Buldog Drummond At Bay

by Sapper

  “What a pretty party,” said Drummond quietly. “Go on.”

  “That’s about all,” said the man. “My friend drove the girl’s car away; the man took her at the back of his own. And I was told to lie up in those bushes and watch the cottage.”

  “With that gun?” remarked Drummond dryly.

  “That had been forgotten, so I took it with me.”

  Drummond lit a cigarette and turned to Darrell.

  “What do you make of it, Peter? Do you think this mess is speaking the truth?”

  “His story fits, old boy,” said Darrell. “But what I would like to know is this. Do you usually go round acting blind on the instructions of a man you’ve never seen before, when they entail drugging women and trifles of that sort?”

  “My orders were to obey him,” answered the man.

  “You mean the orders you received over the telephone from your other boyfriend,” said Drummond. “I should like to hear a little more about him. You said none of you knew his name. Am I to understand that there are many bits of work like you about the place?”

  “There are several.”

  “My God! you shake me to the marrow. Is it a sort of secret society?”

  “We do what we are told,” said the man.

  “Charming; charming,” remarked Drummond. “You aren’t by any chance members of the Key Club, are you?”

  The man stared at him blankly.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said.

  “That’s either very good acting, Peter, or it’s the truth. And so either the Key Club is a further invention of this lovely lady, or we have two societies. Aren’t we lucky chaps? To return, however, to your own private one, my friend. The motives that actuate it are, I take it, entirely criminal.”

  For the first time a very faint smile flickered round the man’s lips.

  “They would hardly stand an appeal to the House of Lords,” he said.

  “Excellent. And do you receive adequate remuneration from this man you’ve never seen and who presumably is your Lord High Mukkaduk?”

  “We don’t do it for love,” remarked the other.

  “You surprise me,” said Drummond. “Now there’s another question. Could you describe the man in whose car you came here, and who drugged the two women?”

  “Medium height; dark eyes; rather saturnine face.”

  “A description which might fit my visitor of last night, Peter. On the other hand it fits numbers of other men. Well – the mystery increases. If it was him it goes to confirm his story to me in the car. However we’ll go into that later. The first thing to decide is what to do with this blighter.”

  “For God’s sake, gentlemen, don’t give me up to the police,” cried the man earnestly. “I swear that what I’ve told you is the truth so far as I know it, and you half promised you’d let me go if I spoke.”

  “And yet the police would be highly edified,” said Drummond. “A young army of people like you all doing what you’re told. And they would let you off nice and light if you turned King’s Evidence.”

  “It isn’t what the police would do,” answered the man. “If it came out that I’d told even you what I have my life wouldn’t be worth a moment’s purchase. But that damned strap would make a deaf mute speak.”

  “It is certainly an aid to conversation,” agreed Drummond cheerfully. “Well – I’ll think about it. You can stop here till I’m sure Mrs Eskdale is comfortable, and then we will decide on your immediate future. Peter, come upstairs with me.”

  “Well,” he said as they entered the room where the old lady still snored peacefully, “what are we going to do with him? My own reaction to the swab is that he has been speaking the truth.”

  “Same here, Hugh. I don’t think anyone could have invented that story on the spur of the moment. It accounts for everything that was puzzling me before.”

  “Except the girl’s object in coming over,” objected Drummond. “You say to confirm the telegram. But what could have made her suspect it in the first instance?”

  “We can’t positively settle that till Mrs Eskdale wakes up,” said Darrell. “And it looks to me as if that wasn’t going to be for some time.”

  “Which raises another small point. What are we going to do with her, poor old dear?”

  “Nothing we can do, except cover her up with an eiderdown and leave her to sleep it off. Write her a note, Hugh, saying we’ll be along tomorrow morning, and that until then you don’t want her to say anything to anybody.”

  “Her pulse is normal,” said Drummond. “I think she’ll be all right here.”

  “My dear old lad,” cried Darrell, “we can’t cart an unconscious woman of her bulk round the country. If you warn in one of her neighbours to come and look after her there’s not a single one of her pals who won’t believe she’s not dead drunk. And she’d hate that. Honestly I think she’s perfectly safe here. She can’t be of the smallest importance to the bunch we’re up against.”

  Drummond pulled out his pocket book and began to scribble a note while Darrell strolled to the window and looked out.

  “Hullo!” he cried softly. “It would seem that the tall gentleman is in a hurry. And he hardly looks like a local resident.”

  Drummond joined him, and together they watched a man in a dark suit striding rapidly along the road away from the cottage. He was fully a hundred yards off, but even at that distance his great height was noticeable. Then he disappeared round a corner and the sound of a self-starter came faintly to their ears.

  “More motorcars,” said Drummond, pinning the note to the pillow. “They’ll have to have an AA man here soon to regulate the traffic. Well, Peter – let’s get on with it. We’ll allow this bloke to come with us, and we’ll drop him somewhere. After all, he’s only one of the small fry, and I did more or less promise we’d let him go.”

  “What about the dogs?”

  “Leave them here. And incidentally that swab below can damn well dig poor old Jerry’s grave. Go and find a shovel, Peter, and then set him free, while I tuck up Nannie.”

  And he was just wrapping the eiderdown round her when a wild shout came from Darrell.

  “Hugh! For God’s sake, come here.”

  Drummond dashed downstairs and into the parlour. Lolling forward in the chair, and only kept in position by the rope which bound him, was the man. And a dagger had been driven up to the hilt in his heart.

  Chapter 5

  For a while they stood there too stunned to speak. The thing was so utterly unexpected. Not a sound had they heard upstairs, and yet during the ten minutes they had been out of the room this unknown man had been murdered.

  “Must have been that tall man we saw striding up the road,” said Darrell at length.

  “Whoever it was he must have struck from behind,” remarked Drummond. “This fellow would have shouted if he’d seen him.”

  He went into the kitchen and looked round. The back door was open; and on the stone floor were marks of earth.

  “He must have come over the fields and stood here,” continued Drummond.

  “Where he heard every word that was said,” remarked Darrell.

  “Which confirms the story. There would have been no object in murdering that man if he had been lying. At the same time, Peter, there are one or two rather rum points about this. The mischief was already done: the beans were already spilt. That poor devil could do no more harm, and he certainly wasn’t going to the police himself. Why then do the one thing which under normal circumstances is going to get the whole yarn to the police through us quicker than anything else?”

  “Vengeance,” suggested Darrell. “The murderer saw his chance and took it.”

  “Perhaps,” said Drummond. “But vengeance loses much of its force if the victim doesn’t know it is coming. And I refuse to believe that any man would sit in a chair and let another man stab him without raising Cain.”

  “Condign punishment then.”

  “Which could be
meted out at any time. Why run the appalling risk of murdering this man knowing that we were upstairs? Knowing that he might not kill instantaneously, and that there might have been a cry which would have brought us down? Why take such a chance, unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless,” said Drummond slowly, “the murderer wants us to go to the police.”

  Darrell stared at him.

  “Wants us to,” he echoed. “Why the devil should he want us to?”

  “To force our hands: to find out exactly what we know. It sounds far-fetched, I know, but if you look into it it’s not quite so fanciful as it appears at first sight. Supposing this afternoon, either here or at the post office down the road they got hold of the actual wire I sent Mrs Eskdale. The instant they read it they realised that I’d been fooling them, didn’t they?”

  “That’s so,” agreed Darrell.

  “Step two. If I fooled ’em there, the strong probability is that I fooled ’em before. In other words I had received the original message. Now if we go to the police about this I shall have to tell them the whole story, which includes the contents of that original message. And how long do you think it will be in a place like this with local constables and hordes of journalists before that message is public property?”

  “That’s the last thing they’re likely to want,” objected Darrell.

  “Is it? That’s just where you may be wrong, Peter. Having failed to get what they really wanted – namely the message to themselves alone – isn’t it possible that the next best thing is to share it? Even if they can’t prevent A5’s message reaching the people it is intended for, at any rate they will be wise as to what it is.”

  “You think they’d murder a man for that?” said Darrell doubtfully.

  “If they thought the contents of the message were sufficiently important – yes. And judging from their whole line of action they do think that.”

  “There’s something in it,” said Darrell. “But what are we going to do, old boy? We must report this, or we’ll get into the most frightful row.”

  “Admittedly, Peter, we must report his death. But is there any necessity to report anything else – anything else, that is to say, that is true? We arrived here to find Mrs Eskdale unconscious, the bulldog dead – this man murdered. The other side will know that is a lie, but they will think we are telling it because our own actions when we bound him would hardly bear cross- examination. In other words that we are frightened of mentioning that part. Further, because Joe the postman will certainly do it if I don’t, we must account for the hole in the window. And, by Gad! Peter, if Coldspur’s tip for Lingfield has gone wallop, we’ll give the blighters another one to bite on. There’s big stuff on here, old boy, and we’ve got to take a chance. We’ll tell the truth in London, but if we tell it down here we’re going to be detained and the Lord knows what. And what we want to do is to fade away as unostentatiously as possible. But if we’re going to have a shot at fooling these swine again we must do the obvious thing first, and report to the local police.”

  “What about Mrs Eskdale?” remarked Darrell.

  “She complicates matters a bit, poor old darling. For now that this has happened we certainly can’t leave her here. Tell you what, Peter: we’ll have to get her up to my house in Town. And you must take her and the two dogs. We’ll wedge her up with cushions in the front of the car, and you can drop me at Belmoreton down the road where the nearest police station is. I’ll tell ’em the tale: you go on to London and leave her in charge of Denny. Then come back to the Royal at Cambridge.”

  Luckily the road was deserted as they carried her down the path, and with great difficulty got her into the car. And having removed the note from the pillow, and taken one final look round, they left the cottage with its grim contents.

  “You’ll have the devil of a job to prevent her rolling off the seat, Peter,” said Drummond, as he got out in Belmoreton. “But if she does she’s on the floor for keeps, so do your best.”

  He stood watching the car till it was out of sight: then he accosted a passer-by.

  “Police station,” said the man. “Down the street and first on the right.”

  He found it without difficulty, and with growing amazement the sergeant in charge listened to his story. Two constables drifted in and stood gaping: a dog fight outside went the full number of rounds unchecked.

  “So there you are, my brave fellow,” cried Drummond in conclusion. “Murder and sudden death are loose upon your smiling countryside.”

  “It’s the most amazing story I’ve ever heard,” remarked the sergeant, scratching his head. “Have you your car here, sir?”

  “I have not,” said Drummond. “My friend has taken Mrs Eskdale up to London in it. So you’ll have to raise another.”

  The sergeant gave an order to one of the constables, who left the police station; and returned five minutes later in a taxi. In some inexplicable way the news that something was afoot had filtered round, and a small crowd of listeners had collected in the street outside. And the instant Drummond appeared a young man, with eagerness shining all over his face, detached himself from the others and approached him tendering a card.

  JOHN SEYMOUR

  Eastern News

  “I’m a reporter, sir,” he whispered excitedly. “Just started. Is there anything big on, sir? It will mean a lot to me if I can get in first.”

  Drummond regarded him thoughtfully: a pleasant-faced lad quivering with keenness.

  “There is something very big on, Mr Seymour,” he said with a smile. “But as the matter is now in the sergeant’s hands I’m afraid you must ask him.”

  The boy’s face fell.

  “Can’t you give me a hint, sir?” he pleaded.

  “Didn’t I see you standing by that perfectly good Norton over there?” said Drummond.

  “That’s mine, sir,” cried Seymour.

  “There is your hint,” said Drummond. “My knowledge of motor bicycles is not profound, but I would hazard a guess that you might be able to keep pace with this antiquated box on wheels that we are going to go in. Now, sergeant,” he added, as that worthy appeared. “Are you ready? Because I want to get on as soon as I can.”

  It took them about twenty minutes to reach the cottage, and only once during the whole drive did Drummond catch a glimpse of the Norton. A point which pleased him: evidently John Seymour was not unintelligent. And the possibilities of having a tame journalist in his bag had struck him immediately.

  The cottage was just as he had left it, and he led the way up the path followed by the sergeant and a constable. Then, having flung open the door he stood stock still. There lay Jerry as before, but of the man who had been stabbed there was no trace. The chair was empty: the man had gone. So had the gun and Doris Venables’ gloves.

  It was the sergeant who broke the silence.

  “Not much sign of the corpse, sir,” he remarked a little sarcastically.

  “Very little,” agreed Drummond, still looking about the room.

  “And you left the body lashed up in that chair?”

  “I did,” said Drummond.

  “I suppose you felt the dead man’s pulse?” asked the sergeant mildly.

  Drummond stared at him: so that was his reaction.

  “I did not,” he said. “It hardly seemed necessary when he had a dagger sticking into his heart. My dear sergeant, do you really imagine that I’ve invented this story?”

  The sergeant lifted his eyebrows.

  “No, sir – not entirely. What I do think is that the man was alive all the time and fooled you.”

  “In what way was that possible?” demanded Drummond.

  “Well, sir,” said the other kindly, “I can think of one way at once. Suppose he was just an ordinary sneak thief who came along to see what he could steal. You wouldn’t believe, sir, the amount of money some of these cottage folk keep hidden in their stocking. While he’s drugging the old lady, the bulldog goes for him: so he shoots it.
Then as he’s searching the house he sees you and your friend arrive, and realises he’s caught. So he lashes himself up as well as he can, and sticks the dagger sideways through his clothes so that it looks as if he was stabbed.”

  “A damned ingenious fellow,” remarked Drummond enthusiastically. “Though I should have thought it would have been simple to do a guy through the back door.”

  Drummond was thinking hard. Not having done so already, it was impossible to tell the sergeant the whole truth, which, of course, put the worthy officer’s theory out of court.

  “The only other theory is that he was murdered, as you say, and that the murderer has since returned and removed the body,” continued the sergeant. “My objection to that is – why not have removed it in the first instance? Why leave it here at all?”

  “Possibly,” suggested Drummond mildly, “he had nothing to remove it in.”

  The sergeant continued to expound, but Drummond hardly listened. How did this new development affect the situation? He knew what had happened: he knew the man had been murdered. But was it worth while endeavouring to convince the sergeant? Or did it suit his book better to let that officer continue to think that he had made a mistake? And the more he thought about it, the more did he incline to the latter course. It would save bother and prevent any possibility of his being requested to remain at hand in case of further developments.

  A shadow fell across the floor: John Seymour was standing by the open window.

  “Here’s something for your paper, young man,” cried the sergeant cheerily. “Who killed the bulldog and why? Well, Captain Drummond, I can assure you I will not let the matter drop. And should we by any chance catch anyone answering to your description of the man we’ll get in touch with you for identification purposes. Can I give you a lift anywhere?”

  But an idea had been forming in Drummond’s mind, and he turned to the reporter.