The Return Of Bulldog Drummond (13 page)

“Right oh!” answered Drummond. “Now then, Newall, we’ll take the whole bally hurdle in one. That story as given in the paper you’re holding is a lie from beginning to end.”

“What on earth do you mean?” cried the other. “You aren’t telling me that Bob Marton is still alive, are you?”

“No, not that. What I am telling you is that he was not murdered by Morris, the escaped convict.”

“Then who the devil was he murdered by?”

“Before we go into that have I your word that what we’re going to tell you won’t go any further?”

“Yes,” said Newall, “you have.”

“Good! Then Marton was murdered by one of the trio Hardcastle, Slingsby and Penton – or by all of them.”

“My dear sir,” stuttered Newall after a pause, during which his eyes almost came out of his head, “you’re pulling my leg. What under the sun should they want to murder Marton for?”

“That,” said Drummond, with a faint smile, “is where we hope you’ll be able to help us.”

“I say, Ted,” cried the other, “is he
really
being serious?”

“Absolutely, Dick. It’s an extraordinary yarn, but you can take it from me that every word is gospel truth.”

Briefly, but at the same time omitting nothing, Drummond gave him the story, and the lawyer listened with increasing amazement. But at the end he shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I fear you haven’t convinced my legal mind. It’s quite clear that you believed the yarn this convict spun to you, but what I’m asking myself, in view of the well-nigh inconceivable alternative you suggest, is whether you weren’t deceived by him yourselves.”

“I expected you to say that,” said Drummond quietly. “And it was the realisation that everybody would think that that made us say nothing about it.
Nevertheless, Morris did not deceive us: what he said was the truth
.”

“But, damn it, man,” cried Newall, “what possible motive could there have been for such a thing? Hardcastle, a perfectly good American millionaire – why should he want to put Bob Marton out of the way? It’s preposterous: it’s – it’s inconceivable, as I said before.”

“There is no important document, or something of that sort, missing from the office, is there?”

“Nothing: nothing at all. Why, as far as I know, there isn’t a document in the office that is worth a tanner to anyone else. Honestly, you fellows, I think you’re after the wrong fox this time with a vengeance. And if you don’t mind my giving you a word of professional advice, you’d better be damned careful. What you’ve said to me is safe – it won’t go beyond me. But there’s such a thing as libel, and a story like that renders you liable to thumping damages.”

“You need have no fears on that score,” said Drummond. “We aren’t going to mention it. We didn’t say a word about it even to old man Peters. One question, though, Newall. However much we imagined over what Morris said to us, there is no doubt over Marton’s remarks to me. How do you account for those? Who are the ‘they’ he was terrified of?”

“I confess that defeats me,” said the other slowly. “Of course he was in a rotten condition of nerves.”

“Rotten enough to imagine some non-existent beings?”

Dick Newall lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

“It’s a poser, I admit,” he remarked. “You say he mentioned this woman Comtessa Bartelozzi by name?”

“Certainly,” said Drummond. “He mentioned her in connection with his trouble, and she is Hardcastle’s daughter.”

“What is she like to look at?”

“Extraordinarily attractive. If you happen to frequent a night club called the Custard Pot, you may have seen her there.”

“What’s that?” cried the other. “The Custard Pot! Why, she must be the woman I saw there with Bob Marton one night. I pulled his leg about it next day, and he got quite shirty about it.”

“Had Hardcastle been to your firm then?”

Newall stared at him.

“Yes, he had. Hardcastle came to us about two months ago, and this incident I’m talking about was last week.”

“Seems strange that Marton didn’t tell you who the lady was,” said Drummond. “Look here, Newall,” he went on quietly, “I know our story must seem a bit thin to you. For all that, it’s the truth. Young Marton was foully murdered by Hardcastle and his bunch, and up to date they have got clean away with it. There is some big crime in contemplation: what it is I know no more than you. But Marton knew, and that’s why they outed him.”

A waiter entered, and came up to Newall.

“You’re wanted on the telephone, sir,” he announced.

“I’ll come back at once,” said the lawyer, rising. He followed the man from the room, and Drummond turned to the other two.

“I don’t blame him in the slightest for being sceptical,” he remarked. “So would we be in his place. And it only shows what the result would have been if we’d put it forward at the inquest.”

“Would it be any use telling him about Irma?” suggested Darrell. “Birds of a feather and that sort of idea.”

Drummond shrugged his shoulders.

“She would only be a name to him,” he said. “He’s had no first-hand experience of her little ways. Still, it’s a possibility, Peter.”

And at that moment Newall returned with a worried expression on his face.

“It’s a very strange thing,” he said, “in view of what we’ve been talking about, but my uncle has just rung me up. And quite obviously something is wrong. It’s getting on for eight o’clock, and unless it was serious it could surely have kept till tomorrow. I’m going round to see him at once. Will you fellows be dining here?”

“They can feed with me,” said Jerningham.

“Right: I’ll come back as soon as I’ve seen the old man. Of course it may be nothing at all, but it’s the first time I’ve ever known him do such a thing.”

He left the room, and Drummond rubbed his hands together.

“I wonder if that means we’re on the track of something,” he said. “Your pal seems a cheery sort of bloke, Ted: I hope he won’t be as close as an oyster if he finds out anything.”

“So do I, old boy,” answered Jerningham. “On that point we’ll just have to wait and see. But one can’t expect him to tell us much if it’s a secret concerning one of the firm’s clients. Anyway, what about some food?”

There was no sign of Newall during dinner, and it was not until after ten that he came into the smoking-room and ordered some sandwiches. A glance at his face showed that something had happened, but he said nothing until the waiter had brought them. Then abruptly he turned to the other three.

“It is my turn now,” he said, “to ask you to promise that you won’t pass on what I’m going to tell you.”

“You have it,” answered Drummond.

“Whether I ought to say anything about it at all is doubtful,” went on Newall, “because, as far as I can see, it has no connection with Bob Marton’s death. I mean it doesn’t in any way bear out your theory as to who murdered him. At the same time, since we have been discussing him confidentially, it may interest you to know that five thousand pounds’ worth of bearer bonds, which were deposited with us a little while ago by a client, are missing. They should have been in his father’s safe – a safe to which Bob had access, and their loss only became known to my uncle today when he was going through the contents. At first he thought old Marton might have taken them down to his house in Surbiton, though it would have been a very unusual proceeding. And so, though the funeral is not till tomorrow, he went down there himself this afternoon to see if he could find them. A particular reason for the haste is that the client who left them with us is now back in London, and she may want them at any moment. Well, they’ve gone: vanished completely. And since the bare idea of suspecting old Marton is simply laughable, I’m sorry to say that it looks as if it was proof of what you were saying about young Bob. There’s no one else who can have taken the damned things. As you can appreciate, it’s a most unpleasant thing for the firm, for though our client will suffer no financial loss – we shall naturally ante up the five thousand – yet she may cut up nasty. You know what women are in matters of that sort – especially foreigners.”

Drummond leaned forward suddenly in his chair.

“Newall,” he said quietly, “I’m going to ask you a question which you may think gross impertinence. What is the name of this client?”

“That I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” answered the other. “It can have no possible bearing on the matter, can it?”

“Then I will draw a bow at a venture,” continued Drummond. “I can’t help it: I’ve got a hunch. Is it by any chance Madame Saumur?”

The lawyer started and stared at him.

“I see that it is,” said Drummond quietly. “Boys, this affair grows more mysterious every moment.”

“But do you know her?” cried Newall.

“Do we know her?” Drummond laughed gently. “Yes, Newall, we do, though not under that name. Many times in the past have we enjoyed a merry roundelay with her, and you can take it from me that she is one of the most dangerous criminals alive today. And to complete the circle, so to speak, when the Comtessa Bartelozzi arrived at Paddington this afternoon, Madame Saumur was there to meet her. And it was that fact that made me ask you.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Newall. “Confound it – are all our clients criminals?”

“You can take it from me that the Saumur–Hardcastle combination don’t waste their time in a Sunday school,” grinned Drummond.

“We must get the police on to them,” cried the lawyer.

“And what are you going to say to the police?” demanded Drummond. “That some member of your firm, now dead, has embezzled five thousand quid! Guess again, boy: you’ve got nothing to go to the police about at present. This is a show in which we’ve got to act on our own. And at the moment we’re simply blundering about blindly in the dark. What is the motive underlying the whole affair? That’s what we’ve got to try and get at. What is all this leading up to?”

“But you surely don’t mean to imply that there is any connection between Bob Marton’s murder and the deposit of those bearer bonds,” said Newall incredulously.

“It does sound a bit far-fetched, doesn’t it?” admitted Drummond. “And yet they’re all in the same bunch: don’t forget that fact. What sort of reason did she give for leaving them with you?”

“I couldn’t say,” answered the other. “Her interview was with old Marton. I could find out, of course, quite easily, from his confidential clerk. But anyway, Drummond, you can’t expect me to believe that she left them with us in order that they should be stolen.”

“That is exactly what I do believe,” said Drummond calmly. “For that reason and no other. Further, she intended that they should be stolen by young Marton and no one else.”

“But it sounds fantastic,” cried Newall. Surely it is a somewhat novel trait in a criminal to set about being robbed.”

“She knew she would never lose her money,” said Drummond. “What have you just said yourself? – the firm is going to make it up to her. She knew she was as safe as if the bonds were in a bank.”

“Then what was the great idea?” said the other feebly. “My grey matter is failing me.”

“The great idea was to get Marton in their power,” answered Drummond. “Why – I haven’t a notion, but that was the scheme. And it succeeded. He was in their power, and then, when he’d done what they told him to do, they got rid of him.”

He lit a cigarette; then he leaned forward and tapped Newall on the knee.

“Look here, old lad,” he said, “you’ve got to get one fact wedged in the legal brain. And you’ve got to readjust your ideas from a new standpoint. Leave out for the moment Hardcastle and his crowd: assume, if you will, that we are mistaken there. But with regard to Madame Saumur, as she now calls herself, you’ve
got
to believe us. She is a criminal of the first order – a woman without mercy or scruple. And so, as I say, get that into your head as a fact and not as surmise, and start from the beginning again.”

“We can bear out every word of that, Dick,” put in Jerningham.

“Right oh!” said the lawyer resignedly. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Good!” cried Drummond. “Then let’s start off by trying to get some sort of chronological order. First of all – do you know when young Marton first met this Bartelozzi woman?”

Newall shook his head.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he said. “The only time I saw ’em together, as I told you, was last week.” And then he paused suddenly. “By Jove! I wonder.”

He closed his eyes as if trying to collect his thoughts.

“Wait a moment, you fellows,” he said, “I’ll get it shortly.”

He pulled his notebook out of his pocket and studied it.

“Now, this is not proof: it’s not even evidence, but it’s a possibility. On April 15th, Bob Marton had a job of work given him to do in Liverpool, which entailed his being away for the night. He came to me the day before and asked me if I’d take it on for him, and when I asked him why, he told me that the most glorious woman he had ever seen in his life had got a date with him on the 15th. He said that if he didn’t appear she’d get fed up, and, anyway, he was so darned serious about it that I said I would. Here’s the entry in my diary – Liverpool, Baxter and Co. on the 15th: round at Hoylake in morning of the 16th. Furthermore – though on this point I’ve got to trust my memory – it was about then that he started talking about the Custard Pot. Well, you say this wench goes there a lot, so it is possible that that is when he met her.”

“Which would make it about four months ago,” said Drummond. “And Hardcastle came to you about two months after?”

Newall turned over the pages of his notebook.

“The first entry of him I have is on June 29th,” he answered. “But old Marton did his business, and so it is quite on the cards he came earlier.”

“When were the bonds deposited?”

“I couldn’t say off-hand; but that, again, I can find out from Merridew, the confidential clerk tomorrow.”

“But it was fairly recently?”

“If I had to guess, I should say it was some time in July.”

“Therefore after Marton had met Comtessa Bartelozzi?”

“If our surmise about April 15th is correct – yes. But remember that is only surmise. The only proof we have there is that I saw ’em together a week ago.”