The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “From what I read in the papers you’re never likely to. When was the funeral?”

  “The day before yesterday. What on earth is it all about, Hugh?”

  Mrs. Penny came bustling in with the steaks.

  “Jane,” cried Drummond, “this is Major Lawson. Short for antimacassar Jane, old boy. She has a passion for antimacassars which oversteps the bounds of decency. Put everything down, darling, and half a dozen bottles of beer and I’ll shout when we’re ready for the cheese.”

  “I got the celery, Master Hugh.”

  “Very good girl. Now, Ginger,” he went on seriously as the old lady left the room. “Let’s get down to things. Young Cranmer has, of course, told you about the show at the villa. Now have you made anything out of that mechanical device?”

  “I sent it to an expert at the Yard,” said Lawson. “And the utmost he could say was that as the thing stood it could fulfil no purpose at all. But that with the insertion of a spring it could be wound up just as a clock is wound up. Further, that it contained the additional mechanism which you only find in an alarum clock—that’s to say it could be set to go off at a given time.”

  “Strange,” said Drummond thoughtfully. “In conjunction with that fruit tin. And Jimmy’s cryptic utterance.”

  “Are you playing with the idea that it is some sort of bomb that is intended?”

  “Impossible to do otherwise.”

  “Then why go to all the bother of obtaining a proprietary brand of fruit tin? Any old tin would do.”

  “There’s one very good reason, Ginger, so it seems to me. It’s a stock size. There can be no mistake about its dimensions. And if these bombs are being manufactured in large quantities, possibly in different parts of the country, it might be most important to ensure that they were identical.”

  “But, good Lord! man—” began Lawson incredulously and Drummond held up his hand.

  “I don’t know if Ronald put it in his letter, but there was one remark that poor old Jimmy made to his girl friend out there that sticks in my memory. He said it was a plot which out-Vernes Jules Verne. And Jimmy was not an alarmist.”

  “That’s true,” agreed Lawson.

  “You saw, didn’t you, that Menalin has arrived in London complete with wife?”

  “I did.” Lawson pushed away his plate and stared thoughtfully at the fire. “By the way,” he said suddenly, “who is this man Gasdon you were talking about on the phone?”

  “An Englishman we met in Nice, again after Ronald wrote that letter. And full value, Ginger. He advanced a very remarkable theory. He suggested the possibility of a sudden devastating attack on England, financed, controlled and directed by the Reds.”

  “Rot, old boy; rot. We have accurate information of the whole of their movement here in England. It’s blah, blah, and talk from the word ‘go.’”

  “Here in England—perhaps. Gasdon’s theory is that the thing might be engineered from outside, and be under the control of this man Menalin.”

  “He hates us, of course. We know that. But what could be his object?”

  Drummond shrugged his shoulders.

  “Ask me another. There I’m out of my depth. But it seems to me that there are quite a number of people in Europe who would not be sorry to see us down and out.”

  “That is perfectly true. At the same time, old boy, the whole idea seems most terribly far-fetched.”

  “That was my first reaction, but I’ve been thinking it over since. And now I’m not so sure. We’re in a pretty helpless condition, Ginger.”

  “Absolutely helpless, I agree. True at long last we’re re-arming, but most of our ships are antiquated, and as far as planes are concerned we’re swamped for numbers.”

  “It’s a funny thing,” said Drummond thoughtfully, “but the very first night the Chief put me on to this job, when I was round at the Golden Boot, I had a most extraordinary experience. I suppose it only lasted a second or two, but it was the most vivid thing I have ever known. For a space I was actually back in France, with the flares lobbing up close to and the stink of death all round. The room had gone, the band had ceased. I heard the phit of a bullet; I heard the drone of a crump. And then as suddenly as it had come, it went.”

  “An omen?” Lawson looked at him curiously. Drummond shrugged his shoulders again.

  “I’m not a fanciful sort of bloke,” he said, “but I wonder. Something pretty damnable is in the wind, Ginger. And the trouble, as I said to Algy, is that, officially, we haven’t got a leg to stand on.”

  “Certainly not enough for the police to act.”

  “It would be fatal, Ginger, absolutely fatal. This has got to be done privately. The last thing we want to do is to arouse their suspicions. I’m hoping they think I’m still in France, but I’m not banking on it.”

  “Well, old boy, what do you want me to do?”

  “Be the link, Ginger, between me and officialdom. And if anything happens to me—act immediately. I’ll keep you posted in whatever I may find out. If Ronald or Gasdon ring you up tell ’em how matters stand, but be very sure that you’re speaking to the right man. You know Ronald’s voice, but you don’t know Gasdon’s, and they are quite capable of supplying a substitute. And don’t forget that you’re probably a marked man yourself.”

  Mrs. Penny appeared at the door.

  “Are you ready for the cheese, Master Hugh?”

  “We are, my pet. And the steak was delicious.” The old lady beamed all over her face.

  “Would you like a glass of red currant wine with your cheese?” she demanded.

  “Jane darling,” said Drummond. “I hate to hurt your feelings, but I cannot tell a lie. I can think of nothing I should abominate more.”

  “You used to be very fond of it when you were small,” she cried indignantly.

  “There you are, Ginger. There you see the woman who first set my toddling footsteps on the slippery path of drink. Away, temptress, and produce the celery.”

  Lawson glanced at his watch.

  “I must be getting back, old boy. But I understand the position, and I’ll do just what you’ve suggested. Anyway—here’s luck.”

  He raised his tankard and drained it, then he rose to his feet.

  “No, I won’t have any cheese. I’m late already, and this is a day’s march from the War House. Goodbye, Mrs. Penny, and thank you so much for a delightful lunch. So long, Hugh, I’ll let myself out.”

  “A good fellow, Jane,” said Drummond as the front door banged. “And now, my love, I am going upstairs to sleep. I have a premonition that during the next week or so I’ll have to go a bit short of that commodity.”

  “When are you going, dearie?”

  “Tomorrow, Jane. Denny is bringing one or two trifles round for me tonight, and you can give him some of your red currant wine. I wonder,” he added half to himself, “what luck Algy has had.”

  He was to find out next morning. For at that very moment Algy Longworth was handing in an advertisement for the Agony column of the Morning Post. And it ran as follows:

  “HUD. Filly agrees postpone raspberry. Will be there strong beginning. P.”

  Which was not difficult to interpret. Evidently Molly Castledon was going to play the game, and further would be at Birchington Towers for the week-end.

  CHALLENGE [Part 2]

  IX. — BIRCHINGTON TOWERS

  “Stop snoring, George, and listen to me.”

  With a slight start Sir George Castledon sat up in his chair.

  “Was I snoring, my love?”

  “Should I have said so, if you were not? It was that second glass of port after lunch.”

  Resignedly Sir George watched the wife of his bosom lower her ample form into a chair facing him. The room was warm; he yearned for peace. But one glance at his wife’s face had shattered that hope. A domestic storm was brewing.

  “Are you aware that Molly is now playing golf with that young man?”

  “What young man, my dear?” he said feebly.r />
  Lady Castledon regarded him stonily through her lorgnettes and Sir George wilted. Small wonder; there was a story current in London that on one occasion her Ladyship had inadvertently entered a field tenanted by a bull. A few moments later it was tenanted by her; the bull had left, snorting with terror.

  “Don’t be more of a fool than God made you, George; you annoy me. What do you propose to do about it?”

  “Do about it, my dear?”

  The worthy baronet scratched his head.

  “Don’t keep on repeating what I say, George. Even if you are completely fuddled with alcohol you can surely grasp the fact that Molly is playing golf with that imbecile Algy what’s-his-name, and that Mr. Burton is all by himself.”

  “What’s that? I’d better go and talk to him, my love.”

  He half rose from his chair.

  “Sit down, George. Do you imagine he wishes to listen to your half-witted utterances? You must talk to him.”

  “But, damn it, Jane, that’s what I suggested a moment ago, and you jumped down my throat.”

  “Not Burton. I mean that idiot with an eyeglass.”

  “What on earth am I to say to him? There’s no harm in them playing golf if they want to.”

  “George. I shall shake you in a minute. Who said there was any harm in it? But this afternoon was a heaven-sent opportunity for Mr. Burton to propose to Molly. If you’d had the gumption of an owl you would have taken that Longworth thing for a good brisk walk.”

  “My God!” Sir George shuddered violently.

  “It would have been extremely good for your liver, and it would have got him out of the way. However, that can’t be helped now; you must concentrate on after tea. The other guests do not arrive till about six, which should leave plenty of time. So as soon as tea is over you will suggest a game of billiards to Mr. Longworth. He won’t like to refuse a man of your age. And when you’ve got him in the billiard-room you will keep him there. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my love. Supposing Molly comes too.”

  “Leave that to me, George.”

  Lady Castledon rose to her feet.

  “Leave that to me. Molly will not come to the billiard-room.”

  She swept out and Sir George sighed, a thing he had done frequently of late. Ever since that cursed dance Jane had had only one idea in her head. And the trouble was he did not like Charles Burton. The man seemed a gentleman and all that sort of thing, and he was certainly wealthy, but he did not like him. No definite reason; nothing particular on which he could put a finger; he just couldn’t cotton to the blighter. As he had wittily said to old Lord Crumpleigh; “It’s not the clothes that make the man, Bill; it’s what’s inside ’em.”

  A quick remark that; sized up the situation admirably. And he wasn’t going to have Molly married to a shop in Savile Row, whatever Jane might say. True he had not actually put his foot down up to date, but on one point he was determined. There was to be no coercion. If Molly wanted to marry Burton she could, but he wouldn’t have any pressure brought to bear on her.

  He rose and walked over to the window. The floods were out, and below him there stretched a huge expanse of water from which trees rose like scattered islands. Away in the distance lay the South Downs, with Chanctonbury Ring showing clear in the setting sun. A glorious view, unequalled in that part of Sussex, and he was on the point of stepping out on to the lawn when two men came round a corner of the house in earnest conversation. So earnest was it that they did not see him until they were close to, and when they did so the conversation ceased abruptly.

  “Good afternoon,” remarked Sir George affably.

  “Goot afternoon,” answered one of them, speaking with a pronounced foreign accent.

  “Lovely view,” continued Sir George, wondering who they were. For neither of them wore a hat, and they both gave the impression of having just come out of the house for a stroll. Possibly some of the party who had arrived early. And if they were typical of the remainder of the guests it looked as if it was going to be a jolly week-end. For with a surly grunt from the man who had first spoken, the two of them resumed their walk and disappeared.

  Sir George raised his eyebrows; then, lighting a cigarette, he stepped through the window. There was a faint and rather pleasant nip in the air, and he decided to have a stroll round the grounds. Doubtless, Jane would be entertaining their host, so that he was not wanted.

  He left the drive that ran down to the main road on his right, and walked towards a summer-house about a hundred yards away. His path was bordered on each side with rhododendron bushes, which in the spring would be a blaze of colour Just now, however, they seemed dank and gloomy, and the summer-house itself was even worse. Thick cobwebs covered the windows, and when he tried the door he found it was locked. Dimly inside he could see a pile of deck-chairs, but it surprised him that a man of Burton’s money who must keep two or three gardeners, should allow such obvious neglect and untidiness on his property.

  Turning round he studied the house. It was bigger than he had thought, with an unsuspected wing at the back which gave it a T-shaped effect. Thirty bedrooms at least, reflected Sir George, and wondered what the deuce Burton wanted a house of that size for. “Wouldn’t have the damn place as a gift myself,” he muttered, and even as he spoke he saw his host coming towards him.

  “Inspecting the property, Burton,” he said as the other approached. “Biggish place you’ve got here.”

  “Too big sometimes, Sir George, and at others not big enough. I often have parties here when my accommodation is taxed to the uttermost.”

  “Just met two of your guests a few minutes ago. Foreigners of sorts.”

  Charles Burton laughed.

  “Not guests,” he remarked. “They were two of my secretaries. I have so many connections in my business that I have to keep a foreign staff as well as an English one.”

  “Really! Which reminds me, you know, though it is an extraordinary thing to say, I’m dashed if I know what your business is.”

  The two men were strolling back towards the house, and for the fraction of a second a smile twitched round Burton’s lips.

  “Quite a number of people have asked me the same question, Sir George, but I can assure you there is no mystery about it. I am the English representative of a financial group—or house if you prefer the word—that has ramifications all over the world. There is practically nothing that we do not deal in; from real estate to raw materials; from armaments to agricultural machinery. And because our tentacles are so far-flung we have information at our disposal which no one firm in any country could hope to possesss. And correct information is essential if you wish to make money.”

  “Very true,” agreed Sir George. “I wish my damned broker would give it to me a bit more often.”

  Once again a smile flickered round Burton’s mouth.

  “You must let me give you a tip or two. And I hope that perhaps in the not too distant future I may be in a position where it will not only be a pleasure to do so, but even a right.”

  “Eh! What’s that?”

  The baronet stared at him.

  “I have been talking to Lady Castledon,” said Burton, “and I am glad to say that she has been good enough to approve of my suggestion. It concerns your charming daughter. Now I am fully aware that according to standards today, I am being old-fashioned; parents seem to be the last people who are consulted. I do not agree with that at all. And so I would like to know if I have your consent to approaching Molly and asking her to become my wife.”

  “God bless my soul,” cried the baronet. “Most unexpected, my dear Burton; most unexpected.” Must keep up the pretence of surprise anyway…And really it was decent of the man to have come to him and Jane first…”Little Molly…She’s very young, you know; only just out…Not like these modern girls…Still, if her mother approves, and Molly herself is agreeable, I am quite prepared to give my consent.”

  “Thank you, Sir George. I am very sensible of the honour yo
u have paid me.”

  “Not at all, not at all. Well, I must go and talk to Jane about it.”

  Charles Burton watched his retreating figure with an inscrutable look in his eyes. Now that the die was cast, now that he had put himself in such a position that he must ask Molly Castledon to marry him, he wondered if he had been a fool. What on earth did he want to tie himself up with a girl for? There were hundreds of other women to be had for the asking—or paying.

  The trouble was that for the first time one particular woman was seriously interfering with his life. Ever since he had first met Molly Castledon she had intruded on his thoughts in a way he found most disquieting. It was strange, for he had met many prettier girls. Nevertheless, the fact remained that, try as he would, he could not get her out of his mind. He wanted her as he had never wanted anyone before. And being no fool he realised that in her case his intentions, on the surface, at any rate, would have to be strictly honourable. Afterwards…Well, it would all depend on how long it lasted.

  That Molly herself would refuse never entered his head. Women did not refuse Charles Burton. Still it had been as well to pull out the dope with the old people; better to have everybody happy and satisfied. And there was no doubt that the horse-faced mother would prove a valuable ally, in case the girl did not jump to it at once.

  The sight of a car coming up the drive brought a faint frown to his forehead; Algy Longworth and Molly were returning from golf. Now the reason he had asked that brainless idiot down for the week-end had certainly not been that he should take Molly off to the links. In fact when he had realised after luncheon that they had gone, he had felt definitely annoyed. Charles Burton disliked his arrangements being interfered with. However as he walked towards the car his face expressed only benign satisfaction at two of his guests having enjoyed themselves.

  “Don’t leave me, Algy,” muttered the girl. “Stick closer than a clam. The blighter looks as if he was going to say his piece at any moment.”

  “Trust Algy. But you’ll have to go through it some time, my pet.”

  “Had a good game?” said Charles Burton affably as he came up.