The Arbor House Treasury of Detective and Mystery Stories From the Great Pulps by Bill Pronzini

Author:Bill Pronzini [Pronzini, Bill]
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER V

MISS MILLION-BUCKS

DOAN SMELLED THE smoke first, coming thin and pungent down-wind, and then Jannen stopped short in front of him and said:

“There it is.”

The wind whipped the snow away for a second, and Doan saw the house at the mouth of a ravine that widened out into a flat below them. The walls were black against the white drifts, and the windows stared with dull yellow eyes.

“Thanks,” said Doan. “I can make it from here. If I could offer some slight compensation for your time and trouble. . .”

Jannen was hunched up against the wind like some gaunt beast of prey, staring down at the house, wrapped up in darkly bitter thoughts of his own. His voice came thickly.

“I don’t want none of your money.”

“So long,” said Doan.

“Eh?” said Jannen, looking around.

Doan pointed back the way they had come. “Goodbye, now.”

Jannen turned clumsily. “Oh, I’m goin’. But I ain’t forgettin’ nothin’, mister.” His mittened left hand touched his empty right sleeve. “Nothin’ at all. You tell her that for me.”

“I’ll try to remember,” said Doan.

He stood with his head tilted against the wind, watching Jannen until he disappeared back along the trail, his three huskies slinking along like stunted shadows at his heels. Then he shrugged uneasily and went down the steep slant of the ridge to the flat below. The wind had blown the snow clear of the ground in places, and he followed the faint marks of a path across the stretch of frozen rocky ground.

Close to it, the house looked larger—dark and ugly with the smoke from the chimney drifting in a jaunty plume across the white-plastered roof. The path ended at a small half-enclosed porch, and Doan climbed the log steps up to it and banged hard with his fist against the heavy door.

He waited, shivering. The cold had gotten through his light clothes. His feet tingled numbly, and the skin on his face felt drawn and stiff.

The door swung open, and a man stared out at him unbelievingly. “What—who’re you? Where’d you come from?”

“Doan-Severn Agency.”

“The detective! But man alive! Come in, come in!”

Doan stepped into a narrow shadowed hall, and the warmth swept over him like a soft grateful wave.

“Good Lord!” said the other man. “I didn’t expect you’d come tonight—in this storm!”

“That’s Severn service,” Doan told him. “When duty calls, we answer. And besides, I’m overdrawn on my salary.”

“But you’re not dressed for—Why, you must be frozen stiff!”

He was a tall man, very thin, with a sharp dramatically haggard face. His hair was jet-black with a peculiarly distinctive swathe of pure white running back slantwise from his high forehead. He talked in nervous spurts, and he had a way of making quick little half-gestures that had no meaning, as though he were impatiently jittery.

“A trifle rigid in spots,” Doan admitted. “Have you got some concentrated heat around the premises?”

“Yes! Yes, surely! Come in here! My name is Brill, by the way. I’m in charge of Miss Alden’s account with the National Trust. Taking care of the legal end.

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