The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  He pushed Algy forward, who bowed deeply.

  ‘His other well-known trick is a life-like imitation of bath water running away, but as the hour is late, and he wishes to get back to his wife and eight children, we will not call on him for that. However, Mr. Walmeyer, as I see that you have considerably more than the sum at stake in your pocket book—may I be permitted to extract ten thousand dollar notes?’

  John B Walmeyer looked at him with shrewd blue eyes: then he looked at Verrinder. And then, like little Audrey, he laughed and he laughed and he laughed.

  ‘What are you going to do with the ten thousand?’ he asked, when he had recovered.

  ‘It will come in most handy for Mr. Poltwhistle’s ninth child,’ answered Drummond blandly.

  ‘Help yourself,’ said John B Walmeyer resignedly. ‘And may heaven preserve me from being anywhere in the neighbourhood when he has his tenth.’

  * * * *

  ‘A most satisfactory ending, Paul, to a charming evening,’ remarked Drummond a few minutes later.

  The mystery tour had departed on its way back to London, amidst general hilarity, after voting the performance a howling success.

  ‘There is one thing, however, that I would like to know,’ he continued ‘How did you propose to do your own getaway? It wouldn’t have been long before someone spotted that he’d been robbed.’

  ‘By car, confound you,’ said Verrinder with a grin. ‘Along with two drivers of the coach. I was going to leave the whole outfit here.’

  ‘A little difficult,’ remarked Drummond. ‘We have already attended to it.’

  ‘The devil you have. Incidentally, what have you done with Joe Parkins?’

  ‘Is he the engaging gentleman who pinched the stuff?’

  Verrinder nodded.

  ‘I dotted him one, Paul. My fist crashed against his jaw. He’s in a flower bed outside. But a little arnica, or one of those excellent advertised preparations should soon put him right. Ah! And here is the fair accomplice. My congratulations, angel face. Is the fishing still on?’

  The girl lit a cigarette.

  ‘What put you wise, big boy?’ she asked.

  ‘Drugging the drivers, darling.’

  ‘It was a risk, I know,’ she said. ‘But if we were going to leave the crowd here it had to be done.’

  And then she looked at him curiously.

  ‘Why didn’t you give us away?’

  ‘Because I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for a long while,’ said Drummond with a grin. ‘Most reprehensible, I know—but there you are.’

  ‘What about the ten thousand bucks?’ cried Verrinder.

  ‘What, indeed?’ said Drummond grinning still more.

  ‘Damn it—you might go fifty-fifty. I’ve paid for the dinner, and the coach, to say nothing of mugging up English history till I was faint from brain fag.’

  Drummond roared with laughter.

  ‘Nothing doing, old boy, absolutely nothing. Your sole reward must be the consciousness of tomorrow’s good deed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ cried Verrinder, looking puzzled.

  ‘Acting on your instructions, Paul, I shall tomorrow send ten thousand dollars to one of the Village Centres for Disabled Soldiers and Sailors. Unless, of course, you have another charity you fancy. Well...?’

  ‘I leave it to you,’ said Verrinder resignedly. ‘I suppose my overdraft in Paris is not on the approved list.’

  THE ORIENTAL MIND (1937)

  Hugh Drummond sat at beer. Outside, a pea-soup fog drifted sluggishly against the club windows; inside, the most crashing bore in Europe was showing signs of vocal labour. It was therefore with feelings of considerable relief that, over the rim of his tankard, he saw Algy Longworth approaching. Anything was preferable to the bore, so he waved a large hand benignly.

  ‘You may approach the presence, Algy,’ he remarked. ‘Do you feel as lousy as you look?’

  ‘I thought I should probably find you drinking yourself to death in here,’ said Algy. ‘I will join you in a pink gin.’ Drummond beckoned to a passing waiter.

  ‘And to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?’ he asked.

  ‘Can you lunch today, old boy?’

  ‘Who with and where?’

  ‘Me and a wench.’

  Drummond looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘Where’s the catch?’ he demanded. ‘If she’s the goods you don’t want me, and if she isn’t I don’t want her.’

  Algy grinned.

  ‘Not this outing, laddie. You just listen while I hand out all the dope that I know myself. Have you ever heard me mention Marjorie Porter?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Drummond resignedly. ‘But don’t let that deter you.’

  ‘This morning I got a letter from her,’ continued Algy. ‘It was written from her home in Norfolk, and she asked me to give her lunch at the Berkeley today. She went on to say that it was urgent, and... wait a moment. I’ll read you this bit.’

  He produced a letter from his pocket.

  ‘She says: “Haven’t you got a friend who is very strong, and likes adventure? Do bring him too if you can. I really do want help.’”

  Algy replaced the letter, and finished his drink.

  ‘There you are, my boy. Damsel in distress appealing for assistance. What about it?’

  ‘So far,’ said Drummond, ‘you have our ear. But I’d like to get the form a bit better. Who is this Marjorie Porter?’

  ‘A damned nice girl. Her father and mother both died when she was a kid, and since then she has lived with her uncle, one John Greston, at Macklebury Hall. He had a son, whom I never met and who died out East some months ago. There was something a bit odd, so I heard, over the matter, but I haven’t seen Marjorie since then, so I really don’t know the facts.’

  ‘And this John Greston. Have you met him?’

  ‘Once: years ago. He’s a great big giant of a man, and he must be rising sixty.’

  ‘So you’ve got no idea what’s stung the girl?’

  ‘Not an earthly. But I know her well enough to feel sure that she wouldn’t have written what she did without good cause.’

  ‘All right, old boy,’ said Drummond. ‘You can count me in. I’ll be at the Berkeley at one.’

  * * * *

  He was a bit late, and when he arrived Algy was already there talking to a very attractive girl. And having been duly introduced the three of them went in to lunch.

  ‘It strikes me, my pet,’ said Algy, after he had given his order, ‘that you’d better begin all over again. All that Hugh knows is that you live with Uncle John in Norfolk.’

  ‘It’s really very sweet of you, Captain Drummond,’ she said, ‘to listen to the troubles of a complete stranger, but honestly I am most terribly worried.’

  ‘Cough it up, Miss Porter,’ said Drummond. ‘If you only knew, you’re really doing a kindness to two great lazy brutes who are both bored stiff with life.’

  ‘Did Algy tell you about my cousin? Uncle John’s son.’

  ‘I mentioned it,’ said Algy. ‘And incidentally, my dear, that was a thing I wanted to ask you. What happened?’

  ‘What did you hear?’ asked the girl.

  ‘That he’d died somewhere out East.’

  ‘He committed suicide, Algy,’ she said quietly. ‘And that was the beginning of all the trouble. Did you ever meet Jack?’

  ‘I don’t think I did.’

  ‘He was an awfully nice creature, but terribly weak where women were concerned. He was the apple of Uncle John’s eye—Aunt Mary died when he was about six, and I suppose that threw the two of them together. At any rate, they were inseparable until about a year ago, when Jack fell in love with a woman at least ten years older than himself. Which might not have been so bad if she’d been a decent sort.

  ‘I only met her once, when he brought her down to Macklebury Hall; and what Jack saw in her was beyond my comprehension. She was a hard-bitten gold-digger of the most blatant description, and she didn’t even t
ake the trouble to be civil to him. She was good-looking in her way, and she certainly knew how to put on her clothes, but having said that you’ve said all. She ordered him about like a dog, but he just didn’t seem to see it. He was completely infatuated.

  ‘Uncle John, of course, was furious, and when Jack announced his intention of marrying her there was the most appalling row, which ended with Uncle John telling him straight out that if he did he’d cut him off. As you perhaps know, Algy, Uncle John is a very wealthy man, but the threat produced no effect at all on Jack. What was money compared to the woman he loved, etc.? So my uncle had a brainwave and wrote the same ultimatum to the dame. And you can take it from me that that acted quicker than a dose of dynamite. She dropped Jack like a hot potato, and left for a long trip to the East to soothe her outraged nerves.’

  ‘How long ago was all this?’ asked Algy.

  ‘Eunice Radnor sailed just twelve months ago. Jack, despite all we could do to stop him, followed by the next boat. He was mad with his father for having written to her, and they had one row after another before he left. Which made it all the worse for Uncle John when he heard about the tragedy.

  ‘At first the news was very skimpy; just a bald telegram announcing that Jack was dead. Then came a letter from the head of the police in Ceylon giving the details. It appeared that she had got off the boat at Colombo, and was living in a hotel there when Jack arrived a fortnight later. How he found out she was disembarking there we don’t know: he may have wirelessed her boat or something. At any rate, he tracked her down and went to see her. And what happened at the interview we don’t know either, of course.

  ‘According to the hotel boys very high words were heard coming from the room, and one swore that he had heard two men’s voices inside. But this she denied absolutely when questioned later. At any rate, Jack was seen to leave the hotel in a state of great agitation—the interview had taken place after dinner—and no one seems to have seen him alive again. Four days later his body was found at the foot of some cliffs a few miles from Colombo, and he had evidently been dead for some time.’

  ‘Then he may have slipped over,’ remarked Drummond.

  ‘Just what I said to my uncle, Captain Drummond, to try and soften the blow. But I’m afraid he didn’t believe it, any more than I did. What happened, I fear, is obvious. Jack tried to persuade her to change her mind, and when she wouldn’t he just went out and took his own life.’

  ‘I wonder if there was another man,’ said Algy thoughtfully.

  ‘More than likely, I should think,’ remarked the girl. ‘And several at that.’

  ‘And it broke your uncle up?’ said Drummond.

  ‘Completely. He began to blame himself for the whole affair. Said that if he’d handled the matter differently Jack would still be alive, and all that sort of thing. And nothing that I said seemed to have the slightest effect. Then a month ago Hubert Manton suddenly appeared on the scene.

  Hubert Manton is another cousin, but a distant one. And I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone to whom I took such an instant dislike. Apparently he’s been abroad all his life: in fact I, actually, had never heard of him. But Uncle John explained who he was, and raised no objections to the brute parking himself on us. He certainly raised no objections to doing so, and there he still is at Macklebury Hall. He brought a native servant with him, whom you suddenly come on unexpectedly round corners, and who terrifies the rest of the staff out of their senses. Personally, I think he is infinitely preferable to his master, but that’s neither here nor there. He is called Chang, and he was pathetically grateful to me the other day when I bound up a bad cut in his hand. You poor dears,’ she added with an apologetic smile, ‘must be wondering when I’m going to get to the point.’

  ‘Not a bit,’ cried Algy. ‘Tell it your own way, my pet.’

  ‘The first thing that happened took place two days after this Manton man arrived. I was wearing India rubber shoes, and so when I went into the library, I made no sound. And there, to my surprise, standing with his back to me, was Chang. He was holding a photograph in his hand, and studying it closely. It was a photograph of Jack.

  “‘Do you know that gentleman, Chang?” I said on the spur of the moment.

  ‘He nearly dropped the frame, he was so startled: then he put it back on the table.

  “‘No, Missie,” he said. “Chang not know gentleman.”

  ‘And at that moment Hubert Manton came in, so that he overheard Chang’s reply. He said something in native dialect that I couldn’t understand, and Chang slunk out of the room. Then he apologized to me for the servant being in the library at all and the matter passed off. In fact, it was such a trifling thing that I forgot all about it till a week later, when I was up for the day in London.

  ‘I was walking along Piccadilly past the Ritz when the lights went red and the traffic stopped. And just as I got abreast of a taxi I happened to glance inside. There, to my utter amazement, I saw Hubert Manton and Eunice Radnor. They neither of them saw me, and I hurried past for fear they should. The last thing I wanted to do was to meet that woman again. But once I was out of sight I began to do some pretty hectic thinking.

  ‘You see, Uncle John had told Hubert Manton about the tragedy, and the Radnor woman’s name had been mentioned. Why, then, had he concealed the fact that he knew her? Was it because he thought it tactful not to let Uncle John know that she was back in England? Or was there some other reason? And if so, what could it possibly be?

  ‘I puzzled and puzzled all the way back in the train, until suddenly a wild idea flashed into my mind. As I told you, I’d forgotten about Chang and the photograph: now the episode came back. Had Chang been lying when he said he didn’t know Jack? For if that was the case, something very funny was in the air.’

  She paused and lit a cigarette and the two men waited in silence.

  ‘You see, Captain Drummond,’ she continued, ‘Chang has never been to England before this time, and the only occasion Jack ever went abroad, except to Switzerland, was the fatal trip to Ceylon. So that if Chang had recognized the photo, the only time he could have seen Jack was in Colombo. Further, Chang has been in Hubert Manton’s service for years, and if Chang was in Colombo it was more than likely that his master was also. So could it be possible that Hubert Manton was lying when he said that he was in China at the time of Jack’s death? Was his the other man’s voice the boy thought he heard in the room? I tell you, Algy, my brain began to reel with all that it implied.

  ‘I tried to reason myself out of it; to tell myself that I’d built up the whole thing on the supposition that Chang was lying. But all the time that other question came hammering back; why had Hubert Manton kept the fact that he knew Eunice Radnor a secret? I wondered if I should tell my uncle; drop out a remark casually at dinner that I’d seen them together in London. But some instinct warned me not to: if there was something going on, I could be of more use if I kept my knowledge to myself.

  ‘And then began the other thing which is what finally made me write you, Algy. Even Simmonds, the butler, remarked on it to me. My uncle seems positively to dislike me near him, and what is even worse than that, he’s very queer at times. I’ve found him muttering to himself, and he’s developed a sort of strange nervous twitch in his left eye. He spends the whole of his time with Hubert Manton in his study. I’ve often heard them talking far into the night. And one day I tackled the Manton thing on the subject, because I think Uncle John ought to see a doctor. Would you believe it, he assured me he’d noticed nothing unusual. Why, a child could see that my uncle is not normal. So obvious is it, in fact, that for the past week I’ve locked my bedroom door each night. And two nights ago I was glad I’d done so.

  ‘I’d fallen asleep when a sound woke me. The fire had died down, but there was still just enough light to see across the room. And the handle of the door was slowly turning. I watched it, fascinated, too terrified even to call out and ask who was there. Then, when whoever it was found the door locked, he ga
ve it up and I heard footsteps going softly away down the passage. And the next morning, I wrote to you, Algy.’

  ‘And a deuced sensible thing to do, darling. What do you make of it, Hugh?’

  ‘Well, one thing sticks out a yard. Whether Miss Porter is right or wrong about Manton, something must be done about her uncle’s condition. Can’t you get the local pill to come and vet him?’ he went on, turning to the girl. ‘Ask him to lunch, so that it doesn’t seem a professional visit.’

  ‘I can try,’ said the girl doubtfully. ‘But I’m afraid it wouldn’t do much good. All he could do would be to prescribe some medicine, and Uncle John would immediately throw the bottle at his head. He loathes doctors.’

  Drummond smiled.

  ‘I see,’ he remarked. ‘Well, can’t you go away for a time? Either your uncle’s condition will improve, or he’ll get so bad that he will have to be seen by a doctor.’

  ‘I could do that, but I don’t want to,’ she said. ‘I hate the thought of leaving him alone with Hubert Manton.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest yourself, Miss Porter?’

  ‘I was wondering, though I know it’s a terrible lot to ask, if you and Algy could possibly come down and tell me what you think yourselves. You’re men of the world, and you’d know far better than I whether I’m talking rot or what you think I’d better do.’

  ‘My dear soul,’ said Drummond, ‘I’d be only too delighted to come down, and so I’m sure would Algy. But it’s not quite so easy as that. What possible excuse have we got for suddenly appearing on the scene? I’m a complete stranger, and I gather Algy hardly knows your uncle at all.’

  ‘I realized that difficulty, Captain Drummond, and I’ve thought of a way round it. Couldn’t you stage a breakdown near the gate, and then walk up to the house to ask if you can use the telephone? I’ll be in the hall and recognize Algy. Then if you time it for about a quarter to eight the least I can do is to ask you to stay to dinner. I know it’s an awful sweat, and I’m positively ashamed at asking you to do it, but it would be such a comfort to me to have your opinion.’