1923. This is another adventure from Dickson’s early career, this time teaming hum up with the indomitable Bulldog Drummond and John Buchan’s Richard Hannay in order to thwart the works of a mad scientist torn from the pages of Maurice Renard’s sf classic Doctor Lerne…

 

Nicholas Boving: Wings of Fear

 

 

The iron bound door slammed behind him with a bang of awful finality. Hugh Drummond shrugged. If there was a way in, there was a way out. It was an immutable law. The trick was to find it.

A voice came out of the darkness.

“Drummond? Hugh Drummond?”

Drummond froze and slowly turned.

“Who wants to know?” he asked.

A tall, rangy man came out of the shadow.

“Harry Dickson.”

Drummond smiled; an expression that totally transformed what was generally considered an ugly face into a thing approaching, if not handsome, at least acceptable.

“Good God! What the Devil are you doing here?”

Dickson frowned.

“Three damned great thugs dressed as gamekeepers jammed shotguns in my back. It seemed prudent to obey them. What about you?”

Drummond shrugged.

“I’m staying at a pub a couple of miles from here, just doing a spot of shooting and fishing, and generally getting the stink of London out of my system. I was taking the landlord’s dogs out for a bit of a post-prandial run when I saw this place sitting on the end of the causeway, just asking to be poked into. And, like you, I got rounded up by what was probably the same bunch of so-called gamekeepers. The dogs had the sense to bolt for home.” He smiled a bit sheepishly. “Serves me right for being so nosy. But more to the point, why are you here, and how long have you inhabited this ritzy place? This isn’t exactly the old metropolis of London.”

“About twenty-four hours.” Dickson gestured with his chin. “It’s a long story, so pull up a rock.”

When Dickson had finished his explanation there was what is sometimes called a thundering silence, for he had just told a story that, on the face of it, would have got him laughed out of every decent club in London. Not that Dickson, unlike Drummond, belonged to any decent clubs.

“You mean, this thing is genuine, not some stitched-together hoax?” asked Drummond.

“According to the Natural History Museum’s curator of dinosaurs, or whatever you call him, it’s a living, breathing, flying worst nightmare from Hell.”

“Sounds like my aunt Matilda. So it’s real?”

“Absolutely” said Dickson, nodding. “Imagine a cross between a pterodactyl with a ten foot wingspan, a crocodile’s head and claws like a monstrous eagle, and you’ll get some idea.”

“You paint a pretty picture of something that ought to be extinct. Where did it come from?”

“A farmer caught it snapping up one of his sheep. Gave it both barrels of his twelve bore. He said it came out of the setting sun like one of those fighter planes.”

“And he didn’t try to sell it to the local press?”

“Never got the chance.” Dickson shook his head. “Seems some swell called Hannay was staying with a pal in the area.”

“Not Major-General Sir Richard Hannay?”

“That’s the one. Anyway, don’t interrupt. This Hannay spirited the thing away and sent it post haste to the Natural History Museum.” He cocked an eye at Drummond. “You know Hannay?”

Drummond nodded.

“Same club, dear boy. But go on, go on.”

“Well, it seems a couple of days later, Sir Walter Bullivant, you know, the...”

Drummond nodded. “I know who he is.”

“Anyway, he got a hand-delivered note with a photo and descriptions, and a demand for ten million pounds, or the writer was going to let loose dozens of the damned things all over England.”

“How did you get involved?” asked Drummond. “Oh, of course, you were some sort of spook during the war.”

“Bullivant wanted it kept quiet: a secret investigation. He remembered me and roped me in.”

“Why not the police?” inquired Drummond.

“Bullivant said he didn’t want a bunch of coppers tramping across the West of Scotland asking questions and scaring the locals.”

“The farmer?”

“Given untold gold and threatened within an inch of his life.”

Drummond’s next question was deceptively quiet:

“Found out anything yet?”

Dickson wasn’t deceived. He knew his man of old. The slightly loony front hid a startling capacity for getting at the truth, and then dealing with the problem effectively. There was a twinkle in his eye.

“I left the best bit for last. The letter was signed.”

The silence was palpable.

“Does the name ‘Peterson’ mean anything to you?”

The palpable silence deepened. Drummond’s face got uglier and granitic. Slowly he stood up, went to the door, then turned.

“I suppose you know you’ve got my full attention.”

“Rather thought I would,” said Dickson, smiling.

Drummond looked upwards. “Then this is...”

“The lion’s den, yes.”

“How the Devil did you find it? I mean, dear old Carl is a wily bird. He doesn’t usually exactly advertize his presence.”

“How are the mighty fallen.” Dickson looked self-satisfied. “The trouble with this kind of place is, they aren’t quite ten a penny; at least, not livable castles sufficiently far from nosy neighbors. And you can’t exactly go around knocking on doors asking if they’re for rent, or do they have nice dungeons and assorted barns. I mean, you might raise one or two eyebrows.”

“With you so far old bean,” nodded Drummond.

“Discrete inquiries with local bobbies, the aforementioned farmer, and one or two chaps who specialize in arranging rents and sales and so on, and I managed to zero in on this place. Added to which, I narrowed it down when I mention a fellow accompanied by a stunningly beautiful woman. You’d be amazed at how many chaps remembered dear Irma.”

“No wonder Bullivant roped you in.”

“Elementary, my dear chap. Any detective could have done it.”

Drummond digested the information.

“One wonders how dear Carl has managed the impossible this time. I mean, for God’s sake, dinosaurs are extinct and you can’t just whistle up something like that.”

Dickson’s face had also lost its humor.

“You can if you have a tame mad vivisectionist called Doctor Lerne who’s been known to carry out successful organ transplants, both between men and animals. It seems this Lerne was a student of Moreau, or something like that…”

“Sorry old bean, you’ve lost me,” said Drummond, puzzled.

“Moreau.”

“More of who?”

 “Doctor Moreau,” sighed Dickson. “Name means anything?”

Drummond’s brow furrowed, then enlightenment dawned.

“Good God! The fellow who had that dreadful island? But that was years ago.”

“That’s the man.”

“The how the deuce does he fit in?”

Harry shook his head. “He doesn’t. But Lerne is ten times more capable than Moreau ever was.”

“And you know this how?”

“Peterson came and gave me an orientation lecture just after I was nabbed.”

Drummond’s slightly oafish exterior slipped away like a snake’s skin. Dickson wondered why he bothered with it, but realized it was actually a very good disguise.

“And old Carl vouchsafed this unto you?”

“Word for word.”

“So this really is a stitched together monstrosity after all, a one-off that got shot,” said Drummond, his expression lightening.

His optimism was lowered several rungs by Dickson’s answer:

“Unfortunately no. The thing is literally a biological creation. God knows how Lerne did it, and the Natural History Museum is utterly mystified. There was a report of a bunch of dinosaurs discovered in a valley in the Auvergne near Gambertin… Perhaps that was the source of Lerne’s samples? Who knows? But there it is. And according to the brains, if he’s done one he can do as many as he likes.” He managed a smile. “It seems Peterson has a bit of a sense of humor because he’s called it Diablosaurus Petersonii.”

 “And you say he signed the letter as well?” asked Drummond, frowning. “That was stupid: Carl must be slipping. Anyway, he has no sense of humor: more a god complex.” He turned and stared through the bars. “The problem is, how the Devil do we get out of here and put a spoke in his wheel?”

“Well, unless he intends to starve us to death, at some time someone’s going to come along with our dinner. All we have to do is...”

“Biff them over the head, do a bit of wrecking, collar Carl, and put the rest in the hands of the police. Problem solved. Can’t think why I didn’t think of it.”

“If you’re going to be negative and put it that way,” said Dickson, looking slightly put out.

Drummond smiled cheerfully. The thought of action always brightened his outlook on life.

“Not at all, dear boy. Your scheme is perfectly sound. The only fly in the ointment might be that they’ll come in gaggles and have guns, and we’ve got our hands firmly tied behind our backs.”

 

Irma Peterson fitted a cigarette into her long holder and lit it. She blew a plume of smoke and looked across the room to where Carl Peterson stood silhouetted at a tall window.

“So our nemesis is finally behind bars. I wonder how he found us.

“His usual inane luck,” replied Peterson, shrugging.

“The other will tell him if it’s a coincidence, of course.”

“I do not believe in coincidences.”

“What do you intend this time?”

Peterson continued his study of a pair of hunting falcons.

“A final solution naturally. I cannot risk his meddling.”

Irma seemed amused.

“He does have a way of spoiling things, does he not?”

Peterson turned to face her.

“There are more than twenty diablosaurs in the barn already. They are no doubt hungry. Even Drummond cannot escape such creatures.”

Irma raised one perfect eyebrow. It seemed that even she found such an end disquieting for a man she reluctantly admired. Without comment, she picked up a magazine and absently flicked through the glossy pages.

Peterson strolled slowly to an escritoire, chose a cigar from a humidor and lit it with evident satisfaction.

“I shall be with Lerne,” he said. A mantelpiece clock chimed for attention He glanced at it. “We dine at eight. After that I shall see to Drummond and the other interfering fool.”

 

Major-General Sir Richard Hannay looked across the large desk at Sir Walter Bullivant. The great man seemed worried.

“No word from Harry Dickson?” Hannay inquired.

Bullivant toyed with a pencil then threw it down in a gesture of frustration.

“Nothing. He’s missed his schedule. It’s been twenty-four hours. I tell you, Hannay, I’m worried.”

“There may be any number of reasons. He may be close to his man and not able to risk giving himself away.”

Bullivant’s expression didn’t change.

“Perhaps. But his mandate at first was to observe and report back. Dash it all, I’d send in the army if I thought it would do any good. The deuce of it is that it’s on a spit, accessible only by a causeway and cut off by high tide, and he has a steam yacht. The moment our man smelled a rat, he’d be gone and in international waters. We’d be back where we started with this horror still looming.”

“You’re convinced he’s genuine?” said Hannay.

“Horribly.” Bullivant waved a dismissive hand. “The money is nothing. But once he’s got it, what’s to stop him unleashing the things anyway. God knows he hates us enough.”

Hannay crossed one tweed covered leg over the other. His tone was casual.

“I don’t suppose it would help if I went up and took a look?”

Sir Walter jumped at the offer.

“Would you? I mean, could you? What about your wife?”

“Mary’s at Cannes with Janet Roylance, and Peter John’s at school. So, you see, I’m my own man at the moment, just roughing it at my club. I’d welcome a bit of action.”

“I’d be damned glad if you would,” said Bullivant.

Hannay got up.

“As old Peter Pienaar would have said, we shall make a plan.”

Five minutes later Major-General Sir Richard Hannay left the august portals of the Home Office and was striding across St. James’s Park towards his club. There was a twinkle in his eye and a spring in his step. He would take the night train to Glasgow.

 

Carl Peterson entered the laboratory in the ancient Castle Dubh. He stood in the doorway watching the genius of his newest confederate, Doctor Lerne. His thoughts on the subject of the good doctor were not pleasant, and he wondered what the man would have said if he knew what would occur once his usefulness was at an end. He also thought the castle’s name was appropriate, for it was black indeed.

“Good evening Doctor,” he said. “I trust that all goes according to plan.”

It was not a question, but the doctor was oblivious to the veiled threat. He unbent his back from peering into a microscope and pushed his small round spectacles to the top of his thinning forehead.

“You trust correctly. What may I do for you Mr. Peterson?”

“Exactly what you are doing Doctor, but perhaps at a slightly accelerated pace.”

Doctor Lerne turned back to his study of the microscope slide.

“These matters cannot be hurried.”

His tone was a touch acerbic. Peterson answering smile was thin and lacked any degree of warmth.

“I have obtained two test subjects for you,” he said.

Lerne jerked up.

“Who? Where?”

There was a quiver in his voice and stare in his eyes that betrayed a mind on the verge of madness or in the grip of drugs. Peterson ignored the question.

“How many diablosaurs have we now?”

“I have decided to call them kraks.”

Peterson raised an angry eyebrow. “What they are called is for me to...” He stopped. Best to let it ride. He needed the doctor for the time being and, as Shakespeare had written, what’s in a name. Lerne might call the creatures kraks, but the world would know them as Diablosaurus Petersonii, and tremble.

“How many, doctor?”

“Twenty three. More are… hatching as we speak.” He advanced a couple of steps. “Well, what of these... subjects?”

Lerne’s enthusiasm for the demonstration was replaced by his even keener enthusiasm for his creations. He beckoned eagerly.

“Come Mr. Peterson, come. Let me show you.”

Peterson smiled inwardly. The man was undoubtedly mad, but also undoubtedly a genius. How else could one possibly describe someone who had achieved the impossible and literally created life? He allowed himself to be led into the huge stone barn attached to the castle by a newly constructed passageway.

The passage opened up into a closed off section constructed of steel bars. Beyond the bars was the barn, and in it were arranged in serried rows, a series of strong steel mesh cages.

In themselves, the cages were no different than those used to transport dangerous animals to and from a zoo. But in those cages there strode and hopped on huge raptor’s talons, hissing like leaky steam valves, and clacking horrendous beaks as they flapped leather wings in attempts to escape their confinement, the fearsome creatures Peterson had named Diablosaurs.

Carl Peterson was a man whose emotions were as cold as ice water, but even he was glad of the strong bars protecting himself and the doctor. Genius indeed the doctor might be, but it had been his genius to realize the potential the creatures offered. Money indeed, and more than he could use in a lifetime, but, overall, had been the prospect of revenge over the country he had come to hate. An unpleasant smile lurked at the corners of his thin lips. Also revenge against his nemesis, that bungling oaf Bulldog Drummond.

He gave a low growl of anger as a thought crept unbidden into his mind. How had the fool found him? Irma had suggested coincidence: it was a possibility, even though he had no time for coincidences. How else could Drummond have...? He whirled about and returned along the passage to the laboratory. There he stopped while Lerne caught up.

Peterson drew on his cigar and examined the half inch of ash.

“I think we shall have a demonstration this evening after dinner”

He turned to go. Lerne called out, his voice agitated:

“I insist, Peterson. I must know who these... subjects are.”

Peterson looked at him coldly.

“It is of no concern to you, doctor.” He drew on his cigar and sauntered out of the laboratory. He called over his shoulder. “One hundred, doctor. I require one hundred. It is in our... agreement, remember?”

 

Not more than an hour after Drummond had been so unceremoniously shoved into the cellar; Major-General Sir Richard Hannay leaned back against the dry stone wall and steadied the telescope in the vee of his walking stick. The range was a little over a half mile. Castle Dubh stood out against the sea silvered by the morning sun. He did not find the sight particularly inspiring.

“The only chance is to go in after dark,” he said to the man lounging at his side.

Archie Roylance was equally unimpressed.

“Never did much like night raids. I like to see my enemy.”

Hannay lowered the telescope.

“That’s because you were up at a couple of thousand feet. Down on the ground, darkness is your friend.”

“Does the general have a plan?” Archie’s tone was a touch sarcastic.

“A pincer movement should do it.”

“There’ll be guards roaming or I’m the Queen of Hearts.”

 “We need to cross the causeway,” said Hannay, nodding. “What time is low water?”

“Round about ten, I think.”

“And the moon?”

“First quarter and it rises at midnight.”

Hannay raised his telescope and peered again at the castle. He snapped the scope shut.

“I think I’ll send a telegram to Glasgow. There are a few lads from my old regiment who’d probably welcome a bit of sport.”

“And the plan?” Archie insisted.

“We take as much explosives as can fit in a decent-sized push cart, and blow the place up. A ton should do the trick.”

Archie Roylance had his own plan.

“Why not just whistle up a gunboat and blow the place to smithereens?”

Hannay rounded on him fiercely.

“Absolutely not. My God! Think of the outrage and questions in the House. The press would have a heyday and heads would probably roll. An explosion can be put down as a mystery, or an anarchist outrage. Bullivant could manage that, but not one of His Majesty’s ships shelling private property.”

Archie retreated, slightly abashed.

“I suppose you have a source for the explosives?” he asked.

Hannay shrugged as if such a thing was an everyday requisite.

“A lorry can deliver them within two hours of my call.”

Archie Roylance reached out and took the telescope. He examined the castle.

“I wish I had that kind of pull,” he brightened. “We’ll need guns: rifles and whatnot.”

“Rifles are a no go with these things,” Hannay said. “They’re like damned great eagles: vicious and fast. Archie, you’re in charge of shotguns, more if possible. Get a dozen. Beg, buy, borrow or steal. And cartridges: lots of cartridges. Bird shot won’t do unless it’s turkey.”

“The farmer got one.”

“He was lucky. See if you can get  2 shot, but  4 will do.”

Archie Roylance unhitched himself from his seat on the wall. “And he did his master’s bidding. I’ll be back by dinner time at the latest.”

 

Bulldog Drummond had about him the air of a disgruntled bear. He gave a massive sigh. “Right about now, I could do with half a dozen eggs, a pound of bacon, and at least three pints of good ale.”

“I was thinking along the lines of a steak and kidney pie,” said Harry Dickson. “What time d’you reckon it is?”

“Getting rather late for dinner,” Drummond growled.

“My thoughts exactly. I fancy we’re on short commons tonight.”

Drummond grunted. There was about him the air of a man concentrating to the full and exerting huge strength. Dickson looked at him.

“You all right, old man?”

Drummond gave one last grunt of effort and suddenly his hands were free. He winced as he massaged life back into numbed extremities.

“Persistence; that’s what does it Harry. Never give up.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Drummond stood up.

“Didn’t want to get your hopes up.” He dragged Dickson to his feet and untied his hands. He grinned wickedly. “We now have two aces up our sleeves. Sooner or later someone will remember us, at which time we shall catch them with their pants down and make our escape. However,” he cautioned. “When they come, we must be models of meekness and self-pity, our hands safely behind our backs.”

“You don’t do meekness and self-pity.”

Drummond scratched his chin. “I’m not much of an actor, but the poor light should cover that defect. In the meantime, let sleep re-knit the raveled sleeve of care or whatever.”

And, suiting the actions to the words, Hugh Drummond lay down and within a couple of minutes his snores reverberated through their cell like an express train in a tunnel.

 

With a last snore like a warthog emerging from a wallow, Drummond woke. For a moment, he lay still, absorbing information about his surroundings. Then he remembered and sat up.

“What time is it?” he asked.

Harry Dickson had been awake for some time. He was standing by the door with an ear to the thick paneling.

“You’ve been snoring like a pig for eight hours, probably more. How do you do it?”

“Easy,” Drummond said. “I just close my eyes and voilà.”

“Ass. I mean sleep at a time like this.”

“Old soldier’s habit, Harry. Sleep when you can. No sign of life I suppose. No succor, no beer, no bacon and eggs?”

“No sign of anything. And the time is nearly ten.”

Drummond stretched and got up.

“So no dinner then. Probably do you good anyway; you’re fat and pasty from city living.”

Dickson was about to answer defensively when there was a bang on the door.

A voice called out: “Step away from the door. If you do not, you will be shot.”

Drummond raised an eyebrow.

“Now that doesn’t sound like any waiter I know.”

As they moved back against the wall Drummond said sotto voce: “Remember we’re tied up. Keep your hands behind your back.”

The door opened to reveal three large men dressed in rough tweeds, one carrying a shotgun and the others with Luger automatics.

“What ho chaps,” Drummond said breezily. Then, he frowned. “But what’s the meaning of all this? My friend and I, just a couple of innocent hikers and you...”

One of the Lugers flicked at him warningly. The owner growled:

“Shut up.”

Two of the men entered the cellar, taking up positions along the walls. One remained outside. Drummond considered having a go at them, but realized the impossibility of such a venture.

“What now?”

The Luger jerked towards the door.

“Go that way. Follow that man. Try nothing stupid and you may live a short while more.”

 “Why do they always say things like that: so melodramatic,” Harry Dickson sighed.

“Comes with using guns instead of brains,” Drummond replied as he sauntered towards the door. He nodded at the man at the entrance:

“Lead on, lead on.”

 

Drummond strode into the room behind the gunman, and stopped. His face broke into a wide smile.

“Hello Irma my sweet; how perfectly ghastly to see you. I hear Carl’s dreamed up some real-life harpies. It must be so comforting to know you have sisters after all.” He glanced at Peterson. “Not so invincible anyway; the one that got away responded rather adversely to a farmer’s shotgun.”

“It did not escape,” said Peterson, smiling. “It was sent as a gypsy’s warning. To show that what I threaten is real.”

“You took a chance, letting it go like that. Might have gone anywhere.”

“It was hungry. The nearest food was on the mainland: I made sure of that.”

“Speaking of hungry,” Drummond said. “Doesn’t the Geneva Convention have something to say about treatment of prisoners? Harry and I have been locked up for ages, and not so much as a sandwich.”

Irma Peterson drew on her cigarette holder and blew a thin stream of smoke. She looked at Drummond appraisingly.

“You never learn, do you, my ugly one?”

Drummond turned to Dickson, then back to Irma.

“Now that’s not very polite. Harry is considered quite handsome in some less discerning circles.”

Carl Peterson unhitched himself from his stance at the fireplace.

“You’re a meddling fool Drummond,” he said.

“It’s what I do best.”

“Well, this will be the last time.”

“My dear old Carl; you’ve said that before, and yet, here I am.”

“This time, it is different. This is my last hurrah, my grand exit from the stage of, shall I say, unorthodox enterprises. I am untouchable. Your government knows it and will comply with my demands without let or hindrance. After which I shall...disappear.”

Drummond took a couple of steps into the room. All banter had been wiped from his tone.

“My government will do nothing of the sort.” He shrugged. “Besides, you’ll be dead, so the matter is irrelevant.”

Peterson was unmoved.

“Rather the reverse is true. It is you who will be dead, while I will be on the high seas on international waters.” He waved a hand at the tall windows. “Moored just out there is a steam yacht.”

Drummond glanced at Irma.

“I’d watch out for that personal pronoun, if I were you. Sounds as if your usefulness might be waning.”

Irma shook her head and smiled.

“Nice try, my Hugh.”

Drummond’s mouth turned down.

“Not going to work, eh?”

Carl Peterson interrupted: “As a point of interest, just how did you find me?”

“I didn’t. Harry did. You see, he’s clever while I just sort of blundered in, in my usual way.”

Peterson went to the escritoire, took a cigar and lit it. He glanced at Dickson.

“Just how did you find me?” he asked.

Drummond laughed.

“Dear old Carl, did you seriously imagine we wouldn’t find you?”

Peterson ignored him, concentrating on Harry. Harry shrugged.

“A nice warehouse in London or Manchester would have done the trick, but no, you had to go all medieval, buy this pile, do a heap of renovations and stick out like sore thumbs. Country folk are notoriously nosy. And I thought you were supposed to be clever, a master criminal. I’m disappointed.”

“It’s old age,” Drummond said. “Grey matter getting soggy. Sad really.”

Peterson strolled casually to Drummond, looked at him as one might an interesting specimen, and slapped him hard across the face.

It was mistake.

He should have known better.

Drummond hit him, once, very hard, and it suddenly became apparent to one and all that neither of the securely bound men was secure after all.

Since arriving at the castle, since waiting in the cell, and since entering the room, Drummond had had one on his mind: mayhem. One of them, at least, had to escape. As he prattled, he had been eyeing everything that might conceivably be used as a weapon. He had settled on a set of very useful-looking set of brass tools in a rack by the fireplace. The heavy poker and a pair of tongs looked particularly serviceable.

Carl Peterson reeled backwards, tripped over a rug and landed heavily on his back, his nose bleeding profusely.

Dickson applied his elbow hard into the solar plexus of the guard behind him, who was stupidly standing too close. He ducked as the second guard charged. The man went over his shoulder as Dickson applied a Jujitsu move, landing heavily and hitting his head against a table leg, where, for several long seconds he ceased to be sure of his surroundings.

The third guard started to bring up his Luger, but it all seemed to happen in slow motion as Drummond sidestepped, strode to the fireplace, grabbed the brass poker and it the man across the shins. He dropped with a shout of agony and Drummond scooped up the Luger.

Irma screamed. Not with fear or hysterics, but with rage. She went at Drummond like a wild cat, hammering at him until Dickson dragged her off.

An oil lamp, which Drummond had noticed and which had, up to that point had leant a certain warm ambiance to the room, was swept up in one flowing movement and thrown. It shattered against the tall window frame and exploded. Within seconds the curtains were ablaze, and the fire had caught the spilled trail and was racing across the wooden floor.

And that would have brought matters to a successful conclusion, had not four large, hobnail-booted and tweed-clad men, aroused by the noise, appeared through an adjoining door. They were armed with shotguns, and no one in their right mind argues with a shotgun at close range.

But Drummond was not entirely in his right mind. Without a second thought, he charged them, roaring to Dickson to get out. Dickson hesitated for a split second, then realizing the logic, sprinted for a side window, dodging and feinting around the upright and fallen like a rugby fly half, and threw himself through the window, taking frame and all in his dash for freedom.

Drummond fought like a madman, but even his great strength was no match for four hefty men pinning him down. In the end, he surrendered rather than be battered to death and have no hope.

Peterson staggered to his feet, hand to his nose. His eyes blazed his fury. He pointed one quivering hand at the door to the cellar.

“Take him,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Take him to the barn and throw him in with the diablosaurs.”

“No weapon, Carl?”

 “I’m afraid you won’t find a sword sticking out of a rock,” Peterson snarled.

“So I won’t get to rule Britannia and call myself Arthur? I’m disappointed, Carl.”

“I think you will find little to laugh about when confronted by the kraks.”

He whirled to face the fire. The smoke and crackling flames that had taken hold of the dry wood of the ancient building told him better than words that his dream was coming unstuck in a big way. A portion of the ceiling plaster collapsed as he snarled his rage. Irma, ashen faced, staggered towards him.

“What about Doctor Lerne, Carl?

Carl Peterson shrugged. “Indeed. What about him?” He wiped blood from his nose, crossed to the escritoire and rescued the humidor of cigars. “Time for us to make for the lifeboats, my dear.” He paused to select a cigar and light it. “Perhaps some of the...kraks...will survive.”

 

The gamekeeper thugs shoved him hard and Drummond staggered into the caged area. The steel barred gate clanged behind him and he heard the bolts shot home with an unmistakable finality.

A gravelly coarse voice with a foreign accent called out:

“The cages are opened by chains pulling on the locks.” There were a couple of humorless laughs from the others. “I’m going to start opening them.”

Drummond watched with a cold chill as slim chains tightened and the cage doors started opening.

“So long Drummond. Say your prayers. It’s been a pleasure.”

For a moment, Drummond stood like a statue, absorbing information: surroundings, deployment of the cages, exits—one, weapons—none, number of kraks—too many, outlook—very sticky and dark, chances of getting out—slim. Then one of the kraks either spotted him or smelled fresh meat because it swung its terrible head and the large, beady eyes seemed to flame with blood lust. It took a couple of lumbering steps towards him, and rustled its leathery wings.

The hairs on Drummond’s neck stirred. He knew he was in for the fight of his life, worse and bloodier than any he had taken part in before: worse than the trenches where a man’s life was measured in days, or even hours.

His eyes darted to the shadowed corners of the barn. Somewhere, there had to be something. A grim smile flitted across his face as he saw it, a small stack of reinforcing steel, the leavings from the construction of the fencing that kept the kraks imprisoned.

It was a race. Drummond took a dozen giant strides. The krak hopped, awkward, land bound. In the air, it would be master of its element, but not on the ground. Still, it was quick, horribly so, and the fearsome beak opened with a harsh hiss of anger, to reveal double rows of teeth that would with ease tear the hide from an elephant.

Drummond snatched two six foot lengths of one inch round steel bar and whirled, the bars spun in his hands like Indian clubs.

The krak hesitated momentarily, its primitive brain trying to process this new information. But it had no more experience than a new born child, nothing but raw instinct that drove it to kill and eat. It charged.

Drummond might have managed the kraks one at a time, for with one rod he caught the first one a crashing blow across its snapping beak, and the second rod smashed onto the bony, featherless skull. A gout of sticky blood splashed onto him and his lips curled in disgust. But there were already others let loose, and like all such nightmares the smell of blood drew them irresistibly.

For a few ghastly seconds, Drummond watched as they ripped the dying creature apart and ate its still-quivering body parts. He knew that he was witnessing not only life and death in the long-ago age of dinosaurs, but also what might become the present if they escaped the barn. The image conjured was too terrible to contemplate.

Vaguely his mind registered the smell of smoke. He had a flash vision of the curtains blazing. But nothing could take his mind off the appalling sight of the two kraks devouring the third. He had seen many horrors during his time as a soldier, but nothing had ever prepared him for that.

 

Sir Arthur Bullivant put the phone down and noticed with detached interest that his hands were shaking slightly. Other than calling out the army he’d done what he could. Harry Dickson had his orders: meet with Hannay and put him in the picture. But what of Hugh Drummond? The man had got out of some deuced tight places, but it seemed his chances in this one were dashed slim. Peterson’s fiendish game might have been scotched, but those damned horrors were still alive and could break loose. God knows, Peterson might let them go anyway as an act of revenge.

He ran a hand across his eyes. He was tired. He sighed, reached for a cigar and lit it. His hand had steadied. The small flame burned true. He thought that after this matter was safely resolved he would retire. He had served his country as well as a man might, and lost his only son it its service. Surely that was enough. In the meantime there was work to do.

 

There were about a dozen rough-looking men in work clothes, cloth caps on their heads and scarves knotted about their necks. They looked at and listened attentively as Hannay spoke, the man whom they revered and had fought with in the war to end all wars. They would do as he ordered without question. Hannay pointed to a canvas covered lorry.

“There’s a ton of dynamite in there, with detonators and fuses; and in Sir Archibald’s car you’ll find shotguns and cartridges. The plan is quite simple. This is raid with the object to destroy that building and everything in it. And I can tell you, the things Mr. Dickson called diablosaurs are creatures from Hell. They must be destroyed; not one left alive. Are you with me?”

There was a chorus of deep rough voices, and their meaning was without doubt. They’d follow the Major-General through Hell if asked. He held up the orders Dickson had been given by telegram from Sir Walter Bullivant.

“This job’s about the most important you’ll ever do. Listen to this.” He read the text aloud: “You have full Governmental authority in this matter. The Prime Minister concurs. You must. Repeat. Must eliminate creatures at all cost.” There was no room for misinterpretation.

Hannay took out his watch. “In half an hour the causeway will be uncovered, we’ll drive the lorry as far as possible and then I’m afraid it’s a load apiece. After that half of you go ahead to take care of any so-called gamekeepers—and I don’t much how rough you get.” He smiled . “Remember, guards at night are jumpy. But you chaps know what to do.”

A man who seemed to be the agreed leader chuckled grimly. “You leave it to us, General.”

Archie Roylance started handing out shotguns and cartridges and a khaki clad soldier started the lorry. And that was as far as they got.

Archie suddenly Roylance pointed urgently and shouted. “Look. The dashed place is on fire. Oh, well done, .Hugh!”

Dickson paused in the act of taking a shotgun.

“We’ve got to get him out of there.”

“What price those bally explosives now Dick?” Archie grinned.

But Hannay was already among his men, issuing new orders.

“Too late for the dynamite. Someone’s beaten us to the post. The job now is to get rid of those creatures. We must take the barn at all cost. You all have shotguns.” He swung around to Dickson: “How many of the damned things are there?”

“Peterson said something about twenty or so,” replied Harry, shaking his head.”I should think probably more.”

Hannay turned back to the men.

“You heard Mr. Dickson. You know what to do.”

Almost before he had finished the men were heading for the castle at the double. He faced Archie and Dickson.

Archie watched them disappear into the darkness.

“Good Lord. I don’t know if they’ll scare anyone at the castle, but they most certainly scare me.”

Hannay gave a wry smile.

“They’re the salt of the Earth Archie. They come from a rough world, one that the likes of us do not understand. But by God they know how to fight.”

Dickson broke in: “What the Devil are we standing here for?”

“The man’s right.” Hannay grabbed a shotgun from the car. We’ll take the castle. Peterson and Irma may still be there.”

Dickson followed suit, racing after him. Archie panted as he limped along in the rear.

“Would you be? The man has a steam yacht.”

As they approached the castle, they heard a fusillade of shots like a pheasant shoot at some great estate. The shotguns were blazing. Dickson stopped, scanning the smoke filled darkness. He touched Hannay’s arm.

“What about Drummond?”

Hannay’s face was emotionless. Dickson saw by his expression that he was not going to weaken.

“Those damnable things come first, Dickson. Hugh Drummond can look after himself.”

“What if he’s injured? What if those things have got him?”

Hannay broke the shotgun, slipped in a pair of cartridges and snapped it shut. “Then, we’re already too late.”

 

Hugh Drummond had fought for his life many times. But never had he faced such overwhelming odds as when the rest of Peterson’s diablosaurs began to drop from the cages and advance with dreadful purpose; hissing and shaking their leathery wings. Inconsequentially, he wondered what Phyllis was doing right then: probably just getting home from having dinner with one of her friends.

The two closest lifted their evil heads from the remains of their gruesome feast. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what second course they had in mind. Drummond backed towards a corner: it was the only way. He had to have his back against something or they’d overwhelm him in seconds. He was brought up short as he felt the cold steel of the grill, and hefted the weight of the rods. What price a rifle? God knows, he might get a couple, and then what? What he needed was a machine gun. He needed firepower, not a couple of clubs.

And what could he do to stop creatures like that, things with brains so primitive they knew no fear, only the instinct to kill and feed?

And then, the one to his right took the initiative, or maybe it ran out of patience, or its blood lust was a shade stronger: for it charged, head low and neck outstretched like an attacking goose. Drummond’s reaction was measured, leavened with instinct. With split second timing and a force that would have decapitated an ox, he swung the steel rod and caught the diablosaur across the neck. The creature’s neck snapped like a rotten branch, but its momentum kept it moving and its nervous system didn’t know it was dead until it crashed into Drummond, sending him staggering. He slammed against the grill, banging his head hard. He reeled and dropped to one knee as his brain tried to clear the concussion.

His confusion lasted no more than a few seconds, but by the time he had shaken his head clear and looked up, the nearest diablosaur was making its charge. Drummond eyes focused, he saw the horror, tried desperately to get to his feet, knowing it was already too late.

And then the creatures head disintegrated in a mess of blood and bone, and he heard the two flat bangs of gunshots: a left and right. He whirled in disbelief, to see half a dozen men with shotguns sticking through the bars. A moment later he felt as if he was back on the front as a continuous barrage of shotgun blasts filled the barn with mind numbing noise and choking smoke from black powder.

Drummond had no choice but to cling to his corner, just staying out of the way. He peered through the smoke and saw the creatures being blown to shreds, one after the other. Their screams of rage came clear over the gun blasts as they flung themselves towards him, minds still centered on their prey. But they also turned on each other, for meat to them was just that, and the scent of blood maddened them.

But slowly the noise of the shotguns eased until there was just the occasional bang as one of the shooters took care of a diablosaur still showing signs of life.

Drummond got to his feet, slowly and a little shakily. A voice with a strong Glasgow accent shouted something. He didn’t understand at first, but it shouted again.

“Get oot the wa, Sir, I’m gin te blow the lock.”

Drummond’s brain cleared. He waved a hand and flattened himself against the wall. There was a bang, some fierce oaths, and the cage door slammed open. A couple of men in rough clothes, carrying shotguns, hurried in. One of them, a big raw boned hulk of a man, grabbed Drummond’s arm.

“Are ye alright, Sir? Ye look a gae bluidy mess.”

Drummond managed a smile.

“You should see the other fellow,” he said.

There was a dull crash that shook the barn. For a moment Drummond didn’t understand, and then a small flicker of flame at the corner of the barn roof told him the main castle was falling in.

“Best get out of here,” he said. “This place is going to be an inferno shortly.”

The big man nodded. “Best place for the damned things is Hell.”

Drummond slapped him on the shoulder.

“I owe you fellows. My life wasn’t worth a button till you showed up. Damned good shooting. Now get out.”

And before the man could answer or stop him Drummond had made a dash for the door connecting to the main house.

 

The big Glaswegian skidded to a stop in front of Hannay, and made a smart salute. The war might be a memory, but once a soldier, always a soldier, and he revered the Major-General.

“I couldna stop him, Sir. Just uppit and ran straight inta the hoos.”

“Not your fault, Sergeant.”

The sergeant saluted again. “There’s none o’ they devil creatures alive, Sir. I’m thinkin’ we got the lot.”

Hannay returned the salute. “You and the men did a damned fine job. Now, spread out in a cordon across the island and make sure no one escapes.”

He turned as Harry Dickson touched his arm.

“Drummond’s in there, Hannay.” He pointed to the castle which was burning beyond any hope of stopping. And even as he spoke a part of the roof collapsed, sending a huge column of sparks spiraling into the night sky.

Hannay’s face was grim. “I know Harry.”

“We’ve got to try. Let me take a couple of the men. Damn it all, he’s in there. We can’t just do nothing.”

“Hugh Drummond is a friend of mine too, Harry. He should have come out with the lads. He’s big enough, and God knows he’s ugly enough to look after himself.”

“You know he’s gone after Peterson.”

Hannay nodded. “I know. But Hugh’s made his choice. We can only pray for the right outcome. I won’t send another man to his death.”

As he spoke another section of the roof caved in. Dickson knew the Major-General had made some hard choices during the war and sent men to their deaths, many of them, and in his heart he knew the man was right.

“And Peterson?”

“His damnable scheme has failed, thanks to you.” Hannay said. “I shall speak to Bullivant of course.”

“Damn Bullivant.”

“Dick’s right, you know.” Harry saw Archie Roylance at his elbow. “But old Hugh’s been in some dashed tight spots before. Besides, he hasn’t had breakfast yet.”

 

As he fought his way up the long flight of stone stairs and along the corridor that led to the castle hall, part of Drummond’s brain acknowledged the stupidity and probable futility of his actions. A man with the brain of a flea would have got out of the place as fast as a running stag, but Drummond was not always known for the logic of his actions. It was the other part of his brain that drove him; the part that said he wanted above all else to see Carl Peterson’s corpse on its funeral pyre, to know that the master criminal was finally dead, in his coffin and the lid nailed down. And also, a tiny corner of the same brain held the faint hope that perhaps the lovely Irma had managed to slip away.

He got to the end of the corridor, choking and gasping as the dense smoke caught his lungs. It was beyond time to get out. For God’s sake, get out! Logic was screaming at him to do the sane thing. And then his outstretched hands felt the wood of the door, already hot to the touch. He cried out as the brass handle burned his fingers, but he turned it, ramming his shoulder against the door and bursting it open.

The room was a hell of smoke and fire, swirling, roaring, wood crackling and timbers falling. He peered through the inferno, eyes watering. Another chunk of ceiling fell, spewing flame and sparks at him. He was forced to acknowledge that nothing could have survived. Carl Peterson was assuredly dead, and the Devil had claimed his own.

Drummond covered his face with his jacket lapel, made a dash for the same window from which Harry Dickson had so unceremoniously exited, and leaped through it. He landed heavily, rolled, and was up on his feet in a second. He took a half-dozen steps away from danger, and then Hugh Drummond passed out.

 

It seemed that hours passed, a lifetime perhaps as images swirled in his mind: unsettling images of foul things. Irma Peterson’s head merged with one of the creatures from hell, flying at him with mouth wide and incisors elongated into vampire fangs, to explode in a burst of red mist. And Carl Peterson, his arms around Phyllis, a knife at her throat, laughed, taunting, until they too faded into nothing but vague forms shrouded in fog.

Drummond woke with a start. It was dark. Above him were the pinpoints of stars struggling against the nascent moon. He smelled smoke and sat up. Behind him, a mere few yards away, the heat of the fire reaching him even against the breeze, the remains of the Castle Dubh blazed. He stood up, head splitting and the foul taste of burning flesh in his mouth.

He turned at the sound of voices. Somewhere men shouted and lamps bobbed as the men ran. They were coming towards him. He waited, not knowing whether he would have to fight again, or flee. He managed a croaking laugh. Flee? What kind of word was that? He braced himself as a tall figure emerged from the darkness and stopped a couple of yards short.

Harry Dickson shouted, and the relief in his voice was there for all to hear:

“Good God! We thought you were dead!”

Drummond tried to laugh again, but it stuck in his throat. Relief swept through him in waves. He threw his arms wide.

“So did I; several times.”

Another figure emerged, tall and soldierly. Drummond managed a smile.

“Good to see you General.”

“By God, Drummond, you gave us all a bad fright.”

“Not as much as I gave myself.” Drummond’s face hardened. “What of those damned things?”

“Dead, the lot of them. The lads got them, I hope.”

The craggy form of the sergeant appeared at Hannay’s shoulder.

“Like shooting fish in a barrel, Sir. And the lads are gae glad ye came out awright.”

Drummond reached forward and grasped the man’s hand.

“My life sergeant. I owe you and your men my life.”

The craggy face split into a smile. “Just ye be sure we dinna have to claim it Sir.”

Archie Roylance limped forward.

“What of Peterson?” he inquired.

Drummond shrugged.

“God knows. But no one could have survived that inferno.”

“But you didn’t see bodies?”

Drummond shook his head.

Roylance turned to Hannay. “It’s all London to a brick he’s got away. The man’s as slippery has a wet eel. Is the steam yacht still there?”

Drummond seemed disinterested.

“Doesn’t matter Archie. If he has there’s nothing we could do anyway.”

But Archie wasn’t about to give up. “What about that gunboat, General? Can’t you pull strings and whistle one up?”

Hannay shook his head.

“No point. By the time a boat steamed down from Scapa, or wherever the fleet’s gathered, Peterson would be in international waters.”

“Navigation error?” Archie said hopefully.

Hannay gave a wry smile. “He may work outside the law, but His Majesty’s navy does not.”

At that moment, their attention was sharply diverted by a terrified scream. They swung around as if pulled by a puppet master, to see a figure wrapped in a flapping white laboratory coat. It was Doctor Lerne.

The craggy sergeant was about to take off after him, but Hannay stopped him. “Wasted effort Sergeant.”

“Good God,” Archie Roylance breathed. “He might as well have a bull’s eye painted on his back.”

Faintly across the rough moor and heather the cry of terror was repeated: a cry for help that was not going to be answered even if it were possible, for out of the night sky came one of the diablosaurs, the things Lerne had in his hubris named kraks. It had seen the flapping white and was zeroing in on it like a dive bomber.

They watched in rigid silence as the dreadful spectacle unfolded, it seemed almost in slow motion. Lerne ran, twisting and turning, and even at that distance it was clear his face was contorted in terror. Words were not needed, for all who watched knew the man stood no atom of a chance.

Suddenly, the wings folded in the way of an eagle attacking its prey, the great talons came forward: hooked, long and sharp as a tiger’s claws, and the fearsome beak opened.

The krak hit him; half lifted the struggling screaming man, then dropped him. Blood sprayed. The krak struck again, and that time its beak ripped.

The sergeant, a hard man who had seen many terrible things, made a guttural sound in his throat.

“Good Gawd Almighty,” was his deliverance.

“I doubt the Almighty will want much to do with him,” Roylance said.

“Justice is served,” said Hannay in a voice that was devoid of pity.

Dickson’s answering voice was tight and grim. “But one of the damned things got away.”

“One we can cope with,” Hannay said. “A hundred would have spread panic the like of which this country hasn’t seen.”

 

Carl Peterson stood on the port wing of the steam yacht’s bridge: his nose had a sticking plaster across it and his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. He was not happy. At his side Irma stood, a mink coat draped across her shoulders against the night cold, and cigarette in her long holder. The wind whipped away the smoke. She took a sip from a martini glass.

“What now?” she said.

Carl Peterson gazed out to sea to where the crescent moon shone a thin path across the waters to the west.

“That way lies America,” he said. “They say it is the land of opportunity.” He drew on his cigar. “We shall see.”