by John Creasey
‘About hair oil. How much have I got?’
‘You had a fresh consignment on July the twenty-first. There are about eleven bottles remaining.’
‘I was going to leave it to you in my will,’ said Quinion, ‘but I think you might as well have it without waiting. Don’t let me see any of it again. And then there are Egyptian cigarettes.…’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How many millions of them are left?’
‘Ten boxes of five hundred.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Quinion confidingly, ‘I fancy that they’re not being appreciated by the people who matter. I was going to bequeath them to you too, but you can have ‘em when you like. Get me some Virginia 3’s, and a fresh stock of Edgeworth for the briar.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Tally, who was not overwhelmed by his employer’s sudden generosity. He was at the door when Quinion called him back.
‘One little condition, Tally, is that you mustn’t smoke those cigarettes in my presence. I might fall from my high resolve if you tempt me.’
A little more than twenty minutes later he was sitting at a small table on the lawn of Runsey Hall, lunching contentedly with Margaret Alleyn.
The girl showed little traces of her all-night journey and the killing of Thomas Loder. Quinion made no mention of the latter until lunch was all but finished. Then, smoking a Virginia 3, he regarded his companion with a half-quizzical, half-serious gaze.
‘And now, Margaret—as a matter of fact,’ went on Quinion, ‘I’m going to call you “Gretta”; it sounds more friendly. However, we can’t dilly-dally round last night’s affair too long; people are liable to start asking questions.’
He saw her sudden apprehension.
‘It isn’t worth worrying about yet. Loder was poisonous, and the police know it, but they’ll also want to know who killed him. Now—before you speak, I want to tell you that if the authorities knew that I had found this gun with one barrel empty, they would want to know where.’
Margaret was staring wide-eyed at the dainty-looking automatic with a silver butt that Quinion was holding in his hand; there was no question but that she recognized it as her own. Yet her response was composed; and Quinion believed that, having once gained control over her emotions, she would not slip back easily into the state of collapse.
‘Where was it?’ she asked.
Quinion slipped the gun back into his pocket.
‘On the table at which you and Loder sat,’ he said quietly, ‘close to your hand.’
There was a silence which lasted for a full minute. The girl was obviously working it out in her own mind; and Quinion could have sworn that there was no suggestion of guilt in the expression of those clear, deep hazel eyes.
‘Which means,’ she said finally, ‘that I would have a difficult task in convincing anybody that I knew nothing about the shooting.’
‘More than difficult,’ Quinion said.
‘And you?’ The question shot out so quickly that it took Quinion unawares. The glowing brown eyes were fixed on his, almost challenging.
‘I am quite convinced that you did not shoot Loder, but I’m not sure that you know nothing about the shooting, nor that you are ignorant of the name of the man—or woman—who did kill him.’
There was another tense silence, which the girl broke slowly.
‘What makes you so sure that I—did not?’
Quinion puffed a cloud of grey smoke towards the smiling blue sky. They might, from appearances, have been talking of anything but the murderous topic of a cold-blooded killing. The late September air held a peaceful serenity.
‘You were sitting with Loder and looking, as he was, towards the Queen of the Clouds. He was shot full-face. It was impossible for you to shoot him from the angle at which you were sitting. I think that that one fact is convincing, besides which’—he stared at her straightly—‘I am not prepared to believe that you shot him … even if the evidence was a lot more damning!’
The expression in her eyes might have been of relief, or gratitude, or of satisfaction; Quinion believed that it was a combination of all three.
‘Thank you,’ she said simply. ‘I did not shoot Loder.’
‘Splendid!’ Quinion said. ‘I’ve been waiting for that assurance since last night. But …’
She leaned forward.
‘But what?’
‘I still think,’ opined Quinion, ‘that you’re a long time calling me Jimmy. However … these things take time. There’s another little matter that we have to touch on.…’
‘And that is?’
‘Who did kill Loder?’ demanded Quinion.
10
Talk of the Miser
FOR a third time a silence fell over the luncheon table, but it remained unbroken for much longer than before.
Quinion smoked steadily, convinced that he would learn all that Margaret could tell him of the affair in which she had become entangled, and prepared to wait until she had sorted the story out in her own mind. He spent a few minutes in asking himself for an explanation of his own attitude where it concerned the girl.
He was not, as has been seen, an unsophisticated man. He belonged to that stratum of society which had every possible assistance for the search for beauty and which achieved that beauty in no small measure. Being eligible, there had been many occasions when he was compelled to flee from the cloying company of otherwise charming young women. Not that he had always elected to fly; he was by no means impervious to charm; but hitherto his interest had been much in the nature of his interest in musical comedy; that of a sometimes enthusiastic but sometimes, and more often, completely bored spectator. His main enthusiasm had been reserved for his efforts as Number 7 in the organization of Department ‘Z’.
Now, however, in spite of his better judgment, he found himself regarding the safety and security of Margaret Alleyn the most important matter in his life.
He did not, because he could not, endeavour to explain it to himself; it had become a fact of paramount importance, and he had accepted it as such, for which reason he had offered Gordon Craigie his resignation and shown his mind with no uncertainty to Lady Gloria, the man named Smith, Reginald Chane and Peter de Lorne.
Watching the expressive face in front of him he smiled. A brief day before he would have scoffed at the idea; now …
Margaret drew in her breath, once again creating the impression that she was squaring her shoulders. Quinion’s smile became more encouraging.
‘All set?’
She flashed a smile, yet Quinion thought he detected a trace of disquiet. He made no comment, however, and the girl spoke quietly.
‘I don’t know who actually killed Loder,’ she told him, ‘but I do know who was behind the shooting. At least——’ She broke off with a short laugh, before she went on: ‘I know him by reputation. Mr. Quinn.’
‘Jimmy.’
‘Well … Jimmy … It’s so terribly complicated that I don’t know where to begin. It’s …’
‘Supposing I ask a few leading questions. Will that help?’
‘It might.’
‘There’s nothing like being non-committal,’ said Quinion. ‘We’ll have a shot at it. How long have you known Loder?’
‘Six months,’ answered Margaret.
‘Had you heard of him before you met him?’
‘Yes—at least, father spoke of him often.’
‘How long had your father known him?’
‘Five … nearly six … years. From the time that he was crippled.’
‘Has your father spoken of Loder during all that time? Or did you hear of him later?’
‘So far as I know he told me after the first time they had met.’
‘That means that your father had known Loder since the fellow came from Canada. Now … have the two men always been good friends?’
‘Well’—Margaret hesitated for a moment before answering uncertainly—‘I would hardly call them that. They had nothing in common apart from business, and each seem
ed afraid that the other would steal a march.…’
‘Hum,’ commented Quinion again. ‘Then we can say that they were anything but good friends.’ He leaned forward suddenly and spoke with an earnestness which robbed his words of all offence. ‘Gretta—I may seem impertinent, but this affair has turned badly for you. What is this business between your father and Loder?’
He realized that she had been preparing for the question, and he hated the need for forcing it. She was playing with a knife, obviously unable to keep her hands from trembling.
‘Jimmy …’ The name came out naturally, and seemed to possess a wealth of appeal. ‘It has only been during the last six months—since I met Loder—that I have known that before his illness my father traded in stolen gems.’ She broke off, eyeing Quinion anxiously to see the effect of her words. He did not seem unduly disturbed. In fact, he was smiling, a soft, consoling smile.
‘One of the nicest fellows I’ve ever met,’ he said quietly, ‘made his fortune out of the same game. It’s just another method of looking at the social system.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘His two sons are at Oxford now, and their father’s one great desire is that they never learn about his calling. They are happy enough; why shouldn’t you be?’
Her hazel eyes glowed for a moment, giving him all the thanks he needed. He shifted uncomfortably when she spoke.
‘I wonder if I shall ever be able to thank you enough for what you are doing.’
It was impossible to tell her just how much he wanted to help, for it would tell unmistakably of lack of control; moreover, it would prevent him from maintaining the attitude of independence which he knew he would have to adopt while dealing with the relationship between father and daughter. He covered his thoughts with a smile which became more confident.
‘There isn’t the slightest need for thanks,’ he assured her. ‘I could back out if I wanted to, but life has given me an inquisitive turn of mind … so I’m still in the hunt. Now, let me get things straight.
‘You first heard of Loder six years ago, after your father had been crippled, but it was not until you met poor Thomas that you knew of the “business” between them. I take it’—he spoke slowly, smiling the while—‘that Loder used the fact of your father’s activities to make you accept him as a friend?’
She answered him frankly:
‘Yes. And I detested him.’
‘Splendid!’ said Quinion approvingly. ‘Now. Were stolen jewels the extent of the activities of Loder? And of your father?’
She hesitated this time, and he smoked quietly, giving her the opportunity to arrange her thoughts.
‘No … I don’t think so. You see, during the last six months, while Loder has been at Cross Farm, both of them have been afraid of something more than interference from the police. Otherwise Loder would not have kept a dozen or more men at the Farm … and I know that all of them use revolvers. Once, when I was at the Farm, Loder was scared of something; all the doors were locked, the windows fastened, and men were stationed all about the house with instructions to shoot if necessary.
‘Then, two or three days ago, one of the men mutinied. He escaped from the Farm, but Loder knew that he had not got far away. It was the man who was killed yesterday.’
She pressed one hand against her forehead. Quinion needed no telling of the effort that she was making. For months past she had been unable to escape from the influence of Loder, and she had realized, gradually, the nature of the man and something of the plans that he had on foot. An ordeal enough to have made any girl give way under the strain. Yet—he hated himself for admitting the thought—mightn’t she have made some effort to get away? After all, there were limits to the duty owed to a father who failed in his.
She leaned forward suddenly, almost as though she had read his thoughts.
‘It’s been quite damnable! Two months ago I ran away; within three days Loder had found me. I tried again, but it was useless. For the past week or two … I have been afraid, literally afraid, to move from the cottage without asking permission. The little man who shot at you from the window has followed me everywhere.’
There was a hard expression in Quinion’s flecked grey eyes as he listened. Loder had already paid … but Mr. Arnold Alleyn and Funny Face remained to answer for their treatment of the girl. He leaned forward, covering her small hand with his.
‘Damnable is the word,’ he assured her. ‘But you can forget about it now. Loder’s gone. I’ll look after the little man, and your father.…’
He stopped suddenly. Her eyes held stark fear, yet she spoke evenly.
‘Yes, my father. I am more frightened of him than of any of the others. Loder used to think that he was the leader, but he never has been. That was the cause of the trouble between them. Recently, since Loder has been bringing his “friends” to the Cottage and father has taken part in their discussions, Loder realized that the men were taking more notice of father than of him. I’ve known that one or the other would have to die.’ She broke off with a gesture of great weariness, and it was several minutes before she resumed lifelessly. ‘Mr. Quinn … I warned you that Loder was dangerous, but compared with my father he was a toy.…’
Quinion stood up. About them a gentle breeze played softly, and fifty yards away Aunt Gloria was gazing peacefully on to the world which she knew only as a spectator. By the window a Sealyham puppy played frivolously with a staid Scotch terrier, and behind a hedge a gardener whistled a haunting melody as he worked. Peace hovered in the garden. Yet at the table there was talk of death and fear and hate.
‘Gretta,’ Quinion asked quietly, ‘can’t you let yourself relax, here, and leave everything else to me?’
He knew her answer even before she spoke.
‘No, it’s useless. I’ve known for a long time that father thinks me too dangerous, that I know too much for safety. I believe that it was only Loder who stopped him from killing me, too.…’ Her tone was so low that Quinion could scarcely hear her words, but suddenly she took on a new firmness. ‘Don’t you see, Jimmy, that if I stay here I’m bringing you into danger? I’m not imagining things. I know that father will stop at nothing. If I’m in his way, he’ll get rid of me; if you are, he’ll get rid of you. I can’t stay here. I wouldn’t be safe, and … you wouldn’t; the only chance is for me to get out of England; and I can’t do that.…’
Quinion sat down again, lighting his pipe and letting the match burn down to his fingers, watching it reflectively. Suddenly:
‘You can get out of England just as soon as you want to, Gretta. Aunt Gloria is going to the South of France within two weeks; she would love to have you with her. Please leave it to me. But I shall have to know all that you know about your father.’ He hesitated for several seconds before going on. ‘From what I can gather, you think that he had something to do with the killing of Loder.’
‘Yes, I do. But I don’t think he was the main factor. There is someone else.’
‘Who?’
She leaned forward, her attitude almost one of challenge. Quinion thought that he had never seen her more beautiful.
‘It seems madness,’ she told him quietly. ‘It is mad. But … lately, as I told you, a number of “friends” have visited father and Loder. Most of them have been foreigners. Some of them have seemed important men, prosperous and influential. All of them have been either rich or clever.’
‘Ten days ago four of them came together, and someone had to take notes of the meeting. They called me in.
‘They spoke and acted just as if they were at an ordinary company meeting. The procedure was exactly the same; Father was elected acting-chairman, in view of the absence of the real leader, but they spoke of the other man sometimes, and always called him … The Miser.’
She looked across at Quinion as though half afraid that he would laugh, but his smile was sympathetic and understanding. Had she but known it, Quinion was used to hearing the most outrageous stories whilst knowing them to be perfectly true.
‘I can’
t tell you much,’ she went on. ‘For all I could judge they might have been discussing a selling organization for butter and eggs. I had to make a list of names and addresses of men all over England, and type it out afterwards. That was all … except the way in which they always talked of the man called The Miser. They seemed afraid of him, Loder especially so. And once, when Loder was out of the room, one of them said that The Miser was attending to him. I can’t explain it, but it was horrible. Whenever they mentioned the man who was absent it seemed to make me afraid.…’
So engrossed were they in themselves that they had not noticed the small car, containing three men, which had raced along the drive of Runsey Hall, coming to a stop fifty yards away from the table. Quinion’s first realization of its arrival came with a shout from one of the men.
‘Get under cover, Jimmy … run like hell!’
It was Reginald Chane. And his companions were Peter de Lorne and the man named Smith.
11
A Burglary at Oak Cottage
‘JUST what is your latest little game, Reggie? Hide-and-seek?’ Quinion demanded.
Reginald Chane had collapsed after his exertions and leaned back in a large arm-chair, murmuring pitifully for beer, opened his eyes a little and regarded the Hon. James reproachfully.
‘Of course it isn’t. I just wanted to see you run. I wondered whether you could.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Quinion ferociously, ‘whether I shall hit you on the head with a chair or just use my fist. Of all the crazy, maniacal, thoughtless, ill-timed jokes, this latest one of yours is the golden limit. What do you think, Gretta?’
Margaret was still breathing heavily after the sudden run from the lawn into the house, but the fear which had seized her for a few moments had been dispersed by Chane’s bland assurance that the hoax had been successful. Her relief was so great that she could not share Quinion’s righteous indignation. Consequently she began to smile without answering.
‘There you are,’ said Chane. ‘By her silence she tells the world that she enjoyed the joke. Jimmy, bow down and give me best … or call for some beer.’
