by John Creasey
Mike drew a deep breath.
‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is what I call a warm welcome. Hallo, Spats, nice of you to come to meet us. What’s the matter?’
Spats Thornton, one of Craigie’s most useful agents since he did not look like one, put one hand in his pocket and contemplated the Errols with his chin jutting out.
‘You’re the matter,’ said he dispassionately. ‘I heard every word, and you fell for it.’
‘So it seems,’ said Mike ruefully. ‘But we can go into that later. Here are two men wearily returning from Italy after a damn’ fool journey, and the moment we get back to London someone draws a gun on us. I want to know why.’ He did not sound over-curious, for he had worked with the Department too long to be surprised at anything.
Mark stooped down and picked up the gun.
It was a Webley automatic, and the safety-catch had not been released. Not that a shot would have caused much disturbance, for the small snout of its improved Maxim silencer poked from the muzzle.
‘If he’d fired,’ said Mark more dreamily than his wont, ‘it would have been death in darkness and no mistake. What and who is he, Spats?’
‘I haven’t a notion. I noticed him come up to you and heard about the message from Loftus.’
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Mike, and he seemed positively enlivened. ‘There wasn’t a message, we can have that drink! Look after this little dago, Spats; if I don’t lower something...’
‘Silence,’ said Spats Thornton.
There were occasions when he could make his voice sound sepulchral, and it did then. There were folk who claimed that he always seemed to be putting on an act, and in a measure that was true. It was equally true of most of the Department men, for they worked in a world where little was natural, where death lurked in every corner, where it was impossible to know from one moment to the next what was going to happen. Living like that, they developed an unseen armour of what some called humour. It was a peculiar brand, mingling sarcasm with facetiousness, and it puzzled folk who did not know them well.
‘All right,’ said Mike, ‘we’re silent.’
‘What really puzzles me,’ said Spats, rubbing his chin, ‘is how he knew that there was a message. Bill wants to see you at once and I’ve come to meet you. Someone else knew you were going to be here, and the someone doesn’t want you. If you want a drink there’s just time for it. I’ve got a cab.’
‘What about that?’ demanded Mike, nodding towards the man on the ground.
‘I’ll watch it,’ said Spats. ‘Go and get rid of your repressions.’
The Errols walked towards the buffet. There was a certain humour in the fact that they had been sent out on a quest which had carried them through most of Southern Europe where they might have expected excitement, and the first sign of trouble had come at the moment of their return to London.
Drinking, they considered the mystery of the fact that someone knew that they had been due at Waterloo on the 8.37 (arrival) train.
From Southampton they had sent a telegram to Bill Loftus, announcing their impending arrival, and to their knowledge no one else in England knew that they had landed. Therefore, it seemed, the leakage was through Loftus.
‘Ye-es,’ admitted Mark. ‘Well, let’s get back.’ He yawned, lit a cigarette—Mark refusing—and they strolled back towards the booking-hall. The gloom and the ghostly blue light remained. Thornton lurked in the darkness, and the man remained on the floor.
‘Our friend still sleeps,’ said Spats, but he smiled, ‘which one of you hit him?’
‘I,’ said Mike with satisfaction. ‘We’d better get him round; they’ll see us carrying him to a cab even in this. Whisky?’
Spats drew a flask from his hip pocket, adjusted the knee of his trousers, and knelt down. Unscrewing the top of the flask, he held it to the man’s lip, and a trickle of whisky forced itself through.
‘He can’t be as bad as that,’ he said almost irritably, while the Errols stood and peered down. ‘Wake up, you lump of sin, or—God!’
He straightened up, spilling whisky over the dusty platform, where it ran in little globules. Mark replaced him—and Mike also bent down, to see the small hole in the man’s temple, the little trickle of blood coming from it.
The man had been shot while Thornton had been on guard.
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John Creasey
Master crime fiction writer John Creasey’s 562 titles (or so) have sold more than 80 million copies in over 25 languages. After enduring 743 rejection slips, the young Creasey’s career was kickstarted by winning a newspaper writing competition. He went on to collect multiple honours from The Mystery Writers of America including the Edgar Award for best novel in 1962 and the coveted title of Grand Master in 1969. Creasey’s prolific output included 11 different series including Roger West, the Toff, the Baron, Patrick Dawlish, Gideon, Dr Palfrey, and Department Z, published both under his own name and 10 other pseudonyms.
Creasey was born in Surrey in 1908 and, when not travelling extensively, lived between Bournemouth and Salisbury for most of his life. He died in England in 1973.
ALSO IN THIS SERIES
The Death Miser
Redhead
First Came a Murder
Death Round the Corner
The Mark of the Crescent
Thunder in Europe
The Terror Trap
Carriers of Death
Days of Danger
Death Stands By
Menace
Murder Must Wait
Panic!
Death by Night
The Island of Peril
Sabotage
Go Away Death
The Day of Disaster
Prepare for Action
No Darker Crime
Dark Peril
The Peril Ahead
The League of Dark Men
The Department of Death
The Enemy Within
Dead or Alive
A Kind of Prisoner
The Black Spiders
This edition published in 2016 by Ipso Books
Ipso Books is a division of Peters Fraser + Dunlop Ltd
Drury House, 34-43 Russell Street, London WC2B 5HA
Copyright © John Creasey, 1939
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage
Contents
1Says Mark
2Says Mike
3Interview with Craigie
4Work for the Errols
5Trouble in Brook Street
6Wally Walks In
7At Midday
8Arrests by the Dozen
9Mr Korrel’s Mistake
10Anson Acts
11The Errols Agree
12Up She Goes
13Seven Gentlemen
14Fast Work Fails
15Operation B
16Pan
ic!
17Grim Morning
18Ultimatum
19Mike and Letty
20Mark Meets Dora
21Down River
22Operation C
23Across the Seas
24Shocks
25… Did Not Take Place
