continuation of Montreaux and Territet going towards Chinon Castle. And that’s where you two boys are bound for. A nice holiday in beautiful Switzerland.’

  “‘At that moment the telephone rang, and the Chief answered it. And when he put down the receiver his face was grave.

  “‘Mr. Timpson has not yet returned to his shop,’ he said. ‘His bed has not been slept in. I very much fear that he has more than earned the fiver I gave him.’”

  “‘You think they’ve got him?’ said Ginger.

  “‘My flat was probably being watched?’ he said. ‘Of course he may have gone on the binge and is sleeping it off, but…’

  “The shrug of his shoulders was eloquent; it was obvious what he thought. And then for a time he sat there drumming on the desk with his fingers.

  “‘I don’t like it,’ he said at length. There’s something going on I can’t understand. Anyway you two had better keep your eyes skinned before, during, and after your visit to Veytaux.’

  “With that he dismissed us, and it was the last time I saw him alive. Those swine got him, as you know, when he was walking home that afternoon.”

  “What of this man Timpson?” asked Drummond after a pause.

  “There was no trace of him up to the time I left. You see, the Chief’s death altered things. Ginger had to stop on in London, so I came over here alone.”

  “Quite,” said Drummond absently. “Quite. When did you get here?”

  “Early this morning by the Orient express.”

  “Have you done anything as yet?”

  “I took a walk towards Chinon Castle, and located the villa.”

  “Good,” said Drummond. “What sort of a place is it?”

  “An ordinary sort of shanty standing way back up the hill, overlooking the lake. It’s got a glassed in verandah much like this one, only very much smaller, of course.”

  “Any other houses near it?”

  “Nothing, I should say, within a hundred yards.”

  “How close did you get to it?”

  “I didn’t. I saw it from the main road down below. That’s this one that goes past the hotel.”

  “And what were you proposing to do next?”

  “To tell the truth, Drummond,” said Cranmer with an apologetic laugh. “I wasn’t quite sure what to do next.”

  “I don’t wonder. The problem is not a very easy one.”

  �
��I thought I might make enquiries of the concierge as to who lives there.”

  Drummond shook his head.

  “Certainly not that. In a place of this sort things get round in an incredibly short time. And if it came out that two Englishmen were interesting themselves in the owner of the Bon Ciel the pitch is queered at once. No, my boy; nothing so direct as that. You didn’t get near enough to find out if the owner kept a dog.”

  Cranmer shook his head.

  “In any event it would probably have been inside the house,” he said.

  “Not of necessity,” said Drummond. “A lot of these people here keep a dog on a long chain, simply as a watchdog. Then they don’t have to pay a licence. However, we can but find out. Got any rubber-soled shoes?”

  “No.”

  “Nor have I. Now look here, Cranmer, we’ll split this job to start with. I will go down the town and buy two pairs of rubber shoes—your size looks about the same as mine. You will get hold of a telephone book, remembering that under no circumstances must you let the concierge know why you want it. You will then go laboriously down the list on the chance of finding that the villa is on the phone. If it is we shall get the name of the owner, though not of necessity the present tenant. It may help; it may not. Then when I return we will both take a walk past the villa to ensure that we can find it tonight.”

  “And tonight?”

  “We will take another walk,” said Drummond with a grin. “And then we will be guided by circumstances.”

  “Good Lord!” cried the other, “you don’t intend to break in, do you?”

  Drummond’s grin grew more pronounced.

  “Let us call it a tour of investigation,” he remarked. “Get busy with the telephone book.”

  He left Cranmer settling down to his monotonous task, and walking down to the station stood waiting for a tram. On the opposite side of the lake rose the mountains of Haute Savoie culminating in the giant Dent du Midi, golden crested in the westering sun. A thin wisp of fog lay like a serpent against the dark massif, and in the distance the same steamer that Standish had missed the day before was pursuing its lawful occasions.

  A tram came grinding to a standstill and he boarded it. Facing him, two very English old ladies were discussing church affairs with interest; he gathered that all was not going as it should do with regard to the approaching sale of work. And just for a second a faint smile twitched round his lips. They were so very earnest about it, and the ever-amazing contrasts that go to form this thing called life tickled his sense of humour.