by John Creasey
‘Be thankful I don’t make you stand to attention,’ he said.
‘You have sent the men down to Cross Farm, haven’t you?’
‘Thirty of them, yes.’
‘Armed?’
‘Revolvers and gas.’
‘Who’s in charge?’ demanded Quinion, settling more comfortably into the swivel-chair.
‘Number Two,’ answered Craigie.
Quinion lifted his brows and puckered his lips. Number Two of the department was second only to Craigie himself, and rarely participated actively in the work on hand. Obviously the Powers That Be were fully aware of the desperate seriousness of the position; were, in fact, convinced of the necessity for prompt and thorough action.
Quinion had let his mind run on the problems during the journey from Sussex, but had found it impossible to cut and dry anything. The fact that he had been put on to the case, and that Department ‘Z’ was sparing no effort, assured him that much of the affair had been known to Craigie for some time, for Craigie was not a man to act on rumoured information. It meant, too, that incredible though the plans which he had heard put forward at the meeting of the World Council—he was already thinking of The Miser’s organization in those terms—were, the preparations had actually been made; why else should Department ‘Z’ be throwing every effort into the frustration of them? Mad, fanatically mad, as that meeting had been, with the grotesque death’s head crowning every man with a grinning portent of evil, it had been deadly serious. The Miser, with his high forehead, parchment-like skin, great amber eyes which flamed almost red at the slightest provocation, was not the leader of a fantastic band of perverted men who were aiming for something unobtainable, but was the leader of them, fantastic and perverted though they might be, aiming for an object which was already a definite possibility! The peace of every country in the world was being threatened.…
Quinion settled in the swivel-chair, eyeing his companion grimly. Gordon Craigie’s hatchet-like face was immobile save for the movement of his thin lips as the meerschaum was lifted to and fro.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘Number Two has gone down. I wouldn’t have sent him yet but for your telephone call …’ He broke off questioningly, as though demanding assurance that the call had been as imperative as Quinion had made out.
The Hon. James pursed his lips before speaking, and his flecked grey eyes took on a hardness which was rarely seen in them.
‘I’ve left de Lorne down there, but someone more used to the game will be needed. I’ll give you the whole yarn, Gordon——’
His quiet voice went on, rising a little and falling a little and always tense. He described graphically the whole of his adventures, together with Chane and de Lorne. The first raid on Oak Cottage, the apparent hopelessness of the position and the sudden, amazing turn of events. He did not place undue stress at first on the period during which he had been deaf, but his occasional references to it were more convincing than a dramatic description would have been.
Craigie sat motionless. Only twice—first when he heard of the burning of Oak Cottage, and secondly when Quinion told him of the arrival of Arnold Alleyn, did he display any emotion. On those two occasions the Hon. James could see from the way in which the meerschaum was held in the air for minutes on end that the chief of Department ‘Z’ had been surprised.
There was a silence which lasted for several minutes after Quinion had finished, and it was disturbed by a sudden yawn from the Hon. James. It took him completely by surprise, although he had been hard put to it to stifle a yawn several times during his recital. He grinned cheerfully at his friend.
‘It seems that I’m tired, Gordon.…’
Gordon Craigie’s lips puckered at the corners.
‘Really?’ he asked drily. ‘Why, you’ve had at least five hours’ sleep during the last three days!’ He got up from his chair slowly. ‘Take that collar off, Jimmy, and doze here for a bit. I’ve a number of things I want to do, but I want to talk with you before you go.’
Quinion affected a wideawake grin, but another yawn destroyed its effect. Without protest he unloosed his tie and sat in Craigie’s chair. Within two minutes he was breathing regularly, dead to the world.
Gordon Craigie stood looking down at him for nearly five minutes before turning away with a smile on his lips. Tired! What a glutton for work Quinion was! Lucky, perhaps, but Department ‘Z’ owed a great deal to the Goddess of Fortune. Craigie lifted the swivel-chair back to its position at the desk.
He was still sitting in it, writing swiftly, when the harsh ringing of the telephone bell disturbed Quinion’s slumbers. He opened his eyes, and watched his chief lift the receiver and speak quietly. He was talking for five minutes before he finished. Then he stepped across the room.
‘Awake, Jimmy?’
Quinion yawned and stretched his great arms above his head.
‘What news?’
‘It’ll keep for a few minutes,’ said Craigie quietly. ‘I want to talk about The Miser for a bit.’
‘Carry on,’ invited Quinion, reaching for his cigarettes. ‘Anything about that laddie is well worth knowing.’
‘Yes.… Very well worth knowing, especially his identity. That’s your next job, old boy—discovering who The Miser is.’ He paused for a moment, and Quinion regarded him idly. ‘It’s like this. I know a number of the men behind this scheme; I heard Hessley was in it somewhere three or four weeks ago, and that little curse, Tunn, and Kretterlin. I didn’t know Brundt was in it, but I half suspected him, and I had no idea at all of Hatterson’s connection, nor Asterling’s. And I didn’t know just how far the plans were prepared. Now that I do know, and we’ve got the date that they reckon to start the little game, I’m far happier. But I’ve been worried—very worried.
‘It’s September the twenty-third now, and that gives us ten days, providing they stick to October the third for the first move; as a matter of fact, they will probably make it earlier, now that they know some of their plans have been overheard —but three days is all we want to smash them—providing I can find who the leader is. This Miser has been haunting us for years. I’ve heard rumours of him, but have never been able to find anything certain. Once he is out of action the others will fade away; but we must get The Miser.
‘I’ve just heard from Number Two. He raided Cross Farm at five o’clock this morning, first with gas and then with twenty men. All they found was the man who had been shot; every other man jack of them had got clear.’
He paused for a moment and Quinion broke in:
‘Quick work, Gordon. The Miser may be old, but he’s not slow.’
‘It’s quick all right, but it has points. They couldn’t have cleared out like that if they hadn’t somewhere else to go, and if they’ve gone to a definite place it will be easier to pick them up again. I’ve half a dozen possible rendezvous; you can have a cut at them all—providing you’ll take the job on, Jimmy.…’
Craigie’s thin lips were fixed in one straight line as he looked down at his friend. Quinion wondered for a second whether it was a leg-pull, but the other’s seriousness was beyond question.
‘Of course I’ll take it on.’
The chief of Department ‘Z’ shook his head slowly and Quinion looked at him in amazement. What the deuce was biting Craigie?
‘The last time you were here,’ said the latter, ‘you offered me your resignation. Because of the girl. I can’t put you on this job unless you’re prepared to let everything else go.’
‘So that’s the trouble, is it?’ Quinion demanded. ‘Well—Margaret’s safe enough now with Aunt Gloria.’
He broke off, suddenly apprehensive. There was an expression in Craigie’s eyes which he had never seen before; the chief of Department ‘Z’ seemed to have something which it was difficult to talk about. God! Surely nothing had gone wrong at Runsey Hall?
He went on slowly, eyeing his friend closely for the least sign that he had hit the target.
‘I’ve fixed up with the two
women to get across to France to-day. Colonel Cann is going with them.’ He broke off again, his flecked grey eyes blazing. ‘For God’s sake, Gordon, what’s happened?’
‘I had a message from de Lorne when Number Two telephoned—a message for you.’
‘Let’s have it,’ said Quinion. He wished Craigie would get it off his mind. Damn it, what had happened? ‘Get it out.…’
‘Steady,’ repeated Craigie with maddening calm. ‘It was actually from Lady Gloria Runsey—de Lorne called at the Hall in response to a telephone message to the Tavern—it seems that Lady Gloria is worried about Miss Alleyn.…’
Quinion’s teeth snapped together suddenly. He had been afraid of that—only by telling himself unreasoningly that it could not be anything the matter with Gretta had he been able to evade bursting out with her name to Craigie. He could feel himself going white.
‘Why?’ The word was rapped out with the agony of his mind behind it. ‘Go on, Gordon!’
‘She went to bed before midnight,’ said Craigie slowly, ‘but when Lady Gloria went to see her just after one o’clock she was gone!’
20
Quinion Makes a Decision
QUINION felt stunned. Although the possibility of something happening to Margaret Alleyn had been at the back of his mind since the moment that he had left Runsey Hall, he had constantly refused to recognize the likelihood of it. Now that it had happened it was doubly a shock. He seemed unable to think, or speak. For a full minute there was such an expression in his eyes that made Craigie long to avert his gaze. Faced with personal calamity, Quinion’s senses seemed to desert him completely, save the sense of hurt. His mind seemed clouded with an all-pervading darkness.
He broke through it suddenly with an effort that cost him more than anything else in his life.
‘Just that?’ he demanded. ‘Nothing more?’
‘Just that,’ confirmed Craigie. ‘The hall has been searched thoroughly, but there’s no trace of her.’
Quinion kept silent for a full minute. Then he looked squarely at Craigie.
‘Let me talk for ten minutes, will you?’ he asked quietly. ‘I want to straighten this out, if I can.’
‘Carry on,’ said Craigie.
Quinion weighed his words for a moment, while he sought automatically for his pipe. He took the pouch which Craigie passed, filled his pipe and lit it without realizing properly what he was doing. He wanted to straighten it out … if he could. No, not if he could; he was going to straighten it out; he had to.
As he started to speak, his words came jerkily and his sentences were spasmodic, but gradually he gained control of himself and spoke more naturally. Craigie uttered no word and made no sign throughout the whole time.
‘I know that Alleyn is frightened of his daughter. She knows too much, and after to-night it was doubly dangerous. I fancy that he or The Miser realized that her knowledge and mine put together would have the whole plan at our mercy. I don’t think there’s much doubt about that. She knows something, although she may not know that she knows it—you get what I mean?—which, coupled with mine, would probably bust the whole show.
‘Well—what is it? To-night I learned everything, practically, apart from the identity of The Miser. You tell me that is the most important thing left; well, we can take it that they think so too; so we can assume fairly safely that she could weigh in with the knowledge or a clue that would give us the knowledge. That’s pretty sure.…’
He hesitated for a moment to light his pipe, which had gone out. Craigie was thankful, for the action said more than any words could have done; it meant that Quinion was getting back to normal.
‘All right,’ went on Quinion. ‘The next thing is to find where she’s gone. It’s fairly safe to say that someone broke into the Hall and overpowered her. Say what you like, Gordon, but I know that she would not have gone willingly. Alleyn or The Miser engineered it, but where did they take her? We don’t know and there’s the possibility that they murdered her straight away.’ The words were so low that Craigie barely heard them; Quinion’s face, which had regained some of its usual colour, blanched again. He took an obvious hold of himself, however, and went on more firmly: ‘I don’t think that’s likely. It’s more probable that they will think her useful as a hostage … and try to work her safety against my knowledge. Right. Then we’re back at the question, where is she now?
‘And it’s there that I’m going to work on a hunch, crazy though it sounds. I’m going to work on the Café of Clouds. Alleyn owns it, and although he told Chane so, he probably isn’t aware that Chane passed the knowledge on to me; Reggie would certainly say that he hadn’t. The other thing is … the Queen of the Clouds. That gramophone record wasn’t just chance, Gordon; somewhere in the business of The Miser and his World Council the Queen of the Clouds holds a mighty strong hand. I’m going to run that hunch … and if I’m not a long way out in my working, we’ll get a line on The Miser through the Café.’
He stopped for a moment and looked questioningly at the chief of Department ‘Z’; Craigie made no sign. Quinion went on, his voice hard:
‘Nothing will stop me carrying it through, Gordon. If the Department doesn’t think the idea worth running, I’ll drop out and do it myself; but … the position now has developed into a battle between individuals. You have all the knowledge that you need to stop, or try to stop, the plans materializing, but until you have The Miser you can’t be sure. The Miser realizes that too, and is working on the effect of having Margaret Alleyn to stop me from chasing him out. Of course, he knows that I can have passed everything on, but he also knows that there are some things that I can’t explain … his voice, for instance, and the way his eyes change from amber to red; I would recognize them in a flash, but anyone working on second-hand knowledge would be less sure.
‘Right. You’ll grant me that I’m more likely to be able to find The Miser than anyone else in the Department. Let me carry on. I know that you’re afraid that if I get any news of the girl I’ll drop The Miser’s trail and fasten on to hers … but you must see that before I can get her I shall have to get The Miser. It’s a hundred to one on that—and it’s worth a gamble, Gordon—isn’t it?’
Gordon Craigie’s eyes searched the flecked grey of Quinion’s. He knew the truth of Quinion’s statement that he was in a better position to search out The Miser than anyone else. It was certainly worth a gamble.
He sat on the arm of his chair, thinking out his words. Quinion eyed him anxiously. He knew that to work without the Department’s support would be well-nigh impossible … and his mind was seething with the tremendous need for finding Gretta. Nothing must get between him and his object … only Craigie could hamper him.
‘I’ll give you forty-eight hours to work where you like,’ said Craigie slowly. ‘After that, if you haven’t progressed, you’ll have to drop out, or else work to my instructions. Is that good enough?’
Quinion nodded at once. The words of the chief of Department ‘Z’ gave him all the chance that he needed; for a moment he felt exhilarated, and his arm reached out to bang Craigie’s stooping shoulders.
‘Good enough? Why, I’ll wheel The Miser to you in a bathchair inside twenty-four hours!’
Then he frowned. Something flashed across his mind—the solution to one of the little problems that had puzzled him for some time. The mental image that he had made of the gaunt figure of The Miser being pushed along in a wheel-chair had made him connect the leader of the World Council with Arnold Alleyn.
‘Damn me for a lunatic!’ he burst out. ‘Gordon, I knew that I’d heard The Miser’s voice before.… When Alleyn forgot to be polite he sounded just like The Miser … Alleyn and The Miser …’ he stopped suddenly. For a moment he had run away with the idea that the two men were one and the same; but for Alleyn’s bursting in on the meeting of the Council he would have been sure of it; but both men had been present at the same time.
Craigie’s dry voice broke in on his thoughts.
‘I
t doesn’t work out, Jimmy.…’
But the Hon. James’s mind had been working at top speed. When he had seen Alleyn, or the man he had thought to be Alleyn, in the Buick car he had caught only a glimpse of him. When Alleyn had burst into the room at Cross Farm, one side of his face had been terribly mutilated. He might easily have been a man with a striking resemblance to Alleyn.
There was another point, too, even more convincing. Alleyn was an invalid … almost unable to walk and usually pushed about in a chair; The Miser’s movements had been those of a man who was infirm in body … Quinion remembered those slow, deliberate footsteps down the stairs. Against this, the man who had burst in at Cross Farm had been in a bad way, but he had been sound enough on his feet.
‘It may not,’ said Quinion suddenly, in answer to Craigie’s interruption, ‘but on the other hand, it may be a lot more likely than you think, Gordon. Listen.…’
He put his thoughts into words, and as he did so became even more convinced in his own mind that the man in the Buick and the wounded man who had betrayed his, Quinion’s, identity at Cross Farm were one and the same … but not Arnold Alleyn. That crippled invalid and The Miser were identical.
Then he remembered suddenly that Alleyn’s eyes were a queer, light grey.…
21
Reginald Chane Reappears
THE notoriety which had fallen over the Café of Clouds had not affected the numbers of its clientele. In actual fact, it had had little effect on the quality, although a number of the people had avoided it after the shooting of Thomas Loder. It still remained, however, the most popular rendezvous for supper, dance and cabaret after the show, and London’s stage celebrities were seldom missing.
Nothing had altered since Quinion’s last visit, for although it was only three days since he had been there it seemed years, and the same illusion of sky and clouds had the same picturesqueness, and the same exquisite melodies from the same orchestra lulled the senses into a state of soporific listlessness which was aided by the heavy wines and the exoticism of the dances.
