The Return Of Bulldog Drummond (6 page)

Suddenly the door opened, and a voice came out of the darkness.

“Look out, chaps. The place reeks of cigarette smoke, and a candle has just been blown out. Stand away from me: I’ll switch on the torch.”

Came a little click, and the beam travelled round the room till it picked up the snarling figure in the corner: then it checked.

“Hullo! Hullo!” came a quiet voice. “What have we here?”

Slowly Morris straightened up, his great fists clenched by his sides. He could see nothing behind the torch, but he could hear. And by the voice he knew that this was no warder, but a blasted toff. Trouble was there was more than one, but – Gawd! he’d learn ’em.

“Light that candle, will you, Peter?” went on the voice, and someone stepped into the circle of light. He was a youngish man, and he didn’t look too big. And as he took a box of matches out of his pocket, with a grunt of rage the convict sprang at him.

What happened then was not quite clear to him. It seemed that the torch wavered for a moment, and then a thing like a battering-ram hit him on the point of the jaw. He had a fleeting recollection of being hurled backwards: he felt his head strike the wall: and then for a space he slumbered.

When he came to himself again, he lay still for a moment or two trying to collect his thoughts. The candle had been relit, and he saw that there were three men in the room. They were standing by the table regarding him dispassionately, and he particularly noticed that one of them was quite the largest individual he had ever seen. And it was this one who spoke.

“Don’t do that again, Morris: next time I shall really hit you.”

The convict scrambled sullenly to his feet.

“’Oo the ’ell are you calling Morris?”

He knew he was caught, but there was no harm in trying the bluff.

“You,” said the large man quietly. “I had an accurate description of your face given me by one of your kind warders this afternoon. And I must admit I had not quite anticipated finding you here. But if you will smoke cigarettes in an empty house, you must expect to be discovered. However, the point that now arises is what the devil to do with you. You seem to have done yourself pretty well, judging by the table: and, not to mince words, you’re an infernal nuisance. What do you say, Ted?”

“Well, old boy,” said the third individual, “I don’t know. If there’s a ’phone here we ought to ring up the prison, I suppose.”

“But that means sitting and mounting guard on the damn fellow,” remarked the big man peevishly.

A ray of hope dawned in the convict’s mind.

“Give us a chance, guv’nor,” he cried, coming into the centre of the room. “Give us a chance. If they cops me, I won’t never give yer away. I swears it. But yer don’t know wot it’s like up in that blarsted place. Give us… Gaw lumme, guv’nor, wot are yer looking at me like that for?”

He cowered back, staring at the big man, whose face had suddenly changed from being almost good-natured, to an expression that the convict couldn’t understand.

“Where did you get those clothes from, Morris?” he said in a terrible voice.

“Strewth, guv’nor,” he stammered. “I… I…”

“Where did you get them from, damn you? Answer me.”

“The old woman – she give ’em to me, sir. Belonged to ’er son, wot was ’anged.”

“You’re lying, you scum. If you don’t tell me the truth, I’ll smash your face in.”

“I swear to Gawd, guv’nor, I’m telling yer the truth,” he said earnestly.

“What’s the great idea, Hugh?” said the man called Peter.

“That suit is the one young Marton was wearing this afternoon. As soon as he came nearer the light I recognised it at once. Now listen to me.” He took a step forward, and stood towering over the convict. “Those clothes belong to a young man whom I was talking to this afternoon. Where is he, and what have you done to him?”

“I ain’t seen no young man, sir,” answered the convict quietly. “They was given to me by the old woman in the ’ouse ’ere, and she told me they belonged to ’er son ’oo murdered a man in the room above thirty years ago.”

He looked upwards and pointed, and the next instant every drop of colour had left his face.

“’Oly ’Eaven, look at that!” he screamed. “It’s the mark of wot ’e did, and I ain’t noticed it before.”

A circular crimson patch stained the white ceiling, and for a space they all stared at it – stared at it until, with a yell of terror, the convict made a dart for the door. For the patch was growing bigger.

The three men hurled themselves on him, and he struggled like a maniac till another blow from Drummond’s fist knocked him half silly.

“Lemme go,” he whimpered. “I can’t abear it. I’d sooner be copped, strite I would. It weren’t there when I came: I swear it weren’t. And I ’eard ’em, guv’nor: I ’eard the ghosts a-murdering one another. And now there’s ghost blood too. It ain’t real: Gawd! it cawn’t be real. It just comes every foggy night, like wot the old woman said, and then goes away again. Let’s get out of the ’ouse, guv’nor: it’s ’orrible.”

The man was almost mad with fear, and Drummond watched him curiously. Then once again he looked at the ceiling. The patch had grown enormously, and now a dark central nucleus was visible, in which great drops formed sluggishly and fell to the floor.

“Come here, Morris,” he said quietly. “Put out your hand: hold it there.”

He seized the convict’s arm, and forced it into the line of falling drops.

“Is that ghost blood?” he demanded.

Like a crazy thing Morris stared at the palm of his hand: then at the three men.

“I don’t understand,” he muttered helplessly. “This ’ere is real blood.”

“It is,” said Drummond even more quietly. “Real blood. And now we’re all going upstairs, Morris, to see where that real blood is coming from.”

But that was too much for the convict. He flung himself on his knees, and literally gibbered in his terror.

“Not me, guv’nor: for pity’s sake, not me! I dursn’t do it – not if you was to let me off the rest of me sentence. There’s death in the ’ouse on foggy nights: the old woman said so. As you values yer life, she says to me, don’t go up them stairs. I cawn’t understand about this ’ere blood, but it’s ghosts, don’t yer see? – ghosts wot are upstairs. I ’eard ’em.”

“And now you’re going to see them, Morris,” answered Drummond. “There’s no good protesting, my man: you’re coming upstairs with us. Get his arms, you two fellows, and bring him along. I’ve got a pretty shrewd notion what we are going to find. I’ll go first with the torch.”

He led the way to the stairs, while Darrell and Jerningham forced the struggling convict to follow. Once or twice he almost threw them off in his frenzied endeavours to escape, but between them they half pushed, half carried him up the stairs.

“Stop that damned noise,” snapped Drummond, when they reached the top, “or I’ll lay you out. I want to listen.”

But no sound broke the silence, and save for his torch there was not a glimmer of light anywhere. And after a while he led the way along a passage, the end of which was barred by a green baize door.

“Through here,” he said, “and it should be the first room on the left, if my bearings are correct. Ah!” He drew in his breath sharply. “It’s what I expected. Bring that man in here.”

He had flung open the door of the room, and the others followed with the convict between them.

“Stay there, Peter, till I see if this gas will light. And mind where you put your feet.”

He had turned his torch on the gas bracket, so that the floor was in darkness. But a moment later the light flared up, and Darrell and Jerningham gave a simultaneous gasp. Sprawling on the boards was the body of a man, clad only in a shirt and underclothes. It was obvious at a glance that he was dead; his head had been battered in with inconceivable ferocity. But his face was just recognisable: the dead man was young Marton.

“Now, Morris,” said Drummond quietly, “is that a ghost?”

The convict was staring foolishly at the body: his mouth kept opening and shutting, though no sound came from it.

“I don’t understand, guv’nor,” he said hoarsely after a while. “The old woman said as ’ow it was a ghost.”

“Where is the old woman?” demanded Drummond.

“I dunno, guv’nor. I ain’t see’d ’er since she give me these clothes.”

“You realise, don’t you, Morris, that those clothes you are wearing belong to that man who has been murdered?”

“Well, I didn’t know it, guv’nor: ’ow could I? She said as ’ow they were ’er son’s.”

“Was there ever any old woman, Morris?” cried Drummond sternly.

“In course there were, guv’nor: ain’t I been telling yer? It was she wot told me abaht the ghost.”

And then suddenly the real significance of his position penetrated his slow brain.

“Gawd! guv’nor,” he screamed, “yer don’t think I did it, do yer? Yer don’t think I croaked the young gent? I ain’t never seen ’im in my life: I swears it on me mother’s grave.”

“How long have you been in this house?” demanded Drummond.

“It struck eight, guv’nor, as I was standing in the ’all.”

Drummond looked at his watch.

“So you’ve been here two hours,” he remarked. “Did anyone see or hear you come in?”

“I suppose the old woman must ’ave, sir. And then the door opened once in the room dahn below: opened and shut, it did. She said as ’ow queer things took place in this ’ere ’ouse.”

“Was that before she gave you those clothes?”

“Yus, guv’nor – afore that.”

“And before you heard the ghosts fighting up here?”

“That’s right, sir,” said the convict eagerly. “Yer do believe me, sir: yer don’t think as ’ow I done that bloke in?”

“It doesn’t much matter what I think, Morris,” said Drummond gravely, “but you’re in a devilish serious position, and there’s no good pretending you’re not. We find you in this house alone with a murdered man, and wearing his clothes. And all you can say about it is that some old woman who can’t be found spun you a yarn about ghosts. It’s pretty thin, my lad, and you may find the police a little difficult to convince.”

The convict was looking round him like a trapped animal. Why this thing had been done to him he didn’t know, but all too clearly did he realise the truth of this big man’s words. The whole affair had been a frame-up from beginning to end: what he had thought were ghosts had been nothing of the sort. The noise he had heard had been the actual murder of the man who lay on the floor with his head battered in.

And suddenly his nerve broke completely. For the moment his three captors were not looking at him, and with a cry of terror he sprang through the door and banged it behind him. Then he rushed blindly along the passage to the top of the stairs. To get away from that dead man whose clothes he wore was the only thought in his brain as he blundered through the hall. And a moment later he had flung open a window and the fog had swallowed him up.

“Excellent,” said Drummond thoughtfully. “Thank Heavens he decided to make a bolt for it! I was wondering what we were going to do with him. Hullo!” He paused, listening intently. “Some more people playing. This house is getting quite popular.”

He opened the door, and the sound of angry voices came up from below. And then, followed by the other two, he strolled to the top of the stairs. A light had been lit in the hall, and two men were standing there who fell silent as soon as they saw them.

“Say,” shouted one of them after a while, “are you the damned ginks who have eaten our supper?”

“Perish the thought, laddies,” remarked Drummond affably. “We dined on caviare and white wine before coming to call.”

“Well, who is the guy who rushed through the hall and jumped out of a window a few moments ago just as we were coming in?”

“He also came to call, but he didn’t seem to like the house. He got the willies about it and decided to leave.”

“Look here,” said the other savagely, beginning to mount the stairs, “is this whole outfit bug house? What under the sun are you doing up there anyway?”

He paused in front of Drummond, a great, powerful, raking man with a nasty look in his eyes.

“We’ve been ghost-hunting, Percy,” said Drummond genially. “Very naughty of us, but we thought the house was empty. And instead of that we find a delightful escaped convict replete with your supper, and other things too numerous to mention.”

“If you call me Percy again,” snarled the other, “you won’t speak for a few days.”

“Is that so, Percy darling?” said Drummond lazily. “I always thought it was such a nice name.”

The veins stood out on the other’s forehead, and he took a step forward with his fists clenched. And then the look in Drummond’s eyes made him pause, while his companion whispered something in his ear.

“Well, the house isn’t empty,” he remarked sullenly. “So you can damned well clear out before I send for the police.”

“But how inhospitable of you,” said Drummond mildly. “However, I fear that anyway you will have to communicate with that excellent body of men. You must do something about the dead man, mustn’t you?”

The other stared at him.

“The dead man,” he said at length. “What in fortune are you talking about?”

“I told you we’d found a lot of other things,” remarked Drummond. “Come along, and you shall see for yourself.”

They walked along the passage to the room where the body lay.

“Holy Smoke!” cried the big man, pausing by the door. “Who’s done that?”

“Who indeed,” murmured Drummond thoughtfully.

“Where are his clothes?” asked the other.

“Adorning Mr Morris, the escaped convict,” said Drummond: “the gentleman who left the house so rapidly.”

For a while the other looked at him in a puzzled way.

“This seems to me to be a mighty rum affair,” he remarked at length.

“Mighty rum,” agreed Drummond.

“Since you say the convict was wearing his clothes, it looks as if he had done it.”

“It certainly does,” Drummond again agreed.

“What a damnable crime! Jake! if we hadn’t gone out for a breather this would never have happened. I guess I’ll never forgive myself.”

“It sure is tough on the poor young chap,” said his companion.

“A young friend of ours, Mr… Mr…?”