The tall man opened the door, and Doan followed him into a small square room lighted with one unshaded bulb hanging behind the shining grillwork of the oval ticket window. Yellow varnished benches ran along two walls, and a stove gleamed dully red in the corner between them.
Doan kicked the door shut behind him and dropped his grip on the floor. He still held his revolver casually in his right hand.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Jannen," said the tall man. He had taken off his duck-hunter's cap. He was bald, and his head was long and queerly narrow. He stood still, watching Doan, his eyes gleaming with slyly malevolent humor. "You come up here for somethin' special? There ain't no place to stay. There's a couple of hotels down-canyon, but they ain't open except for the snow sports."
Doan jerked his head to indicate the storm outside. "Isn't that snow?"
"This here is just an early storm. It'll melt off mostly on the flats. In the winter season she gets eight-ten feet deep here on the level, and they bring excursion trains up--sometimes four-five hundred people to once--and park 'em on the sidings over weekends."
There was a whine and then a scratching sound on the door behind Doan.
The tall man jerked his head. "Can I let my dogs inside, mister?"
Doan moved over and sat down on the bench. "Go ahead."
Jannen opened the door, and three shadowy gray forms slunk through it. They were enormous beasts, thick-furred, with blunt wedge-shaped heads. They circled the room and sat down in a silent motionless row against the far wall, watching Doan unblinkingly with eyes that were like yellow, cruel jewels.
"Nice friendly pets," Doan observed.
"Them's sled dogs, mister."
"What dogs?" Doan asked.
"Sled dogs--huskies. See, sometimes them tourists that come up here, they get tired of skiin' and snow-shoein' and then I pick me up a little side money haulin' 'em around on a dog sled with the dogs. Lot of 'em ain't never rid behind dogs before, and they get a big kick out of it. Them are good dogs, mister."
"You can have them. Do you know where the Alden lodge is from here?"
Jannen's lips moved back from the jagged teeth. "You a friend of that girl's?" His voice was low and tight.
"Not yet. Are you?"
Jannen's eyes were gleaming, reddish slits. "Oh, yeah. Oh, sure I am. I got a good reason to be." With his left hand he reached over and tapped his empty right sleeve. "That's a present from her old man."
Doan was watching him speculatively. "So? How did it happen?"
"Grenade. I was fightin' over in China. It blew up in my hand. Tore my arm off. Old man Alden's factory sold the Chinks that grenade. It had a defective fuse."
"That's not the girl's fault."
Jannen's lips curled. "Oh, sure not. Nobody's fault. An accident. Didn't amount to nothin'--just a man's right arm tore off, that's all. Just made me a cripple and stuck me up in this hell-hole at this lousy job. Yeah. I love that Alden girl. Every time I hear that name I laugh fit to bust with joy."
His voice cracked, and his face twisted into a fiendish grimace. The dogs stirred against the wall uneasily, and one of them whimpered a little.
"Yeah," Jannen said hoarsely. "Sure. I like her. Her old man skimped on that grenade job, and skimped on it so he could leave that girl another million. You'd like her too, mister, if an Alden grenade blew your right arm off, wouldn't you? You'd like her every time you fumbled around one-handed like a crippled bug, wouldn't you?
"You'd like her every time the pain started to bite in that arm stump so you couldn't sleep at night, wouldn't you? You'd feel real kind toward her while you was sleepin' in flop houses and she was spendin' the blood money her old man left her, wouldn't you, mister?"
The man was not sane. He stood there swaying, and then he laughed a little in a choking rasp that shook his thin body.
"You want me to show you the way to the lodge? Sure, mister. Glad to. Glad to do a favor for an Alden any old time."
Doan stood up. "Let's start," he said soberly.
CHAPTER V.
MISS MILLION-BUCKS
DOAN SMELLED THE smoke first, coming thin and pungent down-wind, and then Jannen stopped short in front of him and said:
"There it is."
The wind whipped the snow away for a second, and Doan saw the house at the mouth of a ravine that widened out into a flat below them. The walls were black against the white drifts, and the windows stared with dull yellow eyes.
"Thanks," said Doan. "I can make it from here. If I could offer some slight compensation for your time and trouble..."
Jannen was hunched up against the wind like some gaunt beast of prey, staring down at the house, wrapped up in darkly bitter thoughts of his own. His voice came thickly.
"I don't want none of your money."
"So long," said Doan.
"Eh?" said Jannen, looking around.
Doan pointed back the way they had come. "Goodbye, now."
Jannen turned clumsily. "Oh, I'm goin'. But I ain't forgettin' nothin', mister." His mittened left hand touched his empty right sleeve. "Nothin' at all. You tell her that for me."
"I'll try to remember," said Doan.
He stood with his head tilted against the wind, watching Jannen until he disappeared back along the trail, his three huskies slinking along like stunted shadows at his heels. Then he shrugged uneasily and went down the steep slant of the ridge to the flat below. The wind had blown the snow clear of the ground in places, and he followed the faint marks of a path across the stretch of frozen rocky ground.
Close to it, the house looked larger--dark and ugly with the smoke from the chimney drifting in a jaunty plume across the white-plastered roof. The path ended at a small half-enclosed porch, and Doan climbed the log steps up to it and banged hard with his fist against the heavy door.
He waited, shivering. The cold had gotten through his light clothes. His feet tingled numbly, and the skin on his face felt drawn and stiff.
The door swung open, and a man stared out at him unbelievingly. "What--who're you? Where'd you come from?"
"Doan--Severn Agency."
"The detective! But man alive! Come in, come in!"
Doan stepped into a narrow shadowed hall, and the warmth swept over him like a soft grateful wave.
"Good Lord!" said the other man. "I didn't expect you'd come tonight--in this storm!"
"That's Severn service," Doan told him. "When duty calls, we answer. And besides, I'm overdrawn on my salary."
"But you're not dressed for--Why, you must be frozen stiff!"
He was a tall man, very thin, with a sharp dramatically haggard face. His hair was jet-black with a peculiarly distinctive swathe of pure white running back slantwise from his high forehead. He talked in nervous spurts, and he had a way of making quick little half-gestures that had no meaning, as though he were impatiently jittery.
"A trifle rigid in spots," Doan admitted. "Have you got some concentrated heat around the premises?"
"Yes! Yes, surely! Come in here! My name is Brill, by the way. I'm in charge of Miss Alden's account with the National Trust. Taking care of the legal end. But of course you know all about that. In here."
It was a long living room with a high ceiling that matched the peak of the roof. At the far end there was an immense natural stone fireplace with the flame hooking eager little blue fingers around the log that almost filled it.
"But you should have telephoned from the station," Brill was saying. "No need to come out tonight in this."
"Have you a telephone here?" Doan asked.
"Certainly, certainly. Telephone, electricity, central heating, all that... . Miss Alden, this is Mr. Doan, the detective from the Severn Agency. You know, I told you--"
"Yes, of course," said Sheila Alden. She was sitting on the long, low divan in front of the fire. She was a small, thin girl with prim features, and she looked disapprovingly at Doan and then down at the snow he had tracked across the floor. She had lusterless strin
gy brown hair and teeth that protruded a little bit, and she wore thick horn-rimmed glasses.
"Hello," said Doan. He didn't think he was going to like her very well.
"This seems all very melodramatic and very unnecessary," said Sheila Alden. "A detective to guard me! It's so absurd."
"Now, not at all, not at all," said Brill in a harassed tone. "It's the thing to do--the only thing. I'm responsible, you know. The National people hold me directly responsible for your well-being. We must take every reasonable precaution. We really must. I'm doing the best I know how."
"I know," said Sheila Alden, faintly contemptuous. "Pull up that chair, Mr. Doan, and get close to the fire. By the way, this is Mr. Crowley."
"Hello, there," said Crowley cheerfully. "You're hardly dressed for the weather, old chap. If you plan to stay around here I'll have to lend you some of my togs."
"Mr. Crowley," said Brill, "has a place over at the other side of Flint Flat."
"A little hide-out, you know," said Crowley. "Just a little shack where a man can hole in and soak up some solitude now and then."
He had a very British-British accent and a hairline black mustache and a smile full of white teeth. He was every bit as handsome as those incredible young men who are always driving the latest sport motor cars in magazine advertisements. He knew it. He had brown eyes with a personality twinkle in them and wavy black hair and an expensive tan.
"Mr. Crowley," said Brill, "got lost in the storm this afternoon and just happened--just happened to stumble in here this afternoon."
"Right-o," said Crowley. "Lucky for me, eh?"
"Very," said Brill sourly.
Crowley was sitting on the divan beside Sheila Alden, and he turned around and gave her the full benefit of his smile. "Yes, indeed! My lucky day!"
Sheila Alden simpered. There was no other word for it. She wiggled on the cushions and poked at her stringy hair and blinked shyly at Crowley through the thick glasses.
"You must stay the night here, Mr. Crowley."
"Must he?" Brill inquired, still more sourly.
Sheila Alden looked up, instantly antagonistic. "Of course! He can't possibly get home tonight, and we have plenty of room, and I've invited him!"
"A little blow like this," said Crowley. "Nothing. Nothing at all. You should see it scream up in the Himalayas. That's something!" He leaned closer to Sheila. "But of course there's no chance to stumble on to such delightful company when you're in the Himalayas, is there? I'll be delighted to stay overnight, Miss Alden, if it won't inconvenience you too much. It's so kind of you to ask me."
"Not at all," said Sheila Alden.
Doan was standing in front of the fire with his arms out-spread, gradually thawing out, and now someone tugged uncertainly at his sleeve.
"You're--the detective?"
Doan turned to look at another girl. She was small too, smaller even than Sheila Alden, and she had a soft round face and full lips that pouted a little. She had blond hair, and her eyes were very wide and very blue and they didn't quite focus.
"This is Miss Alden's secretary," Brill said stiffly. "Miss Joan Greg."
"You're cute," Joan Greg said, swaying just slightly. "You're a cute little detective."
"Cute as a bug's ear," Doan agreed.
"Joan!" Sheila Alden said sharply. "Please behave yourself!"
Joan Greg turned slowly, still keeping her hold on Doan's arm. "Talking--to me?"
"You're drunk!" Sheila Alden said.
Joan Greg made the words carefully with her soft lips. "Shall I tell you just what you are--you and that thing sitting beside you?"
The tension in the room was like a wire stretched to a breaking point, with them all standing and staring at Joan incredulously. She was swaying, and her lips were twisting to form new words, while her eyes stared at Sheila Alden with glassy, unblinking hate.
"I'll--kill--her," said Joan Greg distinctly.
CHAPTER VI.
DANGEROUS LADY
"MISS GREG!" BRILL gasped, horrified. But he did not make a move. He just stood, gaping.
"Wait until I get warm first, will you?" Doan asked casually.
Joan Greg forgot all about Sheila Alden for the moment. She swayed against Doan and said: "You're just the cutest little fella I've ever seen. Lemme help you out of your coat."
Brill stepped forward. "I'll do--"
"No! No! Lemme!"
Fumblingly, she helped Doan take off his topcoat and staggered back several steps holding it in front of her.
"Gonna--hang it up. Gonna hang the nice cute little detective's coat up for him."
She went at a diagonal across the room, missed the door by ten feet, carefully walked backward until she got a new line on it, and made it through. They could hear her in the hall, stumbling a little.
"I could use some of that," Doan said.
Brill stared at him. "Eh?"
Doan made a motion as though he were lifting a glass.
"Oh!" Brill said. "A drink! Yes, yes. Of course. Kokomo! Kokomo!"
A swinging door squeaked, and light showed through the archway opposite the entrance to the hall. Feet scraped lumberingly on the floor, and a man came in through the archway and said in a surly voice:
"Well, what?"
He had shoulders as wide as a door and long thick arms that were corded with muscle. He was wearing a white apron over blue denim trousers and a checked shirt, and he had a tall chefs hat perched jauntily over the bulging shapeless lump that had once been his left ear. He carried a toothpick in one corner of his pulpy lips, and his eyes were dully expressionless under thick, scarred eyebrows.
"Ah, yes," Brill said nervously. "Bring the whisky, Kokomo, and--and a siphon of soda."
"You want ice?"
"I've had mine tonight already," Doan said.
"No," Brill said. "No ice."
Kokomo lumbered back through the archway and appeared immediately again carrying a decanter and a siphon on a tray with a stacked pile of glasses.
Brill took the tray. "Mr. Doan, this is Kokomo--the cook and caretaker. This is the detective, Kokomo."
"This little squirt?" said Kokomo. "A detective? Hah!"
Brill said: "Kokomo! That's all!"
"Hah!" said Kokomo, staring down at Doan. He moved his big shoulders in a casual shrug and padded back through the archway. The swinging door squeaked shut behind him.
"Really, Mr. Brill," Sheila Alden said severely. "It seems to me that I have grounds for complaint about your choice of employees."
Brill threw his hands wide helplessly. "Miss Alden, I've told you again and again that our Mr. Dibben had been handling all your affairs and that he was injured when an auto ran over him and that his duties were suddenly delegated to me without the slightest warning and that he hadn't made any note of the fact that you intended to come up here.
"When you called me I had to find a man at once who would act as caretaker and cook and open this place up for you. This man Kokomo had excellent references--a great deal of experience--all that. You must admit, Miss Alden, that in spite of his uncouth appearance, he is a very good cook, and it's very difficult to get servants to come clear up here..."
Sheila Alden wasn't through. "And I don't think much of your choice of a secretary, either."
Brill lifted his hands. "Miss Greg had the very finest references. There was nothing in them whatsoever that indicated she was--ah--inclined to drink too much."
"Lonely country," Crowley said. "Brings it on. Seen it happen to a lot of chaps in Upper Burma. Probably be all right as soon as she gets back to civilization, eh? By the way, Mr. Doan, how on earth did you find this place? I mean, I got jolly well lost myself, and I can't see how a stranger could find his way here."
Doan had filled a glass half with whisky and half with soda and was sipping at it appreciatively. "The station master brought me around--not because he wanted to. He seemed a bit sour on the Alden name."
"And that's another thing!" Brill said worriedly.
"The man's a crank--dangerous. He shouldn't be allowed at large. He holds some insane grudge against Miss Alden, and he might--might... I mean, I'm responsible. I tried to talk to him, but all he did was threaten me. And those damned dogs. Mr. Doan, you had better investigate him thoroughly."
"Oh, sure," said Doan.
Brill ran thin nervous fingers through his hair, mussing up the blazed streak of white that centered it. "I don't like you coming up here in this wilderness, Miss Alden. It's a great responsibility to put on my shoulders." He fumbled in his coat pocket and brought out a shiny metal case.
Doan stiffened, his glass half-raised to his lips. "What's that you've got there?"
"This?" said Brill. "A cigar case."
The case was an exact duplicate of the one Doan had found in his pocket--his deadly present from the mysterious Mr. Smith.
Brill snapped the catch with his thumb, and the case opened on his palm, revealing the six cigars fitted into it snugly.
Doan released his breath in a long sigh. "Where," he said, clearing his throat. "Where did you get it?"
Brill was admiring the case. "Nice, isn't it? Just the right size. Eh? Oh, it was a present from a client."
"What was his name?"
"Smith," said Brill. "As a matter of fact, that's a strange thing. We have several clients whose name is Smith, and I don't know which one of them gave me this. Whoever it was just left it on my secretary's desk with a little note saying in appreciation of services rendered and all that and signed, 'Smith'--"
"What was in it?" Doan asked.
Brill looked surprise. "Why, cigars."
"Did you smoke them?"
"Well, no. You see, I smoke a specially mild brand on account of my throat. I gave the ones in the case to the janitor, poor chap."
"Poor chap?" Doan repeated.
"Yes. He was killed that very night. He had a shack on the outskirts of the city, and he was running a still of some sort there--at least that's what the police think--and the thing blew up and blasted him to bits. Terrific explosion."
"Oh," said Doan. He watched thoughtfully while Brill selected a cigar and put the case back in his coat pocket.
"Well," said Brill, making an effort to be more sociable. "Let's think of something pleasant..." His voice trailed off into a startled gulp.
The Doan and Carstairs Mysteries Page 3
