Buldog Drummond At Bay

by Sapper

  “I don’t,” said the girl. “He went right away from this part of the country when the trouble took place.”

  “And one rather wonders, Peter, what brings him back,” remarked Drummond. “I can’t think that a meeting of his darned club, finishing up with light refreshments at eleven, would prove a sufficient inducement… Give me some sandwiches, my pet,” he continued, as some men came into the bar. “We will get down to ’em in that corner.”

  “What’s the plan of campaign, Hugh?” said Darrell as they sat down.

  “We’ll have to be guided by events,” answered Drummond. “Personally, I don’t think Ronald is likely to find anything out that’s going to help us. This meeting can’t have been arranged today, so presumably it’s just in the ordinary course of affairs: part of the general smoke screen which covers the doings behind. In which case those attending it will be perfectly harmless.”

  He glanced at his watch.

  “No good our starting for at least another hour,” he remarked. “I’m going to have a spot of shut-eye. Wake me if I snore.”

  It was one of Drummond’s most remarkable traits – his ability to snatch forty winks almost at will, and in a couple of minutes he was sound asleep. Darrell, on the other hand, had never felt so wide awake in his life. Vaguely he heard odd remarks from the bunch gathered round the bar, but his brain was busy trying to get some semblance of order into the existing chaos. What Standish had told them certainly threw some light on the matter, but in all conscience light was needed.

  That their trip to Kessingland had been a complete waste of time was obvious, but what would have happened if they had not gone back via the cottage? Doing so had only been a last-minute decision and could not have been anticipated by the other side. And yet they had left a man to watch the cottage. Taking no chances evidently… Even so, to murder him for a trifling indiscretion seemed a bit drastic.

  And the attempt on Drummond’s life. True, when it was made they knew he had fooled them: true, they suspected even if they did not know that he had been in possession of the genuine message the whole time. But murder seemed out of all proportion when the contents of the message were considered. On the other hand, admittedly they could not know what those contents were.

  Mary Jane. Urgent. G G Pont. A5.

  What the devil did it mean? Could it be that Mary Jane was the girl herself – Doris Venables? A nickname or something of that sort. That the message was actually intended for her? In that case she must have known there was something badly wrong, when she got Drummond’s faked wire. A point; a definite point… Did she know? Was she playing some very deep game – deeper by far than the unfortunate Johnstone in the Guiseppi affair? And the more he thought of it, the more did he become convinced that if Miss Doris Venables could be found and made to talk, many things would become clearer.

  The bar was getting more empty. Drummond was still asleep, and Darrell himself was beginning to feel drowsy, when, happening to glance at the door, he saw something that instantly made him wide awake. Not that he gave any outward sign of it – Drummond had trained him far too well for that – but every sense was on the alert. Save for a narrow horizontal strip at the top the door consisted of frosted glass. And in the centre of that strip was the face of a man. He was looking straight at their corner, and after a while he turned and spoke to someone who was out of sight. Then he disappeared, and Darrell touched Drummond on the arm.

  “Sorry to disturb your slumbers, old boy,” he remarked, “but a guy has been peering through the top of the door and giving us the once over. He’s gone now, but in case he comes back you’d better have a look at his dial.”

  “Sure it was us he was interested in?” asked Drummond.

  “Absolutely. He was looking straight at us.”

  They waited a few minutes, but there was no further sign of him. And when at length the bar closed and they went into the lounge they could see no one about the place who looked even remotely interested in their doings.

  “You can see that corner perfectly,” said Darrell, and then he gave a sudden exclamation. “Come here, Hugh. I’m six foot, and I can only just see over the frosted glass. I saw that bloke’s whole face; I saw his chin.”

  “Our tall friend?” queried Drummond thoughtfully and beckoned to the hall porter. “Has a very tall gentleman been in here recently?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, there has. He went about five minutes ago.”

  “Do you know his name?” asked Drummond.

  “No, sir. I ain’t never seen him before.”

  The page-boy had drawn near and now spoke.

  “Asked for you, sir, he did. Captain Drummond. I said as ’ow you were in the bar, and I thought the gentleman had joined you.”

  Drummond nodded and turned away.

  “Seems hard to shake ’em off, Peter,” he remarked. “Do we perceive in this the hand of the unfrocked doctor?”

  “He didn’t know your name,” said Darrell.

  “No. But with a face like mine I’m not hard to describe. I’m open to a small bet, Peter, that there are other activities on at Hartley Court tonight, besides that fatuous meeting. And it’s on account of these that Doctor Belfage has appeared on the scene. It’s unfortunate he should have chosen to lower his pink gin at this pub, but it can’t be helped. Of course the instant he arrived at the house he was told about us, and realised he’d been talking to the very men who had caused all the commotion. Longshanks was there and came down to make sure.”

  “I hope old Ronald’s all right,” said Darrell.

  Drummond laughed.

  “I don’t think we need worry our heads about Ronald,” he answered. “His only danger is the possibility that the light refreshments at eleven may prove to be non-alcoholic. No, Peter, it’s you and I who have got to watch it just at the moment. And what I’m wondering about is their next move. Officially I’m going to London, and you’re seeing a man about a dog here. But do they believe it? If so, are they going to take any steps to alter our plans?… Good Lord! Cabbageface, what on, earth are you doing here?”

  A tall, somewhat languid man had just entered the hotel, followed by a positive lorry-load of suitcases.

  “Hullo, Hugh!” he drawled. “The surprise is mutual. Can one get a drink?”

  “If you’re staying in the hotel, sir,” said the hall porter.

  “Clarence,” remarked the newcomer, “I fear you will not rise high in your profession. Do you imagine I have taken those bags out of the car merely to put them back again?”

  “Peter,” said Drummond, “meet Cabbageface, otherwise known as Major Humphrey Gregson. This is Darrell.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “Often seen you playing at Lord’s,” said Gregson, “in the intervals of my onerous duties at the War House.”

  “Are you travelling in underclothes or what, old boy?” demanded Drummond, eyeing the pile of suitcases.

  “Not exactly,” said the other with a grin. “But honestly, Hugh, what are you fellows doing here?”

  “Investigating a spot of bother, Cabbageface,” answered Drummond guilelessly.

  Gregson looked at him steadily over the rim of his glass.

  “Ever the same old Hugh,” he remarked quietly. “Can it be possible, I wonder, that this meeting is not quite so fortuitous as it appeared at first sight?”

  “Ronald Standish is here,” said Drummond, with apparent irrelevance.

  “The devil he is! When did he come?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Is he in the hotel now?”

  “No, Cabbageface, he is not,” said Drummond deliberately. “He is at the present moment attending a meeting of a society known as the Key Club.”

  Gregson stared at him blankly.

  “Standish at a meeting of the Key Club!” he remarked in amazement. “What in the name of all that’s marvellous is he doing that for?”

  “He was asked by a nice kind gentleman,” said Drummond. “So incidentally wer
e we, but Peter and I wouldn’t play. By the way, have you ever heard of a doctor called Belfage?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Or a man called Meredith?”

  Gregson shook his head.

  “Or a German named Emil?”

  “Emil! Medium height: dark: dangerous-looking customer.”

  “The description serves.”

  “That might be Emil Veight,” said Gregson half to himself. “Hugh,” he continued, “this is the most amazing affair. Quite obviously we are mixed up in the same show. How on earth did you get pushed into it?”

  For a few moments Drummond did not reply. Then: “What’s your job at the War House, Humphrey?”

  “Intelligence – though you might not think so.”

  “Hush-hush business you mean.”

  Gregson nodded.

  “You can call it that if you like.”

  “If you were sending a report, or getting a message through, would you always sign yourself by your own name?”

  “I don’t know that I’m quite prepared to answer that question, Hugh,” said Gregson. “A bit near the confidential, you know. And we must pretend to be hush-hush.”

  “You wouldn’t perhaps sign yourself A2 or A3 or something like that?” pursued Drummond imperturbably.

  Gregson stared at him.

  “Without committing myself,” he said quietly, “let us assume for the moment that I should.”

  “Good,” remarked Drummond. “You asked me how I got pushed into this performance. The reason was that someone who signed himself A5–”

  “Ginger Lovelace!” cried Gregson involuntarily.

  “Bunged a message through the window of a cottage I was staying in last night,” continued Drummond, ignoring the interruption.

  “But why did he do that?” cried Gregson, utterly bewildered.

  “Because he was wounded unto death,” said Drummond gravely, “and Emil and his damned bunch were after him.”

  “My God!” stammered Gregson. “Ginger wounded! Where is he now?”

  “I can’t tell you,” said Drummond, “for I don’t know. Before I could get hold of him he’d vanished into the fog. And then Emil and Co. appeared on the scene.”

  “What was the message, Hugh?”

  Drummond looked round; there was no one near.

  “‘Mary Jane. Urgent. G G Pont. A5,’” he said in a low voice. “Can you make head or tail of it?”

  “‘Mary Jane,’” repeated Gregson. “‘G G Pont.’ What the devil was the old lad talking about?”

  “It means nothing in your young life then?” said Drummond.

  “Absolutely nix,” answered Gregson. “Ginger wounded! Have you been to the police?”

  “Yes and no, Humphrey. It’s much too long a story to go into now, but rightly or wrongly I decided not to last night. The cottage is not on the telephone: you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face: and I had no idea who the bloke was. In fact at the time the whole thing completely defeated me. But today’s doings have produced one certainty. The gentlemen on the other side are prepared to go literally to any lengths to get hold of the message I’ve just told you. Now even if that message is beyond you, can’t you throw some light on things? Why was Lovelace down here? What’s brought you down here?”

  Gregson lit a cigarette.

  “One at a time. Lovelace has officially been on leave for a matter of two months. And with us, as you may know, that does not mean leave. I’m not clear what he’s been on: the Chief is a firm believer in not letting the right hand know what the left is doing. All I can tell you is that he has been in Poland, and until now I thought he was there still. So much for Ginger. Now for my show. I was to come here prepared for any eventuality; hence” – he grinned gently and waved a hand at the suitcases – “a few props in the change-of-appearance line. I was to meet a woman round about ten o’clock, and after I’d heard what she had to say, I was to act entirely on my own initiative. And it being about ten now, the lady may shortly materialise.”

  “And she may not,” said Drummond thoughtfully. “It’s beginning to fit a little more, Peter. Have you any idea what sort of a woman she is, Cabbageface?”

  “Not the slightest, old boy. No more, I gather, had the Chief. In fact he was even less communicative than usual. But he did mention the Key Club, which proves that we are both chasing the same hare.”

  “Do you employ any women on your job?” asked Drummond.

  “Certainly. But none, so far as I’m aware of, actually in England.”

  “Your boss would know if this woman you’re meeting was one of them?”

  “Yes. But that doesn’t mean he’d of necessity tell me.”

  He looked at Drummond keenly.

  “From the general tenor of your remarks, Hugh,” he said, “you would seem to have encountered a lady during the day’s toil. Have you?”

  “Yes,” answered Drummond. “I’ll make it as concise as I can, Cabbageface, because Peter and I have a date.”

  Gregson listened without comment, and it might have been noticed that the languid expression had completely disappeared.

  “Doris Venables,” he said, when Drummond had finished. “She is a new one on me, though that means nothing. And you think it may be she who got in touch with the Chief?”

  “It looks possible. She is obviously mixed up in this show, and she’s the only woman we’ve butted into up to date.”

  “In that case,” remarked Gregson thoughtfully, “I doubt if I shall have the pleasure of making the lady’s acquaintance tonight. They must have found her out.”

  “Yes,” said Drummond gravely. “I’m afraid they have. And if that is so, from what I’ve seen of ’em I doubt if you’ll ever make her acquaintance. Could you possibly get on to the Chief tonight?”

  “Possibly: at his private house. I can try.”

  “I wish you would. It won’t take you long to get through at this hour. I’d like to know before we start.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the house where the meeting of the Key Club is in progress. Are you coming?”

  “I’d like to, but I’ll tell you for certain when I’ve phoned the Chief.”

  “I like it less and less, Peter,” said Drummond as Gregson entered the telephone box. “I know she tried the dirty on me this morning, but the more I think of it the more do I believe that Ronald’s right. I believe that girl is fighting a lone hand; I believe that even if she’s not on our side she’s against the others. And they’ve got her – the swine… Well, Cabbageface?”

  “Got straight through to him,” said Gregson, as he joined them. “He does not know anyone called Doris Venables. The woman who rang him up gave no name. But she mentioned the Key Club and Emil Veight: so I was right there. I’m to use my own discretion as to what I do.”

  “He didn’t happen to say what time she rang him up, I suppose?”

  “After lunch.”

  “So if it was little Doris, she must have done it on her way to the cottage. She went there to confirm the wire by seeing the original: she then proposed to pass it on to you tonight and fixed an hour when she knew this meeting was taking place, and she could slip away undetected. Is this bird Emil Veight well known?”

  “Only to the select few, old boy. High up in the German Secret Service during the War, and since then a cosmopolitan spy.”

  “Cosmopolitan!” Drummond raised his eyebrows.

  “International, if you prefer it,” said Gregson. “If the cash is there he is prepared to work for anybody. A thoroughly dangerous customer, but if any blood-letting has to be done he generally leaves it to other people.”

  “One other point, Cabbageface,” remarked Drummond. “I wonder why she rang you up, and not Scotland Yard. As a rule you blush unseen so far as the outside is concerned.”

  “Only the lady herself can tell us that,” answered Gregson. “And since it is now half-past ten I’m thinking there is not much use waiting for her to do so here
. How far is this house you’ve been talking about?”

  “About three miles. Are you coming?”

  “You bet your life I am. I’ll address the gathering if you like.”

  “Look here, Humphrey, we’d love to have you, but I don’t want you to come under false pretences. Holding His Majesty’s commission and all that sort of stuff. It’s not the meeting I want to see: it’s the other activities – if any. We’re going to break into that house, and if we’re caught there’s going to be trouble.”

  “My dear Hugh,” said Gregson with a faint grin, “if one half of what you have told me is correct, I can’t quite see the proud proprietors ringing up the police whatever we do. So let’s get on with it.”

  “Good for you,” answered Drummond. “But I thought I’d better warn you.”

  He crossed the lounge to a map that was hanging on the wall.

  “The house is there,” he said, “so we’ll start in the opposite direction and make a detour. The betting is a fiver to an orange pip that this hotel is being watched, and it may help to put ’em off. Let’s go in your car, Humphrey, as it is outside.”

  The cinemas were emptying as they left the hotel, so that the street was fairly crowded. But they were clear of the town in a few minutes, and Gregson let the car out.

  “I’d like to see the type of bird who attends these meetings,” said Drummond. “I should think Ronald must be having a gorgeous time. Go left here, Humphrey.”

  They got into a network of smaller roads as they circled round Cambridge, and it was Darrell who first noticed that they were being followed.

  “No one who isn’t loopy would come this way for fun,” he remarked. “There’s been a car about two hundred yards behind us ever since we left.”

  Drummond looked up from the map he was studying and turned round.

  “I saw one of those little wasp effects standing near the entrance to the hotel garage,” he said. “If it’s the same you’ll never get away from it, Cabbageface. I vote we stop and see. We’re in plenty of time for the party. Pull up round this corner, old boy, and switch off your lights. Stay in the middle of the road.”