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  Copyright & Information

  Go Away To Murder

  First published in 1943

  Copyright: John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1943-2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior 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 damages.

  The right of John Creaseyto be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755123859 9780755123858 Print

  0755133854 9780755133857 Mobi

  0755134257 9780755134250 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasy wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers' Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.

  Mark Lessing Moves In

  A tall man with a roman nose jumped down from the rear of a removal van, and waved to the girl who opened the door of a small modern house in Bell Street, Fulham. After him, two grey-haired men wearing green baize aprons climbed with more circumspection to the roadway as the girl walked to the gate of a small drive. In the shadows of the doorway she had looked attractive: as she came into the bright sunlight of the street the sun shone on her auburn hair, and made her teeth sparkle.

  ‘And you’ve had no heart attack yet?’ she teased.

  ‘You’re so heartless you wouldn’t know.’ The man joined her, while the driver of the van manoeuvred to get the rear of his vehicle square so that he could back up to the front door. Stentorian of voice, the greyheads gave him directions. ‘Janet,’ continued the roman-nosed man, ‘I’ve been wondering whether you’re making a mistake? Giving way to this generous impulse might do a lot of harm. It isn’t too late to send the furniture to a warehouse.’

  ‘Don’t be a silly ass, Mark. Neither Roger nor I would let you do anything else.’

  ‘I might have to stay for a long time,’ Mark warned her. ‘Flats are the devil to get.’

  ‘It’s the sensible thing to do. I’ll show the men the rooms. You look after your precious china.’ Janet half-turned, and then said: ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Just after two.’

  ‘Roger was going to be in by half-past one.’

  Janet hurried to the house, and Mark Lessing stood aside, while the van snarled its way into the drive. Lessing watched intently, but not all his thoughts were on his collection of china and old porcelain in a packing case. He was genuinely doubtful about this move. His landlord had needed his flat for a family emergency, and he had contemplated spending weeks, perhaps months, in a club or a hotel. Then Chief Inspector West of Scotland Yard had told him to stop being an ass, and to occupy the two spare rooms in the Bell Street house. There was room for him, his china, and most of his books. Those were near the back of the van about to be unloaded. The heavier furniture was to be stored until he found a flat in central London at a rent not aimed at millionaires.

  His relief at the prospect of keeping his precious porcelain under his own eye was considerable. Janet West had once said that his collection was not only his father and mother, but his wife and children; he was coming to agree with her.

  He was anxious to remain within easy distance of Westminster not only because he liked London’s West End but because he worked at the Home Office.

  He watched Janet, who was giving instructions to the men on the doorstep. Was she really worried because Roger was late?

  Mark wondered, as he often did, what it must be like for a man to be loved as Janet loved Roger. And for that matter, to love. Old enough to consider himself a confirmed bachelor, sometimes posing as a misogynist, Mark felt rueful. It seemed only yesterday when he had deplored the fact that Roger was to get married: now he found himself almost envious.

  The packing case was carried into one of the downstairs rooms and left in the centre, while the rest of the things were taken upstairs. The operation took little more than an hour. When Mark had tipped the foreman, and shut the front gates, he strolled back to the house.

  Janet was upstairs in the room Mark was to use as a study, already putting his books straight. She wore a smock with huge green and black flowers, had a bandeau about her hair, and was making a businesslike approach to the task.

  ‘Now steady on,’ said Mark. ‘You mustn’t start spoiling me. I’ll have to show you I’m still sound in wind and limb, and capable.’

  ‘Capable?’ asked Janet reflectively. ‘That’s a new angle.’

  ‘How Roger stands you I just don’t know.’ He lit a cigarette and handled a well-thumbed volume of Livy. ‘Wasn’t he due for a day off?’

  ‘A day!’ exclaimed Janet with explosive vehemence. ‘He has five weeks and six days’ leave owing, half of it from last year. Mark, I’m rather worried.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About overwork. Roger hasn’t had even a Sunday off for two months, and three times last week he was called out in the middle of the night. I know they’re short-handed at the Yard, but there are limits. Haven’t you noticed anything odd about him lately?’

  Mark considered, not too seriously.

  ‘He’s no more moon-eyed than usual. Or should I say moonstruck? You know what young men in love are like.’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed his eyes?’

  ‘I know they’re beautiful, like the rest of him, but—’

  ‘They’re red-rimmed all the time – and he’s got more crow’s feet in the last few weeks than he ever had before,’ declared Janet. ‘If he doesn’t get a rest, he’ll crack. I’ve threatened twice to go and see Sir Guy, but I don’t think Roger would take it too well.’

  ‘You’ve threatened to see the AC? You’re not serious.’r />
  ‘I’m as serious as you are about your precious pots and pans,’ said Janet. ‘I tell you that Roger’s been working at a silly pace. It wouldn’t matter if it were only for a week or two but he’s been at the same pressure since Gabby Potter was caught.’

  ‘I can see you’re serious,’ said Mark, ‘but you mustn’t beard the lion in his den, even when it’s only the Assistant Commissioner in his study. I’ve seen that look in your eyes before, but it really wouldn’t do. Chatsworth would probably explode so that others heard, and all the Yard would know about it. Roger would never live it down. Can’t you imagine it? Handsome’s little wifey-pifey protests that Handsome isn’t getting a square deal.’

  ‘Roger said the same thing,’ complained Janet, ‘but something must be done.’ She paused, and a knowing look sparked her eyes. ‘Mark, you know Sir Guy, and he’ll listen to you. Will you have a word with him? You could go to see him about something else.’

  Mark eyed her with increasing wariness, said nothing until she had finished, then he waved a hand about the room. ‘So now I know what’s behind the new lodger. What did I call it – a generous gesture? All you want is to get me completely in your power, and start giving me orders. It would be worth surrendering the whole house to persuade me to interview Sir Guy about Roger’s overwork.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mark.’ She picked up a book and banged the pages resonantly, to get the dust off.

  ‘Careful!’ exclaimed Mark. He leapt towards her, taking the volume from her hands. ‘Jan, my pet, that book has to be treated with reverence. It’s a Scott first edition. And don’t change the subject. Did you or did you not think of asking me to intercede, before today?’

  ‘Well, yes, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. Obviously this was the place for you to come. But I did hope – I mean, can’t you do anything?’

  ‘Why does it matter?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s hard to say. Two or three times recently he’s had a telephone call and gone out in the middle of the night, but he hasn’t been to the Yard. He’s told me that’s where he’s been, but I’ve learned that he hasn’t been to the office, or else arrived a long time after leaving here. It may be something he’s been ordered not to tell me, but I can’t help feeling that he’s trying to save me from being worried.’

  ‘How much do you really know, or think you know?’ asked Mark. ‘How often have these mysterious telephone messages come in? Where do you think he does go?’

  ‘Answer to the first question, I know nothing. To the second, twice a week for two or three weeks. To the third, I don’t know, except that he doesn’t go straight to the Yard.’

  ‘Does he know that you know that he doesn’t?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I usually ask someone at the Yard who won’t say anything to him.’

  ‘I’ll make three guesses who it is,’ said Mark. ‘Sergeant Sloan, Sergeant William Sloan, or Old Bill. Doesn’t he know the answers?’

  ‘He says he doesn’t,’ said Janet. ‘Don’t get Sloan into trouble, Mark.’

  ‘I won’t. You know, it’s probably some undercover job, and Roger’s the most likely man to handle it. In a few weeks it’ll all be over, and he’ll probably be able to tell you something about it.’

  Janet eyed him for a long time, and then said clearly: ‘If he doesn’t get a few days off this week, I’m going to see Sir Guy. I wish—hush!’ She broke off, and Mark listened. A moment later there was a footstep downstairs, and a hearty: ‘Anyone at home?’ Janet spoke swiftly. ‘Not a word. And look at him carefully when you come down.’

  She was gone in a flash, and Mark stared at the partly open door as she hurried down the stairs. He did not go to the landing for some minutes, until conversation floated up from downstairs. He gathered that Roger had missed lunch. He had been delayed unexpectedly, but was free until the morning – unless anything unexpected cropped up.

  Mark fancied there was a note of weariness in his friend’s voice, or, if not weariness, a note foreign to it. Jaded was better, although Roger West was not a man to get easily jaded.

  If he were keeping official secrets under his hat, there was no likelihood that he would unburden himself to a friend any more than to his wife. On the other hand, in some cases which had proved difficult and frustrating, he had discussed the issues with Mark, although keeping Janet in the dark, to save her from worrying.

  When the voices stopped, Mark stepped to the landing. He heard Roger in the hall, whistling with a gaiety which sounded strained. There was no spring in his step as he mounted the stairs.

  Then Roger West, as tall as Mark, fair-haired, good-looking enough to merit the nickname ‘Handsome’ at the Yard, saw Mark. His face cleared, he stopped whistling, and raised a hand.

  ‘So you’ve made it. Anything broken?’

  ‘My faith,’ said Mark, and did not enlarge.

  ‘In what?’ demanded Roger, stopping by the open bathroom door. The light was good, and there was plenty of evidence of lack of sleep in Roger’s red-rimmed grey eyes. There were a myriad of tiny lines, too, which he had never noticed before; they gave the impression that Roger was getting old.

  ‘What are you looking like that for?’

  ‘I’ve seen some odd contrasts in my life, but this afternoon is the first time I’ve seen a man frowning while he whistles. They never seem to go together.’

  ‘Don’t be an ass,’ said Roger irritably. ‘I’ll have a wash, and see you in a few minutes.’

  Roger came into Mark’s room a little while later, and surveyed the mess, smiling and more himself.

  ‘We’ll come up and give you a hand as soon as we’ve finished lunch,’ said Roger.

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the kind,’ declared Mark. ‘I’ve seen the barbarian hand of Janet amongst the books already. You go out for a nice walk, or lounge in the garden, and have some tea for me in a couple of hours. You don’t get much time off. Spend what little you have with Janet.’

  ‘We’ll be up,’ said Roger.

  He was wrong: an hour later Mark, buried in his task but pondering over the peculiar situation between Janet and Roger, started abruptly at a faint squeaking sound behind him. He swung round, a duster in one hand, a book in the other. Janet, her forefinger at her lips, tiptoed in. ‘He’s asleep.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘He just sat down after lunch, and started to fill his pipe, but he was asleep before it was alight. He is too tired. I’m not going to let it go on any longer. He won’t listen to reason, and stay away from the office for a few days. Either you’ll see Sir Guy, or I will.’

  Mark rubbed his bony chin. ‘An ultimatum?’

  ‘Expiring at six o’clock tonight,’ Janet said. ‘It may be all my eye and Betty Martin, but I’m not going to see Roger crack up in front of my eyes without trying to do something about it. Shall I ring Sir Guy for an appointment, or will you?’

  Caller

  ‘I think it’s the craziest notion that even you’ve had for a long time, but if someone has to see Chatsworth it had better be me. I’ll phone Chatsworth right away,’ promised Mark. ‘You make sure that Roger doesn’t wake up and find out what I’m doing. My life won’t be worth living if he does.’

  Mark went downstairs and into the lounge, where the telephone stood on a small table by a fireplace filled with fir cones. He dialled Chatsworth’s private number and was answered by a suave-voiced servant.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Sir Guy is out of town.’

  Mark felt a spark of hope. ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘He has a luncheon appointment here tomorrow, sir.’

  ‘I’ll call again tomorrow,’ said Mark. ‘Tell him I called, please – my name is Mark Lessing. He’ll know me.’

  As he replaced the receiver, Janet tiptoed into the room. ‘So long as you do see him,’ she said. ‘Mark de
ar, I’m so grateful.’

  Just before five o’clock, when Mark’s room was as straight as it could be, the telephone bell rang. Janet went downstairs to answer it.

  ‘Anyone for me?’ Roger called, still half-asleep.

  ‘Mrs Elliott, asking us to bridge tonight,’ answered Janet. ‘I told her we would be too busy settling our lodger in.’ She made a moue at Mark, who saw Roger’s relaxation and was impressed by yet another demonstration of his friend’s tension. Nothing was said; Roger went upstairs to change his shoes, and Janet made tea.

  In the kitchen, Mark asked: ‘You haven’t any plans for tonight, have you?’

  ‘No,’ said Janet. ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought if Roger and I were here together, I might induce him to take the brakes off. I mean, it’s just possible he’ll unburden himself.’

  ‘It’s not a bad idea,’ said Janet thoughtfully. ‘I’m going out after tea for an hour. Hush.’

  ‘Now what’s the conspiracy about?’ demanded Roger from the door.

  He looked rested, the redness had gone from his eyes, although the crow’s feet still remained. He yawned several times during tea, which they had in a small loggia at the back of the house to the accompaniment of radio music from three different sets, all tuned into different stations, and occasional outburst from the child-cum-mongrel-cum-dustbin lid next door.

  ‘While you two are listening to the news,’ Janet said just before six o’clock, ‘I’ll slip in next door.’

  ‘Arrange for the demise of that ghastly child for me, will you?’ asked Mark.

  ‘He’s a nice boy.’ Janet kissed the top of Roger’s head. ‘Don’t doze off again, darling, or you won’t sleep tonight.’

  Mark tuned in the radio, which was in the lounge, and music came softly, and soon the peeps of the Greenwich time signal sounded clearly.