The Death Miser (Department Z Book 1)

by John Creasey

  ‘What else?’ asked Quinion.

  ‘Now that gramophone record business. The Miser made one strict law, and all the men who worked with him were scared of him, with the possible exception of one or two members of the Council, which affected all things that were to happen when he was about. You see, he wanted to keep his identity a close secret, and his make-up was so complicated that he couldn’t jump into his part at a moment’s notice. In order to warn his satellites of his approach he had gramophone records made of his wife’s voice. You can see that his passion for the human voice was inordinate. He connected the gramophone to a switch at the doors of Oak Cottage, Cross Farm, and the Café of Clouds. When it played it was a warning that he had everything under control, and that whatever his men were doing must be dropped until he had given further instructions. To a lesser man it would have spelled failure, but with The Miser it helped to establish the complete command that he had over all the members of his organization.

  ‘Smith followed you up when you visited the Cottage with Chane, and decided that the best thing to do was to let you get away, in order to trail you and discover for whom you were working. He had, naturally, a number of opponents in the underworld, and he was not sure whether you were an agent of a rival crime organization, or of the Department.’

  Gordon Craigie paused for a moment, smiling across at his friend, who looked ostentatiously at his watch.

  ‘All right,’ Craigie conceded, ‘I’ll be as brief as I can. You know, of course, that Oak Cottage was little more than an exit from Cross Farm. The cottage itself was a mass of sliding doors and movable walls and floors, built by the men who lived at the farm, and when Smith, or The Miser, realized that it was no longer a safe rendezvous, he burned it down.’

  Once again he paused, took his meerschaum from his mouth and pointed its long stem towards the other man.

  ‘Which brings us to the two most remarkable things about the whole affair. In the first place, why did he let you raid Cross Farm and get away with your stunt with the whisky and brandy? On the surface it seems crazy that you could have been in the same room as him without being recognized. But …’ Craigie was speaking slowly but with considerable emphasis, and Quinion waited on his words. The affair at Cross Farm had been inexplicable.… ‘one thing went wrong which he had not imagined possible,’ went on Craigie. ‘I’ve been down to the farm and made a complete investigation there, with the result that I discovered a complicated network of wires which showed on a dial in The Miser’s room the exact whereabouts of everyone in the place. Hessley … I’ve been talking with him this morning … assures me that the dial told The Miser that you and de Lorne were in the first room into which you broke all the time; the mechanism went wrong, and so did The Miser’s plans in consequence.

  ‘The other thing, the fact that he didn’t recognize you, was a result of the drug which he took to make his eyes change colour. With his eyes red, the man was practically blind.…’

  ‘So that’s it,’ broke in Quinion. ‘That accounts for him looking and walking like an old man.…’

  ‘The whole reason,’ affirmed Craigie quietly. ‘He took the drug purely as a drug … teteni is the name of it … and decided that its effect on his eyes made him more impressive at the Council, and helped him to conceal his identity. And actually it proved his undoing. A queer business.’

  ‘I could find other names,’ Quinion assured him. ‘But what about the “shut-ear” stuff, Gordon?’

  Craigie frowned.

  ‘Frankly, I don’t know. The Research Department is taking it up, and there were several phials of stuff at Cross Farm that they are working on. The only thing I know about it is that it works.’

  ‘Thanks,’ put in Quinion drily. ‘I had an idea that it did.’

  The chief of Department ‘Z’ went on quietly.

  ‘There’s only one other thing, Jimmy, and that’s pretty horrible. You remember those skeletons at the Café?’

  Quinion grimaced.

  ‘They make one of the nastiest pictures I’ve seen,’ he said quietly. ‘Why? …’

  ‘They were real,’ answered Craigie. ‘Forty-four skeletons, five of them women.’ He was quiet for a moment, then went on grimly. ‘Everyone he imagined to be dangerous The Miser killed, and for some macabre reason built up a hoard of death. You did a good day’s work when you strangled him, James.’ He stood up slowly and put his hand on Quinion’s shoulder. ‘In fact, it’s safe enough to say that you saved everything that’s worth saving.’

  Quinion grinned awkwardly.

  ‘Tommy-rot!’ he said briefly. ‘It’s all in the game, and, anyhow, the others weighed in as much as I.’ He recovered his sang froid with an effort. ‘Well, I’m sorry I’m leaving the Department. If you should happen to have a little job at any time that a married man could manage.…’

  Craigie shook his head.

  ‘No, Jimmy. Department “Z’s” a home for bachelors with a suicidal turn of mind.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ acknowledged the Hon. James, smiling reflectively, ‘and I’ve something less than thirty minutes of bachelordom remaining.’

  The Chief of Department ‘Z’ took his proffered hand and gripped it.

  ‘You’re a lucky chap,’ he said evenly. ‘I could say more, but …’

  ‘The registrar won’t wait,’ said Quinion. ‘Cheer-ho, Gordon! …’

  ‘When you get back to earth,’ said Craigie, smiling, ‘I’ll look in at your cottage. And don’t forget——’

  ‘Forget what?’

  ‘That bachelors,’ answered Craigie, chuckling, ‘make the best godfathers!’

  Which remark may have accounted for the difficulty that the Hon. James Quinion experienced half an hour later in slipping a circlet of gold on to Margaret Alleyn’s finger.

  An extract from John Creasey’s

  REDHEAD

  The two men lolling against the white rails of the Hoveric and gazing dreamily across a widening expanse of water to a grey smudge which an hour before had been easily recognisable as Cherbourg, might well have been mistaken for brothers. Both possessed dark hair, blue eyes flecked with grey, pleasing, irregular features and a physical springiness that even in repose was notable.

  There was one physical difference between them, however. Martin Annersley Storm, popularly known as Windy, was two inches taller and proportionately larger than Robert Montgomery Grimm, as popularly called Grimy. In point of fact they were cousins, and if a stranger had overheard parts of their conversation during their lighter moments he might have been forgiven for imagining that their greatest aim in life was to see the last of each other in the least possible time. Nothing could have been farther from the truth.

  As they basked in the warm sun they were acutely aware of two things.

  Primarily, that the first class sports deck on which they lolled was a vast improvement on the third class steerage which had sheltered them during the voyage from New York to Cherbourg.

  The second, that the man with the flaming red hair who was absorbing most of their attention, was extremely popular.

  As they looked on, Ginger was performing prodigious feats of strength with a twenty-eight pound iron ball and a vaulting horse brought from the gymnasium for his especial benefit. The point which vaguely annoyed both Storm and Grimm was the revolting enjoyment which he derived from basking in the adulation of an admiring crowd.

  After twenty minutes of watching this untiring behaviour, Storm took his pipe from his mouth and remarked mildly;

  ‘Uppish cove, the Ginger bloke.’

  ‘I’d like to poke him one,’ Grimm muttered, and from this comparatively long speech Storm knew that the spark of dislike which Ginger had ignited in his own breast had a fellow in Roger Grimm’s.

  * * *

  The mutual love of Martin Storm and Roger Grimm for a beano had come within an ace of proving fatal during their stay in New York. A casual, and rather contemptuous reference to ‘gangsters’ had been taken amis
s.

  Seven days before embarking on the Hoveric they were halfway along a comparatively quiet road from Manhattan to Long Island when something went wrong with their engine.

  Then a bullet smashed through the windscreen, cracking against the coachwork, setting up little spurts of dust in the dry road and whirling the startled Storm’s hat high into the air. After the first second of stupefaction Storm, crouching low, bellowed a warning to Grimm and drove recklessly into some trees at the side of the road. Like a reluctant turtle the Packard heeled on one side before crashing into the trees. Beneath it, sandwiched tighter than any sardines but much more lively, Storm and Grimm crouched, helpless but fluent.

  Though Grimm had recently won a much prized trophy downtown from a world famous heavyweight, all the boxing skill in the world would have been useless against the fusillade from the machine-gun which was being fired from a stationary car twenty yards ahead, and after an interminable barrage they heard the cessation of the deadly tap-tap-tap with heartfelt relief. But they were chalking something up against the gentry; if they had known where it was going to lead them they would have chalked still more furiously.

  There followed, after rescue by a passing motorist and a small army of police which had appeared with surprising celerity, a somewhat hectic interview between Storm, as the spokesman of the cousins, and Superintendent O’Halloran of the New York Police. O’Halloran, a big, bluff man with close Irish Republican connections and a carefully nurtured dislike of all Englishmen who didn’t drop their aitches, was talkative but unhelpful.

  ‘Sure,’ he admitted, ‘the bhoys that tried to get ye got away wid it. What wud ye expect? But we’ve an idea who they were, Mr Storm, don’t ye worry.’

  ‘I’m not worrying,’ said Storm grimly. ‘But it seems to me that you should be. Who was it? And what was the complaint?’

  O’Halloran played irritatingly with a petrol lighter.

  ‘As for who it was, Mr Storm, it’d be bad cess to the man as gave them a name without being sure! As for why they picked ye out – ’

  With an unpleasant grin splitting his thick features he shifted an untidy heap of papers and pulled out a column from The Courier which had been cut from a recent issue. After the historic fight which had robbed America of the prized boxing trophy Grimm was a nine days’ wonder, and the newspapers’ eulogies included Martin Storm. Both had suffered one interview with the Press. One bright spark – The Courier’s man – had demanded their views on the gangster problem.

  And on the following morning a thousand word story was splashed on the front page, which story Superintendent O’Halloran was now fingering.

  It ran:

  BOXING ENGLISHMEN’S CHALLENGE TO GANGS ‘LET ’EM ALL COME’ SAYS MARTIN STORM.

  ROGER GRIMM, NEW CHAMP, JUST GRINS

  The Courier in an exclusive interview with the famous English amateur boxing giants who have just staggered America, Martin Storm and Roger Grimm, learned that neither of these wonderful fighters gives much heed to the gangster menace. ‘In England’ says Mr Storm, ‘we put them where they belong – in jail, with the rest of the small rogues and pick-pockets who prey on humanity. If they show fight – well, what’ve we got fists for?’

  He had said nothing of the kind. But a protest would have brought the whole of the popular Press squealing about their ears, and they had had far too much publicity already; the notice was allowed to pass without complaint.

  Storm kept cool with difficulty as he eyed O’Halloran.

  ‘No one took any notice of that tripe, did they?’

  ‘Well, Mr Storm – ’ O’Halloran lit a cigar, half-closing his eyes as he leaned back in his chair and rolling the ‘Mr Storm’ with a calculated insult perfected only by the less pleasant type of Irishman. ‘What else wud ye expect? Ye hit them on the raw and they hit ye back.’ He opened his eyes suddenly, leaning forward and pushing the cigar an inch from Storm’s nose. ‘Take it from me, and get away while ye can. Ye’re lucky to be alive, an’ it’s me that says so! Meanwhile ye can rest in peace, for I’m looking after ye.’

  Storm rose furiously to his feet.

  ‘Steady,’ cautioned Grimm, knowing Storm’s happy knack of kicking up a first-rate shindy. ‘Leave it, old boy.’

  That Grimm’s counsel prevailed had no beneficial effect on Storm’s frame of mind as he strode along Broadway. It was an unfortunate initial experience of the American police, and his views on that excellent but sorely tried body of men would probably have been even fiercer had he known that several tough-looking hobos lurching behind and in front of him were plainclothes members of the force keeping a sharp eye open for any possible ‘accident’.

  Less than an hour afterwards, sitting opposite Grimm at the Forty Club, a paragraph in The Courier caught his eye. With a snort he handed the paper to his cousin. Grimm read on with tightening lips.

  ANOTHER GANG WAR?

  A private car whose owner is unknown was fired on and overturned on the Baldwin, Long Island road late this morning. The occupants escaped but avoided the police, who are ignorant of their identity. It seems that this is a fresh outbreak of warfare between rival gangs....

  ‘Ump,’ he commented. ‘Funny.’

  Storm scowled.

  ‘Funny’s one way of putting it,’ he admitted. ‘It at least makes it clear that O’Halloran doesn’t want the Press to know who the occupants of the car were. Ask yourself, Roger, why shouldn’t the whole world know? No reason at all, unless it’s to save us from publicity, which is bunk! No – that dear little Superintendent wants to push us out of the country with little fuss and less Press notice. He doesn’t want any shindy kicked up about this afternoon’s little wallop. That’s plain enough, isn’t it?’

  ‘Vaguely,’ Grimm admitted. ‘But what’s the idea?’

  ‘That,’ said Storm with some annoyance, ‘is the kind of dam’ fool question you would ask. Because I can’t answer it. But I can tell you one thing. O’Halloran is in for the surprise of his life if he thinks we’ll take the hint.’ He jerked Grimm’s elbow. ‘Start moving, my lad!’

  ‘Where to?’ demanded Grimm with excusable curiousity. ‘Besides, I want another drink.’

  ‘You can want on,’ said Storm. ‘We’re going to have a chat with the bonny boys of The Courier.’

  Twenty minutes later he was agreeably surprised at the news editor’s almost effusive greeting. They were put in charge of a harassed man in shirt-sleeves, who cocked a knowing eye when he heard their names and conducted them through a maze of tables in a vast office. Two dozen men and half-a-dozen stenographers were talking at the same time, bellowing from one end of the room to the other through efficient-looking telephones. Bedlam, in comparison, would have been heaven. Through it all the incessant tapping of typewriters and the perpetual buzz of telephone bells, gave a tenor to the bass-toned roar filling the main office until even Storm and Grimm began to feel thick-headed.

  Their escort banged on a door marked:

  Geo. Warren – Chief Ed.

  and flung it open before the last knock stopped echoing. All three were halfway in the room when the Chief Editor glared up from one telephone and jerked the receiver off another.

  Swarthy, unshaven for at least two days, beetle-browed, the massive Chief Editor of the hottest tabloid paper in New York was rasping into the telephone a series of cannon-ball orders which streamed with fluent profanity.

  He finished with one telephone and rapped ‘keep it’ into the other before swerving round on the newcomers.

  ‘Yep?’

  Their escort pointed unnecessarily to Storm and Grimm.

  ‘Dem boxing guys, Boss.’

  Warren just glared ferociously at the Englishmen, then smiled with sudden and surprising geniality. He pressed a button on his switchboard.

  ‘Keep all my calls,’ he rapped.

  As the Chief Editor pushed the telephone away from him, cleared a mass of papers, and, with a celerity telling of long practice, revealed a bottle, three g
lasses and a box of powerful-looking cigars, he leaned back and spoke with the soft intonation of a Southern burr:

  ‘Sit down, gentlemen. Cigars, or smoke your own dope. Drink’s comin’. What kin I do for you?’

  Storm sat down obediently.

  ‘I don’t know – yet,’ he admitted cautiously.

  Warren began pouring drinks.

  ‘Well, maybe it’s that li’l story we wrote up, Mr Storm. I jus’ can’t tell you how sorry I am, an’ that’s the real truth. The guy that wrote that story’s getting the biggest takedown he’s ever had since his lullaby days, and it won’t be my fault if he doesn’t write up a full apology! Take it from me he’s –’

  Storm grinned.

  ‘I’m not worrying about that write-up. It’s the little job that followed it I’m after.’

  Warren’s squat body went taut as he glared up.

  ‘What job?’

  Leaning back in his chair, Storm flicked a speck of ash from his perfectly creased trousers.

  He said gently: ‘You can tell the bright lad who wrote up that pack of lies that we meant all we said and a lot more! Tell him that all the gangsters in the universe wouldn’t make us turn a hair! Tell him we’ve been telephoning the British Ambassador at Washington and that he’s kicking up the biggest shindy U.S.A.’s ever thought of! Tell him – ’ He leaned forward, tapping the gaping Warren’s fleshy shoulder. ‘Tell him to put more lies in his write-up than he’s ever thought of in his young life, and get you to help him! That ought to do the trick!’

  Warren shot him a look of almost panic from beneath his beetling brows.

  ‘What trick?’

  Storm grinned engagingly and stretched his legs. There was considerable satisfaction in having tied up the great George Warren, Chief Editor, but too much leg-pull would have made him lose sight of his main objective – that of finding, if possible, why O’Halloran was hostile and who were the likely gunmen behind the outrage of the afternoon. Warren, if he had realised the crazy plan of reprisals formulating in Storm’s mind would have gulped: ‘Heck! What innocents!’ Neither of the Englishmen had the slightest idea of the deep-rooted fear inspired by the gangster menace, nor of the soulless murder-machinery run by rival racketeers.