The Return Of Bulldog Drummond (2 page)

“What is the peculiarity about his face?” demanded Drummond.

“He’s got a great red scar down one cheek,” said the warder.

“I see,” said Drummond. “Look here, officer, there has evidently been some error. It is perfectly true that a man dashed into this house just before you arrived and implored me to hide him. But it is equally true that from your description he is not Morris. So we will elucidate the matter. Come in.”

He crossed the hall to the smoking-room, with the two warders at his heels.

“Now then, young feller,” he cried, as he flung open the door, “what’s all this song and dance about? I presume this is not the man you want.”

He turned to the warders, who were staring in a bewildered way at the panic-stricken youth cowering behind a chair.

“Never seen the gentleman before in my life, sir,” said one of them at length.

“Get up, man!” remarked Drummond contemptuously. “No one is going to hurt you. Now then,” he continued, as the youth slowly straightened himself and came out into the room, “let’s hear what happened.”

“Well, sir,” said the one who was obviously the senior of the two officers, “it was this way. My mate and I were patrolling the road just by where your drive runs into it. Suddenly behind the gatepost we saw someone move, someone who it seemed to me had been hiding there. In this fog one can’t see much, and it wasn’t possible to make out the face. But when he sprang to his feet and rushed away it naturally roused our suspicions. So I fired a shot wide, as a warning, and we followed him up here.”

“But surely you could have seen he wasn’t in convict’s kit,” said Drummond.

“The first thing an escaped man does, sir, is to steal a suit of civvies. He either lays out some bloke he meets and strips him, or he breaks into a house. And a man like Morris, who is as powerful as they make ’em, and is absolutely desperate into the bargain, wouldn’t stick at either course. I’m sorry, sir,” he continued to the youngster, “if I’ve given you a fright. But you must admit that your behaviour was hardly that of a man who had nothing to fear.”

“I quite agree,” said Drummond tersely. He was covertly examining the youngster as he spoke, and there were times when those somewhat lazy eyes of his could bore like gimlets. But his next remark gave no indication of his thoughts.

“A drink, my stout-hearted sportsmen,” he boomed cheerfully. “And good hunting to you. By the way,” he went on, as he produced glasses and a tantalus, “you say this man is a murderer. Then why didn’t they hang him?”

“Don’t you remember the case, sir? About four years ago. An old man was found with his head bashed in, in some small street in Sydenham. They caught this fellow Morris and they found him guilty. And then at the last moment the Home Secretary reprieved him and he got a lifer. Some legal quibble, and he got the benefit of the doubt.”

The warder smiled grimly.

“It’s not for the likes of me to criticise the decision,” he went on, “but I’d willingly bet my chances of a pension that he did it.”

“That’s so,” agreed his mate.

“A more callous brutal swine of a man never drew breath. Well, sir, we must be getting along. Here’s your very good fortune.”

The two warders raised their glasses.

“And if I might make so bold as to advise you, sir, I’d have a pretty sharp look round tonight. As I said before, from the looks of you Mister Morris would find he’d met his match. For all that, he’s a desperate man, and he might get at you while you were asleep.”

He put down his empty glass.

“And as for you, sir,” he went on, turning to the youngster, into whose cheeks a little colour had returned, “all I can say is, once again, that I’m sorry. But it’s a dangerous thing to run from an armed warder, in a fog, down these parts, when a convict has escaped that very day. Good afternoon, gentlemen: thanking you very much again.”

The two men picked up their hats, and Drummond went with them to the front door. Then he returned to the smoking-room, and having lit a cigarette, he threw himself into an armchair, and signed to the youngster to do likewise.

“Now, young feller,” he said quietly, “it strikes me that there is rather more in this affair than meets the eye. You wake me from a refreshing doze by dashing into the house with a remark that they are after you, and it then turns out to be a completely false alarm. Why should you think that two warders were after you?”

“In the mist I didn’t realise they were warders,” stammered the other.

And once again Drummond stared at him thoughtfully.

“I see,” he remarked. “Then who, may I ask, did you mean by ‘they’?”

“I can’t tell you,” muttered the other. “I daren’t.”

“As you will,” said Drummond casually. “I must confess, however, to a certain mild curiosity as to the identity of people who can reduce anyone to such a condition of pitiable funk as you were in. Also as to why you should anticipate meeting them on Dartmoor in a fog. Incidentally, my name is Drummond – Captain Drummond: what’s yours?”

“Marton,” said the other, fumbling in his pocket for his cigarette case.

For a while Drummond looked at him in silence. The youngster was clearly a gentleman: his age he put down at about twenty-one or two. His face was good looking in a weak sort of way, and though he had the build and frame of a big man, he was obviously in rotten condition. In fact, it would have been impossible to produce a better specimen of the type that he utterly despised. If fit, Marton would have been big enough and strong enough for anything on two legs; as he was, one good punch and he would have split like a rotten apple.

Drummond watched him light a cigarette with a trembling hand, and then his glance travelled over his clothes. Well cut: evidently a West-End tailor, but equally evident West-End clothes. And why should a man go careering about Dartmoor dressed as he was and in fear of his life? Was it just some ordinary case of a youngster absconding with cash, whose nerves had brought him to the condition he was in? Or could it be that there was something more in it than that? And at the bare thought of such a possibility his eyes began to glisten.

Life had been intolerably dull of late: in fact, since the affair with the masked hunchback on Romney Marsh nothing had happened to make it even bearable. He had shot, and fished, and consumed innumerable kippers in night clubs, but beyond that nothing – positively nothing. And now could it be possible that as the result of a sudden whim which had caused him to spend a week with Ted Jerningham something amusing was going to happen? The chances were small, he reflected sadly, as he again looked at Marton: still, it was worth trying. But the youngster would have to be handled carefully if anything was to be got out of him.

“Look here, Marton,” he said, not unkindly, “it seems to me that you’re in a condition when it will do you no harm to shoot your mouth to somebody. I’m considerably older than you, and I’m used to handling tough situations. In fact, I like ’em. Now what’s all the trouble about?”

“There’s no trouble,” answered the other sullenly. “At least none where anyone else can help.”

“Two statements that hardly tally,” remarked Drummond. “And since the first is obviously a lie, we will confine ourselves to the second. Now, might I ask what you are doing in that rig down here, hiding behind the gate-post of this house?”

“I tell you I saw them looming out of the fog,” cried the other wildly. “And I thought – I thought – ”

“What did you think?”

“I just lost my head and bolted. And then when one of them fired–” He broke off and stared round the room. “What is this house?”

“Merridale Hall,” said Drummond quietly. “Now out with it, young feller. What have you been up to? Pinching boodle or what?”

“I wish it was only that.” He lit another cigarette feverishly, and Drummond waited in silence. If he was trying to bring himself up to the point of telling his story, it would be better to let him do it in his own way. “God! What a fool I’ve been.”

“You’re not the first person to say that,” Drummond remarked. “But in what particular line have you been foolish?”

His curiosity was increasing now that any question of money was ruled out. However poor a specimen Marton might be, there must be something pretty seriously wrong to produce such a result on his nerves. So once again he waited, but after a while the other shook his head.

“I can’t tell you,” he muttered. “I daren’t.”

“You damned young fool,” said Drummond contemptuously, losing his patience. “What on earth is there to be frightened of? Your affairs don’t interest me in the slightest, but you’ve made a confounded nuisance of yourself this afternoon, and frankly I’ve had enough of you. So unless you can pull yourself together and cease quivering like a frightened jelly, you’d better push on to wherever you’re going.”

He had no intention whatever of turning him out of the house, but it struck him that the threat might produce some coherence in the other. And his surprise was all the greater at the unexpected answer he received. For the youngster for the first time pulled himself together and spoke with a certain quiet dignity.

“I’m sorry, Captain Drummond,” he said. “And I apologise for the exhibition I’ve made of myself. I know my nerves are all to hell, and though it was my fault in the beginning, it hasn’t been entirely so since. And so, if I might ask you for a whisky and soda, I’ll be getting on.”

“Now,” said Drummond cheerily, “you’re beginning to talk. I was trying to get you into some semblance of coherence, that’s all. There can be no question whatever of your leaving tonight: you’d be lost in this fog in half a minute. And I know that my pal Jerningham, whose house this is, will agree with me when he gets back – that is, if he gets back at all: with this weather he’ll very likely stay the night in Plymouth. So here’s a drink, young feller, and again I tell you candidly that if you’re wise you won’t bottle this thing up anymore. Whatever it is, I won’t give you away, and, unless it’s something dirty, I may be able to help you.”

Marton drained his glass, and into his eyes there came a look of dawning hope.

“Good Lord!” he cried, “if only you could. But I’m afraid it’s beyond anyone: I’ve got to go through with it myself. Still, it will be an awful relief to get it off my chest. Do you go much to London?”

“I live there,” said Drummond.

“And do you go about a good deal?”

“I trot round,” remarked the other with a faint smile, “the same as most of us do.”

“Have you ever run across a woman called Comtessa Bartelozzi?”

Drummond thought for a moment, and then shook his head.

“Not that I know of: she’s a new one on me. Hold hard a minute: we’ll have the other half-section before you go on.”

He rose and crossed to the side table, carrying Marton’s glass and his own. So there was a woman in the situation, was there? Name of Bartelozzi. Sounded a bit theatrical: might be real – might be false. And as for the title, Comtessas grew like worms in a damp lawn. In fact, he was so occupied with his thoughts and the mixing of two drinks, that he failed to see the hard hatchet face of a man that for one second was pressed against the window. And Marton, who had his back to it also, sat on in ignorance that, in that fleeting instant, every detail of the room had been taken in by the silent watcher outside.

“Now then,” said Drummond, returning with the glasses, “we’ve got as far as the Comtessa Bartelozzi. Is she the nigger or rather negress in the wood pile?”

“If only I’d never met her!” said the other. “I was introduced to her one night at the Embassy, and… Great Scot! what’s that?”

From outside had come the sound of a crash. It was some distance away, but in the still air it was clearly audible. And it was followed almost immediately by a flood of vituperation and loud shouts of ‘Hugh.’ Drummond grinned gently, and going to the window opened it.

“Hullo! Peter,” he shouted. “What has happened, little one?”

“That perishing, flat-footed idiot Ted has rammed the blinking gate-post,” came an answering shout. “We’ve taken two and a half hours to get here from Plymouth, most of the time in the ditch, and now the damned fool can’t even get into his own drive.”

The voice was getting nearer.

“What’s Ted doing, Peter?” demanded Drummond.

“Sitting in the car drinking whisky out of my flask. Says that God doesn’t love him, and that he won’t play anymore.”

Peter Darrell loomed out of the fog and came up to the window.

“Hullo!” he muttered, “who is the boy friend?”

“We’ll go into that after,” said Drummond. “Does Ted propose to sit there the whole night?”

“He says he wants you to come down and help,” answered Darrell. “The car is half stuck, and you can barely see your hand in front of your face.”

“All right, I’ll come. You wait here, Marton, and carry on with your yarn later.”

“Bring a torch, old boy,” went on Darrell. “Not that it’s much use, but it might help to pilot him up the drive.”

“There’s one in the hall,” said Drummond. “I’ll get it. And, Marton, you’ll find cigarettes in the box there.”

He got the torch and joined Darrell outside. And as they disappeared into the mist, their feet crunching on the gravel, two dim figures crouching near the wall began to creep slowly towards the open window. Their footsteps were noiseless in the earth of the flowerbed that bordered the wall, and the youngster sat on in utter ignorance of the fate that was threatening him. A good sort, this Captain Drummond, he reflected: was it possible that he would be able to help him? And even as the dawn of hope began in his mind there came a sound from behind him. He swung round in his chair: his jaw dropped: wild terror shone in his eyes. Not a yard away stood the man he had seen only once before – but that once had been enough.

He gave a hoarse, choking cry and tried to get up. And as he moved he felt his neck held in a vice-like grip. He struggled feebly, staring into the cruel, relentless eyes of his assailant. And then there came a roaring in his ears: the room spun round until at length everything grew black.

“Take his hat, Steve, and then give me a hand with the young swine. Those guys may be back at any moment.”