Bulldog Drummond

by Sapper

  Hugh had expected this, and smiled genially.

  ‘Precisely, my stout fellow,’ he remarked, ‘but I’ll lay a small amount of money that they were newspaper men. Now, I’m not. And I think that if you will have this note delivered to Mr Potts, he will see me.’

  He sat down at a table, and drew a sheet of paper towards him. Two facts were certain: first, that the man upstairs was not the real Potts; second, that he was one of Peterson’s gang. The difficulty was to know exactly how to word the note. There might be some mystic password, the omission of which would prove him an impostor at once. At length he took a pen and wrote rapidly; he would have to chance it.

  Urgent. A message from headquarters.

  He sealed the envelope and handed it with the necessary five shillings for postage to the man. Then he sat down to wait. It was going to be a ticklish interview if he was to learn anything, but the thrill of the game had fairly got him by now, and he watched eagerly for the messenger’s return. After what seemed an interminable delay he saw him crossing the lounge.

  ‘Mr Potts will see you, sir. Will you come this way?’

  ‘Is he alone?’ said Hugh, as they were whirled up in the lift.

  ‘Yes, sir. I think he was expecting you.’

  ‘Indeed,’ murmured Hugh. ‘How nice it is to have one’s expectations realised.’

  He followed his guide along a corridor, and paused outside a door while he went into a room. He heard a murmur of voices, and then the man reappeared.

  ‘This way, sir,’ he said, and Hugh stepped inside, to stop with an involuntary gasp of surprise. The man seated in the chair was Potts, to all intents and purposes. The likeness was extraordinary, and had he not known that the real article was at Goring he would have been completely deceived himself.

  The man waited till the door was closed: then he rose and stepped forward suspiciously.

  ‘I don’t know you,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Since when has everyone employed by headquarters known one another?’ Drummond returned guardedly. ‘And, incidentally, your likeness to our lamented friend is wonderful. It very nearly deceived even me.’

  The man, not ill-pleased, gave a short laugh.

  ‘It’ll pass, I think. But it’s risky. These cursed reporters have been badgering the whole morning… And if his wife or somebody comes over, what then?’

  Drummond nodded in agreement.

  ‘Quite so. But what can you do?’

  ‘It wasn’t like Rosca to bungle in Belfast. He’s never left a clue before, and he had plenty of time to do the job properly.’

  ‘A name inside a breast pocket might easily be overlooked,’ remarked Hugh, seizing the obvious clue.

  ‘Are you making excuses for him?’ snarled the other. ‘He’s failed, and failure is death. Such is our rule. Would you have it altered?’

  ‘Most certainly not. The issues are far too great for any weakness…’

  ‘You’re right, my friend – you’re right. Long live the Brotherhood.’ He stared out of the window with smouldering eyes, and Hugh preserved a discreet silence. Then suddenly the other broke out again… ‘Have they killed that insolent puppy of a soldier yet?’

  ‘Er – not yet,’ murmured Hugh mildly.

  ‘They must find the American at once.’ The man thumped the table emphatically. ‘It was important before – at least his money was. Now with this blunder – it’s vital.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Hugh. ‘Precisely.’

  ‘I’ve already interviewed one man from Scotland Yard, but every hour increases the danger. However, you have a message for me. What is it?’

  Hugh rose and casually picked up his hat. He had got more out of the interview than he had hoped for, and there was nothing to be gained by prolonging it. But it struck him that Mr Potts’ impersonator was a man of unpleasant disposition, and that tactically a flanking movement to the door was indicated. And, being of an open nature himself, it is possible that the real state of affairs showed for a moment on his face. Be that as it may, something suddenly aroused the other’s suspicions, and with a snarl of fury he sprang past Hugh to the door.

  ‘Who are you?’ He spat the words out venomously, at the same time whipping an ugly-looking knife out of his pocket.

  Hugh replaced his hat and stick on the table and grinned gently.

  ‘I am the insolent puppy of a soldier, dear old bird,’ he remarked, watching the other warily. ‘And if I were you I’d put the toothpick away… You might hurt yourself–’

  As he spoke he was edging, little by little, towards the other man, who crouched, snarling by the door. His eyes, grim and determined, never left the other’s face; his hands, apparently hanging listless by his sides, were tingling with the joy of what he knew was coming.

  ‘And the penalty of failure is death, isn’t it, dear one?’ He spoke almost dreamily; but not for an instant did his attention relax. The words of Olaki, his Japanese instructor, were ringing through his brain: ‘Distract his attention if you can; but, as you value your life, don’t let him distract yours.’

  And so, almost imperceptibly, he crept towards the other man, talking gently.

  ‘Such is your rule. And I think you have failed, haven’t you, you unpleasant specimen of humanity? How will they kill you, I wonder?’

  It was at that moment that the man made his mistake. It is a mistake that has nipped the life of many a promising pussy in the bud, at the hands, or rather the teeth, of a dog that knows. He looked away; only for a moment – but he looked away. Just as a cat’s nerves give after a while and it looks round for an avenue of escape, so did the crouching man take his eyes from Hugh. And quick as any dog, Hugh sprang.

  With his left hand he seized the man’s right wrist, with his right he seized his throat. Then he forced him upright against the door and held him there. Little by little the grip of his right hand tightened, till the other’s eyes were starting from his head, and he plucked at Hugh’s face with an impotent left arm, an arm not long enough by three inches to do any damage. And all the while the soldier smiled gently, and stared into the other’s eyes. Even when inch by inch he shifted his grip on the man’s knife hand he never took his eyes from his opponent’s face; even when with a sudden gasp of agony the man dropped his knife from fingers which, of a sudden, had become numb, the steady merciless glance still bored into his brain.

  ‘You’re not very clever at it, are you?’ said Hugh softly. ‘It would be so easy to kill you now, and, except for the inconvenience I should undoubtedly suffer, it mightn’t be a bad idea. But they know me downstairs, and it would make it so awkward when I wanted to dine here again… So, taking everything into account, I think–’

  There was a sudden lightning movement, a heave and a quick jerk. The impersonator of Potts was dimly conscious of flying through the air, and of hitting the floor some yards from the door. He then became acutely conscious that the floor was hard, and that being winded is a most painful experience. Doubled up and groaning, he watched Hugh pick up his hat and stick, and make for the door. He made a frantic effort to rise, but the pain was too great, and he rolled over cursing, while the soldier, his hand on the doorknob, laughed gently.

  ‘I’ll keep the toothpick,’ he remarked, ‘as a memento.’

  The next moment he was striding along the corridor towards the lift. As a fight it had been a poor one, but his brain was busy with the information he had heard. True, it had been scrappy in the extreme, and, in part, had only confirmed what he had suspected all along. The wretched Granger had been foully done to death, for no other reason than that he was the millionaire’s secretary. Hugh’s jaw tightened; it revolted his sense of sport. It wasn’t as if the poor blighter had done anything; merely because he existed and might ask inconvenient questions he had been removed. And as the lift shot downwards, and the remembrance of the grim struggle he had had in the darkness of The Elms the night before came back to his mind, he wondered once again if he had done wisely in not brea
king Peterson’s neck while he had had the chance.

  He was still debating the question in his mind as he crossed the tea lounge. And almost unconsciously he glanced toward the table where three days before he had had tea with Phyllis Benton, and had been more than half inclined to believe that the whole thing was an elaborate leg-pull.

  ‘Why, Captain Drummond, you look pensive.’ A well-known voice from a table at his side made him look down, and he bowed a little grimly. Irma Peterson was regarding him with a mocking smile.

  He glanced at her companion, a young man whose face seemed vaguely familiar to him, and then his eyes rested once more on the girl. Even his masculine intelligence could appreciate the perfection – in a slightly foreign style – of her clothes; and, as to her beauty, he had never been under any delusions. Nor, apparently, was her escort, whose expression was not one of unalloyed pleasure at the interruption of his tête-à-tête.

  ‘The Carlton seems rather a favourite resort of yours,’ she continued, watching him through half-closed eyes. ‘I think you’re wise to make the most of it while you can.’

  ‘While I can?’ said Hugh. ‘That sounds rather depressing.’

  ‘I’ve done my best,’ continued the girl, ‘but matters have passed out of my hands, I’m afraid.’

  Again Hugh glanced at her companion, but he had risen and was talking to some people who had just come in.

  ‘Is he one of the firm?’ he remarked. ‘His face seems familiar.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ said the girl. ‘He is – just a friend. What have you been doing this afternoon?’

  ‘That, at any rate, is straight and to the point,’ laughed Hugh. ‘If you want to know, I’ve just had a most depressing interview.’

  ‘You’re a very busy person, aren’t you, my ugly one?’ she murmured.

  ‘The poor fellow, when I left him, was quite prostrated with grief, and – er – pain,’ he went on mildly.

  ‘Would it be indiscreet to ask who the poor fellow is?’ she asked.

  ‘A friend of your father’s, I think,’ said Hugh, with a profound sigh. ‘So sad. I hope Mr Peterson’s neck is less stiff by now?’

  The girl began to laugh softly.

  ‘Not very much, I’m afraid. And it’s made him a little irritable. Won’t you wait and see him?’

  ‘Is he here now?’ said Hugh quickly.

  ‘Yes,’ answered the girl. ‘With his friend whom you’ve just left. You’re quick, mon ami – quite quick.’ She leaned forward suddenly. ‘Now, why don’t you join us instead of so foolishly trying to fight us? Believe me, Monsieur Hugh, it is the only thing that can possibly save you. You know too much.’

  ‘Is the invitation to amalgamate official, or from your own charming brain?’ murmured Hugh.

  ‘Made on the spur of the moment,’ she said lightly. ‘But it may be regarded as official.’

  ‘I’m afraid it must be declined on the spur of the moment,’ he answered in the same tone. ‘And equally to be regarded as official. Well, au revoir. Please tell Mr Peterson how sorry I am to have missed him.’

  ‘I will most certainly,’ answered the girl. ‘But then, mon ami, you will be seeing him again soon, without doubt…’

  She waved a charming hand in farewell, and turned to her companion, who was beginning to manifest symptoms of impatience. But Drummond, though he went into the hall outside, did not immediately leave the hotel. Instead, he button-holed an exquisite being arrayed in gorgeous apparel, and led him to a point of vantage.

  ‘You see that girl,’ he remarked, ‘having tea with a man at the third table from the big palm? Now, can you tell me who the man is? I seem to know his face, but I can’t put a name to it.’

  ‘That, sir,’ murmured the exquisite being, with the faintest perceptible scorn of such ignorance, ‘is the Marquis of Laidley. His lordship is frequently here.’

  ‘Laidley!’ cried Hugh, in sudden excitement. ‘Laidley! The Duke of Lampshire’s son! You priceless old stuffed tomato – the plot thickens.’

  Completely regardless of the scandalised horror on the exquisite being’s face, he smote him heavily in the stomach and stepped into Pall Mall. For clean before his memory had come three lines on the scrap of paper he had torn from the table at The Elms that first night, when he had grabbed the dazed millionaire from under Peterson’s nose.

  earl necklace and the

  are at present

  chess of Lamp-

  The Duchess of Lampshire’s pearls were world-famous; the Marquis of Laidley was apparently enjoying his tea. And between the two there seemed to be a connection rather too obvious to be missed.

  III

  ‘I’m glad you two fellows came down,’ said Hugh thoughtfully, as he entered the sitting-room of his bungalow at Goring. Dinner was over, and stretched in three chairs were Peter Darrell, Algy Longworth, and Toby Sinclair. The air was thick with smoke, and two dogs lay curled up on the mat, asleep. ‘Did you know that a man came here this afternoon, Peter?’

  Darrell yawned and stretched himself.

  ‘I did not. Who was it?’

  ‘Mrs Denny has just told me.’ Hugh reached out a hand for his pipe, and proceeded to stuff it with tobacco. ‘He came about the water.’

  ‘Seems a very righteous proceeding, dear old thing,’ said Algy lazily.

  ‘And he told her that I had told him to come. Unfortunately, I’d done nothing of the sort.’

  His three listeners sat up and stared at him.

  ‘What do you mean, Hugh?’ asked Toby Sinclair at length.

  ‘It’s pretty obvious, old boy,’ said Hugh grimly. ‘He no more came about the water than he came about my aunt. I should say that about five hours ago Peterson found out that our one and only Hiram C Potts was upstairs.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ spluttered Darrell, by now very wide awake. ‘How the devil has he done it?’

  ‘There are no flies on the gentleman,’ remarked Hugh. ‘I didn’t expect he’d do it quite so quick, I must admit. But it wasn’t very difficult for him to find out that I had a bungalow here, and so he drew the covert.’

  ‘And he’s found the bally fox,’ said Algy. ‘What do we do, sergeant-major?’

  ‘We take it in turns – two at a time – to sit up with Potts.’ Hugh glanced at the other three. ‘Damn it – you blighters – wake up!’

  Darrell struggled to his feet and walked up and down the room.

  ‘I don’t know what it is,’ he said, rubbing his eyes, ‘I feel most infernally sleepy.’

  ‘Well, listen to me – confound you…Toby!’ Hugh hurled a tobacco pouch at the offender’s head.

  ‘Sorry, old man.’ With a start Sinclair sat up in his chair and blinked at Hugh.

  ‘They’re almost certain to try and get him tonight,’ went on Hugh. ‘Having given the show away by leaving a clue on the wretched secretary, they must get the real man as soon as possible. It’s far too dangerous to leave the – leave the–’ His head dropped forward on his chest: a short, half-strangled snore came from his lips. It had the effect of waking him for the moment, and he staggered to his feet.

  The other three, sprawling in their chairs, were openly and unashamedly asleep; even the dogs lay in fantastic attitudes, breathing heavily, inert like logs.

  ‘Wake up!’ shouted Hugh wildly. ‘For God’s sake – wake up! We’ve been drugged!’

  An iron weight seemed to be pressing down on his eyelids: the desire for sleep grew stronger and stronger. For a few moments more he fought against it, hopelessly, despairingly; while his legs seemed not to belong to him, and there was a roaring noise in his ears. And then, just before unconsciousness overcame him, there came to his bemused brain the sound of a whistle thrice repeated from outside the window. With a last stupendous effort he fought his way towards it, and for a moment he stared into the darkness. There were dim figures moving through the shrubs, and suddenly one seemed to detach itself. It came nearer, and the light fell on the man’s face. His nose and mouth were covered with
a sort of pad, but the cold, sneering eyes were unmistakable.

  ‘Lakington!’ gasped Hugh, and then the roaring noise increased in his head; his legs struck work altogether. He collapsed on the floor and lay sprawling, while Lakington, his face pressed against the glass outside, watched in silence.

  ‘Draw the curtains.’ Lakington was speaking, his voice muffled behind the pad, and one of the men did as he said. There were four in all, each with a similar pad over his mouth and nose. ‘Where did you put the generator, Brownlow?’

  ‘In the coal scuttle.’ A man whom Mrs Denny would have had no difficulty in recognising, even with the mask on his face, carefully lifted a small black box out of the scuttle from behind some coal, and shook it gently, holding it to his ear. ‘It’s finished,’ he remarked, and Lakington nodded.

  ‘An ingenious invention is gas,’ he said, addressing another of the men. ‘We owe your nation quite a debt of gratitude for the idea.’

  A guttural grunt left no doubt as to what that nation was, and Lakington dropped the box into his pocket.

  ‘Go and get him,’ he ordered briefly, and the others left the room.

  Contemptuously Lakington kicked one of the dogs; it rolled over and lay motionless in its new position. Then he went in turn to each of the three men sprawling in the chairs. With no attempt at gentleness he turned their faces up to the light, and studied them deliberately; then he let their heads roll back again with a thud. Finally he went to the window and stared down at Drummond. In his eyes was a look of cold fury, and he kicked the unconscious man savagely in the ribs.

  ‘You young swine,’ he muttered. ‘Do you think I’ll forget that blow on the jaw!’

  He took another box out of his pocket and looked at it lovingly.

  ‘Shall I?’ With a short laugh he replaced it. ‘It’s too good a death for you, Captain Drummond, DSO, MC. Just to snuff out in your sleep. No, my friend, I think I can devise something better than that; something really artistic.’

  Two other men came in as he turned away, and Lakington looked at them.