The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “Was the Pélain woman with Drummond at the time?”

  “No.”

  “Then it is possible that Drummond does not know that Dorina was at Chez Paquay. You see what I’m getting at. Dorina as a link between you and me I don’t mind; Dorina as a link between Latimer and me would be infernally dangerous.”

  Menalin shrugged his shoulders.

  “I fear it is a possibility that you’ve got to consider,” he remarked shortly.

  The two men stared at one another.

  “Moreover,” continued Menalin, “should it prove to be so, your pleasant conceit that you resemble Caesar’s wife rather goes by the board. You’d better get Drummond, Burton, dead or alive. And now I think I shall follow that young man’s example and go and have a bath.”

  “I will show you your room,” said his host, leading the way up the stairs.

  And once again, pressed against the window beside the front door, there appeared for a second the face of a man.

  X. — LIMERICK BY ALGY

  It cannot be said that the evening was a success. Some ten people from the neighbourhood came in for dinner, but though Charles Burton’s chef was as famous as his cellar, conversation flagged. And the fault lay in the host himself.

  This sudden disclosure on the part of Menalin had upset him more than he cared to admit It had transported him from a mood of absolute confidence and security into one of doubt and uneasiness. He had returned to the subject in Menalin’s room, and though the Russian had told him that he was almost sure Madame Pélain had not seen Dorina in the Negresco there was an element of uncertainty about the matter which worried him.

  At the time he had been doubtful as to the wisdom of taking such a singularly striking woman to the Golden Boot. But she was a lady who possessed a very decided will of her own, and when she expressed a wish to go there he had agreed. And the fact that Drummond should have selected that particular night to go there himself, was one of those chances which no one could legislate for.

  Then a further disquieting thought occurred to his mind—one, which oddly enough had not struck him before. Was it chance that had taken Drummond that night? The interview with Talbot must have taken place before he arrived at the Golden Boot. Was it possible that some deeper motive had caused his presence at the night club? If so, it meant that Talbot had suspected him then.

  He ran over the chain of events from Latimer’s arrival in Paris to his death on board. From the moment he had left the Gare de Lyon he had never been out of observation. He had put through a call to London, but it had been so short that it was out of the question that anything really incriminating could have been mentioned. And that was confirmed by the fact that nothing had subsequently happened. For although there was no mention of him by name on the papers in Latimer’s possession there was a very vital clue to his present activities. And had that come out Charles Burton would have known about it at once; the police would have been buzzing like a hive of bees.

  The same thing applied to the letter which, so Menalin told him, Standish had written to Talbot from Cannes. Though it was most improbable that a man like Latimer could have passed on valuable information to a woman he had only known a fortnight, it was possible. In which case Madame Pélain would have passed it on to Standish, and it would have been in the letter—a letter which, though Talbot himself never received it, must have been opened by somebody else. In short, he was convinced that the contents of the papers had not been passed on; Latimer’s death had ensured that.

  Once more his thoughts reverted to Drummond’s presence at the Golden Boot. And with growing irritation he realised all that it might entail if Drummond with the help of Madame Pélain, had realised that the woman of Chez Paquay was the woman who had been with him that night. True, there could be no question of proof; Latimer had died of natural causes. They could exhume him till they were black in the face; they would find no trace of anything. But they might suspect, and he did not want suspicion. No one desired to blush unseen for the next few weeks more fervently than did Charles Burton.

  An abstemious man as a rule, tonight he was drinking more than usual. And after a while the champagne began to take effect. He was worrying unnecessarily; what could Drummond do anyway? The instant he showed up in England he was a doomed man; if he was still in France the police were bound to get him sooner or later and then Menalin would do the rest.

  A sudden sentence caught his ear; they were discussing the murder of Colonel Talbot.

  “A dastardly outrage,” cried a retired general. “I’ve known Harry Talbot since we were subalterns together. Member of my club. And that he should have been murdered in cold blood in broad daylight in the middle of the Park reveals a scandalous state of affairs. You might expect it with gangsters in America, but that it should happen in London is simply unbelievable.”

  For the fraction of a second he caught Menalin’s eye; that, too, had been a well-planned bit of work. And even if he had not been fortified by his own excellent champagne, he knew that no shadow of suspicion could attach to him over that. The orders had passed through too many channels for him ever to be traced.

  And it had been necessary—or, at any rate, expedient. Talbot had been far too clever and able a man to leave alive. But for Latimer he might have risked it; as things stood, it had been impossible. And so…

  “I beg your pardon.”

  He suddenly became aware that his prospective father-in-law was in vocal labour.

  “What do you think of the state of affairs, Burton? You’re one of these international financial fellahs. Any chance of another war?”

  “Perhaps my friend, Mr. Menalin, is better informed than I am, Sir George,” he murmured.

  With an effort the worthy baronet shifted his focus. “Of course, of course,” he grunted. “Well, sir—what do you think?”

  “It is an interesting field of thought,” answered Menalin. “So much depends on the chef.”

  “The chef!” spluttered Sir George. “’Fraid I don’t quite get you.”

  “Liver, my dear sir; liver. Have you never realised the appalling danger of a dictator with too much bile?”

  “Deuced good. ’Pon my soul—that’s deuced clever. Must get that off at the club.”

  “Where the members will be greatly edified, no doubt,” said Menalin with a smile. “Seriously though, has it never occurred to you, that the ordinary factors which used to govern international relations are quite dead today? War used to creak into being; next time it will flash. Hence the danger of a bad egg at a crucial moment. And now most moments are crucial.”

  “Horrible,” shuddered Algy. “You make me go all goosey. Me for the bottom of a disused well.”

  “It would be hard to think of a more suitable place for you, Mr. Longworth,” remarked Lady Castledon acidly.

  “Anyway, mother,” cried Molly Castledon, “he got a bar to his Military Cross. Don’t look sheeplike, Algy; I know you did. What did you get it for?”

  “Saving the rum at divisional headquarters, darling. But joking apart, Mr. Menalin, do you really think we’re going to get all hot and bothered again?”

  “I am not a prophet, Mr. Longworth. All I say is that when supreme power over a nation is vested in one man the situation is dangerous. And you must admit that your country has not gone out of its way to ease it. Actuated doubtless by the highest motives you have, as your first contribution, successfully turned an old friend into a bitter enemy without achieving the slightest result…”

  “A moral one surely,” remarked the vicar.

  “Assuredly,” agreed Menalin with a smile. “But hardly in the way you think. Had you closed the Suez Canal you would, at any rate, have done something, even if it was only to start a European war. But doing what you did do in the sacred name of justice produced, if I may say so, one of the most Gilbertian situations of recent centuries. That is why I said that the moral result was hardly what you intended. The benefit was entirely to Italy.”

  “Don
’t hold with sanctions,” grunted the general. “Damn foolishness. For all that I don’t quite follow you, Mr.—er—Mr. Menalin.”

  “And yet, General, it is very simple. At the beginning the Abyssinian war was intensely unpopular in Italy, except among a minority of hot-headed boys. And then the League applied sanctions. Immediately the war became a crusade—not against the Abyssinians, but against what the Italians considered injustice. The entire country closed up; every dissentient voice was stilled. A united nation with a common ideal came into being as a result of your action. And the fact that it was the unfortunate Ethiopians who were left to carry the baby was, of course, nobody’s business.”

  “Rather a novel way of looking at it,” remarked Sir George,

  “My dear sir, I should have thought it was obvious. True, I know Italy better, perhaps, than most of you here, but even without that knowledge it is difficult to see how anyone could have expected a different result. You may take it from me that the powers that be in that country mention you with gratitude in their prayers every night. To keep up appearances they have to pretend you are the villain in the piece, and the hoi polloi believe it. But in reality you have saved them at what one must admit was a trifling cost. You only ruined two or three of your own fishing centres, and caused a coal mine or two in Wales to close down. In fact, I don’t suppose helping Italy to win the war has cost you more than six or seven millions.”

  “Do you suggest that we should have stood aside and done nothing?” demanded the vicar.

  “I fear, sir,” said Menalin, “that I am a practical man. Until this world becomes Utopia, judgment goes by results. And when I see a policy pursued, from no matter what exalted motives, that produces the result your policy did I can only sit back and thank Heaven that the balance sheets of my companies are compiled by business men. Would you excuse me, Burton?”

  A footman was standing beside him with a telegram on a salver.

  “The worst of being one of those unfortunate individuals—business men,” he murmured to the woman on his right as he opened the envelope. And as he read the contents two pairs of eyes were unobtrusively fastened on him. One pair belonged to his host; the other to a guest who wore an eyeglass. And it seemed to Algy that for the fraction of a second, Menalin’s face registered uneasiness. However, as he thrust the wire in his pocket and turned to his neighbour his expression was as impassive as ever.

  To Algy the entire party was becoming like a dream. Numbed by the two women he was sitting between, and who mercifully were discussing county affairs with their other partners, he felt a curious sense of detachment. Here, seated round Burton’s table, was gathered a group of people who, save for a difference in clothes, might have been sitting there fifty years ago. To them England was England—a thing as constant as the sun itself. That anything serious could really happen to their country literally never entered their heads. Other nations might bicker and fight, have revolutions, don different-coloured shirts—but not England. The whole thing was rather vulgar and ridiculous.

  And since Algy was born and bred in the same caste himself he understood their point of view. Understood, too, the veiled hostility engendered in all of them by Menalin’s remarks. For whatever criticisms they might feel disposed to make on their country’s actions themselves, it was a totally different matter for a foreigner. Any disparagement from an outsider was sufficient to unite the most rabid enemies against the common foe.

  He stole a glance at Menalin, who was apparently engrossed in conversation with the general’s wife. Was it possible that behind that inscrutable mask some amazing plot was being hatched that threatened the very foundations of their life, so far as the rest of the party was concerned? It seemed fantastic, and yet Hugh Drummond was not in the habit of making fantastic statements.

  “Sweet, sir?”

  He looked up; a footman was offering him a dish—a footman who stared him straight in the face and then gave the barest perceptible wink.

  “Your napkin is on the floor, sir,” murmured the man and passed on.

  It was a prophecy, if not a fact. A moment later it was on the floor, covering a twisted scrap of paper; two moments later the napkin was restored to its proper position and the floor was bare.

  Not in vain had been Drummond’s teaching; Algy’s face, as he unrolled the message under cover of the table, was more asinine than usual. But no one had noticed anything; conversation was still general.

  He straightened out the note, and glancing down he recognised the writing with a sudden thrill.

  “Mention island of Varda. Get reactions B. and M.—HUD.”

  So ran the note; concise and to the point. But, Algy reflected, as he put it in his pocket, not the easiest order ever. A: he had never heard of the darned place. B: suddenly to interject a remark about Varda in the middle of a description of last Tuesday’s hunt might cause aspersions to be cast on his sanity. However, it had to be done, and that was that. So Algy came out of his stupor, and gave his celebrated imitation of a horse neighing.

  In his usual haunts it was a certain winner; on this occasion the effect was electrical. A dead silence settled on the room and everyone stared at him.

  “Molly, my angel,” he burbled, “I’ve got it.”

  “Got what, you fathead?”

  “The last line of that limerick, darling. The one we were trying before dinner. Not your sort, Lady Castledon. This one is quite proper. And one gets a guinea for the best effort. Hence my recent silence; my brain had been in action.”

  He beamed genially on the company.

  “There was a young lady called Mahda

  Who had hidden her stays in the lahda

  When asked to explain

  She said it might rain—

  “Now here’s my effort:

  “I’m going back to the island of Vahda.

  “Pretty hot that—what? I suppose,” he added anxiously, “there is an island called Vahda.”

  “Have you been drinking too much, Mr. Longworth?” remarked Lady Castledon ominously.

  “Of course. I always do. But I haven’t reached the Plimsoll line yet. You know—half-way up the tonsils. Well, people, what do you think of it?”

  He gazed round hopefully.

  “No bon! No guinea! Tum-tum-ti-ti-tum-ti-ti-tum-tum. I think it’s dashed good myself. Witty; cryptic; neat. What say you, old host?”

  “I had no idea you were so accomplished, Mr. Longworth,” said Burton suavely. “I should think it will certainly win the prize.”

  “There you are, Molly, my dear,” remarked Algy complacently. “You can put your shirt on little Algy every time.”

  “And in what paper is that interesting competition?” asked Burton.

  “Not one that you’re ever likely to see, Charles,” said Molly calmly. “A fashion paper, my poor dear, which gives you patterns for garments no nice girl ever mentions. Personally, Algy, I think it’s a rotten line.”

  “Take it or leave it, my child,” said Algy airily. “Possibly it wants a bit of polishing, but the basic idea is good. Don’t you agree?”

  He turned to his dinner partner who was regarding him dispassionately through lorgnettes.

  “Are you by any chance mental?” she asked with interest.

  “Only at high tide; then I bark like a dog. My grandmother was the same, only she carried it further and bit people in the leg, until she had finally to go about on a lead, poor old soul.”

  “It seems a great pity that you don’t follow your grandmother’s example,” she remarked acidly.

  With relief he contemplated a bony shoulder blade; evidently the only reaction felt by the guests was that he was half-witted. But what about Menalin and his host? Had he been too damned stupid?

  That he had succeeded beyond his wildest expectations was beside the point. The reaction of the two men had stuck out a yard, though it had passed in a flash. Menalin had stiffened like a pointer marking a bird, only to relax instantly; Burton had given an unmistakable start.
So he had carried out Drummond’s order all right. But did they suspect him?

  Another thing; where was Drummond? Presumably somewhere in the neighbourhood since he had got a note through to the footman. And who was the footman?

  Algy glanced at him; he had never seen the man before in his life. But that he was in the show on their side was obvious. And presumably it would have to be through him that he’d get the answer back to Drummond. Which might be difficult unless he was the footman who was valeting him.

  His clothes had been laid out that evening when he went up to dress, so he didn’t know who was looking after him. And he would not know, in all probability until the following morning when he was called.

  Came a sudden pushing back of chairs and the ladies rose to leave the room. For a second he caught Molly’s eye; what a girl! How marvellously she had played up, with her yarn about a fashion paper! And then the door closed and the men were left alone.

  It came as no surprise to him when Menalin rose and, coming round the table, took the next chair.

  “Do you often indulge in these poetical flights, Mr. Longworth?” he asked with a smile.

  “Rather,” cried Algy. “Must do something, don’t you know, to keep the old grey matter up to scratch.”

  He was conscious that the other man was watching him like a lynx, but in his own particular line Algy was unbeatable. No man living could look such a completely congenital idiot at will.

  “Quite,” murmured Menalin. “A very praiseworthy idea. But tell me, Mr. Longworth—I ask out of idle curiosity—why did you select the letter V? You might have had Garda, or Sarda, or Tarda, which would all have rhymed equally brilliantly. Why Varda?”

  “’Pon my soul,” cried Algy. “I never thought of that.”

  He gazed at Menalin with rising excitement.

  “I believe Garda is better. Much better. You see, you get a play on the words. By Jove! you’re a genius—a blinking marvel. In the second line there’s that snappy bit about her stays in the lahda. You remember that!”