The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  * * * *

  They met the old man running down the stairs, and Drummond beckoned him into the bar. Then he put down the girl by the dying embers of the fire. She was now shivering uncontrollably and her eyes never left his face.

  ‘Your daughter is quite safe, Mr. Patson,’ he said quietly. ‘And as there is not much time, would you please tell me exactly what and who Mr. Benton is. And why you are all here?’

  ‘To meet her fiancé, and discuss settlements. Mr. Benton has charge of her money: he’s my solicitor.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Drummond softly. ‘I see.’

  ‘You fool!’ came Benton’s shout from outside. ‘The well is uncovered—she’s fallen in.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Drummond even more softly. ‘The well is uncovered: but she hasn’t fallen in.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir,’ cried the old man pitifully.

  ‘I fear you will soon, Mr. Patson,’ said Drummond gravely. ‘Only too well.’

  ‘It was the dog howling, Daddy,’ said the girl, her eyes still fixed on Drummond, ‘Mr. Benton asked me if I could do anything—he came to my room.’

  ‘He did, did he?’ Drummond’s face was expressionless.

  ‘And then this gentleman picked me up in the darkness and I screamed... What was that splash?’

  ‘A sack of potatoes I kicked down the shaft,’ said Drummond. ‘Recovered the body, Mr. Benton?’

  Standing in the doorway was the solicitor. His eyes roved over the group by the fire. He seemed to have difficulty in swallowing. But at length he forced himself to speak.

  ‘Thank Heavens!’ he muttered. ‘I was afraid that. . .’

  ‘Yes’, said Drummond politely. ‘You were afraid that…?’

  ‘That Miss Patson had fallen down the well.’ With a great effort he pulled himself together. ‘That fool Parrish had forgotten to put back the boards.’

  ‘Quite,’ drawled Drummond. ‘So I perceived. Oh, Peter—I want to introduce you to Miss Patson, and her father... Mr. Darrell ... He has a car outside, Miss Patson, and I want you and Mr. Patson to put on some clothes and then go with him to Duncanton Hall for the night. Then, Peter, would you come back for Algy and me. ’

  ‘But, really,’ said the old man doubtfully, ‘it’s a little late, isn’t it?’

  ‘Go along, Daddy,’ cried the girl. ‘Go and get dressed.’

  She watched him leave the room, then she rose and came over to Drummond.

  ‘It would be stupid to thank you,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Why are you waiting here?’

  ‘For a little chat with Mr. Benton,’ answered Drummond with the suspicion of a smile. ‘Now trot along and get your things.’

  * * * *

  ‘A merciful thing, sir, that you happened to be there,’ said Benton ten minutes later. The car had gone, and he and the landlord were both in the bar.

  ‘What brought you back I can’t imagine,’ he continued in a voice that despite all his efforts shook a little from time to time as he glanced at the big silent man who was staring at him unwaveringly from the fireplace. ‘One can only be thankful that something did.’

  ‘Can’t imagine how I came to leave it open,’ muttered the landlord uneasily.

  And suddenly Drummond spoke.

  ‘You are in the legal profession I believe, Mr. Benton,’ he remarked suavely.

  ‘I am,’ said the other.

  ‘A profession which demands proof above everything else. A pity, isn’t it, that I have no proof.’

  ‘What of?’ Benton was licking his lips.

  ‘That you and your brother swine have been guilty of an attempt at the foulest and most damnably cold-blooded murder I have ever thought of.’

  ‘How dare you, sir?’ shouted the solicitor, starting forward. ‘How dare you say such a thing?’

  ‘Whether you ever notified Mr. Montgomery at all,’ continued Drummond impassively, ‘is doubtful. You planned to get that girl and her old father here alone. You wanted to kill her because I should imagine you couldn’t face any inquiry into her money affairs. So you staged an accident, Mr. Benton. A dog which you knew would howl if left in the stable; a tender-hearted girl; a dark night; an open well. Just an accident, Mr. Benton; a terrible and regrettable accident, with no one to blame. But unfortunately for you I have a strange gift of seeing in the darkness, and I spotted the top of the well.’

  ‘It’s a cursed lie,’ said Benton thickly. ‘Your statements are libelous, sir. You can’t prove a word of them.’

  ‘I know I can’t,’ remarked Drummond placidly. ‘And it’s such a pity for you that I do know that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if I was foolish enough to charge you with this accusation before the police, I am sure that my action would fail, and I should be heavily mulcted in damages.’

  ‘Glad you’re beginning to see some sense.’

  ‘Yes. But it’s a pity for you all the same. Because, although I can’t prove my case, I know it’s true. So what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you are, but I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Oh, no, you’re not, Benton,’ said Drummond softly. ‘Not yet, at any rate. You see, I hate not to support a worthy profession, and since I can’t bring my case against you, I’m going to give you a case to bring against me. I cannot do what I would like to do, and throw you both down the well yourselves: the Board of Health people would certainly object to the water being polluted. And so I am going to do the next best thing, and give you a magnificent example of drumhead justice. Or injustice—as you like to put it. I see your accomplice has bolted, but never mind. I’ll attend to him later.’

  ‘My God!’ screamed Benton, staring fascinated at a face chalk-white with cold fury. ‘Here—keep off! Mercy! Have mercy!’

  And the next spoken word came from Algy two minutes later.

  ‘Steady, old Hugh! You’ll kill him.’

  Like a man coming out of deep water, Drummond looked up from the job in hand and blinked. Then he flung what was left of Benton into the corner and shook himself.

  ‘That would never do, Algy,’ he said dreamily. ‘We don’t want to lose him—yet. Now for the landlord.’

  But that was a different story. They went through every room in the inn, but of Parrish there was no sign. Somewhere on the moors that worthy was lying up—waiting till it was safe to return. And so it was only Benton that Peter Darrell inspected with a professional eye half an hour later.

  ‘Definitely one of your better efforts, old boy,’ he remarked approvingly. ‘The right one will, possibly, turn a richer green than the left, but I don’t think he really deserves to be symmetrical.’

  THE MYSTERY TOUR (1937)

  The landlord of the Angler’s Rest contemplated his preparations with pride. Underneath a huge tree was set a long table, groaning with good fare. Cold salmon and cucumber, meat pies and salad, with a Stilton cheese as the central pièce de résistance, went to make up a meal of much merit—a meal which he felt did credit to the famous hostelry he owned.

  The order had been somewhat of a surprise. Well known though he was for the excellence of his food, his principal customers were fishermen. Through his land there flowed the Weldron, which, as all the fishing world knows, is one of the best trout streams in the south of England, and since the cost of a rod is considerable, it followed that most of his guests were men of means and leisure, who like peace and quiet in which to tell their lies. So that he wondered how this sudden influx would be viewed by the three who were staying with him at the moment.

  And it had indeed been sudden—so sudden that he contemplated with justifiable pride his response to such an unexpected commission. Only four hours in which to prepare a genuine old English spread for thirty people was asking a good deal. And that was all the time he had been given. At four o’clock that afternoon a car had drawn up outside his hotel, and from it had descended a well-dressed and pleasant individual who had ordered dinner for thirty at eight
o’clock. And it was to be no ordinary dinner, since it was no ordinary party. Simple and plain the food might be, but it must be of the very best. For, as the gentleman had pointed out, the atmosphere of a hundred years ago could be obtained with the genuine article just as well as with tinned salmon and tough beef, and with far more beneficial results to the digestion. And when he had proceeded to pass over a tenner as advance payment before getting back into his car, mine host had wasted no time.

  ‘Great heavens, Jackson! What is this ghastly thing I see before my eyes? Have you got a charabanc party coming?’

  He swung round: three men, their footsteps noiseless on the grass, were standing behind him contemplating the long table with horror.

  ‘Not a charabanc, Captain Drummond,’ he said. ‘Money no object, sir. Old English fare, and of the very best. They’re coming at eight.’

  ‘You’d better give ’em that trout you stunned, Hugh,’ said one of the three. ‘Have you ever seen Captain Drummond fish, Jackson? Or I should say, “Have you ever heard him?”’

  ‘Can’t say as I have, Mr. Darrell.’

  ‘It sounds like a gramophone record—the departure of a troopship. First there is a loud crack and a branch behind him is tom off. That is followed by a medley of oaths, and the noise of a large cable hitting the water. Then the waves begin to break all round you.’

  ‘My dear Peter,’ said Drummond languidly, ‘your insults leave me cold. I caught a fish—true, not a large one. But alone I did it.’

  ‘I should damn well think you were alone,’ remarked Darrell. ‘I was a mile from you, and only great agility saved me from drowning in the bore you started.’

  Drummond waved a vast hand.

  ‘Beer, Jackson, beer. Lots of beer. And then tell us about your party. Algy, don’t finger the food, you filthy beast.’

  Algy Longworth returned from the table, his mouth full of meat pie.

  ‘Definitely good, old jolly-belly,’ he assured the landlord. ‘Tell the varlet to feed those to me at dinner.’

  ‘But joking apart,’ said Darrell as the landlord went inside, ‘what has the silly ass let us in for? It’s sacrilege on an evening like this.’

  ‘It is life,’ answered Drummond, taking a pie himself. ‘Life in this land of ours today. Here we sit, ’neath the old oak tree, surrounded by our trophies of the chase. The sun is sinking in the west; the shadows lengthen, throwing into gentle relief the rugged beauty of our features. All is peace; nought is heard save the gentle babble of the brook....’

  ‘Sit on his head,’ said Algy. ‘That’s Eliza having a bath.’

  ‘Where did I get to? Brook. ... The babbling brook. And what does the future hold for us? Is it pleasing converse with fair ladies and brave men clad in knightly armour telling of glorious deeds in derring-do? Is it Dick Turpin bidding us ride the road with him as darkness falls? No, sir, it is not. It is the descent upon us of hordes of women, clasping grubby-nosed and puling brats to their bosoms, whilst from their foul conveyance a portable abomination will give us the fat stock prices. England, my England. ’

  ‘Beer, sir?’ said the landlord at his elbow.

  ‘Tell me, old friend of my youth,’ continued Drummond, as he took a tankard, ‘where is the spirit of adventure today? Rich and riotous adventure. ... Does no red blood still flow in our veins? Passing over my battle today with that monster of the deep…’ He peered into his creel. ‘By the way, where the hell is my fish?’

  ‘Hidden under the third blade of grass,’ said Darrell. ‘Look here, Jackson, what on earth induced you to wish a beanfeast on us?’

  ‘It’s a funny sort of beanfeast, gentlemen, that stumps up a tenner in advance.’

  ‘Worse and worse,’ cried Algy. ‘It’s a gathering of absconding goose-club treasurers.’

  ‘Hardly that,’ came a suave voice. ‘I can assure you, gentlemen, that our guests will not trouble you in the slightest.’

  With a smile and a little bow the speaker crossed to the table and inspected the contents.

  ‘He’s the gentleman who gave the order, sir,’ said the landlord in a hoarse aside to Drummond before joining the newcomer at the foot. ‘The best I could do, sir,’ he remarked, ‘at such short notice.’

  ‘And a very good best too,’ said the other approvingly. ‘Let us have plenty of ale and cider. And whisky for those who prefer it.’

  He lit a cigarette and sauntered back to Drummond’s bench.

  ‘What a charming spot!’ he remarked.

  ‘Very,’ agreed Drummond shortly. ‘So quiet as a rule.’

  Once again the man smiled.

  ‘I see that you fear the worst,’ he said. ‘And I admit, gentlemen, that you will have to put up with a party of thirty for an hour or so. But I can promise you that there will be no banana skins or orange peel thrown about, and that everybody will be strictly sober. You will excuse me?’

  With another bow he turned and went indoors, leaving the three men to their beer.

  ‘That man,’ said Drummond apropos of nothing, ‘is not English. Algy, you hound of hell, go in and get these refilled. The whole staff is running round in circles over this damned party.’

  ‘What about feeding somewhere else, Hugh?’ said Darrell as Algy went obediently. ‘The prospect is not inviting.’

  ‘Not a bad notion, Peter. Let’s lower another can and think about it. Though I admit I’m curious to see who the preparations are for.’

  ‘We’ll give ’em the once over and then push off,’ suggested Darrell. ‘Don’t slop the beer, Algy.’

  ‘Slop be blowed,’ said Algy, putting down his tankard. ‘Look here, you boys, our foreign friend seems a bit curious about us.’

  ‘What’s that?’ cried Drummond.

  ‘I was getting the drink through the hatch place, and he was round the corner in the bar having a quick one with Jackson.

  “‘You know them, Mr. Jackson?” I heard him say.’

  “‘Very well, sir,” answered the old boy. “Mr. Darrell often comes here to fish, and the other two gentlemen are friends of his.”

  ‘And then Eliza gave me the tankards and they saw me, and shut up. But why should the organizer of this bun-worry be interested in us?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ agreed Drummond thoughtfully.

  He relapsed into silence as Darrell gave him a warning kick under the table: the gentleman in question was approaching.

  ‘I have just heard from the landlord,’ he said, ‘that you are frequent visitors here. And so I felt I must really come and express my regrets at this invasion of your privacy.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Drummond. ‘We are full of curiosity. ... Now was that genuine?’ he continued as the man moved away. ‘Or was it an endeavor to explain his curiosity, knowing he’d been overheard in the bar by Algy?’

  ‘We ought to know soon,’ said Darrell. ‘Here are the competitors arriving.’ And then he gave a grunt of disgust. ‘Good Lord!’ he cried. ‘It’s one of those confounded Mystery Tours.’

  ‘What are they?’ asked Algy vaguely.

  ‘My dear man, they’ve been going for years. You buy a ticket and get into a bus, which then starts off for some unknown destination. ... You finally arrive at Stonehenge at dawn, where you are bitten all over by mosquitoes and the other passengers.’

  The luxurious motor-coach drew up opposite the door. In front was a notice—MYSTERY TOUR: behind, standing by the open door, was the organizer of the party. And with languid interest they watched the guests descend—an interest which became slightly more animated during the process. For by no stretch of imagination could they visualize the occupants of the coach biting one another at Stonehenge. Or throwing banana skins about. For almost before a babble of voices broke out to proclaim their nationality it was obvious that the party consisted of well-to-do Americans.

  The majority consisted of young people, but there was a leaven of older ones who were evidently parents. And from the fragments of conversation that came drifting to the ear
s of the three spectators it was clear that one and all of them were tickled to death with the whole performance. In fact, when the oldest inhabitant of the village, clad in a smock, appeared at the door of the inn, smoking a long clay pipe, a positive cheer went up from the younger members of the party.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, will you please be seated.’

  The voice of the organizer rose above the general hum of conversation.

  ‘Sit where you like,’ he continued. ‘I am sure you can all sort yourselves out better than I can. And now,’ he went on when all the chairs were occupied, ‘I am just going to say a few words before our worthy host begins to serve the dinner. On our trip over in the Begonia, you were good enough, sir,’—he turned to a grey-haired man on his right—‘to bet me that I would not stage for you something out of which you would get a kick. That I think was your exact phrase.’

  ‘Sure,’ agreed the American.

  ‘You were good enough to say that you would put yourselves unreservedly in my hands. And I asked you to assemble at Hyde Park Corner this afternoon, and get into the motor-coach which would be awaiting you there, so that you could embark on a mystery tour. I gave strict instructions to the driver and his mate that they were not to tell you where you were going—not even this half-way mark. Because I can assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that I should not consider I had seriously tried to win my bet if this was the finish of my entertainment. That comes later.

  ‘But since we poor mortals must feed, I decided to try and introduce—even to such a prosaic thing as dinner—a certain novelty: to give you something as far removed from the Ritz and Claridge’s as I could. And mercifully our fickle climate has been kind.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I want you to throw your minds back into the past. Seated where you are under that same tree, were the men who watched the beacons light on the hills yonder, as the Spanish Armada approached our shores over three hundred years ago. Seated where you are under that same tree were the men who awaited the latest news of Bonaparte. And they were eating the same fare as you will be eating tonight; and drinking the same. No cocktails, ladies and gentlemen: I forbid it. There is English ale, English cider, and I have stretched a point over Scotch whisky.