The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  ‘Did you drug Miss Porter, Chang?’ said Drummond sternly.

  ‘No, master. Him drug Missie.’ He pointed at Manton.

  ‘And who drugged him?’

  ‘Chang. Chang know everything. Him want big man kill Missie, so him gave big man native drug and tell him lies about Missie. Him say Missie bad woman, and big man believe because of drug.’

  ‘But why did he want big man to kill Missie?’ asked Drummond incredulously.

  ‘Big man hang: Missie dead. Him get money.’

  ‘And even if they hadn’t hanged him they’d have put him in Broadmoor,’ said Drummond to Algy. ‘Go on, Chang.’

  ‘Him meet white lady Colombo. Him knew white man in picture downstairs.’

  ‘So the girl was right,’ said Drummond. ‘Did him kill white man in Ceylon?’

  ‘Chang not know that.’

  ‘And why didn’t you tell someone about all this sooner?’

  ‘Chang hate him. Chang want him killed. Chang love Missie. Chang see Missie not hurt. When Chang found Missie not here, Chang thought Missie in other room.’

  ‘Truly,’ said Drummond, ‘the mind of an oriental is tortuous. What happened to Uncle John doesn’t appear to have come into the reckoning at all. Algy, find the telephone and ring up the police. If we don’t get that swine Manton fifteen years for this I’ll eat my hat. My only regret is that we didn’t leave him on the bed.’

  WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS (1937)

  The front door of No. 3, Bridgewater Square opened suddenly, and from it there issued a discordant volume of sound and a large man in evening clothes. At any hour of the day or night such a thing was unusual in that ultra respectable locality; at two a.m. it was not only unusual but a definite outrage. And yet what else was to be expected when the Dowager Countess of Betterby had been unwise enough to let her house for the season to Mrs. van Ranton of Baltimore, U.S.A.?

  Mrs. van Ranton was a young and vivacious American, whose husband, as was only proper, was cornering something in his native town in order to supply the wife of his bosom with the means to keep her end up in London. And since the dear fellow was succeeding most admirably, Mrs. van Ranton decided to give a party which was a party. It was to be a party which would linger in the memory of the guests as a knock-out, and to do the little lady justice she had succeeded. It was a wow from the word go.

  Now it is not my intention to describe the performance in any detail, since, save as a foundation, it has nothing to do with what follows. But even the most unintelligent reader will demand some reason for Hugh Drummond’s presence in Bridgewater Square in the middle of a fine July night, wearing a large false nose of crimson hue. He will demand even more reason when it has to be truthfully stated that Drummond was quite unaware of his adornment.

  To say that hardy warrior was ‘sewn’ would be an exaggeration. Possessing, as he did, a head of teak, even Mrs. van Ranton could not accomplish that miracle. But honesty compels the narrator to admit that he was not in a condition where his presence would have been welcomed at the mid-term celebrations in a girls’ school. Let us leave it at that.

  The door closed behind him; the noise died down. And for a while he stood there contemplating the row of empty cars and wondering why he had left the party. A slight indiscretion during a game of sardines, inaugurated by Algy Longworth, had passed off better than he had anticipated; the trouble was he could not remember who the girl was or where he had asked her to lunch. And now, with the cool air beating on his brow, he wondered whether he ought not to return and settle these two trifling points. But it was difficult. Eighty wenches: betting seventy-nine to one against sorting the winner. Not good enough.

  A cat joined him, a friendly cat—and at two a.m. in Bridgewater Square a man needs friendship. It proves that life is still extant in an apparently dead world. And Drummond was on the verge of stroking the new arrival when there came from the distance a most unexpected sound. He straightened up and listened. There was no doubt about it: someone was running, and running fast. And the next moment the runner came in sight.

  The cat vanished; alone Drummond awaited the onslaught. It came with an abruptness that left him bewildered. He had a fleeting vision of a white-faced man whose breath was coming in great sobs; he felt a paper thrust into his hands; he heard a gasped-out sentence—‘Take it to Scotland Yard’—and he was alone again. The runner had disappeared round the other end of the Square.

  Drummond blinked thoughtfully. The matter required consideration. From inside No. 3 there still came bursts of hilarity, but his mind no longer toyed with the seventy-nine to one chance. Why should a man run in a condition of great distress through Bridgewater Square in the middle of the night? And to do him justice there is but little doubt that, given sufficient time, he would have solved the problem correctly had it been necessary. It was not; the solution appeared almost at once in the shape of three more men running swiftly towards him.

  He put the paper in his pocket and again awaited the onslaught.

  ‘Hey, you!’ cried the first. ‘Has a guy passed running this way?’

  ‘Why,’ said Drummond solemnly, ‘should I reveal the secrets of my heart to a complete stranger?’

  ‘Aw! cut it out, Bill,’ muttered one of the others. ‘The bloke’s tight. Let’s get on.’

  ‘An extremely offensive utterance,’ remarked Drummond as a window above was flung up, and the voices of happy revelers came to their ears. ‘Almost libelous. Dear me! How distressing.’

  It was a charlotte russe that descended from the stratosphere, and it burst, by superb chance, on the first speaker’s head.

  ‘An albatross without a doubt,’ said Drummond sympathetically. ‘How true it is that the rain it raineth upon the just and the unjust alike. However, as I think it is more than likely that there will be an encore, I will wish you all a hearty good night.’

  ‘Have you seen a man running?’ snarled the leader, plucking macaroons from his ears.

  ‘You remind me of the old song, “Have you ever seen a dream walking?”’ said Drummond reminiscently. ‘Have you a moment? If so, I will sing it to you. No? Well, perhaps you’re right.’

  He watched them vanish round the corner, and waited till the sound of their footsteps had died away. Then, his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets, he started to saunter homewards. What story lay behind the runners of Bridgewater Square? Who were the pursuers and who the pursued?

  Suddenly it struck him that he had not yet looked at the paper, and he paused under a street lamp. It was a dirty little fragment torn hurriedly from a cheap notebook, and on it three words were scrawled in pencil: ‘Rest House, Aldmersham.’ And having examined both sides, and satisfied himself that there was nothing more, he replaced it in his pocket and walked on.

  On the face of it a harmless enough communication in all conscience. And yet a man with bursting lungs, running for his life, had deemed it of sufficient importance for Scotland Yard. At which stage of his reflections he frowned.

  Running for his life! If he was any judge of men and matters that was no exaggeration, and he had done nothing about it. It was true that until the pursuers appeared on the scene it had not struck him that way. It was true that the man had come and gone so quickly that there had been no time to do anything. But for all that, Drummond had an uneasy twinge of conscience that his performance had not been too good; that the brain had not functioned with that speed which he had a right to expect. And why?

  Came the measured tread of a policeman; he would make inquiries.

  ‘Officer,’ he remarked as they met, ‘I would hold converse with you. And what, may I ask,’ he continued, ‘are you laughing at?’

  ‘Your nose, sir. Most refreshing.’

  ‘An unusual epithet to apply to the organ in question,’ said Drummond with dignity. ‘It is a poor thing doubtless, but...’

  He paused as his hand encountered the obstruction.

  ‘I perceive the cause of your hilarity,’ he remarked. ‘I ap
pear to be wearing a false one.’

  ‘I should hope so, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean—you hope so?’

  ‘Only, sir, that if that was real you’d better stick to milk for a bit.’

  ‘I take your meaning,’ said Drummond, removing the offence. ‘And to tell you the truth I am constrained to cry—touché. As man to man would you say I was tight?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir! Slightly oiled, if I may say so.’

  ‘That accounts for it,’ remarked Drummond with great relief. ‘I feared it might be softening of the brain. Listen, my trusty rozzer: unless I’m much mistaken there’s some dirty work afoot. Some five minutes ago a man raced through Bridgewater Square, with three others hard on his heels. I detained the pursuers for a space, but I should think the betting is that they caught him. And I don’t think they wanted to kiss him good night.’

  ‘Your name, sir?’ said the policeman curtly, pulling out his notebook.

  ‘Hugh Drummond: 87, Half Moon Street.’

  ‘Which way were they going?’

  ‘From north to south.’

  ‘Would you know them again?’

  ‘I should know the man they were after and at any rate one of the other three.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Good night. I know where to get you if I want you.’

  The constable disappeared almost at a run, and Drummond resumed his way.

  ‘Slightly oiled,’ he murmured sorrowfully to himself. ‘Slightly oiled. And at my time of life. Disgraceful. It must have been the orange juice in that Bronx. Very dangerous fruit.’

  It was at ten o’clock the following morning that his servant Denny awoke him with his early tea, and the news that a couple of cops were in the sitting-room.

  ‘One of ’em’s an ordinary peeler,’ he added. ‘The other is that inspector bloke we’ve worked with in the past.’

  ‘Give them something to smoke and drink,’ said Drummond. ‘I’ll be with them as soon as I’ve shaved.’

  Fate had been kind: his hangover was of the mildest. And five minutes later he stepped into the sitting-room to find Inspector McIver and his friend of last night. Moreover, their faces were grave.

  ‘Good morning, boys,’ he remarked. ‘Sherlock Holmes deduces that developments have occurred.’

  ‘Murder, Captain Drummond,’ said McIver quietly, and Drummond paused with a cigarette half-way to his mouth.

  ‘Is that so?’ He stared at the inspector. ‘And the victim is the runner of Bridgewater Square?’

  ‘That must, of course, be confirmed later,’ said McIver. ‘On the face of what you told Constable Baxter it seems more than likely, but you will be able to settle it definitely. I will now tell you what has happened. Following your information, Baxter went through Bridgewater Square, and along Taunton Street into Milverton Square. Not a soul was in sight, and he was beginning to be afraid that the trail was cold when he saw something sticking out from an area gate. He walked up to it to find that it was a man’s leg: the man was on the steps inside—dead. Across the pavement lay a trail of blood. It was obvious that the body had been dragged from near the gutter to where it was then lying.’

  ‘How had he been killed?’ asked Drummond quietly.

  ‘Stabbed in three or four places. He was only just dead: the blood was still flowing. And of his assailants there was no trace; the Square was quite deserted. So Baxter summoned assistance; took the body to the station, and here we are. For if the dead man is your runner of last night—and it seems almost certain that he must be—you are the only man who has seen the murderers. Now can you give us any further details? And then I will ask you to get dressed and come with us to view the body, which, incidentally, I have not yet seen myself.’

  Drummond was frowning.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said at length. ‘I blame myself very considerably. Whoever the poor devil is I feel I ought to have prevented it. But, as Baxter has doubtless mentioned in his report, I was a bit on last night. And the brain didn’t function with its usual lucidity. I’d been to a party at Mrs. van Ranton’s—No. 3. And it was just as I left that it happened. The pursued man dashed up to me—and gave me a bit of paper with instructions to take it to Scotland Yard. ...’

  ‘Hold hard,’ cried McIver. ‘Have you got it?’

  In silence Drummond handed it over. ‘I was coming to see you this morning about it,’ he remarked. ‘Hullo, McIver—you seem excited!’

  ‘Aldmersham,’ muttered the inspector. ‘I wonder if it is possible. Go on, Captain Drummond, and cut it as short as possible. The sooner we see the dead man the sooner I’ll know.’

  ‘There’s not much more to tell,’ said Drummond. ‘I had barely recovered from the hare’s arrival when the hounds hove into sight, who paused to demand if I had seen a man running.’

  ‘You would recognize them?’

  ‘As I told Baxter, the leader is the only one I’d swear to. A swarthy, powerfully built man of about my height. I’d know him again at once, even though his features were obliterated almost immediately. You see,’ he explained, ‘we were still just outside the house, and the party was in great heart. At any rate someone bunged a charlotte russe out of an upstairs window, and by the mercy of Allah it burst on the leader’s head.’

  ‘Charlotte russe!’ cried Baxter excitedly. ‘Is that one of them things full of cream?’

  ‘Very,’ said Drummond. ‘And sponge fingers and things.’

  ‘Proof, sir,’ said Baxter to the inspector. ‘There was a great smear of white cream on the dead man’s coat.’

  McIver nodded. ‘Go on, Captain Drummond.’

  ‘That’s all. They departed at speed, and Baxter knows the rest.’

  ‘I see,’ said McIver. ‘Could you come with us at once?’

  ‘Give me ten minutes to get dressed and I’m at your service. Got any line on it, McIver?’

  ‘Just this,’ answered the inspector. ‘If the dead man is the man who gave you this paper, which I think almost certain, and if the dead man is the man I believe he is, which I think very possible, we’re on to one of the biggest things we’ve tackled for some months.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Drummond. ‘You’ll find beer in the sideboard.’

  * * * *

  The body had been placed in a small mortuary attached to the district police station, and one glance at the dead man’s face was sufficient for Drummond. It was the runner of the previous night.

  ‘Is that your man?’ asked McIver.

  ‘It is,’ said Drummond.

  ‘And mine too. So I was right, Captain Drummond: we’re on to something very big. Did you find anything in his pockets?’ he continued, turning to the sergeant in charge.

  ‘Nothing, sir, of the slightest importance. Some loose money, and a cheap watch. Do you know his name, sir?’ he added curiously.

  ‘I do,’ said McIver. ‘Or one of ’em. At the moment, however, he had better remain an unknown man, at any rate so far as those gentlemen are concerned.’

  He glanced through the window at a couple of youths, metaphorically sucking their pencils, with reporter written all over them.

  ‘It’s a pity, Captain Drummond,’ he continued thoughtfully, ‘that the man who did this job last night saw you. They had to, naturally, as you saw them, but I’d give a lot to have ’em pointed out to me without their smelling a rat.’

  ‘A rather tall order, McIver,’ said Drummond. ‘Like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay.’

  ‘No, sir, that’s where you’re wrong. The location, sooner or later, of the needle is clear—the Rest House, Aldmersham. But if you spot them, they’ll spot you, and that’s what I want to avoid. Not that I mind you being recognized,’ he went on cheerfully. ‘You’re quite capable of looking after yourself. But it will show we’re after ’em.’

  ‘I’ll guarantee to disguise myself,’ began Drummond, only to pause as he saw a grin spreading over Baxter’s face. ‘Good Lord!’ he cried, ‘I’d forgotten that. Listen, McIver, the wi
cket’s good. As I told you, last night was a little damp. Now when I saw these blokes, I was standing under a lamp with an opera hat on, so that my face was in shadow. In addition to that I was wearing a large false nose, of which Baxter is more qualified to speak than I.’

  ‘I’ll bank on it, sir,’ said the constable. ‘They wouldn’t recognize the captain again. They only saw him for a second, and he won’t be in evening clothes next time.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’ snapped McIver.

  ‘Dead sure.’

  ‘And are you willing to help, Captain Drummond?’

  ‘More than willing,’ said Drummond quietly. ‘It’s true I don’t know that poor devil in there, but I have a very definite feeling that if I had acted differently he wouldn’t be dead. Wherefore I would like to play.’

  ‘Good. Then we must have a little talk. Come in here.’

  He led the way into an inner office and closed the door.

  ‘It’s the age-old story of drug trafficking,’ began McIver, ‘but on an unprecedentedly large scale. You probably haven’t followed matters, but since the Geneva commission was set up facts and figures have come to light which prove that far from diminishing the trade is increasing. Cocaine and heroin particularly. The price of the stuff is decreasing in order to get more addicts, but they can still make enormous profits because it’s being manufactured secretly all over the East and Near East.

  ‘Six months ago Paris got in touch with us: they were trying to get on to the western European gang of distributors. And since the Paris and London underworld are far more closely interlocked than most people think, we worked together. It soon became obvious that a new and very dangerous crowd were at work—new, because all the usuals were accounted for: dangerous, because of the vast amount of stuff that was coming through, and because of the skill with which they covered their traces.

  ‘But three months ago they made one slip. A tiny one, it’s true—but it narrowed our field of search for their headquarters down considerably. From a possibility of anywhere in England, we became tolerably certain that we could concentrate on the eastern counties. But nearer than that we couldn’t get, though we caught some of the smaller fry and pumped ’em dry. Honestly, I don’t believe they knew themselves.