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  Waiting for trial the men who began the great betrayal heard news of the onslaught. In Lashley, Regina stayed with Aunt Bess, hearing from Mike by letter or telephone. In Guildford Hospital Mark Errol improved day by day, bemoaning the fact that he saw so little of the action, while marvelling at the speed with which Mike and Regina had come to an understanding.

  To his nurse he declared, on hearing the news of their engagement, that two goldfish never could be satisfactorily divided among three people.

  No Darker Crime

  John Creasey

  1

  ‘Something of Interest’

  Dear Mr. Garth,

  If you will call at The Elms, Brookside Road, Wimbledon, about 7 p.m. today, you will hear something which l am sure will interest you greatly.

  There was no signature to the note. Nor was there any address. But the postmark was ‘Wimbledon’ and David Garth assumed it had been sent from The Elms. He drew his almost flaxen eyebrows together as he tried to recollect any acquaintance in Wimbledon—and to imagine what the matter of interest might be. His face, too long in the chin and nose to be quite handsome, cleared as he decided that it was of no importance. Dropping it on to the table, he lit a cigarette and glanced at his watch.

  ‘Five to five,’ he mused. ‘I wonder if it’s any use looking up Anne?’

  He eyed the telephone in the corner of the long, narrow room, which was furnished with a variety of oddments inherited or acquired on his travels. A court cupboard in lovely, mellowed walnut, a Chippendale tripod table, two slung-chairs, their sound leather seats barely marked after two hundred years of usage, a beautiful gate-leg table, and, flanking the fire-place, two vast and very comfortable hide armchairs. A shaft of Autumn sunlight threw into bold relief the delicate inlay-work of a walnut Regency bookcase.

  It would be pleasant to see Anne again, he reflected although now that she was engaged she might feel it would be indiscreet to meet him. His long, sensitive lips curved; without more ado he stepped to the telephone and dialled a Chelsea number.

  The voice that answered made his heart leap, although he had believed himself quite cured of his infatuation for Anne Duval. ‘I’ll give you three guesses,’ he told her.

  She did not recognise him; or perhaps affected not to.

  ‘Who did you say …?’

  ‘It’s David,’ he said, shortly. ‘I wondered if …’

  ‘David!’ she exclaimed. ‘David, I …’

  There was a hint of excitement in her voice. Then she paused and her tone became flat and indifferent. But she carried it too far when she concluded: ‘Oh, you mean David Garth? Hallo, David.’

  ‘No, that’s too bad!’ he protested, not entirely joking. ‘Once we were as one, but now you have the nerve to pretend you can mistake me for same other David. Anne, are you doing anything tonight?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ she said, a little too promptly. ‘I’ve a dinner appointment. I’m terribly busy, these days, David—war work, you know.’ She spoke quickly, as if to prevent him from interrupting. ‘And the fact is, I have met several other Davids, recently—George knew them. Have you seen George, lately?’

  ‘Does he respect the laws of ministerial discretion enough to forget to tell you I’ve been to America?’ demanded Garth. ‘Anyway, since it’s been in most of the papers and on the radio …’

  ‘I don’t get much chance to read the papers, these days,’ she told him. ‘Did you have a good journey?’

  ‘Not a U-boat either way. Thanks for asking.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Anne.

  That startled him more than anything else. The Anne he had known so well would have seized on that note of raillery and snapped back some witty rejoinder and they would have laughed together. That was one of his pleasantest memories of Anne Duval—the ease of laughing with her. After their estrangement and her engagement to the more solid—and stolid—George, he had often reproached himself because he had taken Anne, and life, too lightly.

  ‘I do wish I were free,’ she added, after the slightest of pauses. ‘Perhaps if you ring again—in about a week, say—I’ll have an hour or two to spare. Sorry—I can’t stop now. Goodbye, David!’

  He replaced the receiver with mixed feelings.

  That evasive, contradictory reaction was so unexpected from Anne. It contrasted not only with his memories of her, but also with that first eager ‘David!’ It was as if she had allowed her feelings free rein, then suddenly regretted it.

  ‘The truth is,’ he reflected wryly, ‘she thinks I might be too disruptive an influence, so she’s playing safe. I’ve received my congé and that’s that. The question is what to do with the evening?’

  He glanced at the note again, with a mild stirring of curiosity. It was written in a bold, flowing hand, with green ink on mauve paper. The over-all effect was flamboyant.

  Undecided still, he dropped the letter on to the table again, and wandered across to a small bureau near the window. The writing flap was down and there was a pile of newspaper cuttings on it.

  In the sunlight, his blond hair was creamy gold. His eyes—blue, dark-fringed, wide-set and deceptively sleepy-looking—scanned the top cutting. It was from the New York Daily Mirror and it had a headline an inch deep:

  GARTH SAYS NOW OR NEVER

  English Spokesman Rates U.S.A.

  ‘David Garth, dreamy-eyed, handsome, lazy-looking, belied his appearance and put pep into his speech at Ligham Hall last night. Question—does Garth, from Ministry of Propaganda, Whitehall, speak for himself or for the British Government? If for himself, one day he will be caught with his pants down. But Garth is nobody’s fool. Internal quarrels and isolationist U.S.A. outlook, he said, will only lead to another world war. Others have said the same but not with such vigor and feeling. Don’t be taken in by his pretty blue eyes. Garth’s dynamite. Maybe we need some.’

  Garth smiled briefly and looked at the next cutting from the New York Times:

  David Garth Speaks for Himself

  Not Views of Whitehall, He Says

  ‘Asked by a Times reporter whether his speech at Ligham Hall should be regarded as official, David Garth said NO in Capital letters. We question the wisdom of permitting official spokesmen to make unofficial pronouncements in public.’

  He picked up another, from the London Daily Telegraph:

  Mr. David Garth To Return

  Lecture Tour Cut Short

  ‘It is understood that Mr. David Garth, distinguished critic and, more lately, lecturer for the Ministry of Propaganda, is to return from the United States, where some of his recent speeches have caused some misunderstanding. Mr. Garth’s return is for private reasons and it is hoped that he will be able to return to the United States before the year is out.’

  Garth shrugged, dropped the cutting, and turned to gaze out of the window into Jermyn Street.

  He was sardonically amused by this evidence of the delicacy of the panjandrums in Whitehall—while appreciating the fact that an official reproof, sharply delivered to him personally had not been made public.

  Actually, he had been recalled for speaking too bluntly; but secretly, he had a shrewd idea that some of his superiors applauded his plain speaking. Yet that did not excuse him for using his position to make statements which might arouse ill-feeling.

  ‘Still, as a private citizen, I wouldn’t have gone over at all,’ he mused. ‘I wonder if they’ll let me resign?’

  He knew it was much more likely that he would be sent on a lecture tour in England, with careful instructions on what not to say. They might have released him for the Army, but a motoring accident had left him with a stiff left arm and he had been rated Grade 3 since his ‘medical’, two years earlier.

  The telephone startled him.

  He went across and lifted the receiver.

  ‘David Garth speaking.’

  A man spoke. A stranger to him, his voice quiet, but with a note of authority; a voice which commanded immediate respect.

/>   ‘Good-evening, Mr. Garth. You won’t know me, but I must ask your indulgence in a matter which you may find somewhat startling.’

  ‘I say, who …?’

  ‘Before you ask any questions, Mr. Garth, would you mind telling me: have you received an invitation, unsigned, to visit a house of which you have never heard?’

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Garth, amazed.

  ‘Then you have?’ The voice held evident satisfaction. ‘Mr. Garth, there is no time now for explanations, but I will be greatly obliged if you will go to the Regent Palace Hotel lounge at once. There, you will be met and given some explanation of this unusual request.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘You might find in this an opportunity for re-establishing your reputation at the M.O.P.’, went on the other, drily. ‘On the other hand, you might find an outlet for even more direct self-expression! Don’t ignore this request, will you?’

  The line went dead while Garth was still seeking an effective reply. Frowning, he replaced the receiver, lit a cigarette and took the note from the table again. As he read it, the unknown caller’s message ran through his mind.

  He had to admit it had been cleverly phrased. He was feeling pretty sore about his recall and the probability that for some time to come he would be closely watched, and all his speeches scrutinised for any departure from the orthodox. Now, he had been offered two alternatives—vague ones, it was true, yet with possibilities. Moreover, the speaker had implied that he had some official connection, perhaps with the M.O.P. itself....

  He read the note again, slowly:

  Dear Mr. Garth,

  If you will call at The Elms, Brookside Road, Wimbledon, about 7 p.m. today, you will hear something which I am sure will interest you greatly.

  It was half past five, and he had nothing else arranged. A visit to the Regent Palace, only a few hundred yards away, would at least do no harm, he decided.

  He walked through to Piccadilly and along to the hotel, entered the crowded foyer through the revolving doors, and approached the lounge.

  There were few more popular meeting-places in the centre of London, and a hum of conversation filled the large, ornately-ceilinged room. Several women sitting alone eyed his tall figure, immaculate in dark-blue hopsack, with unconcealed interest. But no one made any deliberate move to attract his attention.

  Frowning, Garth looked about him, wondering how he could be identified amongst so many. And even if he were, he thought, it would surely be impossible to talk without being overheard. He strolled the length of the wide passage between the massed chairs and sofas, alert for anyone who might seem to be regarding him with especial interest.

  No one approached him.

  He retraced his steps as far as the lounge doorway, beginning to wonder whether he could possibly be the victim of some hoaxer. A waitress passed him and handed a note to a hall-porter, and a moment later, the man came over to him.

  ‘Excuse me, sir—would you be Mr. Garth?’

  ‘I am,’ Garth said,

  ‘Your friend’s sent a message, sir, to say he’s sorry he can’t get down to see you, but will you be good enough to go to Room 316? That’s on the third floor, sir …’

  He broke off, as he was button-holed by a vociferous middle-aged woman plaintively demanding that he find her a seat, and Garth nodded and strode off towards the lifts. Up on the third floor, he followed the deserted corridors until he reached the door of 316; then, for the first time, doubtful of the wisdom of going further, he paused and reached for his cigarettes as he considered.

  He was just about to light one, when a man turned the corner. Tall and well-built, he wore a Savile Row suit with a casual elegance that matched Garth’s own. He looked somewhere about thirty-five and was clearly in the pink of condition. His face creased into an engaging smile as he drew up.

  ‘I’ve beaten you to it, then?’ he said, cheerfully. ‘Don’t look dumbstruck, old chap—we’re quite harmless!’ And gripping Garth’s right arm, he turned the handle of the door and pushed it open.

  Propelled into the room, Garth stared confusedly at a man on the bed.

  It was as if the man from the passage had contrived to pass him, take off his coat, and lain down on one of the beds. But the grip on his arm remained firm until the door was closed.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he assured Garth, as the man on the bed laconically raised himself and swung his feet to the floor. ‘We’re two separate people. And we’re not even brothers …’

  ‘Which is no cause for regret,’ remarked the second man. ‘We are …’

  ‘Cousins,’ supplied the first. ‘It’s always quicker to get it over this way, I think. Look carefully and you will see the subtle difference. My hair is a shade lighter …’

  ‘Only it has more oil upon it,’ quoth the man on the bed. ‘My eyes are darker, too.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ murmured Garth, glancing from one to the other as they eyed him expectantly. Then he realised how futile the comment must have sounded. But he felt futile. With other men who acted so outrageously he might have felt annoyed, yet there was an engaging good humour about this couple which invited reciprocity. He made the effort:

  ‘I suppose I haven’t strayed into an asylum?’ he asked, drily.

  The man on the bed beamed approval.

  ‘No asylum.’ He spoke more quickly and crisply than his cousin: ‘Some would say that such should be our lot, but Fate is kind … Everything all right, Mark?’

  ‘Yes,’ added the other. ‘He wasn’t followed—neither was I. The trouble with us,’ he added, to Garth, ‘is that we have suspicious minds. In the simplest things, we see great possibilities for evil.’ He grinned. ‘No, don’t say it! We’re going to explain, partly, at least. Sit down and light that cigarette and make yourself at home.’

  He indicated the only easy-chair in the small room, and Garth crossed to it and seated himself with a good-humoured shrug.

  He was a pretty good judge of men. And the one thing obvious to him, about this pair, was that their facetious back-chat was only a façade. And men of the calibre he sensed them to be would not have gone to such trouble to get him here and meet him unseen, without some very good reason.

  Their precautions against being seen with him, indeed—while undeniably quickening his interest—gave him a feeling of faint disquiet. He waited with mounting curiosity as the second man seated himself on the upright chair near the bedside telephone. Then the man on the bed announced, solemnly:

  ‘I will now unfold the mystery.’

  ‘Never mind the mystery,’ interrupted ‘Mark’. ‘Get to the point!’

  ‘What, put the cart before the horse?’ protested the other. Then grinned again, as he added: ‘Although I agree—Garth will probably start throwing his weight about, if we don’t start somewhere. The point first, then. We want you to go to Wimbledon tonight, Garth, but not as a free agent. We want you to go as a representative of—er—a small department in Whitehall, to which we have the honour to belong.’ More seriously, he concluded: ‘If you’re convinced that it’s worth while, can you go?’

  Garth hesitated before saying:

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘Ours the “buts”!’ said the other, promptly. ‘If you can go, and are convinced you should, will you still go when I tell you that the venture might hold more than a modicum of danger?’

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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