The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “I don’t know him by sight,” continued Drummond, “so it’s useless for me to work on my own. Alice is the only person who does, so she’s got to do the identification.”

  “But where?”

  “Unless I’m much mistaken,” said Drummond quietly, “he was killed even as Latimer was killed. Earlier in the evening, from my point of vantage, I caught a glimpse of Burton with a hypodermic syringe in his hand. Now the body was not moved last night, and they won’t dare to do so today. So he’ll be deposited somewhere tonight. Almost certainly not in the grounds—that would be too close home; but they’ll dump him on the Downs. That’s where the boys come in; lucky I got ’em down. Tell Peter he’ll get his orders in due course, and that it’s an all-night job tonight for everybody.”

  “What’s the great point over the identification?” asked Algy.

  “If it’s Alice Blackton’s man they’ve killed, we’re no further on than we were before over locating this island. But if it isn’t, we needn’t worry.”

  “I get you. Hugh, are you any nearer what’s going on?”

  “A few months ago France wasn’t far off a revolution,” said Drummond grimly. “Nor was Belgium. Let’s leave it at that. Stopping, sir?” he continued in a louder voice. “It is coming dahn a bit.”

  Molly Castledon took her cue instantly.

  “Not much fun, is it, Algy?” she remarked. “Let’s go back to the club house.”

  “Right, old dear.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the watcher approaching.

  “Dry the clubs, caddie,” he continued, “and put ’em in my car, please.”

  “Very good, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  His hand closed round his fee, and for the fraction of a second his lips twitched.

  “A bit of my own back,” said Algy happily to Molly as they started to walk back. “I gave him a farthing and a trouser button.”

  “What’s it all about, Algy?” she asked eagerly. Briefly he told her, and she began to frown mutinously.

  “But I wanted to be in it,” she said. “It’s not fair of Captain Drummond.”

  “Darling,” he assured her, “you shall be later. Tonight you can’t do any good, and if you were found to be missing from the house, the whole outfit goes west. Don’t forget that Hugh has had very little time; all these orders have had to be worked out since I told him that man was dead. He’s simply raving over what you did.”

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll forgive him this time. Let’s have a drink.”

  “It will be interesting to see what our friend the watcher does,” he murmured, as they sat down in the lounge. “Here he comes.”

  With his coat collar turned up, for the rain was now coming down in earnest, the man came in through the swing doors and went into the cloakroom.

  “I wonder what the deuce he thinks he’s going to find out,” said Algy. “Burton I can understand; obviously he suspected Peter and me. But this bloke defeats me.”

  “Just watching, I should think,” said the girl, “to see if there’s any reaction between you and the others when you might think it was safe.”

  “There’s no doubt,” remarked Algy thoughtfully, “that Hugh is right. We’re suspect. But I must say it amused me today—the old boy caddying right, under that swab Burton’s nose. Now what do you suggest we should do, my pet? Here comes Peter and Co., and I’ve got to get a message through to him. But after that?”

  “Let’s go back as late as possible,” she said. “I dread the thought of that house without you there to support me.”

  “Pretty foul, I agree,” said Algy. “Still, you can always plead a head and get to bed early tonight…And lock your door, my dear; don’t forget.”

  The lounge was filling as more people came in out of the rain. The watcher, engrossed in a paper, was sitting inconspicuously in a corner; Peter Darrell, passing on his way to the bar, had been formally introduced to Molly Castledon. And in the process thereof had been given Drummond’s message…But since it had been contained in a story of apparently sultry hue, which had given rise to much ribald merriment, the watcher was blissfully ignorant of it. In fact he was blissfully ignorant of anything, save that he had spent a wasted morning, when at a quarter to one Molly and Algy rose to go back to Birchington Towers.

  The rain had ceased, and Algy proceeded to offend God and man by singing as they drove along.

  “Feed me with ortolans; nurture me with the wines of Cathay,” he declaimed. “You know, darling,” he continued, relapsing into speech, “the more I think of it, the more unutterably foul do I regard that limerick last night.”

  “That’s something, anyway,” she agreed kindly.

  “Nevertheless it succeeded in its object. The name Varda stabbed ’em both in the stomach.”

  “And you think this girl, Alice Blackton, will know where it is?”

  “Such seems to be Hugh’s idea.”

  “And if she does, or can find out?”

  “Presumably we go there, and the fun really begins.” She lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

  “Do you always follow Hugh Drummond blind?” she asked.

  “Always. The only time that I’ve ever faintly jibbed was over his suggestion that you should dally with Burton. However, up to date, there’s no harm done.”

  “I’m not going on with it much more, my lad.”

  Algy turned in at the drive.

  “My angel child,” he said quietly, “don’t worry. If I’m any judge of matters you won’t need to. It won’t be long now before things come to a head. We’re on the warpath properly.”

  “Who is telephoning you from Town?”

  “Haven’t an earthly. Hugh is fixing it.”

  It proved to be Algy’s Uncle William who was leaving for Egypt next day. A faint click as he picked up the receiver when the message came through after lunch, assured him that another person had done likewise, elsewhere in the house, but Uncle William was foolproof. His seat was reserved; his cabin was booked; and it was essential he should see Algy before he went. There was some business connected with the estate which he wanted cleared up at once. So he would await Algy at his club, and if he wished would give him dinner that night.

  “That’s torn it,” said Algy, re-entering the hall. “Little Algy must leave you for the metropolis. Uncle William has escaped from the home we keep him in and would fain see his nephew before leaving for Egypt. So if you will excuse me, old host, I will see about getting my things packed.”

  Talbot answered his bell, and there was a faint grin on his face.

  “The secretary was listening in to your London call,” he remarked. “Was it O.K.?”

  “Quite,” said Algy. “Dear Uncle William was word perfect. Have you seen Drummond?”

  “Yes. For a minute before lunch on the road.”

  “You know about the dead man?”

  Talbot nodded.

  “Do I take off my hat to that girl? I’m asking you.”

  “Look after her, old boy,” said Algy.

  “Leave me to it,” answered Talbot. “I only wish I could talk to her openly.”

  Then his face set grimly.

  “By God Longworth—I’m just waiting for the moment when I can get my own back on these swine. My dear old guv’nor—who’d never harmed a child…”

  “Trust Hugh Drummond, old boy,” said Algy. “It’ll come sooner than you think. Put the bags in my car, will you! And I may be seeing you tonight…”

  It certainly seemed as if Uncle William had pulled it off. Burton was politely disappointed at his having to go; Menalin did not even appear on the scene. Even Lady Castledon, overjoyed at the prospect of Algy’s departure, so far forgot herself as to ask him to call in London.

  But for all that Algy was taking no risks. It was a Sunday and traffic was heavy on the main Bognor road, even though it was late in the year. An easy day, in fact, to follow a car, however fast it was, since high speed was out of the question.

  So
he swung into a network of lanes, when he had gone a few miles, and slowed up his pace. And a few minutes convinced him that he was safe; no one was on his heels. He pulled up and lit a cigarette; a plan of campaign was necessary.

  To begin with, his own flat and club would almost certainly be under supervision. To go to London at all, therefore, seemed foolish. The point was whether Alice Blackton could smuggle herself out of town without being spotted. And the only way of finding that out was to get through to her on the telephone.

  He drove on, keeping well clear of the London road, until he came at length to a village which a notice-board proclaimed was Rodsworth. It appeared to be wrapped in slumber, though one dilapidated Ford stood outside the Chequers Inn. It would serve, he decided, as well as any other, and backing his car into the so-called garage, he entered the hotel and booked a room, to the evident amazement of the landlord. Then he put through a telephone call to Alice.

  By an amazing stroke of luck he caught her just as she was going out; in fact, he gathered the boy friend was even then blaspheming in the hall at the delay.

  “He must blaspheme, dear,” said Algy firmly. “Has he a motor-car? He has. Outside the door at the moment? Good. Now listen, Alice. Is your place being watched? Not that you know of. Not good enough, my dear. We can’t run any risks. Tell your pal that he’s got to cancel any plans he may have made for this afternoon. He is to start off in any direction he may think fit—preferably as if he was going to John o’ Groat’s—and then after devious detours he is to arrive with you at the Chequers Inn, situated in the fascinating old world village of Rodsworth in Sussex. Got that? Good. You must make absolutely certain you’re not followed…No. I don’t want to be more explicit over the phone…What time? Any time before it’s dark. Good-bye, my angel.”

  He replaced the receiver, and crossed to the window. The village street was still deserted, which confirmed his own safety. Would Alice and her escort be equally fortunate?

  Slowly the hours dragged by. A watery sun had come out, throwing fitful shadows on the stuffed horsehair furniture of the parlour. Over the mantelpiece his host, encased in his wedding glory of frock coat and bowler complete gazed at him sheepishly from the wall; whilst flanked on each side of him, two masterpieces depicted shoals of fat and very naked babies floating hopefully in space.

  It was six o’clock when he awoke, cramped in every limb, from a painful doze. A car was thrumming softly outside the window, and in the gathering darkness he could just see Alice and a man getting out.

  “Great,” he cried, meeting them at the door. “Sure you’ve not been followed?”

  “Certain,” said Alice. “This is Jimmy Parker…Algy Longworth…”

  The two men shook hands.

  “Run her into the garage, Parker,” said Algy. “Then we’ll have a drink.”

  “What’s the great idea, Algy?” demanded the girl, as Parker rejoined them. “Jimmy’s been breathing blood all the way here.”

  “Sorry about that,” said Algy with a grin, “but it was unavoidable. You’re for a job of work tonight, Alice.”

  “What d’you mean?” she asked.

  “And incidentally so are you, Parker,” he added. “What is it, chaps? Two pints and a gin and french, please. Now,” he continued as the landlord left the room, “is this bloke reliable, Alice?”

  “Quite,” she said. “He’s an N.0.”

  “Grand. Couldn’t be better. Have you told him anything, my dear?”

  “Vaguely. I guessed it was to do with the Drummond show.”

  “Right. Well, please keep that to yourself, Parker. It’s a case of murder, Alice, and you’ve got to identify the victim.”

  “What’s that?” cried Parker sharply. “Why should she?”

  “Dry up, Jimmy,” said the girl. “Tell me, Algy.” They listened in silence while Algy told them briefly what had occurred, and when he’d finished Alice Blackton sat twisting her pocket handkerchief in her fingers.

  “I wonder if it’s Mrs. Cartwright’s husband,” she said in a low voice, and Algy looked at her quickly.

  “Who’s he?” he cried.

  “I’ll tell you later,” she said. “What does Captain Drummond want me to do?”

  “Come with me to the Black Horse at Storrington to start with,” answered Algy. “We’ll get further orders there.”

  “And what about Jimmy?”

  “I want him, if he will, to do a much more uninteresting job,” said Algy, “but a very important one. It’s my own idea, I admit, because no one knew he was coming into the picture till this afternoon. Now it will be of the greatest advantage if the other side think I’m safely in my flat tonight. So if you will, Parker, what I’d like you to do is this.

  “Drive my car back to London, leaving yours here for me. At about ten or so go round to my flat—I’ll give you the address—and leave the car outside the door, where in due course its number will be noted by the gentleman on guard. Then go straight indoors—here is the latchkey—keeping your coat collar turned up and your face away from the light. Once inside you will encounter a large and forbidding-looking man called Marsh. To him you will hand a letter I will give you, which will say that you are stopping the night in the flat, and that he is to put the car away in the garage. After that my cellar is yours, but don’t go near enough to the window to be recognised.”

  “Well, I’m damned,” remarked the Navy. “It sounds a perfectly riotous evening. Is this what I came up from Pompey for?”

  “Anyway, old man,” laughed Algy, “it’s better than hiding in a gorse bush on the Downs, which looks like being our portion.”

  “Can’t I come too?” pleaded the sailor.

  “No, Jimmy,” said the girl firmly. “Algy is right. You’ve got to do as he says.”

  “It’s big stuff, Parker,” put in Algy quietly. “You can take that from me.”

  “Orl right,” said Parker resignedly. “I’ll play. What’s your bus?”

  “A Lagonda. She can move.”

  “And what will you do with mine tomorrow?”

  “Leave her in St. James’s Square at eleven o’clock.”

  “O.K.,” said the sailor. “Gawd ’elp all poor blokes at sea. What ho! without, mine host. Send in thy tire-maidens bearing foaming goblets. The poor, bloody Navy is in the chair.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  BURGLARS IN BATTERSEA

  “And now, bless you, I’m just waiting to hear how you’ve come into it again.”

  Algy drew up his chair to the fire and lit a cigarette. Dinner at the Black Horse was over, and the sitting-room was empty. Outside, the West Sussex darts championship was in full swing; a low hum of conversation, punctuated by an occasional jovial laugh, provided the unbeatable setting of the old English coaching inn.

  He had arrived there with Alice Blackton an hour before, having first seen Jimmy Parker safely on the road to London from Rodsworth. As yet no orders had arrived from Drummond, but the night was still young. And until these came there was nothing more to be done.

  “There’s not much to tell, Algy,” said the girl. “But for what there is, here goes. Last Wednesday night just before I was starting off for the Golden Boot, I happened to go into my landlady’s room. She’s an awfully nice woman is Mrs. Turnbull, and I often go and have a talk with her. On this occasion there was another woman with her, and a glance at her face showed that she’d been crying.

  “Of course I felt a bit embarrassed, and was on the point of going out again when Mrs. Turnbull suddenly turned to me.

  “‘What’s the name of the man who owns the Golden Boot, dearie?’ she asked.

  “‘Burton,’ I said. ‘Charles Burton. Why?’

  “She looked at the other woman triumphantly.

  “‘What did I tell you?’ she cried. ‘I was sure I knew the name. This is Mrs. Cartwright, dear. Sit down and have a cup of tea.’

  “Well, Mrs. Cartwright was an elderly body who looked rather like a prosperous cook, and, under ordinary
circumstances, I should have made some excuse. But the instant I heard dear Charles’ name, I determined to hear more. So I sat down.

  “‘A devil he is—that Burton,’ sniffed Mrs. Cartwright. ‘You be careful of him, my dear.’

  “‘What’s he done to you, Mrs. Cartwright?’ I asked.

  “‘It’s her ’usband,’ explained Mrs. Turnbull, ‘two h’s in succession generally defeat her, poor dear. Tell Miss Blackton, Amelia.’

  “So Amelia, bless her heart, gave tongue. I won’t attempt to give it verbatim, but what it boiled down to was this. Her husband, Samuel Cartwright, was a working watch and clock maker, living down Battersea way. And some months ago he’d begun to dabble in politics in a mild way. At first she’d been rather pleased; it kept him quiet, and got him out of the house. But after a while she began to notice a change in him. He became morose and secretive, and what upset her most of all was that he began to ask some funny sort of men to their house—men she didn’t like at all. And when she reasoned with him about it he used to fly into a passion.

  “Another thing, too, that worried her was this. In their little backyard he had a shed where he did a lot of his work. In the past the door had always been open, and she had never thought twice about walking in if she wanted to ask him anything. And then, suddenly, for no apparent reason, he had begun to keep the door locked.

  “That there was something on his mind, was obvious, but try as she would she couldn’t find out what it was. His appetite fell away. He began to sleep badly and, in short, the man was clearly ill. But any suggestion of a doctor was met with a flat refusal.

  “‘Not that a doctor would have done any good,’ as she admitted. ‘Sam’s trouble was in his mind.’

  “And then, a few days before I met her, matters had come to a head. Sam had announced his intention of going down to the country for the night—alone. Well, I gathered from Mrs. Sam that such a proceeding was almost as amazing as the descent of Nelson into Trafalgar Square. He loathed and detested the country; even on Bank Holidays Epping Forest was the farthest he would ever go. And here he was proposing to venture forth alone into places full of uncharted terrors. Moreover—and this is what upset her most—she was convinced he didn’t want to go. He was going because he had to.