The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  ‘Not at all,’ answered Drummond. ‘Since neither Andrews nor his merry men can actually join the party, my job is to keep my eyes skinned in the room itself for anything unusual that may happen.’

  ‘But what could happen?’ said Stedman with an amused smile. ‘It sounds like a stage thriller: a secret death-dealing ray or something ridiculous of that sort.’

  ‘It does rather, I admit,’ agreed Drummond. ‘Certainly nothing could appear further removed from anything of that sort than the table at present.’

  ‘And yet,’ said Stedman thoughtfully, ‘it is an amazing thing how science has helped crime, though it sounds rather as if I was contradicting myself.’

  ‘It has helped the detection of crime just as much,’ Drummond argued.

  ‘I wonder. I agree with you, of course, over crude commonplace crime, but in those cases the criminal is not availing himself of science, whereas the detective is. The crime I am alluding to belongs to a higher category, and of necessity must be murder.’

  ‘Why of necessity?’

  ‘Because in burglary or forgery, let us say, however much science is employed in the committing of the crime, the criminal can only obtain his reward by a process where science is of no avail. He must go to a receiver: he must pass his dud fivers. And it is in the disposal of his goods, a thing over which the technique is much the same as it was last century, that he gets caught. That does not apply to murder.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But since the time of Cain and Abel there is one thing that has always applied to murder, and no science can alter that. Motive.’

  ‘And suppose there is no motive.’

  ‘Then the murderer is a madman,’ said Drummond. ‘Or someone of the Jack the Ripper type.’

  ‘I will amend my remark. Supposing there is no motive that points to any particular individual.’

  ‘I don’t quite get you,’ remarked Drummond.

  Stedman hitched his chair a little nearer and lowered his voice.

  ‘Let us take an academic case,’ he said. ‘Our friend over whom the precautions are being taken tonight. Now the reasons why anyone desires his removal are nothing whatever to do with his private life. There is no question of love, or jealousy, or personal hatred pointing at a specific being, and saying—“Thou art the man.” The reasons are purely public and apply to his political views, which are intensely unpopular amongst thousands of people. That is why I say that if the Comte was murdered tonight, though the motive would be obvious, it wouldn’t help the police to find the murderer.’

  ‘That is true,’ agreed Drummond, ‘and provided the crime was committed with such skill that the criminal made a clear get-away and left no obvious clues behind him, doubtless he would never be discovered.’

  ‘Which is what I was getting at in the first place,’ said Stedman. ‘Fifty years ago, with the precautions that have been taken tonight a get-away would have been impossible, because the methods of committing the crime were so crude. Short of a gang of men overpowering the police and shooting him, or someone poisoning his whisky, there was no method of doing the deed. Today that is not the case. And that is where science has helped the criminal more than the detective.’

  ‘I wonder if the Yard would agree with you,’ remarked Drummond with a smile.

  ‘Somewhat improbable,’ grinned Stedman. ‘Though it doesn’t alter the fact that it’s the truth. I am firmly convinced that given time, brains and sufficiency of money it would be a comparatively simple matter to commit an undiscoverable murder.’

  ‘A good many people have thought the same thing and found they were wrong,’ said Drummond as they rose from the table.

  ‘And quite as many have found they were right,’ replied Stedman as they moved into the hall. ‘However, let’s hope there’s no question of its being put to the test tonight. I’ve promised to finish two more soldiers for Billy, and high art of that sort requires a steady hand.’

  * * * *

  Certainly there had been no question of it when the house party reassembled about midnight prior to going to bed. The three statesmen had disappeared with their host into secret conclave; Stedman, refusing to join the others at slosh, had devoted himself to things military in a corner of the billiard room. And now, as everyone helped himself to his own particular nightcap, he pointed with pardonable pride to the result of his labours.

  Ranged in single file on a tray were the twelve gallant infantrymen and the Field Marshal on his prancing black horse. The command was small, Stedman admitted, for such an exalted officer, but any attempt to reduce him in rank had been firmly vetoed by Billy. And his actual position on parade was hardly according to the drill book. Instead of leading his army into action the cowardly old gentleman very nearly brought up the rear. Behind him strode a Greenjacket, a stout-hearted warrior leading an Army mule, and the sanitary squad in the shape of an R.A.M.C. orderly. The remainder of the force, led by the drum-major, stretched out in front, glistening in their scarlet tunics.

  ‘Don’t touch,’ warned Stedman. They’re still wet.’

  ‘I don’t envy the Highlander,’ laughed his lordship. ‘It seems to me that the off foreleg of the Field Marshal’s charger is down his neck.’

  ‘Specially arranged by Billy, sir,’ said Stedman. ‘The Highlander is the Field Marshal’s own private guard.’

  He put the tray on the window-sill, and glanced at Drummond.

  ‘We compromised on the Black Watch,’ he laughed. ‘So honour is satisfied. Hullo! What has stung the Comte?’

  The Frenchman was gesticulating freely by the fireplace, and Lord Surle was soothing him down.

  ‘But, my dear fellow,’ cried the Comte, ‘it is absurd. I appreciate greatly your care for my safety, and the precautions of the good inspector. But to change my bedroom, because some madman has written a crazy note—is surely ridiculous. You will be asking that I look under the bed next, like a hopeful old lady. However, if you insist, I can only obey my so charming host. I will go, I think, now, if I may.’

  ‘What’s all the excitement?’ whispered Stedman to Drummond.

  ‘One of Inspector Andrews’s precautions,’ answered Drummond. ‘Even the servants don’t know. The Comte’s bedroom has been changed, and Andrews himself is occupying the one he had originally. What on earth is the matter?’ he added with a laugh. ‘You seem quite distressed about it.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Stedman. ‘Why should it distress me? Though I’m inclined to agree with the Comte as to its being most unnecessary.’

  Drummond lit a cigarette, and his face was expressionless.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he agreed. ‘Still, it’s as well to be on the safe side.’

  He turned away: why had Stedman registered any reaction at all on hearing the news? It had only been momentary—gone in a flash: but to a shrewd observer like Drummond it had stuck out a yard. And how could it possibly affect Stedman personally if the Comte slept in his own bedroom or the coal hole, unless...

  Drummond sipped his drink thoughtfully; the conversation at dinner came back to him. Also Stedman’s annoyance over the matter of the kilt. Could it be possible that they were two widely different manifestations of the same failing—conceit? The kilt—irritability because he had been proven wrong; the other, a sort of inverted pride in something planned, and which he could not resist bragging about even though his audience should be unaware of the fact.

  “Old ’ard,’ muttered Drummond to himself. ‘You are not even trotting: you’re galloping. You’re accusing this bloke Stedman of being the bad apple in the basket. And that’s rot.’

  ‘Then why,’ came the reiterated question, ‘should he care the snap of a finger which is old Dinard’s bedroom? And he did. Of that there’s not a shadow of doubt.’

  He turned round to find Algy at his elbow.

  ‘Coming to bed, old bird?’ remarked that worthy. ‘I thought of taking up one of the pikes out of the hall in case a general action occurs during the night. The only thing against it
is that a man impaled on the end of a pike would be a dreadful sight at three in the morning. He wouldn’t go with my yellow pajamas at all well.’

  He looked at Drummond curiously.

  ‘What’s stung you, Hugh? You seem devilish thoughtful.’

  ‘I’m just wondering, Algy, if I’m being a complete half-wit, or if I’m not. By the way, Andrews did say, didn’t he, that one of his minions was going to be on guard outside Dinard’s door tonight?’

  ‘He did and there he is. Further, there is one on sentry go in the corridor. I’ve just been up to fill my cigarette case and I saw ’em.’

  ‘Good,’ said Drummond. ‘Then let’s go to bed. I’ve probably got the mental jitters.’

  It was half an hour later that the door of Algy’s room opened. He had just smashed his tooth glass with his slipper, in an unsuccessful attempt to swat a mosquito, and was engaged in picking up the fragments when Drummond came in.

  ‘Unless I’m much mistaken, Algy,’ he remarked quietly, ‘strange things will be abroad tonight.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Drummond. ‘So the curtain goes up on a completely unknown play.’

  ‘You annoying blighter,’ cried Algy. ‘Can’t you be a bit more explicit?’

  ‘I can’t,’ answered Drummond simply. ‘I give you my word of honour I’m completely in the dark.’

  And he still was the following morning, when by ones and twos the guests drifted in to breakfast. For nothing had happened in the night, except that, in common with most of the others, he had been bitten by a mosquito. Once in the distance he thought he had heard the sound of a motor being started and driven away; beyond that nothing had occurred. And with the coming of dawn he had slept.

  Breakfast over he strolled out of doors followed by an openly derisive Algy. And outside the open window of the billiard room, he paused and looked through at Billy arranging his army, now dry, in new formations, whilst fresh victims were being prepared for Stedman’s art. Then, still in silence, he walked on with Algy beside him.

  ‘What did you think was going to happen, old boy?’ asked that worthy for the tenth time. ‘Or what made you think that anything was going to happen?’

  ‘The Cameron Highlanders,’ said Drummond. ‘Anyone sufficiently interested in toy soldiers to paint them ought to know the colour of their kilt. Hullo! What has Andrews got hold of?’

  Coming towards them was the inspector with one of his men, holding in his hand what seemed to be a long thin twig.

  ‘Good morning, Captain Drummond,’ he cried cheerfully. ‘What do you make of this?’

  On closer inspection it proved to be a part of the top joint of a salmon rod, snapped off about three feet from the end. But the interesting thing was the small attachment. About an inch below the top of the rod was a small muslin box, fastened securely to the rod. The box was about two inches square, and the framework was made of wood with fabric stretched taut between. To one side was tied a piece of fine string which passed through the top ring of the rod in the fashion of an ordinary fishing line, and now hung trailing on the ground.

  ‘As you can see,’ said Andrews, ‘when you pull that string you open the box. And unless you pull the string the box can’t open because the end is held in position by that bit of elastic inside.’

  ‘Where did you find it?’ asked Drummond.

  ‘Snapped off in the bush which is Jenkins’s hiding-place by day. Moreover, it was not there yesterday, or he’d have seen it then.’

  ‘Which means it was broken off last night. Any footprints?’

  ‘None. But with the ground like a board one wouldn’t expect any help in that direction.’

  ‘What do you make of it, Andrews?’ said Drummond.

  ‘Since it obviously didn’t get there by itself, there must have been someone prowling around last night carrying the rod this belongs to. In the darkness it got tangled up in the bush and snapped off, and whatever was inside here escaped. It was something, Captain Drummond, that he intended to poke up from outside through a window in the Castle and allow to escape into a room—the Comte de Dinard’s room. “Guns are useless,” don’t forget. But when he broke his rod and the thing escaped, the whole plan failed.’

  ‘Somehow or other I don’t think I’d have left that in the bush even if it was broken,’ said Drummond thoughtfully. ‘That little muslin box is beautifully made and could be used again on another rod.’

  ‘But he did leave it there.’

  ‘Yes. But I wonder if it was on the way to the Castle. I wonder if by any chance he did just what you have suggested, then got alarmed or something and broke it on the way back, when the box was no longer of any use and he didn’t mind losing it.’

  ‘Ingenious, Captain Drummond, except for one point you overlook. You forget that so far as any outsider could know, I was occupying the Comte’s room. And you may take it from me that nobody flapped boxes last night outside my window.’

  ‘No: I hadn’t overlooked it, old boy,’ said Drummond quietly. ‘Anyway, the great point is that the Comte’s health, judging by his verbosity at breakfast, is quite unimpaired.’

  The inspector looked at him curiously.

  ‘You’re not satisfied, sir?’ he said.

  ‘I’m not,’ answered Drummond. ‘Though I dare say I shall prove utterly wrong.’

  ‘But what’s stinging you?’

  ‘The fact that a kilt of the Camerons is reddish in hue.’

  The inspector looked at Algy: Algy looked at the inspector.

  ‘He’ll be better after he’s had some beer, Andrews,’ he said. ‘Captain Drummond gets taken like this at times.’

  * * * *

  That afternoon the party broke up, and a few days later the whole episode was beginning to fade from Drummond’s mind. He had made a mistake: his suspicions had been fantastic. In any event the Comte de Dinard was still going strong in Paris, which was all that really mattered. No harm had come to him at Oxshott Castle: the worthy Andrews deserved full marks. And, so far as he knew, no harm had come to anyone else. So it came almost as a shock to him when, returning to dress for dinner one evening, he found the inspector waiting for him in his sitting-room.

  ‘Have you a few minutes to spare, Captain Drummond?’ he said gravely.

  ‘Certainly, Andrews. As long as you like. I see,’ he added, ‘that something has happened.’

  ‘Something so strange that I have come straight to you. I remember that you were not satisfied when you left the Castle, but at the time you would say nothing. Now, you must.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Drummond quietly.

  ‘Have you ever heard of yellow fever?’ asked Andrews.

  ‘I have. A tropical disease,’ answered Drummond surprised.

  ‘And a very dangerous one. It is fatal more often than not. Do you know how it is carried?’

  ‘I can’t say that I do,’ Drummond acknowledged.

  ‘By mosquitoes.’ Andrews paused. ‘You may remember there were a good many mosquitoes at the Castle,’ he continued.

  ‘There were,’ agreed Drummond.

  ‘You may also remember that little muslin box?’

  Drummond nodded.

  ‘And our theory as to what it was for? To let out something—we didn’t know what—into the Comte’s bedroom.’

  Once again Drummond nodded.

  ‘We were right,’ said the inspector. ‘And what is more, you were right when you suggested that the rod had been broken after the owner had been to the Castle and not before.’

  ‘I was, was I?’

  ‘That muslin box, Captain Drummond, contained mosquitoes carrying germs of yellow fever. And the owner of the rod succeeded in reaching the Castle and liberating those mosquitoes. Only he set them free in the wrong room. This afternoon Mr. Stedman died of yellow fever in the Hospital for Tropical Diseases.’

  * * * *

  There was a long silence. Then Drummond rose and began pacing up and
down the room.

  ‘You may further remember,’ continued Andrews, ‘that you told me you hadn’t overlooked the point when I alluded to the nocturnal visitor coming to my window. That now requires elucidation. Have you any idea as to why he went to Mr. Stedman’s? Or was it a fluke?’

  ‘It wasn’t a fluke,’ said Drummond gravely. ‘No: it wasn’t a fluke. I sent him there.’

  ‘You sent him there?’ The inspector shot out of his chair as if he had been stung. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘You needn’t think that I took him by the hand and led him there,’ answered Drummond with a faint smile. ‘Until this moment I didn’t even know he’d been there. In fact I’ve never seen him or spoken to him. For all that, I sent him there. Listen Andrews, and I’ll tell you.

  ‘You remember the billiard room, don’t you, with its broad window-sill? Before we went to bed that night a tray of newly painted toy soldiers was placed on the sill. They had been painted by Stedman for the little boy, and we were all of us instructed not to touch them. They were arranged in single file—twelve infantrymen and one large man on a prancing horse. And one of the infantrymen was a Highlander in whom I was particularly interested, because of an argument on kilts that I had had with the artist. And my Highlander was placed so that he was just in front of the horseman.

  ‘Then quite unexpectedly it was announced that the Comte de Dinard was going to change his room. He protested but complied, and everybody went to bed—everybody, that is, except me. I wasn’t feeling sleepy, and I sat down in an alcove in the room with a book. I was practically hidden, so that when Stedman returned he didn’t see me. And he crossed to the window, remained there a second and then went out again.

  ‘So after a moment or two I also went to the window, and there I noticed a very strange thing. My Highlander, in whom I was so interested, had changed places with the Field Marshal. Instead of having the horse’s foot down his neck, he now had the tail in his eye. In other words the Field Marshal had moved one to the right. Why? Why was it necessary for Stedman to come down and move the horseman up one?’