Bulldog Drummond Read online

  About 4.30 he sat up and took notice again as someone left the house; but it was only the superbly dressed young man whom he had discovered already was merely a clothes peg calling himself Darrell.

  The sun was getting low and the shadows were lengthening when a taxi drove up to the door. Immediately the watcher drew closer, only to stop with a faint smile as he saw two men get out of it. One was the immaculate Darrell; the other was a stranger, and both were quite obviously what in the vernacular is known as ‘oiled’.

  ‘You prisheless ole bean,’ he heard Darrell say affectionately, ‘thish blinking cabsh my show.’

  The other man hiccoughed assent, and leant wearily against the palings.

  ‘Right,’ he remarked, ‘ole friend of me youth. It shall be ash you wish.’

  With a tolerant eye he watched them tack up the stairs, singing lustily in chorus. Then the door above closed, and the melody continued to float out through the open window.

  Ten minutes later he was relieved. It was quite an unostentatious relief: another man merely strolled past him. And since there was nothing to report, he merely strolled away. He could hardly be expected to know that up in Peter Darrell’s sitting-room two perfectly sober men were contemplating with professional eyes an extremely drunk gentleman singing in a chair, and that one of those two sober young men was Peter Darrell.

  Then further interior activity took place in Half Moon Street, and as the darkness fell, silence gradually settled on the house.

  Ten o’clock struck, then eleven – and the silence remained unbroken. It was not till eleven-thirty that a sudden small sound made Hugh Drummond sit up in his chair, with every nerve alert. It came from the direction of the kitchen – and it was the sound he had been waiting for.

  Swiftly he opened his door and passed along the passage to where the motionless man lay still in bed. Then he switched on a small reading lamp, and with a plate of semolina in his hand he turned to the recumbent figure.

  ‘Hiram C Potts,’ he said in a low, coaxing tone, ‘sit up and take your semolina. Force yourself, laddie, force yourself. I know it’s nauseating, but the doctor said no alcohol and very little meat.’

  In the silence that followed, a board creaked outside, and again he tempted the sick man with food.

  ‘Semolina, Hiram – semolina. Makes bouncing babies. I’d just love to see you bounce, my Potts.’

  His voice died away, and he rose slowly to his feet. In the open door four men were standing, each with a peculiar-shaped revolver in his hand.

  ‘What the devil,’ cried Drummond furiously, ‘is the meaning of this?’

  ‘Cut it out,’ cried the leader contemptuously. ‘These guns are silent. If you utter – you die. Do you get me?’

  The veins stood out on Drummond’s forehead, and he controlled himself with an immense effort.

  ‘Are you aware that this man is a guest of mine, and sick?’ he said, his voice shaking with rage.

  ‘You don’t say,’ remarked the leader, and one of the others laughed. ‘Rip the bedclothes off, boys, and gag the young cock-sparrow.’

  Before he could resist, a gag was thrust in Drummond’s mouth and his hands were tied behind his back. Then, helpless and impotent, he watched three of them lift up the man from the bed, and, putting a gag in his mouth also, carry him out of the room.

  ‘Move,’ said the fourth to Hugh. ‘You join the picnic.’

  With fury gathering in his eyes he preceded his captor along the passage and downstairs. A large car drove up as they reached the street, and in less time than it takes to tell, the two helpless men were pushed in, followed by the leader; the door was shut and the car drove off.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ he said to Drummond suavely, ‘this gun is silent. You had better be the same.’

  At one o’clock the car swung up to The Elms. For the last ten minutes Hugh had been watching the invalid in the corner, who was making frantic efforts to loosen his gag. His eyes were rolling horribly, and he swayed from side to side in his seat, but the bandages round his hands held firm and at last he gave it up.

  Even when he was lifted out and carried indoors he did not struggle; he seemed to have sunk into a sort of apathy. Drummond followed with dignified calmness, and was led into a room off the hall.

  In a moment or two Peterson entered, followed by his daughter. ‘Ah! my young friend,’ cried Peterson affably. ‘I hardly thought you’d give me such an easy run as this.’ He put his hand into Drummond’s pockets, and pulled out his revolver and a bundle of letters. ‘To your bank,’ he murmured. ‘Oh! surely, surely not that as well. Not even stamped. Ungag him, Irma – and untie his hands. My very dear young friend – you pain me.’

  ‘I wish to know, Mr Peterson,’ said Hugh quietly, ‘by what right this dastardly outrage has been committed. A friend of mine, sick in bed – removed; abducted in the middle of the night: to say nothing of me.’

  With a gentle laugh Irma offered him a cigarette. ‘Mon Dieu!’ she remarked, ‘but you are most gloriously ugly, my Hugh!’ Drummond looked at her coldly, while Peterson, with a faint smile, opened the envelope in his hand. And, even as he pulled out the contents, he paused suddenly and the smile faded from his face. From the landing upstairs came a heavy crash, followed by a flood of the most appalling language.

  ‘What the – hell do you think you’re doing, you flat-faced son of a Maltese goat? And where the –– am I, anyway?’

  ‘I must apologise for my friend’s language,’ murmured Hugh gently, ‘but you must admit he has some justification. Besides, he was, I regret to state, quite wonderfully drunk earlier this evening, and just as he was sleeping it off these desperadoes abducted him.’

  The next moment the door burst open, and an infuriated object rushed in. His face was wild, and his hand was bandaged, showing a great red stain on the thumb.

  ‘What’s this – jest?’ he howled furiously. ‘And this damned bandage all covered with red ink?’

  ‘You must ask our friend here, Mullings,’ said Hugh. ‘He’s got a peculiar sense of humour. Anyway, he’s got the bill in his hand.’

  In silence they watched Peterson open the paper and read the contents, while the girl leant over his shoulder.

  To Mr Peterson, The Elms, Godalming.

  £ s. d.

  To hire one demobilised soldier 5 0 0

  To making him drunk 5 0 0

  in this item present strength and cost of drink and said soldier’s capacity must be allowed for)

  To bottle of red ink 0 0 1

  To shock to system 10 0 0

  TOTAL 20 0 0

  It was Irma who laughed.

  ‘Oh! but, my Hugh,’ she gurgled, ‘que vous êtes adorable!’

  But he did not look at her. His eyes were on Peterson, who with a perfectly impassive face was staring at him fixedly.

  CHAPTER 4

  In Which He Spends a Quiet Night at The Elms

  ‘It is a little difficult to know what to do with you, young man,’ said Peterson gently, after a long silence. ‘I knew you had no tact.’

  Drummond leaned back in his chair and regarded his host with a faint smile.

  ‘I must come to you for lessons, Mr Peterson. Though I frankly admit,’ he added genially, ‘that I have never been brought up to regard the forcible abduction of a harmless individual and a friend who is sleeping off the effects of what low people call a jag as being exactly typical of that admirable quality.’

  Peterson’s glance rested on the dishevelled man still standing by the door, and after a moment’s thought he leaned forward and pressed a bell.

  ‘Take that man away,’ he said abruptly to the servant who came into the room, ‘and put him to bed. I will consider what to do with him in the morning.’

  ‘Consider be damned,’ howled Mullings, starting forward angrily. ‘You’ll consider a thick ear, Mr Blooming Knowall. What I wants to know–’

  The words died away in his mouth, and he gazed at Peterson like a bird looks at a
snake. There was something so ruthlessly malignant in the stare of the grey-blue eyes, that the ex-soldier who had viewed going over the top with comparative equanimity, as being part of his job, quailed and looked apprehensively at Drummond.

  ‘Do what the kind gentleman tells you, Mullings,’ said Hugh, ‘and go to bed.’ He smiled at the man reassuringly. ‘And if you’re very, very good, perhaps, as a great treat, he’ll come and kiss you good night.’

  ‘Now that,’ he remarked as the door closed behind them, ‘is what I call tact.’

  He lit a cigarette, and thoughtfully blew out a cloud of smoke.

  ‘Stop this fooling,’ snarled Peterson. ‘Where have you hidden Potts?’

  ‘Tush, tush,’ murmured Hugh. ‘You surprise me. I had formed such a charming mental picture of you, Mr Peterson, as the strong, silent man who never lost his temper, and here you are disappointing me at the beginning of our acquaintance.’

  For a moment he thought that Peterson was going to strike him, and his own fist clenched under the table.

  ‘I wouldn’t, my friend,’ he said quietly; ‘indeed I wouldn’t. Because if you hit me, I shall most certainly hit you. And it will not improve your beauty.’

  Slowly Peterson sank back in his chair, and the veins which had been standing out on his forehead became normal again. He even smiled; only the ceaseless tapping of his hand on his left knee betrayed his momentary loss of composure. Drummond’s fist unclenched, and he stole a look at the girl. She was in her favourite attitude on the sofa, and had not even looked up.

  ‘I suppose that it is quite useless for me to argue with you,’ said Peterson after a while.

  ‘I was a member of my school debating society,’ remarked Hugh reminiscently. ‘But I was never much good. I’m too obvious for argument, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You probably realise from what has happened tonight,’ continued Peterson, ‘that I am in earnest.’

  ‘I should be sorry to think so,’ answered Hugh. ‘If that is the best you can do, I’d cut it right out and start a tomato farm.’

  The girl gave a little gurgle of laughter and lit another cigarette.

  ‘Will you come and do the dangerous part of the work for us, Monsieur Hugh?’ she asked.

  ‘If you promise to restrain the little fellows, I’ll water them with pleasure,’ returned Hugh lightly.

  Peterson rose and walked over to the window, where he stood motionless staring out into the darkness. For all his assumed flippancy, Hugh realised that the situation was what in military phraseology might be termed critical. There were in the house probably half a dozen men who, like their master, were absolutely unscrupulous. If it suited Peterson’s book to kill him, he would not hesitate to do so for a single second. And Hugh realised, when he put it that way in his own mind, that it was no exaggeration, no façon de parler, but a plain, unvarnished statement of fact. Peterson would no more think twice of killing a man if he wished to, than the normal human being would of crushing a wasp.

  For a moment the thought crossed his mind that he would take no chances by remaining in the house; that he would rush Peterson from behind and escape into the darkness of the garden. But it was only momentary – gone almost before it had come, for Hugh Drummond was not that manner of man – gone even before he noticed that Peterson was standing in such a position that he could see every detail of the room behind him reflected in the glass through which he stared.

  A fixed determination to know what lay in that sinister brain replaced his temporary indecision. Events up to date had moved so quickly that he had hardly had time to get his bearings; even now the last twenty-four hours seemed almost a dream. And as he looked at the broad back and massive head of the man at the window, and from him to the girl idly smoking on the sofa, he smiled a little grimly. He had just remembered the thumbscrew of the preceding evening. Assuredly the demobilised officer who found peace dull was getting his money’s worth; and Drummond had a shrewd suspicion that the entertainment was only just beginning.

  A sudden sound outside in the garden made him look up quickly. He saw the white gleam of a shirt-front, and the next moment a man pushed open the window and came unsteadily into the room. It was Mr Benton, and quite obviously he had been seeking consolation in the bottle.

  ‘Have you got him?’ he demanded thickly, steadying himself with a hand on Peterson’s arm.

  ‘I have not,’ said Peterson shortly, eyeing the swaying figure in front of him contemptuously.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Perhaps if you ask your daughter’s friend Captain Drummond, he might tell you. For Heaven’s sake sit down, man, before you fall down.’ He pushed Benton roughly into a chair, and resumed his impassive stare into the darkness.

  The girl took not the slightest notice of the new arrival who gazed stupidly at Drummond across the table.

  ‘We seem to be moving in an atmosphere of cross-purposes, Mr Benton,’ said the soldier affably. ‘Our host will not get rid of the idea that I am a species of bandit. I hope your daughter is quite well.’

  ‘Er – quite, thank you,’ muttered the other.

  ‘Tell her, will you, that I propose to call on her before returning to London tomorrow. That is, if she won’t object to my coming early.’

  With his hands in his pockets, Peterson was regarding Drummond from the window.

  ‘You propose leaving us tomorrow, do you?’ he said quietly.

  Drummond stood up.

  ‘I ordered my car for ten o’clock,’ he answered. ‘I hope that will not upset the household arrangements,’ he continued, turning to the girl, who was laughing softly and polishing her nails.

  ‘Vraiment! But you grow on one, my Hugh,’ she smiled. ‘Are we really losing you so soon?’

  ‘I am quite sure that I shall be more useful to Mr Peterson at large, than I am cooped up here,’ said Hugh. ‘I might even lead him to this hidden treasure which he thinks I’ve got.’

  ‘You will do that all right,’ remarked Peterson. ‘But at the moment I was wondering whether a little persuasion now – might not give me all the information I require more quickly and with less trouble.’

  A fleeting vision of a mangled, pulp-like thumb flashed across Hugh’s mind; once again he heard that hideous cry, half animal, half human, which had echoed through the darkness the preceding night, and for an instant his breath came a little faster. Then he smiled, and shook his head.

  ‘I think you are rather too good a judge of human nature to try anything so foolish,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘You see, unless you kill me, which I don’t think would suit your book, you might find explanations a little difficult tomorrow.’

  For a while there was silence in the room, broken at length by a short laugh from Peterson.

  ‘For a young man truly your perspicacity is great,’ he remarked. ‘Irma, is the blue room ready? If so, tell Luigi to show Captain Drummond to it.’

  ‘I will show him myself,’ she answered, rising. ‘And then I shall go to bed. Mon Dieu! my Hugh, but I find your country très ennuyeux.’ She stood in front of him for a moment, and then led the way to the door, glancing at him over her shoulder.

  Hugh saw a quick look of annoyance pass over Peterson’s face as he turned to follow the girl, and it struck him that that gentleman was not best pleased at the turn of events. It vanished almost as soon as it came, and Peterson waved a friendly hand at him, as if the doings of the night had been the most ordinary thing in the world. Then the door closed, and he followed his guide up the stairs.

  The house was beautifully furnished. Hugh was no judge of art, but even his inexperienced eye could see that the prints on the walls were rare and valuable. The carpets were thick, and his feet sank into them noiselessly; the furniture was solid and in exquisite taste. And it was as he reached the top of the stairs that a single deep-noted clock rang a wonderful chime and then struck the hour. The time was just three o’clock.

  The girl opened the door of a room and switched on the light. Then
she faced him smiling, and Hugh looked at her steadily. He had no wish whatever for any conversation, but as she was standing in the centre of the doorway it was impossible for him to get past her without being rude.

  ‘Tell me, you ugly man,’ she murmured, ‘why you are such a fool.’

  Hugh smiled, and, as has been said before, Hugh’s smile transformed his face.

  ‘I must remember that opening,’ he said. ‘So many people, I feel convinced, would like to say it on first acquaintance, but confine themselves to merely thinking it. It establishes a basis of intimacy at once, doesn’t it?’

  She swayed a little towards him, and then, before he realised her intention, she put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t you understand,’ she whispered fiercely, ‘that they’ll kill you?’ She peered past him half fearfully, and then turned to him again. ‘Go, you idiot, go – while there’s time. Oh! if I could only make you understand; if you’d only believe me! Get out of it – go abroad; do anything – but don’t fool around here.’

  In her agitation she was shaking him to and fro.

  ‘It seems a cheerful household,’ remarked Hugh, with a smile. ‘May I ask why you’re all so concerned about me? Your estimable father gave me the same advice yesterday morning.’

  ‘Don’t ask why,’ she answered feverishly, ‘because I can’t tell you. Only you must believe that what I say is the truth – you must. It’s just possible that if you go now and tell them where you’ve hidden the American you’ll be all right. But if you don’t –’ Her hand dropped to her side suddenly. ‘Breakfast will be at nine, my Hugh: until then, au revoir.’

  He turned as she left the room, a little puzzled by her change of tone. Standing at the top of the stairs was Peterson, watching them both in silence…