The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  ‘How the deuce did you do it?’ asked McIver curiously.

  ‘A little jest of my own,’ said Drummond. ‘Never known to fail.’

  They drew up behind the stationary car, as Margiter, white with rage, emerged from under the bonnet.

  ‘What the hell do you want now?’ he snarled.

  ‘Those two spare wheels,’ said McIver calmly, and things moved.

  Margiter’s hand shot to his pocket, but he was up against two past masters in a scrap. A few seconds later, his hands handcuffed behind him and his gun in McIver’s pocket, he was leaning up against the car panting, with his companion by his side.

  ‘It’s there all right,’ he said sullenly. ‘But if only this damned car hadn’t died on me you’d never have got it.’

  ‘I know,’ remarked Drummond sympathetically. ‘That’s what I wanted the castor sugar for. Incidentally, I didn’t really think it was snow,’ he went on brightly. ‘In fact, I don’t suppose cocaine would have acted. But castor sugar in the petrol tank is wonderful. Gums up the jets marvelously. Stops any car within a mile or two, and it’s funny how few people know it.’

  ‘So that was it,’ said Margiter softly, staring at Drummond with a look of recognition dawning in his eyes. ‘Where the devil have I seen you before today?’

  Drummond grinned happily.

  ‘An albatross, without a doubt,’ he murmured.

  THIRTEEN LEAD SOLDIERS (1937)

  ‘You mustn’t touch them, Uncle Hugh, because they’re still wet. Mr. Stedman is going to paint some more when he comes back.’

  Hugh Drummond—uncle by courtesy—looked down at the small boy on the floor. Around him was strewn the litter inseparable from small boys, be it trains, aeroplanes or hairy bugs. In this case the central motif consisted of tiny soldiers, with paints and brushes and pools of multi-coloured water. In addition there were boxes of infantry, and cavalry, and guns all of a dull grey colour, whilst in a tray, resplendent in scarlet, stood some freshly painted heroes.

  ‘Mr. Stedman says it’s far more fun to paint them oneself,’ explained the proud owner. ‘And he says it doesn’t matter if there is no full dress any more.’

  ‘I quite agree with Mr. Stedman, Billy,’ said Drummond. ‘Red looks much better than khaki, doesn’t it? That’s a good-looking Highlander next door to the General on the horse.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got some more of those. They’re Cameron Highlanders.’

  ‘Not Camerons, old man. They might be Gordons.’

  ‘Mr. Stedman said Camerons,’ persisted the boy. ‘Didn’t you?’

  He looked up as a tall, dark man entered the room.

  ‘Didn’t I what, Billy?’

  ‘Say these were Cameron Highlanders. Uncle Hugh says they’re Gordons.’

  ‘Only after they’re painted, son,’ said Drummond. ‘Before they’re painted they might be any Highland regiment.’

  ‘But Mr. Stedman painted him and he said he was a Cameron. Why can’t he be a Cameron?’

  ‘Because he’s got the wrong coloured kilt on, old man. I might stretch a point and say he was a Seaforth, but I can’t allow Cameron, I’m afraid. You see, that kilt gives the general impression of being dark green, or even black, whereas the Cameron kilt strikes one as red.’

  ‘The complete Scotsman, I see,’ said Stedman with a smile, and Drummond glanced at him. There was no friendliness behind the smile.

  ‘Even to the extent of always saying, “Guid nicht the noo,”’ he answered placidly.

  ‘The colour of a kilt seems a somewhat trifling matter to worry the child’s head with.’

  Drummond raised his eyebrows and laughed: friendliness was even less marked.

  ‘I don’t suppose that it would materially affect Billy’s future career if he was told that the Archbishop of Canterbury always preached in purple pajamas,’ he remarked. ‘At the same time, if you are painting soldiers and thereby giving the child a little lesson in things military, it does no harm to get such trifles as facings and kilts correct. ’

  He lit a cigarette and strolled over to the window.

  ‘The rain has stopped: I think I shall take exercise. I suppose the great ones are still conferring?’

  ‘They are,’ said Stedman shortly, and with an amused glance at him Drummond lounged out of the room. One of those tedious individuals, he reflected, who hate to be found wrong in anything. And yet able, presumably, or he wouldn’t have his present job.

  ‘Algy, you noxious blight,’ he remarked to Longworth, whom he found in the hall, ‘you may accompany me to the village. The evening paper should be in by now, and I want to see if I’ve backed my fifteenth consecutive loser. Tell me,’ he continued as they walked down the drive, ‘what do you think of the man Stedman?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Algy, ‘if I can help it. Why?’

  ‘I just wondered. We have been chatting on kilts and things, and I don’t think he was amused. Incidentally painting toy soldiers is a new game for a grown man, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. But the kid seems to like him. And I suppose it was decent of the fellow to go all the way to Manchester to get unpainted ones. What’s this about kilts?’

  ‘Nothing of importance,’ answered Drummond, halting for a moment and looking back at the house.

  ‘What a magnificent old pile it is.’

  Outlined against the westering sun the towers and battlements of Oxshott Castle stood out dark and somber. Trees as old as the house flanked it on each side. In front lay a lake placid as a sheet of glass. And as they looked four men came through the front door and strolled across the drive.

  It was easy to recognize them even at that distance. Slim and upright, their seventy-years-old silver-haired host, Lord Surle, came first, with the Frenchman, the Comte de Dinard. Behind them, the smoke from their cigars almost motionless in the still air, were the Belgian, M. Meteren, and Sir Charles Dorking. And as they disappeared round a corner of the house Drummond gave a short laugh.

  ‘It’s quaint, Algy, you know, when you think of it,’ he said. ‘At this moment the fate of Europe is quite possibly being settled. And Stedman is painting toy soldiers for Billy, and you and I are going to see who won the two-thirty.’

  Algy looked at him anxiously.

  ‘You’ll be quoting Ella Wheeler Wilcox in a moment, my lad,’ he remarked. ‘What you want is beer in a large can. And what has stung you now?’ Drummond, his eyes narrowed, was staring down the drive towards the lodge.

  ‘I’d know that walk anywhere,’ he said. ‘If that isn’t our old friend Andrews of Scotland Yard, I will consume my headgear. Now what the deuce is he doing here?’

  They strolled on and a few moments later the three men met.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ cried the jovial faced inspector cheerily. ‘I was hoping I might see you.’

  Drummond glanced at him in surprise.

  ‘Very kind of you, old lad,’ he remarked, ‘and the same to you. But may I enquire how you knew we were here?’

  ‘Because I suggested that you should be asked,’ answered Andrews calmly. ‘When discussing the house party with his lordship it transpired that he knew both you and Mr. Longworth very well. So, as I say, I suggested that he should send you invitations for the weekend.’

  ‘Again very kind of you,’ said Drummond, looking even more surprised. ‘But why?’

  ‘Because I may want your assistance,’ replied the inspector quietly. ‘What about a pint at the “Barley Mow”, and I’ll tell you the lay of the ground.’

  ‘A brave thought, bravely spoken,’ said Drummond. ‘By the way, d’you know what won the two-thirty?’

  ‘Moonlight. Sharpshooter second.’

  ‘Hell!’ grunted Drummond. ‘Another fiver down the drain. I shall soon be known as the bookmaker’s friend.’

  They entered the bar, and found it empty.

  ‘What about that table over in the corner?’ suggested Drummond. ‘I am frankly very curious, Andrews, to hear why you should have discu
ssed the party with Lord Surle.’

  ‘I suppose you’re aware, Captain Drummond,’ said the inspector, as they sat down, ‘that some very important discussions are on foot at the present moment between England, France and Belgium.’

  ‘I am,’ replied Drummond.

  ‘That being the case, has it struck you as strange that a reporter isn’t lurking behind every bush at Oxshott Castle?’

  ‘It had not struck me up to date,’ admitted Drummond. ‘But now that you mention it, I get your meaning.’

  ‘The reason why they’re not there,’ continued Andrews, ‘is that this conference has been kept a profound secret. The Press, of course, know that Meteren and the Comte de Dinard are in England. They know further that they are not over here to enjoy the English climate, but for the express purpose of meeting Sir Charles. And since the one thing the statesmen wished to avoid at the present stage of affairs was publicity, this weekend was arranged at Lord Surle’s suggestion. The whole plan was kept completely dark, and the very fact that there are no reporters here proves that we succeeded.’

  He paused and took a pull at his tankard, while the others waited in silence.

  ‘Yes, Captain Drummond,’ he repeated, ‘we succeeded—so far as the reporters are concerned—which, believe me, is no mean feat. But we have not succeeded entirely. Some unauthorized person knew of this conference four days ago.’

  ‘At any rate he seems to have kept the information to himself,’ remarked Drummond. ‘Incidentally, how did you find out that somebody knew?’

  ‘I’m coming to that,’ continued Andrews. ‘Four days ago when I went to my office in the morning I was as certain as a man could be that everything was all right. The only people who knew about the weekend were Lord Surle himself, the three statesmen and their confidential secretaries—Mr. Stedman and the other two—and, of course, myself. I had fixed all the staff work over cars and, as I say, I felt quite confident that all was well. So you can understand how I felt when I received a letter by the second post that blew my optimism sky high. It was undated, bore no address, and naturally was not signed. And it ran as follows: ‘Guard the Comte de Dinard at Oxshott. Guns are useless.’

  He took another pull at his beer.

  ‘Short and pithy, you’ll agree,’ he went on, ‘and it gave me the devil of a jolt. To trace the writer was, of course, an utter impossibility even if there had been time. And there we were, confronted with the fact that what we thought was a close secret was nothing of the sort. So I went off post-haste to see Lord Surle. Should we alter the arrangements—postpone the conference, or what? Well, postponement was out of the question: Monsieur Meteren has to be back in Brussels on Monday. To alter arrangements would have been difficult, since the Comte had just flown back to Paris and was only returning that night, in time for the conference. So we decided to carry on, and do as the anonymous writer had suggested—guard the Comte and it was then that I took the liberty, when I found out that Lord Surle knew you both, of asking him to invite you. Your methods, Captain Drummond, may at times be irregular, but there are few people I would sooner have beside me if there’s any trouble about than yourself.’

  ‘Very nice of you to say so,’ said Drummond. ‘I should like to play.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ continued Andrews, ‘that I have no idea what the game is likely to be.’

  ‘It’s just possible,’ put in Algy, ‘that the letter is a hoax.’

  ‘Possible, but not likely, Mr. Longworth. And even if it were, it doesn’t alter the fact that somebody, inadvertently or otherwise, has spilt the beans. Because it’s preposterous to think that any of the other seven people in the know could have sent me that note. No: I don’t think that letter is a hoax. It is, I believe, a definite warning, sent by someone who has found out about this weekend, who knows that an attempt may be made on the Frenchman’s life, and whose conscience has pricked him. You see, there’s no secret about the fact that there is a large section of people in France, and in other countries too, who would rejoice if the Comte was out of the way.’

  ‘Has he been told about it?’ asked Drummond.

  ‘He has. And pooh-poohs the whole thing. Takes up the line that if people in his position paid any attention to threats of that sort they might as well chuck up the sponge straight away. Which is quite true. But the last thing I or Lord Surle want is that the chucking up should occur here.’

  ‘Naturally,’ agreed Drummond. ‘You’ve got some men down, I suppose?’

  ‘Four,’ said Andrews. ‘They’re in the grounds now. They’ll be in the house tonight.’

  “‘Guns are useless.” I wonder what that means. Poison?’

  The inspector shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Possibly. But unless he eats or drinks something different from everybody else the whole house party is for it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Drummond with a grin. ‘What about the servants?’

  ‘Been with his lordship for years. Besides, it is inconceivable that one of them should have sent the note, or given the show away. It would mean that Lord Surle himself had been indiscreet, otherwise they could never have known.’

  ‘Still somebody has given it away,’ remarked Drummond. ‘And assuming what you’ve said to be correct it must be one of you eight.’

  ‘My own belief is that it’s the Comte himself,’ said Andrews. ‘Quite unintentionally, of course. He’s one of those men who is reckless to the point of foolhardiness where his own safety is concerned. For all that, he’s got to submit to some safety measures tonight, whether he likes it or not.’

  ‘Are they hush-hush?’ asked Drummond.

  ‘Not from you,’ said the inspector, ‘though I don’t want you to pass them on at present. But he is not going to sleep in the room he occupies now. He will dress for dinner there, and then just before he goes to bed a strange defect will be discovered in a fuse. Or else Lord Surle will tell him the truth point-blank. He will sleep in another room, with one of my men outside his door, and I shall spend the night in his present one. Which may lead to us finding out something.’

  ‘You evidently take this as dead serious,’ said Drummond.

  ‘I do. But in any case it’s just as well to be on the safe side. And I think my arrangements, simple though they are, give the maximum of security with the minimum of inconvenience. If trouble comes from the outside it finds me: if it comes from the inside it has to pass one of my men.’

  ‘And what do you want us to do?’

  ‘Keep your eyes open during the evening for anything that strikes you as being suspicious. I shall be on hand in one of the sitting-rooms, if you want to get hold of me. And if the phrase, “Guns are useless,” means anything in the nature of a rough house, you won’t want any prompting,’ he added with a grin as he rose. ‘No, I won’t have another, thanks. I must go and inspect my myrmidons. Probably see you later.’

  ‘So that’s why we were honoured, Algy,’ said Drummond as the door closed behind the inspector. ‘I had hoped that my advice was going to be asked on high matters of state, but life is full of disappointments. However, if we’ve got to do the Sherlock Holmes stunt, more beer is indicated. And then we’d better toddle back. But one wonders,’ he continued as another tankard was put before him, ‘why the letter writer was so cryptic. Having gone to the trouble of saying what he did, why the dickens didn’t he say more? Didn’t he know himself, or what stung him?’

  ‘It’s that that made me suspect a hoax,’ said Algy.

  ‘You frightful liar,’ remarked Drummond dispassionately. ‘You never thought of the point till I mentioned it. Now mop up your ale, and wipe your chin, and then you must go back and change your dickey. And for heaven’s sake don’t tell old Dinard that French story of yours or all Andrews’s precautions will be wasted. Though I admit,’ he added brutally, ‘that death could only be regarded as a merciful release from listening to it,’

  * * * *

  Any setting less suggestive of violence or murder than Oxshott Ca
stle that night it would have been hard to imagine. They had dined in state in the large banqueting hall, a dinner which reflected credit on even Lord Surle’s far-famed chef—and the conversation at times had been amazingly indiscreet. It had taken the three diplomats a certain amount of time to understand the reason for Drummond’s and Algy’s presence, since by tacit consent no allusion was made to the threatening note. The Comte especially appeared to think that Algy was mental—a skeleton in the family cupboard and Drummond his keeper—but the fact did not prevent him making one or two remarks that Fleet Street would have paid thousands for. And Meteren was not far behind in frankness.

  No women were present, and no other guests had been asked in. And as the meal progressed, Drummond found himself so absorbed in the glimpses—the human, scandalous glimpses—that lie at times behind the wheels of state that he almost forgot the real reason for his presence. And then, the drawn curtains—drawn ostensibly to keep out the mosquitoes—with the motionless bulges behind them on each side of the open window would bring him back to reality. For the bulges were two of Andrews’s men, and two more were outside the door.

  He was sitting between the Belgian minister and Mark Stedman, who seemed to have quite recovered from his temporary irritation of the afternoon.

  ‘I had no idea, Captain Drummond,’ he said over the port, ‘that you were such a friend of Lord Surle’s.’

  ‘Hardly the way to put it,’ smiled Drummond. ‘His eldest son, who married my first cousin, and I were at Sandhurst together, and the old boy has asked me to shoot several times. Hence grandson Billy calls me Uncle.’

  ‘Quite. I thought you were a sort of unofficial bravo brought in to help to protect our guest.’

  ‘You’re perfectly right: I am. I should not be here but for that anonymous threat.’

  ‘What is your opinion about it?’ asked Stedman.

  ‘I haven’t one,’ said Drummond frankly.

  ‘I saw Inspector Andrews before dinner,’ Stedman remarked, ‘and he seems equally at sea. However, he is neglecting no precautions. Would it be indiscreet to ask what is your role?’