Death in a Hurry

Death In A Hurry

A Patrick Dawlish Mystery

John Creasey writing as Gordon Ashe

ONE

DISMAY FOR DAWLISH

Darling! called Felicity Dawlish.

There was no answer.

"Darling!" repeated Felicity, and could not keep the excitement out of her voice.

She stood by the open front door of the Dawlish’s house near Haslemere, in Surrey, with the lovely green of the English countryside stretched out in front of her. She gazed over the lawn to the meadows and trees beyond. A soft breeze blew in from the south-west, rustling the letter in her hand, her light-brown hair and the linen flowered house-coat she was wearing.

She continued to read the letter, and cried again:

"Darrr-ling!"

There was still no answer.

She finished reading and folded the letter; the gay red-and-blue markings on the edges showed that it was an air-letter from a country with brighter postal ideas than England.

She turned to the stairs.

Pat, where are you?

Her husband did not answer, yet she knew he was upstairs. She had seen him go ten minutes before the postman had cycled up the steep drive to the timbered, pseudo-Elizabethan house. Its name, Four Ways, came from the narrow roads which intersected a few hundred yards from the gates.

Felicity hurried up the stairs.

Pat, she cried, where are you?

There was still no answer.

She frowned, looked into the spacious modern bathroom, hurried into the bedroom, and went across to the window, which overlooked Four Ways’ thirty acres, mostly planted with apple- and plum-trees; for Patrick Dawlish was by way of being an amateur fruit farmer. Just in sight was that patch of the grounds set aside for the pigs; fine fat English bacon pigs. Three were in sight, snouts lowered to the ground.

Felicity didn’t see her husband.

Where on earth— she began.

Beware of a woman with excitement in her voice, for you may be sure that she desires more than you are prepared to give, boomed a deep voice, startling her so that she swung round. Doubly beware of the woman who runs upstairs fluttering a letter of ill-omen. Were you calling?

Fool, said Felicity roundly.

Dawlish stood behind the door, his big face almost handsome but spoiled by a broken nose, and looking sombre now with a mock scowl. He had corn-coloured hair, short, crisp, and wavy, a massive chin with a cleft, eyes as blue as the sky on a summer morning. He was huge, six feet three in his stockinged feet, with massive shoulders. Fourteen hours a day spent in the open air had tanned his cheeks and arms. He wore a pale-blue, short-sleeved shirt and a pair of well-pressed flannel trousers on this warm morning in September.

No, said Dawlish.

No, what?

That’s the answer to whatever you were going to ask. It’s impossible.

Idiot, said Felicity, and went across, still holding the letter. The gaiety was back in her eyes, and she looked fresh and lovely. Pat, do you remember—

Your uncle in America, said Dawlish.

Felicity started, and frowned.

How did you know it was about him? she asked, in a tone which suggested that she really didn’t believe that he had mentioned an uncle or America. You can’t have. You—

The next stage will be trying to convince me that pigs don’t make bacon. Dawlish stepped forward, moved suddenly, pinioned her arms and lifted her effortlessly until her nose was on a level with his; he had to raise her five inches off the ground. Gravely he rubbed noses, and put her down. They do, and that’s from your legendary Uncle Sam.

His name isn’t Sam, it’s Zeb, but— She broke off, looking at him thoughtfully. I wish you weren’t so bright, she said half-seriously.

Bright? I’m not bright. I’m a country bumpkin, remember? When you wanted to go to Paris and I wanted to stay at home, I was a rural dullard without imagination. All I was fit for was picking up the windfalls and feeding the pigs with them.

"That’s true, too, but I’m glad we didn’t go, because—"

Uncle Zeb’s on his way, groaned Dawlish.

Felicity went across to the large double bed and sat down, looking at him with thoughtful eyes. He had a mind that could be as quick as light, she knew only too well. He loved the simple ease of the country, but it wasn’t really his life. Occasionally he would break out in some fierce, furious spell of action. This was the man who might wake one sunny morning to a day which promised no excitements, and by nightfall be in the headlines of every newspaper, setting police, Press, and public by the ears.

Tell me, ordered Felicity.

Yes, ma’am. I looked out of the window and saw Bill Morgan strolling up, having left his bike at the gates. He had one letter in his hand. It was all colours of the rainbow round the edges, and that meant South Africa or the United States, and—shall I go on?

Yes.

"Yes, ma’am. We seldom get letters from either place, and only last week you were being sad because you hadn’t heard from Uncle Sam—"

Zeb.

Yes, dear. For over six months. You met Bill Morgan at the door, and instead of indulging in idle village gossip, took one glance at the letter, gave him an apple and sent him packing. Then you really became excited. Now why should you get really excited because of a letter from Uncle Zed?

"Zeb. I see how your mind worked. Pat, they are coming."

Dawlish looked as if iced water had been poured over him.

"They?"

Uncle Zeb, Elvira, and Homer.

Oh, said Dawlish faintly. Quite a family party. We’ll send them a letter and tell them how nice it would have been to see them, and what a pity it is we’re in Paris!

Brute. Felicity stood up, and looked a little anxious. Darling, you won’t really be difficult, will you?

Dawlish chuckled.

No, my sweet. He squeezed Felicity’s waist, and she gasped. I’m just a little nervous of Uncle Zeb and his two offspring, because—

Just because he’s made money!

Oh, no. That’s still legal in America.

"Because he made a lot of money."

Wrong. Because he will be high-pressured, judging from his letters. I feel in a lethargic mood. And there’s just one disturbing thing about Uncle Zeb.

What?

Why christen a girl Elvira and a boy Homer?

That was probably his wife. I never liked Aunt Kate. Any how—

How old are they?

About twenty, I think, perhaps a little more.

And Zeb?

I’m not sure. About fifty, I suppose. Felicity went to the dressing-table, sat down, and began to make-up. It doesn’t matter how old he is, and I think you’ll like him. The youngsters will probably want to be off on their own most of the time, so you needn’t worry about them. Going to read the letter?

Need I?

Not if you don’t want to, said Felicity. Darling, be a pet and get my green suit out of the spare-room wardrobe, will you?

Which green suit?

The light-green one. I’ve only two, and you know the other one’s almost worn out.

It’s good for a long time yet! Dawlish went out, and Felicity’s eyes laughed at herself in the mirror, but she was looking demure again when Dawlish came back with the suit on a padded hanger. He took it off and put it on the bed, while Felicity stood up, slipped out of the house-coat, and reminded him that she had a lovely figure, and a nice taste in lingerie.

Not bad, said Dawlish. Why are you dressing yourself up?

I want to be at my best, said Felicity.

The dawning of a frown wrinkled Dawlish’s forehead. He put his head on one side, then went across to the dressing-table and picked up the letter. It was actually from Elvira Deverall. Dawlish scanned it until he reached the last paragraph, when Felicity interrupted.

"Isn’t Elvira sweet? She’s so anxious to see us that she won’t let the others spend any time in London first. Uncle Zeb’s got a Daimler hire, meeting them at the airport, and will come straight down here. The plane is due at London Airport at ten o’clock on Thursday, September the seventeenth. Say half an hour for Customs and an hour and a half at most for the journey, and they’ll be here by twelve. It is Thursday the seventeenth, isn’t it?"

Dawlish breathed heavily.

It is. And it is twenty-two minutes to twelve.

So I had to dress quickly, didn’t I? asked Felicity. I—Pat, listen! She ran across to the window and leaned out—and pointed. Pat, there’s a big car coming this way, they’re here!

She ran back to the bed.

Do me up at the back, quickly!

Dawlish applied himself to yellow buttons. Felicity swung round, as soon as he had finished, and hurried out of the room. The large car, a black Daimler, was already turning into the drive. Dawlish watched it, but from this height could not see the driver or the passengers clearly.

He did see a small open two-seater, also black, which passed the end of the drive, went up the gentle hill for a hundred yards, then disappeared behind some trees. He waited at the window as the big car stopped. Felicity cried a welcome, and American voices answered.

The little black two-seater stayed hidden by the trees; which meant that it had stopped. Absently he wondered why; then he turned to the door.

TWO

WELCOME

Hallo, hallo, hallo, boomed Dawlish, and ran down the stairs towards the group of four. Felicity was just inside the hall, a tall, well-built man wearing a wide-brimmed hat was holding her hand, a bare-headed youth with startlingly black hair stood by a girl whose hair was as startling, but red. Dawlish did not give himself time to do more than notice that the red-headed Elvira would create a sensation in most male circles before he went forward and gripped the older man’s hands.

"Well, well, Uncle Sam! This is delightful. Wonderful to see you! Come in, come in! And—Homer! He gripped Homer’s hand; his was double the other’s size, for Homer was much smaller than his father. Welcome to the English countryside. He turned. Elvira! he breathed, took both her hands, pulled her to him, and kissed her warmly on each cheek. Now! What about a little drink, honey? I think I put the champagne in the ice-box, but if I didn’t it’s still in the pantry. Come on, now."

He put his arm round Elvira’s waist, slid his other arm through Felicity’s uncle’s, and led the way into the big drawing-room.

Uncle Zeb said slowly, You’re very kind, Mr. Dawlish.

Oh, shucks. Shush, I mean. No formality, please. Pat, or if you really prefer it, Patrick. Felicity only calls me Patrick when she’s cross. Eh Fel?

"Yes, Patrick," said Felicity tartly.

She doesn’t mean it this time, it’s only a joke, explained Dawlish.

I’ve heard a lot about the English sense of humour, said Uncle Zeb, still slowly. He had a low-pitched, rather husky voice, which marked him as from the South. He also had a pair of fine grey eyes, and they were twinkling. His face was lean and clean cut, and he gave an impression of strength and confidence. I guess I’ll learn more about it in the next few weeks. Don’t you, Homer?

Homer, who was looking at Dawlish with his head on one side and his eyes narrowed, had a voice which to English ears was only slightly American.

It wouldn’t surprise me, Dad. I think I’m going to enjoy my researches into the English sense of humour. That’s if Cousin Pat will be my tutor.

But he can’t be that, cried Elvira. "He’s mine. I just don’t care what Felicity says, he’s going to show me around, I just have to have a chaperone."

Dawlish chuckled.

I think we’re going to get along nicely.

I certainly hope so, said Uncle Zeb. We’ve heard so much about you from Felicity, in her letters, and we’ve also read about you in the newspapers. You can thank Homer for that, he’s a newspaperman, and he reads the English newspapers regularly.

Oh, said Dawlish. That’s hard.

We know plenty about you, said Homer, grinning. The good and the bad.

If you ask Felicity at the moment, it will be nearly all bad, said Dawlish.

You needn’t think anything you say is going to stop you from taking me around. Elvira’s eyes were dancing. Felicity will just have to lend you to me for a while. Do you mind, Felicity?

She looked at the door as Felicity came in, carrying two bottles of champagne on a silver tray.

I’ll give him to you gladly, said Felicity. She glanced round quickly, saw the ease of their expressions and laughed. Pat’s a hopeless fool, and doesn’t realize that sometimes he might be taken seriously.

We won’t take him seriously, promised Homer.

Let me open those bottles and get to business, said Dawlish.

While Felicity set out the glasses, he released the corks expertly. They popped loudly, and he poured out. Felicity carried the glasses round.

The visitors still wore their coats, and the car in which they had arrived was outside—Felicity had doubtless sent the chauffeur round to the back for refreshments.

Dawlish moved towards the window and glanced out now and again. He could see the trees where the small car had disappeared, but could not see the car. Once he frowned, but that quickly disappeared and he went on talking lightly. The inimitable gift, given to many Americans but to few English, of becoming immediately at home, made this a friendly party; it could be fun for the next week or two.

Dawlish glanced out of the window again.

A man moved from behind a bush, swiftly, furtively. He was about fifty yards from the house, and on the side of the drive nearer the clump of trees. He was dressed in a brown suit, and wore a hat pulled low over his eyes. When Dawlish looked again there was no sign of him.

Elvira was saying, Is it really true that Scotland Yard consults you, Pat? You’re a private detective, who—

No! Dawlish looked pained. An amateur with a long nose and a habit of getting mixed up in troubles. I’ve a good friend at the Yard, you’ll have to meet him—care to go over the place with me?

"Can you fix that?"

I think so.

In New York they think you’re the best private eye in England, said Homer handsomely.

That’s true, Uncle Zeb confirmed, and seemed amused.

Just a build-up. Forget it.

Elvira clapped her hands together and laughed.

"He is English, after all. It doesn’t matter how he tries to fool us, he’s as English as they come. See how modest he is? Felicity, why do you let him hide his light under a bushel?"

Hide it? He’d set any bushel alight!

Happily married, too, jeered Homer.

I suggest we get to know each other a little more before we start treading on corns we don’t know the others have got, drawled Uncle Zeb.

Now that’s a good idea. Felicity drained her glass, and turned to Elvira. Let’s get upstairs, I’ll show you to your room and you can start unpacking. Uncle Zeb, will you and Homer mind sharing—

"We can’t all stay with you in that