The Death Miser (Department Z Book 1)

by John Creasey

  Quinion smiled, and for a moment her small hand was gripped in his. Mad though it was, Quinion felt a surge of relief go through him; he was confident that she would be able to explain all that there was to explain, later on.

  ‘Thank you, Gretta.’

  He closed the door quickly and locked it, dropped the key into his pocket, and held, in its place, his automatic. For a moment as he walked towards the unknown the smile lingered on his lips, and the sight of the wonderful hazel eyes of the girl was in front of his mind’s eye.

  The first twenty yards of the passage was familiar, but when he had passed the door through which he had gone on his first visit below the Café, he looked about him more carefully. The lights, which had hitherto been bright, were dim now; only one lamp in every three was alight. It was no handicap, and he pressed on warily, his ears cocked for the faintest sound. He felt uneasy at the uncanny silence which surrounded him; it seemed almost as if the place was empty; yet less than twenty minutes before he had heard Arnold Alleyn’s voice, and the footsteps of at least four men.

  His breathing was unconsciously stifled. He felt as though he was walking on the edge of a precipice, and that the slightest sound would make him slip and send him falling hopelessly towards eternity, not only for him, but for the world; even the butt of his revolver, gripped firmly in his right hand, gave little comfort.

  The passage turned several times and he had walked perhaps fifty yards in all, when he saw a door directly ahead of him. His chin went outwards aggressively; it was now or never.… The handle of the door turned at his touch and the door yielded.…

  Quinion had met with many surprises during the course of his investigations for Department ‘Z’. Many of them had been gruesome, most dangerous, and some colossal; but as he saw the contents of that room his blood ran cold.…

  A dim red glow of diffused light spread downwards from the ceiling, and made the ghastly sight more full of awful fascination. It put each still, silent figure into horrible relief, creating an appearance of blood-red bones.

  For round all four walls, with two gaps in front of the doors, two rows of grinning skeletons were sitting on wooden benches.…

  24

  A Talk with The Miser

  IT took Quinion a full minute to recover from the shock of that ghastly sight. He felt that the breath had been knocked out of him, and a clammy hand of horror seemed to crawl across his stomach, turning him sick. Ice-cold needles of fear darted into his back alternately with red-hot jabs that might have been of flame. He felt chilled. His blood might have been water for all the strength that he had in his limbs.

  Then a maniacal laugh echoed and re-echoed through the room, one moment plaintive, like the moan of a banshee, the next shrill, like the call of a hyena; it fell on Quinion’s straining ears like a laugh from the devil himself.

  Its effect on him, however, was the exact opposite to that which might have been expected and which was, in all likelihood, intended. It restored his lost realization of the need for action, and without another second’s hesitation he stepped towards the door opposite that through which he had come.

  He was barely half way across when it opened.

  For the second time Quinion found himself face to face with The Death Miser.

  Not in his wildest dreams had he expected to meet The Miser by himself; still less had he anticipated an opportunity for taking careful aim at the man whose vast mind had conceived a plot which was to reduce the governments of nations to impotency, forcing them to war against each other for the sake of their very existence. His mind worked like lightning even as he pointed his revolver towards the forehead of The Miser.

  The latter’s voice, soft and strangely familiar, broke the silence which had lasted from the moment of his appearance.

  ‘I think you will be ill advised to shoot, Mr. Quinn.’

  There was a quality in the voice which made Quinion hesitate. He realized that it was probably the reaction after the nightmare moments which had passed. A repetition of that maniacal laugh, a manifestation of anything supernatural from The Miser, or a continued silence would all have strengthened his resolve to shoot; but the voice, evil though it was, struck a different note from the surroundings. Quinion’s finger touched the trigger, but did not press it. His voice was calm.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because,’ answered The Miser, ‘my Council is awaiting the signal to send instructions for immediate action to every country; and the signal is the firing of a revolver.’

  The nightmare figure of the man in front of him did not move. The parchment-like face, illuminated by the unearthly red glow, took on a diabolic appearance strangely incongruous when compared with that soft, compelling voice. The crazy crown of a death’s head seemed to grin challengingly.

  ‘And I do not lie, Mr. Quinn.’

  It was somehow incredible that The Miser would take the trouble to lie; yet Quinion realized that his advantage was slipping away; it was a matter of time, and time only, before someone came to The Miser’s aid; then he felt sick as he realized that his coming could not have been unexpected, or at least, not unobserved; otherwise that crazy laugh would not have been sent echoing through the room. With a feeling of sheer dismay that he had never before experienced, Quinion realized that the only person who had known of his presence below the Café was Margaret Alleyn; he had been a thousand times a fool to think that there was no means of communication between the dressing room and the other rooms. A thousand times a fool to rely on the woman whom he knew to be a dupe.

  He thrust all thought of Margaret Alleyn behind him; the need was for immediate action and his personal emotions had to be pushed aside.

  ‘Well, I think it’s well worth a chance,’ he said.

  For a second time his finger touched the trigger and for a second time he wavered. For the man in front of him was speaking in that soft, compelling voice.

  ‘As you fire, Mr. Quinn, you destroy every chance of succeeding in your mission; every chance. Yet if you neglect this opportunity to destroy me, you retain some hopes of success.’

  Once more Quinion told himself that it was crazy, and that his only possible course was to shoot the other where he stood. Yet …

  ‘Just how do you mean?’ he demanded.

  The Miser’s voice remained expressionless, and the wrinkled face was immobile, but Quinion had a ridiculous fancy that the other was grinning at him.

  ‘That sounds more as though you are amenable to reason. We shall have to talk. Just one moment. Standing within two yards of your back are two men; they have been there since I first entered this chamber, and at a sign from me they would have killed you.’ The Miser broke off for a second, and once again Quinion felt convinced that beneath the parchment-like make-up the man was smiling. ‘They still will, if necessary. You would not have pulled your trigger, Mr. Quinn, or at least, you would not have hit me, and you would have necessarily ruined your own prospects. Now, however …’

  ‘Granting the two thugs at the back,’ said Quinion, breaking in, ‘just what are you driving at, Mephisto?’

  This time there was no doubting the smile that hovered on the other’s lips, and a dozen more wrinkles added themselves to the myriads on that death-like face.

  ‘You have imagination,’ said The Miser. I would like to drive a bargain.’

  Quinion’s body tensed. Here was a possible explanation of the other’s behaviour, and one that was quite likely true. He was not disturbed by the make-up of The Miser; its object was undoubtedly to frighten, just as the grinning rows of red-hued skeletons were calculated to strike fear into any man. Shorn of all trappings, The Miser was a man who sought power; but, being a man, he placed his personal safety above any other consideration. In spite of his fears for the putting into operation of the vast schemes, Quinion had known that The Miser, and the others of the Council, must have realized that their chances of success had lessened considerably since Oak Cottage had been discovered as a rendezvous, and Cross F
arm had been raided. The third set-back—being the fact of his, Quinion’s, appearance below the Café of Clouds and the escape of Reginald Chane, must have made them realize that their chances of getting away from the police were small; and, robbed of their freedom, the plans which they had carefully prepared would be useless.

  Quinion was fully prepared to believe that The Miser was ready to bargain with him … and he was equally ready to respond; time, and time alone, was all that he needed; Department ‘Z’ would do the rest.

  ‘All right, he said. ‘I’m willing to try it out.’

  For the first time the man in front of him moved his head. The Miser nodded gravely, and with a satisfaction which Quinion sensed rather than saw.

  ‘I think it will be best if we can make ourselves more comfortable.’

  Quinion was glad to be out of that room of death. Afterwards he would investigate those grinning skeletons, and discover whether they were actually the bones of dead men, or whether they were part of some macabre joke on the part of The Miser.

  As he passed through that horrible room by way of a small ante-chamber Quinion felt himself go cold. Those two rows of unearthly red bones, imprinted on his mind more clearly now than they had been when he had been face to face with the other man, seemed to have a deeper significance. When he had been at the meeting at Cross Farm he had heard The Miser speak of death. The words seemed to leap in front of his eyes, and for a moment he lived in the past, in the moment when he had first heard The Miser talk of his plans. He had spoken of death, the death of peace and goodwill, to be achieved by the slaughter of innocents.…

  The voice, which he had likened crazily to death itself, seemed to echo in his ears.

  ‘I have hoarded that death throughout my life, scheming, planning, praying for it.…‘

  Quinion shuddered involuntarily. The word ‘hoarded’ possessed a ghastly significance; that room, with its terrible hoard of the bones of dead men—and The Miser—The Death Miser——

  Only the presence of the two men behind him, whom he could see from the corners of his eyes, stopped him from making one effort to end the whole mad business, to shoot the fearful creature in front of him and be damned to the consequences. In some strange way the men at his back made him realize the vastness of those consequences; he must wait, must play for time, must use every twist of ingenuity that he could control to thwart The Miser.

  The latter opened a door and stood back for Quinion to enter. A second later the Hon. James cursed himself aloud for falling so easily into the trap.…

  Bound fast to a wooden arm-chair was Peter de Lorne; and round him the members of the fearful World Council sat in sinister silence, their crowns of grinning death’s heads adding to the horror of the moment.

  25

  The Miser Acts

  QUINION made a tremendous effort to recover the control which he all but lost at the moment of his discovery. At the back of his mind one thought and one only drummed incessantly. He must hold out—he must play for time. Time alone could give him a chance of defeating the plans of this macabre Council which aimed at the ruination of the world. The fact that de Lorne had not managed to get away from the Café made the need more imperative, for Quinion imagined that The Miser would feel more secure with both de Lorne and himself helpless in his hands—and in spite of his predicament the agent of Department ‘Z’ clung to the thin hope that he would be able to escape. If only he could get two minutes at a telephone.

  His expression gave no clue to his thoughts, and he made no struggle as the two men who had been behind him gripped his arms and took his revolver from his fingers. Only the flecked grey eyes seemed cold and deadly.

  The corners of his lips turned downwards in an ironic grin as he looked at de Lorne.

  ‘Hallo, Peter! You here too?’

  De Lorne, after his first momentary sickness of disappointment, recovered himself and grinned back.

  ‘All ready for the party, and you can take it from me that this crowd have any bunch of pierrots whacked hollow. The only trouble is the “no smoking” rule.…’

  Quinion turned his head slowly and looked at The Miser, who was walking slowly towards the chair at the head of the table round which the Council sat. His progress was halting, and strangely hesitant; Quinion remembered the way in which the man had walked down the stairs at Cross Farm, and was puzzled, for The Miser had given no sign of infirmity when he had burst into the room which hoarded death. A second later the Hon. James experienced yet again the chilling sensation which accompanied the ghastly happenings that had followed in the wake of his first meeting with Thomas Loder.

  The eyes of The Miser were turning red!

  Quinion swallowed hard and kept his teeth firmly clenched as he watched the man reach his chair and sit down slowly and laboriously. Ten minutes before The Miser, in spite of his parchment-like face, might have been a man in his late forties; now he was moving as a man would who was well past his allotted span, and in whom age had wreaked a terrible vengeance.

  Suddenly Simon Hessley’s smooth, pleasing voice broke the silence. It was a voice which had moved mass meetings to high pitches of enthusiasm, and there was no doubting the power of the man behind it; at that moment he seemed to dominate even the frail-looking leader of the Council.

  ‘Don’t you think, Miser, that the bodyguard is unnecessary now? And couldn’t our guests smoke?’

  Quinion’s lips curled at the other’s words, but he was grateful as The Miser spoke in that mellow, aristocratic voice which still held a suggestion of familiarity that the Hon. James could trace, now, as being of the same timbre as Arnold Alleyn’s; and Alleyn, he noticed with satisfaction, was not there—unless he was The Miser himself. Quinion’s convictions in that direction became firmer; had he not seen The Miser’s eyes turn from grey to red in the space of minutes? A second later he felt misgivings which he brushed aside; he had seen those eyes turn red, but had not seen whether they had been grey or blue; the dim red glow of the room which held that grisly hoard had not allowed him to see.

  ‘You are right, Hessley. The men can go. Our … guests … may smoke too.’

  There was no mistaking the fatigue in the man’s manner. It seemed to Quinion that The Miser was recovering from a considerable physical effort, and that he was speaking as one would who has been put to sudden exertion.

  It was the moment that mattered, however. Had The Miser been no stronger than a child, the presence of the rest of the Council prevented Quinion from acting, and he sufficed himself by taking his case from his pocket and putting a cigarette between de Lorne’s lips. Then, still without speaking, he struck a match. He bent low over his friend as the stick flared up. His lips scarcely moved.

  ‘Did Chane get away?’ he demanded.

  Only de Lorne heard the muttered words, and he responded with a barely perceptible nod. Quinion stood back, considerably relieved. Badly hurt though he was, Chane provided the only link with Department ‘Z’ that existed. For a moment Quinion’s mind was filled with one hope.

  He was jerked back to the moment quickly as The Miser spoke again. This time his voice was stronger and the red eyes flamed. The Hon. James darted a quick glance round the table, and saw the grim faces of the twelve men. Kretterlin the Russian was there, Tunn, the Scotsman, Martin Asterling, Hatterson, and Brundt, the German, together with those whom Quinion did not recognize.

  The whole Council was ready. And with one stroke they could be made useless! If Department ‘Z’ did get through, the whole plot would end in failure. If …

  Quinion groaned at the awful significance of that little word.

  ‘Mr. Quinn’—The Miser’s eyes were fixed on Quinion’s, flaming red and possessed of tremendous purpose—‘I told you that I wanted to drive a bargain.’

  Quinion eyed him calmly and nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said coolly. ‘You lied.…’

  ‘I do not lie!’ The words spat out, and for the first time Quinion realized one of the great weakness
es in his adversary’s mind. Whatever else, The Miser possessed a tremendous vanity, and Quinion made a mental resolve to take advantage of it to the limit. There was no object in forcing the point, however, and he waited as the other went on:

  ‘My bargain is a simple one. Aided by good fortune you have learned a great deal more of the World Council than it pleases me that you should know. That in itself is not dangerous, for you are, shall I say, innocuous. But I am anxious to know just how much of this information you have passed on.’

  ‘All of it,’ interrupted Quinion easily. He puffed a cloud of smoke towards the flaming red eyes, but the man went on as though he had seen nothing of the gesture.

  ‘Of course; it is natural that you should say “all of it”; but I am anxious for the truth, Mr. Quinn, and because of the need for it I am allowing myself to discuss the matter with you. Ordinarily I would just act——’

  A chuckle interrupted him, and echoed absurdly through the room. The atmosphere was tense; all eyes and ears had been wide open, listening and looking at the two chief actors in the drama that was being played; and the chuckle broke the tension like a knife cutting across a piece of taut string.

  ‘What-ho!’ commented de Lorne. ‘Jimmy, he does want to be Larry Olivier!’

  Quinion grinned spontaneously, and Simon Hessley’s lips curled. Kretterlin growled threateningly, however, and for a moment de Lorne thought that the Russian would strike him. Then the tension fell over the room like a cloak as The Miser went on, heedless of the interruption.

  ‘Mine is a simple bargain, Mr. Quinn. I want to know just how much your superiors know. In return for that I will spare the life of …’

  The red eyes turned from Quinion’s towards the door. The Hon. James, who was still standing near the table unguarded save by the threatening muzzle of the automatic which Hessley was holding ostentatiously in his hand, swung round. He would have leapt forward, but Hessley’s warning voice told him that to move would mean death; and he needed time; more desperately than ever he needed time.