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    The Oasis
    The Oasis
    The Oasis
    Ebook318 pages4 hours

    The Oasis

    By John Creasey

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    About this ebook

    At first sight there is no connection between the deaths of three agents in West Africa and the fact that one of Dr. Palfrey’s friends has suddenly lost a great deal of weight. However, behind both is an organisation using a drug that puts world domination within the reach of a few ruthless individuals. Blackmail ensues and Palfrey must deal with what could be the worst situation he has ever faced; an overwhelming and brutal conspiracy that threatens the lives of millions of people.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHouse of Stratus
    Release dateOct 1, 2015
    ISBN9780755137800
    The Oasis
    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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      The Oasis - John Creasey

      Copyright & Information

      The Mists of Fear

      First published in 1955

      © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1955-2014

      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.

      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.

      House of Stratus Logo

      www.houseofstratus.com

      About the Author

      John Creasey

      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.

      PART ONE

      JIM FORRESTER

      1

      Forrester sat at the window of the hotel room, and looked out into the wind-rocked street. So many things were moving that it gave the impression that the street, even the whole town, was being thrown about by an earthquake. He had first experienced the fury of the storm when he had been down by the sea, alone; and was frightened by Nature’s violence. The wind had swept down on him, his easel, paints and folding stool. It had hissed among the grey pebbles – which in normal times looked as if a plague of gulls had swept in from the sea and laid millions of grey eggs – then whipped the sea into venomous fury. The sea had answered back and come pounding down on pebbles and the dunes, driving him away in swift alarm.

      He could remember it now.

      He had saved himself; everything else had been blown away or swept out to sea.

      He had been a stranger to Estafillo then, and the Spaniards had watched his solitary return with courteous curiosity, but no one had talked to him about it until that night, at the wine shop.

      The wine shop was just across the road from the hotel.

      In the wine shop he had met Saturnino; plump, ruddy, jolly, red-haired Saturnino with the light-brown eyes and brave command of English. It was not a full command, although in the past eight weeks it had improved considerably. To the delight of the twenty or thirty regular patrons of the wine shop, Saturnino had translated everything Forrester had said into Spanish. And of course, Saturnino and everyone else had been delighted with the Englishman’s attempts to learn Spanish, and to get his tongue round consonants which were not really there.

      Now, Saturnino was out with the fishing-fleet. No one would say so, but Forrester had been in Estafillo long enough to know that many anxious eyes were turned towards the sea; as many anxious ears were alert, hating the howling, whining wind because of what it might do to the fishermen. There had been a wind ten days ago, and—

      Now we live six week, eight week, no wind-o, Saturnino had said with the downrightness of a weather prophet who was never wrong; or else forgetful of his errors. No wind-o, the weather shall be the goods.

      At dawn that morning, the fleet had set out, fifty wooden vessels which looked no different from the vessels pictured by the historians of centuries ago. Heavy brown sails, thick masts, high prows and long oars, all manned with toughlooking jerseyed fishermen wearing scarves wound tightly round their heads, like skull-caps with wide pigtails. The morning had been calm, warm, serene; the fleet had sailed out of sight across the sapphire sea, each boat mirrored on the blue water, and no one had thought twice about it. Tomorrow it should return, with all nets filled.

      At midday the first spurts of dust in the narrow streets had been followed by the same short, spiteful gusts of wind, slamming doors, rattling windows, making the electric lamps in the middle of the narrow streets sway like pendulums as they hung from the covered cables. By the middle of the afternoon even Forrester had known that Saturnino’s prophecy had gone awry.

      He smoked and watched.

      It was nearly five o’clock. In some ways, five o’clock was the worst time of the day. At five o’clock he was always in a mood to jump to his feet, stride to the small table, snatch up pen and paper and write to Palfrey. He had pictured the message time and time again, something like:

      Dear Sap,

      This is a goddawful waste of time. I can’t stand it any longer. Please send someone who likes doing nothing or call the whole thing off. I’m serious.

      Jim.

      He hadn’t sent it yet.

      He did not think so seriously about getting away today, because he was worried about the fleet. No one had told him there was cause for worry, but looking out he could see the people, the old women dressed in thick black shawls and long black skirts, hurry out of their narrow doorways and go to a street corner, look towards the sea, anxiety in their bearing. The young and the old were there together.

      Saturnino and others had told Forrester of the deadliness of being caught at sea in the wind. It would last two or even three days. The tales Saturnino had told were legendary, going back into ages almost forgotten, but among them was one of the whole fleet which had been caught in a storm, and never come back.

      Feefty-nine boats, Señor Forrester, and how many return? No, sir, not one.

      Now, all Estafillo had an anxious, nervous look – both the people and the town, or that part of it that Forrester could see. The electric lamps were jigging and jumping, doors slamming, bits of paper, orange peel, donkey droppings and dust swept along the street until they reached a corner where wind hurtled down from other directions, too, and made little whirlwinds which rose to roof height.

      The straw, the pieces of wood and paper, the donkey droppings and all the things one saw daily in the gutter, seemed to take on life. It was as if the whole town were swinging in a nervous dance, to try to forget the fleet and the absent fishermen.

      Inside the hotel doors were continually banging, windows rattling, and outside there was constant movement, too.

      A little group was at every corner, peering out to sea.

      Especially on mornings like this, Forrester wished that he had paid the forty pesetas a day for a room with a view of the Mediterranean, but he hadn’t. It was false economy, but the thing he always remembered was that he wasn’t spending his own money. Sometimes he wondered whose money it was. Sap Palfrey’s? Possibly. The Government’s? Oh, forget it, he was saving someone 280 pesetas, nearly three pounds, a week, and had been here eight weeks already. This room was all right, wasn’t it? It was spacious, with a very high ceiling, a tiled floor doubly welcome on the hot days, a big bed and a bathroom. There was the biggest bath and the most handsome marble wash-basin Forrester had ever seen in his life; ample room for a family to bath in together.

      He hadn’t any family.

      He hadn’t a wife, either. Not now.

      He jumped up with his hands clenched, shook them at the cherubims moulded on the ceiling, clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, held his whole body as if pain racked it. Slowly, very slowly, he relaxed, dropped his arms, opened his eyes and moved back towards the window. He didn’t sit down again. He looked pale, in spite of his tan, and was trembling. It was a long time, nearly three weeks, since he had been taken with a fit like that.

      Sorrow for himself and mourning for his wife were equally to blame. After the weeks of numbed shock, when he had come to realise that he would never see Alice again, that she was dead and he was alive, Forrester had known those paroxysms. Grief? Shock? The diagnosis didn’t really matter. He was sure that Palfrey had sent him to this little corner of Spain, where the wind sometimes came from the Atlantic, over the hills and then hurtling on towards the Mediterranean, to help him get over it. It was a kind of enforced rest; yet he had a little to do, and he realised that a day might come when that little would become both much and significant.

      And he could indulge his one hobby: painting watercolours.

      He leaned against the window, with an unlit cigarette between his lips. A gust of wind which seemed at least eighty miles an hour strong smashed at the window and set it shivering and banging. Outside everything danced a wild fandango. Something hard cracked against the small window of the wine shop, where a few dozen dusty bottles of red wine lay by the side of a sign for Sandeman’s Port and an advertisement picture of Jerez.

      The night of his first wind and the loss of his things, he had told Saturnino about it, in halting Spanish; he had been understood, and been answered in English. Nothing would satisfy Saturnino, after that, except to go into the greatest detail about the nearest spot where Forrester could replace his losses at low cost. For an artist, Saturnino had said in hushed tones, what greater suffering could there be than to lack the tools of his art? La Lineas, yes, perhaps; Gibraltar, certainly, but it took time to get there, and he had been to Gibraltar once, why should he wish to go again? Malaga, now, the beautiful city on the beautiful hill which almost fell into the sea, and beyond, through the mountains to Granada—

      The next day Forrester had driven to Malaga, and enjoyed it. He’d bought everything he needed, and been back before dark. He had to have an ostensible reason for holidaying in the South of Spain, but all except the cynical or the sceptical were satisfied by his sketches. They weren’t bad, either; to the untutored eye, almost good. He had grown used to painting with a crowd of people behind him; children as well as their grandparents, silent as if they feared that the slightest sound would disturb the mood of the painter. At first they had irritated him; now he felt lonely if he were by himself. He was accepted as a guest by them all. Estafillo made him welcome, from old Father Juan to young Father Aristides, from the kindly old madame – only the French had the right word and the right inflection – to the girls whom she fussed over. All very illegal, of course, and very wrong. Wasn’t it?

      Now the fleet had been caught at sea when a wind had come down, and probably the minds of all the townsfolk were carried back to the day of the legend when not a single boat or a single fisherman had returned to dry land.

      And perhaps the thought of death had suddenly spurred Forrester to that moment of physical revolt against the bitter past – against the acceptance of death as final. He realised an odd thing as he looked out: the picture of Alice’s face had not been as clear as it had even weeks ago. It was blurring.

      Well, twelve months was a long time.

      Perhaps the two he had spent here were really doing him good. But he simply couldn’t stay much longer. He was beginning to doubt whether there was really any point in waiting and watching in case Botticelli came. Palfrey had acted on the slimmest possible evidence; had the quarry been anyone else it would have been ludicrous to have a man spending all his time lurking – and that was the one appropriate word – in the hope that a certain nasty piece of work would turn up.

      Forrester knew the facts. A letter with the Estafillo postmark had reached Botticelli in Chicago. When opened, the letter had been found to be in code. A copy had been made, the letter resealed and delivered. Cypher experts had been working on the letter ever since, and could not decode it. Using this as evidence, Palfrey had reasoned that someone with a place in Botticelli’s scheme of evil had written to him from Estafillo. Evidence against Botticelli was so badly wanted, for he was suspected of such unspeakable villainies, that it had been worth sending an agent here.

      Forrester had established only one fact.

      An American had been staying at Estafillo, in this very hotel, on the date when the letter had been posted, and the envelope and airmail rice paper had been of American manufacture. By cautious, devious methods, Forrester had discovered a little about the American; that he had spent five days here, often visited Gibraltar and La Lineas, and had a woman with him.

      "Carra mia! Saturnino had often exclaimed, and rolled his amber eyes, the señorita Americana, so bewt-iful! So luffley, so—" And he had made voluptuous shapes in the air with his hands, to the accompaniment of roars of laughter from the other men in the small, smoke-laden wine shop. The crammed tables had seemed likely to fall at any moment; each had a bottle, some small glasses and many resting elbows.

      The Spaniards did not have a book-registration system in their hotels; all aliens had to fill up two cards, each with dozens of questions; then each was filed with elaborate care. So it had not been easy to find the name of the American. Forrester had come down in the early hours, sent the night clerk off on a fool’s errand, and had a glimpse of the cards. He had sent the details to Palfrey long ago, but remembered them clearly. The main points were simple: the American, a man about fifty-five, had been Joseph Lennard; the woman, in her twenties, was his wife Elenora. Lennard’s birthplace and home town were given as Cincinnati, Ohio; his wife’s birthplace as New York.

      Joseph Lennard of Cincinnati had driven a bright-green Cadillac convertible, with an Ohio registration. Of course, there was no way of being sure that he had written to Botticelli, but as far as Forrester had been able to make out, no other American had been at Estafillo at or about that time – January 15th.

      Forrester did not know what Palfrey had done about this. When one was on the fringe of the Secret Service there were many bewildering things, and much was unknown. Forrester did not object to that. But he would soon need much more convincing that he hadn’t wasted his time.

      But perhaps Palfrey had discovered more, and possibly Forrester’s careful work was not to be wasted. Forrester wanted to know. He was beginning to feel buried alive. He hated the wind, too, and the fears of the people.

      A girl came out of one of the small houses near the wine shop. These tiny houses were really sections of a long, narrow, barn-like building, and the fronts looked like one low wall dotted at intervals with squat doors and small square windows. The outsides were painted white, and in sunlight they were dazzling. The doors and windows were edged with blue paint; perhaps that made this girl more noticeable.

      She wore a red cotton dress which the wind clutched, dragged up to her knees and pressed against her body. It showed every curve, every provocative promise of a curve. For a moment it was startling, and pulled Forrester’s thoughts away from everything else.

      She turned into the wind, towards the wine shop. A sudden gust made her stand still, to fight for her balance, and her lovely figure was assaulted by the wind. Gradually she fought back and, so as to save her eyes from the dust, she pulled a scarf from her head, wound it about her forearm, then held it up to make a kind of veil.

      Before she did that she turned her face towards Forrester.

      Then she walked into the wind, past the wine shop and to a corner; next she turned down that street, towards the sea.

      Forrester stared at the spot where she had been. She stayed on the retina of his mind’s eye like the filament of an electric-lamp bulb on the physical retina, after one had stared at a light; or like the image of the sun long after one had looked inadvertently into it. Her body and her face were both there; beauty that could hardly be real.

      Forrester found himself wanting to see her again. He did not say that this was the artist in him, although perhaps the artist had caught that beauty and known that it was so free from blemish. He moved from the window and crossed to the door, taking a brown cloth cap from a peg behind the door as he opened it. This cap would stay on, in spite of the wind.

      Two well-dressed women were at the reception desk talking to the clerk – about the wind and the fishing-fleet and their worry.

      A door was banging.

      A small boy in a puce-coloured uniform sprang to the swing doors leading to the street when he saw Forrester. He smiled into Forrester’s face, his bright-brown eyes alive with a kind of secret merriment. Forrester winked at him, and went out. The wind struck hard, not cold but not warm, and grit flew into his eyes; then the wind got under the peak of his cap and lifted it off his head. He swung round, to rescue it. The boy had caught it, and was offering it back.

      "Gracias," Forrester said, and smiled.

      "Si, señor!"

      Forrester turned away, clutching his cap this time, but that gust had gone; there was wind but not a squall. The distant howling and whining made a background to the nearer sounds – as if Estafillo had called on a thousand little demons, each carrying castanets, each clapping them with devilish vigour at the identical moment. Nothing was still, and everything that moved had its own particular tempo of sound, its own particular volume. Doors, windows, the wires, the lamps, the litter, even the long rows of houses seemed to be dancing.

      Forrester reached the corner round which the girl in red had gone. She was some distance on, near the sea, still windswept but too far away for him to see her beauty. He ought not to follow. It had been an impulse which he would probably regret if he went on with it. It had not always been easy, but he had resisted the temptations inherent in the beauty of so many Spanish girls.

      He stood and watched this one.

      The wind must have drowned the sound of the approaching car, for the long, blaring note of a horn took him by surprise. He jumped to the narrow pavement, then turned round, realising that the warning blast had not been meant for him but for a boy and a herd of goats turning the corner. The car was passing the end of the road. It was vivid green. A middle-aged man sat at the wheel, a fair-haired woman, much younger than the man, sat beside him.

      The car passed.

      It was a Cadillac convertible.

      2

      Forrester knew this road well. There was only one place to which the man and woman in the green Cadillac would be going. To the harbour. Not far along, the road turned towards the sea and ended at the mass of grey pebbles and the jetties and the quay. Here was just a tiny harbour, and more beach. Above any spot likely to be reached by heavy waves, small row-boats were drawn up, and a few brown nets were hanging over wooden posts and railings, spares for the boats which were out at sea. A few lobster-pots, looking like rotting pieces of chestnut fencing, also stood about, and round marker floats, painted in many colours, festooned the nets.

      Forrester could not see this from where he stood.

      The girl had reached the end of this narrow road and turned left, so she was going towards the harbour.

      Forrester followed her, not only because of her beauty or of the strange effect that the wind against her body had had on him. He wanted to see the man and the woman of the Cadillac, who might be Joseph Lennard and his wife. They would have to stop, or at least slow down, in order to turn. Unless they knew the town well, they had missed their road; if they knew the town at all – if, for instance, they were the Lennards – they would know exactly where the road led.

      There was nothing near the little harbour except a few cottages; but the view of the rocky coast-line was magnificent, and on such a day, with the tideless sea whipped to wild fury, it would be worth anyone’s time.

      With the wind behind him, Forrester hurried.

      He reached the end of the street, which was only a few yards from the bank of grey pebbles. The roar of the sea against them burst on him once he was in the open. As the water fell back to gather strength for another, tireless onslaught, it hissed and screamed through the pebbles, carrying countless numbers of them

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