The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “If you’re right about the passage,” reverted Algy, “how are we going to find the entrance?”

  “How did Jan Penderby?”

  “Stumbled on it by chance.”

  “At night! Again—I wonder. I think he happened to see the ghost go to ground. Is there any reason why we shouldn’t do likewise?”

  Peter Darrell began to rub his hands together ecstatically.

  “Good boy,” he cried. “Very good boy…Go right up to the top of the class. Teacher is pleased with you. So your suggestion is…?”

  “Same as yours.”

  “Tonight?”

  “As ever is,” said Drummond. “Let’s have some more ale.”

  CHAPTER XV

  THE GHOST WALKS

  The weather was warm and almost muggy when they started. The last visitor had left the bar; the landlord of the Jolly Fisherman was preparing to shut up for the night. It was useless to try to conceal their intentions from him, even had they wanted to, and he regarded them with a pleasingly benign toleration.

  “Well, gents,” he said, “everyone to their own way of thinking. Give me my bed. I’ll leave the door open, and the candles on the table.”

  At first the rise was almost imperceptible; then it grew steeper. And a quarter of an hour after they had left the inn they reached the top of the cliff. Behind them lay the village, though no light could be seen from far below came the monotonous beat of the sea on the rocks.

  The going was smooth and springy, and they swung forward in silence. From the map they knew that Hooting Carn lay just on two miles from Helverton, but they were still some way short of that distance when they saw in front of them a solitary light. It was shining through trees and lay in a hollow.

  “The house, presumably,” remarked Drummond. “I think a little closer—” He paused suddenly. “What’s that noise?”

  They listened intently, but the other two could hear nothing.

  “I can,” said Drummond, lying down on the ground and pressing his ear to the grass. “Why, it’s unmistakable.”

  They followed his example, and then it was obvious, too, to them. Very faint, but perfectly distinct, there came to their ears a gentle, rhythmic thump—thump—thump. Almost could they feel a faint tremor in the ground.

  “An engine of sorts,” said Algy.

  “Exactly,” remarked Drummond. “But what sort? And where? No electric-light machine ever made that noise. It might be a pump for water, but it seems a rum time to have one going. However, let’s investigate further.”

  They walked on, their footsteps making no sound on the soft turf. Dimly they could see the outline of the house, against the ground that rose again on the other side of it. And at last they got near enough to see into the room from which the light was shining.

  A man was seated at a table smoking. In front of him were a batch of papers and a ledger which he consulted from time to time, and in which he made periodical entries. He was not a prepossessing-looking individual, and evidently the thought of water with his whisky was not one that appealed to him. His features were red and coarse, but the breadth of his shoulders denoted strength.

  “Is that our artist?” whispered Drummond.

  “I should think his sole claim to painting ability,” answered Darrell, “would be covered by disinfecting the chicken run.”

  After a few moments the door opened, and another man entered. He was obviously an underling as he did not venture to sit down, but stood waiting for orders. And, having received them, he left as abruptly as he had come. Twice more the performance was repeated; then the leader lit a cigarette and rose to his feet.

  He was a bigger man than he had seemed when sitting down, and for a while he stood looking out into the night. Then, pitching away his cigarette he closed the window and switched off the light. And a moment or two later a gleam from an upstair room proclaimed that he had gone to bed.

  “Evidently he doesn’t mind being seen,” said Drummond quietly. “Though when all is said and done the whole proceeding was perfectly harmless. Let’s explore a bit more.”

  Cautiously they circled round the house, keeping some fifty yards away from it, but there was nothing to be seen. There were lights in a few of the top rooms, but one by one these went out. And at length the place was in darkness.

  “What do we do now?” asked Algy.

  “Sit down and wait,” said Drummond. “It’s only just eleven. The trouble is we mustn’t smoke. Incidentally that engine is still going strong.”

  “I wonder where the deuce it is,” remarked Darrell. “It’s not loud enough to be coming from the house.”

  “It sounds to me,” said Drummond with his ear again pressed to the ground, “as if it was underneath us somewhere. My God I look there.”

  Motionless they sat staring at the house. Out to sea a syren blared mournfully; near-by a fitful eddy of wind stirred the trees. But the three silent watchers had only eyes and ears for one thing.

  Behind a clump of bushes near the house a light was gradually beginning to materialise. It rolled and swirled, shapeless to start with, until it seemed to take the form of a gigantic man. And then, abruptly, with a curious gliding movement, it passed from behind the screen of undergrowth out into the open.

  Fascinated, they watched it as it passed over the ground. Its height was fantastic—twice that of an ordinary man, and as it moved it seemed to be dripping fire. It went away from them, up the rise they had come down, then, making a detour, it circled round towards them.

  “No wonder the locals were frightened,” muttered Drummond. “It’s a fearsome-looking object.”

  It passed about twenty yards away from them, and at that range, they could see how the effect had been produced. The luminosity was obviously caused by a preparation of phosphorus; the great height by some form of superstructure carried on the shoulders. But it was in the apparent movement of gliding that the cleverness lay. For the ghost’s legs were covered with a voluminous skirt reaching almost to the ground, which effectually prevented the actual feet being seen.

  It drifted on aimlessly first in one direction, then in another until, at length, it halted. But only for a second; even as they watched it, it sank into the ground and disappeared.

  “Quick,” said Drummond. “Now’s our chance.”

  They walked towards the spot from which a faint glow still emanated. Then, as if a light had been turned out, all was dark again.

  They groped forward cautiously, and suddenly Drummond paused. Just in front of them, from what seemed to be a crack in the ground, there still filtered a chink of light. And then that, too, went out; everything was dark.

  “Run to earth,” said Drummond quietly. “What the deuce have we here? It feels like a stone. Form a scrum, boys, between me and the house; I’m going to chance the torch for a second.”

  It flashed out; at their feet was a mildewed, moss covered stone slab. But three words cut in it were sufficient to show what it was:

  “DON MIGUEL VARDA.”

  “The Spaniard’s tomb,” breathed Drummond. “Well, I’m damned I It bears out what George said. The grave from which he walks and into which he disappears. And Jan Penderby found it.”

  He was staring out to sea as he spoke.

  “Give it a minute or two, yet chaps, and we’ll see if I was right. I was; by God I I was.”

  Floating, apparently in space, over the sea was the gliding yellow figure. Twice, three times it went backwards and forwards some three or four hundred yards away; then, even as it had done on the mainland, it sank down and disappeared.

  “Yes; I was right,” repeated Drummond. “That was the ghost doing its piece on the island of Varda. Which means that if the ghost can get there, we can.”

  “Is it likely to come back this way?” said Darrell thoughtfully. “Because, if so, we’d better allow a few minutes. We don’t particularly want to meet it in a narrow passage.”

  “Agreed,” said Drummond, who was fumbling with the tombst
one. “Got it,” he muttered suddenly. “The whole thing slides back.”

  They retreated a little distance and sat down to wait. And it was not for long. Barely five minutes had elapsed before there came a faint rumble from in front of them, and a dark figure emerged from the ground. The ghost minus its make up had returned. Came another rumble; a faint clank as of a metal bar being shot into position—and silence. The ghost had departed to bed.

  They gave it another quarter of an hour before they again approached the grave. And then one gleam from the torch was sufficient to show the cause of the clank. A steel bar had been shot home which bolted the stone slab in position. It was not locked in any way; evidently Mr. Stangerton relied on superstition to prevent any undue curiosity about the tomb. And it was a simple matter to slide the bar from its sockets and lay it on the grass. Then very cautiously they pulled back the slab.

  Below them yawned a black hole, and one after another they lowered themselves down into it. And then, having pulled back the stone into its normal position, Drummond switched on his torch.

  They were standing in a small vault like cave. In places the walls had been shored up with baulks of timber, and the work was obviously recent. A ladder, which they had not seen led to the stone above them; in front was a black opening that looked like the entrance to a mine shaft. From it, descending sharply, ran a tunnel. And in this, too, the walls were supported in various places with new timbering.

  The going, though steep, was good. The roof was high enough to allow them to walk without stooping, but caution was necessary. And every few yards Drummond stopped, torch switched off, to listen. But no sound could be heard; the engine they had noticed earlier, had ceased.

  It was at the third halt that they struck another gallery coming in from the right—a gallery completely shored with mine cases, which was obviously all new work. And here they paused for a space; there were points of considerable interest to be noted.

  First—from its direction it could lead to only one place, the house. Second—the wires. Looped to the roof ran half a dozen—some thick insulated cables, others which might have been telephone connections. And they all stretched away into the darkness in front of them. Moreover at ten yard intervals there now hung electric light bulbs from the top of the tunnel.

  “They evidently feel pretty safe here,” whispered Drummond. “Which is not to be wondered at seeing we must be fifty feet underground by now. But there’s no doubt about one thing, boys, this has taken a bit of doing. Even granted the original foundation which they had to work on, a hell of a lot of labour has been put into this show. And what I’m wondering is where all that labour is. Have they got a young army billeted about the place? Or did they chance letting the men who did this job go?”

  The angle of descent became steeper after the junction. In places rough steps had been constructed, with lengths of rope attached to the wall as an additional help. And as they descended lower the air grew dank and cold.

  At last the shaft flattened out; they were under the bed of the sea. And here the timbering was far more elaborate and powerful, though the roof dripped water in places, and puddles lay on the floor. For about a hundred yards the tunnel continued horizontal; then it began to rise steeply again. And with a feeling of relief the three men ascended into drier air.

  Suddenly Drummond switched off his torch; a faint light was beginning to filter down the shaft from an opening in front, which grew stronger as they got higher. They were moving with the utmost caution, their rubber-soled shoes making no sound as they climbed. And at length, inch by inch, Drummond hoisted himself up so that he could see what the shaft led into.

  “Great Scott!” he breathed. “Look at that.”

  The other two joined him, and side by side they lay staring at the scene in front of them. And assuredly it was an amazing one.

  They were looking into a large cave, from the roof of which hung two electric bulbs, throwing an eerie white light into the gloom below. Fantastic shadows lay across the floor, and as their eyes grew accustomed to it they began to see the details of the place more clearly.

  Around the walls various types of machines had been erected—lathes and the like, each one of which must have been carried along the passage that lay behind them. In the centre there stood what looked like a crushing machine, with a heavy vertical rod moving in guides—the machine that had probably been making the thumping noise they had heard on the mainland.

  Close by it stood a huge pile of tins neatly stacked, and on which they could see the label of Petworth’s Fruit. Packing-cases—some open and some shut littered the floor, and in the far corner was a wooden partition marked “Danger.”

  Of human beings there was no sign; evidently work had ceased for the time. And after a moment Drummond rose and crept forward followed by the other two. They skirted round, keeping as much as possible in the shadows, and as they investigated further the whole gigantic scheme became clear. One packing case labelled Leeds—one of the two that had come with George—was open, and contained as they had guessed a number of clockwork machines similar to the one Drummond had found in Switzerland. Another was full of unopened fruit tins all of the same Petworth brand.

  The tins stacked in the centre were empty, and a thing like a pig tub close by was full of lemon cling peaches, slices of banana, apricots, and pink cherries; Mr. Petworth’s Fancy Quality Fruit Salad had come to an undignified end. And picking up a few of the tins Drummond noticed that some of them had three little cubes inside, while others were plain.

  He walked over to the wooden partition labelled “Danger”; there was a door in it which he tried cautiously. But it was locked, and he made no attempt to force it.

  “Presumably the explosive for this jolly little scheme,” he muttered, and even as he spoke the unmistakable sound of a human snore fell on their ears. It came from the other side of the cave, and looking across they saw a blanket hanging in the wall.

  Creeping over they listened; from behind the blanket came sounds as of a barrack room at night—heavy breathing and an occasional creak as a sleeper turned over in bed.

  “Fitted with dormitory complete,” whispered Drummond. “I wonder how many of the swine there are.”

  The other two laid hands on him.

  “Come away,” muttered Darrell firmly. “None of your charge of the Light Brigade here. We’ve found out all we want to find out, old lad; let’s hop it.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” agreed Drummond with a grin. “We’ll go.”

  With one last look at that converted smuggler’s cave they began the return journey down the shaft. Details might be—were—lacking, but the main outline of the plot was clear. And as Drummond went along, once again did those words of Jimmy Latimer come back to him—”Out-Vernes Jules Verne.”

  “Not this time, my friends,” he muttered to himself; “not this time.”

  And at that moment all the lights in the tunnel went on.

  They halted dead in their tracks; the thing was so utterly unexpected as to stagger them momentarily. They were in the horizontal section under the sea, and no one was in sight. Only the bulbs gleaming dully through the moisture that covered them showed that somewhere someone was awake. But was it in front, or was it behind? Had the lights been switched on from the mainland or from the island?

  Drummond produced his wire cutters.

  “Better anything than light,” he muttered, as he cut the flex. “They may think a fuse has blown, or that there’s a short.”

  They stood motionless—listening. Around them pressed the darkness—so black that it could be felt. And then, step by step, they began to feel their way towards the mainland end of the shaft.

  From behind them came suddenly the faint sound of voices, and Drummond swore under his breath. Cutting the wire had put not only the lights in the tunnel out of commission, but also the two that had been on in the cave. And, presumably, somebody who had been awake behind the blanket had given the alarm. Which meant, if the
original switch on had come from the house end, they were caught between two fires.

  Undeniably the situation was awkward. To use a torch was out of the question; they could only grope blindly on by feel. And the trouble was that if the men from the island did come to investigate there was no reason why they should not use a torch, which meant instant discovery. The shaft ran straight; there was no recess in either wall which would hide one man, much less three.

  They were climbing now—scrambling up the steep slope as silently as they could. There was no sign, as yet, of any light ahead, and hope began to rise in their breasts. Once over the steepest section progress would be quicker; if only they could make the grave they were safe. And at last with a sigh of relief Drummond who was leading, topped the rise and felt the ground become flatter under his feet. Just in time; a torch was flashing down below them as the island contingent came into view.

  His pace quickened; speed was essential. Half running, half stumbling, their hands outstretched to feel the walls they pushed forward. And at last they reached their goal.

  “Heave,” he muttered, “heave like hell. Those blighters will be in the straight soon.”

  And they might as well have heaved at solid rock; the tombstone would not budge an inch. Someone had replaced the bar; they were caught like rats in a trap.

  “‘Pish!’ said Eric, now thoroughly aroused,” remarked Drummond with a short laugh. “That, chaps, would seem to have torn it. Especially as hounds are in sight.”

  It was true. The island party led by two men with torches had come into view. As yet they were too far off for the light to pick them up, but it would only be a question of moments before they were spotted. And then there occurred an unexpected development. The whole pack swung away up the gallery leading to the house.

  “Now what the devil is that for?” said Drummond thoughtfully. “Is it a trap, or…”

  They were not long in getting the answer. Came a vicious phut, and a bullet buried itself in the ground behind them—followed by another, and yet a third—a third which ended with a different note. Too often in the old days had they heard it in France.