by John Creasey
If there was any opening, it was well hidden, for after five minutes Quinion could find nothing at all that might help him. He stepped back from the hearth, knocking his feet against a poker as he did so. For a second he stood still, frowning; something had happened as he had kicked that poker, but it did not dawn on him at once. Gradually his frown increased, and he stepped forward deliberately, kicking the irons in the fender.
He had not been imagining things. He heard nothing at all as the poker and the tongs moved one against the other. Where there should have been a clattering of steel on steel, there was silence!
Something akin to fear crept into his mind, and he felt the prickling hairs rise at the back of his neck. Nausea seemed to creep into his stomach, and he felt sick …
Deaf! …
Suddenly he shook his head, pulling himself together with a physical effort. There was no sense in submitting to the fear which had taken hold of him for a moment. Had he been face to face with anything tangible it would have given him an added zest for life, even though he was in danger of losing it; but this silent moving of one or more people about the cottage—for someone must have locked those doors and boarded that window—followed by the discovery that he could not hear, began to play on his nerves.
He threw back his head and laughed crazily, trying to restore his confidence, but the hollow echo inside his head, which was the only sound that came to him in spite of the boisterousness of that laugh, chilled him again. He wasn’t dreaming, nor imagining things; he could hear nothing!
He admitted to himself that he was unnerved, and throwing himself into the chair in which Chane had been sitting, lit a cigarette. Unless he could gain control over himself he was asking for trouble … and trouble was near enough as it was. He eyed the decanter of whisky grimly.
‘It tasted all right,’ he thought, ‘but if there wasn’t some drug in the damned stuff, what the devil has come over me?’
He lit another match, watching the spurt of flame. It was uncanny, seeing everything as usual and yet hearing nothing when he should have heard the sounds accompanying ordinary actions. In a way, of course, it explained the apparent ghostliness of the locked doors, the boarded windows and the disappearance of Chane. But it failed to help.
Quinion laughed grimly, without the sudden tension that had hitherto seized him when he had done anything without hearing it. He was becoming accustomed to this deafness. He laughed again, still more grimly, and yet with a suggestion of ironic humour. The Hon. James Quinion, fully fledged agent of Department ‘Z’, was sitting in the front room of an English cottage with a revolver in his hand, yet absolutely unable to make head or tail of his position. He might be the cynosure of several pairs of eyes, but on the other hand, whoever had taken Chane away might have gone with him.
Whatever else, he was helpless; there was nothing he could do.…
He stood up suddenly. There were several things he could do. The fireplace, for instance, could be much more thoroughly examined, and the rest of the room too. If he could still find nothing, he could break through the boards at the window; any one of the stiff-backed chairs would prove serviceable enough to batter them down. The horrible discovery of his deafness had sent him, mentally, to pieces.
A quarter of an hour passed while he made a complete examination of the old-fashioned fireplace and the walls of the room. Nothing rewarded his efforts; if there existed a secret entry into the room it was cleverly hidden. With tight lips he turned his attention to the window. If he did manage to make a getaway, it would mean leaving Chane behind, but he reasoned that it was better to get clear and to make a fresh attack on the cottage with de Lorne and the man named Smith rather than to risk being caught in the same net as Chane. But why had he been left unmolested? His own comparative freedom was one of the strangest items of the whole affair.
Slipping his revolver into his pocket he gripped a stout oak chair with both hands. He had to smash his way out quickly, and one mighty crash at the boards which covered the broken window sent them flying into the garden. He climbed out, looked round the garden, and began to run towards the main road, about a hundred yards ahead.
At the road, he stopped running and began to walk rapidly. He was thinking fast. Many small things which had been puzzling him for some time past gained utterance in his mind. How was it, for instance, that he and Chane had been unable to hear the locking of the doors and the boarding up of the window and yet had been able to hear each other speak? He endeavoured to fix the precise moment at which he had first lost his power of hearing, but it was difficult, for he had, after discovering the disappearance of Chane, moved about the room as silently as possible. He might have carried on for half an hour or more, but for banging against the poker.
Dusk was falling, and there was little traffic on the road. It would take him another ten minutes to reach the Tavern, and he spent the time in working out a plan of campaign for the rescue of Reginald Chane.
He had little doubt that Chane had been taken from Oak Cottage to Cross Farm. He knew that there was an underground passage connecting the two places, and he imagined that Chane had been taken into the office, with its movable floor, and thence to the farm. The man named Smith, de Lorne and himself would have to make a sortie on Loder’s home, but it would probably be wiser to get in touch with Gordon Craigie first. The chief of Department ‘Z’ had said that he was getting news in hour by hour; it might easily be that he had learned something that would help Quinion.
The first cottage in Runsey was in sight when Quinion saw a large grey Buick speeding towards him. The main road was anything but safe for high speeds through the village, and he eyed the car with interest; the driver must have been in a devil of a hurry to get to town, for twice he swerved dangerously to avoid a nasty patch of road.
Quinion flattened himself against the hedge as the car flashed by, and cursed himself for five minutes as he tore towards the village, bent on getting a car to follow in the wake of the Buick. He was cursing because, in ordinary circumstances, he would have punctured one at least of the rear tyres of the large car with his revolver when he had recognized the occupants of it, but a second amazing discovery had momentarily dazed him.
He had heard the engine of the car, and the grinding of the tyres on the gravel road!
The revelation, great though it was, could not make him anything but furious that he had blundered so grievously in letting the Buick get away without making some attempt to stop it. For at the rear of the car Mr. Arnold Alleyn was sitting, and next to him, leaning back as though unconscious, was Reginald Chane!
Afterwards Quinion reflected that he had taken little time to adjust himself to his new-found ability to hear, in spite of the effect that his deafness had had on him when he had first discovered it. He dashed through the bar of the Tavern without heeding the curious stare of the barmaid who called him, in frivolous moments, Archie.
Smith and de Lorne were both in the private room that they had hired.
‘Am I glad to see you,’ breathed Quinion, banging the door behind him. What speed can you get out of that bus you hired?’
‘Sixty at a pinch.’ Peter de Lorne showed no surprise at the sudden intrusion, although Smith was staring at Quinion uncertainly.
‘Hopeless,’ said Quinion breathlessly. ‘Smith, what can you do in that Singer of yours?’
‘Cruise at seventy, if you want it,’ said the Canadian. He fought back a desire to ask a hundred questions. ‘I might manage more. Do you want it?’
‘Yes. Get it out of the garage and head it for London. Fill up with enough petrol to drive all night if needs be.’
Smith stood up, stuffed his pipe into his pocket and went out of the room. De Lorne, pouring out a peg of whisky, handed it to his friend.
‘Take your time,’ he said quietly. ‘Trouble, Jimmy?’
Quinion took a gulp of neat whisky.
‘Chane’s gone. Alleyn’s taking him towards London in a Buick that passed me doing eighty, some
lout banged me on the back of the head, and … oh, damn all telephones!’ He looked at de Lorne and grinned. ‘Sorry, Peter. I’m all het up. Answer that confounded thing, will you?’
As de Lorne went to the telephone Quinion finished his whisky, diluting it this time with Polly, and following up with a cigarette. As he puffed the first cloud of grey smoke de Lorne turned round.
‘Yours, James. Shall I tell them you’re out?’
Quinion stood up.
‘It might be worth hearing. Hold them on.’
The expression on his face as he put the receiver to his ear convinced de Lorne that it was certainly worth hearing. Quinion muttered a brief ‘hold on a second’ and motioned de Lorne for a chair. He sat down, resting the telephone on the table.
‘Who’s that?’
The crisp voice at the other end of the wire was unmistakably Gordon Craigie’s. Department ‘Z’ had had some news, apparently. But the first question made Quinion grin, in spite of himself.
‘Is the girl all right, Number Seven?’—names were never mentioned over the telephone when speaking to or from Victoria Nought. Craigie had gone further than usual in speaking of ‘the girl’.
‘Yes,’ said Quinion.
‘Good. Made any progress?’
‘Been hit on the head,’ said Quinion ruefully. ‘Hard.’
Had he not been sure of the man at the other end, he would have thought that it was a ghost of a chuckle that came over the line. As it was, there was no mistaking the whispered ‘good’.
‘Heartless so-and-so,’ said Quinion. But the call from Department ‘Z’ cheered him considerably, in spite of the memory of Reggie Chane’s white, vacant face as he had lolled back against the cushions of the Buick.
Craigie’s next words were spoken in a tone that said plainly that all banter was to be dropped.
‘Number Seven, I want you to carry on strictly according to your first instructions. Do you understand?’
Quinion hesitated a second. That meant, of course, that he would have to watch Cross Farm, and it also meant that he would be unable, himself, to chase after the Buick.
‘Ye—es. Will one man be enough? There’s plenty to do.’
‘What?’ demanded Craigie shortly.
‘One of my co-opted members has been spirited away,’ said Quinion. ‘He’s gone with an invalid.…’
‘I know.…’ Quinion arched his brows at that brief statement from the other end, but he had little time to think about it as Craigie went on: ‘A Buick sedan smashed eight miles from you. The two men at the back got away, but the driver was detained by the police; I’ve just had the information from Scotland Yard. The driver talked. Listen, Number Seven. All of you down there must watch events very closely. Telephone me later … say twelve o’clock … with your report. Then I will be able to give you more information about the Buick.’
‘Right,’ said Quinion.
‘Is there anything else?’
Quinion hesitated for a moment. It was difficult, talking over the telephone without being able to mention names, but he wanted to tell Craigie that Alleyn was the owner of the Café of Clouds; unless Number One of Department ‘Z’ already knew that, it might be of considerable importance.
‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘The invalid claims ownership of some of the clouds.’
Craigie hesitated in turn, working the queer statement out in his mind. As he answered, Quinion could almost see the corners of those grim lips twitching.
‘I see what you mean.’
‘Is it news?’
‘Yes. Anything else?’
‘Nothing,’ answered Quinion.
‘All right, Number Seven. Telephone at twelve, or as soon after as you can.…’
‘Right.’ Quinion put the receiver on its hook thoughtfully, then smiled as Smith entered the parlour, frowning impatiently.
‘Are you coming?’ demanded the Canadian. ‘Or what?’
‘Or what,’ said Quinion. ‘Sorry, Smithy, but if you will link up with men called Archie what can you expect?’
The Canadian shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of resignation. He had given up trying to understand any of the men whom he had met in his final effort to avenge himself on Thomas Loder. Yet he liked them. Now that Loder was dead, there was no real reason why he should continue to work with James Quinn and his eccentric friends, but it didn’t occur to him to drop out.
He looked at the tumbler which Quinion had just emptied.
‘I suppose that the hooch has made you sluggish, Quinn. Do you want me to put the car back in the garage?’
‘Please,’ said Quinion. ‘But wait a minute. If you talk to me about “hooch” I’ll sling the bottle at you. Use a civilized name and call it whisky. Meanwhile …’ he paused for a moment, and the Canadian began to fill his pipe. ‘Smithy, now that Loder is out of this business you haven’t any real need to be in on this, have you?’
‘I guess not.’
‘It’s a damned ugly business. If I’m not talking through my hat, there’s a lot worse to come than has gone, and Loder was only one of the little men in the game. So if you feel like dropping out, drop.’
The man named Smith lit his pipe carefully. It was a characteristic of his to carry out all trivial movements with deliberate care, saying that it gave him time to think.
‘Well, I suppose that’s reason enough, Quinn.’ He puffed at his pipe. ‘But I don’t know that I’m aching to get out. It’s up to you.’
‘I don’t agree. If you stay in with us, it’s a sticky end as likely as not. If it’s up to anyone, it’s you.’
There was a glint of pleasure in the Canadian’s clear blue eyes. He leaned back in his chair, looking straight at Quinion.
‘Well, if it’s with me, I stay.’
Quinion stood up, banging Smith heavily on the back.
‘Good man,’ he said, smiling. ‘Peter, I think we’d better have a spot to celebrate. Mr. Smith from Canada has joined us.…’
It was five minutes later that the three men were setting out from the Tavern to Cross Farm. It was dark, and they cut across the downs, where there was little likelihood of them being seen, and, in Quinion’s opinion, no need for them to separate.
Quinion told them briefly of the happenings at Oak Cottage. He put no emphasis on the period during which he had been deaf, but the quiet conviction of his tone left no room for doubt. Neither of his companions needed anything further to convince them of the dead seriousness of the affair on which they were working.
They were still half a mile from Cross Farm when Quinion, sniffing the air, stopped in his tracks.
‘Smell anything?’ he demanded.
The others, stopping with him, were quiet for a moment. It was Smith who spoke first.
‘Something burning,’ he said. ‘It’s coming from the right.’
‘The right?’ Quinion frowned. ‘I thought it was ahead of us. There’s nothing to the right except …’ he stopped speaking and broke into a run, beckoning the others. As they caught up with him he jerked out: ‘There’s a bit of a hill just up here; we can see better.’
Two minutes later he was standing still at the top of one of the sloping downs. To the left he could see a faint outline of Cross Farm, with two or three small glimmers of light winking across the darkness. To the right was Oak Cottage.
‘There’s nothing to the right,’ he said quietly as the others came up, ‘except Oak Cottage. And that won’t be there for long. The place is burning like tinder.’
15
Funny Face Leads the Way
THE three men stood for several minutes watching the cottage burn furiously, and realizing that as it was swallowed up by the ravenous flames all chance of their learning its secrets disappeared. There was a grim smile on Quinion’s face as he turned to the others.
‘There goes a particularly dangerous little spot,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m glad I saw Reggie in that Buick; it would have been a nasty jolt if I’d imagined him tucked nicely in bed i
n one of the rooms of the cottage. However … ours not to reason why; ours to get on to Cross Farm.’
‘I wish that there was a little more to go on in this business, Jimmy,’ said de Lorne, after a few minutes’ silence as they walked down the slope. ‘Men wander about with guns, people drink whisky and go deaf, Reggie Chane gets kidnapped, Oak Cottage gets burned, Buicks get smashed up on the road through going at suicidal speeds, Thomas Loder gets shot, the Café of Clouds gets raided, a young and beautiful maiden walks about, I’m told, in fear of her life, and all, if I believe all I hear, because you, Jimmy, have butted in on a little game. Don’t you think you could be a little more informative? I’ll wager Smithy thinks more or less on the same lines.’
‘There’s much to be said for your reasoning,’ Quinion said, ‘but if I knew much about it I wouldn’t tell you—yet. But I don’t. All I know is that Loder was one of a particularly unpleasant gang of rogues, and he fancied that he was, more or less, king of the castle. Alleyn thought differently, and so did some of the others. Loder, you see, has been useful in working up a nice little connection of the primest rascals, but there his usefulness ended; he was put away.
‘Working it out on those lines, I can see that, whoever they are, they’re more than the usual clique of thieves and fences. Smith knows that they’ve interests outside England, and Smith also knows that the interests are mainly political. Putting two and two together, I suspect that we’re up against something a lot bigger than you might think, Peter—but I don’t know. That’s what we’re here for—to find out.’
‘I wouldn’t like to lay money on your power for telling the truth,’ retorted de Lorne. ‘However, don’t let it worry you. I just thought——’
‘Don’t,’ interrupted Quinion. ‘You’re wasting your time, Peter, and I hate to think that. Shh—sh——’ He broke off suddenly, peering into the gloom towards Cross Farm, which was less than a hundred yards away. ‘See that man?’ he whispered.