Female of the Species Read online

  “Of course,” I remarked resignedly, “I suppose I am not insane. I suppose there is some sense in all this, though at the moment I’m damned if I can see it.”

  “Presumably you read Kipling?” he said suddenly.

  I stared at him in silence – speech was beyond me.

  “A month ago,” he continued calmly, “I received this.”

  From his breast pocket he took a slip of paper, and handed it to me. On it some lines were written in an obviously feminine hand.

  “When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,

  He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.

  But the she-bear, thus accosted, rends the peasant tooth and nail.

  And the point, I warn you, Drummond, is discovered in the tail.”

  I handed the paper back to him.

  “What do you make of it?” he asked.

  “It looks like a stupid joke,” I said. “Do you know the writing?”

  He shook his head.

  “No; I don’t. So you think it’s a joke, do you?”

  “My dear sir,” I cried, “what else can it be? I confess that at the moment I forget the poem, but the first three lines are obviously Kipling. Equally obviously the fourth is not.”

  “Precisely,” he agreed with a faint smile. “I got as far as that myself. And so it was the fourth line that attracted my attention. It seemed to me that the message, if any, would be found in it. It was.”

  “What is the fourth line?” I asked curiously.

  “‘For the female of the species is more deadly than the male,’” he answered.

  “But, surely,” I cried in amazement, “you can’t take a thing like that seriously. It’s probably a foolish hoax sent you by some girl you cut at a night club.”

  I laughed a little irritably: for a man to take such a message in earnest struck me as being childish to a degree. A stupid jest played by some silly girl, with a penchant for being mysterious. Undoubtedly, I reflected, the man was a fool. And, anyway, what had it got to do with the two men at the Cat and Custard Pot?

  “‘The female of the species is more deadly than the male,’” he repeated, as if he hadn’t heard my remark. “No hoax about it, old lad; no jest, believe you me. Just a plain and simple warning. And now the game has begun.”

  For a moment or two I wondered if he was pulling my leg; but he was so deadly serious that I realised that he, at any rate, believed it was genuine. And my feeling of irritation grew. What an ass the man must be!

  “What game?” I asked sarcastically. “Playing peep-bo behind the trees?”

  He let out a sudden roar of laughter.

  “You probably think I’m bughouse, don’t you?” he cried. “Doesn’t matter. The only real tragedy of the day is that the cook didn’t back Moongazer each way.”

  Once again he relapsed into silence, as the car rolled through the gates of the Traceys’ house.

  “Good intelligence work,” he said thoughtfully. “We only decided to come down here yesterday. But I wish to the Lord you’d learn to control your face. If you hadn’t given a life-like representation of a gargoyle in pain I might have heard something of interest from those two blighters.”

  “Confound you!” I spluttered angrily.

  “You couldn’t help it.” He waved a vast hand, and beat me on the back. “I ought to have warned you. Must have looked a bit odd. But it’s a pity–”

  The car pulled up at the door, and he got out.

  “Little Willie wants a drink,” he remarked to Tracey, who came out to greet us. “His nervous system has had a shock. By the way, where’s Phyllis?”

  “Playing tennis,” said our host, and Drummond strolled off in the direction of the lawn.

  “Look here, Bill,” I cried, when he was out of earshot, “is that man all there?”

  “Hugh Drummond all there?” he laughed. “Very few men in England more so. Why?”

  “Well, if he hits me on the back again I shan’t be. He’s rammed my braces through my spine. But, honestly, I thought the man was mad. He’s been talking the most appalling hot air on the way up, and he assaulted two complete strangers at the Cat and Custard Pot.”

  Bill Tracey stared at me in surprise.

  “Assaulted two strangers at the Cat and Custard Pot!” he repeated. “What on earth did he do that for?”

  “Ask me another,” I said irritably. “Two foreign-looking men.”

  “That’s funny,” he remarked thoughtfully. “Rodgers – the gardener – was telling me only a few minutes ago that he had seen two foreign-looking men hanging round the house this morning, and had told them to clear off. I wonder if they were the same.”

  “Probably,” I said. “But the fact that they were hanging round here hardly seems an adequate reason for Captain Drummond’s behaviour. In fact, my dear Bill – What’s the matter?”

  He was staring over my shoulder in the direction of the lawn, and I swung round. Drummond was running towards us over the grass, and there was a peculiar strained look on his face. He passed us without a word, and went up the stairs two at a time. We heard a door flung open, and then we saw him leaning out of his bedroom window.

  “I don’t like it, Algy,” he said. “Not one little bit.”

  A somewhat vacuous-looking individual with an eyeglass had joined us, whom the remark was obviously addressed to.

  “Ain’t she there, old bean?” he remarked.

  “Not a trace,” answered the other, disappearing from view.

  “Can’t understand old Hugh,” remarked the newcomer plaintively. “I’ve never seen him in this condition before. If I didn’t think it was impossible I should say he’d got the wind up.”

  “What’s stung you all?” said Bill Tracey. “Isn’t Mrs Drummond playing tennis?”

  “She was – after lunch,” answered Algy. “Then she got a note. Your butler wallah brought it out to her on the court. It seemed to upset her a bit, for she stopped at once and came into the house.”

  “Where,” remarked Drummond, who had joined us, “she changed her clothes. It was a note, was it, Algy: not a letter? I mean, did you happen to notice if there was a stamp on the envelope?”

  “As a matter of fact, old lad, I particularly noticed there was not. I was sitting next her when she took it.”

  The butler passed us at that moment, carrying the tea-things.

  “Parker,” said Drummond quietly, “you gave a note to Mrs Drummond this afternoon, I understand.”

  “I did, sir,” answered the butler.

  “Did you take it yourself at the front door?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “Who delivered it?”

  “A man, sir, who I did not know. A stranger to the neighbourhood, I gathered.”

  “Why?” snapped Drummond.

  “Because, sir, he asked me the nearest way to the station.”

  “Thank you, Parker,” said Drummond quietly. “Algy, it’s quicker than I expected. Hullo! Jenkins, do you want me?”

  The chauffeur touched his cap.

  “Well, sir, you know you asked me to adjust your carburettor for you. I was just wondering if you could tell me when the car will be back.”

  “Be back?” said Drummond. “What do you mean?”

  “Why, sir, the Bentley ain’t in the garage. I thought as ’ow Mrs Drummond had probably taken it out.”

  And if anything had been needed to confirm my opinion that this vast individual was a little peculiar, I got it then. He lifted his two enormous fists above his head and shook them at the sky. I could see the great muscles rippling under his sleeves, and instinctively I recoiled a step.

  The man looked positively dangerous.

  “Thrice and unutterably damned fool that I am,” he muttered. “But how could I tell it would come so soon?”

  “My dear fellow,” said Bill Tracey, gazing at him apprehensively, “surely there is nothing to get excited about. Mrs Drummond is a very good driver.”


  “Driver be jiggered,” cried Drummond. “If it was only a question of driving, I wouldn’t mind. I’m afraid they’ve got her. For the Lord’s sake, give me a pint of ale. Yours is pretty bad – but it’s better than nothing.”

  And then he suddenly turned on me of all people.

  “If only you could have kept your face in its place, little man, I might have heard something. Still, it can’t be helped. God made you like it.”

  “Really,” I protested angrily, but this extraordinary individual had gone indoors again. “The man is positively insulting.”

  “Nothing to what he can be if he dislikes you,” said the being called Algy placidly. “He’ll be all right after he’s had his beer.”

  Chapter 2

  In which I find a deserted motorcar

  Now, in view of the fact that this is my first essay in literature, I realise that many of my relatives may feel it to be their bounden duty to buy the result. Several, I know, will borrow a copy from one another, or else will endeavour to touch me for one of the six free copies which, I am given to understand, the author receives on publication. But most of them, in one way or another, will read it. And I am particularly anxious, bearing in mind the really astounding situations in which I found myself later, that no misconception should exist in their minds as to my mood at the beginning.

  Particularly Uncle Percy – the Dean of Wolverhampton. He is, I am glad to say, a man of advanced years and considerable wealth. He is also unmarried, a fact which has never occasioned me great surprise. But few women exist who would be capable of dealing with his intellect or digestion, and so far he does not seem to have met one of them.

  For his benefit, then, and that of others who know me personally, I may state that when I saw Captain Drummond engaged in the operation, as he called it, of “golluping his beer with zest”, I was extremely angry. He, on the contrary, seemed to have recovered his spirits. No longer did he shake his fists in the air; on the contrary, a most depressing noise issued from his mouth as he put down the empty tankard on the table. He appeared to be singing, and, incredible though it may seem, to derive some pleasure from the operation. The words of his dirge seemed to imply that the more we were together the merrier we would be – a statement to which I took the gravest exception.

  I was to learn afterwards the amazing way in which this amazing individual could throw off a serious mood and become positively hilarious. For instance – on this occasion – having delivered himself of this deplorable sentiment, he advanced towards me. Fearing another blow on the back, I retreated rapidly, but he no longer meditated assault. He desired apparently to examine my cuff-links, a thing which did not strike me as being in the best of taste.

  “You approve, I trust?” I said sarcastically.

  He shook his head sadly.

  “I feared as much,” he remarked. “Or have you left ’em at home?” he added hopefully.

  I turned to Bill Tracey.

  “Have you turned this place into a private lunatic asylum?” I demanded.

  And all Bill did was to shout with laughter.

  “Cheer up, Joe,” he said. “You’ll learn our little ways soon.”

  “Doubtless,” I remarked stiffly. “In the meantime I think I’ll go and have some tea.”

  I crossed the lawn to find several people I knew assembled in the summer-house. And, having paid my respects to my hostess, and been introduced to two or three strangers, I sat down with a feeling of relief beside Tomkinson, a dear old friend of mine.

  “Really,” I said to him under cover of the general conversation, “there seem to be some very extraordinary people in this party. Who and what is that enormous man who calls himself Drummond?”

  He laughed, and lit a cigarette.

  “He does strike one as a bit odd at first, doesn’t he? But as a matter of fact, your adjective was right. He is an extraordinary man. He did some feats of strength for us last night that wouldn’t have disgraced a professional strong man.”

  “He nearly smashed my spine,” I said grimly, “giving it a playful tap.”

  “He is not communicative about himself,” went on Tomkinson. “And what little I know about him I have learned from that fellow with the eyeglass – Algy Longworth – who incidentally regards him as only one degree lower than the Almighty. He has got a very charming wife.”

  He glanced round the party.

  “You won’t see her here,” I remarked. “She has apparently taken his Bentley and gone out in it alone. Having discovered this fact, he first of all announces ‘They’ve got her!’ in blood-curdling tones, and then proceeds to lower inordinate quantities of ale. And his behaviour coming up from the station–”

  “What’s that you said?”

  A man whose face was vaguely familiar turned and stared at me.

  “Why, surely you’re Mr Darrell!” I cried. “You play for Middlesex?”

  He nodded.

  “I do – sometimes. But what’s that you were saying about Drummond having said ‘They’ve got her?’”

  “Just that – and nothing more,” I answered. “As I was telling Tomkinson, Mrs Drummond has apparently gone out in his Bentley alone, and when he heard of it he said, ‘They’ve got her.’ But who ‘they’ are I can’t tell you.”

  “Good God!” His face had suddenly become grave. “There must be a mistake. And yet Hugh doesn’t make mistakes.”

  He made the last remark under his breath.

  “It all seems a little hard to follow,” I murmured with mild sarcasm.

  But he paid no attention: he had glanced up quickly, and was staring over my shoulder.

  “What’s this I hear about Phyllis, old boy?” he said.

  “The Lord knows, Peter.”

  Drummond was standing there with a queer look on his face.

  “She got a note delivered here by a stranger. It came while I was at the station. And Algy said it seemed to upset her. Anyway, she went indoors and changed, and then went out alone in the Bentley.”

  A silence had fallen on the party which was broken by our hostess.

  “But why should that worry you, Captain Drummond? Your wife often drives, she tells me.”

  “She knows no one in this neighbourhood, Mrs Tracey, except your good selves,” answered Drummond quietly. “So who could have sent a note here to be delivered by hand?”

  “Well, evidently somebody did,” I remarked. “And when Mrs Drummond returns you’ll find out who it was.”

  I spoke somewhat coldly: the man was becoming a bore.

  “If she ever does return,” he answered.

  I regret to state that I laughed.

  “My dear sir,” I cried, “don’t be absurd. You surely can’t believe, or expect us to believe, that some evilly-disposed persons are abducting your wife in broad daylight and in the middle of England?”

  But he still stood there with that queer look on his face.

  “Peter,” he said, “I want to have a bit of a talk with you.”

  Darrell rose instantly, and the two of them strolled away together.

  “Really,” I remarked irritably, when they were out of earshot, “the thing is perfectly preposterous. Is he doing it as a joke, or what?”

  Algy Longworth had joined them, and the three of them were standing in the middle of the lawn talking earnestly.

  “I must say it does all seem very funny,” agreed our hostess. “And yet Captain Drummond isn’t the sort of man to make stupid jokes of that sort.”

  “You mean,” I said incredulously, “that he really believes that someone may be abducting his wife? My dear Mary, don’t be so ridiculous. Why should anyone abduct his wife?”

  “He’s led a very strange life since the War,” she answered. “I confess I don’t know much about it myself – neither he nor his friends are very communicative. But I know he got mixed up with a gang of criminals.”

  “I am not surprised,” I murmured under my breath.

  “I’m not very clear about what h
appened,” went on Mary Tracey. “But finally Captain Drummond was responsible somehow or other for the death of the leader of the gang. And a woman, who had been this man’s mistress, was left behind.”

  I stared at her: absurd, of course, but that bit of doggerel at the end of Kipling’s verse came back to me. And then common sense reasserted itself. This was England: not a country where secret societies flourished and strange vendettas took place. The whole thing was a mere coincidence. What connection could there possibly be between the two men at the Cat and Custard Pot and the fact that Mrs Drummond had gone out alone in a motorcar?

  “It seems,” Mary Tracey was speaking again, “from what Bill tells me, that this woman vowed vengeance on Captain Drummond. I know it sounds very fantastic, and I expect we shall all laugh about it when Phyllis gets back. And yet–” she hesitated for a moment. “Oh! I don’t want to be silly, but I do wish she’d come back soon.”

  “But, Mrs Tracey,” said someone reassuringly, “there can be no danger. What could happen to her?”

  “I quite agree,” I remarked. “If on every occasion a woman went out alone in a motorcar her friends and relations panicked about her being abducted, life would become a hideous affair.”

  And then by tacit consent the subject dropped, and we dispersed about our lawful occasions. I didn’t see Drummond, but Darrell and Longworth were practising putting on the other side of the lawn. I strolled over and joined them.

  “Your large friend,” I laughed, “seems to have put the wind up most of the ladies in the party fairly successfully.”

  But they neither of them seemed to regard it as a subject for mirth.

  “Let us hope it will end at that,” said Darrell gravely. “I confess that I have rarely been so uneasy in my life.”

  And that, mark you, from a man who played for Middlesex! Really, I reflected, the thing was ceasing to be funny. And I was just getting a suitable remark ready, when Longworth suddenly straightened up and stared across the lawn. Bill Tracey was coming towards us, and at his side was a police-sergeant. And Bill Tracey’s face was serious.