by John Creasey
The girl shrugged her shoulders, keeping her eyes averted as she spoke. Quinion assured himself that the mood was not assumed for what she considered the exigency of the moment; Margaret Alleyn was worried. She had been worried for some time; he wondered whether her expression was as much fear as hatred. In any case he would look into it; very decidedly it was a matter which needed investigating.
‘I can’t explain,’ Margaret said. ‘I only know that Loder is a man who stops at nothing. He is——’
She broke off and stood up suddenly, looking down with an almost pleading smile into Quinion’s face.
‘I’ve already said far more than I should have,’ she told him. ‘I can only advise you to keep as far away from Loder as you can. If you have to meet him again … well, he’s not unused to firearms.’
She spoke as she looked, scared. Quinion sensed that she really felt she had said too much and would be glad when he was gone. He stood up; this certainly wasn’t the time to press for more information.
‘I suppose I should be very curious; to be honest, I am. At least let me say this: if you find Loder too objectionable, telephone me at the Tavern in Runsey. I shall be there for the next few days.’
She gave him a smile which held a mixture of appreciation and question. Quinion congratulated himself that her attitude to him was at least perfectly friendly.
‘Must you stay there?’ she asked.
‘I needn’t but I mean to.’ The purposefulness of which Lady Gloria had caught a glimpse earlier in the afternoon showed clearly. Margaret Alleyn found herself admitting a liking for this clear-eyed, athletic-looking giant of a man. ‘I hadn’t intended staying longer than over-night—until this afternoon. You see, I’ve taken rather a fancy to poor old Peter.’ He was half laughing. ‘For the moment, then …’
But his hand was not taken. The colour drained from Margaret’s cheeks, and there was no longer any doubt that it was fear which leapt into her eyes.
The Alsatian at their feet growled and glared towards the door, from beyond which had come a sound of men’s voices raised in anger. Suddenly there was the ominous report of a revolver shot.
3
Death at Oak Cottage
MARGARET ALLEYN had seen the ease with which Quinion had overpowered Loder earlier in the evening, but she was not prepared for the speed at which he jumped for the door, flung it open, and disappeared. She stood waiting to catch any sound from the room into which her visitor had gone. Was this laughing, happy-go-lucky Mr. James Quinn to become mixed up in the strange happenings which had followed her father’s association with Thomas Loder?
Quinion had no qualms. In his hand a bluish-grey automatic gleamed, and from his eyes shone determination to discover the source of the revolver shot.
The little room into which he had darted was empty, yet the voices and the shot had definitely come from behind the door. He peered round, taking in the bare furnishings of the room at a glance. It was obviously used as an office. At one end, near a small window, stood a desk littered with papers and the paraphernalia of the usual secretarial sanctum, and a swivel-chair stood in front of it. Two upright chairs, a telephone and two etchings hung from the picture rail separating the distempered ceiling from the psuedo-panelled walls.
But the thing which caught Quinion’s eye was the dark, spreading stain on the small piece of carpet beneath the swivel-chair.
It was blood; a moment’s inspection satisfied Quinion on that point. But where had the occupants of the room gone? There were no other doors, and the window was too small to permit the exit of a schoolboy; a wounded man could not possibly have been squeezed through. Oak Cottage was living up to the mystery which he had already found to surround Margaret Alleyn.
Obviously there was no point in sounding the wall which separated the office from the room in which Margaret was standing, and it was equally useless to try the wall by the window. Quinion tapped the two which remained, but no hollow echo came. His frown deepened; there must be some way out.
The only remaining possibility was that the floor of the office was movable. It was not a comforting thought, for it offered the chance of being jerked suddenly into a chamber beneath. Quinion was never inclined to take chances which would only end in defeat, and decided that the wise plan was to go back into the room from which he had come. He did not enjoy the idea, for he had a great objection to admitting defeat, especially to the girl, but there was nothing else for it. He opened the door and walked through.
Margaret Alleyn was standing in exactly the same position as when he had left her; only her expression had changed.
Quinion shrugged his shoulders.
‘Empty,’ he said. ‘Was there a shot, or did I dream it?’
He was not prepared for her greeting. Her glance was positively unfriendly, and her chin thrust forward almost accusingly.
‘I think,’ she told him pointedly, ‘that you are outstaying your welcome, Mr. Quinn.’ She didn’t mean it; she couldn’t mean it, no one could change so quickly. Obviously she had suddenly come under some new kind of pressure.
‘A matter,’ he said quietly, ‘which is entirely in your hands, Miss Alleyn. I would like to be welcome to you, but I’m certainly going to be here for a while, welcome or not. Possibly until I can get some information concerning that shot and the injured man which will help the police.’
At the mention of the word ‘police’ her lips tightened and her fingers clenched the arms of her chair.
‘Mr. Quinn, please go.’
It was an appeal which he found hard to resist, but the need for discovering whatever there was to discover about Oak Cottage, and the connection of its owner with Mr. Thomas Loder, made him obstinate. He smiled engagingly without losing the steely purpose obvious in his eyes.
‘Let’s be frank, Miss Alleyn. This afternoon I ran into the man Loder, and had to move pretty fast to stop him putting a knife in my back. I’m told, by someone who does not appear to be of the type which indulges in flights of fancy, that he is dangerous, and possesses a nasty habit of rushing about with firearms. Shortly afterwards I hear a shot, apparently from a revolver, and find an empty room, although there is no obvious way for anyone to get out of it in so short a time without being seen, and, most important of all, I find a pool of blood. How is it possible for me to leave without trying to discover what has happened? After all, a quarrel can be a private affair, but when it comes to shooting it loses its privacy. Surely you agree.’
Margaret Alleyn closed her eyes with a resignation which made Quinion almost despise himself. She spoke slowly and with considerable effort.
‘You are perfectly right. But every minute that you stay here increases the danger to yourself. Mr. Quinn’—her eyes opened, but she was looking towards the window, not at Quinion—‘take my advice. Go, while you can.’
Almost as soon as he saw the sudden alarm of her eyes Quinion was out of his chair and crouching behind it, using the thickly padded back as a shield. He thanked his stars that Margaret had been looking away from him; otherwise he would not have had the warning in time. For a second time that afternoon a revolver shot disturbed the serenity of Oak Cottage, and fast upon it came a third, fired from Quinion’s revolver. The glass of the window shattered and from outside came a sharp cry; Quinion had found his target.
Once again Margaret Alleyn was amazed at the speed with which her companion moved. Seizing a stiff-backed chair, he hurled it through the window and leapt onto the sill; for a second time he disappeared from sight as two further shots rang out, followed by a muttered curse and the sound of scuffling.
Quinion scarcely had time to be surprised. He reflected, afterwards, that he had been amazed at finding that his attacker was not Thomas Loder. He was, in fact, an undersized little man as fair as Loder was dark; but he made up for his lack of inches with a surprising, sinuous strength, and, in spite of the fact that he had been wounded twice by Quinion’s sharpshooting, made the big man exert all his strength before he capitu
lated.
Quinion, sitting astride his assailant’s chest, breathed heavily. A ticklish customer, this confrère of Loder’s. He eyed the man levelly.
‘To what great cause do we owe the honour of this visit?’ he demanded, and then added, ‘Funny Face.’
Funny Face was certainly no beauty, and a scar running from his forehead to his chin gave him a ferocious expression, helped by a broken nose. He swore.
Quinion shook his head sadly.
‘If you ask me,’ he reflected, ‘you ought to work for someone other than Mr. Loder. That gentleman’s vocabulary is anything but edifying. But spill something, or I’ll call a policeman.
Funny Face made a convulsive effort to escape, but thirteen-stone-six of bone and muscle ridiculed the endeavour. Quinion shook his head.
‘It’s positively time-wasting. You haven’t the ghost of a chance of getting up, until you talk. Why not talk?’
Funny Face snarled:
‘I’ll talk yer, yer bloody smartie. I’ll rip yer tongue out.’
Quinion’s expression became icy. He held a sneaking admiration for his assailant’s obstinacy in the face of defeat, but too much time had been wasted. He pulled his revolver from his pocket, and before Funny Face had realized his intention struck the man heavily on the temple. With a gasping moan, the man collapsed.
Quinion stood up, his lips curved as though he had tasted something unpleasant. He disliked hitting a helpless man but the situation called for haste, there were no handy ropes or cords with which to pinion the fellow, and he meant to take no more chances than were absolutely necessary.
Glancing at the window before preparing to hoist the little man on his shoulder—he intended to take him into the cottage and fasten his hands and legs securely—he altered his plans quickly. Margaret Alleyn was looking at him, and her eyes showed that fear again. Even at that moment Quinion longed to be able to drive that hopelessness away from her, yet he did not neglect the warning. He stepped towards her.
‘What is it?’ There was no time for preamble, and he spoke curtly.
‘There are six or seven of them.…’ Her voice was so low that he could hardly catch the words, but there was no mistaking the urgent anxiety which she felt. ‘For heaven’s sake get away if you can.…’
‘Where are they?’ he demanded.
‘Coming from Cross Farm. Loder’s here. He’s telephoning them now.…’
‘Only Loder?’
‘Yes … and my father.… No! Don’t …!’ Her voice rose as she realized what he meant to do, but he was bent on taking the one chance that he saw of putting Loder out of action for a few days. It was a simple job to climb through the window, and he let himself silently down to the floor. A moment later he regretted his impulse; he found himself gazing into the muzzle of a small, wicked-looking automatic. A gentle voice, coming from a man who sat enveloped in rugs and blankets in an invalid’s wheel-chair, greeted him.
‘So you have come back.’
Margaret Alleyn turned round quickly, but one thin white hand silenced her as she was about to speak.
‘Quiet, my dear. I can handle Mr. Quinn.’
‘But, Father——’
The gentle voice resembled nothing more than an icy purr, and the invalid’s grey eyes glittered.
‘I said “quiet”, my dear. You will hear me out, won’t you, Mr. Quinn?’
‘By all means.’ Quinion was smiling, but his mind was working at lightning speed. In the face of that automatic, held amazingly firmly in the sick man’s hand, it was risky to try any tricks … but Loder might come from the office at any minute, and there was a chance that the invalid’s aim might be faulty. ‘Always delighted to help in the making of dutiful daughters, Mr. Alleyn … you are Mr. Alleyn?’
The invalid inclined his head, and for a second his glittering eyes were averted. That was the moment for which Quinion had been waiting.
Ducking like lightning, he took shelter behind the arm-chair which had already saved him from the effect of one well-directed bullet. By gripping the bottom of it he was able to drag it along towards the door, still keeping the thickness of its padded back between himself and the man with the gun. It was an effective shield, and it enabled him to grip his own automatic. He decided to acquaint Mr. Alleyn of the fact.
‘Mr. Alleyn.…’
The cold, purring voice responded at once.
‘You are not getting cramped, I trust?’
‘Oh, not a bit; I’m quite used to this kind of thing; I might almost call myself an expert. No, what I intended to tell you, Mr. Alleyn, is that I have a gun.’
‘Indeed.’
‘And I can see the wheel of your chair.’
‘Is that so?’
‘All I want to add,’ said Quinion, ‘is that I can shoot you, but you can’t shoot me. Don’t you think your best plan is to throw your gun on the floor?’
‘It … might … be.’
Quinion dropped his tone of casual banter, and his words came harshly. ‘I’ll give you three seconds to drop it.’
He had scarcely finished before the small automatic dropped to the floor. The invalid obviously believed in discretion. Quinion, however, had played similar games before; he was not fully satisfied.
‘Now raise both your hands in the air, Mr. Alleyn—higher—so that I can see them. That’s right; keep them there.’
A glance towards the door which led to the office assured him that it was still closed; Loder’s telephone talk was a lengthy one. He stood up.
‘I think I’ll go now … I’m not at all sure that I haven’t been here too long as it is, Mr. Alleyn. I’ll drop in again one day.’
Suddenly his expression hardened. He was looking towards the fireplace, which he had been admiring less than an hour before. His lips were compressed in a thin line, and the glint in his eyes was of rage.
‘So that explains it, does it?’ He stared into the strangely light-grey eyes of the invalid. ‘I have an idea, Mr. Alleyn, that you will find yourself in a very queer fix … when you have to tell twelve good men and true just why there is a dead man propped up in your fireplace.’
Almost as he spoke the body, which was fixed stiffly into the corner of the cushioned seat, began to move. It sent a chilling horror to his spine as he stared at the hole gaping in the forehead of the dead man, which was the more gruesome as the body toppled slowly towards the ground, falling on to the floor with a sickening crash.
4
A Man Named Smith
THE Hon. James Quinion had been in many tight corners, from all of which he had extricated himself by the exercise of that ingenuity which made him a valued agent of the Department called ‘Z’ at Whitehall. Moreover, he possessed a dogged tenacity in the face of difficulty and a flair for probing intricate problems with a keenness which rarely lost its edge. He was, in fact, extremely resourceful.
The situation at Oak Cottage, however, presented him with a problem which possessed many factors that might easily lead to his downfall. Outside was the little man with the scar, unconscious when Jimmy had left him, but liable to wake up at any time and to prove himself ravenous for vengeance; and he had a revolver. In the office, according to Margaret Alleyn, Thomas Loder was telephoning to Cross Farm; he was taking a long time to deliver his message, but he might be expected to open the door at any moment. In all probability, he too possessed a revolver. And coming from Cross Farm, if the girl’s information was true, were seven men, summoned by Loder and presumably imbued with that swarthy gentleman’s unpleasant habits.
Quinion ran through the possibility of escape. He might try the window, but it meant turning his back on the invalid, Alleyn, or the probably recovering Funny Face. He might try the door, but it meant taking the chance of running into a small contingent of Loder’s faithful seven. Finally, he might force his way past Alleyn to the third door of the room, which undoubtedly led to the back of the cottage, but it meant chancing the appearance of Funny Face at the window, Loder at the door of th
e office, and another likely contingent of the attacking seven. His only ally, and a fickle one at that, was luck.
He decided to act normally and to go out by the door, for his back was almost touching it and he could get out more quickly. His hand was on the handle when he heard the sound of a car engine approaching the cottage. Either the seven had arrived, or yet another complication had cropped up; in any case, it barred the front door as a means of exit. He looked across at Alleyn; the invalid’s light-grey eyes were fixed on his with an expression of cold malevolence. The silky voice purred.
‘It isn’t going to be quite so simple as you had hoped, is it?’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ Quinion admitted. ‘On the other hand, it might be a small army belonging to the local constabulary.’
A flash of doubt sprang into the invalid’s eyes. Whatever else, Quinion had no doubt as to the dread in which the Alleyns, both father and daughter, held all thought of the police. The mystery of Oak Cottage was both deep and ugly, and the ‘business proposition’ being discussed between Alleyn and Loder was definitely outside the law.
‘What makes you think it might be the police?’ demanded Alleyn. ‘You are not a policeman?’
Quinion chuckled.
‘Not yet, but you never know. After this little do the lads at Scotland Yard might hanker after my services; on the other hand, they might not. No, Alleyn. I am not a policeman. But five loud revolver shots have hit the air recently, and you’re not far from the main road, are you?’
The invalid’s momentary tension eased.
‘You are hoping for the best, eh, Mr. Quinn? An admirable trait, but in this instance unlikely to be vindicated. I wonder how long Loder is likely to be at that telephone?’
‘To tell you the truth,’ confessed Jimmy, ‘I’d rather like to know that myself. Meanwhile …’ He moved away from the door quickly as he heard footsteps outside and felt the woodwork quiver as someone pushed against it. A second later came three short raps. From the sudden concentration in Alleyn’s eyes, and the involuntary gasp which fell from Margaret’s lips—it was the first sound she had made since Quinion had climbed through the window and her father had spoken to her—Quinion knew that it was unexpected.