The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  ‘Very good, sir. I will do so at once.’

  He left the bar, and Drummond sauntered over to the fire.

  ‘You are a stranger in these parts?’ said Benton politely.

  ‘Complete,’ answered Drummond. ‘Is this a fair sample of the weather?’

  ‘One gets quite a lot of mists, but not often at this time of the year.’

  He paused, listening, as the faint thrumming of an engine came from outside and the white glare of lights shone hazily on the window.

  ‘More fortunate than you, sir,’ he continued. ‘I wonder if these are my friends.’

  He walked over to the door, and as he did so the landlord entered from behind the bar.

  ‘You’re through, sir,’ he said to Drummond. ‘The gentleman is on the phone. Would you come this way?’

  Drummond followed him, and a moment or two later he heard Peter Darrell’s voice at the other end of the wire.

  ‘Listen, Peter,’ he said. ‘That raging blight Algy has ditched the car, and it’s impossible to get her out tonight. Do you think you could come over and get us? We’re at Lonely Inn.’

  ‘But, my dear old boy,’ came the answer, ‘you can’t see your hand in front of your face here. I doubt if any car would ever get through tonight. Why don’t you both stop there? I’ll come for you tomorrow morning.’

  ‘There isn’t a room vacant. They’ve only got three and they are full up.’

  ‘What’s that? Only three rooms. Don’t talk tripe. To my certain knowledge that blackguard Parrish has eight.’

  And at that moment Drummond saw a shadow on the floor by the door leading out of the bar. The landlord was listening. From the room came the sound of voices, one of them a woman’s, and a faintly puzzled frown wrinkled his forehead.

  ‘Hullo! Are you there, Hugh?’ Peter’s voice came through again.

  ‘Yes, I’m here, Peter. I’m just thinking what is the best thing to do.’

  Why had the landlord lied over the number of rooms? Why had he tried to turn away perfectly good trade? And why did Peter allude to him as a blackguard?

  ‘Well, old man, it’s impossible to get to you tonight.’ Peter’s tone was definite. ‘If by any chance it lifts later, I’ll come over. But it won’t.’

  ‘I understand, Peter—perfectly.’ The frown had gone: a faint smile twitched round his lips. ‘And never forget, old boy, that out of the most unlikely oysters there sometimes emerges a pearl. Did you say anything? Merely a hiccough! Good. Well, Algy and I will expect you when we see you.’

  He replaced the receiver, and strolled back into the bar, to find two newcomers. One was a scholastic-looking grey-haired man with a slight stoop. He wore pince-nez and at the moment was warming his hands by the fire. The other was a girl, whom Algy was contemplating with considerable favour. She was young—nineteen or twenty at the most—and a well fitting jumper and skirt showed off her figure to perfection. She glanced up as Drummond came in, and then continued her remarks. And it was obvious that she was not in the best of tempers.

  ‘Anyway, where is Tiny?’ she demanded of Benton.

  ‘I’m afraid he has not arrived yet. And though I don’t want to be despondent, I’m afraid, with this mist, there’s a chance he won’t be able to manage it. Still there’s plenty of time yet. Now I think I’d better go and put your car away for you.’

  ‘That’s very good of you, Harold,’ said the grey-haired man. ‘Mary has had all the driving she wants today.’

  ‘Why did he ever suggest we should come to this beastly place, Daddy?’ she cried as Benton left the room.

  ‘It’s central, my dear. Convenient for Tiny and us and him. Don’t forget he’s a busy man. And no one could have foreseen this mist.’

  ‘Grim, isn’t it?’ said Drummond. ‘You were luckier than us, sir. We got ditched about three hundred yards down the road.’

  ‘I saw the car as we passed,’ cried the girl. ‘What bad luck!’

  And at that moment Benton put his head round the door.

  ‘Would it be of any use to you, sir,’ he said to Drummond, ‘if before I put Mr. Patson’s car away I towed you out? I have a rope.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of troubling you,’ answered Drummond affably. ‘She is quite all right where she is for the night. My friend is coming over from Duncanton Hall if he can. If not, we shall have to make shift in the bar here.’

  ‘You know Sir Gerald?’ said the grey-haired man as Benton withdrew.

  ‘Slightly,’ answered Drummond. ‘A great friend of mine is staying with him, and we are supposed to be putting up there on our way down from Scotland.’

  ‘A charming man. My daughter and I have met him two or three times.’

  ‘You come from this part of the country?’ asked Drummond.

  ‘About forty miles away,’ said the other. ‘This is a rendezvous for us and my daughter’s fiancé with my solicitor, Mr. Benton.’

  For a moment or two Drummond studied him through half-closed lids. A delightful old man, he reflected; of the type who tells his life history to complete strangers. And apparently his daughter thought so too.

  ‘Really, Daddy,’ she remarked, ‘I don’t think those details can interest anybody else.’

  She gave Drummond an apologetic little smile, which he returned. And then his eyes fixed themselves on the landlord who was busy doing nothing behind the bar.

  ‘And where is this gentleman going to sleep?’ he asked. ‘I understood you had only three rooms.’

  ‘If he comes, sir,’ cried the landlord obsequiously, ‘I shall turn out of my room, of course. You see I have other rooms, but they are not furnished.’

  ‘Oh,’ Drummond grunted non-committally, and joined Algy at his table. The girl and her father were talking by the fire, to be joined a few moments later by Benton.

  ‘I don’t think, Algy,’ said Drummond in a low voice, ‘that mine host is a very clever man. Did you notice what he said? “If he comes.” Why “If?”’

  ‘The mist, old fruit: the mist.’

  ‘The mist didn’t come down till an hour ago. Up till then therefore he must have assumed that the fiancé was arriving. And yet he has taken no steps to provide a certain guest with a room.’

  ‘What are you getting at, Hugh?’

  ‘At present, nothing. Peter alluded to him over the ’phone as a blackguard, and said that to his certain knowledge he had eight rooms. Which may or may not mean anything. He may have said blackguard as a term of endearment, and he probably has no idea how many rooms there are. At the same time...’

  He lit a cigarette thoughtfully, his eyes on the group by the fire.

  ‘I wonder if I’m fancying things, Algy,’ he continued. ‘Or is the wish father to the thought?’ he added with a grin. ‘But I’m inclined to agree with the girl. In these days of easy travel why choose a damned awful pub like this for a business rendezvous? Ah! The girl and Pop are going upstairs with the landlord. I think I’ll lead Mr. Benton up the garden path a little. Come over to the fire.’

  ‘It will be fortunate for us if Miss Patson’s fiancé does not turn up,’ he remarked. ‘It will solve the question of accommodation.’

  ‘I don’t think you had better rely on it,’ said Benton. ‘He will get through if he possibly can.’

  ‘But with only three rooms it’s going to be a bit awkward for him,’ went on Drummond.

  ‘Three rooms! Er—three rooms! What the deuce... Er—Parrish!

  The landlord appeared in the bar.

  ‘Parrish—what on earth did you mean when you said three rooms? You meant—four. There’s one for Mr. Montgomery.’

  ‘I was giving up my own, sir, to him,’ said the landlord after a pause.

  ‘Ah, yes: of course, of course. Your own. I’d forgotten,’ said Benton.

  ‘You ought to keep a reception clerk here, you know,’ said Drummond blandly. ‘Someone whose masterly brain could coordinate this seething mass of visitors, without mine host being in doubt up till the l
ast moment as to where the angels are going to watch over him.’

  ‘Fortunately for him,’ said Benton, with a laugh, ‘I don’t think he’ll be left wondering for long tonight.’ He was staring at the window as he spoke. ‘The mist is definitely lifting, though I never thought it would. And that means that Mr. Montgomery will certainly arrive, and that you will be able to reach Duncanton Hall.’

  He was right: already some stars were showing and the night was almost clear.

  ‘How very lucky for all concerned,’ said Drummond quietly, and as he spoke the telephone rang. ‘Very lucky indeed,’ he repeated as the landlord went to answer it. ‘And so I shall never know the answer.’

  ‘The answer!’ Benton looked at him. ‘What to?’

  ‘The great problem. Where should we have slept if the mist had continued?’

  ‘Mr. Darrell, sir,’ said the landlord, coming back. ‘Wanted to know what it was like here. I told him, and he’s coming over right away.’

  ‘Thank you,’ remarked Drummond, and fell silent, staring at the fire, whilst Algy watched him curiously. Benton had left the room and the landlord was busy behind the bar.

  ‘What’s stung you, Hugh?’

  ‘The first time the landlord said three rooms Benton said nothing, although on their own showing four were needed. Presumably he’d ordered them. But when I said three rooms to him he got hot and bothered. Four were necessary and he didn’t know the landlord was turning out his. Moreover, when the landlord said it Mr. Montgomery had not been mentioned: when I said it he had. Get me, Algy?’

  ‘Not quite’.

  ‘There was no necessity to account for Mr. Montgomery until the girl mentioned him. And they hadn’t rehearsed that bit so far as we were concerned.’

  ‘But why was there no necessity to account for Montgomery? Supposing he’d turned up.’

  ‘Suppose my foot. Don’t you see, Algy, that the only possible reason which would have kept Benton quiet when the landlord said three rooms instead of four was the knowledge that Parrish was turning out of his—if the show was aboveboard. And he didn’t know it until the landlord told him a few minutes ago.’

  ‘But what does it lead to, man?’

  ‘That Montgomery is not coming at all. That only three rooms have been booked, and when I cornered the landlord all he could say was what he did. For if he had then mentioned a fourth, that would have been available for you and me. And they don’t want you and me here.’

  ‘I say, old boy, it’s a bit far fetched, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it? You think it over. I don’t like it, Algy. That man Benton may be a solicitor, but if he was mine I’d change my firm. No—I don’t like it. Father strikes me as a dear old chap, but he’d be a child in the hands of those two.’

  ‘What do you propose to do about it?’

  ‘I haven’t got as far as that—yet. We’ll see what Peter thinks.’

  * * * *

  But Peter Darrell, when he arrived a quarter of an hour later, was not very helpful. And even Drummond, after the suitcases had been taken out of the stranded car, had to confess to himself that it looked a bit thin. When actually repeated to someone who had not been there, the whole point of the number of rooms seemed to fall flat.

  ‘When I called Parrish a blackguard,’ said Peter, ‘it was really only a figure of speech. Admittedly the man hasn’t a good reputation, but it’s principally because he’s in debt all over the place. And admittedly that inn hasn’t a good reputation either, but that is largely due to the stories from the past, and is nothing to do with the present man. There were two or three mysterious murders and disappearances in days gone by. Come on old boy, let’s push back before there’s any chance of the mist returning. After all, what can happen to the lady? You surely aren’t suggesting that the wicked solicitor has taken her there to wreak his evil will on her?’

  ‘I’ll lay six to four he gets a cauliflower ear if he has,’ remarked Algy with a grin. ‘Tread on it, Peter: I want a cocktail.’

  All perfectly logical, Drummond agreed, and yet, try as he would all through the evening, he could not shake off his feeling that something was wrong. Absurd to imagine that Benton and the landlord intended any violence to old Patson and his daughter: retribution would be immediate, especially now that Algy and he had been to the inn. Equally absurd to imagine that Benton was trying any funny stuff. And yet... back it came again and again. Why such a rendezvous? Why that discrepancy about the rooms? And at last he could stand it no longer.

  ‘Peter,’ he said, ‘I may be several sorts of an ass. But I can’t help it: I’ve got to be sure. Now Moresby knows the Patsons slightly. I want you to ring up Lonely Inn, ostensibly for Moresby, and ask to speak to Miss Patson or her father. Say anything you like about hearing that they are in the neighbourhood, etc., but find out if Montgomery has arrived.’

  ‘OK, Chief,’ said Peter resignedly. ‘And if he has?’

  ‘Make a noise like a hen and ring off. Then come back and we’ll play slosh.’

  Peter left the hall, and Drummond glanced round the house party. It was a large one, and he was fully conscious that he was not pulling his weight. But he couldn’t help it: once the other matter was settled everything would be different. And then he saw Peter coming towards him and knew the answer before he spoke.

  ‘The gentleman has not arrived,’ said Peter briefly. ‘I spoke to the girl, and she said that they can’t understand why he hasn’t phoned if he was hung up.’

  ‘Algy!’

  Drummond beckoned to Longworth, who came over and joined them.

  ‘Montgomery has not arrived at Lonely Inn, nor has he telephoned. It is now half-past ten and the night is clear. That settles it.’

  ‘Merciful heavens!’ cried Algy. ‘Settles what?’

  ‘Go and change,’ said Drummond briefly. ‘Coming, Peter? We’ll sneak out by a side door, and get off as soon as possible.’

  * * * *

  ‘Lights out, Peter. We’ll leave the car here and walk.’

  A quarter of a mile ahead of them a solitary light from one of the top windows of Lonely Inn was shining over the moors. The wind had dropped; the night was fresh and pitch dark. The road stretched in front of them—a smudged grey streak: from somewhere in the distance came the faint music of water over stones. Save for that everything was uncannily still.

  They were all wearing rubber shoes, and had there been a spectator he might have thought that three phantoms were abroad that night. Not a sound heralded their passing, they loomed up and were gone. And when they were still a hundred yards from the inn, the light in the top window was extinguished. A narrow beam across the road, however, now became visible. The bar was evidently still occupied.

  The curtains were drawn, but an open chink gave them a clear view of the interior. Benton was standing with his back to the fire; the landlord was in his usual position behind the bar. And though he was still quite sober, it was obvious that he had had enough.

  ‘Her light’s just gone out,’ the landlord said, and the words came clearly to the watchers through the open window. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Everything ready outside?’ asked Benton.

  The landlord nodded and bent down behind the bar. And when he straightened up he had in his arms a mongrel sheep dog.

  ‘Don’t forget to switch out the light in the passage,’ continued Benton. ‘I’ll go up to my room now.’

  ‘What the devil!’ breathed Drummond. ‘Don’t say we’re mistaken after all.’

  ‘We,’ muttered Algy gloomily. ‘I like that.’

  But Drummond had faded away like a ghost, and when they found him he was in a corner of the yard at the back. On the opposite side a candle was flickering in a stable, and as they watched it they could see a man’s shadow dancing fantastically against the wall as he moved.

  ‘The landlord,’ whispered Drummond. ‘He’s taken the dog over there.’

  After a few moments the candle was blown out, and they heard t
he stable door open and shut. Then steps came across the yard, and the back door closed. The landlord had retired for the night.

  ‘Really, old man,’ said Peter peevishly, ‘I’m getting a bit fed up with this. For heaven’s sake let’s get back to bed. What’s stung you now?’

  From the stable came a mournful howl, but Drummond was standing motionless, peering in front of him, and his grip had tightened on their arms.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ he muttered, and vanished into the darkness.

  ‘Has he gone loopy?’ asked Algy. ‘Can you see anything? And listen to that dog.’

  Howl after howl was coming from the stable—the piteous cry of a dog in misery. And suddenly a light went on in one of the rooms upstairs and they saw the girl outlined against it by the window. Saw a dark figure in the yard below—a figure which vanished like a wraith into the shadows by the back door.

  For a while the girl stood there; then she withdrew into the room. But Peter was not watching her; he, too, was now staring in front of him. And at last he turned to Algy.

  ‘Look about three yards from the back door,’ he whispered. ‘Out into the yard. Do you see what I mean? That dry square in the middle of the damp stones ... I can spot it now the light is on. Is that what Hugh meant?’

  But now voices were coming from the hotel, though the light upstairs had been extinguished as abruptly as it had been switched on. Then they heard the key turn in the back door, and Benton’s voice.

  ‘Be careful, Miss Patson. Straight ahead. That cursed landlord must be drunk. ’

  And then, shrill above the howling of the dog—so unexpectedly that they both started forward—a woman’s scream rang out, a scream that was followed two or three seconds later by a splash that seemed to echo hollowly up from the depths. For the moment the dog had ceased howling, startled into silence. Then windows were flung up; lights were switched on. And in the middle of it all Drummond joined them. In his arms he was carrying the girl, and in the faint light they could see his set white face and blazing eyes.

  ‘Get the car, Peter,’ he said tersely. ‘We’ll wait for you in the bar.’

  From the yard came Benton’s voice shouting ‘Miss Patson; Miss Patson,’ and from above the landlord’s gruff shout, ‘What’s the matter?’ Then came her father’s agonized call: ‘Darling—what’s happened?’