Rainsford had dug himself in, in France, when a second’s delay would have meant death. Compared to his digging now, that had been a placid pastime. The pit grew deeper; when it was above his shoulders he climbed out and from some hard saplings cut stakes, sharpening them to a fine point. These stakes he planted at the bottom of the pit with the points up. With flying fingers he wove a rough carpet of weeds and branches and with it covered the mouth of the pit. Then, wet with sweat and aching with tiredness, he crouched behind the stump of a lightning-blasted tree.
By the padding sound of feet on the soft earth he knew his pursuer was coming. The night breeze brought him the perfume of the general’s cigarette. It seemed to the hunted man that the general was coming with unusual swiftness; that he was not feeling his way along, foot by foot. Rainsford, from where he was crouching, could not see the general, neither could he see the pit. He lived a year in a minute. Then he heard the sharp crackle of breaking branches as the cover of the pit gave way; heard the sharp scream of pain as the pointed stakes found their mark. Then he cowered back. Three feet from the pit a man was standing with an electric torch in his hand.
“You’ve done well, Rainsford,” cried the general. “Your Burmese tiger pit has claimed one of my best dogs. Again you score. I must now see what you can do against my whole pack. I’m going home for a rest now. Thank you for a most amusing evening.”
At daybreak Rainsford, lying near the swamp, was awakened by a distant sound, faint and wavering, but he knew it for the baying of a pack of hounds.
Rainsford knew he could do one of two things. He could stay where he was. That was suicide. He could flee. That was postponing the inevitable. For a moment, he stood there thinking. An idea that held a wild chance came to him, and, tightening his belt, he headed away from the swamp.
The baying of the hounds drew nearer, nearer. Rainsford climbed a tree. Down a watercourse, not a quarter of a mile away, he could see the bush moving. Straining his eyes, he saw the lean figure of General Zaroff. Just ahead of him Rainsford made out another figure, with wide shoulders, which surged through the jungle reeds. It was the gigantic Ivan and he seemed to be pulled along. Rainsford realized that he must be holding the pack in leash.
They would be on him at any moment now. His mind worked frantically, and he thought of a native trick he had learned in Uganda. Sliding down the tree, he caught hold of a springy young sapling and to it fastened his hunting knife, with the blade pointing down the trail. With a bit of wild grape-vine he tied back the sapling…and ran for his life. As the hounds hit the fresh scent, they raised their voices and Rainsford knew how an animal at bay feels.
He had to stop to get his breath. The baying of the hounds stopped abruptly, and Rainsford’s heart stopped, too. They must have reached the knife.
Shinning excitedly up a tree, he looked back. His pursuers had stopped. But the hope in Rainsford’s brain died, for he saw that General Zaroff was still on his feet. Ivan, however, was not. The knife, driven by the recoil of the springing tree, had not wholly failed.
Hardly had Rainsford got back to the ground when, once more, the pack took up the cry.
“Nerve, nerve, nerve!” he panted to himself as he dashed along. A blue gap showed through the trees dead ahead. The hounds drew nearer. Rainsford forced himself on towards that gap. He reached the sea, and across a cove could see the grey stone of the château. Twenty feet below him the sea rumbled and hissed. Rainsford hesitated. He heard the hounds. Then he leaped far out into the water.
When the general and his pack reached the opening, the Cossack stopped. For some moments he stood regarding the blue-green expanse of water. Then he sat down, took a drink of brandy from a silver flask, lit a perfumed cigarette, and hummed a bit from Madame Butterfly.
* * *
—
General Zaroff ate an exceedingly good dinner in his great panelled hall that evening. With it he had a bottle of Pol Roger and half a bottle of Chambertin. Two slight annoyances kept him from perfect enjoyment. One was that it would be difficult to replace Ivan; the other, that his quarry had escaped him. Of course—so thought the general, as he tasted his after-dinner liqueur—the American had not played the game.
To soothe himself, he read in his library from the works of Marcus Aurelius. At ten he went to his bedroom. He was comfortably tired, he said to himself, as he turned the key of his door. There was a little moonlight, so before turning on the light he went to the window and looked down on the courtyard. He could see the great hounds, and he called: “Better luck another time.” Then he switched on the light.
A man who had been hiding in the curtains of the bed, was standing before him.
“Rainsford!” screamed the general. “How in God’s name did you get here?”
“Swam. I found it quicker than walking through the jungle.”
The other sucked in his breath and smiled. “I congratulate you. You have won the game.”
Rainsford did not smile. “I am still a beast at bay,” he said, in a low, hoarse voice. “Get ready, General Zaroff.”
The general made one of his deepest bows. “I see,” he said. “Splendid. One of us is to furnish a repast for the hounds. The other will sleep in this very excellent bed. On guard, Rainsford….”
* * *
—
He had never slept in a better bed, Rainsford decided.
Thirteen Lead Soldiers
H. C. MCNEILE
THE STORY
Original publication: The Strand Magazine, December 1937; first collected in The Best Short Stories by “Sapper” (London, Dent, 1984)
HERMAN CYRIL McNEILE (1888–1937) served in the British Army Corps of Engineers for twelve years, retiring as a lieutenant colonel shortly after the end of World War I. During his years of service, he wrote numerous military adventure stories, but it was with the creation of Bulldog Drummond in 1920 that he became one of the most popular writers in England, using the pseudonym “Sapper” for his British publications, a word derived from the military slang term for an engineer. Most of McNeile’s fiction is fast-paced, with cliff-hangers, romance, and action in long supply, while stylistic nuance and characterization are not.
Partially based on his friend Gerard Fairlie (who continued the Drummond adventures when McNeile died of a war-related illness), Captain Hugh Drummond was bored after the war and ran a newspaper advertisement that read: “Demobilized officer, 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.”
The fiercely patriotic Drummond finds England’s enemies everywhere, especially among Germans and Russians, and will risk his life (as well as that of his wife, Phyllis, and his valet, Algy) if needed to protect England. His greatest adversary is Carl Peterson, a supervillain who cares nothing about countries or nationalities as long as his allies aid his selfish goals.
McNeile wrote ten novels about Bulldog Drummond, Fairlie wrote seven, and there were more than twenty films based on his exploits. The heroic Englishman also starred in a somewhat inauthentic 1940s radio series that opened with, “Out of the fog, out of the night, and into his American adventures steps Bulldog Drummond….”
According to an article by Christopher Fowler in the April 1, 2012, issue of London’s The Independent on Sunday, McNeile was the highest-paid short story writer in the world during the 1920s, an honor that also has been attributed by others to Edgar Wallace and F. Scott Fitzgerald.
“Thirteen Lead Soldiers” is a story that uncharacteristically presents Drummond mostly as a detective, not as a spy.
THE FILM
Title: Thirteen Lead Soldiers, 1948
Studio: Twentieth Century-Fox
Director:
Frank McDonald
Screenwriters: Irving Elman, Dwight V. Babcock
Producers: Bernard Small, Ben Pivar
THE CAST
• Tom Conway (Captain Hugh “Bulldog” Drummond)
• John Newland (Algernon “Algy” Longworth)
• Maria Palmer (Estelle Prager, aka Estelle Gorday)
• Helen Westcott (Cynthia Stedman)
• William Stelling (Phillip Coleman)
McNeile’s short story is a relatively straightforward mystery that has been dramatically altered and fleshed out to fill the brief running time of the film’s sixty-four minutes, adding some characters and a good story to go along with the discovery of a rare manuscript. The major contribution of the story to the screenplay was its title.
As popular as Bulldog Drummond was in book and magazine stories, he was an even greater presence on the screen, with more than twenty films produced that featured the patriotic British adventurer.
The first, simply titled Bulldog Drummond (1922), was a silent, as was the second, amusingly called Bulldog Drummond’s Third Round (1925). The first sound version was also titled Bulldog Drummond (1929) and starred Ronald Colman, beginning the parade of big-name actors who went on to play Drummond for nearly a half century; he reprised the role in Bulldog Drummond Strikes Back (1934).
Among the A-list stars who played the role of the “isn’t this fun?” hero were Ralph Richardson, in The Return of Bulldog Drummond (1934); Ray Milland, in Bulldog Drummond Escapes (1937); John Barrymore, in Bulldog Drummond Comes Back (1937), Bulldog Drummond’s Revenge (1937), and Bulldog Drummond’s Peril (1938); Tom Conway, in The Challenge (1948) and Thirteen Lead Soldiers (1948); and Walter Pidgeon, in Calling Bulldog Drummond (1951).
The last Bulldog Drummond film was Some Girls Do, which was clearly influenced by the success of the James Bond movies; it was released in 1969.
Alfred Hitchcock had planned to direct a Bulldog Drummond film in 1933 and already had a screenplay by Charles Bennett titled Bulldog Drummond’s Baby. The rights to the character, however, were controlled by British International Pictures, which declined to allow the use of the character. Hitchcock and Bennett rewrote the screenplay, turning it into The Man Who Knew Too Much (1934), without Drummond.
Ian Fleming admitted that his James Bond character was “ ‘Sapper (H. C. McNeile)’ from the waist up and Mickey Spillane below.” (Presumably, he meant their characters, Bulldog Drummond and Mike Hammer, rather than the authors themselves.)
THIRTEEN LEAD SOLDIERS
H. C. McNeile
“YOU MUSTN’T TOUCH THEM, Uncle Hugh, because they’re still wet. Mr. Stedman is going to paint some more when he comes back.”
Hugh Drummond—uncle by courtesy—looked down at the small boy on the floor. Around him was strewn the litter inseparable from small boys, be it trains, airplanes, or hairy bugs. In this case, the central motif consisted of toy soldiers, with paints and brushes and pools of multi-colored water. In addition, there were boxes of infantry, and cavalry, and guns all of a dull-grey color, whilst on a tray, resplendent in scarlet, stood some freshly painted heroes.
“Mr. Stedman says it’s far more fun to paint them oneself,” explained the proud owner. “He says it doesn’t matter if there is no full dress no more.”
“I quite agree with Mr. Stedman, Billy,” said Drummond. “Red looks much better than khaki, doesn’t it. That’s a good-looking Highlander next door to the General on the horse.”
“Yes. I’ve got some more of those. They’re Cameron Highlanders.”
“Not Camerons, old man. They might be Gordons.”
“Mr. Stedman said Camerons,” persisted the boy. “Didn’t you?” He looked up as a tall, dark man entered the room.
“Didn’t I say what, Billy?”
“Say these were Cameron Highlanders. Uncle Hugh says they’re Gordons.”
“Only after they’re painted, son,” said Drummond. “Before they’re painted, they might be any Highland regiment.”
“But Mr. Stedman painted him and he said he was a Cameron. Why can’t he be a Cameron?”
“Because he’s got the wrong-colored kilt on, old man. I might stretch a point and say he was a Seaforth, but I can’t allow Cameron, I’m afraid. You see, that kilt gives the general impression of being dark-green, or even black, whereas the Cameron kilt strikes one as red.”
“The complete Scotchman, I see,” said Stedman with a smile, and Drummond glanced at him. There was no friendliness behind the smile.
“Even to the extent of always saying, ‘Guid nicht the noo,’ ” he answered placidly.
“The color of a kilt seems a somewhat trifling matter to worry the child’s head with.”
Drummond raised his eyebrows and laughed.
“I don’t suppose that it would materially affect Billy’s future career if he was told that the Archbishop of Canterbury always preached in purple pajamas,” he remarked. “At the same time, if you are painting soldiers and thereby giving the child a little lesson in things military, it does no harm to get such trifles as facings and kilts correct.”
He lit a cigarette and strolled over to the window.
“The rain has stopped: I think I shall take exercise. I suppose the great ones are still conferring?”
“They are,” said Stedman shortly—and with an amused glance at him, Drummond lounged out of the room. One of those tedious individuals, he reflected, who hate to be found wrong in anything. And yet able, presumably, or he wouldn’t have his present job.
* * *
—
“Algy, you noxious blight,” he remarked to Longworth, whom he found in the hall, “you may accompany me to the village. The evening paper should be in by now, and I want to see if I’ve backed my fifteenth consecutive loser. Tell me,” he continued as they walked down the drive, “what do you think of the man Stedman?”
“I don’t,” said Algy, “if I can help it. Why?”
“I just wondered. We’ve been chatting on kilts and things and I don’t think he was amused. Incidentally, painting toy soldiers is a new one on me.”
“Same here. But the kid seems to like it. And I suppose it was decent of the fellow to go all the way to Manchester to get unpainted ones. What’s this about kilts?”
“Nothing of importance,” answered Drummond, halting for a moment and looking back at the house. “What a magnificent old pile it is.”
Outlined against the westering sun, the towers and battlements of Oxshott Castle stood out dark and somber. Trees as old as the house flanked it on each side: in front lay a lake, placid as a sheet of glass. And as they looked, four men came through the front door and strolled across the drive.
It was easy to recognize them even at this distance. Slim and upright, their seventy-year, silver-haired host, Lord Surrey, came first with the Frenchman, the Comte de Dinard. Behind them, the smoke from their cigars almost motionless in the still air, were the Belgian, Monsieur Meteren, with Sir Charles Dorking. And as they disappeared round a corner of the house, Drummond gave a short laugh.
“It’s quaint, Algy, you know, when you think of it,” he said. “At this moment the fate of Europe is quite possibly being settled: Stedman is painting toy soldiers for Billy, and you and I are going to see who won the two-thirty.”
Algy looked at him anxiously. “You’ll be quoting Ella Wheeler Wilcox in a moment, my lad,” he remarked. “What you want is beer in a large can. And what has stung you now?”
Drummond, his eyes narrowed, was staring down the drive toward the lodge.
“I’d know that walk anywhere,” he said. “If that isn’t our old friend Andrews of Scotland Yard, I will consume my headgear. Now what the deuce is he doing here?”
They strolled on, and a few moments later the three men met.
“Good evening, gentlemen,
” cried the jovial-faced Inspector cheerily. “I was hoping I might meet you.”
Drummond glanced at him in surprise.
“Very kind of you, old lad,” he remarked, “and the same to you and all that. But may I inquire how you knew we were here?”
“Because I suggested that you should be asked,” answered Andrews calmly. “When discussing the house party with his Lordship, it transpired that he knew both you and Mr. Longworth very well. So, as I say, I suggested that he should send you invitations for the weekend.”
“Again very kind of you,” said Drummond, looking even more surprised. “But why?”
“Because I may want your assistance,” replied the Inspector. “What about a pint at the Barley-Mow, and I’ll tell you the lay of the ground.”
“A brave thought, bravely spoken,” said Drummond. “By the way, d’you know what won the two-thirty?”
“Moonlight. Sharpshooter second.”
“Hell!” said Drummond. “Another fiver down the drain. I shall soon be known as the bookmaker’s friend.”
They entered the bar, and found it empty.
“What about that table over in the corner?” suggested Drummond. “I am frankly very curious, Andrews, to hear why you should have discussed the party with Lord Surrey.”
“I suppose you’re aware, Captain Drummond,” said the Inspector as they sat down, “that some very important discussions are on foot at the present moment between England, France, and Belgium.”
“I am,” replied Drummond.
“That being the case, has it struck you as strange that a reporter isn’t lurking behind every bush on Oxshott Castle?”
“It had not struck me up to date,” admitted Drummond. “But now that you mention it, I get your meaning.”
“The reason why they’re not here,” continued Andrews, “is that this conference has been kept a profound secret. The Press, of course, know that Meteren and the Comte de Dinard are in England. They know further that they are not over here to enjoy the English climate, but for the express purpose of meeting Sir Charles. And since the one thing the statesmen wished to avoid at the present stage of affairs was publicity, this weekend was arranged at Lord Surrey’s suggestion. The whole plan was kept completely dark, and the very fact that there are no reporters here proves that we succeeded.”
The Big Book of Reel Murders Page 87
