So Young, So Cold, So Fair Read online

  Copyright & Information

  So Young, So Cold, So Fair

  First published in 1954

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1954-2013

  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 Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2013 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.

  ISBN EAN Edition

  0755136357 9780755136353 Print

  0755139682 9780755139682 Kindle

  0755138031 9780755138036 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.

  Creasey 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.

  Chapter One

  A Beauty Walks

  “But listen, Betty,” Harold Millsom said huskily, “it won’t get you anywhere. It never does, in the long run. You’ll regret it all your life, honestly you will.”

  “Darling,” Betty said, “you just don’t understand, that’s all there is about it. I must go. Why, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime! Hundreds, why thousands, of girls would give their right hands for my chance. Please don’t make me unhappy about—about anything.”

  Millsom didn’t answer, just looked at her as if he worshipped her beauty; and she was beautiful as few will ever be. So young, with great blue eyes and a skin without a blemish, a face which seemed to glow. As Millsom stared, it was as if her beauty made him suffer; tormented him. That showed in his eyes, in the way his lips tightened and twisted; like those of a man in pain who was determined not to break down.

  “Honestly,” Betty said solemnly, “I think I’ve got everything, Harold—everything that matters to make me a star. I do, really.”

  “You little fool, you’ll just be one of thousands who waste their lives prancing about the stage, making up to any oily old man who promises you a chance!” Millsom burst out. “The only chance you’ll ever get will be sleeping—”

  “Harold!”

  Millsom gulped.

  “Oh, I know,” he muttered. “That was beastly. I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean it, Betty, it’s just that I hate to think of you being spoiled, ruined, disappointed, and you will be. That’s what always happens.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Betty was tranquil again. “Some girls get to the top, don’t they? What about Vivien Leigh and Jean Simmons, and all of them? They had to begin at the beginning, and that’s what I’m doing. In fact, in some ways,” Betty went on earnestly, “I’ve made a better start. I did win the competition, and—”

  “I wish to God you’d never entered for the damned thing!”

  “Oh, Harold, there you go again. It’s no use, you know, and I’m sure you’ll be the first to come and congratulate me when I’m a star.”

  Millsom moved suddenly, swiftly; startling her. But she was not afraid, for she had known him all her life, and had great trust in him. Even when his strong fingers gripped her shoulders and actually hurt, she wasn’t afraid.

  “Listen, you damned little idiot, you’ll never be a star. They’re fooling you. You can’t act, and you’ll never be able to, and it’s past time someone stopped you making a fool of yourself. They’ll just lead you up the garden and then throw you aside. You won’t be worth a penny change when you’re through.”

  “Harold,” said Betty, very quietly, “you’re hurting.”

  He didn’t let her go, but shouted: “Are you going to listen to me? Are you?”

  “Please let me go,” Betty said, still quietly, “you’re hurting.”

  He let her go.

  He moved back a yard, staring, with the pain showing in his eyes again.

  “I think I’d rather see you dead than ruined by that theatre mob,” he told her. “Listen, Betty, you must see reason. You’ve got a good job, and everything’s fine. In a couple of years you and I could get married, even before that if you like. That’s the kind of life you want, not kicking your legs in some third-rate chorus or buttering up some nasty old man who—”

  “That’s quite enough,” Betty said.

  She turned and walked away from him. She moved with a natural grace which was hurtful to him. Her back was towards him, but her face was engraved on his mind’s eye; it was as if a part of himself was walking away.

  He took an involuntary step forward.

  “Betty!” he called, hoarsely.

  She didn’t look round.

  He went forward again, but stopped. The ground of the Common rose slightly, and she was near the top of the rise, beauty outlined against a golden dusk, against dark clouds edged with burnished brass. To the right and the left were trees, oak and beech and birch, not far off was a children’s playground, a little farther away were the bushes where young lovers were already moving, yearning for solitude. Beyond were the lanes across the Common, leading to the first of the little houses of this London suburb; houses built of yellow brick, darkened by the passing years, yet looking bright and fresh and almost new in this clear evening light, which would fade when the glistening brass edges of the clouds rolled away.

  They were dark clouds.

  Betty moved towards the houses, along the gravel pathway, past the children’s playground and its shrieking, shouting crowds, past a Common keeper, who touched his peaked cap and then stood and stared after her. So did three youths who had just come on to the Common. One of them gave a wolf whistle. Harold Millsom heard that, and his hands clenched, his face went very white.

  He took another step forward, glaring at the youths, who were a hundred yards away.

 
“Take it easy, Harold,” a man said, from behind him.

  Millsom spun round.

  A tall, thin man with a long neck and a large Adam’s apple stood near some bushes. Millsom and Betty had been close to them; this man might have been there all the time, and heard everything. Every word.

  “What the hell are you doing there, Tick?” Millsom was so angry, so deeply hurt, that he would gladly strike anyone, do anything to get release from the tension. “Come on, tell me, how long you been there?”

  “Take it easy, old lad,” Tick said hastily, “it’s a public place, isn’t it? I’ve got every right—”

  “How long have you been there?” Millsom’s voice grew shrill.

  “Not long, and I never did any harm, chum. Why don’t you unwind a bit, old boy, go on the loose—like Betty?” He gave a quick, nervous, hopeful grin. “That’s what you want to do. No use losing your loaf, is there? She’ll come back when she’s proved you’re right—”

  “So you’ve been there all the time, have you?” Millsom said unsteadily. “Why, you dirty, sneaking Peeping Tom, I’ll smash your face in.”

  “Keep away!” Tick gasped, in sudden alarm, and flung his arms up in a weak gesture of defence.

  It was no more than a gesture.

  Powerful fists smacked into his face, his stomach, his chest; he felt one eye close, tasted the salt of blood on his lips, gasped and cried and gave ground fast, but could not get away from the savage, vicious, pounding fists.

  He was just a heap on the ground when Millsom walked blindly away, and three youths, one of whom had whistled after Betty, watched him as they hurried to see what had happened to Tick.

  Tick was sobbing, bleeding, blinded by tears and blood.

  Betty closed the door of one of the little houses, an hour later, and walked towards the Common. It was dark but for the street lamps. She didn’t really like the thought of crossing the Common, but it offered a short cut to the main road and the buses for the half-hour ride to the West End. She walked quickly, and no one followed her.

  She wasn’t likely to have any more bother with Harold, she persuaded herself. She was sorry, but he simply didn’t understand. If he had his way she would marry him now, and they would settle down to a little house and a lot of kids. He’d often hinted that he’d like a big family, and where would that get them? The pictures twice a week, perhaps, and the pools, and her figure would be ruined in a few years. Kids did that to your figure, didn’t they? Oh, no, that wasn’t the life for her, the Beauty Queen of South London with a small part in a British film almost certain, and goodness knew what to follow. She was confident of her ability, and that caused the trouble – at home as well as with Harold, no one had any faith in her.

  She could see the greenish glow of the big main-road lights from the top of the hill. This was near the spot where she had talked with Harold. Down below, in a kind of hollow, it was very dark; the darkest stretch in the Common. She was always jittery when crossing here, and quickened her pace involuntarily. But her fears were subconscious, tonight; she walked on invisible, billowy clouds, and dreamed wonderful dreams of stardom, of film-star heroes and a film-star husband, of waving, cheering fans, of a triumphal return home to Telham and Hindle Street, and proud, humbled parents – perhaps with Harold Millsom kissing her gently on the cheeks and confessing that he had been wrong.

  The faint glow of the green lamps was in the sky, and that was now the only light.

  A sound pierced this dream world, and she missed a step.

  Then she went on, more quickly, hands tightly clenched, heels digging into the springy turf. She didn’t look right or left, but went straight on. She had heard something, hadn’t she? Or had it been an owl? People said there was one here. She wouldn’t come here alone at night again, it was silly being scared just so as to save an extra twenty minutes’ walk the other way round. She just had to get up to the West End, the bright lights, the theatre district; she couldn’t bear being at home, hearing her father say that she wouldn’t come across a straighter young chap than Harold Millsom if she lived to be a hundred, and her mother calling her a stage-struck little fool whose pretty face would be her ruin.

  She heard the sound again.

  Someone – panting?

  This time, she looked round, a swift, frightened glance. It was very dark, but she could see a pale white shape, not far away; the face of a man or woman.

  And whoever it was came hurrying.

  Running.

  “No,” gasped Betty. “No, don’t—”

  She began to run, too. Her high heels caught in the grass and she stumbled. The unknown pounded after her, much nearer, much louder, panting. She wanted to scream, but no sound would come from her throat. She ran on – on – on.

  She reached the top of the second slope. Here the light was better, she could even see the green lamps and the yellow ones of the houses and the shops, she could see the shapes of roofs and the outline of trees. She was safe, or very near safety; she’d just been silly, needn’t have panicked. She need only run comfortably –

  Her heel caught in the ground, and she pitched forward.

  The fall didn’t hurt, but it brought terror back, terror which filled her mind and her body. She tried to scramble to her feet. Now she was panting, too, and the thudding of her heart drowned the sound that the pursuer was making, the pounding unknown creature.

  She got to her knees.

  A dark shape loomed over her.

  “No!” she screamed. “No!”

  Great fear welled up in her, terror paralysed her, even the single word coming from her lips was hoarse and gasping.

  “No, no, no!”

  Before she could see who it was, she felt hands at her throat, felt fingers biting into her flesh as fingers had bitten into her shoulders earlier. But these hurt more; these were squeezing into her throat, choking. She kicked and struck and fought with awful desperation, but the agonising pain stayed at her throat – and it was getting worse. Her lungs were bursting, she couldn’t breathe. She felt the burning pressure as the air tried to get out and as she fought to draw more in. But the fingers hurt more and more.

  The lights faded, until there was only darkness.

  A sharp, knife like pain shot across Betty’s breast. She knew that she was losing consciousness; a strange, pain-wracked darkness filled her head, it was as if someone were filling it with air, hissing and roaring; as if her head and her lungs would burst.

  Then her thoughts and the pain she felt and the fear in her were all gathered together and lost in blackness.

  Her assailant bent down, gripped her ankles, and dragged her away from the path, over the grass, towards the silent darkness of the bushes.

  Chapter Two

  Chief Inspector West

  “Where is West?” asked Detective Inspector Turnbull.

  “Doesn’t he ever show up before ten?”

  “He was out late last night,” a detective sergeant said, tersely.

  “What I can’t understand is why he always gets the plums,” Turnbull complained. “I was told that he had the Old Man in his pocket, now I know it’s true. If you keep in with Chatworth you can get away with murder in this place. It wants a bit of cleaning up, if you ask me.”

  “No one,” said the sergeant, coldly, “is asking you.”

  Turnbull made no further comment, but moved to Roger West’s desk, one of five in the large office, and sat down in Roger West’s chair. No one in the room told him that this was almost sacrilege. No one in the room would feel in the slightest degree sorry for Turnbull when West told him where to get off. Turnbull, by common consent at Scotland Yard, was riding for a fall. Few who knew him hoped it would be a light one.

  True, he was a clever swine; if it weren’t for his conceit and his low opinion of nearly everyone else, he would
be good for the Yard.

  Now he sat at West’s desk, reading reports from MK Division, Telham, about the murder of a girl named Betty Gelibrand. Funny name, Gelibrand. ‘Attractive blonde’ said the Divisional report – and that would mean another holiday for the Press.

  Turnbull read on …

  The sergeant went out, and the two Chief Inspectors in the office studiously ignored Turnbull. The telephone on Roger’s desk rang.

  Turnbull snatched up the receiver.

  “Turnbull here … Oh, good morning, sir …” The change in his tone made both the C.I.s look up; and then glance at each other understandingly. “No, sir, he’s not in yet … I don’t think he’s in the building, sir … I will, the moment I can get hold of him, I won’t lose a moment.”

  He rang off.

  He looked at the profile of one C.I., a rugged profile; and the broad back of the other.

  “That,” he announced, “was the great Sir Guy Chatworth himself, and he didn’t sound too pleased.”

  Neither man answered.

  Turnbull looked nastily at the profile and the back, then lifted the receiver again. He told the operator to let him know the moment that Chief Inspector West entered the building, before turning back to the report and the scanty oddments of information about Betty Gelibrand. Now and again he sniffed; when he’d finished reading, he took out a packet of Turkish cigarettes and lit one.

  “Jim,” said one C.I. to the other, after a few minutes, “mind if I open a window?”

  “I’ll help you,” growled the other.

  Turnbull pretended to read on.

  Two sergeants arrived within three minutes of each other, so there were five men in the office when the door opened and Roger West came in.

  West had a way with him wherever he was, whatever he was doing, a kind of restrained briskness; giving an impression that he was anxious to get this particular job over and be tackling the next; yet he could be as patient as Cartwright, the Yard’s Job.