Buldog Drummond At Bay

by Sapper

  In an upstairs room stood a grey-haired man of about fifty-five: facing him across the table was the German called Emil. And he had only just arrived.

  “I don’t understand,” he was saying harshly. “You say that this farm labourer is motoring Doris here.”

  “Farm labourer,” sneered the other. “Do farm labourers have Rolls Royce coupés? He fooled you to the top of his bent, Emil. He’s a man called Captain Drummond.”

  “So,” said the German softly. “What was he doing then in that cottage all by himself?”

  “He goes there for duck shooting. But a far more important point is why he pretended to be a labourer. That’s what I can’t make out. What was his object?”

  The German lit a short and dangerous-looking cigar.

  “What was his object?” repeated the grey-haired man. “It looks to me definitely as if our friend knew where he was going.”

  “In that fog?” The German shook his head. “Not possible, Meredith. Besides, he was more dead than alive even then.”

  “Then it is a very strange coincidence,” cried Meredith. “There must have been a message round that stone in view of who it was who threw it. He would never have done such a senseless thing as to smash a window for fun.”

  “Well, I couldn’t find it, and from what you say Doris has not succeeded either. And don’t forget, Meredith, that all that matters is that no one should find it. Provided it’s lost, we’re safe.”

  “But is it lost? So long as I thought this man was a labourer I didn’t mind. Now a totally different complexion is put on things.”

  The German shrugged his shoulders.

  “We went through his house with a fine toothcomb,” he said.

  “What’s the good of that?” cried Meredith impatiently. “A message can easily be committed to memory”

  “Now look here, Meredith,” said the German quietly, “you’d better pull yourself together. If what you’re getting at is correct, and this man Drummond is one of them, why didn’t our friend here go up to the cottage? Or why didn’t he call out for help? It’s folly to suppose that he’d have adopted the method he did, if he knew who was inside the room. No, no, my dear fellow: you’re alarming yourself unnecessarily. Knowing that he’d only got a short time he took a chance with the first house where he saw the owner was still awake. It might have been a genuine labourer: it might have been Jones or Smith, but it happened to be this fellow Drummond. Why he should have pretended to be a farm hand I can’t say: possibly my gun frightened him and he thought it was safer.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Meredith hopefully. “At any rate we can only wait till we see Doris.”

  “Which reminds me, Meredith,” remarked the German. “There’s a question I’ve long been wanting to ask you. What are we going to do with that young woman when we’ve finished?”

  “The same as with the others, I suppose.”

  “And you think she’ll stand for it? I wonder. I have sometimes thought of late that she has become unduly inquisitive.”

  He stared at the ash on his cigar.

  “Increasingly desirous, shall we say,” continued the German, “of finding out what only the Inner Council know. Particularly with regard to the whereabouts of our – how shall I put it – our headquarters.”

  “Feminine curiosity,” said Meredith. “Perfectly natural.”

  “It is now my turn to say perhaps you’re right,” said the German. “Anyway, here comes the car. Her wisdom in bringing him here is doubtful, but since she has, I, naturally, must not be seen.”

  “He is certainly no chicken,” remarked Meredith, staring through the curtains.

  “He is one of the largest individuals I’ve ever seen in my life,” said the German. “Let us hope his brain is not equivalent to his brawn.”

  They watched the car drive up to the door and the girl get out. And a few moments later she entered the room.

  “Well?” cried both men.

  “He’s got no message,” she said quietly. “Of that I’m certain. But how on earth did you come to make such an idiotic mistake, Herr Veight? I very nearly gave the whole show away this morning when I saw him. And I had to change my entire plan of campaign on the spot.”

  “Was it wise to bring him here?” said Meredith.

  “I had to. First I tried to dope his tea: that failed. Then I had another look in the garden whilst he and the mechanic were tinkering with the car up the road. But the old woman who owns the cottage was with me and I had to be careful. I could see nothing, and so to make perfectly certain I had to concoct a scheme. Now listen, Mr Meredith, because you’ll have to go down and see him. You’re my uncle, and it’s your son Harold in the Foreign Office who has been abducted by the German gang of Der Schlüssel Verein.”

  “Great heavens!” cried Emil, “you haven’t told him that, have you?”

  “Of course I have. What you don’t seem to be able to get into your thick head,” said the girl angrily, “is that this man is not a farm labourer. He’s a gentleman even if he is a fool. And do you suppose he’s going to keep quiet over last night unless something is done about it? The only possible way of keeping his mouth shut is to enlist his sympathy. And that’s what I’ve done: and this is how I did it.”

  “Upon my soul, my dear, I don’t think you could have done better on the spur of the moment,” said Meredith when she had finished. “I’ll keep the good work going.”

  “If there is no answer to his wire we can assume that whatever message there was is definitely lost. If there is an answer, well–”

  She paused significantly.

  “Captain Drummond is certainly entitled to a drink,” murmured Meredith, and Emil smiled. “And the nature of the drink will depend on the nature of the message.”

  “Exactly,” said the girl. “And now come on. He’ll think it strange if we keep him waiting too long. Don’t forget you’re the broken-hearted father. Incidentally, how much longer have we got to wait?”

  “Three days: four. Certainly a week should do it. He’s nearly cracked, so I was told this morning.”

  “Then for a week at least this man Drummond has got to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Wouldn’t it be far better–” began Meredith tentatively.

  “No,” she said emphatically. “Only as a last resort. He can be traced here through Cannaby’s garage. Let’s go down, dear Uncle John.”

  They found Drummond apparently dozing over the wheel.

  “My dear Captain Drummond,” said Meredith courteously, “I cannot thank you sufficiently for all you have done for my little Doris.”

  “Not at all,” cried Drummond, getting out of the car and shaking him warmly by the hand. “A pleasure, sir: a pleasure.”

  “I hear she has told you the whole terrible story.”

  “About your poor son, George…”

  “Harold, Captain Drummond,” said the girl with a smile.

  “Of course. Stupid of me: I’ve got a shocking memory for names. Yes, Mr Meredith, your niece has told me, and I can only hope my wire may result in something helpful. Though I confess I am not optimistic. There was a bit of a breeze this morning, and any loose piece of paper would, I fear, have been blown away.”

  “Still it is a hope which I cling to. I am an elderly man, Captain Drummond, and this affair has shaken me dreadfully: you can understand a father’s feelings under the circumstances.”

  “Only too easily,” said Drummond sympathetically.

  “And I was wondering if I might trespass even further on your kindness. Are you in a very great hurry to go?”

  “My time is yours, Mr Meredith. I must be up in London for dinner, but until then I am at your disposal.”

  “Not so long as that, I assure you,” said Meredith with a deprecating smile. “But if you would not mind waiting till the answer to your telegram comes, it would indeed be a relief to us.”

  “Delighted,” cried Drummond. “It should not be long now.’’

  “
I gather that my niece has explained to you our difficulty with regard to the police, though I cannot believe that Harold has given away anything of importance. But even so I would like to keep them out of it. And if, as my dear niece thinks – and I am inclined to agree with her – the dear boy knew where those devils were taking him to and managed to scribble it down, I would so like your advice and help.”

  “It’s yours for the asking,” said Drummond heartily. “And of one thing I can assure you. If there is the smallest fragment of paper in her spotless garden, Mrs Eskdale will find it.”

  He glanced out of the window.

  “Great Scott! That’s pretty quick. Here’s a telegraph boy on a bicycle coming up the drive. The old lady hasn’t wasted any time.”

  “Get it, my dear,” cried Meredith. “And see what it is. Captain Drummond,” he continued, as she left the room. “I’m so nervous I don’t know what to do.”

  “Bite on the old bullet, Mr Meredith,” said Drummond soothingly. “We shall know soon. Here comes your niece now.”

  The girl came in reading the telegram with a puzzled look on her face.

  “Well, my dear: well?” cried Meredith.

  “It’s from Mrs Eskdale all right,” she said. “But it does not seem to make sense.”

  And for the fraction of a second Drummond’s jaw tightened.

  “‘Found paper in garden,’” read the girl, “‘on it written S B Z…’ Just a jumble of letters. They don’t make sense. About ten of them. Then signed ‘Eskdale.’”

  Drummond’s jaw relaxed, and suddenly the girl gave an excited cry.

  “Uncle John! I’ve got it. It’s Harold’s code – the code he and I used to use when we were children. We wrote letters to one another in it. I’ve got it upstairs somewhere.”

  She darted out of the room, and Drummond lit a cigarette. Also he glanced at Meredith, and having done so suppressed a smile. For Meredith’s face was a study, and continued as such till the sound of rapid footsteps announced his niece’s return.

  “I’ve got it,” she cried, waving the form triumphantly. “It is the name of a place. How clever of him! Don’t you see, Uncle John? Harold saw the light in the window and assumed the owner or whoever was there would take the message to the police. Then it would have come out in the papers, and though no one else would have spotted it, we should.”

  “And what is the name of the place, Miss Venables?” asked Drummond with interest.

  “Kessingland,” she said. “I know I’ve heard of a place of that name.”

  “There is a place called Kessingland a few miles from Lowestoft on the coast,” said Drummond thoughtfully. “So you think that wire means that your cousin has been taken there?”

  “What else can it mean, Captain Drummond? There are probably isolated bungalows there and he has been hidden in one of them.”

  “My poor boy,” said Meredith, passing his hand across his forehead. “What shall we do?”

  “Look here,” said Drummond after a pause, “can I be of any assistance? True, I don’t know your son, but I fear we must assume he’s been badly hurt. Now would you like me to go to Kessingland and make a few careful inquiries? I will be most discreet, but it’s probably not a very big place and the tradesmen or somebody will be sure to know if any foreigners have turned up there.”

  “But, Captain Drummond, we couldn’t think of bothering you. Could we, Uncle John?”

  “Of course not. Besides, my dear fellow, you’ve got to go to London. And it may take days.”

  “What matter, Mr Meredith? My dinner party in London can easily be put off. And I feel that in a case like this one should sacrifice everything to help. It may, as you say, take two or three days – perhaps more; but that is a trifle compared to your son’s safety. I will start at once.”

  He waved aside their half-hearted protests, and rose to his feet.

  “I will keep you posted of anything I find out,” he continued. “And all we can hope is that I shall not be too late.”

  “I wish I could come with you, Captain Drummond,” said Meredith, “but I fear my health is hardly equal to the strain.”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it, Mr Meredith,” cried Drummond. “Your place is here – with your niece. I hope that very soon I shall have good news to report.”

  He pressed the girl’s hand gently, and her eyes fell before his.

  “May I do so in person?” he murmured.

  “Of course,” she answered. “My uncle and I will be delighted to see you at any time.”

  “Goodbye, sir.” He turned to Meredith. “And don’t despair.”

  They accompanied him to his car, and as he let in his clutch the girl leaned over the side.

  “At any time,” she whispered. “I think it is too sweet of you to do this for two complete strangers.”

  “Strangers?” he said reproachfully. “That’s unkind of you, Doris.”

  They watched the car till it turned into the main road; then Meredith turned to the girl.

  “What the deuce,” he spluttered, “is the game? What is this bunk about a code?”

  “Don’t you realise what this message is?” said the girl quietly as the German joined them. “‘Found paper in garden. On it written SBZALFTRPTE. Eskdale.’ Don’t you realise it is a code message right enough?”

  “But what?… Why?…” cried Meredith, completely bewildered. “Why Kessingland?”

  “Oh! you’re dense; you’re dense. What did I tell Drummond on the way here? That if there was a message it would be the place they were taking Harold to. So any town with eleven letters would do, and Kessingland happens to be not too near and not too far. It will keep him quiet hunting round the sand dunes, whereas if I’d said nothing he would almost certainly have taken this up to London. Or else had it repeated from the old woman.”

  “Gad! Emil, the girl is quick on the uptake,” said Meredith.

  “Extremely,” remarked the German, studying the telegram. “I wonder what this really does stand for.”

  “Not a doubt about it in my mind,” said the girl. “It’s the address of your headquarters.”

  For a moment or two the German stared at her; then he smiled.

  “Well, my dear,” he remarked suavely, “if that is so, you’ve certainly done no harm in sending that bovine individual to Kessingland.”

  And with the utmost deliberation he tore up the telegram and put the pieces in his pocket.

  Chapter 4

  It was at precisely twelve o’clock that Peter Darrell entered the lounge of the Royal Hotel, and perceived Drummond with his legs stretched out in front of him, and his face buried in a tankard of ale. Periodically during the last half-hour the large form of the drinker had been shaken with gusts of internal mirth, to the evident alarm of an old lady opposite who was knitting some incomprehensible garment. And now, realising that a second was approaching, she rose hurriedly and bolted to cover in the drawing-room.

  “Come hither, my Peter,” boomed Drummond. “Things is ’appening.”

  “So I gathered, confound you,” cried Darrell. “I was lunching with the Marriot filly. Why the dickens aren’t you killing ducks?”

  “Draw up, Peter, my boy, and put your nose inside a pint. This is my third, and my confidence in myself is even now not restored. There was a time,” he continued sadly, “when I regarded myself as a pretty ready liar – somewhere round about scratch. This morning, Peter, I have been holding converse with a plus two performer.”

  “Do you mean to say you’ve brought me down here to tell me that? Who is this bloke?”

  “It’s a lady, Peter, a beautiful, charming girl with an uncle. And the dear child yearned greatly for a message to be sent her by telegram: a message doubtless of hope and comfort to cheer her maiden heart. But you look bewildered, Peter: let us begin at the beginning.”

  He hitched his chair closer to Darrell’s, and lit a cigarette. The lounge was empty save for the hall porter, and he so far came out of his habitual coma as to
wonder once or twice what the big man in the corner was talking so earnestly about to the owner of the racing car outside. For it was twenty minutes later that the owner of the car spoke for the first time.

  “But, damn it, Hugh,” he said, “I don’t understand about this second message. The one they were after, you found in the window. That’s clear. What is this other one that Mrs Eskdale found?”

  Drummond grinned.

  “Peter,” he remarked, “I have exercised a little story-teller’s licence on you. Mrs Eskdale never found a message. When I told you I wired Mrs Eskdale to send a message I did not add that I told her what message to send. And for a time I wondered what message I should tell her to send. It had to be something mysterious, and yet something that looked genuine. Suddenly – out of the blue, as a gift from the gods – came the idea. A newspaper was lying in the next compartment and I happened to glance at it. And my prepaid wire ran as follows:

  Wire Meredith Hartley Court Cambridge following message Stop found paper in garden on it written SBZALFTRPTE Eskdale.

  “But what is SBZ and all the rest of it?”

  “Coldspur’s cipher nap tip for Lingfield in the Daily Leader,” said Drummond quietly.

  Darrell stared at him open-mouthed.

  “Then how the deuce has she made Kessingland out of it?” he spluttered.

  Once again Drummond grinned.

  “Because, old lad, Miss Doris Venables, as I said at the beginning, is definitely rated at plus two and she plays quicker than George Duncan. I take off my hat to that wench.”

  “More beer,” said Darrell decidedly. “This is too obscure for me. I still don’t see her object.”

  “Simple, Peter. To get rid of me. I’m becoming a nuisance: in fact, I always have been a nuisance since I appeared in the picture. But it was quick of her – damned quick. Think it over, old boy: look at the matter from her point of view. Every single move that the other side has made since Emil and his boyfriend paid me their visit last night has been directed to one end – to get the message that was wrapped round the brick. And though I may not be quite up to her form I flatter myself that I’m sufficiently near it to play level. Obviously she believes that I’ve swallowed her precious Harold lock, stock and barrel. And to tell you the truth, Peter, until the Kessingland episode I wasn’t at all certain that Harold was a myth. Now it’s plain that he is.”