Bulldog Drummond

by Sapper

  The soldier smiled reassuringly.

  ‘Don’t worry, little girl,’ he said. ‘Years ago I was told by an old gipsy that I should die in my bed of old age and excessive consumption of invalid port… As a matter of fact, the cause of my visit was rather humorous. They abducted me in the middle of the night, with an ex-soldier of my old battalion, who was, I regret to state, sleeping off the effects of much indifferent liquor in my rooms.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she demanded.

  ‘They thought he was your American millionaire cove, and the wretched Mullings was too drunk to deny it. In fact, I don’t think they ever asked his opinion at all.’ Hugh grinned reminiscently. ‘A pathetic spectacle.’

  ‘Oh! but splendid,’ cried the girl a little breathlessly. ‘And where was the American?’

  ‘Next door – safe with a very dear old friend of mine, Peter Darrell. You must meet Peter some day – you’ll like him.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘No,’ he added, ‘on second thoughts, I’m not at all sure that I shall let you meet Peter. You might like him too much; and he’s a dirty dog.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she cried with a faint blush. ‘Tell me, where is the American now?’

  ‘Many miles out of London,’ answered Hugh. ‘I think we’ll leave it at that. The less you know, Miss Benton, at the moment – the better.’

  ‘Have you found out anything?’ she demanded eagerly.

  Hugh shook his head.

  ‘Not a thing. Except that your neighbours are as pretty a bunch of scoundrels as I ever want to meet.’

  ‘But you’ll let me know if you do.’ She laid a hand beseechingly on his arm. ‘You know what’s at stake for me, don’t you? Father, and – oh! but you know.’

  ‘I know,’ he answered gravely. ‘I know, old thing. I promise I’ll let you know anything I find out. And in the meantime I want you to keep an eye fixed on what goes on next door, and let me know anything of importance by letter to the Junior Sports Club.’ He lit a cigarette thoughtfully. ‘I have an idea that they feel so absolutely confident in their own power, that they are going to make the fatal mistake of underrating their opponents. We shall see.’ He turned to her with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Anyway, our Mr Lakington will see that you don’t come to any harm.’

  ‘The brute!’ she cried, very low. ‘How I hate him!’ Then – with a sudden change of tone, she looked up at Drummond. ‘I don’t know whether it’s worth mentioning,’ she said slowly, ‘but yesterday afternoon four men came at different times to The Elms. They were the sort of type one sees tub-thumping in Hyde Park, all except one, who looked like a respectable working man.’

  Hugh shook his head.

  ‘Don’t seem to help much, does it? Still, one never knows. Let me know anything like that in future at the club.’

  ‘Good morning, Miss Benton.’ Peterson’s voice behind them made Drummond swing round with a smothered curse. ‘Our inestimable friend, Captain Drummond, brought such a nice young fellow to see me last night, and then left him lying about the house this morning.’

  Hugh bit his lip with annoyance; until that moment he had clean forgotten that Mullings was still in The Elms.

  ‘I have sent him along to your car,’ continued Peterson suavely, ‘which I trust was the correct procedure. Or did you want to give him to me as a pet?’

  ‘From a rapid survey, Mr Peterson, I should think you have quite enough already,’ said Hugh. ‘I trust you paid him the money you owe him.’

  ‘I will allot it to him in my will,’ remarked Peterson. ‘If you do the same in yours, doubtless he will get it from one of us sooner or later. In the meantime, Miss Benton, is your father up?’

  The girl frowned.

  ‘No – not yet.’

  ‘Then I will go and see him in bed. For the present, au revoir.’ He walked towards the house, and they watched him go in silence. It was as he opened the drawing-room window that Hugh called after him: ‘Do you like the horse Elliman’s or the ordinary brand?’ he asked. ‘I’ll send you a bottle for that stiff neck of yours.’

  Very deliberately Peterson turned round.

  ‘Don’t trouble, thank you, Captain Drummond. I have my own remedies, which are far more efficacious.’

  CHAPTER 5

  In Which There is Trouble at Goring

  ‘Did you have a good night, Mullings?’ remarked Hugh as he got into his car.

  The man grinned sheepishly.

  ‘I dunno what the game was, sir, but I ain’t for many more of them. They’re about the ugliest crowd of blackguards in that there ’ouse that I ever wants to see again.’

  ‘How many did you see altogether?’ asked Drummond.

  ‘I saw six actual like, sir; but I ’eard others talking.’

  The car slowed up before the post office and Hugh got out. There were one or two things he proposed to do in London before going to Goring, and it struck him that a wire to Peter Darrell might allay that gentleman’s uneasiness if he was late in getting down. So new was he to the tortuous ways of crime, that the foolishness of the proceeding never entered his head: up to date in his life, if he had wished to send a wire he had sent one. And so it may be deemed a sheer fluke on his part, that a man dawdling by the counter aroused his suspicions. He was a perfectly ordinary man, chatting casually with the girl on the other side; but it chanced that, just as Hugh was holding the post office pencil up, and gazing at its so-called point with an air of resigned anguish, the perfectly ordinary man ceased chatting and looked at him. Hugh caught his eye for a fleeting second; then the conversation continued. And as he turned to pull out the pad of forms, it struck him that the man had looked away just a trifle too quickly…

  A grin spread slowly over his face, and after a moment’s hesitation he proceeded to compose a short wire. He wrote it in block letters for additional clearness; he also pressed his hardest as befitted a blunt pencil. Then with the form in his hand he advanced to the counter.

  ‘How long will it take to deliver in London?’ he asked the girl…

  The girl was not helpful. It depended, he gathered, on a variety of circumstances, of which not the least was the perfectly ordinary man who talked so charmingly. She did not say so, in so many words, but Hugh respected her none the less for her maidenly reticence.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll bother, then,’ he said, thrusting the wire into his pocket. ‘Good morning…’

  He walked to the door, and shortly afterwards his car rolled down the street. He would have liked to remain and see the finish of his little jest, but, as is so often the case, imagination is better than reality. Certain it is that he chuckled consumedly the whole way up to London, whereas the actual finish was tame.

  With what the girl considered peculiar abruptness, the perfectly ordinary man concluded his conversation with her, and decided that he too would send a wire. And then, after a long and thoughtful pause at the writing bench, she distinctly heard an unmistakable ‘Damn!’ Then he walked out, and she saw him no more.

  Moreover, it is to be regretted that the perfectly ordinary man told a lie a little later in the day, when giving his report to someone whose neck apparently inconvenienced him greatly. But then a lie is frequently more tactful than the truth, and to have announced that the sole result of his morning’s labours had been to decipher a wire addressed to The Elms, which contained the cryptic remark, ‘Stung again, stiff neck, stung again,’ would not have been tactful. So he lied, as has been stated, thereby showing his wisdom…

  But though Drummond chuckled to himself as the car rushed through the fresh morning air, once or twice a gleam that was not altogether amusement shone in his eyes. For four years he had played one game where no mistakes were allowed; the little incident of the post office had helped to bring to his mind the certainty that he had now embarked on another where the conditions were much the same. That he had scored up to date was luck rather than good management, and he was far too shrewd not to realise it. Now he was marked, and luck
with a marked man cannot be tempted too far.

  Alone and practically unguarded he had challenged a gang of international criminals: a gang not only utterly unscrupulous, but controlled by a mastermind. Of its power as yet he had no clear idea; of its size and immediate object he had even less. Perhaps it was as well. Had he realised even dimly the immensity of the issues he was up against, had he had but an inkling of the magnitude of the plot conceived in the sinister brain of his host of the previous evening, then, cheery optimist though he was, even Hugh Drummond might have wavered. But he had no such inkling, and so the gleam in his eyes was but transitory, the chuckle that succeeded it more wholehearted than before. Was it not sport in a land flowing with strikes and profiteers; sport such as his soul loved?

  ‘I am afraid, Mullings,’ he said as the car stopped in front of his club, ‘that the kindly gentleman with whom we spent last night has repudiated his obligations. He refuses to meet the bill I gave him for your services. Just wait here a moment.’

  He went inside, returning in a few moments with a folded cheque.

  ‘Round the corner, Mullings, and an obliging fellah in a black coat will shove you out the necessary Bradbury’s.’

  The man glanced at the cheque.

  ‘Fifty quid, sir!’ he gasped. ‘Why – it’s too much, sir… I…’

  ‘The labourer, Mullings, is worthy of his hire. You have been of the very greatest assistance to me; and, incidentally, it is more than likely that I may want you again. Now, where can I get hold of you?’

  ‘13, Green Street, ’Oxton, sir, ’11 always find me. And any time, sir, as you wants me, I’d like to come just for the sport of the thing.’

  Hugh grinned.

  ‘Good lad. And it may be sooner than you think.’

  With a cheery laugh he turned back into his club, and for a moment or two the ex-soldier stood looking after him. Then with great deliberation he turned to the chauffeur; and spat reflectively.

  ‘If there was more like ’im, and less like ’im’ – he indicated a stout vulgarian rolling past in a large car and dreadful clothes – ‘things wouldn’t ’appen such as is ’appening today. Ho! no…’

  With which weighty dictum Mr Mullings, late private of the Royal Loamshires, turned his steps in the direction of the ‘obliging fellah in a black coat’.

  II

  Inside the Junior Sports Club, Hugh Drummond was burying his nose in a large tankard of the ale for which that cheery pothouse was still famous. And in the intervals of this most delightful pastime he was trying to make up his mind on a peculiarly knotty point. Should he or should he not communicate with the police on the matter? He felt that as a respectable citizen of the country it was undoubtedly his duty to tell somebody something. The point was who to tell and what to tell him. On the subject of Scotland Yard his ideas were nebulous; he had a vague impression that one filled in a form and waited – tedious operations, both.

  ‘Besides, dear old flick,’ he murmured abstractedly to the portrait of the founder of the club, who had drunk the cellar dry and then died, ‘am I a respectable citizen? Can it be said with any certainty, that if I filled in a form saying all that had happened in the last two days, I shouldn’t be put in quod myself?’

  He sighed profoundly and gazed out into the sunny square. A waiter was arranging the first editions of the evening papers on a table, and Hugh beckoned to him to bring one. His mind was still occupied with his problem, and almost mechanically he glanced over the columns. Cricket, racing, the latest divorce case and the latest strike – all the usual headings were there. And he was just putting down the paper, to again concentrate on his problem, when a paragraph caught his eye.

  STRANGE MURDER IN BELFAST

  The man whose body was discovered in such peculiar circumstances near the docks has been identified as Mr James Granger, the confidential secretary to Mr Hiram Potts, the American multi-millionaire, at present in this country. The unfortunate victim of this dastardly outrage – his head, as we reported in our last night’s issue, was nearly severed from his body – had apparently been sent over on business by Mr Potts, and had arrived the preceding day. What he was doing in the locality in which he was found is a mystery.

  We understand that Mr Potts, who has recently been indisposed, has returned to the Carlton, and is greatly upset at the sudden tragedy.

  The police are confident that they will shortly obtain a clue, though the rough element in the locality where the murder was committed presents great difficulties. It seems clear that the motive was robbery, as all the murdered man’s pockets were rifled. But the most peculiar thing about the case is the extraordinary care taken by the murderer to prevent the identification of the body. Every article of clothing, even down to the murdered man’s socks, had had the name torn out, and it was only through the criminal overlooking the tailor’s tab inside the inner breast pocket of Mr Granger’s coat that the police were enabled to identify the body.

  Drummond laid down the paper on his knees, and stared a little dazedly at the club’s immoral founder.

  ‘Holy smoke! Laddie,’ he murmured, ‘that man Peterson ought to be on the committee here. Verily, I believe, he could galvanise the staff into some semblance of activity.’

  ‘Did you order anything, sir?’ A waiter paused beside him.

  ‘No,’ murmured Drummond, ‘but I will rectify the omission. Another large tankard of ale.’

  The waiter departed, and Hugh picked up the paper again.

  ‘We understand,’ he murmured gently to himself, ‘that Mr Potts, who has recently been indisposed, has returned to the Carlton… Now that’s very interesting…’ He lit a cigarette and lay back in his chair. ‘I was under the impression that Mr Potts was safely tucked up in bed, consuming semolina pudding, at Goring. It requires elucidation.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ remarked the waiter, placing the beer on the table beside him.

  ‘You needn’t,’ returned Hugh. ‘Up to date you have justified my fondest expectations. And as a further proof of my good will, I would like you to get me a trunk call – 2 X Goring.’

  A few minutes later he was in the telephone box.

  ‘Peter, I have seldom been so glad to hear your voice. Is all well? Good! Don’t mention any names. Our guest is there, is he? Gone on strike against more milk puddings, you say. Coax him, Peter. Make a noise like a sturgeon, and he’ll think it’s caviare. Have you seen the papers? There are interesting doings in Belfast, which concern us rather intimately. I’ll be down later, and we’ll have a powwow.’

  He hung up the receiver and stepped out of the box.

  ‘If, Algy,’ he remarked to a man who was looking at the tape machine outside, ‘the paper says a blighter’s somewhere and you know he’s somewhere else – what do you do?’

  ‘Up to date in such cases I have always shot the editor,’ murmured Algy Longworth. ‘Come and feed.’

  ‘You’re so helpful, Algy. A perfect rock of strength. Do you want a job?’

  ‘What sort of a job?’ demanded the other suspiciously.

  ‘Oh! not work, dear old boy. Damn it, man – you know me better than that, surely!’

  ‘People are so funny nowadays,’ returned Longworth gloomily. ‘The most unlikely souls seem to be doing things and trying to look as if they were necessary. What is this job?’

  Together the two men strolled into the luncheon room, and long after the cheese had been finished, Algy Longworth was still listening in silence to his companion.

  ‘My dear old bean,’ he murmured ecstatically as Hugh finished, ‘my very dear old bean. I think it’s the most priceless thing I ever heard. Enrol me as a member of the band. And, incidentally, Toby Sinclair is running round in circles asking for trouble. Let’s rope him in.’

  ‘Go and find him this afternoon, Algy,’ said Hugh, rising. ‘And tell him to keep his mouth shut. I’d come with you, but it occurs to me that the wretched Potts, bathed in tears at the Carlton, is in need of sympathy. I would have
him weep on my shoulder awhile. So long, old dear. You’ll hear from me in a day or two.’

  It was as he reached the pavement that Algy dashed out after him, with genuine alarm written all over his face.

  ‘Hugh,’ he spluttered, ‘there’s only one stipulation. An armistice must be declared during Ascot week.’

  With a thoughtful smile on his face Drummond sauntered along Pall Mall. He had told Longworth more or less on the spur of the moment, knowing that gentleman’s capabilities to a nicety. Under a cloak of assumed flippancy he concealed an iron nerve which had never yet failed him; and, in spite of the fact that he wore an entirely unnecessary eyeglass, he could see farther into a brick wall than most of the people who called him a fool.

  It was his suggestion of telling Toby Sinclair that caused the smile. For it had started a train of thought in Drummond’s mind which seemed to him to be good. If Sinclair – why not two or three more equally trusty sportsmen? Why not a gang of the boys?

  Toby possessed a VC, and a good one – for there are grades of the VC, and those grades are appreciated to a nicety by the recipient’s brother officers if not by the general public. The show would fit Toby like a glove… Then there was Ted Jerningham, who combined the roles of an amateur actor of more than average merit with an ability to hit anything at any range with every conceivable type of firearm. And Jerry Seymour in the Flying Corps… Not a bad thing to have a flying man up one’s sleeve… And possibly someone versed in the ways of tanks might come in handy.

  The smile broadened to a grin; surely life was very good. And then the grin faded, and something suspiciously like a frown took its place. For he had arrived at the Carlton, and reality had come back to him. He seemed to see the almost headless body of a man lying in a Belfast slum…

  ‘Mr Potts will see no one, sir,’ remarked the man to whom he addressed his question. ‘You are about the twentieth gentleman who has been here already today.’