Congedatosi dall’esercito, il capitano Hugh Drummond, detto “Bulldog”, pubblica un annuncio come investigatore privato e viene assunto dalla bella Phyllis Benton per indagare su dei loschi figuri che sembrano aver circuito il padre di lei.Drummond si trova così catapultato in un sordido intrigo, ma con metodi spicci e battuta pronta affronterà il rapimento di un miliardario, il furto di antichi gioielli e un complotto internazionale votato alla distruzione dell’Inghilterra.Tra spy story e noir, inizia la saga di Bulldog Drummond, precursore del genere hard boiled, portato più volte sullo schermo.

Jim Maitland tilted his top-hat a little farther back on his head, and lit a cigarette. In front of him twinkled the myriad lights of London; behind the door he had just closed twinkled the few candles that had not yet guttered out. The Bright Young Things liked candles stuck in empty bottles as their illuminations.The hour was two of a summer's morning; the scene--somewhere in Hampstead. And as he walked down the steps into the drive he pondered for the twentieth time on the asininity of man--himself in particular. Why on earth had he ever allowed that superlative idiot Percy to drag him to such a fool performance?Percy was his cousin, a point he endeavoured unsuccessfully to forget. In fact the only thing to be said in favour of Percy's continued existence was that since he embodied in his person every known form of fatuitousness, he might be regarded as doing duty for the rest of the family.He had seen Percy afar off in the club before dinner, and with a strangled grunt of terror had fled into the cloak-room only to realise a moment later that he had delivered himself bound hand and foot into the enemy's hands. For the cloak-room was a cul-de-sac, and already a strange bleating cry could be heard outside the entrance. Percy had spotted him, and relinquishing the idea of burying himself in the dirty towel basket he prepared to meet his fate.

  The first time I heard Jim Maitland's name mentioned was in the bar of a P. and O. We were two days out of Colombo, going East, and when I confessed my complete ignorance of the man a sort of stupefied silence settled on the company."You don't know Jim?" murmured an Assam tea-planter. "I thought everyone knew Jim.""Anyway, if you stay in these parts long you soon will," put in someone else. "And once known--never forgotten."They fell into reminiscences of old times, and I was well content to listen. Ever and anon Maitland's name was mentioned, and gradually my curiosity was aroused. And when one by one they went off to turn in, leaving me alone with the tea-planter, I asked him point-blank for further details.He smiled thoughtfully, and took a sip of his whisky and soda. 

THE Maid of Orleans drew slowly away from the side. Leaning over the rail was the usual row of cross–Channel passengers calling out final good–byes to their friends on the quay. An odd Customs man or two drifted back to their respective offices: the R.A.C. representative raised protesting hands to High Heaven because one of his charges had departed without his triptyque. In fact, the usual scene on the departure of the Boulogne boat, and mentioned only because you must start a story somewhere, and Folkestone harbour is as good a locality as any. Standing side by side on the quay were two men, who had been waving their hands in that shame–faced manner which immediately descends on the male sex when it indulges in that fatuous pursuit. The targets of their innocent pastime were two women, whose handkerchiefs had fluttered in response from the upper deck. And since these two charming ladies do not come into the matter again it might be as well to dispose of them forthwith. They were, in short, the wives of the two men, departing on their lawful occasions to Le Touquet, there to play a little golf and lose some money in the Casino.

It came suddenly when it did come, it may be remembered. Every one knew it was coming, and yet—it was all so impossible, so incredible. I remember Clive Draycott looking foolishly at his recall telegram in the club—he had just come home on leave from Egypt—and then brandishing it in front of my nose.“My dear old boy,” he remarked peevishly, “it’s out of the question. I’m shooting on the 12th.”But he crossed the next day to Boulogne.It was a Sunday morning, and Folkestone looked just the same as it always did look. Down by the Pavilion Hotel the usual crowd of Knuts in very tight trousers and very yellow shoes, with suits most obviously bought off the peg, wandered about with ladies of striking aspect. Occasional snatches of conversation, stray gems of wit, scintillated through the tranquil August air, and came familiarly to the ears of a party of some half–dozen men who stood by a pile of baggage at the entrance to the hotel.