Strike for Death

  Copyright & Information

  Strike for Death

  First published in 1958

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1958-2014

  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 2014 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

  0755136403 9780755136407 Print

  0755139739 9780755139736 Kindle

  0755138082 9780755138081 Epub

  0755155254 9780755155255 Epdf

  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

  Incitement to Strike

  Tessa lee felt almost frightened as she watched the crowd; and was fascinated by the man who stood on the box, waving his arms and mouthing words she could not hear because the office window was closed. Even if she opened it she would catch only a word here and there, and she was not sure that she wanted to hear what he said.

  She had only seen him a few times, and then casually; now she felt that she hated him.

  A watery spring sun broke through clouds, and shone on his reddish hair, glinted on his rimless glasses. Then he said something which amused the crowd of workers, she saw their faces break into grins, could imagine the laughter. Two or three elderly men in overalls turned from the edge of the crowd of over a thousand strong, and walked towards the factory gates. Tessa, watching them, thought that they looked worried. The smiling and the laughter ceased. She saw a new change in the expressions of the men, and suddenly there was a kind of commotion. Some waved and shouted in unison, making a sound which came faintly through the window; it seemed to Tessa that it was the sound of a mob, roaring. Silence and stillness fell.

  Then laughter shook them all again. The red-haired man had humoured and delighted them.

  Two things happened, one quick upon the other, to draw the girl’s attention from the orator and the crowd. She heard the handle of the door turn; and in the distance saw a car come into sight along the road which led to the factory from the main road. She glanced round, and saw Mr Cobb, secretary to Munro Motors, silvery-haired although he was not yet fifty, a small, precise, neat-looking man whom one had to know for a long time before liking.

  Tessa had known him for six years, since she had first come to work at Munro’s, and wasn’t sure yet whether she liked him or not.

  He smiled, thinly, as he approached with some papers in his hand.

  “So you’ve been watching, too, Miss Lee.”

  “I couldn’t help myself.”

  “I don’t think anyone could.” Cobb put the papers down on Tessa’s desk, near the typewriter, and looked out of the window, frowning, obviously perturbed. “I’m afraid they’re coming out this time.”

  “But it’s so crazy!”

  “It may look crazy,” Cobb said. “I never really know.” His gaze moved into the near distance, so that he could see the car, a maroon-and-grey Rolls-Bentley, moving slowly towards the factory gates and the great crowd which was just inside. “I never really know,” he repeated. “You see how foolish the best of people can be.”

  Tessa felt sure what he meant.

  He would not allow himself to voice criticism of the other directors or the management in her hearing, but there could not have been a worse moment for Malcolm Munro, the newest and youngest member of the Board, to come flaunting his luxury car. In twenty minutes’ time, when the men were back at work, he could have come purring in, without attracting much attention, but now the crowd would have to move away for him, and undoubtedly some would resent it The gates were open. A few youngsters and girls were walking on the tatty grass patch beyond, most of them in couples; the lunch-hour break gave time for snatches of romance. The sun went behind the clouds, lazily. The Rolls-Bentley came through the gates and near the crowd of workers, and judging from the way several looked round and then opened their mouths, they shouted to the others. Abuse? The red-haired man on the box didn’t stop speaking, and most of the men were too interested in what he had to say to take any notice of those on the fringe.

  The Rolls-Bentley was forced to a standstill only a yard or two from the crowd.

  Tessa could see Malcolm at the wheel; alone.

  He wound the window down and spoke to someone nearby, a man who nodded and moved off. More men called out. Most of them, their backs to the car, had no idea that it was there, but the speaker knew because he was facing it. He took no notice, and seemed intent on holding the crowd enthralled; and so holding up the junior director.

  “You see what I mean,” said A. C. Cobb, in his thin voice. He looked straight at Tessa, surprising her by his frankness. “Mr Munro must have known that the meeting was to be called today, and yet he comes at the worst possible moment. Then Grannett tries his strength and stops the crowd from moving, so one thing sets off another. If you judged from this kind of occurrence you would think that management and men were implacable enemies, but each of these is a worthy man, and over a drink they would be perfectly good friends.”

  Then he caught his breath.

  Tessa had been looking at him, but at the look of horror in his expression swung round towards the window again. She was in time to see the missile in flight, although she didn’t see who threw it. It looked like a darkish ball, curving through the air; it fell plumb on the roof of the Rolls-Bentley, and split into a yellowy, squashy mess.

  Tessa could see now that it was an orange.

  Juice must have splashed very close to Malcolm.

  “Oh, the fools,” groaned A. C. Cobb.

  Tessa almost prayed. �
�Malcolm, don’t lose your temper, don’t—’

  He was thrusting open the door of the car, a lithe, tanned, good-looking man in the late twenties, a fine athlete, a top-class amateur boxer, reckoned a good sort in most circles, but little more than a beginner at Munro’s. Hatless, his dark hair blew about in the wind, wiry and difficult to part. As he stood up by the side of the car and called out something which Tessa couldn’t hear, a second orange smacked against the pillar of the door.

  Tessa felt a helpless, hopeless kind of dismay.

  As the orange smacked squashily, and before he felt the spattering mess, Malcolm Munro realised that he was doing the wrong thing. But it had started now, and if he drew back he would give the impression that he was funking the issue. Juice and pulpy bits splashed on to his head, his face, his clothes, and a piece of peel actually lodged between his lips, so that he had to spit it out. The moment of reason disappeared, as if it had never been. He gritted his teeth and clenched his hands tightly by his side, glaring about him, unaware of the other tensions. He heard a man call out: “That’s enough, don’t—”

  Then the voice broke off.

  Another orange hurtled towards the car, but this time Malcolm saw it leave the hand of a youth of eighteen or so, on the fringe of the crowd.

  The orange went wide.

  Afterwards, Malcolm realised that the miss gave him a chance which he would never have again; a chance to laugh at the young fool, to ridicule him for missing at twenty yards’ range. He would never know whether he would have had the crowd with him, if he had tried.

  At the moment, he felt only that searing, ungovernable rage.

  “I want that man,” he said harshly. “That man who threw the oranges. Send him here.”

  The red-haired man who had been haranguing the crowd was silent now, his grip on their attention loosened. He was staring this way; so was everyone, heads or bodies twisted to do so. A few men and girls jumped up on to the wire fence, and some on to barrels of oil and paint, to get a better view.

  The youth who had thrown the orange wore a khaki polo-neck sweater, and had untidy brown hair and rather a large nose. There was a scared look in his eyes.

  “Come on, what’s your name?” Malcolm strode forward, and the men nearer him gave way. He was a boss and they were the workers, even if they had just decided to deliver a strike ultimatum to the management; so they deferred to him. Someone nearly out of range said: “Damned young fool.”

  Him, Malcolm?

  Or the youth?

  The youth was looking right and left, as if seeking a way out. Two or three others, about the same age, were lining up in front of him, almost protectively; others gave him a wide berth. There was a moment of silence before the man on the box called out in a carrying voice: “What’s going on there?”

  Malcolm didn’t look round at him, but pushed on through the crowd. The youth with untidy hair and the scared look was over two yards away, and still protected by three others, one of them short, stocky, red-haired, young.

  Malcolm reached the party.

  “Now, let’s have your name,” he said curtly, “and then you can go and get your cards. You’re finished here.”

  “Take it easy, take it easy.” That was the red-haired youth, who stood squarely in front of the orange-thrower, proving half a head shorter. There was nothing even remotely nervous in his manner, he was much more relaxed than anyone else nearby. “He didn’t throw anything.”

  “You keep out of this.” Malcolm was within arm’s reach of the orange-thrower. “What’s the matter with you? Lost your tongue?”

  “I—I—I—”

  “I told you he didn’t do anything,” repeated the redhead. “Who the hell do you think you are, throwing your weight about like this?”

  “Another word out of you, and you can get your cards, too,” Malcolm rasped.

  Then he was jostled from behind.

  He could not save himself, and staggered towards the redhead. He saw the glint of satisfaction in a pair of greenish grey eyes, a positive grin on the fine, full lips. The grin warned him what to expect. As he fell, the youth drove his fist towards Malcolm’s stomach, a short arm blow that would have winded Malcolm if it had landed squarely. The split second of warning saved him. He dropped his right hand and took the blow on his wrist. The move surprised the young redhead, who struck out with his left for Malcolm’s chin.

  Someone cried almost wailingly: “Stop it, can’t you? Stop it!”

  But his words were drowned.

  The factory hooter screeched notice that it was five minutes to two, time for the men to start back to the factory workshops. It drowned the man’s voice too. It drowned the young redhead’s words, but undoubtedly he was swearing viciously at Malcolm, who had taken the blow glancingly on the chin. Then the hooter stopped, and the redhead’s last words sounded clear and loud: “… high and mighty tricks with me, I’ll smash your face in.”

  He looked as if he meant it.

  A middle-aged man put a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off, and squared up in front of Malcolm, face scarlet, eyes blazing, lips parted.

  “Come on, put your fists up! Let’s see if papa’s boy has any guts!”

  It was ‘papa’s boy’ that really robbed Malcolm of the last vestige of self-control, and sent him blindly forward. He took a blow on the side of the jaw and another on the chest, but after that it was slaughter. The youth might be strong, but he didn’t know a single boxing trick. When he realised what was happening to him he fell back hastily, and tried to cover up. But he wasn’t frightened.

  Soon, his nose and lips were bleeding and his right eye swelling. He pitched backwards, suddenly. By then, three or four men were pulling at Malcolm. He did not shake them off, but stood practically unmarked, gasping, fists still clenched, glaring at the other youths now bending over their friend; the orange-thrower was standing on one side, looking much more scared than the redhead had. He began to move forward.

  “I—I’m sorry, sir, I—I didn’t mean—” He swallowed his words. “I didn’t—”

  Then Malcolm Munro made his worst mistake of the afternoon.

  “Just go and get your cards.” He turned away, shrugged off the men’s hands, and went back to the Rolls-Bentley. He got in, and found his hand sticky with orange juice which had been on the door handle. He was still breathing very hard, his jaw smarted a little at one side, and the knuckles of his right hand were painful. The crowd was farther away now, only one or two couples stood near the Rolls-Bentley, and they were hurrying. A dozen or so people stood by the fallen youth and his friends, and among them was the redheaded soapbox orator, Grannett, the strike advocate.

  Malcolm began to tremble from reaction.

  He mustn’t show it. He must not betray any sign of weakness. If any good was to come out of this, it would be from a display of strength. The fallen youth was being helped to his feet, and his friends went off with him, one of them with an arm round his waist. No one looked back now, except Grannett.

  He came striding towards Malcolm, a man in the early thirties, broad, stocky, powerful. The wayward sun came out again and glinted on his rimless glasses and made his head seem massive. Malcolm saw him clearly when he was twenty feet away, and realised that he was remarkably like the youth whom he had just fought.

  And both had bright red hair.

  This man reached the window.

  Malcolm made himself say: “Well?”

  “I just thought you would like to know that you’ve made it almost impossible to avoid a strike,” he said, and his eyes were cold and accusing. “You won’t have a man or girl against it until you’ve made a full apology for that assault. I’ve been waiting a long time to see a Munro make a fool of himself, and it’s been worth waiting for. You’ll be lucky if you’re not charged with assault.”

  Chapter Two

  Board Meeting

  It was crazy to be in love with Malcolm, but there was nothing Tessa could do about that. She had expected him
to go straight into his own office after the fracas, not to come through hers. Instead, he arrived only five minutes after A. C. Cobb had left, when she was putting a letter heading into the typewriter. She sat sideways to the window and facing the door, and when the handle turned her heart leaped; when she saw him come in it beat very fast indeed.

  He nodded, closed the door, and came forward. She had an odd impression: that he looked older. There was a slight swelling on the left side of his chin, but she saw nothing else wrong, except that dark spots and pieces of orange dotted his pale-grey suit which fitted so perfectly, and his dark, wiry hair. His wine-red tie was badly spotted, too.

  Tessa just sat and looked up at him, unable to bring herself to speak normally, and when he realised this, Malcolm looked down at her and gave a twisted smile.

  “So you know what happened?”

  “I saw most of it through the window.”

  “I didn’t realise I had a wider audience.” He glanced out, and she saw him clench his fists as he stood with his back to her. “The office canteen windows are on this side, too. I’ll bet they had fun.” He swung round on her. “Did you?”

  She said: “I hated every second of it.”

  The glitter went out of his eyes, and he moved and sat on the corner of a low filing-cabinet which was within hand’s reach of Tessa.

  “Yes, you would. Thank you, Tessa. I’m not asking, I’m just wondering what you hated most: the sight of a director being stoned with oranges, as it were, or Grannett inciting the men to strike, or me making an utter fool of myself.”

  Tessa didn’t answer.

  “Well, there’s one good thing, the Board’s due to meet at half past three, so we needn’t let the world wait in suspense,” Malcolm went on. “Anyone telephoned apologies?”

  “No, sir,” she said.

  He leaned forward until their faces were very close, and he bunched his hands tightly, as if he didn’t want to move them and so touch her.