by John Creasey
Quinion, sitting at the same table as before, cast his eye upon the numberless tinsel-pretty women, the occasional beauty, and the dozens of weak-chinned, vacant-eyed youths. He wondered idly whether he disliked those youths more than the ancients who vied with them for the privilege of escorting the women, and decided that he did; after all, the old men had probably aimed for something better at one time or other; the youths—Quinion steadfastly refused to call them men—seemed to have little more ambition than to sit, often tight in more ways than one, at the tables of places like the Café of Clouds and whisper insincere declamations of eternal love. A loathsome gathering, thought Quinion. He said as much.
‘Agreed,’ commented de Lorne without much enthusiasm. ‘Y’know, Jimmy, I haven’t a ghost of an idea why you’ve come back to this hole. It never was much to shout about, but now …’
‘Now we’ve something more tasty to sample,’ completed the Hon. James, ‘it seems more than ever a waste of time. Quite true, Peter; it does seem so … but it isn’t. There’s much to do.’
He looked across the room towards the table at which Loder and Margaret Alleyn had sat on the night of the shooting. Three or four optimistic wenches caught his eyes and smiled at him through the haze of smoke. He grinned back automatically, and averted his eyes as quickly as he decently could. He cursed them mentally; they interrupted his train of thought, and he was trying to work out the secret of the shooting of Thomas Loder.
He was quite convinced that the man had been shot by someone either on the dais which held the orchestra, or behind it. The one other possibility lurked at the back of his mind, but he found it difficult to fit in. None the less it was with the latter theory that he played as he looked towards the small circle of white-painted flooring which opened outwards when the Queen of the Clouds appeared.
Had the Queen of the Clouds shot Thomas Loder?
Several times he had convinced himself that she had, only to reject the impression because he could find no real reason; for that matter, of course, there was no reason why anyone should have shot him, unless they had been instructed by The Miser.
What was the connection between The Miser, Arnold Alleyn and the Queen of the Clouds? Once he had discovered it Quinion was confident that he would discover, too, the identity of the former; but he was a long way from discovering it. For that matter he was a long way from finding anything which might put him in touch with The Miser, and thus Margaret Alleyn. And he had only thirty hours left with the support of Department ‘Z’.
The time which had elapsed had not been wasted. He had payed a flying visit during the day to Runsey Hall, and talked for an hour with Lady Gloria and Colonel Cann. The latter, apparently susceptible to the charm of beauty, had called at the Hall, seen Margaret, and at once assured Lady Gloria that the young cub might have something in him after all. Moreover, he had offered to go with the two women to France, as Jimmy was so apprehensive of the consequences of Margaret Alleyn remaining in England.
Quinion had learned nothing more of the disappearance of the girl, however, although Lady Gloria confirmed his belief that she had, in some way which defied explanation at the moment, been taken out of the Hall by force.
Back in London, Quinion had had another, shorter talk with the chief of Department ‘Z’. Without disclosing his actual plans, he had arranged to have at least two dozen men waiting for his call; they would be able to reach anywhere within ten miles of Whitehall inside half an hour. Then the Hon. James had worked out his plan of campaign, and as the dancer in the native costume of the South Sea Isles started the whirling flurry of her dance, he began to explain it, sotto voce, to the patient Peter de Lorne.
‘Between you and me, Peter,’ he said confidingly, ‘I fancy this café could do with a couple of rockets plumped right on top of it; but not just yet; I want to have a look round behind the scenes.
‘When the Queen comes out of that hole in the floor, I’m going to be at a table right near her; you see that empty one? I’ve reserved it under another name, and soon I’m going to collar it. The lights will go down soon, and the only one left will be the spotlight on the Queen.
‘When she moves away from the hole in the floor, I’m going to slip behind her and let myself down. Yes, I know it’s crazy’—he smiled as de Lorne let forth a gasp of incredulity —‘but I’ve been near that hole before; there’s no one beneath that I can see, and it’s open the whole time that our songster wanders round the room. There’s crowds of time. You’ll be sitting at the table, and if you don’t see me back … I shall be able to haul myself up, if necessary … you can take it for granted that I’m having the time of my life; if there looks like being any fuss when I get down there, I’ll pull a gun and let it go off; only if you hear a shot must you start any rescue work. Got me?’
‘Got you,’ announced de Lorne dazedly. ‘I’ve got you for the biggest damned fool I’ve met in my life, and I’ve met some, Jimmy. Now look here …’
‘Look here my hat!’ interrupted Quinion. ‘I’ve told you what I’m going to do, Peter. Now wait a minute.
‘If I get down into that place and manage to dig out the information that I’m after without getting into the cart myself, I’ll be at your flat by three o’clock. If I’m not there, telephone Victoria Nought, and tell whoever answers that Number Seven wants the Café of Clouds raided as quickly as possible, and raided thoroughly. The same applies if you hear a shot soon after I get down there; leave me to carry on until after you’ve arranged for the shanty to be raided. All clear?’
Peter de Lorne regarded his friend with an expression which conveyed the thought that he opined Quinion, his plans, his mind, his optimism, and his forbears little short of raving mad. He rested the tips of his fingers on Quinion’s lean brown hand.
‘You’re bug-house!’ he said firmly. ‘For the love of Aunt Mary, drop it and try a new one, Jimmy. Why, you lunatic, it’s thousands to one against you ever getting clear if the people here are in league with The Miser.’
Quinion pushed his nose into a tankard of beer.
‘To all of which,’ he said unkindly, ‘once more, hat, Peter. You’d be surprised just how much a little drop of bluff dulls the brightest intellect … and I’m going to do some bluff. You see …’ He leaned forward suddenly, and passed his fingers through de Lorne’s immaculately groomed hair. ‘You see, The Miser knows Mr. James Quinn, but he don’t know the Hon. James Quinion.’
He was still grinning, howbeit vacantly, as though rapidly sinking from sobriety; the glazed expression in his eyes caused several observant damsels to nudge their partners, and they were rewarded when the Hon. James calmly added the contents of de Lorne’s wineglass to his own tankard of beer and solemnly blew at the imaginary froth. Then he placed one unsteady hand on de Lorne’s shoulder.
‘You see, Peter, I’m drunk! You may not think so, but everybody else in the room who has looked this way during the past three minutes is convinced of it. And I want them to be convinced … especially the waiters. Because they’ll tell the manager, and the manager will pass the glad news on, with the request that I be dealt with diplomatically, because I’m an important kind of cuss. Get the idea?’
‘It’s dawning gradually,’ answered de Lorne, gently but firmly disengaging Quinion’s fingers from his hair. ‘But do you have to maul me about quite like this?’
Quinion nodded solemnly.
‘Absolutely! Local colour, my hearty, local colour!’ He tweaked de Lorne’s nose, to the delight of a dozen onlookers, who were hugging themselves at the impromptu turn. ‘Look at ‘em, Peter; they’re falling for it by the dozen. Listen. If the bloke named Quinn were to drop in he’d be in for a nasty time … but the bloke named Quinn is a down-at-heels kind of loafer. If the Hon. James Quinion, known to be drunk, is found wandering about beneath the hole in the floor, he’ll just be led gently away … but he won’t be socked. And if the thing comes off, I might be able to wander about down there and find a great number of useful things. It’s a
gamble.’
‘A gamble!’ declaimed de Lorne, ostentatiously moving a magnum of champagne from Quinion’s reach. ‘It’s crazy, stark crazy.…’
Quinion shook his head belligerently. Two dozen watchers confounded the fact that the lights were going down and they would not be able to see the further antics of the social lion. To have seen them would have been well worth missing the Queen of the Clouds. But the movable section of the floor was already open, and the spotlight was directed towards the Queen’s dazzling head-dress.
‘I’m not crazy,’ said the Hon. James with assurance. ‘I’m just drunk, Peter! Now … the first thing, if there’s any trouble, is to call up Victoria Nought. Keep it well in mind.’
Apart from that one beam of light which was playing on the exquisite beauty of the Queen of the Clouds, and the dimmed, diffused gleam from wall-lamps, the Café of Clouds was dark. The few people at nearby tables saw the Hon. James rise unsteadily and stumble towards the empty table at which Thomas Loder had sat on the night of his death; then the Queen of the Clouds commenced to sing, in that silvery, flawless voice which brooked no denial; the insobriety of the Hon. James Quinion was forgotten.
The Queen began her stately parade round the Café of Clouds. All eyes followed her, the spotlight never left her; the rest of the room was in comparative darkness, and, more important still, was unobserved, save by Peter de Lorne. He saw the dim figure of Quinion step towards the opening, and watched his friend disappear. For several seconds he waited breathlessly, but no sound came. Minutes passed, and still the only sound in the room was the perfect singing of the Queen of the Clouds.
De Lorne made a mental exclamation of incredulity; Quinion had got away with it! Or it seemed as though he had.
The Hon. James himself was creeping across a brilliantly-lighted chamber which was completely bare of furniture, and empty of human beings. He had anticipated that all the underlings of the Café would be away from the underground room for at least half of the time during which the Queen was making her round—and his belief had been well-founded; the first part of the gamble had come off. But what lay ahead?
There was one door, and Quinion made for it without hesitation. His movements were cat-like in their soft-footed silence, in spite of the speed at which he moved. One hand was in his pocket, and it was holding the butt of a gas-pistol firmly. In another pocket he had a serviceable automatic for more serious purposes, but in view of the need for silence during the first part of his investigation, at least, he had decided to carry an ammonia spray, although he hoped devoutly that he would not have to use it. Even a drunken Honourable would not be easily forgiven the habit of dosing unfortunates with ammonia gas.
Quinion passed through the door into a narrow passage, also brilliantly lit, and which gave him the choice of two exits. Opening one door he saw that it was the Queen’s dressing-room; he closed it gently and made for the other.
It led into a fairly large room which was furnished like an office, although Quinion saw no telephone. Again he had a choice of exits, and had decided to use a door which opened opposite the one through which he had come, when a sound of hurrying footsteps caused him to change his mind rapidly. He breathed with relief when the handle turned beneath his fingers. Opening it wide he stepped inside the room beyond, and blinked for a moment in the complete darkness.
He stood poised at the door, straining his ears to catch the direction of the footsteps in the other room. The man—Quinion could tell from the strides that it was a man—seemed to stop in the middle of the room and the Hon. James heard a drawer being pulled out; again he breathed with relief; in all likelihood the newcomer would not be coming into the room in which he was hiding.
Keeping the beam of light from the door and at a level with his waist in order to make sure that no tell-tale gleam could be seen from outside, he played his torch round the small room in which he found himself. It was practically empty of furniture, although a rough shelf plugged into the wall, and a chair next to a small table, suggested that it was used occasionally. The walls were distempered a sickly green, and so far as he could see there were no pictures.
He switched the light off, and waited for further sounds outside. Once more the drawer was moved, and the sliding sound ended this time with a click which suggested that it had been pushed home. The man hesitated at the table, then walked away. Quinion heard his footsteps gradually getting fainter.
Quinion had decided that it was safe to move from the room. He had ascertained that there were no other doors than the one through which he had entered … when a movement behind him made him swing round. For a moment he had been afraid of an attack, but he could see nothing, although his eyes were accustomed to the blackness. He waited, then was about to move again, when the sound was repeated. He told himself that it had seemed more like a groan than anything else, then decided that his nerves were playing him tricks; but a second repetition gave no room for doubt. There was someone in the room—and that someone was moaning!
With his back towards the door he played the light from his torch on the ground. Huddled in one corner was the figure of a man.…
Quinion cursed inwardly. The prisoner—tightly bound cords round the man’s ankles and wrists allowed no question of his being captive—was trying to move, and with every twist of his body he groaned, drawing in his breath with a short, agonized gasp. Quinion looked at the face, cursing again as he saw the ugly, gaping wound in the man’s forehead, and the congealing blood which had coursed down his face and made it practically unrecognizable.
Quinion would have recognized the captive, however, even had he not known him from the neat grey suit and the Old Addusion tie.
It was Reginald Chane!
22
‘His Eyes Turned Red!’
A DRINK of neat whisky from the flask which Quinion always carried with him worked wonders with Chane, and when Quinion had cleansed his friend’s face as well as he could with a dry handkerchief, Chane, although looking like a man bordering between life and death, actually felt comparatively fit.
‘Feel like talking?’ asked Quinion. ‘There’s a lot I’d like to know.’
‘Give me time,’ said Chane. ‘And forgive me if I gabble a bit; I’ve a hell of a lot I’d like to tell.’
He took another mouthful of whisky, settled himself on the only chair in the room, and began to talk.
‘There isn’t a great deal the matter with me,’ he began. ‘When I was hiked out of Oak Cottage, Jimmy—a clever bit of work that, by the way; the whole of one wall in that big room slides along——’
‘It doesn’t,’ broke in Quinion. ‘The whole damned shanty has been fired.’
‘And a good thing too,’ said Chane. ‘Oak Cottage is—or was—one large hell of a place. Anyhow, after they dragged me out of the room they gave me the needle, and I felt nasty for a bit after waking up. I was here then, by the way, and they treated me more or less decently until I had a difference of opinion with the dear Mr. Alleyn and socked him one. His bodyguard socked back, and since then—twenty-four hours ago, I reckon—I’ve been tied up here like two russed chickens.’
‘About Alleyn,’ interrupted Quinion. ‘Is he an invalid? Or can he walk?’
‘He can walk. In fact, he can’t be more than forty-five, actually.’
‘Carry on,’ said Quinion.
‘You know now just about all that happened to me—but I heard the deuce of a lot before the argument with Alleyn. You see, I got tired of sitting in here and playing patience, so I tried a bit of lock-picking which came off, and wandered round for a bit. I anchored in a little room across the passage … it seemed like any ordinary actresses’ dressing-room, to tell the truth, Jimmy.…’
‘It is,’ interrupted Quinion again. ‘The Queen of the Clouds uses it.’
Chane whistled beneath his breath.
‘Jove! So we’re at the Café, are we, James? Who’d have thought it. But to continue.
‘I’d just got in when someone ca
me along the passage, and I ducked beneath a dressing-table which had casement round it—a perfect hiding-place, James. Then Alleyn came in—I recognized his voice—and another fellow whom I couldn’t place; I daren’t look out, of course. They pottered about for ten minutes without saying much, and I gathered from the few words that did drop out that they were making-up.’
‘Didn’t they say anything that might have been useful?’ queried Quinion hopefully.
‘Not that I knew.’ Chane rubbed his nose and squinted at his finger in the gloom. ‘No—not that I knew,’ he repeated. ‘Wait a minute, though. They had a little difference about a date; Alleyn maintained that “it”—the Lord knows what “it” was—couldn’t be brought forward so much, and the other man said that it not only could, but would be. Alleyn gave in without putting up a decent show.…’ He broke off suddenly. ‘As a matter of fact, Jimmy,’ he put in, ‘I couldn’t swear that it was Alleyn who protested; the voices were devilish alike sometimes.’
‘Hum,’ commented Quinion. He paid less heed to the similarity than he would have done had he not been driving a theory through his mind. A theory which covered the identity of The Miser. ‘This “it”, Reggie; can you remember how it was brought in?’
Chane was silent for a few seconds before he went on slowly:
‘Ye—es.… The old date was the third of October, and the new one the twenty-fifth of September. One of them asked whether it was wise to make it so quickly, and the other said definitely “yes”. They only mentioned it in passing, Jimmy.’
Quinion’s mind was working rapidly. There could be only one thing to which ‘it’ referred; that was the date on which The Miser intended to stupefy the world with his dastardly plot, bringing the nations to war; and it had been brought forward eight days! It was already past midnight, and the day was the twenty-fifth of September. The day.…
