The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  ‘Good lord!’ whispered Andrews. ‘Good lord!’

  ‘You see it, don’t you?’ said Drummond gravely. ‘Stedman neither knew nor cared anything about soldiers, but hearing that little Billy did, he thought of a very original scheme for indicating the Comte’s bedroom. Soldiers that had to be painted and so couldn’t be moved: a tray placed on the windowsill so that any man looking in from the outside could see it and see where the Field Marshal was. Thirteen bedrooms there were on our floor: thirteen soldiers there were on the tray. And when the Comte moved into the next room…’

  Drummond shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I wonder why Stedman wanted to have him murdered,’ he went on thoughtfully. ‘You’ll probably find out some time, Andrews. If so, let me know.’

  For a space there was silence whilst Andrews stared at him.

  ‘But why should Stedman himself have fallen into it?’ he asked at length. ‘Stedman’s bedroom was third from the other end.’

  ‘I know. The Field Marshal made yet another move, you see. When I turned out the lights and went to bed, he had only two men in front of him. Have a drink.’