The Death Miser (Department Z Book 1)

by John Creasey

  Ten minutes later the four men were sitting in Quinion’s room. The air was thick with smoke, and occasional silences were disturbed by the gurgling sound made by rich brown ale as it left its tankards and flowed smoothly down one or more eager throats. Quinion had just entered, and Reginald Chane was just finishing his third tankard.

  ‘Not bad beer,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Where’d you get it from, Jimmy?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you,’ said Quinion, with decision. ‘They don’t brew enough to keep you going, guzzler, and I’m damned if I’m going to risk losing my only beverage because you’re a hog. I’ve put the girls in the library,’ he said irrelevantly. ‘It’s a room without windows.’

  De Lorne choked suddenly, juggling madly with his tankard. He emerged triumphant, placing the tankard reverently on the table.

  ‘I’ll have to tell Aunt Gloria,’ he said engagingly, ‘that you called her a girl. She’ll be more convinced than ever that you’re crazy, Jimmy, although from the number of years she’s nursed you I fancy she’s pretty near sure. However——’

  ‘However has it,’ said Quinion. ‘Now tell me what the trouble is.’

  De Lorne pointed towards the man named Smith, who was leaning back in his chair, still unaccustomed to the near-insane irrelevancies of the man called Archie and his friends.

  ‘Ask him,’ said Peter. ‘He’s got more time. You’ll have to teach him how to drink beer, Jimmy. Apart from that weakness he’s almost human.’

  ‘Such praise,’ said Quinion, ‘is praise indeed, Smithy, but don’t let it go to your head. What made you rush up here?’

  The man named Smith smiled.

  ‘I thought, once, that it was because of a word that we heard from the little fellow you called Funny Face; but I’m not sure now that it wasn’t because de Lorne knew you kept good beer.’ He became serious, eyeing Quinion with those strangely clear blue eyes. ‘Say, Quinn, I’ve a guess that whoever is in charge of Cross Farm, now that Loder’s been bumped off, believes that you’ve got the girl up here. Chane thinks so too. I was strolling round the Farm keeping my ears open and eyes fixed, when I saw Funny Face and a guy he called Chevvers. He was grumbling, thinking more about a game of poker than the job he’d been sent out on. Someone—I couldn’t find out who—had given him instructions to watch Runsey Hall for any signs of Miss Alleyn. I cut across to the Tavern and found that Chane had just arrived, having heard the same story. We all rushed out here.’

  ‘Thinking,’ interrupted de Lorne, ‘that you’d want to keep her out of sight.’

  ‘For once you thought right,’ said Quinion. ‘But was it necessary to raise a scare like that? And did you have to chase up here in Smithy’s car, telling the world that you were worried about something?’

  De Lorne lifted a paper-weight thoughtfully.

  ‘If you got what you’re asking for, Jimmy, you’d have this at your head. Yes, it was necessary. Not a hundred yards down the road we passed Funny Face and Chevvers, and we couldn’t have got you and the girl to move mighty quick with ordinary persuasion. It would have looked suspicious, and worrying for her. The way we did it might have made us look kindergarten, but it did save a lot of explanation, James.’

  ‘Not bad,’ conceded Quinion.

  ‘For the other matter,’ said de Lorne, ‘it isn’t Smithy’s car. It’s one that Reggie and I hired from the local garage. We fixed it by telephone, and paid in cash through the potboy at the Tavern. Which made sure that no one but the potboy knew who’d hired it, and he won’t have a chance to talk until the car’s day of usefulness is over. And to make quite sure that no one knew Smithy was mixed up in the speeding, we made the poor blighter duck down at the back. We heard him swearing all the way. And if you still feel like teaching me how to hoodwink a gang of thugs, my lad, I’ll throw this paper-weight at you; if that’s not heavy enough, I’ll try the tankard.’

  ‘All right,’ said Quinion. ‘When the others aren’t here, Peter, I’ll tell you where I get this beer.’ He dropped his bantering tone suddenly, and the smile in his eyes reflected the depth of his friendship for de Lorne and Chane, both of whom had been co-opted several times as temporary members of Department ‘Z’. ‘I’ll arrange to keep Margaret inside the house until we’re clear of Funny Face and his friends. Then I’ll have another look at Oak Cottage myself; there are interesting things about Arnold Alleyn, unless I’m greatly mistaken.’

  Two hours afterwards Quinion and Reginald Chane approached the outwardly heavenly Oak Cottage. Quinion had learned from Margaret that there was a passage leading from Cross Farm to her own home, and which opened into the office, the floor of which was operated on a sliding system and could be opened or closed at a moment’s notice. It had been on the building of the passage and the floor that most of the men in Loder’s employ had been engaged.

  The girl knew little or nothing of the places in which her father kept the papers which Quinion was sure existed, but Quinion, having been given a clear run by Gordon Craigie, determined to make as thorough an investigation of Oak Cottage as he could.

  In spite of his manner, he was not taking the affair lightly. Gordon Craigie, a man who never allowed himself to be fooled into believing a small affair serious, had stressed the importance of the association which Loder had been working up with Arnold Alleyn. The man named Smith had spoken of the visits which Loder had made to the continent, and Margaret had talked of the callers at the cottage, all rich or clever. Without question something was afoot which would, Craigie believed, aim a blow at the stability of England. If anything was needed to convince Quinion of the seriousness of the situation, he had had it when he had faced death at the end of a revolver whilst looking into the queer, light eyes of Arnold Alleyn.

  They had mapped out a plan of campaign which in its very simplicity harboured success. Chane, unknown to Alleyn, would make an official call on the invalid, proclaiming himself a private detective working on behalf of the Café of Clouds, and making the fact of Alleyn’s acquaintance with Loder the reason for his call. Quinion, meanwhile, would investigate the rear entrance of Oak Cottage.

  ‘All of which,’ said Quinion, as the two men separated about a hundred yards from the Cottage, ‘might be very nice and handy; but on the other hand, Alleyn is a wise old bird, and may have some tricks up his sleeve. So keep a hold on your gun, Reggie, and if anyone shows their teeth, let ‘em see you’re not quite the fool you look. Good luck, my hearty!’

  Quinion, skirting the cottage, smiled grimly when he saw the window through which he had hurled the chair boarded up with pieces of plain wood. There was no one about, from what he could judge, and he hoped that most of the men from Cross Farm were either at the Farm itself or keeping an eye on Runsey Hall in the hope of catching sight of Margaret. De Lorne and the man named Smith were still at the Hall.

  The garden at the rear of the cottage was scrupulously tidy. It was fenced round with six feet of high slatted wood, topped with several strands of barbed wire which helped to make the fence an awkward but not an insuperable obstacle. A hedge which ran across the garden, separating the flowers from the more domestic vegetables, could serve as temporary cover if necessary, and a toolshed might afford a similar harbour. Quinion had seen many worse places for marauding excursions.

  He had learned from Margaret that the only servant at the Cottage was a woman who came in during the mornings. All the food was cooked at Cross Farm and brought through the subterranean passage to the Alleyns. There was no fear of discovery from servants; the only trouble lay in the possibility of Alleyn having placed a guard inside the house. From the complete silence Quinion decided that it was unlikely; men of the type of Funny Face did better than to spend their time in silent communion with themselves.

  He was further reassured when he found that the back door was locked; if a man had been stationed inside the kitchen, the locking of the door would have been unnecessary. Working quickly with a thin piece of wire, Quinion told himself that the chances of his
getting away with a successful piece of burglary were good. When the lock clicked back and the door opened into an empty kitchen he permitted himself a smile.

  From Margaret Alleyn he had learned the lay-out of the cottage. The kitchen opened into a small room which was used for meals, and which in turn led to the larger chamber in which he had been entertained on the previous afternoon. Part of the office, which he had also seen, was on the right of the small room and ran the whole length of the chamber in front. There were no doors saving those which led directly from one room to the next.

  The door leading into the second and smaller room yielded to his touch. Placing his ear at the keyhole he heard a murmur of voices, obviously coming from the room beyond. Reginald Chane was doing his bit.

  Only two pieces of furniture seemed to provide possible hiding places for papers. One, a small table with two narrow drawers, was filled with household bills and ordinary, everyday letters. Two minutes convinced Quinion that nothing of importance was in it. The second was a writing desk at which Alleyn, according to his daughter, did a great deal of his work, the office being used chiefly as a meeting place when more than one or two of the frequent visitors came. Quinion ran through the contents of drawer after drawer, satisfied that the papers which he examined contained nothing of importance. Only one drawer remained which had resisted his efforts to unlock.

  He applied himself more seriously to it and felt it yielding, when a slight sound at his back made him swing on his heels. His hand was on his revolver in a flash, but his assailant was too close. Quinion felt a piece of lead piping thud sickeningly against the nape of his neck. A vivid flash of red flamed through his head before darkness came, followed by a roaring which dulled gradually as he sank into oblivion.

  12

  A Conversation at Oak Cottage

  REGINALD CHANE spent an interesting half hour with Mr. Arnold Alleyn before deciding that it was time he went. Quinion would have finished any work that he had been able to do; in fact, Chane fancied that his friend and leader would probably be on his way back to Runsey Hall.

  Reginald told himself that he handled the interview with commendable tact. Alleyn, although a little brusque at first, and careful not to commit himself at any time, had accepted Chane as the private detective from the Café of Clouds without once questioning the other’s right to interrogate him. He had not, however, admitted any friendship with Thomas Loder. A business acquaintance, he said, but hardly a friend. The dead man—without speaking ill of the dead, of course—was hardly the type with whom he, Alleyn, would be likely to make friends. The detective would appreciate that, naturally.

  Chane assured the other that it was quite obvious and opined that the Café of Clouds had been presumptuous in insisting on Mr. Alleyn being troubled. He would see that they apologized in writing.

  Chane himself, although fully aware that Quinion made few mistakes, especially in his gallery of rogues, was inclined to wonder whether he had not slipped up this time. Alleyn seemed a harmless old man, probably round about sixty-five to seventy, Chane thought, and if his eyes, queerly light grey, were a little out of the ordinary, it certainly did not stamp him as a criminal. It was pitiful to see Alleyn grasping his chair with white, trembling hands as he propelled himself along. An invalid, and one who certainly did not have a great deal longer to live … and Quinion had an idea that he was a big man behind a particularly nasty gang of scoundrels. A crazy idea, Chane thought; Jimmy was certainly dealing strangely with this affair; the girl seemed to have turned his head.

  Chane, keeping up a conversation with Alleyn as he thought, wondered about the girl. She was, without doubt, extremely beautiful; enough to turn any ordinary man’s head all right, but he was by no means sure of her. She had been with Loder at the Café of Clouds, and had certainly not seemed a reluctant reveller. She was on the boards with a New York show which was notorious for actresses who loved the gay life of the stage. She had pitched the tale of woe to Jimmy Quinion, and it had caught the Hon. James napping. Damn it, would any man believe that this gentle, soft-voiced invalid held his daughter in constant fear of her life?

  ‘Well,’ he said aloud, ‘I shall have to be going, Mr. Alleyn. I’m deuced sorry at having bothered you, but’—he smiled deprecatingly—‘you know how difficult it is to make sure that one is always on the right track, don’t you? The Café of Clouds will suffer pretty badly as a result of this business, and the management is extremely anxious to straighten it out. They haven’t a great deal of faith in the … police.…’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Mr. Arnold Alleyn softly. ‘There’s just one other little matter, though, Mr.… Chane did you say your name was?’

  ‘Chane,’ agreed Reginald, smiling a little stiffly. Was he mistaken, or had that soft voice held a steely tone? Something in Alleyn’s expression chilled him. He was suddenly on the alert, watching the other closely, and fingering the butt of his revolver for reassurance.

  ‘I’m wondering, Mr. Chane, how it is that you were foolish enough to come and see me without first learning that I am the owner of the Café of Clouds.…’ He broke off, smiling as Chane broke in in amazement.

  ‘The owner? You?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alleyn. There was a steely edge to his voice. He looked a different man, younger by ten or fifteen years than Chane’s first estimate. But it was towards the small, dull grey automatic that Chane’s eyes were turned; held in Alleyn’s hand, which was firm in spite of its delicate frailty, it covered him unmovingly. ‘Yes, Mr. Chane. I would advise you not to take that revolver out of your pocket. At the moment it is half in and half out. Move your hand away and let it drop back … that’s right. I have owned the Café of Clouds since it first opened; it is, in fact, a most profitable business venture, but the management does not employ private detectives. In fact, there is no need for them in this case … I know who killed Loder.’

  For the first time since the situation had veered round, Reginald Chane displayed some signs of emotion. He frowned.

  ‘I hope you’re not lying, Mr. Alleyn.’

  Arnold Alleyn smiled. It was unpleasant, like the smile of a man who has triumphed by foul means and is baiting the loser. The light eyes gleamed malevolently.

  ‘There is no need for me to lie, because there will be no opportunity for you to pass the information on. I shall have you looked after just as your friend Quinn is being looked after.’

  For a third time Chane broke in.

  ‘Quinn, Mr. Alleyn? I don’t seem to recognize the name. Now, be reasonable.…’

  There was something very nasty about Alleyn’s smile.

  ‘I might,’ he said silkily, ‘express the pious hope that you are not lying. But I won’t … because I know you are. I have had a report of your movements since you came down to Runsey, and I am perfectly well acquainted with your connection with Mr. Quinn … and the man who called here the other day and called himself Smith.…’

  ‘Now look here,’ said Chane, fighting for time. If Alleyn was telling the truth, Jimmy Quinion was at the same disadvantage as he was himself. What chances were there of turning the tables? Precious few, from what he could see, but the more time he had the more likelihood was there that something would turn up; Chane, after the manner of the Hon. James Quinion, believed in luck. One thing Jimmy could congratulate himself on; Alleyn spoke of him as ‘Mr. Quinn’, and it was improbable that he would have done had he known his true name of Quinion. ‘Now look here,’ he went on, ‘I’ll grant that you have caught me out, so to speak, but let’s talk it over in a perfectly reasonable manner.…’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Alleyn softly, ‘that I haven’t time to talk anything over. Beyond telling you that both yourself and the interfering Mr. Quinn will have a long journey as soon as it is possible for me to arrange it thoroughly, I have nothing more to say. So’—his lips seemed to turn back, baring his teeth in an almost animal snarl which made Chane curse himself for imagining that this man was a harmless invalid—‘so, Mr. Chane, fo
r the time being …’

  ‘Weren’t you going to tell me who killed Loder, Mr. Alleyn?’ demanded Chane easily.

  Alleyn was quiet for several seconds. He seemed to be striving to regain the control which he had lost for a moment whilst he had leered at the younger man. He became once more the white-faced, gentle-looking invalid, and his silky voice was almost a purr.

  ‘Yes, I did intend going that far, but I won’t; I’ll keep it until later, when I can have a word with your friend Quinn. Have you known Quinn long?’ The question was rapped out, obviously intended to take Chane by surprise.

  ‘Known him long?’ he inquired blandly. ‘But I just assured you that I had never heard the name.’

  Alleyn, swerving suddenly in his wheel-chair, stretched out his right hand and pressed a switch in the wall. Once more the sneer had made his face take on the appearance of an animal rather than a man, and once again, in spite of his applomb, Reginald Chane felt his spine prickle with darts of fear. God! Alleyn was a——

  The silky voice broke the momentary silence.

  ‘I’m afraid I have little faith in your veracity, Mr. Chane. I have already told you that I know of your acquaintance with Mr. Quinn … for the rest, I assure you that if you move your right hand a fraction of an inch nearer your pocket I will shoot you.…’

  Chane raised his brows in a whimsical acknowledgment of defeat. He had been manœuvring to get his own automatic without risking a shot from that which Alleyn held steadily in his left hand; but the invalid possessed powers of observation out of keeping with his appearance. There was silence for a few seconds.

  ‘What is going to happen now?’ demanded Chane, apparently tiring of inaction.

  The invalid smiled. He looked now just as he had looked when Chane had first seen him; a harmless, ailing old man.

  ‘I am going to ask one or two of my friends to escort you to Cross Farm. You have heard of Cross Farm, Mr. Chane?’

  Once more the question was rapped out, and once more Chane presented a blandly innocent front.