by John Creasey
Not one of the three spoke, however, and the caller rapped again, impatiently.
It was time, Quinion decided, that he took some action, and he acted quickly. Gathering the arm-chair in his arms he carried it to the door which led to the office; he had noticed that it opened towards the living room; and by pushing the heavy chair against it, was able to guard against a surprise attack from Loder. Then he took his stand near the girl, first picking up the automatic which Alleyn had dropped, and standing so that the body of the dead man was hidden from sight of anyone entering at the door.
‘Now,’ he said softly, ‘you can ask your visitor in, Mr. Alleyn.’ He smiled meaningly. ‘Only don’t forget that my gun is in my pocket—and my hand is holding the gun.’
The invalid nodded. Quinion, his mind filled with a medley of thoughts, could not fail to see the tremendous personality of the sick man, making up in strength of mind, Quinion imagined, what he lacked in strength of limb.
Alleyn raised his voice.
‘Come in,’ he called. ‘You will find the door open.’
The handle turned. The girl, her nerves obviously at breaking point, shuddered a little, and Quinion grinned at her with a confidence that he did not feel. The adventure with the dog had led to a nightmarish situation which had long since been beyond his control. As near as his philosophy permitted, he prayed for luck.
He could not tell immediately whether his prayers had been answered, for the caller was a complete stranger. A tall man and thin, he was dressed in a blue lounge suit of perfect cut, toney brown shoes and trilby hat which he carried in his hand. His face was unremarkable, but a pair of blue eyes redeemed it from actual plainness. He possessed a jaw, too, which suggested considerable strength of character.
A moment’s hesitation, whilst he looked quickly at each one of the three, preceded his first words.
‘Mr. Arnold Alleyn?’
His eyes were fixed on Quinion, but that worthy motioned silently to the invalid. Alleyn was surveying the newcomer, his body hunched a little, his light-grey eyes birdlike, and his long, tapering fingers intertwining.
‘Yes. My name is Alleyn.’
The caller nodded and Quinion began to believe more strongly than ever in his luck; there was a definite antagonism in the visitor’s expression. Something akin to puzzlement crept into those fine blue eyes too.
It was not unnatural, for the attitude of the three people in the room was strained. The girl, in spite of her efforts, could not hide her tension; the invalid, although completely self-possessed, created the impression that he was listening for an expected sound, or else awaiting developments along a definite line. And Quinion was trying to watch all three—including the newcomer—whilst keeping an eye on the window for the possible reappearance of Funny Face.
‘Thank you.’ The caller was obviously nonplussed by the presence of the younger man and the girl. He seemed to deliberate as to whether it was wise to ask for an interview with Alleyn alone, but decided to introduce himself first. ‘My name is Smith, Mr. Alleyn.…’
Before Quinion had time to observe the reaction of the invalid to this unembarrassing confession, the chair which was propped against the door of the office moved. The door shook and opened a fraction of an inch, without yielding enough for anyone to see inside the room. The voice of Thomas Loder rasped out:
‘What the devil is the matter, Alleyn? Who’s holding the door?’
Quinion’s hand stretched out swiftly and closed over the invalid’s mouth. In a soft, silky voice which might have been Alleyn’s own, he answered quickly:
‘Just a minute, Loder. A chair’s slipped under the handle. I’m coming.…’
‘Then hurry. But be careful of Quinn. Is he in there?’
Quinion’s voice aped the invalid’s again.
‘No. I think he’s outside the window … wounded in the leg, Loder. I won’t be long.’
Quinion had moved now to the side of Mr. Smith. The latter’s expression was remarkably cool; it was almost, Quinion thought, as if he had been prepared for a strange reception.
The element of surprise, however, if it missed Mr. Smith, was not long absent from the room. For Quinion was startled out of his self-possession by the sudden appearance of a revolver in Smith’s lean brown hand. Quinion’s own fingers gripped the automatic in his pocket comfortingly.
‘Just what part,’ demanded Mr. Smith in an undertone, ‘do you hold in the schemes of Alleyn and Loder?’
Quinion arched his brows. He was still standing in the stranger’s line of vision, so that the body of the dead man was out of sight.
‘None, Mr. Smith, none at all, beyond the misfortune of having butted in on what appears to be a home for inebriates. I was lucky, though; I had a revolver, and it’s still in my pocket … and in my hand.’
His own flecked grey eyes were less than a yard from the clear blue ones of the newcomer. They contemplated each other for a moment, before Mr. Smith smiled slightly.
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he assured Quinion. His revolver veered round, pointing towards the door of the office, from whence proclamations of Loder’s growing impatience were plainly audible. ‘Don’t you think you could let Loder out? He likes surprises.’
Quinion nodded. He moved towards the door but a gasp from Margaret Alleyn stopped him and he looked quickly towards the window in time to see the eyes and broken nose of Funny Face above the window sill. He darted back towards the front door, speaking rapidly to the man called Smith.
‘Take my tip,’ he said urgently, ‘and get out of here while the going’s good. We’re outnumbered five to one.’
As though in support of his words the sound of heavy footsteps and muttering voices came from the office. Above them Loder’s thick tones raised in command.
‘Crash down that door. I don’t like the way things are going.’
The arm-chair shivered as the door was subjected to the impact of several hefty shoulders. Mr. Smith, to Quinion’s relief, had no hankering after mock heroics; he had opened the front door and was waiting on the threshold, his revolver held ready for emergency.
‘Start your engine,’ Quinion said quickly, ‘and keep an eye open for the man who was at the window … although I fancy he’s gone round to the back entrance. I’ll be with you in a moment.’
He looked at the girl as Smith hurried towards his car. The oak door of the office was already bulging, and Loder’s voice was still raised in profane exhortation.
‘Are you staying here?’ Quinion asked.
The girl nodded briefly. Her body was still held taut, but there was an aloofness in her eyes which puzzled Quinion. What part in the plans of Loder and her father did Margaret Alleyn play?
Alleyn’s silky voice answered him.
‘Of course, Mr. Quinn. What else could a dutiful daughter do?’
Quinion waited for nothing more. Already the panels of the oak door were splitting under the onslaught of half a dozen men.
‘Don’t forget,’ he called out over his shoulder, ‘that telephone call.…’ He was out of sight now, racing towards the small car—a Singer—at the wheel of which the man called Smith was sitting in readiness. He leapt into it. The car moved off, accelerated far more roughly than its makers intended. The two men were fifty yards along the lane which led to the main road before Quinion, looking back, saw five or six men running towards the car, and heard a dozen ineffectual revolver shots.
He grinned, remembering Loder’s vocabulary after he had been thwarted from his desire to kill the Alsatian.
‘Ten to one Mr. Blooming Loder will want a new dictionary. He would be worth hearing at the moment.’
The man called Smith darted a look at his companion. His lips were set in a thin, hard line.
‘The only thing that Loder is worth,’ he said grimly, ‘is killing and killing painfully.’
But Quinion barely heard him. He was thinking of a pair of deep hazel eyes which had so suddenly become afraid.
5
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Department ‘Z’
THE Hon. James Quinion, alias Mr. Quinn, sat in the private parlour of the Tavern, Runsey, alternately discussing strange happenings with a man named Smith and quaffing a foamy beverage looking like and tasting like the stuff called beer. An hour had passed since the two men had escaped from Oak Cottage and its murderous inhabitants, and in that time Quinion had learned many things.
He had first given Smith the full story of his adventures of the evening, leaving out nothing but the arrival of the telegram from Department ‘Z’, which meant, of course, that he had not informed his companion that he had had suspicions of Thomas Loder even before that worthy’s ferocious attack on the dog. He had explained his possession of a revolver by saying that shooting was a hobby; which was not strictly true, for shooting was very nearly his most serious business in life. The man named Smith had not been aware of the reticence, however, and had responded admirably to Jimmy’s confidences.
Smith said that he was a Canadian by birth, and it was on the occasion of one of his frequent trips to his native country that he had first met Thomas Loder. Smith was the owner of an extensive ranch in Manitoba, through which ran a small river; the river, of course, being the cause of the fruitfulness of his ranch—wheat mainly, with some cattle and orchard land. Loder had purchased a smaller farm adjacent to Smith’s, and in the latter’s absence had bribed the manager of the big farm to let his cattle graze on pasture land already too small for Smith’s own cattle. There had been a bitter struggle, a lawsuit and the complete rout of Thomas Loder. Which, in the opinion of the man named Smith, was just as it should have been. He held a very different opinion about the habit which Loder developed of rustling his cattle and driving herds through vast stretches of wheat land, completely ruining the crops.
It did not last long, of course; Loder found the country too hot to hold him, but not until he had played such havoc with Smith’s farm that the latter was forced to sell out. In consequence the Canadian began a bitter search for his enemy, who had left Canada officially for England.
Smith confessed to wanting nothing more than to achieve the complete ruination of Thomas Loder, and for several years had held on the trail, learning more and more of Loder’s habits. After a while he became convinced that the activities of the other were criminal; by chance he stumbled on to the fact that Loder had a connection of some kind with practically every town in England, always with its doubtful elements. The man named Smith decided to inform the police; on several occasions he had been nearer sudden death than he relished.
It was here that Quinion began to sit up; the police, said Smith, received him blandly, promised to investigate, and yet did nothing at all, in spite of the fact that they had been given ample evidence to convict Loder of a dozen crimes which would have put the man behind bars for seven years at least. After three interviews at Scotland Yard, Smith had decided that his only course was to keep on Loder’s trail himself, and in the course of his efforts had discovered the connection between Mr. Arnold Alleyn and the man upon whom the police looked with such benevolent eyes. Quinion knew the result of Smith’s one and only interview with Alleyn.
Quinion, having listened with flattering interest to his companion’s story, suddenly awakened to the fact that his beer had run out. The man named Smith did not conceal his irritation at Quinion’s seeming opinion that beer was more important than the story of a feud which had lasted several years, but Jimmy proceeded to allay suspicions of his sanity.
‘The fact is,’ he said confidingly, ‘I’m not used to stunts like this afternoon’s affair. I need a stimulant. But what I want to know, Smith, is the nature of Loder’s criminal habits. Does he wander about robbing people, or killing them, or does he go in for politics?’
The man called Smith grinned in spite of himself.
‘I’d be very interested myself,’ he answered finally. ‘For two years he travelled England thoroughly, and found a welcome with a certain type of lawyer and men whom the local police knew as fences. I know for a fact that he has bought and sold jewellery although fully aware that it was stolen—it was on this account that I went to Scotland Yard—but I’ve an idea that jewels are only a side-line.’
‘Why?’ interjected Quinion, from the mouth of a tankard.
The Canadian shrugged his shoulders.
‘I couldn’t have said as much six months ago, but since Loder rented Cross Farm he has made three trips to the continent—one to France, one to Western Germany and one to Moscow—and each time he has been received by influential members of the extremist parties … in Moscow he was greeted like a compatriot.’
Quinion nearly choked himself in a sudden anxiety to speak.
‘Politics!’ he spluttered finally, ‘politics! There you are, Smith, I told you so.…’
Once again the Canadian appeared to think that his companion was not treating the matter as seriously as he should do, and once again Quinion consoled him.
‘It’s like this,’ he said quietly. ‘In Runsey I have a reputation as a—well, they call me Archie. That charming damsel … the barmaid; she can’t be more than fifty-five, Smithy … is probably straining her ears to catch the lastest gem of wit from my ruby lips, and later in the evening Loder, or one of his henchmen, will probably look in and talk to the angel. “What,” he will ask, “did they talk about?” “Oh,” she will simper, “Archie was just as mad as ever! Ain’t he a scream?” Which is another way of saying that Loder or the Loderite will get little in the way of change. So if you think I’m just a little queer … put it down to that.’
Smith eyed his companion with a new respect. Quinion did not let him reflect too deeply, however.
‘All of which,’ Quinion said lightly, ‘might be all my-eye-and-Betty-Martin; but on the other hand it might not. As a personal opinion, Smith, I always prefer a two-barrel gun if I haven’t an automatic, which is another way of saying that if one don’t hit, the other might not miss. Follow me?’
Smith nodded.
‘It’s right with me,’ he commented, filling his pipe—the private parlour was thick with the smoke from two overworked briars—and eyeing Quinion steadily with his calm blue eyes.
‘You seem to have hit on Loder by chance, but it strikes me that what you’ve seen hasn’t scared you; I mean, you aren’t scared of guns and things.’
‘I revel in ‘em,’ confessed Quinion. ‘Life for me should be one scrap after another … or just one all the time; one all the time, I think; it would be more settling.’
Smith smiled.
‘That’s just it. Now, Loder is too big a handful for me alone … why not join up?’ He looked almost anxious; the task of running Mr. Thomas Loder to earth had developed along much more dangerous lines than he had anticipated, and the strain was beginning to tell.
Quinion sought courage from his tankard before answering. His expression was light-hearted and his lips were curled in a humorous line.
‘Strictly between ourselves,’ he said, ‘I’ve a hankering to see Loder in a coffin or in a cell; his methods don’t attract me, and that poor devil who was killed this afternoon needs a little avenging … forgive me if that’s melodrama. In the last few hours I’ve developed an interest which might be called feminine … I’ll explain why I say that in a minute. If I could keep in the neighbourhood for a while, I would, like a shot; but I must go up to town to-night, and my visit might last two or three days; it’s out of my hands.
‘I can manage this, however. Several of my friends in London have a yearning after the gay life and use-your-pistols, and I’ll have a chat with one or two of them in the morning. If I can’t get back myself, I’ll send them along; meanwhile, I’d like to feel that someone was close handy in case Miss Alleyn feels like telephoning to the Tavern; I told her to if things get too warm. Have I made sense?’
The Canadian nodded.
‘Yes. Although I’ll be surprised if Loder hasn’t enough for one day.’
‘That’s the way I look at it,�
� admitted Quinion. ‘Anyhow, I’m hoping that I shall be able to get back here before any more trouble starts. However, if I don’t, and if anyone pops along and says that Archie sent them, you’ll know who they are.’
‘Surest thing,’ affirmed Smith.
‘Splendid!’ Quinion emptied his tankard and stood up, eyeing his companion steadily.
‘Listen,’ he said slowly. ‘If anything happens … and no one turns up … put a trunk call through to London and ask for “Victoria Nought”. Tell whoever answers you … and don’t ask who it is, because they’ll ring off; make quite sure of that … just as much as you can; if you need help, you’ll get it.’ He extended his hand suddenly. ‘Don’t forget that one about the girl and the …’ He broke off into a cackle of laughter, his shoulders quaking as he walked to the door. The Canadian’s last vision of him was a hand chucking the chin of a grinning barmaid.
• • • • •
Three hours later, at a time when all true members of the fraternity of rich young men, of which Quinion was a prominent example, were making a final choice between the blonde at the extreme right of the chorus and the brunette in the middle; the blonde, being a trifle plumper, was getting most votes—Quinion was climbing out of a Bristol in front of a house which lay in one of the streets leading from Whitehall. He was in evening dress, and the scent of his pomade vied with the perfume of his Egyptian cigarette for the first place in horrors. A less fortunate citizen, had he seen Quinion disappearing into the doorway of the house, would have said darkly: ‘One o’ them there gamin’ plices, I betcher a dollar.’ In a measure it would have been true; the chief of Department ‘Z’ of the War Office gambled in the lives of men and of nations.
The Hon. James Quinion had no illusions; whatever mission he was sent on might easily end in death. But at the moment his chief concern was of the Egyptian cigarette, for he was convinced that if he smoked another half an inch of it he would expire.
