The Return Of Bulldog Drummond

by Sapper

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” said Newall. “Confound it – are all our clients criminals?”

  “You can take it from me that the Saumur–Hardcastle combination don’t waste their time in a Sunday school,” grinned Drummond.

  “We must get the police on to them,” cried the lawyer.

  “And what are you going to say to the police?” demanded Drummond. “That some member of your firm, now dead, has embezzled five thousand quid! Guess again, boy: you’ve got nothing to go to the police about at present. This is a show in which we’ve got to act on our own. And at the moment we’re simply blundering about blindly in the dark. What is the motive underlying the whole affair? That’s what we’ve got to try and get at. What is all this leading up to?”

  “But you surely don’t mean to imply that there is any connection between Bob Marton’s murder and the deposit of those bearer bonds,” said Newall incredulously.

  “It does sound a bit far-fetched, doesn’t it?” admitted Drummond. “And yet they’re all in the same bunch: don’t forget that fact. What sort of reason did she give for leaving them with you?”

  “I couldn’t say,” answered the other. “Her interview was with old Marton. I could find out, of course, quite easily, from his confidential clerk. But anyway, Drummond, you can’t expect me to believe that she left them with us in order that they should be stolen.”

  “That is exactly what I do believe,” said Drummond calmly. “For that reason and no other. Further, she intended that they should be stolen by young Marton and no one else.”

  “But it sounds fantastic,” cried Newall. Surely it is a somewhat novel trait in a criminal to set about being robbed.”

  “She knew she would never lose her money,” said Drummond. “What have you just said yourself? – the firm is going to make it up to her. She knew she was as safe as if the bonds were in a bank.”

  “Then what was the great idea?” said the other feebly. “My grey matter is failing me.”

  “The great idea was to get Marton in their power,” answered Drummond. “Why – I haven’t a notion, but that was the scheme. And it succeeded. He was in their power, and then, when he’d done what they told him to do, they got rid of him.”

  He lit a cigarette; then he leaned forward and tapped Newall on the knee.

  “Look here, old lad,” he said, “you’ve got to get one fact wedged in the legal brain. And you’ve got to readjust your ideas from a new standpoint. Leave out for the moment Hardcastle and his crowd: assume, if you will, that we are mistaken there. But with regard to Madame Saumur, as she now calls herself, you’ve got to believe us. She is a criminal of the first order – a woman without mercy or scruple. And so, as I say, get that into your head as a fact and not as surmise, and start from the beginning again.”

  “We can bear out every word of that, Dick,” put in Jerningham.

  “Right oh!” said the lawyer resignedly. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Good!” cried Drummond. “Then let’s start off by trying to get some sort of chronological order. First of all – do you know when young Marton first met this Bartelozzi woman?”

  Newall shook his head.

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” he said. “The only time I saw ’em together, as I told you, was last week.” And then he paused suddenly. “By Jove! I wonder.”

  He closed his eyes as if trying to collect his thoughts.

  “Wait a moment, you fellows,” he said, “I’ll get it shortly.”

  He pulled his notebook out of his pocket and studied it.

  “Now, this is not proof: it’s not even evidence, but it’s a possibility. On April 15th, Bob Marton had a job of work given him to do in Liverpool, which entailed his being away for the night. He came to me the day before and asked me if I’d take it on for him, and when I asked him why, he told me that the most glorious woman he had ever seen in his life had got a date with him on the 15th. He said that if he didn’t appear she’d get fed up, and, anyway, he was so darned serious about it that I said I would. Here’s the entry in my diary – Liverpool, Baxter and Co. on the 15th: round at Hoylake in morning of the 16th. Furthermore – though on this point I’ve got to trust my memory – it was about then that he started talking about the Custard Pot. Well, you say this wench goes there a lot, so it is possible that that is when he met her.”

  “Which would make it about four months ago,” said Drummond. “And Hardcastle came to you about two months after?”

  Newall turned over the pages of his notebook.

  “The first entry of him I have is on June 29th,” he answered. “But old Marton did his business, and so it is quite on the cards he came earlier.”

  “When were the bonds deposited?”

  “I couldn’t say off-hand; but that, again, I can find out from Merridew, the confidential clerk tomorrow.”

  “But it was fairly recently?”

  “If I had to guess, I should say it was some time in July.”

  “Therefore after Marton had met Comtessa Bartelozzi?”

  “If our surmise about April 15th is correct – yes. But remember that is only surmise. The only proof we have there is that I saw ’em together a week ago.”

  “Were they pretty matey?”

  “Taking it by and large – yes.”

  “So presumably it was not their first meeting?”

  “If it was, rapidity must have been the order of the evening,” said Newall, with a grin.

  “Now look here, old boy,” went on Drummond, “that’s another point that strikes me. The poor devil is dead, so that’s that; but frankly, what did you think of Marton? I only saw him for about ten minutes; but not to mince words, I didn’t put him very high in the handicap.”

  “He wasn’t a bad fellow,” answered the other. “Why do you ask?”

  “For this reason. The Bartelozzi woman, as far as looks are concerned at any rate, is a winner. Then why does she select Marton?”

  “I get you,” said Newall thoughtfully. “And there’s a good deal in what you say. You mean it points definitely to an ulterior motive?”

  “Of course it does. He may not have been a bad fellow, but, my dear old lad, if you were a damned pretty woman would you have selected him as your boy friend? Echo answers no, and I’ll take a spot of ale.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” agreed Newall, beckoning to a waiter. “But the thing that stumps me is what that ulterior motive can possibly have been. We’re back at the beginning again. Assuming that everything you say is true: assuming that the bonds were deposited with us and he was goaded into stealing ’em – what then? What earthly use can the junior member of a firm of respectable solicitors be to a bunch of crooks?”

  “There you have me,” said Drummond. “But I can’t help thinking that when you go more carefully through the papers belonging to his father you’ll find that something very important is missing. Our Bartelozzi, having fleeced him good and hearty, by some means or other lets him know that she is fully aware of the bond transaction. Possibly she pitched him some yarn about them having been stolen from her. Anyhow the poor sap pinches them. Then he’s in the soup. The lady ceases to be kind, and puts the screw on. As the price of her silence, he’s got to get the other thing.”

  “My dear fellow,” cried Newall, “your theory would be admirable if I could even remotely begin to imagine what this other thing can be. That’s where the snag comes.”

  “We’ll find out in time,” answered Drummond quietly. “You can put your shirt on that. But for the moment let’s go to Hardcastle. What was the business that brought him to you in the first instance?”

  “The lease of Glensham House, as far as I know. In fact, I’m sure that was it, because I remember the matter being discussed. And subsequently we put through some negotiations for him with regard to a studio down
in Essex, which was empty. It belonged to a film company that went bust, and he wanted to carry out some experiments there.”

  “Where exactly is it?”

  “About ten miles from Colchester on the main London road. Not far from the Tiptree jamworks. It’s called the Blackwater studio.” And then he began to laugh. “Do you anticipate villainy there?”

  “I’d anticipate it in Canterbury Cathedral if that bunch was around,” said Drummond grimly. “And so will you, old lad, by the time we’ve finished.”

  Newall rose with a smile.

  “In which case I’d better fortify myself for it with some sleep. The old man wants me at the office at crack of dawn tomorrow, so I’ll push off. And if you all want to make your wills, the firm might make a reduction for numbers.”

  With a cheery wave he was gone, and Drummond grinned.

  “That lad is going to get an eye-opener before he’s much older,” he remarked. “Though I must admit he’s got lots of excuse for being sceptical. The whole thing is damned obscure at the moment.”

  And the obscurity did not diminish during the next few days. It transpired that the bonds had been deposited on July 13th as cover for a deal in land which Madame Saumur was trying to put through. As she was going abroad for a few weeks, she wanted someone on the spot to act for her, and instead of giving them the money, she preferred to leave the bearer bonds, with instructions to sell should the transaction come to anything.

  “All perfectly normal and in order,” said Newall, when he met the three friends a few days later. “What was the good of selling out if the deal came to nothing? And since the agreement would have to be checked legally, it was necessary to do the business through a lawyer and not through a bank.”

  “Who put her on to your firm particularly?” demanded Drummond.

  “Was there ever such a man?” laughed Newall. “If you must know, it was the Dean of Murchester’s wife, whom she met at Mentone. You’ll be telling me that she has got criminal instincts next.”

  Further, as the result of an exhaustive search, the only thing missing from the office was a sixpenny postal order for a football competition, on which dark matter the junior clerk and the office-boy had had words.

  “Honestly, Drummond,” said Newall, “I’m convinced you’re barking up the wrong tree. Whatever the lady may have been in the past, there is nothing about this transaction which isn’t absolutely straightforward. And it seems to me that there is a perfectly simple solution. Bob, the silly young ass, got tied up with the Bartelozzi woman, who, perhaps without meaning to, bled him. She is probably a fairy with expensive tastes who expects money to be poured out like water on her. And he, finding he couldn’t stand the pace, stole the bonds. He had access to his father’s safe: for all I know, he may have been present at the interview. There are a dozen ways in which he could have found out the bonds were there – quite normal ways. So why assume some dark conspiracy? And then, realising what he had done – presumably he sold ’em – his nerves went. He knew that sooner or later his father must find out. It wasn’t as if it had been money, which conceivably he might have replaced: with bonds the position was hopeless. And that undoubtedly explains his remarks to you. He had always drunk a good deal more than was good for him, which didn’t help matters, and that contributed to his condition of funk. By ‘they,’ he meant the police, and in the fog he must have thought the warders were policemen. And when he said it wasn’t only a question of money, or that it was worse than that, he had in his mind that he had stolen bonds.”

  “You think, then,” said Drummond, “that the verdict at the inquest was correct, and that Morris murdered him.”

  “Frankly, old boy, I do,” answered Newall. “You were so in earnest about it, and so positive, that to start with you almost convinced me. But now that we find that nothing else has been stolen, the utter pointlessness of the crime is what I can’t get over. Nobody out of a mad-house murders a man for no rhyme or reason whatever. And if you’re going to tell me that by some method they found out he had stolen the bonds, and killed him as a punishment, well, frankly, I can’t swallow it. No: now that we have a reasonable explanation for his agitation with you, which was the inexplicable thing before, I definitely accept the jury’s verdict.”

  And for a while Hugh Drummond himself was shaken. It was the insuperable question of motive that defeated him. Of course it was possible that Marton had found out that they were plotting some crime, and had threatened to give them away. Then why the bearer bonds? How did they fit in? Could it be that he had made a howling blunder, and that everything was genuine from beginning to end? That the deal in land was a bona fide one: that it was merely a common or garden case of stealing money, and that Morris was the murderer after all? His reason answered yes: every instinct he possessed said no.

  He had not yet heard from the Comtessa, nor had he rung her up, and the day following his last talk with Newall he came to a decision. He would ask her to go with him to the Custard Pot that night, and there he would settle things one way or the other. He would carry the war into the enemy’s country by pretending he knew a great deal more than he did.

  “If Dick Newall is right,” he said, talking things over with Jerningham, “no harm is done. She will merely think I’m a bit loopy. If, on the contrary, I’m right, it may force their hand. And anything is preferable to sitting still and doing nothing, while they carry on and disregard us completely.”

  The Comtessa was at home when he rang up, and came to the telephone herself.

  “I was afraid you’d quite forgotten me,” she said. “I shall be delighted to come. I’m going to a play, so shall I meet you there at half-past eleven?”

  “Excellent,” he said. “Until then – au revoir.”

  He went back to the smoking-room, to find that Peter Darrell had arrived.

  “I say, Hugh,” he sang out, “it was Blackwater studio, wasn’t it, that Hardcastle took?”

  “That’s right, Peter. Why?”

  “Look at this advertisement in Film Echoes.”

  He held out the paper to Drummond.

  “Blackwater Studio. Actor required for small but important character part. Must be young, clean shaven, fair, six feet tall, and between thirty-eight and forty inches round the chest. Previous experience desirable, but not essential. Applicants will be interviewed in person at the studio every day between ten and six.”

  “That looks as if the interest in the film business was genuine enough,” said Drummond, handing the paper back. “’Pon my soul, chaps, if it wasn’t for our one and only Irma being mixed up in it, I’d almost be inclined to believe that the whole thing is a mare’s nest.”

  “I thought I’d apply myself,” said Darrell. “I comply with all the requirements, and it gives one an excuse for having a look round.”

  “Not a bad idea, Peter. Go down tomorrow I don’t suppose for a moment they will take you, but you might spot something.”

  “I hear you’re fixing a date with Pansy-face for tonight.”

  “Yes: we’re meeting at the Custard Pot.” Drummond shrugged his shoulders. “The Lord knows if it will lead anywhere, but one might be able to bluff her into saying something incriminating. Though it strikes me,” he added with a grin, “that one would have to get up pretty early in the morning to trip that lady up, especially since she is being coached by Irma. So long, fellows: we might both come down with you tomorrow, Peter, to the studio.”

  He lounged out of the room, and hailing a taxi drove back to the service flat he was occupying during his wife’s absence in America. Ever since he had met Irma at Paddington he had been conscious of a feeling of profound relief that Phyllis was out of harm’s way: he had no wish for a repetition of that ghastly hunt which had so nearly terminated disastrously in the house on Salisbury Plain, and the mere remembrance of which could even now bring him out in a cold
sweat. But this time, if Madame Saumur – to give her her present title – struck, she could not do it through Phyllis: it would have to be direct at him. And when, at eleven-thirty exactly, he passed through the swing doors of the Custard Pot, he was conscious of a feeling of exhilaration, of expectancy, like the hunter who hears hounds in the distance. Gone were all the doubts engendered by Dick Newall: he knew there was some game afoot. And it would not be for want of trying if he didn’t play.

  The club was typical of a score of others. After a small formality at the office, which cost him a pound, he duly became a member, and passing up a flight of stairs, he entered the dancing-room. The Comtessa, he had been told below, had not yet arrived, but on informing the head waiter he was expecting her, he was at once shown to a special table in the corner.

  “Will M’sieur order now?” he was asked.

  “Put a bottle of Clicquot on the ice,” he answered, “and we’ll leave the food till later.”

  The room was tastefully got up for a place of the type. It was small, but not too hot, and the lighting was soft and restful to the eyes. On a microscopic expanse of floor in the centre three couples were dancing to the music of a small band sitting in a balcony halfway up one wall.

  The place was full: in fact, he had been shown to the last available table. And he realised the Comtessa must have telephoned through instructions that it was to be kept for her. The flowers, he noticed, were special ones: evidently the lady was something of a noise in the place.

  His eyes travelled round the assembled company, but he saw no one whom he knew. The usual pairs; two or three parties of four – it might have been any of the smaller night clubs, save for one thing. There was about the whole atmosphere of the place a definite sense of smartness which as a rule is so conspicuously lacking from similar establishments. It might have been an overflow from the Embassy.