The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “Yes, thank you,” said Menalin.

  “Well now, that’s where your notion hits the roof. Garda sounds very like garta. So you’ve got stays and garter. Gad! I must remember that. If that doesn’t knock ’em for the count, nothing will. I say,” he asked anxiously, “you haven’t any objection to my using your idea, have you?”

  “Not the smallest,” Menalin assured him.

  “Well, I call it deuced sporting of you,” said Algy with feeling. “I don’t mind telling you that there are mighty few fellahs who wouldn’t insist on fifty-fifty. But I tell you what I will do though. I mean fair play’s a jewel and all that sort of bilge. Now have you heard the story of the charwoman who had tripe for dinner I say, don’t go, old friend. That story is an absolute wow.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, Mr. Longworth,” said Menalin grimly. “At the moment I fear it might prove too much for me.”

  “Well, well,” murmured Algy resignedly, as he watched Menalin take a vacant chair by his host, “this doesn’t seem to be Algy’s night out.”

  “What did you say?” grunted the man on his other side.

  “An airy nothing,” answered Algy, “tossed into the port-laden atmosphere. I say, what do you think would happen if we started to flick bread pellets at the General?”

  “Bread pellets at the General! Good Gad I sir—are you mad? Are you aware that his coverts march with mine.”

  With an effort Algy controlled his face; he was beginning to enjoy himself.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “How d’you mean—where to?”

  “Where do they march to? And do they have a band?”

  His neighbour swallowed twice.

  “Coverts, sir, are woods. And the phrase ‘march’ means that his land adjoins mine.”

  “Oh! I see,” said Algy. “My father has a wood on his land…Near Wigan…”

  “Indeed! Does he preserve? Birds, I mean—not jam.”

  “Rather…I shot some starlings there the other day…And a fox…We’ve got its tail hanging up in the downstairs lavatory.”

  For a space there was silence, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing Then:

  “You shot a fox! Tail! By God sir, where were you dragged up?”

  “It was a lady fox, too,” said Algy hopefully.

  “Lady fox! Lady fox! By Heavens, sir, you ought to be in prison.”

  “What’s the matter, John?” called out the General. “You seem excited.”

  “Excited, Henry—excited! So would you be. Are you aware that this—this gentleman has just told me that he shot a vixen—I beg his pardon, a lady fox—the other day and that her tail—her tail, mark you—is hanging in the downstairs lavatory.”

  The General took it in slowly.

  “Deuced bad form, my dear John,” he remarked at length, “deuced bad. But these boys know no better. Gad, young man, it’s a good thing for you that you weren’t in Poona in ’eighty-three. Or was it ’eighty-four? Old Shirty Ramsbotham would have put the wind up you. Damn’ good fellow—Shirty,” he added reminiscently. “Used to eat wineglasses after mess.”

  “Why?” asked Algy brightly.

  “Why!” The General glared at him. “Confound you, sir; what d’you mean—why? Just to show you that he could, of course…Why!”

  He subsided into a heavy rumble of disgust, and Algy viewed him with alarm.

  “Have I said the wrong thing?” he murmured to his neighbour.

  “Have you ever said the right?” answered that worthy witheringly, and at that moment Burton rose.

  “Shall we join the ladies?” he remarked to the room at large. “Hope you found the port to your liking, General.”

  “Very good, Burton. Excellent. Wish I could say the same of your guests,” he added darkly.

  The disgruntled warrior hoisted himself to his feet, and moved towards the door.

  “We’ll have our coffee and brandy in the hall,” continued Burton.

  It was at that moment that Algy caught the footman’s eye. He had suddenly appeared, and was standing in such a position that Algy would have to pass close to him. And as he got abreast of him, having lagged a little behind the others, he heard a whisper; “Your room; ten-thirty.”

  Algy glanced at the clock; just a quarter-past ten. Presumably the zoo would break up about eleven; until then would it be safe to talk to Molly? Must keep up the fiction about the limerick, of course, but they’d better not seem too matey…Just in case…

  She was sitting by herself near the fireplace and he strolled over to her.

  “Grand idea, my pet, about the limerick,” he announced. “Straight from the horse’s mouth. Not Varda, but Garda.”

  He was conscious that Burton was watching them.

  “Mr. Menalin’s own,” he continued. “You see the great notion. Garda—garter. Pretty hot—what?”

  “You complete idiot,” she laughed. And then without altering her voice: “What on earth is the game? Careful, Algy.”

  “Send it up tomorrow,” he said. “Right-ho, my dear. Don’t worry.”

  “What would be a good thing to do?” remarked Burton as he joined them. “Invent more limericks? It seems to be Longworth’s strong point.”

  A burst of laughter came from the other side of the hall, and the words “lady fox” and “tail” floated across.

  “You’re entertaining a real sportsman unawares, Burton,” said Algy’s dinner neighbour coming over. “He tells us he’s just shot a lady fox in his father’s wood and hung the tail in the—er—hung it downstairs.”

  For a moment there was silence, while Burton stared at Algy through narrowed eyes.

  “Really,” he remarked softly. “Now I wonder why you said that, Longworth.”

  Inwardly Algy was cursing; he had been a fool to go so far. Actually he had completely forgotten that Burton hunted in the shires himself. But his face remained its usual vacant self.

  “Bit of a leg-pull, old host,” he burbled genially. “Wanted to see if anyone would have apoplexy. And this sportsman damn near did.”

  “What do you mean?” The harbinger of bon mots had got even redder in the face.

  “Merely, my dear Livermore,” said Burton quietly, “that it seems a peculiar pastime for a man who hunts with the Pytchley.”

  He turned away, leaving Mr. Livermore gasping like a fish.

  “Deuced good!” he said at length. “You had me that time, Mr.—er—Mr.—”

  “Longworth,” remarked Algy politely. “Algernon to my friends.”

  He took out his cigarette case from which he had taken the precaution to remove the cigarettes.

  “Dash!” he murmured. “Must go up to my room. No, thank you, Mr. Livermore; I only smoke my own poison.”

  He crossed the hall, and began to mount the stairs. Burton and Menalin were both engaged in conversation with different people, and there was no one in sight as he opened the door of his room. The footman was laying out his pyjamas.

  “Who are you?” said Algy quickly.

  “Talbot. It was my father they murdered. I got special leave and shaved my moustache.”

  Algy whistled.

  “How the devil did you get in here?”

  “Drummond fixed it. By God! that man would fix anything. Burton was advertising for another footman, and Drummond arranged it somehow.”

  “Where is the old scout?”

  “Don’t know. But he’s somewhere about. Saw him this evening. Listen for you mustn’t be too long. First, I was to tell you that Standish has escaped.”

  Once again Algy whistled.

  “I wonder if that’s the wire Menalin got at dinner. It shook him—that message.”

  “It may have been. Second, this Varda business. Incidentally I darned near dropped the whole outfit with laughing over that limerick. What’s your report?

  “They both definitely reacted,” said Algy.

  “I agree. Quite definitely.”

  “Where is the blasted place? I’
ve never even heard of it.”

  “No more have I. For that matter no more had Drummond when he gave me that note to give you. But you’re to insert an advertisement in the Morning Post as to the reaction.”

  “Can’t get it in till Tuesday’s issue,” said Algy. “However, that’s O.K.”

  “Third. You’re to go to the Golden Boot on Monday night, and see one Alice Blackton.”

  “Right. Anything more—for I must go downstairs again?”

  “No—that’s the lot.”

  “And you don’t know where Hugh is? Drummond, I mean.”

  Talbot shook his head.

  “My hat What a man!” he cried.

  “You’re telling me,” said Algy. “By the way what’s your name here?”

  “Simpson. Henry Simpson.”

  “Are you looking after me?”

  “Yes.”

  “A new job for you, Henry,” grinned Algy. “And I don’t mind warning you, old lad, that you won’t get fat on your tip.”

  He crammed some cigarettes into his case and sauntered out of the room. The passage was still deserted; no one appeared to have moved in the hall. In fact his absence seemed to have passed unnoticed. And a few minutes later, to his intense relief, signs of a general departure began to manifest themselves.

  “Don’t overdo the village idiot stuff,” came a low voice in his ear. “I don’t think dear Charles is amused.”

  Molly Castledon drifted on past him, but he had got her warning. And she was right; he knew that. Neither Burton nor Menalin were gentlemen with whom to run unnecessary risks. And he had no desire to share Latimer’s and Talbot’s fate.

  Not that anything was likely to happen to him in that house; Burton would hardly dare to do anything actually on his own property. But the week-end would not last for ever, and after that it would be a very different matter.

  The last guests had gone as he crossed to the drinks table and helped himself to a whisky and soda. Molly had disappeared, and so had Burton. Menalin had been buttonholed by Sir George, and was regarding him with intense disfavour. So that an imperative summons from an armchair near the fire came as no surprise.

  “Mr. Longworth,” boomed Lady Castledon, “come here. I wish to speak to you. I have noticed,” continued the voice as he approached the presence, “with great disapproval, your habit of addressing my daughter by such titles as ‘darling’ and ‘angel.’ In public too. Tonight, for instance, at dinner, when you produced that idiotic and vulgar limerick—was a case in point. Kindly understand that it must cease at once.”

  “It will break her virginal heart,” said Algy sorrowfully. “So is it fair? Is it just? Has she done anything to deserve such cruel punishment? I beg—nay, I implore you—as her mother, not to let the poor child think that she has incurred my displeasure. If she puts her head in a gas oven it will be your fault.”

  Lady Castledon rose majestically.

  “George,” she remarked, “I am going to bed. I will leave you to deal with this case of arrested mental development.”

  “Certainly, my love, certainly.”

  “And remember what I said, Mr. Longworth. Good night, Mr. Menalin.”

  The Russian bowed, and at that moment Molly came in from the billiard-room. Her face was slightly flushed and there was an ominous glint in her eyes.

  “Going to bed, mother? I think I’ll come too. Night-night, Algy.”

  “Too-te-loo, scab face. Mind you wash under the ears.”

  “What did you call me?” demanded the girl, pausing at the foot of the stairs.

  “Mother’s orders, my pet. She doesn’t like me calling you ‘darling.’”

  He was looking at her closely; something had evidently upset her.

  “Now pop up and lower your Glaxo like a good girl,” he continued. “And then Algy will come and kiss you good night.”

  And even as he spoke there came from some way off, though perfectly clear and distinct, a sudden cry of “Help.”

  CHAPTER XI

  THE SLEEPWALKER

  For a moment there was silence. Lady Castledon had disappeared, and Molly, one hand on the banisters, stood staring at Algy.

  “What was that?” cried Sir George. “Sounded like someone shouting.”

  “It did,” agreed Menalin. “I wonder where our host is.”

  Not a muscle in his face had moved; hearing calls for help might have been part of his daily routine.

  “We must renew our discussion tomorrow, Sir George,” he continued, lighting a cigarette.

  “Yes; but oughtn’t we to do something about that shout?” said the baronet uneasily.

  “I feel sure that Burton…Ah! here he is. What’s the trouble, Charles? We heard a cry a few moments ago.”

  “Please don’t be alarmed,” said Burton. “No damage done. One of the men who looks after the electric-light plant got his hand jammed. But no bones broken, I’m glad to say.”

  “That’s good,” cried Sir George. “Well, I think I’m going to bed. Good night, my dear fellow; good Right. Are you coming, Molly?”

  He went up the stairs with his daughter, whilst Algy crossed to the drinks and helped himself to another whisky. That Burton was lying he felt convinced; you don’t get your hand jammed in an engine and have no damage done. So who was it who had shouted, and why?

  “Do you hit the old golf ball, Mr. Menalin?” he asked casually, as he resumed his position by the fire.

  “I fear I do not,” said the Russian.

  “A pity. Darned good links those, Burton. Absolutely first-class. We might have a round tomorrow if you feel like it.”

  “I’m afraid I shall be too busy, Longworth. But doubtless you’ll be able to fix up a game.”

  “I’ll have a dip at it,” he answered. “Perhaps Molly would care for a return.”

  The two men were standing, one on each side of him, and in spite of himself he found that his pulse was going a little quicker. Not that they could do anything to him—such an idea was absurd. But with his knowledge of what Drummond had told him, he rather wished they were not quite so adjacent.

  “Longworth,” said Burton abruptly, “both Mr. Menalin and I are a little worried over what I am sure is a small thing. That limerick of yours. Now what was it that made you think of the island of Varda?”

  Algy stared at him blankly.

  “It rhymed, old host; that’s all. And now we’re not using it; it’s Garda, thanks to Mr. Menalin. But anyway, why should you be worried? I mean, is there anything particularly fruity over the island of Varda, wherever it is?”

  “Only this. Very few people know of its existence, and we discovered it quite by accident when cruising in Mr. Menalin’s yacht. We were immediately struck by its immense possibilities as a health resort—it’s a second Madeira. And amongst some other activities we are floating a company for its development. Which brings me to the point. As you will naturally understand, the fewer people who know about it, with matters in their present stage, the better. And what we feared was that you might have heard the scheme being discussed owing to some leakage, and that that had put the name into your head.”

  “Good Lord, no!” cried Algy. “Never heard of the bally place in my life. Rest easy in your beds, my jolly old financial magnates. Your secret is locked in my bosom. All I ask is that the bridal suite should be reserved for me when you open.”

  He yawned cavernously, and put down his glass.

  “Well—I’m for bed. And tomorrow, refreshed and invigorated by a night of dreamless sleep, we will all dance a merry roundelay in the garden before breakfast.”

  He strolled up the stairs and paused at the top.

  “I must warn you of one thing, chaps; I sing in my bath.”

  He disappeared, and the two men stared at one another.

  “I suppose,” said Menalin thoughtfully, “that he really is not quite all there. Though why,” he continued irritably, “you should have asked any of these unbelievable individuals at all passes my comprehensi
on. The girl’s the only possible one and it struck me that you weren’t getting on quite as well as might be expected in that quarter.”

  Burton flushed at the sneer, but said nothing.

  “What actually was that shout?” continued Menalin.

  “He’d slipped his gag somehow and got in one cry before they stopped him.”

  “I see. Well, my friend, this is disquieting news about Standish.”

  “It doesn’t reflect too well on your staff work out there,” said Burton, getting some of his own back. “Have you heard how it happened?”

  “Only the bare detail that he has escaped. Do not worry; he will not get far. And even if he does he knows nothing. I am much more concerned about Drummond. I have heard something new, Burton, which I have had no chance to pass on to you as yet. Tosco was in my room before dinner and told me.”

  “I didn’t even know he’d arrived,” said Burton. “What is this news?”

  “It concerns the murder of Maier in Territet,” went on Menalin. “Apparently Tosco managed to get into communication with our agents who, as you know, were arrested. And from them he got a description of the two men who were in the house when they returned. It appears that they were both English, and that one of them was a big, strong man who was remarkably ugly. It was he who knocked out Number ten as if he’d been pole-axed.”

  “You mean it might have been Drummond.”

  “Exactly. We know that Standish was making for the Lake of Geneva; isn’t it more than likely that Drummond did the same? And that Drummond got into Switzerland whilst Standish didn’t?”

  Burton nodded thoughtfully.

  “In which case any chance of catching Drummond in France may be eliminated. He would naturally return to England via Germany and Holland.”

  “That is so,” agreed Burton.

  “Moreover, he will have brought with him Maier’s model, which as you know was missing.”

  “Why should he?” demanded Burton. “For that matter why should he go to Maier’s house at all?”

  “On the face of it—quite true. And I don’t say for a moment that it was Drummond. But if it was the affair is disquieting. Not so much that Maier is dead, and the model missing, but because it reveals a knowledge of certain parts of our organisation which I had not suspected the other side possessed. Who put them on to Maier in the first place?”