The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  Talbot grinned.

  “As your lordship wishes. Shall I carry in the ducal loofah?”

  “Go to hell,” said Algy amiably. “You’re a foul valet, and if the water isn’t the right temperature I shall report you to that pompous-stomached butler.”

  The male members of the party were already down when he arrived for breakfast an hour later.

  “Good morrow, my dear old proprietor and fellow guests,” he burbled, wandering over to the hot plate on a tour of inspection. “What is the popular line in nourishment?”

  “Eggs in silence,” said Burton. “You’ll find papers on the sideboard.”

  “Eggs in silence!” Algy guffawed. “By Jove I That’s good; I must remember that one.”

  He glanced sideways as the door opened and Molly came in.

  “Good morning, Miss Castledon.” He bowed deeply and realised that not for nothing did she pass her hand wearily over her forehead, and give him the barest suspicion of a wink. “We are in great heart, are we?”

  “Please don’t get up.” She turned to the others who had risen. “Not very great, Algy.”

  “My angel—you shake me to the core. What ails thee?”

  “I had the most extraordinary vivid dream last night,” she said.

  “Really.” Burton looked at her solicitously. “Nothing to do with the dinner, I hope.”

  “It was about you,” she went on. “And Mr. Menalin. You were in a room which had a big table in it, and there were six other men with you. There were chairs round the table, and a lot of papers scattered on it. And you were all standing up and looking at me. I know it all sounds very stupid and ordinary, but it was so vivid that it might have been real.”

  “Not at all stupid, Miss Castledon,” said Menalin. “In fact very interesting. And I’ll tell you why in a minute. Was that all you saw in the room?”

  “No. There was a man asleep on the sofa.”

  “Very interesting,” repeated Menalin. “Isn’t it, Charles?”

  Burton nodded and the girl looked in bewilderment from one to the other.

  “What do you mean?” she said at length.

  “Because it wasn’t a dream, Miss Castledon,” answered Menalin. “Tell me, do you often walk in your sleep?”

  “No. I don’t, do I, Daddy?”

  “What’s this? What’s this?” Sir George came out from behind his paper with a start. “Walk in your sleep! You haven’t since you were a child.”

  “She did last night, Sir George,” said Burton. “We were having a business conference which lasted rather late, and suddenly the door opened and your daughter came in. I’d never seen a case of sleepwalking before; in fact none of us had. But she went quite peacefully back to her room and never woke at all.”

  “God bless my soul!” cried the startled baronet. “You don’t say so. She used to do it when she was small, but she hasn’t for years.”

  “And why I said it was interesting,” remarked Menalin, “was that Burton and I had a little argument as to how much anyone in that condition really sees. From what Miss Castledon tells us, everything is imprinted on the brain, just like a camera exposure.”

  “You mean to say that it really was you I saw last night?” cried Molly.

  “Undoubtedly,” said Menalin. “And our host. And the six other men. And the man asleep on the sofa.”

  “Then that probably accounts for my feeling so tired this morning,” she said. “You poor people! I’m sorry I was such a nuisance.”

  “A very charming one, at any rate,” laughed Menalin. “I wish we could always have such delightful interruptions to prosaic business meetings.”

  “Do you feel up to golf, old thing?” asked Algy.

  “Rather. Of course I do. Ring up for caddies. You see, Algy,” she said half an hour later as they swung out of the drive in his car, “I thought it was safer to take the bull by the horns. Telling the whole thing like that, and looking a bit washed-out ought to dispel any possible suspicion. And in view of everything, it’s advisable.”

  “My dear!” he cried enthusiastically, “you were superb. I watched the whole thing through the window.” He glanced at her as he spoke. “What’s the matter, kid? In view of everything…Is there…”

  She was staring straight in front of her.

  “There was one moment, Algy, when I nearly gave the whole show away.”

  “Was there? When?”

  “The man who was asleep on the sofa…”

  “What about him?”

  “He wasn’t asleep. He was dead.”

  CHAPTER XII

  CADDIE MOST FOUL

  Algy pulled into the side of the road and stopped the car.

  “What is that you said?” he asked very quietly.

  “I said that the man lying on the sofa was not asleep. He was dead.”

  “Look here, dear,” he continued. “I don’t want you to think I’m being stupid or unbelieving. But this is serious. Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Have you ever seen a dead man?”

  “No. Not till last night.”

  “And you’re quite certain he wasn’t asleep?”

  “A man breathes when he’s asleep, doesn’t he, Algy? He doesn’t lie motionless with his mouth open, and his eyes wide and staring…Oh! God, I nearly screamed.”

  “May He be praised that you didn’t,” said Algy gravely. “You wouldn’t have been here now if you had, Molly; nor would Talbot, nor would I.”

  He lit a cigarette and leaned forward over the steering-wheel.

  “What did they kill for, Algy?” she cried.

  “Ask me another,” he said. “Same as you can over everything connected with this show. He was probably the poor blighter we heard shout for help earlier on.”

  All around them stretched the floods, the water lapping idly against the sides of the road.

  “You do believe me, don’t you?” she cried.

  “Yes, my dear, I do—in view of what we know of these gentlemen. The point is—what to do?”

  There came the faint swish of a bicycle approaching from behind, and a man rode slowly past them.

  “Get on, Algy, you fool,” said a well-known voice. “You’re in sight of the house. Go to the golf club. Play a round. Look out for me there.”

  As silently as he had come the cyclist departed, without even having turned his head. And as they overtook him again half a minute later, a typical caddie was still bicycling stoically along the road towards the links.

  “Who was that?” gasped the girl.

  “Hugh Drummond,” said Algy shortly. “I would make an idiot mistake like that.”

  “But I don’t see what was wrong,” she cried.

  “Darling,” he said, “you don’t see what was wrong, because you don’t know what we’re up against. Why should we stop and talk in the middle of a ruddy lake, unless we had something very important to discuss, especially as ostensibly we’re on our way to play golf? We’re fighting a gang of utterly unscrupulous men, and once let them think that we’re in collusion, it’s all U P.”

  “So that was the mysterious Captain Drummond,” she said after a pause. “I want to meet him.”

  “You evidently will—this morning. But don’t forget that so far as you are concerned he’s just an unknown man of the caddie type. This is a game of no mistakes, Molly, in spite of the fact that I’ve just made a crasher.”

  There were some twenty cars parked when they arrived, and Algy, taking out the two bags, walked over to the pro’s shop.

  “Bit short this morning, sir, I’m afraid,” remarked that worthy. “There’s a match on. I can manage one caddie for the lady, but…”

  “Excellent,” said Algy casually. “If anyone else turns up send him out to me.”

  A bit of luck, he reflected as he strolled over to the club house…Left Hugh to do as he liked…

  His eyes narrowed; coming up the road was a car he knew well—Charles Burton’s. And the owner was inside.


  “Changed your mind?” he called out as the car stopped. “Come and play a three ball.”

  “No, thank you,” answered Burton. “I’ve only come up to see the secretary, and get my clubs.”

  Algy wandered into the bar looking thoughtful. On the face of it Burton might have telephoned the secretary and asked Algy to bring back his clubs. So was that the real reason that had brought his host here, or was it to make sure the golf was genuine? And at that moment he noticed the group by the bar; Peter Darrell, Ted Jerningham, Toby Sinclair—the whole of Drummond’s gang. Moreover, everyone of them glanced at him as if he was a stranger…The game was beginning in earnest. He ordered a pint of beer, and stood leaning up against the bar and almost touching Peter Darrell.

  “Quid corners, boys?” Peter was saying.

  “Goes with me,” answered Jerningham.

  “By the way, steward,” went on Peter, “is there any good hotel near-by where we could put up for the night?”

  “Yes, sir. Two or three. I can give you the names if you like.”

  Algy strolled over to the window; certainly the game was beginning. And as he looked out, he saw Drummond standing by the caddie master’s but shouldering his bag of clubs.

  “Steward,” he called out, “would you telephone through to the professional and ask him to give my caddie a couple of Bromfolds. Hud something or other is his name.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The steward turned away, and for an instant the eyes of all of them met. Then Algy put down his tankard and went out into the hall to find Charles Burton talking to Molly.

  “Come on, you boozing hound,” she cried. “I don’t believe you’ve even got a ball down.”

  “I hope you have a good game,” said Burton politely.

  “Sorry you won’t make a three ball, old host.” The door had flung open behind him and the others were coming out of the bar. “Come on, Molly. I’ve got a caddie after all.”

  “Algy,” she said as they walked to the tee, “wasn’t that Ted Jerningham I saw in the hall?”

  “It was,” he answered.

  “Why did he look straight at me and cut me dead?”

  “Because I got in ‘old host’ just in time,” grinned Algy. “You wouldn’t have thought, would you, that I’d known the whole crowd for fifteen years?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Drummond, dear. They’re all his gang—same as I am. And you’re our latest and most priceless addition. So for today you don’t know Ted, and he doesn’t know you. See?”

  “You know,” she said happily, “I’m beginning to like this. What are they doing down here?”

  “Stopping for the night for one thing. But I’ll know more by the end of the round. Good-bye, darling. I think you’ve hooked into Kent.”

  “A grand girl, Algy,” said Drummond, as Molly and her caddie disappeared. “That show of hers last night was magnificent—simply magnificent.”

  “You saw it, did you?”

  “I was up in a tree. Did she find out anything?” He fumbled suddenly with the bag. “Bit to the right of the ’ole, sir. Gaw blimey—wot a putt!”

  “Not up to your usual form, that one, Longworth?”

  From nowhere, apparently, Charles Burton had unexpectedly materialised.

  “D’you mind if I stroll round with you for a bit?”

  “An honour, dear old boy, an honour. I admit that putt was not struck with my usual fluent form, but the round is yet young.”

  “I had an idea,” remarked Burton a little later, “that you knew Peter Darrell.”

  “Peter Darrell!” Algy frowned thoughtfully. “What do I want here, caddie?”

  “Yer driver,” answered that worthy contemptuously. “It’s more’n a ’undred yards. ’Ere—try a number five. The young laidy’s dead. Caw!” He viewed the shot dispassionately. “Wot you wants is a ’ockey stick. Now, Mr. Darrell, sir—wot this gentleman was talking abaht—he can play. Caddied for ’im, I did, sir, last Hamateur up at Prestwick. ’E ain’t down ’ere today, is he, sir?”

  “Are you speaking to me, my man?” said Burton. But Algy’s caddie was not listening; he was staring at a four ball coming up the last fairway.

  “That’s ’im,” he announced triumphantly. “That tall gent in the levver jacket. Know ’im anywhere I would, though I’ve only met ’im once or twice.”

  “When you’ve quite finished your interesting reminiscences,” said Burton coldly, “would it be too much to hope that you could keep your mouth shut for a minute or two?”

  “Sure I begs yer pardon, sir.”

  “As I was saying, Longworth, I thought you knew Darrell.”

  “Like our loquacious friend here, I have met him once or twice,” said Algy as if searching in his memory. “That’s the crowd who were in the bar, isn’t it? I thought I recognised one of them…Of course it was Darrell, now I come to think of it…Silly of me…We sort of stared at one another…Can I go yet, caddie?”

  “Yus. But you’d better not. Yer might ’it it this time.”

  The four ball had reached their tee and sat down on a bench.

  “Remember me, Mr. Darrell, sir?” Algy’s caddie touched his cap. “Caddied for you, I did, sir, last summer at Prestwick. ’Udson’s my name.”

  “Of course, Hudson. I remember you perfectly. How’s the world treating you?”

  “So-so, sir. Been ’aving a spot of trouble with me kidneys, but not too bad.”

  “Sorry about that.” Darrell got up as Algy approached him.

  “Stupid of me not to recognise you in the bar, Darrell,” said Algy. “I forgot where we met, but…”

  “So do I. And d’you know I’m ashamed to confess it, but I’ve completely forgotten your name.”

  “Longworth. We must have a spot afterwards. Can’t I go now, Hudson?”

  “Well, yer ain’t Bobby Jones, are yer? Nor Cyril Tolley. If yer keeps yer ’ead dahn for once yer might clear the rough. Cripes! That one’s killed a rabbit orl right.”

  Muttering darkly he plunged into the heather brandishing a niblick.

  “’Ere we are,” he announced morosely. “Can’t even see the perishing ball, though it don’t make no odds seeing as ’ow yer never looks at it.”

  “For God’s sake shut up, you awful mess,” muttered Algy in a shaking voice. “If I begin to laugh we’re ungummed!”

  “I didn’t realise Burton would be coming up to the club,” said Drummond. “Look out—here he is. Well aht, sir; good one, that was.”

  “Well, Longworth,” said Burton with a laugh, “if you aren’t stunned by your caddie’s verbosity, I’ll expect you both at lunch.”

  “Going back?” cried Algy. “Right ho! old host. We’ll masticate the rissoles later.”

  “By God! that bloke wants watching,” said Drummond as Burton disappeared over the rise in the direction of the club house. Then he looked across at Molly Castledon, who was searching for her ball in the rough on the left. “Tell me, Algy, did she find out anything last night?”

  “You know she was pretending to sleep-walk?”

  “Yes. Talbot told me that this morning. But what did she hear—or see?”

  “A man lying dead on the sofa,” said Algy quietly.

  “What!”

  Drummond for one second halted dead in his tracks. Then, true to his role, he ambled forward again.

  “Is she certain?”

  “Absolutely. We were discussing it when you rode past us this morning.”

  “So they’ve got him, have they?” muttered Drummond.

  “Do you know who he was?” asked Algy.

  They were converging on the green, and the girl came towards them.

  “How many have you played, Algy?” she called out.

  “Three, my love,” he answered.

  “Pretty foul player, aren’t you? D’you see the man,” she continued as she joined them, “standing by the tree at the next tee?”

  “I do,” said Algy, missing
his putt by a yard.

  “He was in the room last night. One of the six. Have I got this for it?”

  “You have, darling. Well holed: in all the way. You heard that, Hugh?”

  “I did. Gad! that girl’s a fizzer.”

  He said no more until they had topped the hill in front of the seventh tee. Behind them the watcher at the sixth green seemed to be growing a little bored, and was showing signs of following them. And then the crest of the bunker hid him from sight.

  “Listen, Algy,” said Drummond quietly, “obviously this isn’t safe. How much they suspect, I don’t know—but they suspect something. Luckily—here comes the rain. Quit your game at the next green, and go back to the club house.

  “This afternoon you have got to go to London. I will arrange for a telephone call to come through to you.”

  “Don’t forget,” put in Algy, “that there are extensions all over the place, and it’s more than likely to be tapped.”

  “Right,” said Drummond. “Molly Castledon will remain here; she’ll be perfectly safe, especially with Talbot in the house. Arrived in London you will ring up Alice Blackton and arrange to meet somewhere. That’s instead of Monday night. You’ll have to watch it; she will almost certainly be followed. And that you’ve got to dodge. You will then bring her down here.”

  “Here?” cried Algy.

  “Yes: here. Go back to the Black Horse at Storrington and await further orders. Here’s a brassie, and, for Heaven’s sake, hit it. I’ve got a lot to say yet, and this is our last chance.

  “Now,” he continued, when Algy had despatched the ball towards the green, “the situation is this. As Talbot told you, Ronald Standish has escaped. Incidentally you needn’t worry about the Morning Post; Talbot told me their reaction to the word Varda. It was Ronald who cabled me about it; he too is in ignorance of where it is. And that is what we have got to find out; so far as I can see, it is not mentioned in any atlas. Which is where Alice Blackton comes in.”

  “Does she know where it is?” asked Algy.

  “No. But she knows a man who probably does. The trouble is that, unless I’m much mistaken, that’s the man Miss Castledon saw lying dead last night.”

  Algy whistled.

  “The devil it is,” he muttered.