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    Death in Cold Print
    Death in Cold Print
    Death in Cold Print
    Ebook226 pages3 hours

    Death in Cold Print

    By John Creasey

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    About this ebook

    Roger ‘Handsome’ West of Scotland Yard is called to the West Midlands to help solve a mysterious double murder that has taken place in a large printing works. The victims were lovers and so suspicion falls upon the dead woman’s husband. West ends up charging him, but then the printing works is sabotaged and there is a further murder. The local police are not impressed by West’s methods, and he also realises that there is more to this case than originally thought. Just what is going on and are there more killings in the offing?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHouse of Stratus
    Release dateMay 1, 2015
    ISBN9780755137121
    Death in Cold Print
    Author

    John Creasey

    Born in Surrey, England, into a poor family as seventh of nine children, John Creasey attended a primary school in Fulham, London, followed by The Sloane School. He did not follow his father as a coach maker, but pursued various low-level careers as a clerk, in factories, and sales. His ambition was to write full time and by 1935 he achieved this, some three years after the appearance of his first crime novel ‘Seven Times Seven’. From the outset, he was an astonishingly prolific and fast writer, and it was not unusual for him to have a score, or more, novels published in any one year. Because of this, he ended up using twenty eight pseudonyms, both male and female, once explaining that booksellers otherwise complained about him totally dominating the ‘C’ section in bookstores. 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, JJ Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York. As well as crime, he wrote westerns, fantasy, historical fiction and standalone novels in many other genres. It is for crime, though, that he is best known, particularly the various detective ‘series’, including Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Baron, The Toff, and Inspector Roger West, although his other characters and series should not be dismissed as secondary, as the likes of Department ‘Z’ and Dr. Palfrey have considerable followings amongst readers, as do many of the ‘one off’ titles, such as the historical novel ‘Masters of Bow Street’ about the founding of the modern police force. With over five hundred books to his credit and worldwide sales approaching one hundred million, and translations into over twenty-five languages, Creasey grew to be an international sensation. He travelled widely, promoting his books in places as far apart as Russia and Australia, and virtually commuted between the UK and USA, visiting in all some forty seven states. As if this were not enough, he also stood for Parliament several times as a Liberal in the 1940’s and 50’s, and an Independent throughout the 1960’s. In 1966, he founded the ‘All Party Alliance’, which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum, and was also involved with the National Savings movement; United Europe; various road safety campaigns, and famine relief. In 1953 Creasey founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. He won the Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America for his novel ‘Gideon’s Fire’ and in 1969 was given the ultimate Grand Master Award. There have been many TV and big screen adaptations of his work, including major series centred upon Gideon, The Baron, Roger West and others. His stories are as compelling today as ever, with one of the major factors in his success being the ability to portray characters as living – his undoubted talent being to understand and observe accurately human behaviour. John Creasey died at Salisbury, Wiltshire in 1973. 'He leads a field in which Agatha Christie is also a runner.' - Sunday Times.

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      Book preview

      Death in Cold Print - John Creasey

      Chapter One

      Man Alone

      Jensen began his watch on that clear, starlit evening in March with his spirits higher than they had been for a long time. He was in luck, more luck than a one-armed man with a night-watchman’s job could reasonably expect. Doris would be here by eight o’clock or so, it was now half past seven, and on Wednesday evening she was a certainty, because poor old Charlie always went to his pub for a couple of pints and his darts, not dreaming that his wife was going to have her fun, too. If a man of nearly sixty married a girl in her twenties, what else could he expect?

      Jensen punched the first of the time clocks, near the main gates, and produced its usual dull, metallic clang. He had twelve clocks to punch, and the complete round of this part of the works would take exactly half an hour. Then he was allowed half an hour’s rest in the time-keeper’s office; the bosses even allowed him to put his feet up and his head down on a camp-bed in the corner. Very understanding, the R. & K. bosses!

      The night-watchman grinned to himself in the gloom of the passages, and walked along to his next stopping place, where the clock was lost in dark shadows. He knew the works inside out, there was hardly an alcove or a recess, a storage bin or a machine which he could not find, even in this eerie light. For years he had been a machine minder on one of the two great rotary presses, fascinated by the electric controls, almost hypnotised by the rhythmic movement and by the humming sound of the mighty machines which could print ten thousand sheets an hour. But a machine minder needed two sound hands and arms. So did everyone doing the kind of job he had wanted to do, and since the night when he skidded on his motor-cycle, he had lost any chance of getting the right kind of job.

      He seldom thought about it now, although for months he had been bitter and vengeful about the accident, in some ways feeling worse because he could blame no one else. He had taken a corner too fast on an icy road, skidded and crashed into a telegraph pole. If he was honest with himself, he would admit that he had been lucky to escape with his life. Bess, on the pillion, hadn’t. Bonk on the head, no helmet, that had been that. It was a funny thing, but he had never really missed Bess; after all, he had been engaged to her for only three months, and had known plenty of girls before her. He had persuaded himself that Bess was different from the others but hadn’t thought much about her when he had come round in hospital. No one had really blamed him for the accident; it was difficult to condemn a man who was in hospital with multiple injuries.

      That was all in the past, three years gone. For a year he had been an odd-job man and sweeper, then he had been offered the night-watchman’s job, which enabled him to do what he liked most of the day. It didn’t pay him a fortune, but he got by. After the first few weeks he had come almost to like the dark corners, the tiny sounds of the night; the stillness and the loneliness.

      For the past three months there had been Doris, and a very different mood. He had come in as usual one Friday afternoon, to collect his wages, and Doris, who worked in the bindery, had been there too. They’d known each other casually for years, and she had gone to the same school as Bess – which wasn’t really surprising, there being only two schools in Corby. That Friday they had been left alone for a few minutes, Doris had asked him if he wasn’t lonely at night, and half jestingly he had said: ‘Gets me down, Doris, take it from me. How about coming and keeping me company now and again? Help scare the ghosts away.’

      ‘You’d be lucky,’ she had retorted, but something in her expression, a kind of eagerness, had told him that if he pressed a little more she might take him up on the offer.

      ‘Wouldn’t do any harm,’ he had urged, ‘and Old Charlie takes his nights out at the pub, doesn’t he?’

      ‘That’s about all he’s good for,’ she had said, and the touch of bitterness had confirmed everything that Jensen had suspected.

      ‘How about it, then, Doris? I’ve got a snug little place here, we could have a drink and a nice chat – you’d be doing me a good turn, you would really. How about tomorrow? Charlie always goes out Saturdays and Wednesdays, doesn’t he?’

      ‘You seem to know all about him,’ Doris had retorted.

      The following evening, just before eight o’clock, she had turned up, a little nervous, a little giggly; but very soon Jensen had realised that she had really wanted exactly the same thing as he, and the R. & K. camp-bed was a pretty firm one.

      Doris had taught him a lot, too; Bess hadn’t been in it, none of the girls he’d known had been able to excite him in the way that Doris could. Of course, there was always a fly in the ointment; last Friday she had given a hint that it would be wonderful if they could get married. But he could handle that situation all right; after all, Charlie was good for another twenty years.

      So Jensen went on his rounds on that chilly Wednesday, in the best possible mood, and with no reason at all to suspect that there would be trouble. He didn’t hurry through the yellow-lit shops and passages; thirty minutes was exactly the right time for going round all the departments and looking in all the places where a fire might start, all the danger spots where someone might break in, the dark corners where they could hide. Burglars were the least of his worries, but there had been a couple of tramps in the paper warehouse one night who had given him a nasty turn, and wherever there was a lot of paper, there was always a risk of fire. Every ceiling was fitted with sprinklers, every main doorway had a sprinkler control, and his instructions were crystal clear; if he saw any evidence of fire, use the sprinklers first and then send for the Fire Service and one of the directors. Twice he had seen a faint red glow in the shadows, where cigarettes had been flung down by careless workmen, but he had never needed to use the sprinklers.

      He walked through the Composing Room, where thirty machines stood like squat spectres in the grey light from the windows – these were the Monotype setting machines. He went into the Casting Room, where the faintly astringent smell of molten metal made him wrinkle his nose. He strolled out of this comparatively small room, past complicated machines which seemed to write by themselves, out into the much bigger room where the chases were made up. This covered a huge area. On the dozens of stones, or waist-high tables, were the formes, in each of which pages of books were locked, some only half ready for press, some all ready for machining in the morning.

      He punched the clock here, and went next into the largest of all the shops, where the two rotaries and the smaller machines stood, like enormous automatons and their satellites. Here a light on the ceiling spread a pale yellow glow, but he was able to see practically every corner. The smell of printing ink, the hard, smooth smell of paper, and the stink of oil pervaded this vast room, which was a hundred feet wide and nearly a hundred yards long. He walked towards ‘his’ machine, and stood looking up at it like an acolyte before an altar, then stepped on to the metal ladder and up to the control platform. He always had a kind of choky feeling whenever he stood here on this nightly pilgrimage. He did not realise it, but he loved this machine. He put his hand on the cold metal caressingly, smoothed down the great rolls of paper, and stood there for two or three minutes, everything else forgotten.

      Then he heard a car.

      Very few cars came down here, because the works lay off the main road, very nearly half a mile from the town of Corby itself. The main gates were locked, and there was no other way of getting a car into the grounds. Sensitive to the slightest thing out of the ordinary, Jensen raised his head and listened. The car seemed to be coming nearer, but suddenly the engine stopped.

      He grinned.

      ‘Couple out for a cuddle, that’s what that is,’ he decided aloud, and soon brought his thoughts back to Doris. He had been dawdling, and he didn’t want to keep her waiting. He punched the clock in the Rotary Machine Shop, and went into the equally large shop which housed the smaller flat-bed machines, with the colour-printing jobs at the far end. Everything was normal, there was no hint of smoke. He went more quickly but without haste past the Heath-Robinsonlike folding machines, then along the two elongated paper-back binders, over to the normal binding machines. Everywhere were piles of books, some folded, some in sheets, some already bound and ready for dispatch. He passed the two big guillotines, where the book edges were trimmed, great blades poised and silent, but ready to come down with ruthless efficiency at the touch of a switch. Not for the first time, Jensen reminded himself that only a touch of a switch was needed to make this place wake to life.

      Now, it was a dead place of gloom and smells and silence.

      He punched his last clock, and stepped out into the yard which separated this part of the works from the main storage sections, where great stocks of a hundred different kinds of paper, board, cloth for binding, inks, and glues were kept, with the hoists and the pulleys and the modern doors which opened whenever a trolley approached them and fell into place as soon as the trolley was past. The stars were clear but seemed small. There were no clouds. The wind was gentle, not at all cold for March. The huge iron gates were closed, and there was no sign of a car; it would be parked off the road somewhere out of sight, of course.

      Doris wasn’t there.

      He strolled towards the gates, lighting a cigarette; the rule was that he should not smoke except outside, or in the office, and he obeyed this rule absolutely. He could wait outside by the gates, now, or he could go in and unfold the bed. He kept smiling to himself, for his affaire had been going on long enough for him to accept it as normal, and to take it for granted that there would be no trouble.

      It was funny Doris wasn’t here.

      He glanced at his wrist-watch; it was five minutes past eight. She knew that he had to start his rounds again at half past, and this was the first time she had been late; she always did one of his rounds with him, and occasionally she liked to push his card into the clock and pull the lever down – necessary in order to prove that he had made the round as he should do. It wasn’t that the firm was suspicious of him; it was an insurance company’s requirement.

      He reached the huge double gates. Built into one of the two sections of the main gate was a small one which he often used, and which was large enough to admit pedestrians and cyclists, but kept cars out. Doris would come along from Corby on her bicycle. He unlocked the gate, and strolled towards the corner of the fence and looked along towards the town. He did not see the car, and saw no sign of Doris’s cycle lamp.

      ‘What’s keeping her?’ Jensen asked himself, and his words seemed to float on the quiet night. He was annoyed, and it was the first time he had ever felt like that with Doris. Then he reasoned that he ought to give her a break. She would come if she could, there was no doubt about that. Anything might have detained her. Old Charlie might have decided to stay in, for instance.

      ‘Not much chance of that,’ he murmured. He kept peering along the twisting road from the town for fully five minutes, and then turned back to the main gates and the works. He was fed up. She wasn’t coming; it was nearly a quarter past eight, he could forget her. He let the small gate clang, and locked it roughly, then turned towards the offices.

      He saw a light.

      It was not the glow from the low-wattage lamps which were on through the night, it was the brighter beam of a torch. He thought: ‘My God!’

      Then he thought: ‘She’s got in, the little devil, she’s managed to get in! She’s fooling me.’

      He stifled a chuckle and went to the office door, unlocked it with his key, and stepped inside. There was a passage with several offices on either side, and the big wages office on the right. The door was ajar, but now the light was out.

      ‘Stop fooling!’ he called. ‘I know you’re there!’

      Doris didn’t answer.

      ‘Doris, cut it out,’ he called, and pushed the door wider open.

      There was just enough light to see by. The folded bed; the big empty desks; the racks where the time cards were kept when they were being checked and the wages computed; the desk lamps, the adding machines, the comptometers – but there was no sign of Doris, and the bright light of the torch had vanished.

      ‘Doris, pack it in,’ he called uneasily.

      He looked behind the door, but she wasn’t there. That was when he began to realise that this wasn’t Doris, fooling about; by now she would have revealed herself, they would be laughing and hugging each other. He didn’t like the sound of this at all, and he stood in the doorway, looking along the passage, listening intently. He heard nothing. He remembered that car engine, and wondered whether there was any possibility that it had anything to do with this situation.

      All he had to do was dial 999 – which would alert the police in Corby. When he had disturbed those tramps he had dealt with them himself, and the bosses had torn a strip off him the next morning; whenever there was the slightest sign of trouble, he had to dial 999, and within five minutes help would arrive. If it proved a wasted journey for the police, no one would mind.

      But it might be Doris.

      ‘Doris, is that you?’ he called again.

      There was no answer, but he heard a creak of sound behind him. He spun round. He saw the man, arm raised, weapon poised, and flung up his arm to try to protect himself, but the weapon crashed on to his skull.

      He groaned as he crumpled up, and screamed as the second blow came.

      Chapter Two

      Woman Alone

      Doris Blake knew that she should not be going out to the works, knew how wrong it was, and yet was driven by a compulsion which she could not resist. Sometimes, in the cottage where she and her husband lived alone, she would sit in the little front room with her eyes screwed up and her hands clenched, hating what she had let herself in for. She had been warned time and time again when she had talked of marrying Charlie, that it couldn’t work out; that twenty-nine and sixty-three just weren’t made for each other. But she had been lonely for so long, and nervous of being left on the shelf; and Charlie was a handsome chap, tall, strong, and good humoured.

      She didn’t really hate him; she simply longed for freedom.

      It wasn’t the sex side of the marriage, either, because Charlie was almost undemanding – in fact all he had really wanted was a housekeeper who would make his money go a long way, and keep his cottage as spick and span as his first wife had. His first wife’s photograph was in every room, and he would sit back in his big saddle-backed chair, and talk about her and their three children, one in London, one in Canada, one in Australia.

      Doris was no picture postcard, she knew, and the funny thing was that no one seemed to realise what a good figure she had – except Jack Jensen.

      She was in love with Jack, but wasn’t quite sure whether he was in love with her. Last Friday she had almost screwed herself up to the point of saying that whatever happened she would leave Charlie, so that he could get a divorce; but she had resisted the temptation,

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