The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  His mind a seething medley of conflicting thoughts, Drummond felt the prick of a needle in his arm. And then his brain grew ice-cold. He must act—act for his hope of life.

  “You will just fall asleep.”

  Burton’s words rang in his ears; so be it—he would. “Lay him on the floor,” came Burton’s order, and the two guards put him down.

  Act—act for his life. And for more than his life; for the possibility of defeating them after all. So he stared at Burton with a sneer on his face, then let his eyes close, only to force them open again with a great effort. Closed again; opened. And then at last they did not open…

  “Good,” said Burton quietly. “Now the other two.”

  “How long before he’s dead?” asked Stangerton.

  “It varies. He’s a very powerful man, so that in his case it may be ten minutes. But he’ll never wake again. Have you told Dorina?”

  “Yes.” It was Menalin speaking. “She’ll be ready in half an hour. And she doesn’t want to come to the island.”

  “Half an hour will just give us comfortable time,” said Burton.

  Came the sound of footsteps descending into the cellar, and still Drummond lay motionless, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Of ill effects he felt no trace; whatever it was that was in the second bottle was harmless.

  And now there began a period of tension which well nigh drove him crazy. For there had dawned on him a scheme so utterly gorgeous in its simplicity that he could scarcely lie still in his excitement. If only he could do it…

  From the cellar came the sound of voices, but he did not know if they were all down there, or whether someone had been left on guard. He dared not open his eyes, though the temptation to do so was almost overwhelming. He must wait…wait…

  Suddenly he felt that someone was bending over him, and a voice whispered “Drummond.” He looked up; it was Talbot.

  “Got a gun?” he whispered and Talbot shook his head. “Then hide yourself and stand by to help.”

  He closed his eyes and listened. No time now to wonder how Talbot had got there; no time for anything but his plan…

  The minutes dragged on leaden feet; a clock near by ticked maddeningly. And then came a sentence from the cellar.

  “The damned dope doesn’t seem to have had any effect on this crazy guy. Go and see how the big stiff is getting on.”

  Drummond smiled inwardly; Algy, being delirious, would naturally have shown no reaction to a harmless injection. Then he braced himself; the moment had come. Steps were ascending the stairs; one of the guards was stooping over him and he had held his breath.

  “This one’s a goner,” the man sang out, and the words died away in a strangled scream of terror. For the goner had wrenched the gun from his hand, and had him by the throat in a grip of such ferocity that his eyes were starting from his head. And the next instant he was rushed backwards to the top of the cellar stairs.

  The two men below were staring in amazement; amazement which turned to terror as they looked up. “Shoot,” howled one. “He’s got a gun.”

  Two shots rang out, and Drummond felt them thud into the back of the man he held. And then two more, and from Drummond’s side there came a quick gasp. For Talbot was standing there, and Talbot was no mean shot himself. And Talbot had seen two faces cease to be faces as a bullet crashed home in each. Drummond had shot to kill…

  His grip relaxed on the man he held, who toppled over and fell like a sack to the floor below. And for one moment Drummond stood motionless, his head thrown back. Then he gave a bellow of triumph; he had done it. For the shaft was mined, and in front of him was the switch-board.

  It was the third key he pressed that did it. From far off there came a dull rumble that seemed to shake the house, followed by a terrific blast of air that swept from the entrance of the tunnel. Then silence—save for Algy’s delirious muttering…

  “Quick,” cried Drummond. “Follow me.”

  He raced from the house with Talbot behind him, and made for the edge of the cliff. There—the first time he had seen it from the outside—lay the island of Varda, its red cliffs rising sheer from the water. And half way between it and the mainland there floated a mass of dirt and timber, which still eddied lazily in the oily swell.

  “Trapped,” said Drummond quietly. “Like rats. I wonder if they’ll bolt.”

  But that they were never destined to see. Suddenly the whole island seemed to split open in front of them. A sheet of flame shot into the sky; rocks, chairs, bedsteads, men and portions of men were hurled upwards and outwards to finish finally in a sea that now boiled angrily as tons of stuff fell into it.

  Appalled, yet fascinated they watched, until the last echo had died away; the last traces had vanished beneath the water. From out to sea came the wail of a syren—for the day was misty; above their heads ten thousand gulls screamed discordantly. And over what had once been the Island of Varda there drifted sluggishly a pink cloud…

  CHAPTER XVII

  A DOUBLE TOAST

  And so it ended in failure—that monstrous and diabolical plot. What caused the ammonal in the island cavern to explode must remain for ever uncertain. One man and one man only was saved and his mind was deranged. He was picked up in the sea clinging to a baulk of wood. And sometimes in the night he would wake and shriek—”Don’t shoot. For God’s sake, don’t shoot. You’ll kill us all”—till he lay back exhausted and drenched with sweat.

  And it may well be that in that dark cave, the lights extinguished, the tunnel blown in, blind panic reigned. Men fought and screamed; guns were drawn. And some chance bullet found its target in the high explosive. But as I say it will never be known.

  Of the woman Dorina, no trace was ever seen again. When Drummond and Talbot returned to the house her car had gone; only the one in which Burton had come from Birchington Towers remained—the one in which Talbot had travelled, hidden in the boot.

  For he, in accordance with Drummond’s orders, had been on the watch when the telephone call from Stangerton came through. And he had overheard it. He had seen Burton’s preparations, and had managed to get hold of a similar bottle which he filled with water. Then with a tremendous effort he had squeezed himself into the boot, and thus had he come at the crucial moment to Hooting Carn.

  So that there may be some who will say that it is he to whom the principal credit should be given; that save for him Drummond would have died. Others may claim that, save for Ronald Standish’s message about the Island of Varda, the scheme would have succeeded. As for me, I prefer Hugh Drummond’s own opinion.

  It was expressed at a dinner party he gave three weeks later—a party I was privileged to attend. Ronald had returned; Humphrey Gasdon had come over from Paris. Ginger Lawson was there, and Talbot; Algy with his arm in a sling—Peter still very shaky. And two others, who sat, one on each side of their host.

  The port had gone round, and suddenly Drummond rapped on the table, and stood up.

  “Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “there is only one possible toast tonight, and that is a double one. To the girl who walked on the Downs, and to the girl who walked in her sleep.”

  1 AUTHOR’S NOTE—In view of the tension that still exists in the European situation today, it has been considered advisable to suppress Menalin’s reply. But it should not be difficult for the reader to fill the gap.

  LONELY INN (1937)

  The mist eddied sluggishly over the moors. A slight wind from the north held in it the presage of snow, but at the moment only a cold, clammy drizzle was falling. In the gathering darkness an occasional hill top showed for a minute or two every now and then, only to be obliterated immediately by further waves of the drifting blanket: soon nothing would be visible to the man who stood staring out of the window of the inn.

  Behind him a lamp hanging from a blackened beam threw a feeble light into the grey world outside. The light seemed to be caught, stifled, and thrown back at him; now reaching as far as the road, the next instant shut off at the w
indow itself. But with his hands thrust deep in his pockets the man stood motionless with shoulders hunched, and the collar of his travelling coat turned up. Even the sound of the door opening did not disturb him. ‘No signs of ’em?’ came a harsh voice. ‘Not a trace. This damned mist may wreck the whole show.’

  The watcher swung round and contemplated the newcomer who was putting some coal on the fire. A green baize apron tied round his waist showed that he was one of the staff. He was, in fact, so far as the male side was concerned, the entire staff—barman, porter, landlord. He finished his task and straightened up. The eyes of the two men met.

  ‘It’s unfortunate,’ the landlord said. ‘And yet it’s better than a clear night—if they come.’

  ‘They’ve got to come,’ snarled the other, moving over to the fire. ‘Otherwise...’

  He left the sentence uncompleted, and the landlord shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Got to and this mist don’t go together,’ he remarked. ‘Any car might get ditched on a night like this. And if that happens...’

  He, too, left his sentence unfinished, and crossed to the bar.

  ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘Give me a double whisky, and have one yourself. Gosh, what a pestilential bit of country.’

  Once more he went over to the window and stood listening intently. As the landlord came across with the drinks, he suddenly leaned forward eagerly.

  ‘What’s that?’ he muttered. ‘Surely that was a car.’

  The landlord joined him: they both waited motionless, craning their ears. But save for the faint moan of the wind everything was silent.

  ‘It sounded like a door shutting. Didn’t you hear it?’

  ‘I did not,’ said the landlord. ‘But I was the other side of the room. Anyway, why should they be getting out of the car way down the road? If they’ve got as far as that, they’d come on to the house. Your whisky. ’

  The man in the overcoat took the glass and tossed the contents down neat. Then once again he returned to his vigil, having put the empty glass back on the tray. And though the landlord had followed his example he did not immediately return to the bar, but stood contemplating his visitor’s back with a curious brooding look in his eyes, and heedless of the fact that his reflection was plainly visible in the glass.

  For perhaps three seconds the other took no notice; then he swung round with a curse.

  ‘What the hell are you staring at me for?’ he cried angrily.

  Again for perhaps three seconds there was silence; then the landlord turned away.

  ‘Getting nervy?’ he remarked.

  ‘Nervy be damned. It takes more than a trifle like this to make me nervy, my friend. All that is worrying me is this cursed mist.’

  ‘What’s it going to mean to you if they don’t come?’ asked the landlord curiously.

  ‘Ruin—complete and utter,’ said the other shortly. ‘And to you it’s going to mean the loss of five hundred pounds.’

  ‘I know all about that,’ remarked the landlord slowly. ‘And I’ve been wondering if it’s enough. Steady, Mr. Benton,’ he continued, as the other man’s face grew purple with rage and the veins began to stand out on his forehead. ‘There’s no use losing your temper. You’re just a bird of passage: this is my home. And people in these lonely parts talk a lot.’

  ‘What the hell will they have to talk about?’ The angry colour had died down; Benton spoke almost casually. ‘Besides, we’ve been into all that.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve been into it,’ agreed the landlord. ‘But that doesn’t prevent one’s thoughts. And as I said, I’m wondering if five hundred is enough.’

  ‘Oh, are you?’ Benton almost shouted. ‘You can’t back out now, man.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was going to,’ said the landlord calmly. ‘But when all is said and done the rewards are disproportionate. You, on your own showing, rake in a fortune...’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ snapped the other. ‘It’s most of it gone already.’

  ‘Have it your own way.’ The landlord shrugged his shoulders. ‘If you don’t rake one in, you prevent the police knowing that you’ve already raked one out. In other words, you save yourself a nice long stretch, besides losing what is left of the dough, while I’m left here to deal with all the enquiries that are bound to be made, and to answer for what took place on my property. No’—his jaw went out stubbornly—‘five hundred is not enough, Mr. Benton. It’s got to be a thousand.’

  For a moment it seemed as if Benton was going to hit the landlord. His powerful fists clenched, and involuntarily he took a step towards him. And then he noted that unostentatiously the landlord had picked up a full bottle of whisky and was holding it by the neck.

  ‘I forgot you were used to a rough house.’

  Not very successfully Benton turned his scowl into an apology for a grin. ‘Look here—we two mustn’t quarrel.’

  ‘I’m not quarrelling.’ The landlord replaced the bottle on the shelf.

  ‘We’re both in one another’s hands,’ continued Benton.

  ‘Hold hard. I’m not in your hands—yet. And unless we come to terms maybe I never shall be.’

  ‘Rot.’ Benton laughed contemptuously. ‘You take things too literally, my friend. I’m not talking about the future: I’m talking about the past. I know that you’re up to your neck in debt. I know, and you know, that if I wanted to I could make Hopkinson foreclose on you right away. And where would you be then? Outside—with your creditors swarming round you. Yes, it’s your turn to look sullen now, isn’t it?’ Shrugging his shoulders, he lit a cigarette.

  ‘Listen to me, Parrish,’ he continued quietly, ‘and you’ll hear some common horse sense. If there’s one thing on this earth that I can’t stand, it’s a fool, and up to date I’ve never put you in that category. When I said that we were both in one another’s hands, I spoke no more than the literal truth. If you refuse to help me, I’m for it. If I refuse to help you, you’re for it. In fact, to put it even more shortly, unless we stick together we’re both for it.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ cried the landlord stubbornly. ‘But what I do say, Mr. Benton, is this: the proportion isn’t fair.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Benton after a pause, ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll split the difference and make it seven-fifty. And not one penny further will I go.’

  ‘All right.’ The landlord’s tone was surly, but he knew only too well that Benton’s logic was unanswerable. Knew also that in dealing with men of the Benton type there comes a moment when further argument is not only useless but dangerous.

  ‘Seven-fifty it is. In one pound notes.’

  ‘Naturally. You don’t imagine I’m going to give a cheque, do you? And it will be up to you to get out of your difficulties in such a way that you don’t rouse any suspicions. A little here and a little there spread over a long time will keep ’em quiet, and no questions will be asked. But if you go planking down wads of notes the place will begin to hum like a swarm of bees.’

  ‘You can leave that to me, Mister.’

  ‘I certainly shall,’ said Benton shortly. ... ‘Who the hell is that?’

  From the road outside had come a sudden shout.

  ‘OK, Hugh. Here’s a pub.’

  ‘Do you know that voice?’ said Benton quickly.

  The landlord shook his head.

  ‘I do not,’ he said.

  ‘Well, don’t forget, you’ve got no rooms for tonight. We don’t want any strangers here.’

  The door was flung open, and a tall young man wearing an eyeglass entered the bar.

  ‘Good evening,’ he remarked affably. ‘If, that is to say, the lie may be pardoned, for I have seldom known a fouler one.’

  He advanced to the bar, undoing his coat as he came.

  ‘Alcohol is clearly indicated,’ he continued. ‘And then more alcohol. A sentiment in which my friend when he arrives will doubtless concur.’

  ‘And where may you have come from, sir?’ asked the landl
ord.

  ‘A motor car two or three hundred yards down the road, which is, at the present moment, more hopelessly ditched than any car I have ever seen. Nothing short of a battalion of men and a traction-engine will get her out. We’ve been trying for ten minutes. ’

  He turned as the door was flung open again, and Benton glanced quickly at the landlord. This was an unexpected complication, but that worthy could only shrug his shoulders as the newcomer threw his overcoat into the corner. He was a large man, and his temper was obviously not of the best.

  ‘You monstrous excrescence, Algy,’ he remarked. ‘It’s lucky for you that you had a driving license before they started tests. Where are we, incidentally?’ he continued, turning to the landlord.

  ‘Lonely Inn, sir. A quaint name, but it describes it right enough.’

  ‘Lonely Inn! That’s the place Peter mentioned, Algy. We’ve only got ten miles to go.’

  ‘I don’t know how the devil you intend to go then, unless you propose to walk. That car is a fixture for the night.’

  ‘Could we be of any assistance?’ said Benton, chipping in. ‘Perhaps the four of us could get her out.’

  ‘Not a hope,’ answered the big man, lowering his whisky. ‘My friend Longworth has done his job far too well for that. Nothing short of a breakdown gang with spades would be of the slightest use. Can you put us up for the night, landlord?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t, sir. I only have three rooms and they’re all booked.’

  ‘That’s not so good.’ The big man pushed over his empty glass. ‘The same again,’ he said. ‘Have one yourself, and you too, sir, if you will. Algy, what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘May I ask where you’re making for, sir?’ asked the landlord.

  ‘Duncanton Hall. Do you know it?’

  ‘Very well, sir. Belongs to Sir Gerald Moresby. And as you say, sir, it’s about ten miles. Would it be any good if I telephoned?’

  ‘We might try. Get through and find out if Mr. Darrell is in. If so, say that Captain Drummond would like to speak to him. And if he’s not in, ask him to ring me up here when he returns.’