The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  And there in the drawer were two fruit tins. True, they were not sealed; they had been opened, and their contents had been removed. In fact they were just two empty tins, and only by the pictures of fruit on the paper wrapper that was pasted round each of them was it possible to know what their contents had been.

  Thoughtfully Drummond picked one up and examined it. It stood about four inches high; the diameter was approximately the same. The label proclaimed that it had contained Fancy Quality Fruit Salad, prepared by a firm called Petworth, who had packed it in their own orchard factory in Gloucestershire.

  He looked inside; nothing. And then a peculiar point struck him. Under ordinary circumstances when a top is removed with a tin-opener, the resulting cut has ragged edges. But in the tin which he held in his hand the top edge was perfectly smooth. And when he looked at it more closely he could plainly see in places the marks of a file. Why had the owner of the tin taken the trouble to do such a thing?

  He put it back and picked up the other one. And at once things became more interesting. To outward appearances the two tins were identical, but the interior revealed a striking difference. Soldered into the side, about an inch below the top, were three tiny metal cubes, each the size of a small die. Their positions formed the corners of an equilateral triangle.

  For a long while he stared at them trying to think what possible object they could fulfil. In view of the fact that the dead man’s hobby had been playing about with springs and things, he might have assumed that the tin was the outer case for some patent model he was inventing. But Jimmy’s remark could not be ignored, so that that simple solution would not hold water.

  He looked at the outside more carefully; no sign of the soldering appeared there. And a moment’s reflection told him that even if any mark had shown on the metal, the paper wrapper would have concealed it.

  He glanced up; Cranmer was standing beside him looking curiously at the tin.

  “I told you about Jimmy’s remark,” said Drummond. “What’s your reaction to this? You see the edge has been carefully filed down where the opener has been used.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Cranmer, “you don’t use an ordinary opener with this brand. I happen to know, because I had to open one the other night. They have a key with a slot at the end into which you put a tongue of the metal fastening. Then you roll the key round and round…”

  “I know,” interrupted Drummond. “Still that doesn’t explain those studs.”

  “It does not,” agreed Cranmer. “My God! what’s that?”

  Both men stood rigid; the gate had shut and steps could be heard on the gravel. Worse still—voices.

  “Quick,” snapped Drummond. “Out on the landing and into some other room.”

  Like a flash they were through the door, closing it after them. And as they were on the landing, the newcomers entered the hall below.

  “I tell you it’s all right,” came a guttural voice with a pronounced accent. “The woman is stone deaf. Almost as deaf”—he laughed harshly—”as he is.”

  Like shadows Drummond and Cranmer faded into a bedroom opposite as the footsteps came up the stairs.

  “It is absurd,” said another voice, “returning here at all. You have all that matters. Mother of Mercy!” The voice rose to a scream.

  Cautiously Drummond opened the door a little and peered out. Two men were standing in the room they had just left. One was a big fellow; the other was short and rather fat. And it was he who was covering his face with his hands, as if to shut out the dreadful thing at the desk.

  “Squeamish,” sneered the big man. “When a man gets hit with a coal hammer he doesn’t generally look as if he’d died of old age. Now then…”

  The words died away, and Drummond saw him take a spring forward. And then there came from the room a flood of the most fearful blasphemy.

  “It’s gone, I tell you,” cried the big man when he could again speak coherently. “It’s gone.”

  “It can’t have gone,” said his companion in a trembling voice. “You must have made a mistake.”

  “I tell you, it’s gone,” snarled the other. “Here is the one without the studs, but the other is gone. Moreover”—into his voice there crept a note of fear—”this drawer was shut. He shut it himself.”

  “Well, assuredly, he could not have opened it again. Let us go. For God’s sake, let us go. You have all that really matters in your pocket.”

  “How did that drawer come open?”

  The big man came into sight again and stood staring at his trembling companion.

  “I know it was shut,” he went on. “When he became foolish he got up and he shut it. I can see him doing it now. He crossed and he shut it; then he returned to the chair and laughed at me.”

  “It is a little thing anyway whether it was open or shut. Let us go.”

  “But it is not a little thing that the tin has gone, you fool. Tins do not walk on their own. He could not have touched it. So who has?”

  “Who, indeed?” whispered Drummond, and Cranmer could feel his grin of pure joy. “Put the tin on the bed, old boy; we’ll each want both our hands shortly. I’ll take the big ’un.”

  Again he peered out; the fat man was speaking in a quavering voice.

  “What does it matter? If we are found here all is lost. It means prison.”

  “Shut up, you cur.” His companion regarded him with contempt. “You haven’t got the nerves of a louse. Don’t you realise that someone has been here since I left?”

  “All the more reason for us to go at once.”

  “It couldn’t have been the police or they would still have been here.”

  “No. But whoever it was may inform the police.”

  The big man continued as if the other had not spoken.

  “Yes. They’d still have been here. Now why should this unknown visitor take such an apparently useless thing as that tin? Answer me that.”

  But the fat man was beyond speech; rivers of perspiration were pouring down his face which he was endeavouring to mop up with a shaking hand.

  “Is there any other number in Montreux? Speak, you worm!”

  “Not that I know of,” stuttered the fat man.

  “Then it’s an enemy…An enemy who knows…Come on…we’ll go.”

  “Our cue,” muttered Drummond, flinging open the door.

  His appearance was so utterly unexpected that for a moment or two the big man stood staring dumbfounded across the passage. Which was unwise on his part. He had a fleeting vision of a man as big as himself materialising from nowhere; then something that seemed like a steam hammer hit him on the jaw. He crashed over backwards and his head hit the edge of the bench with a crack like the impact of two billiard balls. And it was perhaps poetic justice that, as he lay unconscious on the floor, a little rivulet of the blood of the man he had murdered welled over and splashed on his face.

  “So much for you,” grunted Drummond and turned to a corner from which a series of squeaks were issuing, reminiscent of a rabbit caught by a stoat. They came from the little fat man who was on his knees in prayer before Cranmer.

  At any other time Drummond would have laughed—the sight was so ludicrous. But speed was the order of the day, and his quick eye had spotted a length of rope in some lumber behind the door.

  “Bring him here, Cranmer,” he said curtly. “Put him in that chair. Gag him with his own handkerchief…No, no. In his mouth, man, and knot it behind his head. Like a snaffle on a horse. That’s right…Now his legs; there’s some more rope over there.”

  They worked in silence, and the result was creditable to all concerned. It would have been hard to imagine a more scientifically trussed and gagged gentleman than the one who gazed at them fearfully from the chair.

  “Go through his pockets, old boy,” said Drummond. “I’ll tackle the other.”

  He crossed to the unconscious man and felt his pulse; it was beating evenly and steadily. Fortunate; it would have complicated matters if he had
killed him. Then he ran over him with skilled hands, and at once found a prize.

  In one pocket was a piece of mechanism that looked like the inside of a clock. For a moment or two he studied it; evidently this was what had been alluded to as “all that really matters.” He put it on the bench and continued his search. Two private letters; a pocket book which he went through; some money.

  “Found anything on yours?” he asked.

  “Not a thing,” said Cranmer.

  “Then we’ll hop it. Get the tin.”

  And with one last look at the room—at the little fat man whose terrified eyes were roving incessantly; at the dead man whose terrified eyes were fixed and staring; at the unconscious man sprawling on the floor—Drummond shut the door. And a few minutes later with sighs of relief they felt the night breeze cool on their faces, and heard from afar off the ceaseless murmur of the mountain stream.

  “I suppose I shall wake up in a moment,” said Cranmer as they retrieved the rucksac and changed their shoes.

  Drummond gave a short laugh.

  “It’s been a bit hectic for a first try out,” he agreed. “But you did very well, my lad—very well indeed. Now everything depends on Monsieur Lénod.”

  Cranmer glanced at him.

  “How do you make that out?”

  “When the deaf servant wakes up tomorrow morning, it will not be long before she enters that room. Then the fat will be in the fire. By ten o’clock it will be all over the place. And after our conversation with Lénod tonight it would, under ordinary circumstances, be his bounden duty to tell the police.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. What do you propose to do about it?”

  “Persuade him that the circumstances are not ordinary It’s our only hope. If he tells the police, the delay will be interminable. And we can’t afford delay, Cranmer. We’ve got to get back to England at the first possible moment.”

  “The fat little man may squeal.”

  “He may. On the other hand fear of vengeance may prevent him. Anyway we’ve got to chance that. He doesn’t know who we are, which is the main point.”

  They turned into the hotel, where a sleepy night porter wished them good-night.

  “Come into my room for a moment,” said Drummond. “I want to look at this machine a little more closely.”

  He took it and the fruit tin out of the rucksack, and placed them on the table. And the object of the studs inside the tin at once became obvious. For the diameter of the machine was such that it would just slip inside the tin and then come to rest on the studs.

  “So far so good,” remarked Drummond. “But what the deuce happens next?”

  Cranmer yawned.

  “Ask me another,” he said. “What feels like happening next to me is going to bed.”

  “Then you push off, old boy. If I can square Lénod I’ll want you to fly from Zurich tomorrow. And you’ll have to take this machine with you. The tin doesn’t matter; we can get dozens in England.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “Go via Basle through Germany, and probably fly from Brussels.”

  Cranmer yawned again.

  “Well—I’ll hit the hay. Good night.”

  “Night-night,” said Drummond absently, and the last Cranmer saw of him as he closed the door was peering earnestly into the bowels of the machine.

  Sick with weariness Archie Cranmer stumbled into his room, and almost before his head touched the pillow he was asleep. And it seemed to him only the next moment that he was awakened by someone shaking his shoulder.

  The daylight was streaming into the room as he opened his eyes to find Drummond standing beside the bed.

  “I’ve been to the consul,” said that worthy, “and may Heaven be praised the man’s a sportsman. When he’d got over his very natural wrath at being dragged from his bed at such an ungodly hour, he listened to what I had to say. I told him the whole story from A to Z; pointed out to him that if we’d had anything to do with the murder we should hardly have talked to him as we did last night; and finally appealed to his patriotism. And though he’s a Swiss there’s no doubt about that latter commodity. However, to cut a long story short, he has agreed to forget our conversation here last night.”

  “Stout feller,” said Cranmer.

  “If the fat man spills the beans sufficiently for us to be identified Lénod, of course, can do nothing. But if we are detained here he has agreed to see personally that that machine gets back to London, even if he has to take it himself, and to tell Ginger Lawson what happened last night. So that side of it is settled, so far as anything can be settled in this affair.”

  Cranmer jumped out of bed and began to shave.

  “Do you want to borrow my razor?” he asked with a glance at Drummond’s chin.

  “No, old boy, I don’t,” said Drummond with a grin. “I have long had a fancy to see what I should look like with a beard. And I think it may prove useful in England.”

  “When do we start?”

  “I’ve been looking up trains, and there seems a good one at eleven-fifteen. Part of it goes to Zurich and part to Basle. If we can get that I think we’re safe.”

  And suddenly Drummond began to laugh.

  “It seems funny, after my long career of singing in the village choir, that the only two occasions on which I’ve been really frightened of the police, are the two when I haven’t done anything.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  ALGY INTERVENES

  Algy Longworth was singing in his bath. It was not a pleasant sound, but his servant, though a little white about the gills was hardened to it, and continued to lay the breakfast. He even survived the sudden appearance of his master clad only in a bath towel, and proceeded to hand him his letters.

  “We are in voice this morning, Marsh, are we not?” remarked Algy glancing through them. “Which, my trusty varlet, is surprising, because beneath this outer husk conditions are poor—very poor. Marsh, I could do with a horse’s neck.”

  “Very good, sir. How much brandy?”

  “Just as you take it yourself, Marsh. Or is it your considered opinion that half a pint of champagne would meet the case better?”

  “I prefer it myself, sir. I find a horse’s neck a trifle sweet at this hour of the morning.”

  “Spoken like a man. Champagne let it be. What are we doing today, Marsh?”

  “Your engagement book states, sir, that you are lunching at the Ritz with a tow-haired filly—name unknown, and slightly knock-kneed.”

  “Impossible, Marsh. Impossible. How could a man of my exalted moral standing know anything about her knees. I wonder who the deuce she can be.”

  “That, sir, I fear is beyond me. The entry was made two or three days ago, after an evening you spent at the Golden Boot.”

  “I was there last night, Marsh. Tell me, old friend of my youth,” he went on, lighting a cigarette, “have you noticed anything particularly attractive about me lately? Have I recently developed some hitherto latent charm of manner which endears me to the world at large?”

  “I have noticed no change, sir.”

  “Last night, for instance, Marsh, I became conscious of an air of solicitude about my goings and comings, so to speak, which touched me greatly, but at the same time a little surprised me. Maiden and men concerned themselves with my poor affairs in a way which, I confess, astonished me. It removed, I am glad to say, any lingering doubts that I was one of the people aimed at in those delightful advertisements of ‘What she said and ‘What she really thought.’ But apart from that, Marsh, there was, as I say, an interest displayed in me which I really cannot account for.”

  His servant crossed to the window and glanced out.

  “I wonder if it’s part of the same things, sir. This flat is being watched.”

  “Watched! Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely, sir. There’s the bloke on the other side now. Same man who was here for a time yesterday.”

  “Come away from the window.”

  Al
gy Longworth sat down at the table, and his eyes had suddenly grown thoughtful.

  “When did we last hear from Captain Drummond, Marsh?”

  “He rang you up from his club, sir, about eight days ago. I took the message, and you went round to see him.”

  “And I rang him up two days after that and found he’d gone to France. It’s funny, Marsh, all this. Mr. Burton was asking me about him the night before last. He, too, seems to have become popular. Ring up his house, and find out if he’s back in London.”

  “No, sir,” said Marsh returning a few moments later. “He has not come back. I took the liberty, sir, of asking his man Denny if anyone was watching his house. He had not noticed it up to date, but he is going to keep a look-out in future.”

  “Good. I’m inclined to think, Marsh, that we may be finding ourselves on the warpath once again. And if so I must go into training. No more late nights; no more knock-kneed dames. Hullo! who’s that?”

  The front door bell had rung.

  “Get me a dressing-gown, and go and see. And don’t forget, the cautionary period has started.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Came a murmur of voices from outside, and then suddenly a well-known laugh.

  “It’s all right, Marsh. I’m glad you didn’t recognise me.”

  “Good Lord!” cried Algy, going to the door. “Talk of the devil! My dear old boy—what a magnificent make-up! I wouldn’t have known you myself.”

  Hugh Drummond was standing in the hall, though only by his voice would anyone have known him. A master of disguise at any time, on this occasion he had excelled himself. A four-days’ growth of beard adorned his chin; a greasy cap was pulled down over one eye. And by some extraordinary method he had managed to alter his actual features; slightly, but enough to deceive anyone. Round his neck was knotted a coloured handkerchief in place of a collar; his clothes were in keeping with his cap. And in his hand he carried a carpet bag of plumber’s tools which he put down on the floor.