The Return Of Bulldog Drummond (22 page)

“Here I am, Mr Haxton.”

He appeared on the stage, and as he did so there came a loud crash. For the stage-hand, whose perpetual job seemed to be carrying planks, had selected that moment to drop them.

“Confound you!” shouted Haxton, “must you drop tons of wood on my feet?”

Then he resumed his inspection of the understudy.

“Have you got the beard ready?” he asked. “You have. Good! Then go and get made up. What’s his name, Mr Hardcastle?”

“Travers. And with the beard he’s the living spit of Sir Edward.”

“Well, let’s hope to Heaven he can act. That damned man this morning nearly sent me loopy. Set for Scene 84 again, boys. I know you’re faint for food, Lettice, darling, but you’ll be a good grown-up girl for your Paul’s sake. By Jove!”

He broke off abruptly: Travers had returned made up.

“Well, I’m damned!” he remarked. “It’s extraordinary. At this distance it might be Sir Edward himself. We’ll still be able to keep the ad., Mr Hardcastle. I’ll defy the public ever to know the difference. Now then, let’s get on with it.Were you watching this morning, Travers?”

The others nodded.

“Yes, I remember the scene.”

“Right. Then walk through it now. Good,” he cried, after watching for a bit, “that’s OK! Lettice, you’ll get your tea quite soon after all. Do it once more, and then we’ll shoot.”

And for the next four days the same programme was repeated. Every morning Sir Edward Greatorex solemnly waded through his scenes: every afternoon they were retaken with Travers in his place. But as far as Mr Henry Tredgold was concerned, there seemed to be an imminent danger of his having to consume his headgear. His investigations had evidently not progressed according to Cocker.

In fact, Algy Longworth had almost forgotten their conversation, when, one day after lunch, Tredgold strolled up with his hands in his pockets and a general air of mystery about him.

“You remember what I told you the other day, Mr Wentworth,” he remarked, “about there being more in this show than meets the eye?”

“I do,” said Longworth. “Found out anything more?”

“You bet I have,” announced the other complacently. “Trust yours truly for that. I’m on the trail, as they say. And do you know where the trail leads to?”

“Not an earthly,” answered Longworth.

“I don’t know if you’ve ever been round these studios properly,” continued the other. “I hadn’t – not till yesterday afternoon. And then, having nothing to do, I started on a tour of inspection. I wandered all over the place, and suddenly over in that corner, behind a pile of rubbish, I came on a door. Quite in innocence, I opened it and walked through, wondering where it led to. A passage with stone walls lay in front of me, but I hadn’t taken two steps when I heard someone coming towards me. And the next instant that man Penton came in sight. You know what a great, big, hulking fellow he is, and one glance at his face showed that he was in the hell of a rage.”

“‘What the something, something,’ he shouted, ‘are you doing here?’

“‘Keep it clean, girlie,’ I said. ‘I’m not doing anything particular. Just taking a little walking exercise, that’s all.’

“‘Then in future you can damned well take your walking exercise elsewhere,’ he snarled. ‘This is private in here.’

“‘Then why don’t you put up a notice to that effect on the door?’ I cried.

“He didn’t answer: just hustled me out of the place. Then he shut and locked the door, and went back to the office. What do you make of that, Mr Wentworth?”

“I can’t say that I make very much,” answered Algy. “Why shouldn’t there be some private place through that door? I don’t see that there is anything particularly suspicious about it.”

“I had a dekko outside,” went on Tredgold, “and that part beyond the door is where the stone cellars are.”

“Well, what of it?”

“Do you think they can be hiding anything in them?” said the other mysteriously.

Algy Longworth began to laugh.

“What the dickens should they want to hide things for? And what sort of things, anyway?”

But Tredgold was in no way perturbed by his laughter.

“I’m not going to say what I think, yet, Mr Wentworth,” he answered quietly. “But you mark my words: there’s going to be some fun here before we’ve finished.”

“Well, they’ll have to hurry up, then,” said Algy. “There is only about another week to go before we’re through.”

“Just so,” agreed Tredgold. “And within that week we shall see what we shall see, if we keep our eyes open.” Once again he lowered his voice mysteriously. “What was a motorcar doing at the entrance round at the back there at eleven o’clock last night?”

“If it comes to that,” said Longworth, “what were you doing there?”

“Watching,” said the other, in no way abashed. “I’ve got digs in the village, and after supper yesterday I took a walk up here. The whole place was in darkness, but as I rounded a corner I heard voices in front of me. I was wearing rubber shoes, so I made no noise. And as I crept nearer I recognised who they were, though they were talking low. Hardcastle was one of them, and Penton and Slingsby were with him. They’d got the door open – the one that leads from the outside to the cellars, and it seemed to me they were taking stuff out of the car and carrying it inside.”

In spite of himself, Algy Longworth began to feel impressed. After all, Drummond had specifically stated that he thought something was going on: was it possible that this foxy little man had ferreted it out?

“You can’t tell me,” continued Tredgold, “that it’s the normal thing for the three boss men of a show like this to be creeping about at eleven o’clock at night in the back premises of the place. No lights, mark you: not even a torch.”

“You’re quite right,” agreed Algy. “It does seem a bit fishy.”

“Fishy!” snorted the other. “It smells to me like Billingsgate Market.”

“But I still can’t think what they can be hiding, and why they should bother to hide it here.”

Tredgold lit a cigarette.

“I don’t know if you’ve studied psychology at all, Mr Wentworth,” he remarked – “crime psychology in particular. I have; and one of the first principles is that the more obvious a thing is the more likely a man is to get away with it. Within limits, of course. Put a valuable paper in the middle of your desk, and the betting is that a thief will overlook it and spend his time forcing the safe. Now in a different respect it’s the same here. Everything on the face of it is straight and above-board: the making of the film has been advertised; the public know all about it; visitors are admitted to the studio; a well-known millionaire is actually acting. No one would dream of suspecting anything: why should they? In short, you have here the ideal atmosphere for carrying out a big coup right under everybody’s nose.”

Algy was listening intently: more and more was he getting impressed.

“Now,” continued the other, “let’s take the practical side of the show. Greatorex is putting up the money for this film. All right. But what does that amount to? What are the Hardcastle bunch going to get out of it? Even if this film is a howling success – which it won’t be – they’re not going to get enough by the time it’s split up amongst ’em to pay for cigars. It isn’t as if this was a regular company, making films all the year round, of which this was one. This is the first they’ve done, and so far as I know it’s going to be the last. At any rate they’ve taken no steps to renew their lease. Of course Greatorex may be paying ’em a big fee. Even so, there’s not going to be a vast amount in it. And my humble opinion is that they are using this film as a cloak for something else: something from which they really will handle big money.”

“But how were they to know that Greatorex would put up the money?” said Algy. “If he hadn’t, they’d never have been here.”

“That’s no objection, Mr Wentworth. It was only
after
he had said he’d ante up, and presumably had commissioned them to go ahead, that this other scheme suggested itself to them.”

“And have you any idea in your mind as to what this other scheme is?”

Tredgold glanced round cautiously.

“What is it, Mr Wentworth, that there is always a demand for? What is it that for its bulk is the most paying proposition in the world to unscrupulous men?”

“You mean dope?” cried Algy.

“Sh!” said the other warningly. “Yes: that’s what I mean. Mark you, I’ve got no proof. It’s only suspicion on my part. But I believe those beauties have taken advantage of having this studio to smuggle drugs on a large scale. You can take it from me that some pretty queer fish come floating around that office: men who have got nothing to do with the film business.”

“How are we going to find out?”

Tredgold winked mysteriously.

“You leave that to me,” he said. “Mr Blooming Penton isn’t quite as clever as he thinks he is. And I know where he keeps the key of the door. It’s in a drawer in his desk, and sometimes he forgets to lock it if he goes out for a few minutes. Now the next chance I get I’ll take a wax impression; then we can have a key made. And once that is done it will be just a question of waiting for a suitable opportunity. Not a word to a soul, don’t forget: I’ll keep you posted as to how things go.”

He sauntered off, leaving Algy Longworth thinking deeply. Not a particularly pleasant little man, Mr Tredgold, but he knew the breed: as sharp as they make them, and a regular nosey-Parker to boot. And the more he thought over their conversation, the more did it seem to him that there might be a lot in it. As far as he could see, there was no flaw in the reasoning: not only was it logically sound, but in addition, bearing in mind what he knew of the characters of the three men, it was inherently likely. And though he had purposely refrained from saying anything about that to Tredgold, he realised that his inside knowledge was strong confirmation of the little man’s theory. It supplied at once a plausible motive for the murder of young Marton. Somehow or other he must have found out what was going on behind the scenes, and had threatened to split on them. The whole sequence of events fitted together perfectly, and the first thing to be done now was to get in touch with Drummond.

He wished Laura had been there, but she had not been wanted that afternoon. He would like to have had her opinion on it: she might have spotted some flaw. But try as he would, he couldn’t: the thing seemed not only plausible, but probable. The fact of the three men having been there in the middle of the night, secretly, without lights, was in itself almost damning in its suspiciousness.

He strolled over to the corner indicated by Tredgold: there was the door. He tried the handle: it was locked. And then, since his scene was not due for another half-hour, he decided to have a little tour of inspection outside. He found that it was just as Tredgold had said – that end of the building was evidently the older, and constructed entirely of stone. A few small, cobwebby windows covered with iron bars occurred at intervals: the whole exterior gave the impression of decay and neglect.

Halfway round he came to the door, which was clearly the one at which Tredgold had seen the car. And he was on the point of trying that handle too when it suddenly opened and Hardcastle stepped out.

“Good afternoon, Mr Wentworth,” he said quietly. “Not acting for the moment?”

“No,” answered Algy. “Not for the next half-hour.”

“I see. And so you’re taking a little constitutional?”

“That’s the notion. Quaint old studio, isn’t it?”

Hardcastle locked the door before replying.

“Very quaint,” he remarked. “But this end of the place is
not
the studio, Mr Wentworth. Don’t let me detain you from your walk.”

Algy Longworth strolled on, feeling more convinced than ever that Tredgold was right. Something fishy was going on in that part of the building, and the instant he got back to London he went round to Drummond’s club. But there was no sign of him, and the hall porter said he had not been in for several days. There was nothing for it but to write him, which he did, at length: a letter which in due course found its way to the Post Office, Colchester, addressed to Mr Henry Johnson, a gentleman who bore a striking resemblance to the hefty-looking stage-hand whose hobby was carrying planks.

To Drummond it came as a ray of light in the most impenetrable darkness. Quite frankly, he had admitted himself defeated; the fact, unknown of course to Algy, which had caused him to drop the planks in his surprise had seemed to lead nowhere on further thought. For as Travers had come on the stage he had spotted suddenly a thing that had eluded him till then. When he had first seen Sir Edward Greatorex in the Ritz Carlton, he had felt vaguely that he had met him before. But in that moment at the studio he realised the truth. For Travers might well have been Marton’s brother, and it was Marton he had been reminded of when he saw the financier in the lounge of the hotel.

The difference in their ages had deceived him, but the instant he saw another young man who was like Marton the thing was obvious. Marton was to have been the understudy for the millionaire, and when he was killed it became necessary to find someone else. Hence the advertisement.

So far, so good; but it was after that that he had stuck. The motive for Marton’s murder was still as obscure as ever. Why kill a perfectly good double when it might prove to be a matter of very considerable difficulty to replace him? That was what had been defeating him, and Longworth’s letter seemed to supply the answer. In fact, it looked as if the whole plot could be reconstructed.

Sir Edward Greatorex had commissioned the Hardcastle crowd to stage a film for him, in which he proposed to play a part. They, realising the possibility of his being no use, had looked around for an understudy. By chance the Comtessa had met young Marton, and had instantly seen that there was the very man for their purpose owing to his amazing likeness to the millionaire. In some way or other he had discovered that other things beside making a film were intended, and had threatened to split on them.

There were difficulties, of course; not the least being the theft of the bearer bonds. Drummond had believed that that had been a deliberate plant, designed to get Marton more completely in their power; now, in view of this new development, he began to wonder. Because the thing which had been so obscure before was now as clear as daylight – namely, why Marton in particular should have been selected. The point that had stumped Newall and all of them as to why a junior partner in a solicitor’s office should have come into the picture at all was explained. Indeed, it seemed to Drummond that they had been starting from the wrong end. It was young Marton who had led Hardcastle and Co. to the firm, not the firm to young Marton. By chance they had found that the man they wanted was a lawyer, and so, to save trouble, they used his firm for their business. In short, had the murdered man been anything but what he was, Messrs Marton, Peters and Newall would never have come into the show at all.