Bulldog Drummond

Bulldog Drummond

By H. C. McNeile.

Table of Contents

1. Titlepage
2. Imprint
3. Prologue
4. I: In Which He Takes Tea at the Carlton and Is Surprised
   1. I
   2. II
5. II: In Which He Journeys to Godalming and the Game Begins
   1. I
   2. II
   3. III
6. III: In Which Things Happen in Half Moon Street
   1. I
   2. II
   3. III
7. IV: In Which He Spends a Quiet Night at the Elms
   1. I
   2. II
   3. III
   4. IV
8. V: In Which There Is Trouble at Goring
   1. I
   2. II
   3. III
9. VI: In Which a Very Old Game Takes Place on the Hog’s Back
   1. I
   2. II
   3. III
   4. IV
10. VII: In Which He Spends an Hour or Two on a Roof
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
11. VIII: In Which He Goes to Paris for a Night
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
    4. IV
12. IX: In Which He Has a Near Shave
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
    4. IV
13. X: In Which the Hun Nation Decreases by One
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
14. XI: In Which Lakington Plays His Last “Coup”
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
15. XII: In Which the Last Round Takes Place
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
16. Epilogue
17. Colophon
18. Uncopyright

Imprint

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Prologue

In the month of December 1918, and on the very day that a British Cavalry Division marched into Cologne, with flags flying and bands playing as the conquerors of a beaten nation, the manager of the Hôtel Nationale in Berne received a letter. Its contents appeared to puzzle him somewhat, for having read it twice he rang the bell on his desk to summon his secretary. Almost immediately the door opened, and a young French girl came into the room.

“Monsieur rang?” She stood in front of the manager’s desk, awaiting instructions.

“Have we ever had staying in the hotel a man called le Comte de Guy?” He leaned back in his chair and looked at her through his pince-nez.

The secretary thought for a moment and then shook her head.

“Not as far as I can remember,” she said.

“Do we know anything about him? Has he ever fed here, or taken a private room?”

Again the secretary shook her head.

“Not that I know of.”

The manager handed her the letter, and waited in silence until she had read it.

“It seems on the face of it a peculiar request from an unknown man,” he remarked as she laid it down. “A dinner of four covers; no expense to be spared. Wines specified and if not in hotel to be obtained. A private room at half-past seven sharp. Guests to ask for room X.”

The secretary nodded in agreement.

“It can hardly be a hoax,” she remarked after a short silence.

“No.” The manager tapped his teeth with his pen thoughtfully. “But if by any chance it was, it would prove an expensive one for us. I wish I could think who this Comte de Guy is.”

“He sounds like a Frenchman,” she answered. Then after a pause: “I suppose you’ll have to take it seriously?”

“I must.” He took off his pince-nez and laid them on the desk in front of him. “Would you send the maître d’hôtel to me at once.”

Whatever may have been the manager’s misgivings, they were certainly not shared by the head waiter as he left the office after receiving his instructions. War and short rations had not been conducive to any particularly lucrative business in his sphere; and the whole sound of the proposed entertainment seemed to him to contain considerable promise. Moreover, he was a man who loved his work, and a free hand over preparing a dinner was a joy in itself. Undoubtedly he personally would meet the three guests and the mysterious Comte de Guy; he personally would see that they had nothing to complain of in the matter of the service at dinner.⁠ ⁠…

And so at about twenty minutes past seven the maître d’hôtel was hovering round the hall-porter, the manager was hovering round the maître d’hôtel, and the secretary was hovering round both. At five-and-twenty minutes past the first guest arrived.⁠ ⁠…

He was a peculiar-looking man, in a big fur coat, reminding one irresistibly of a codfish.

“I wish to be taken to Room X.” The French secretary stiffened involuntarily as the maître d’hôtel stepped obsequiously forward. Cosmopolitan as the hotel was, even now she could never hear German spoken without an inward shudder of disgust.

“A Boche,” she murmured in disgust to the manager as the first arrival disappeared through the swing doors at the end of the lounge. It is to be regretted that that worthy man was more