by John Creasey
De Lorne, following his friend’s gaze, could vaguely make out the figure of a man approaching the farm from the direction of the main road. It was Smith, however, who whispered next.
‘He’s rolling, Quinn. He’s drunk!’
The man was getting closer to them, and Quinion, patting the Canadian congratulatory on the back, saw that the man was reeling from side to side; as he came closer—he would have to pass them to reach the farm—they heard an unmistakable hiccup.
‘Completely oiled,’ murmured Quinion. ‘And, by Jove, it’s Funny Face. Let him get ten yards ahead, then follow him.…’
Between his hiccups and his continual efforts to control his legs, which refused to act normally, Funny Face was muttering to himself. As he passed them they heard him cursing volubly.
‘Alleyn … whose ‘e? Whose hanyone what’s got the nerve … hic! steady, boy … hic … damn! … whose ‘e? Whose telling me not to … drink? Hi … Hi woan stan’ fer it …’
He reeled past, and Quinion stepped out of the shadows behind him, followed by de Lorne and Smith. Quinion realized that it might prove a heaven-sent opportunity for breaking into Cross Farm. He held the others back for a moment.
‘If there’s half a chance, de Lorne and I are going in. Smithy, you keep out here and watch for things to happen. If we’re not out by half-past twelve, go back to the Tavern and telephone Victoria Nought.’
They walked swiftly to catch up with Funny Face, who was making still greater efforts to force his legs to meet Mother Earth. Peering ahead, Quinion saw the man’s right hand dipping into his pocket. It was impossible to see what he brought out, but the Hon. James would have wagered that it was a key.
Funny Face walked round the front of Cross Farm towards the back of the large, rambling house. He was still cursing and muttering, and Quinion felt safe in getting within four or five yards of him. With de Lorne—Smith had stopped behind—Quinion followed their quarry into the small, unkempt garden which surrounded them, and were with him as he poked uncertainly at the keyhole.
‘Now!’ breathed Quinion. He reached out and for a second time in two days hit Funny Face heavily on the head with the butt of his revolver. The drunken man gasped and sank down inert. The key hit the stone slab of the porch with a metallic tinkle.
‘Pick him up,’ exhorted Quinion sotto voce, ‘and carry him out to Smith.’
In less than a minute de Lorne had carried the unconscious man to the waiting Smith, and was back with Quinion. The latter inserted the key in the door carefully, and pushed it open gently.
The room into which they crept was in complete darkness, and Quinion was not disposed to use the torch which he always carried until he was more sure of the location of the other doors. Stepping forward with the silence of a cat, he found himself touching a large table. It was about four yards from the door, at which de Lorne was standing motionless, and Quinion, hazarding a guess that the table would be in the middle of the room, imagined that room was about eight yards across. Too large for a scullery, he decided, and yet not large enough for the living room of a farmhouse.
Still without a light, he sidled forward until he touched the wall opposite the door. It was strange that he did not hit against any kind of furniture, apart from the table.
Without a sound he made a complete circuit of the four walls. The one door which he found was in the corner of the room to the left of the door which led into the garden. Still puzzled, for he had not banged against anything at all on his round, he placed his back to the corner and switched on his torch. They were fairly safe from intrusion from inside the house now that the door was located.
The narrow beam of light stole slowly round the room. It was larger than he thought, and there were several chairs and another small table. He noticed that the table was covered with a white cloth, on which stood half a loaf of bread. It was impossible to make a thorough survey, of course, but on the whole it was in keeping with what he imagined—it was not a general living room, but one which was furnished with a semblance of comfort for the benefit of any stray caller. Quinion was fairly sure that Loder, during his tenancy, had not wanted it generally known that there were a dozen or more men living at Cross Farm.
De Lorne stepped softly towards his friend, who switched the torch out as the other reached his side.
‘What now?’ whispered de Lorne.
Quinion turned round.
‘We’re going further into the den,’ he whispered. ‘Have you left the other door open?’
‘Ajar.’
‘We’ll leave this one like it too.’
He noticed that the hinges of the door did not squeak as it opened slowly, and he grimaced with satisfaction, which was increased when he saw that the room or passage ahead was in darkness. Apparently the occupants of Cross Farm did not live in the back quarters.
Listening carefully to make sure that no one was approaching, he switched his torch on for a second. The small, bright circle of light which appeared on the wall less than two yards ahead told him that they were in a passage. Sweeping the beam of light round, he saw that it ended a foot or two to the right; they would have to turn left.
The passage was a short one, and turned both right and left a few yards along. Quinion judged that if he went left he would find himself in the rear of the house again, and he was anxious to find the rooms which were likely to be inhabited. Consequently, he nudged de Lorne, and the two men crept stealthily towards the right.
There was another short passage, turning half right this time, and showing Quinion just that for which he had been looking. So far as he could see there were three doors leading from it, for cracks of light appeared on the floor beneath them.
Quinion gripped his friend’s arm warningly.
‘Keep close against the wall,’ he whispered, ‘and don’t lose any time in getting past the doors. We should reach the main hall at the end of this passage—then we shall be able to find the stairs. We want a complete lay-out of this place in our minds, so that we shall know our way about.’
He stopped quickly, pressing himself close against the wall. From one of the doors there came the sound of a handle being turned. For a breathless second the two men waited, expecting every moment to be shown up in bright relief by the light from the opening door, but a murmur of voices, coming clearer as the door opened wider, relieved their minds.
‘Fetch it later.’ The voice was gruff and uneducated. The room was one of the living rooms for Loder’s gang of thugs, thought Quinion. A second voice, clearer, and obviously that of the man who was opening the door, answered back.
‘Why the hell don’t you think first, Chevvers? You always were——’ The sentence was chopped off short as the door closed. De Lorne heaved a husky sigh of relief.
‘We’re asking for it,’ he whispered. ‘Are you sure it’s worth it?’
‘I’m sure it might be,’ Quinion answered. ‘Don’t be such a Jonah.’
They were creeping towards the end of the passage, and passed the two remaining doors without further disturbance. At the end, they found themselves faced with a closed door, from the bottom of which came a gleam of light.
‘We’ve walked thirty-five yards,’ muttered the Hon. James, ‘and I’ll swear that Cross Farm doesn’t stretch any further. That leads into the main hall.’
‘Going in?’ queried de Lorne.
‘Yes. Be ready to make a dash for the front door.’
As he had expected, the door opened easily to Quinion’s touch. Opening it two or three inches, he looked into the room beyond. So far as he could see it was empty, although a large chandelier hung in the ceiling, spreading a bright light and showing the luxurious furnishing in all its glory.
‘I win,’ murmured the Hon. James. ‘That’s the front hall—and Thomas Loder spent a great deal of cash in fitting it out too. A couple of yards to the right there’s a large settee standing a foot or so from the wall. It’ll give us cover if we need it. Come on.’
It was t
ouch and go whether they would reach the shelter of the settee before a door at the top of a flight of wide stairs opened more fully. Quinion saw it moving and crouched down, pulling de Lorne with him. They stayed there for several seconds, scarcely daring to breathe. Unsighted, they could hear the slow, deliberate footsteps of the man who was walking down the stairs. The very deliberation which the newcomer displayed convinced Quinion that neither he nor de Lorne had been seen. Easing his great body round, he was able to see the foot of the staircase and that part of the hall which led from the stairs to a massive front door. A heavy curtain, although helping to make their hiding place secure, obscured Quinion’s line of vision.
He found himself clenching his teeth suddenly, and his hand, clutching the foot of the settee, tightened automatically as he saw the man for the first time.
A name, which he had first learned through Margaret Alleyn, flashed through his mind.
The Miser! …
Quinion remembered, foolishly, a stage portrayal of Shylock as he looked at the tall, spare frame of the man. He was clad in an ordinary suit of evening dress, but no clothes could have altered the parchment-like face, with its thousands of lines, some mere creases on the skin and others deep and scored, as though with a knife. A high, domed forehead was topped with straggling grey hair which seemed to have ignored the attention of brush and comb for years. The very incongruity of the man’s hair in its disorder, and the immaculate perfection of his evening dress was startling. But that lined face, with its yellow skin looking for all the world like old parchment, compelled Quinion’s gaze. The latter found himself staring, as though hypnotized, at two great eyes which were brown and yet gleamed almost red.
The Miser.…
16
The Miser Speaks
QUINION shifted his gaze with an effort. There was something at once terrifying and yet fascinating about those glowing, reddish-brown eyes, which seemed to be gazing into his own. Relaxing a little to ease the strain on his arms, he found himself shivering; his shirt was sticking uncomfortably to his skin. It was not the first time since he had rescued the dog from Thomas Loder that he had experienced the unfamiliar sensation of fear which had overwhelmed him as he stared at the man whom he was sure was The Miser.
The old man was walking slowly across the hall, and Quinion, who had been able to see all the means of egress when he had made his first quick glance round, felt fairly certain that he was going towards the room which opened from the hall to the right of the settee. Easing himself round again he managed to see the slow, deliberate, and yet unwavering footsteps of the old man. It was from an awkward angle, for he could only look beneath the settee, but he saw the gleaming patent shoes stop, and heard the handle of a door turning. Then he could see the door opening inwards.
A confused murmur of voices reached his ears. It was obvious that the room into which The Miser was walking was not empty. Several chairs scraped, the murmuring increased, and then, as the heel of the old man’s shoe passed out of Quinion’s sight, a silence followed. The door closed before Quinion heard any further sound.
For several minutes the two men stayed behind the settee without speaking. Then de Lorne inquired, with a plaintive whisper, whether it wasn’t possible for Jimmy to take most of his foot off his, de Lorne’s, nose.
Removing his foot, Quinion worked himself into a sitting position, with his legs beneath the settee.
‘Quite like home, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘Feeling comfortable?’
‘I haven’t been comfortable for five minutes on end since you dragged me out of the Café of Clouds,’ de Lorne grumbled.
‘Stop grousing or I’ll put my foot on your nose again. Peter, did you see him?’
‘I saw a pair of patent shoes,’ admitted de Lorne grudgingly, ‘but the rest of everything was hidden behind that size twelve foot of yours.’
‘I only take elevens. Peter, unless I’m mistaken, those patent shoes clad the great feet of the Big Noise of Loder’s little outfit.…’
‘Seriously?’
‘Of course I’m serious. What’s worrying me is, how can we get into that room without being seen or heard?’
‘Why not take a squint upstairs while the old devil’s gone? It was an old man, wasn’t it?’
‘Very old,’ said Quinion glibly. ‘Twice as old as Methuselah.’
‘You’re lying again,’ accused de Lorne. ‘What I was about to say, is …’
‘You mean “was”,’ interrupted Quinion pedantically. ‘It’s quite a sound idea. We might learn a lot from upstairs, but on the other hand, I’m mighty curious as to what’s going on in that room. Listen. There’s the front door, the door at the top of the stairs, two more along the passage up there and the one we’ve just come through, as well as the one through which our friend with the feet went so gaily. That means that we can be surprised and surrounded easily, but, with The Miser about …’
‘The who?’ demanded de Lorne.
‘The Miser,’ repeated Quinion firmly. ‘I’ll tell you all I know about him later on, but at the moment you’ll have to be satisfied by thinking of that pair of patent shoes and calling their owner The Miser. As I was saying, while he’s about I’ve a kind of idea that none of the lesser fry will walk into the hall. Don’t ask me why; it’s a pure and simple hunch, but I stand or fall by it. Now then. Sit tight in—or on—this settee, and play with your gun. You can keep an eye on all the doors and lead that easy life that you’re hankering after at the same time.’
‘What are you going to do?’ demanded de Lorne.
‘I’m going to glue my eye to that keyhole for a minute,’ said Quinion with decision, ‘and when I’ve got the lay of the land, I’m going to try to open the door an inch or two.’
‘You’re crazy!’ opined de Lorne, standing up and stretching his legs. ‘Take my tip, and leave well alone.’
‘If you think this is “well”,’ returned the Hon. James, rubbing his arm gently to restore circulation, ‘I wouldn’t like you for a doctor. By the way, you have got a silencer on that gun of yours, haven’t you?’
De Lorne nodded, offering Quinion his squat, ugly-looking automatic for inspection. Quinion glanced at it.
‘Good. Don’t worry about killing anyone. All the lads of this little shanty have asked for it more than once. And don’t fall asleep on the couch, or I’ll punch your nose.’
He grinned and stepped softly across the thinly carpeted hall towards the door through which The Miser had disappeared. Kneeling down, he looked through the keyhole.
Since first hearing of the affair in which Thomas Loder had been an active agent, the Hon. James Quinion had received many shocks. Nonetheless, the sight which now met his eyes made him draw in his breath in stupefaction.
He had a fairly clear view of the profile of the gaunt old man whom he thought to be The Miser, of whom Margaret Alleyn had spoken so fearfully and who had filled him, for a few seconds, with a fear akin to dread. The Miser was sitting at the head of a large table—Quinion could only see part of it—along the sides of which were arranged stiff-backed chairs occupied by men who were all dressed in the manner of The Miser himself: formal evening clothes. There was one big difference, however; each man, including the man at the head, wore a hat. …
Quinion, describing it afterwards, said that he didn’t know whether to call it a hat, or a crown, or what. Actually it was more like a crown, a gruesome, grinning, spectre-like creation of a death’s head.
‘I could see seven of them,’ he told Gordon Craigie later in the night. ‘Seven seemingly sane and almost respectable citizens in evening dress, and all crowned with that damnable skeleton face … damn it, Gordon, it gave me the jim-jams! And I was just about to throw a faint when de Lorne tapped me on the shoulder.’
Quinion had, in fact, been oblivious of everything save the sight of those grinning heads and the mad gathering at the table. When de Lorne touched him lightly on the shoulder he spun round with a muttered imprecation. Seeing Peter, he grinne
d weakly.
‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve just seen an improvement on Madame Tussaud’s.’
‘Forget it,’ exhorted de Lorne urgently. ‘One of the doors upstairs is wide open.’
Quinion glanced swiftly round the hall, and decided that a pair of heavy velvet curtains which hung over the front door afforded more comfortable and safer shelter than the settee. He motioned to it, and hid swiftly behind the curtains, leaving a crack through which he could see into the hall.
But for his sudden touch on de Lorne’s arm, the latter would probably have given their presence away as two men walked from the room upstairs and began to make their way slowly downwards. They were carrying a trolley-tray laden with decanters and a dozen glasses. It was their dress, however, which nearly made de Lorne cry out, although after his brief sight inside the room downstairs, Quinion was prepared for anything.
Both men, obviously servants, were dressed from head to foot in a flowing robe on which was painted that same grinning death’s head. Even Quinion, prepared though he was, shuddered. There was something horrible about the whole business, something … ghoulish.
Quinion, taking a chance, whispered urgently:
‘Directly they reach the floor, step out and show them that gun of yours. Use it if necessary. Get towards the settee, so that they’re both looking at you and away from me, and I’ll get behind the blighters and clout ‘em.’
He had scarcely finished talking than the two men reached the bottom step of the stairs. Directly the trolley-tray was safely deposited on the floor, de Lorne stepped from his hiding place. He was half way across the hall before either of the men saw him, and the threatening revolver choked back the cry that sprang to their lips.
‘Stand away from the tray,’ ordered de Lorne in a whisper.
The servants stood side by side, looking uncertainly at the man with the gun. They had no idea that anyone was behind them until one felt a blow on the back of his head and sank down with a grunt. The second was held in a grip of iron, and a vast hand was pressed over his mouth.
