Bulldog Drummond

by Sapper

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he remarked, when his cigar was going to his satisfaction, ‘we are all men of business. I do not propose therefore to beat about the bush over the matter which I have to put before you, but to come to the point at once. I said before dinner that I considered we were sufficiently big to exclude any small arbitrary national distinctions from our minds. As men whose interests are international, such things are beneath us. I wish now to slightly qualify that remark.’ He turned to the American on his right, who with his eyes half closed was thoughtfully picking his teeth. ‘At this stage, sir, I address myself particularly to you.’

  ‘Go right ahead,’ drawled Mr Hocking.

  ‘I do not wish to touch on the war – or its result; but though the Central Powers have been beaten by America and France and England, I think I can speak for you two gentlemen’ – he bowed to the two Germans – ‘when I say that it is neither France nor America with whom they desire another round. England is Germany’s main enemy; she always has been, she always will be.’

  Both Germans grunted assent, and the American’s eyes closed a little more.

  ‘I have reason to believe, Mr Hocking, that you personally do not love the English?’

  ‘I guess I don’t see what my private feelings have got to do with it. But if it’s of any interest to the company you are correct in your belief.’

  ‘Good.’ The Count nodded his head as if satisfied. ‘I take it, then, that you would not be averse to seeing England down and out.’

  ‘Wal,’ remarked the American, ‘you can assume anything you feel like. Let’s get to the showdown.’

  Once again the Count nodded his head; then he turned to the two Germans.

  ‘Now you two gentlemen must admit that your plans have miscarried somewhat. It was no part of your original programme that a British Army should occupy Cologne…’

  ‘The war was the act of a fool,’ snarled Herr Steinemann. ‘In a few years more of peace we should have beaten those swine…’

  ‘And now – they have beaten you.’ The Count smiled slightly. ‘Let us admit that the war was the act of a fool if you like, but as men of business we can only deal with the result…the result, gentlemen, as it concerns us. Both you gentlemen are sufficiently patriotic to resent the presence of that army at Cologne I have no doubt. And you, Mr Hocking, have no love on personal grounds for the English… But I am not proposing to appeal to financiers of your reputation on such grounds as those to support my scheme… It is enough that your personal predilections run with and not against what I am about to put before you – the defeat of England…a defeat more utter and complete than if she had lost the war…’

  His voice sank a little, and instinctively his three listeners drew closer.

  ‘Don’t think that I am proposing this through motives of revenge merely. We are businessmen, and revenge is only worth our while if it pays. This will pay. I can give you no figures, but we are not of the type who deal in thousands, or even hundreds of thousands. There is a force in England which, if it be harnessed and led properly, will result in millions coming to you… It is present now in every nation – fettered, inarticulate, uncoordinated… It is partly the result of the war – the war that the idiots have waged… Harness that force, gentlemen, coordinate it, and use it for your own ends… That is my proposal. Not only will you humble that cursed country to the dirt, but you will taste of power such as few men have tasted before…’ The Count stood up, his eyes blazing. ‘And I – I will do it for you.’

  He resumed his seat, and his left hand, slipping off the table, beat a tattoo on his knee.

  ‘This is our opportunity – the opportunity of clever men. I have not got the money necessary: you have…’ He leaned forward in his chair, and glanced at the intent faces of his audience. Then he began to speak…

  Ten minutes later he pushed back his chair.

  ‘There is my proposal, gentlemen, in a nutshell. Unforeseen developments will doubtless occur; I have spent my life overcoming the unexpected. What is your answer?’

  He rose and stood with his back to them by the fire, and for several minutes no one spoke. Each man was busy with his own thoughts, and showed it in his own particular way. The American, his eyes shut, rolled his toothpick backwards and forwards in his mouth slowly and methodically; Steinemann stared at the fire, breathing heavily after the exertions of dinner: von Gratz walked up and down – his hands behind his back – whistling under his breath. Only the Comte de Guy stared unconcernedly at the fire, as if indifferent to the result of their thoughts. In his attitude at that moment he gave a true expression to his attitude on life. Accustomed to play with great stakes, he had just dealt the cards for the most gigantic gamble of his life… What matter to the three men, who were looking at the hands he had given them, that only a master criminal could have conceived such a game? The only question which occupied their minds was whether he could carry it through. And on that point they had only their judgment of his personality to rely on.

  Suddenly the American removed the toothpick from his mouth, and stretched out his legs.

  ‘There is a question which occurs to me, Count, before I make up my mind on the matter. I guess you’ve got us sized up to the last button; you know who we are, what we’re worth, and all about us. Are you disposed to be a little more communicative about yourself? If we agree to come in on this hand, it’s going to cost big money. The handling of that money is with you. Wal – who are you?’

  Von Gratz paused in his restless pacing, and nodded his head in agreement; even Steinemann, with a great effort, raised his eyes to the Count’s face as he turned and faced them…

  ‘A very fair question, gentlemen, and yet one which I regret I am unable to answer. I would not insult your intelligence by giving you the fictitious address of – a fictitious Count. Enough that I am a man whose livelihood lies in other people’s pockets. As you say, Mr Hocking, it is going to cost big money; but compared to the results the costs will be a flea-bite… Do I look – and you are all of you used to judging men – do I look the type who would steal the baby’s moneybox which lay on the mantelpiece, when the pearls could be had for opening the safe?… You will have to trust me, even as I shall have to trust you… You will have to trust me not to divert the money which you give me as working expenses into my own pocket… I shall have to trust you to pay me when the job is finished…’

  ‘And that payment will be – how much?’ Steinemann’s guttural voice broke the silence.

  ‘One million pounds sterling – to be split up between you in any proportion you may decide, and to be paid within one month of the completion of my work. After that the matter will pass into your hands…and may you leave that cursed country grovelling in the dirty…’ His eyes glowed with a fierce, vindictive fury; and then, as if replacing a mask which had slipped for a moment, the Count was once again the suave, courteous host. He had stated his terms frankly and without haggling: stated them as one big man states them to another of the same kidney, to whom time is money and indecision or beating about the bush anathema.

  ‘Take them or leave them.’ So much had he said in effect, if not in actual words, and not one of his audience but was far too used to men and matters to have dreamed of suggesting any compromise. All or nothing: and no doctrine could have appealed more to the three men in whose hands lay the decision…

  ‘Perhaps, Count, you would be good enough to leave us for a few minutes.’ Von Gratz was speaking. ‘The decision is a big one, and…’

  ‘Why, certainly, gentlemen.’ The Count moved towards the door. ‘I will return in ten minutes. By that time you will have decided – one way or the other.’

  Once in the lounge he sat down and lit a cigarette. The hotel was deserted save for one fat woman asleep in a chair opposite, and the Count gave himself up to thought. Genius that he was in the reading of men’s minds, he felt that he knew the result of that ten minutes’ deliberation… And then… What then?… In his imagination he saw his plans
growing and spreading, his tentacles reaching into every corner of a great people – until, at last, everything was ready. He saw himself supreme in power, glutted with it – a king, an autocrat, who had only to lift his finger to plunge his kingdom into destruction and annihilation… And when he had done it, and the country he hated was in ruins, then he would claim his million and enjoy it as a great man should enjoy a great reward… Thus for the space of ten minutes did the Count see visions and dream dreams. That the force he proposed to tamper with was a dangerous force disturbed him not at all: he was a dangerous man. That his scheme would bring ruin, perhaps death, to thousands of innocent men and women, caused him no qualm: he was a supreme egoist. All that appealed to him was that he had seen the opportunity that existed, and that he had the nerve and the brain to turn that opportunity to his own advantage. Only the necessary money was lacking…and… With a quick movement he pulled out his watch. They had had their ten minutes…the matter was settled, the die was cast…

  He rose and walked across the lounge. At the swing doors was the head waiter, bowing obsequiously…

  It was to be hoped that the dinner had been to the liking of Monsieur le Comte…the wines all that he could wish…that he had been comfortable and would return again…

  ‘That is improbable.’ The Count took out his pocketbook. ‘But one never knows; perhaps I shall.’ He gave the waiter a note. ‘Let my bill be prepared at once, and given to me as I pass through the hall.’

  Apparently without a care in the world the Count passed down the passage to his private room, while the head waiter regarded complacently the unusual appearance of an English five-pound note.

  For an appreciable moment the Count paused by the door, and a faint smile came to his lips. Then he opened it, and passed into the room…

  The American was still chewing his toothpick; Steinemann was still breathing hard. Only von Gratz had changed his occupation, and he was sitting at the table smoking a long thin cigar. The Count closed the door, and walked over to the fireplace…

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said quietly, ‘what have you decided?’

  It was the American who answered.

  ‘It goes. With one amendment. The money is too big for three of us: there must be a fourth. That will be a quarter of a million each.’

  The Count bowed.

  ‘Yep,’ said the American shortly. ‘These two gentlemen agree with me that it should be another of my countrymen – so that we get equal numbers. The man we have decided on is coming to England in a few weeks – Hiram C Potts. If you get him in, you can count us in too. If not, the deal’s off.’

  The Count nodded, and if he felt any annoyance at this unexpected development he showed no sign of it on his face.

  ‘I know of Mr Potts,’ he answered quietly. ‘Your big shipping man, isn’t he? I agree to your reservation.’

  ‘Good!’ said the American. ‘Let’s discuss some details.’

  Without a trace of emotion on his face the Count drew up a chair to the table. It was only when he sat down that he started to play a tattoo on his knee with his left hand.

  Half an hour later he entered his luxurious suite of rooms at the Hôtel Magnificent.

  A girl, who had been lying by the fire reading a French novel, looked up at the sound of the door. She did not speak, for the look on his face told her all she wanted to know.

  He crossed to the sofa and smiled down at her.

  ‘Successful…on our own terms. Tomorrow, Irma, the Comte de Guy dies, and Carl Peterson and his daughter leave for England. A country gentleman, I think, is Carl Peterson. He might keep hens and possibly pigs.’

  The girl on the sofa rose, yawning.

  ‘Mon Dieu! What a prospect! Pigs and hens – and in England! How long is it going to take?’

  The Count looked thoughtfully into the fire.

  ‘Perhaps a year – perhaps six months… It is in the lap of the gods…’

  CHAPTER 1

  In Which He Takes Tea at the Carlton and is Surprised

  Captain Hugh Drummond, DSO, MC, late of His Majesty’s Royal Loamshires, was whistling in his morning bath. Being by nature of a cheerful disposition, the symptom did not surprise his servant, late private of the same famous regiment, who was laying breakfast in an adjoining room.

  After a while the whistling ceased, and the musical gurgle of escaping water announced that the concert was over. It was the signal for James Denny – the square-jawed ex-batman – to disappear into the back regions and get from his wife the kidneys and bacon which that most excellent woman had grilled to a turn. But on this particular morning the invariable routine was broken. James Denny seemed preoccupied, distrait.

  Once or twice he scratched his head, and stared out of the window with a puzzled frown. And each time, after a brief survey of the other side of Half Moon Street, he turned back again to the breakfast table with a grin.

  ‘What’s you looking for, James Denny?’ The irate voice of his wife at the door made him turn round guiltily. ‘Them kidneys is ready and waiting these five minutes.’

  Her eyes fell on the table, and she advanced into the room wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘Did you ever see such a bunch of letters?’ she said.

  ‘Forty-five,’ returned her husband grimly, ‘and more to come.’ He picked up the newspaper lying beside the chair and opened it out.

  ‘Them’s the result of that,’ he continued cryptically, indicating a paragraph with a square finger, and thrusting the paper under his wife’s nose.

  …‘Demobilised officer,’ she read slowly, ‘finding peace incredibly tedious, would welcome diversion. Legitimate, if possible; but crime, if of a comparatively humorous description, no objection. Excitement essential. Would be prepared to consider permanent job if suitably impressed by applicant for his services. Reply at once Box X10.’

  She pushed down the paper on a chair and stared first at her husband, and then at the rows of letters neatly arranged on the table.

  ‘I calls it wicked,’ she announced at length. ‘Fair flying in the face of Providence. Crime, Denny – crime. Don’t you get ’aving nothing to do with such mad pranks, my man, or you and me will be having words.’ She shook an admonitory finger at him, and retired slowly to the kitchen. In the days of his youth, James Denny had been a bit wild, and there was a look in his eyes this morning – the suspicion of a glint – which recalled old memories.

  A moment or two later Hugh Drummond came in. Slightly under six feet in height, he was broad in proportion. His best friend would not have called him good-looking, but he was the fortunate possessor of that cheerful type of ugliness which inspires immediate confidence in its owner. His nose had never quite recovered from the final one year in the Public Schools Heavy Weights; his mouth was not small. In fact, to be strictly accurate only his eyes redeemed his face from being what is known in the vernacular as the Frozen Limit.

  Deep-set and steady, with eyelashes that many a woman had envied, they showed the man for what he was – a sportsman and a gentleman. And the combination of the two is an unbeatable production.

  He paused as he got to the table, and glanced at the rows of letters. His servant, pretending to busy himself at the other end of the room, was watching him surreptitiously, and noted the grin which slowly spread over Drummond’s face as he picked up two or three and examined the envelopes.

  ‘Who would have thought it, James?’ he remarked at length. ‘Great Scot! I shall have to get a partner.’

  With disapproval showing in every line of her face, Mrs Denny entered the room, carrying the kidneys, and Drummond glanced at her with a smile.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Denny,’ he said. ‘Wherefore this worried look on your face? Has that reprobate James been misbehaving himself?’

  The worthy woman snorted. ‘He has not, sir – not yet, leastwise. And if so be that he does’ – her eyes travelled up and down the back of the hapless Denny, who was quite unnecessarily pulling books off shelves and
putting them back again – ‘if so be that he does,’ she continued grimly, ‘him and me will have words – as I’ve told him already this morning.’ She stalked from the room, after staring pointedly at the letters in Drummond’s hand, and the two men looked at one another.

  ‘It’s that there reference to crime, sir, that’s torn it,’ said Denny in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘Thinks I’m going to lead you astray, does she, James?’

  Hugh helped himself to bacon. ‘My dear fellow, she can think what she likes so long as she continues to grill bacon like this. Your wife is a treasure, James – a pearl amongst women: and you can tell her so with my love.’ He was opening the first envelope, and suddenly he looked up with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Just to set her mind at rest,’ he remarked gravely, ‘you might tell her that, as far as I can see at present, I shall only undertake murder in exceptional cases.’

  He propped the letter up against the toast rack and commenced his breakfast. ‘Don’t go, James.’ With a slight frown he was studying the typewritten sheet. ‘I’m certain to want your advice before long. Though not over this one… It does not appeal to me – not at all. To assist Messrs Jones & Jones, whose business is to advance money on note of hand alone, to obtain fresh clients, is a form of amusement which leaves me cold. The wastepaper basket, please, James. Tear the effusion up, and we will pass on to the next.’