Holocaust House - Norbert Davis (ebooks online reader .TXT) 📗

of my togs.”

“Mr. Crowley,” said Brill, “has a place over at the other side of Flint Flat.”

“A little hide-out, you know,” said Crowley. “Just a little shack where a man can hole in and soak up some solitude now and then.”

He had a very British-British accent and a hairline black mustache and a smile full of white teeth. He was every bit as handsome as those incredible young men who are always driving the latest sport motor cars in magazine advertisements. He knew it. He had brown eyes with a personality twinkle in them and wavy black hair and an expensive tan.

“Mr. Crowley,” said Brill, “got lost in the storm this afternoon and just happened—just happened to stumble in here this afternoon.”

“Right-o,” said Crowley. “Lucky for me, eh?”

“Very,” said Brill sourly.

Crowley was sitting on the divan beside Sheila Alden, and he turned around and gave her the full benefit of his smile. “Yes, indeed! My lucky day!”

Sheila Alden simpered. There was no other word for it. She wiggled on the cushions and poked at her stringy hair and blinked shyly at Crowley through the thick glasses.

“You must stay the night here, Mr. Crowley.”

“Must he?” Brill inquired, still more sourly.

Sheila Alden looked up, instantly antagonistic. “Of course! He can’t possibly get home tonight, and we have plenty of room, and I’ve invited him!”

“A little blow like this,” said Crowley. “Nothing. Nothing at all. You should see it scream up in the Himalayas. That’s something!” He leaned closer to Sheila. “But of course there’s no chance to stumble on to such delightful company when you’re in the Himalayas, is there? I’ll be delighted to stay overnight, Miss Alden, if it won’t inconvenience you too much. It’s so kind of you to ask me.”

“Not at all,” said Sheila Alden.

Doan was standing in front of the fire with his arms out-spread, gradually thawing out, and now someone tugged uncertainly at his sleeve.

“You’re—the detective?”

Doan turned to look at another girl. She was small too, smaller even than Sheila Alden, and she had a soft round face and full lips that pouted a little. She had blond hair, and her eyes were very wide and very blue and they didn’t quite focus.

“This is Miss Alden’s secretary,” Brill said stiffly. “Miss Joan Greg.”

“You’re cute,” Joan Greg said, swaying just slightly. “You’re a cute little detective.”

“Cute as a bug’s ear,” Doan agreed.

“Joan!” Sheila Alden said sharply. “Please behave yourself!”

Joan Greg turned slowly, still keeping her hold on Doan’s arm. “Talking—to me?”

“You’re drunk!” Sheila Alden said.

Joan Greg made the words carefully with her soft lips. “Shall I tell you just what you are—you and that thing sitting beside you?”

The tension in the room was like a wire stretched to a breaking point, with them all standing and staring at Joan incredulously. She was swaying, and her lips were twisting to form new words, while her eyes stared at Sheila Alden with glassy, unblinking hate.

“I’ll—kill—her,” said Joan Greg distinctly.

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CHAPTER VI. DANGEROUS LADY

“MISS GREG!” BRILL gasped, horrified. But he did not make a move. He just stood, gaping.

“Wait until I get warm first, will you?” Doan asked casually.

Joan Greg forgot all about Sheila Alden for the moment. She swayed against Doan and said: “You’re just the cutest little fella I’ve ever seen. Lemme help you out of your coat.”

Brill stepped forward. “I’ll do—”

“No! No! Lemme!”

Fumblingly, she helped Doan take off his topcoat and staggered back several steps holding it in front of her.

“Gonna—hang it up. Gonna hang the nice cute little detective’s coat up for him.”

She went at a diagonal across the room, missed the door by ten feet, carefully walked backward until she got a new line on it, and made it through. They could hear her in the hall, stumbling a little.

“I could use some of that,” Doan said.

Brill stared at him. “Eh?”

Doan made a motion as though he were lifting a glass.

“Oh!” Brill said. “A drink! Yes, yes. Of course. Kokomo! Kokomo!”

A swinging door squeaked, and light showed through the archway opposite the entrance to the hall. Feet scraped lumberingly on the floor, and a man came in through the archway and said in a surly voice:

“Well, what?”

He had shoulders as wide as a door and long thick arms that were corded with muscle. He was wearing a white apron over blue denim trousers and a checked shirt, and he had a tall chefs hat perched jauntily over the bulging shapeless lump that had once been his left ear. He carried a toothpick in one corner of his pulpy lips, and his eyes were dully expressionless under thick, scarred eyebrows.

“Ah, yes,” Brill said nervously. “Bring the whisky, Kokomo, and—and a siphon of soda.”

“You want ice?”

“I’ve had mine tonight already,” Doan said.

“No,” Brill said. “No ice.”

Kokomo lumbered back through the archway and appeared immediately again carrying a decanter and a siphon on a tray with a stacked pile of glasses.

Brill took the tray. “Mr. Doan, this is Kokomo—the cook and caretaker. This is the detective, Kokomo.”

“This little squirt?” said Kokomo. “A detective? Hah!”

Brill said: “Kokomo! That’s all!”

“Hah!” said Kokomo, staring down at Doan. He moved his big shoulders in a casual shrug and padded back through the archway. The swinging door squeaked shut behind him.

“Really, Mr. Brill,” Sheila Alden said severely. “It seems to me that I have grounds for complaint about your choice of employees.”

Brill threw his hands wide helplessly. “Miss Alden, I’ve told you again and again that our Mr. Dibben had been handling all your affairs and that he was injured when an auto ran over him and that his duties were suddenly delegated to me without the slightest warning and that he hadn’t made any note of the fact that you intended to come up here.

“When you called me I had to find a man at once who would act as caretaker and cook and open this place up for you. This man Kokomo had excellent references—a great deal of experience—all that. You must admit, Miss Alden, that in spite of his uncouth appearance, he is a very good cook, and it’s very difficult to get servants to come clear up here…”

Sheila Alden wasn’t through. “And I don’t think much of your choice of a secretary, either.”

Brill lifted his hands. “Miss Greg had the very finest references. There was nothing in them whatsoever that indicated she was—ah—inclined to drink too much.”

“Lonely country,” Crowley said. “Brings it on. Seen it happen to a lot of chaps in Upper Burma. Probably be all right as soon as she gets back to civilization, eh? By the way, Mr. Doan, how on earth did you find this place? I mean, I got jolly well lost myself, and I can’t see how a stranger could find his way here.”

Doan had filled a glass half with whisky and half with soda and was sipping at it appreciatively. “The station master brought me around—not because he wanted to. He seemed a bit sour on the Alden name.”

“And that’s another thing!” Brill said worriedly. “The man’s a crank—dangerous. He shouldn’t be allowed at large. He holds some insane grudge against Miss Alden, and he might—might… I mean, I’m responsible. I tried to talk to him, but all he did was threaten me. And those damned dogs. Mr. Doan, you had better investigate him thoroughly.”

“Oh, sure,” said Doan.

Brill ran thin nervous fingers through his hair, mussing up the blazed streak of white that centered it. “I don’t like you coming up here in this wilderness, Miss Alden. It’s a great responsibility to put on my shoulders.” He fumbled in his coat pocket and brought out a shiny metal case.

Doan stiffened, his glass half-raised to his lips. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

“This?” said Brill. “A cigar case.”

The case was an exact duplicate of the one Doan had found in his pocket—his deadly present from the mysterious Mr. Smith.

Brill snapped the catch with his thumb, and the case opened on his palm, revealing the six cigars fitted into it snugly.

Doan released his breath in a long sigh. “Where,” he said, clearing his throat. “Where did you get it?”

Brill was admiring the case. “Nice, isn’t it? Just the right size. Eh? Oh, it was a present from a client.”

“What was his name?”

“Smith,” said Brill. “As a matter of fact, that’s a strange thing. We have several clients whose name is Smith, and I don’t know which one of them gave me this. Whoever it was just left it on my secretary’s desk with a little note saying in appreciation of services rendered and all that and signed, ‘Smith’—”

“What was in it?” Doan asked.

Brill looked surprise. “Why, cigars.”

“Did you smoke them?”

“Well, no. You see, I smoke a specially mild brand on account of my throat. I gave the ones in the case to the janitor, poor chap.”

“Poor chap?” Doan repeated.

“Yes. He was killed that very night. He had a shack on the outskirts of the city, and he was running a still of some sort there—at least that’s what the police think—and the thing blew up and blasted him to bits. Terrific explosion.”

“Oh,” said Doan. He watched thoughtfully while Brill selected a cigar and put the case back in his coat pocket.

“Well,” said Brill, making an effort to be more sociable. “Let’s think of something pleasant…” His voice trailed off into a startled gulp.

Joan Greg had come quietly in from the hall. She was holding Doan’s revolver carefully in her right hand. She was walking straighter now, and she came directly across the floor to the front of the divan. She stopped there and pointed the revolver at Sheila Alden.

“Here!” Crowley shouted in alarm.

Doan flipped the contents of his glass into Joan Greg’s face. Her head jerked back when the stinging liquid hit her. She took one uncertain step backward, and then Doan vaulted over the couch and expertly kicked her feet from under her.

She fell on her back, coming down so hard that her blond head bounced forward loosely with the impact. Doan stepped on her right wrist and twisted the revolver from her lax fingers.

Joan Greg turned over on her stomach and hid her face in her arms. She began to cry in racked, gasping sobs. The others stared at her, and at Doan with a sort of frozen, dazed horror.

“More fun,” said Doan, slipping the revolver into his waistband. “Does she do things like this very often?”

“Gah!” Brill gasped. “She—she would have… Why—why, she’s crazy! Crazy drunk! Where—where’d she get that gun?”

“It was in my topcoat pocket,” Doan said. “Careless of me, but I didn’t think there were any homicidal maniacs wandering around the house.”

Sheila Alden’s face was paper white. “Get her out of here! She’s fired! Take her away!”

“Yes, yes,” said Brill. “At once. Terrible. Terrible thing, really. And I’ll be blamed—”

“Take her away!” Shield Alden screamed at him.

Doan leaned over and picked Joan Greg up. She had stopped crying and she was utterly relaxed. Her arms flopped laxly. Her eyes were closed, and the tears had made wet jagged streaks down her soft cheeks.

“She’s passed out, I think,” Doan said. “I’ll take her up and lock her in her bedroom.”

“Yes, yes,” Brill said. “Only thing. This way.”

Crowley was bending anxiously over Sheila Alden. “Now, now. It’s all over. Gives a person a nasty feeling, I know. Saw a chap run amok in Malay once. Ghastly thing. But you’re a brave girl. Just a little sip of this.”

Brill led the way across the living room and down the hall to a