The Death Miser (Department Z Book 1) Read online

  6

  Mr. Gordon Craigie

  NO ONE who entered the sparsely furnished room in which Gordon Craigie spent eighteen hours out of most twenty-four worried much about the apartment or its appointments. Craigie was perhaps the least known man in England; he might be concerned in a motor accident, but his name never appeared; he might give an opinion which would change the whole trend of diplomatic relations between one great Power and another, but his name never appeared. At the secret conclaves of the Inner Cabinet he was spoken of as ‘Z’; it was a remarkable fact that one popular and successful Prime Minister reigned for four years and was in continual contact with Department ‘Z’ without setting eyes on nor learning the name of the man who was known by reputation alone in every country in the world.

  Craigie was less a personality than a presence, creating an atmosphere as he sat, immobile, in a swivel-chair in front of a polished desk which at no time held more than one file of papers; at least, no one but Craigie himself had ever seen two files on it. At his elbow was a telephone, and at his side a dictaphone, the cylinders of which were typed in the room and destroyed in front of his own eyes.

  The room itself was unremarkable, being furnished very much after the manner of most offices, but possessing a brown leather arm-chair, a gas ring and a cabinet containing the necessities for minor creature comforts, next to the fireplace; the small area about which looked very much like any ordinary bachelor’s hearth, although usually shielded by a large screen from the eyes of Gordon Craigie’s many visitors.

  One thing with which every visitor was cognizant was that the walls of the room were steel-lined, that its one window was fitted with unbreakable glass, and its one door could not open without Craigie pressing a button.

  It was into this room that the Hon. James Quinion, alias Mr. Quinn, walked calmly on the night of his adventures with Thomas Loder. Quinion had first met Gordon Graigie when the latter had given up all thought of ever seeing a human face again … that was ten years before, when Craigie had taken a more active part, physically, in the work of the Department, and Quinion, an exuberant youth of twenty-three, had stumbled by accident on a network of intrigue which had delighted his excitement-loving soul. In consequence the relationship between the two men was of firm friendship, cemented on Quinion’s side by a respect which was almost reverence; not that his attitude of light-hearted camaraderie reflected that reverence.

  Quinion threw two inches of Egyptian cigarette into the empty fire-grate, heaved a sigh of relief, smiled at the older man, who was sitting in the arm-chair in front of the hearth. Slinging off his light coat, his hat and his gloves, he dragged the swivel-chair from the desk and sat down opposite his chief.

  ‘I’ve come,’ he announced.

  Craigie slung a well-filled tobacco pouch, from which Quinion proceeded to cram his pipe. The chief of Department ‘Z’ was regarding his companion contemplatively, his keen grey eyes unwinking, his hooked nose twitching a little at the nostrils. A meerschaum drooped on to his chest, creating an incongruous impression that he was taking life easily; it was incongruous because those piercing grey eyes were ever alert, and the man’s whole body, even in repose, suggested tremendous energy, both mental and physical.

  ‘If you ask me,’ commented Quinion, slinging the pouch back, ‘you ought to have been a Red Indian, Gordon … or a witch doctor; you look just like one.’

  Craigie’s lips twitched a little at the corners; it was the nearest approach that he ever achieved to a smile. Quinion’s comparison, however, was not inept, for his chief possessed just that impassive alertness for which the North American natives are renowned; and the drooping meerschaum added to the similarity. Moreover, Craigie was notoriously a man of few words.

  ‘What happened at Runsey?’ he demanded.

  Quinion settled himself more comfortably, placing his feet on the low mantel-shelf.

  ‘Many things, old man—many nasty and unpleasant things. As a matter of fact, I’m not a bit sure that I haven’t mucked the whole show, as far as I’m concerned. It got out of hand.’

  ‘Start from the beginning,’ said Craigie.

  Quinion plunged immediately into a narration of the events which had followed so quickly upon each other after he had received the telegram from Department ‘Z’, and had started on his surveyance of Cross Farm. Gordon Craigie listened without a comment, his only movements being to take the drooping pipe from his mouth at regular intervals.

  ‘So you see,’ said Quinion, ‘I haven’t looked at Cross Farm yet, and I’ve made Loder keep his eye open for me.’

  ‘Under the name of Quinn?’ The question was rapped out.

  ‘Yes. James Quinn.’

  ‘Go on,’ invited Craigie, shifting his position a little.

  ‘Which is another way of saying,’ continued Quinion, ‘that I forgot, in effect, that I was Number 7 of Department “Z”.’ He was under no illusions as to the manner of his activities, knowing full well that, having failed to act strictly according to his instructions, he had invited expulsion from the organization of the Department; that he had been unable to help himself mattered not at all; actually there had been no need to butt in on the incident of the dog; and Department ‘Z’ did not allow for side-lines, even of a humanitarian nature. ‘That’s not quite all, Gordon.’

  For the first time Quinion stirred under the steady gaze of those piercing grey eyes. He knew that one of the strictest rules of Department ‘Z’ was that no personal element was allowed to interfere with the activities of its members, and he was disturbed in his mind about the effect of a pair of glowing, hazel eyes, a face that was quite beautiful, and a figure that was quite remarkable.

  Had Gordon Craigie been less of a friend he might have pushed the subject to the back of his mind without prejudicing his position as an agent of the most skilled organization in the world.

  He stood up suddenly, his jaw set, his flecked grey eyes matching Craigie’s with a suggestion of dogged determination.

  ‘It’s like this. On previous stunts I’ve been concerned with nothing but the Department’s side of the question. I had no scruples about using everything and everybody, providing I could get to the bottom of the trouble. This time …’

  Gordon Craigie’s lips were twitching and the piercing eyes softened strangely. No man but a keen student of nature could have held the reins of Department ‘Z’.

  ‘The girl, eh? Knocked you cold.’

  Quinion banged one fist into the other open palm.

  ‘Gordon, I want to get her out of the mess. I don’t give a damn whether she’s in it up to the neck.… I want to handle it so that she doesn’t pay, if there’s anything she should pay for.’ He stopped, and lowered himself into the swivel-chair. When he went on his voice was steadier, yet equally emphatic. ‘What’s more, I’m going to; which is another way of offering my resignation.…’ He laughed, a little uneasily. ‘Nice kind of mess to fall into, isn’t it? I’m sorry, Gordon.…’

  Gordon Craigie held his meerschaum between his fingers, eyeing his friend calmly. He made one of the longest speeches which Quinion had ever heard from him.

  ‘It isn’t as bad as all that, Jimmy; there’s no need to talk about resigning yet. As a matter of fact, if Loder thinks your interest in him is because of the girl, it’ll do more good than harm; he won’t know that we’re after him. You can stay down there as Mr. James Quinn … the villagers don’t know you as the Hon. James Quinion, do they?

  ‘James Quinn is officially a cousin of Quinion,’ answered the younger man. ‘I’ve found it useful to have a double.’

  ‘Then that’s all right. Now listen to me. If I thought there was any danger of you slacking off Loder because of the girl, I’d say “quit”, and someone else could take your place; but I have a feeling that it’ll make you keener. So forget that part of it. For the rest … this man named Smith. I’ve heard about him from the police. His story is true, word for word, and he’s likely to be very useful indeed; let him work
with you, but don’t enlarge on “Victoria Nought”; he’ll be quite satisfied without learning any more about it.

  ‘Meanwhile I can tell you this. Loder is someone near the top of one of the biggest schemes we’ve ever come up against. I don’t know much about it yet, but I’m getting information through almost hourly. I thought at one time that it was one of the “world for the people” campaigns, but I’m not sure that it isn’t deeper than that. It will come to nothing, of course, but it might get devilish dangerous and stir up far more mud than we want, so it’ll have to be strangled as quickly as possible.

  ‘I’ve an idea that Loder is calling a meeting at Cross Farm within the next week or two, and that’s the reason that I want the farm watched. I hadn’t catered for his having a small army of gunmen, though.…’

  Gordon Craigie broke off to fill his pipe, and Quinion eyed his steady movements with a feeling akin to veneration. The younger man smiled suddenly as his companion blew a cloud of grey smoke from the charred meerschaum; White Chief Craigie.…

  Craigie went on slowly. His new-found spate of words seemed to be drying up.

  ‘Once or twice in other affairs you’ve co-opted a few temporary members——’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Quinion.

  ‘I think that they might be useful again,’ said Craigie. ‘Haul them in, and pitch them the story of the damsel in distress.’

  Quinion heaved himself out of the chair, and reached for his coat.

  ‘I’ll drop on ‘em now. There’s just one other thing.…’

  ‘What?’ demanded the chief, his lips twitching.

  ‘If you were human, and dabbled in beer, I’d drink your health; as you aren’t human—thanks.…’

  ‘Get out,’ said Gordon Craigie; and he actually smiled.

  7

  The Café of Clouds

  A SLOW, sleepy melody crept through the large, dim-lighted chamber, lending a magic to the hour and making men forget all but the delights and dreams of illusion. Small tables, shaped like clouds and painted white and grey, with an occasional hint of black, were placed round the sides, next to the walls which, like the scenery of a stage, were made to look as the cool sky of a summer eve above the smiling blue waters of a calm sea. Electric lamps, their glow diffused through shades which merged into the billowing white and grey of the ceiling lent mystery; emptied of men and women, the chamber might have been a very corner of the sky.

  The Café of Clouds, however, was not designed to be empty of men and women. The black and white of dinner jackets threw into splendid relief the colours of the women’s dresses. Every table was full, every chair occupied, every tails-clad waiter moving with ease about the host of pleasure-seekers, whose latest whim gave popularity to the new-found haunt. Wine flowed. Wine of countless vineyards, from the Rhine and the Loire, from Italy and Spain. On a dais at the end of the room a band played, against its background of sky, with every instrument merged into the serene colouring of the scene; and its melodies were haunting, crooning a reversion from beat and pop.

  In the middle of the room a parquet floor, shimmering and reflecting the clouds of the ceiling, held a dozen couples, waltzing slowly to that flowing rhythm.

  It was strange in such a place that two vacant-looking young men should be seated at a table by themselves; the Café of Clouds was not a club at which young men were wont to sup unaccompanied. From their appearance they were bored, realizing their loneliness and vainly striving to console themselves with brandy.

  The door, flecked like the walls, opened suddenly, and a waiter entered, carrying a chair; immediately behind him came a tall, clear-eyed young man with crisp, dark hair shining with oil. He was dressed immaculately, and he looked completely at home. Following the waiter he was delayed for a moment at several tables, exchanging a word with one dazzling creature after another and ignoring many an invitation to join a small party. Obviously he was a popular young man and well known; a dozen eyes were turned towards him as he sat in the chair with the two lonely males, who had made room at their table for the newcomer.

  ‘Jimmy,’ said the more vacant-looking young man, ‘you ought to be shot.’

  Quinion offered him an Egyptian cigarette, which was refused with a gesture of abhorrence.

  ‘All right,’ he said calmly, putting his case away. ‘Then I’ll have one of yours.’

  The sad young man found a gold case in his pocket, opened it and offered it. The monogram informed anyone who cared to examine it closely that the initials were ‘R.C.’; his name, known to practically every occupant of the café, was Reginald Chane. His companion, whose first sign of animation for ten minutes accompanied his acceptance of a cigarette, was equally well known as Peter de Lorne. All three young men were prominent members of a society called ‘The New Squares’. Peter de Lorne had obviously been thinking of Chane’s greeting, and as obviously shared the sentiment, but was finding some difficulty in supporting it without repetition. After several minutes he gave up.

  ‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘You ought to be shot.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ acknowledged the Hon. James, showing no inclination to resent the attack. He sipped the brandy thoughtfully, gazing about the Café of Clouds. ‘Nice little company, he said finally. ‘Who’s the new blonde with the overdeveloped front?’

  Peter de Lorne closed his eyes and Reginald Chane screwed his lips in an expression of sheer disdain.

  ‘She isn’t new,’ de Lorne vouchsafed finally. ‘She’s a hag. She was here on Monday, and to-night’s Wednesday; the really latest is the auburn-haired wench near the guitar; she’s the latest from New York, but I’m damned if I think she’s worth a second look. Do you?’

  Quinion, gazing lazily across the room, examined the powdered neck and shoulders of the latest from New York. Her face was turned away from him, and he could only see a suggestion of a profile.

  ‘Scraggy,’ he said definitely. ‘The Aryan race is running out, Peter. Not that it matters much.’

  There was a hint of expectancy in the eyes of his two companions, and he grinned amiably.

  ‘I have been hunting,’ he announced. ‘A real, live manhunt of a breed which is not running out; oh, quite definitely not running out; in fact, there’s half a dozen of them all ready to put up a nice little fracas if anyone cares to have a go at them.’

  ‘Tell us more,’ implored Mr. de Lorne, looking more than ever incapable of action.

  For twenty minutes Quinion talked and smoked. At least five young and hopeful women who were dissatisfied with their escorts at the Café of Clouds were convinced that the eligible Jimmy was discussing them, and less experienced young men than the three who sat in such an austere state of bachelordom would have wilted under the thousand glances from limpid eyes. None of them appeared to be affected, however.

  ‘So now you have it,’ Quinion said at last. ‘You know just as much as I do.’

  ‘Don’t lie,’ interjected Reginald Chane listlessly. ‘You’re a dark horse, Jimmy.’

  Quinion patted his friend’s hand soothingly.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Reginald. You know just as much as is good for you, if not more. The thing is, will you be up early enough in the morning to get to Runsey moderately early?’

  ‘About twelve?’ suggested de Lorne hopefully.

  ‘About twelve my grandmother. The Loder lout will have had time to kill half England by then. Nine o’clock.’

  De Lorne groaned and Reginald Chane grimaced.

  ‘He’s at it again,’ grumbled the latter, eyeing the Hon. James with disfavour. ‘The last time, you kept us up all night.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Quinion, looking round for a waiter. ‘I’ll pop along and see what one or two of the other boys think about it.’

  ‘Listen,’ interrupted Chane, laying a detaining hand on his arm. ‘Just what do you want us to do to Loder if we see him? Sandbag him? Or pepper the blighter with a blunderbuss?’

  ‘All I want you to do is go to the Tavern at Runsey, ask for the ma
n named Smith … blue eyes, a jaw, six-feet-one-and-a-bit but skinny … and tell him that Archie sent you. Tell him, too, that I’ll be down later in the day. Then wait for something to happen … and if you’ve half a chance, get Margaret Alleyn clear of that cottage.’

  ‘Kidnap her?’ inquired de Lorne, with sudden interest.

  ‘Harm a hair of her head and your life won’t be worth four-and-sixpence, Peter; nor yours, Reginald.’ He took another glance round the crowded room, sparing a second for the latest thing from New York.

  The brunette’s face was turned towards him, and for a moment Quinion felt as though the ground had been taken from under his feet. De Lorne, whose air of listlessness covered a catlike power of observation, saw his friend’s fingers tighten suddenly about the slim stem of his wineglass; a second later the stem snapped in two, while Quinion was grinning foolishly at the broken glass.

  ‘What’s biting?’ demanded de Lorne.

  Quinion was displaying his most asinine grin, but the expression in his flecked grey eyes was steely. He glanced round again, however, towards the girl, smiling inanely at an acquaintance at the next table. For the first time he saw the girl’s companion, and he ran a thick forefinger round the edge of his collar as though suddenly feeling the heat of the room.

  ‘You needn’t go to Runsey,’ he said briefly. ‘The “latest thing” is Miss Margaret Alleyn, and her companion …’

  De Lorne looked across at the swarthy-faced man who had been hidden previously by a couple who had got up to dance. He was a thick-set fellow, with small, piglike eyes.

  ‘Loder?’ he suggested.

  ‘Loder,’ affirmed Quinion, holding out his hand for a cigarette. ‘Now, what the devil are they doing here together? And who told you that she came from New York? …’ He broke off irritably at a weak chuckle from Reginald Chane; Reginald looked for all the world as though he had just heard the choicest joke ever.

  ‘What is getting you, Pie Face?’ he demanded.