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    Invitation to Adventure
    Invitation to Adventure
    Invitation to Adventure
    Ebook216 pages3 hours

    Invitation to Adventure

    By John Creasey

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    About this ebook

    British detective Patrick Dawlish discovers how cutthroat the real estate business can get in a classic mystery from the Edgar Award–winning author.

    Intelligence officer Patrick Dawlish should know better than to think looking for a country house with his wife, Felicity, won’t get him into trouble. This time, the trouble comes in the form of a note from a disabled World War II veteran desperate for his help.

    In the same place where Dawlish is house-hunting, the former glider-troop lieutenant is being pushed out of his home. The land is wanted for building development. Jumping into the case with his wife by his side, Dawlish comes face-to-face with an enigmatic businessman—an odd mix of crook and philanthropist, saint and sinner—whose plans for the area include blackmail, fraud, and even murder . . .
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateDec 10, 2024
    ISBN9781504098052
    Invitation to Adventure
    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

      Invitation to Adventure - John Creasey

      CHAPTER ONE

      LETTERS FOR DAWLISH

      A very large man in a dressing-gown, fair hair on end, signed for a registered letter on the threshold of his flat in Brook Street and returned yawning to his connubial bedroom.

      His wife Felicity being still asleep, the early May morning cold, he draped a bed-jacket round her shoulders and sauntered off in search of tea. The kettle on, he sat down to read his letters.

      The first was from his broker. Briefly glanced through, he thrust it back in its envelope with a grimace. Several more were from house agents extolling various properties offered in response to his search for a small house in the country.

      The next letter, however, appeared to be more interesting.

      He read it through twice.

      Dear Major Dawlish,

      If I am right in thinking you are not averse to excitement—of the legitimate kind, of course—I can offer it to you. Write or telephone.

      Yours very truly,

      Simon G. Harcourt.

      ‘Ho-hum!’ said Dawlish, thoughtfully. He made the tea, put the letters on the tray and went into the bedroom. Felicity opened one eye. He began to pour out. ‘Brought in for your inspection,’ he said lightly, ‘promises from every estate agent in the south of England offering us the one and only house which answers all our requirements.’ As she sat up he handed her a cup of tea and a bundle of envelopes.

      Felicity glanced through their contents, putting one or two sheets on one side, for special attention, and then, opening the last, read the letter from Simon G. Harcourt.

      Her charming and attractive little face set mutinously.

      ‘That would happen,’ she said.

      ‘Don’t blame me,’ said Dawlish hastily. ‘More tea?’

      ‘Please.’ She was not smiling as she looked at him. ‘Pat, what are you up to? Have you been in touch with this fellow, and arranged with him to write like this, as if it were a surprise?’

      ‘Shame on you,’ said Dawlish, virtuously. ‘Simon G. is a complete stranger to me. I shall, of course, send him a formal note telling him that he is mistaken, and that all the excitement I want just now is that of looking for a house.’

      ‘Pat,’ said Felicity, taking her cup, ‘look at me.’ Her eyes were open wide and very direct. ‘Did you arrange this with Harcourt?’

      ‘No, no, a thousand times no,’ said Dawlish.

      Unbidden, there sprang up within him a sense of grievance, a feeling that Felicity was being unfair. How much of it was due to the fact that when he had opened the letter his heart had leapt and for a few wild moments he had thought of going to see Harcourt, he did not know. The one subject on which they did not see eye to eye was ‘excitement’. It was not, he thought as he looked at her, knowing that his smile had become set, that he would think of doing anything foolish—it was, perhaps, the fact that if he felt inclined to take an interest in Harcourt he would not be able to do so without upsetting Felicity. In the year of their marriage, this brake on his wilder inclinations had been the one thing which, at times, stood between them.

      Felicity stretched out a hand. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but for an awful moment I thought you had arranged the whole thing. I don’t mind so much what you do, as the thought that you think you have to trick me into agreeing with it.’

      Dawlish’s heart lightened as he bent forward to kiss her. ‘No tricks, darling, I promise you. We’ll agree to things together, or not at all. Well, what do you think of the array of desirable residences now spread before us?’

      ‘I rather like the sound of this one,’ said Felicity, picking up the top letter of a pile. ‘Four Ways, Alum Village, two miles from Haslemere—’

      ‘Which probably means two miles as the crow flies, and half-a-dozen by road,’ said Dawlish grimly.

      ‘Some furniture could be bought with the house,’ went on Felicity, ‘so that’s an inducement. Half an acre of ground. I—Pat, what are you looking like that for?’

      Dawlish was staring at the letter from Simon G. Harcourt. He turned to look at her, a faint smile on his lips.

      ‘Haslemere and Hindhead are next door to each other,’ he said, ‘and Harcourt’s letter is from Hindhead. To go and live on the man’s doorstep would be asking too much of my self-restraint.’

      Felicity said: ‘We can’t refuse to look at a house because of that.’ Her eyes were suddenly gay. ‘You could see what kind of a man he is. Yes, I know that in a way I’m contradicting everything I’ve said before, but you might find he’s terribly bogus and putting-off, and that would simply underline my own views.’

      ‘But supposing the opposite was the case, and the fellow’s story was so attractive, that before we knew where we were we were pitched into it?’

      ‘I like the sound of Four Ways,’ said Felicity obstinately, ‘and no little man from Hindhead is going to frighten me out of going to see it.’

      Dawlish shrugged and turned away to bath and shave, wondering what story Harcourt would have; there was no doubt that he would hear it before the day was out, and his spirits rose accordingly. It had been his pet pretence that, although he had frequently become involved in various excitements, often helping the police and more lately working for Intelligence, he had no real desire to meddle in such matters. If that had been true, it was no longer so.

      He was whistling when he went in to breakfast.

      The owner of Four Ways, Alum Village, had been offered a post in India and was eager to take it. The house, however, must be disposed of first. With eager enthusiasm he showed Pat and Felicity over it. The garden, the nursery, the charmingly proportioned rooms.

      ‘Well, now you’ve seen the lot,’ he declared, at last. ‘You’ll want some time to think it over, of course, but I can’t promise to hold it longer than a day or two. My wife and I have got to get to town for some frantic buying, and we’re sailing next week-end.’

      ‘Give us twenty-four hours,’ said Dawlish.

      ‘You’re serious about it?’

      ‘Oh, we’re serious,’ said Felicity. ‘I think—’

      ‘Twenty-four hours,’ said Dawlish, firmly.

      They were pressed to stay for lunch, and it was nearly half-past three before they left Four Ways in the two-seater Riley. The house was set half-way up a low hill, with sweeping views on all sides; it was a couple of hundred yards from the small, attractive village on the Godalming Road, and Haslemere itself was visible, a bare two miles away.

      ‘Nice man,’ said Dawlish. ‘I think we’ve struck oil, my sweet.’

      ‘What’s that?’ asked Felicity, abruptly.

      It was a high-pitched call from behind them. The call came again.

      Dawlish put on the brakes, and turned his head in time to see their host waving frantically.

      ‘He’s forgotten something, or we have,’ said Dawlish. He backed the car a little, and stopped.

      ‘There’s a telephone call for you, Major Dawlish.’

      ‘For me? But no one knows I’ve come here!’

      ‘He certainly asked for you,’ said the other.

      Dawlish got out of the car and walked back to the house.

      The telephone was in the hall. He picked up the receiver. There was no outward sign of surprise as he heard the speaker introduce himself as Simon Harcourt.

      CHAPTER TWO

      SIMON HARCOURT

      ‘I heard you had been in Haslemere and were later reported to have gone into Four Ways, Major Dawlish. Under these circumstances, may I expect to see you?’

      ‘I had thought of telephoning you,’ said Dawlish, evasively. ‘I’m afraid that—’

      ‘I do beg you not to reject anything until you’ve heard what I can tell you,’ pleaded the man. The voice was young, and not unattractive. ‘I know it was a nerve to write to you, but—look here, can you come along and have some tea? I won’t try to coerce you, and if you can’t do anything, I would appreciate your advice.’

      ‘All right, my wife and I will be there in half an hour,’ said Dawlish.

      He rang off, and after a few words of renewed farewell to their host, returned to Felicity, strangely unwilling to meet her eye.

      There was a silence after his brief explanation; then Felicity said:

      ‘How did they know where we were?’

      ‘I’ve no idea.’

      ‘They can’t have watched the road for us.’

      ‘No, but we could have been followed.’

      ‘Surely—’

      ‘Harcourt strikes me as a most determined young man,’ said Dawlish, ‘and it wouldn’t be surprising if he sent someone to see us, or even went up to town himself, and watched the flat. We’ll find out soon enough.’

      Felicity looked pointedly ahead of her during the journey. Now and again Dawlish glanced behind him. Suspicious that they might be followed. There was no evidence to support it, however. He turned off the main road and made a wider detour than necessary.

      ‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asked, with a grin.

      Felicity laughed shortly. ‘I was!’

      He lured her into a discussion of Four Ways until they reached the gates of The Pines. It was a large, sombre-looking building, approached by a long, winding drive, flanked by pine trees. It was a gloomy approach, holding an air of mystery and furtiveness. Felicity was looking to right and left, as if at any moment she might spot a lurking enemy. Dawlish appeared to be paying all his attention to the drive, but he too snatched glances at the lowering branches.

      Yet when a man appeared, he took them completely by surprise. Dawlish jammed on the brakes and Felicity uttered a sharp exclamation. The man leapt down from the bank under the very nose of the car, brandishing something which looked like a gun. As the brakes squealed, Dawlish saw that it was a long stick, and that the man was stocky and roughly dressed. He stared fixedly at Dawlish—and then, without a word, turned and jumped back the way he had come, plunging into the dark obscurity of the trees.

      ‘Well, I’m—’ began Dawlish.

      ‘He expected someone else,’ said Felicity.

      ‘One can only be glad that he recognised the difference in time,’ said Dawlish grimly.

      He let in the clutch and they finished the journey up a steep incline. The house appeared in front of them, tall, narrow, ugly, surrounded by the top-heavy pines. The garden was wild and neglected, only one small patch of ground at the side of the house appeared to be cultivated.

      ‘I rather expected them to rush out to welcome us,’ said Felicity, critically.

      Dawlish took her arm and they approached the porch. The front door was closed, and in need of paint, but the brass knocker and letter-box glistened. Dawlish rang the bell. They stood in silence for a few moments, looking down at the drive. The house was on a crest, and the hill up which they had driven was surprisingly steep. They could see nothing but pine trees. Rabbits sped across the neglected lawn, a squirrel leapt from one tree to another, and disappeared.

      Although the sun was bright, this place seemed dark and filled with shadows. No one answered their ring, and Dawlish rang again, then knocked.

      Gradually the door opened. Through the widening gap they could see a man sitting in a wheeled chair. He looked at them with a smile, which held more than a little of youthful appeal.

      ‘Welcome!’ he said.

      The effect of his appearance was startling. The brightness of his smile, by contrast, seeming to add to the gloom rather than lessen it. He was probably in the middle-twenties, dressed casually in a tweed jacket and flannel trousers.

      ‘Come in, come in,’ he said. ‘Linda will be back soon, she was delayed, or she would have been here to welcome you. Shall I lead the way?’ His chair, an old one, creaked as he moved with surprising speed towards an open door. They followed him into a drawing-room crowded with ugly, Victorian furniture, the heavy threadbare curtains keeping out what little light the pine trees had left.

      ‘Linda,’ went on Harcourt, ‘is a cousin whose detective work helped me to find you. She goes into Haslemere most mornings, and was there when you stopped at the cafe.’

      ‘How did she recognise me?’ asked Dawlish.

      Harcourt laughed lightly. ‘She used to work in a Press Agency, and has often seen photographs of you. I hope that makes it sound more reasonable,’ he added boyishly. He held out his hand, as Dawlish introduced Felicity. ‘I’m delighted to see you both. You’ve given me new life—I rather expected to have no reply.’

      Dawlish smiled. ‘Have I such an ungracious reputation?’

      ‘It’s my speculations about you that grew to ogreish proportions,’ said Harcourt. ‘I see now how wrong they were!’ He laughed again, but the sound was brittle and forced. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me for keeping you waiting until Linda returns. She discovered that we were short of milk and rushed across to the farm for some. I’ve been meddling in the kitchen, trying to cut some bread-and-butter. I’m not much of a hand at it, I’m afraid. As for the story, it would be as much as my life is worth to start telling you before Linda gets back!’

      ‘We’re in no hurry,’ said Dawlish.

      ‘Can I help with the bread-and-butter?’ asked Felicity.

      ‘How decent of you!’ said Harcourt, with genuine feeling. ‘The kitchen is really the only livable room in this morgue at the moment, and I vote we have tea in there. Follow me!’

      He crossed the hall skilfully, pushing open a door with his stick. The narrow passage beyond seemed to slope; two planks had been laid down. The ends resting at the top of a high step.

      ‘This is one of my bright ideas,’ said Harcourt. ‘I couldn’t manage the step in the chair, and it gets lonely on one’s own.’ The wheels ran swiftly along the planks, gaining speed towards the far end. ‘The trick is to swing into the kitchen without braking,’ he declared, and with a dexterous touch of the steering gear he swung into a room on the left and disappeared.

      Dawlish and Felicity exchanged glances.

      ‘Mind over matter,’ murmured Dawlish.

      ‘He’s a darling,’ said Felicity.

      ‘And in need of help,’ Dawlish reminded her.

      ‘Here we are,’ said Harcourt. ‘What do you think of it?’

      ‘Charming!’ said Felicity.

      ‘I wish Linda had heard that spontaneous tribute. She did everything herself, even to putting in those tiles round the sink. See that photograph? That’s Linda, bless her!’

      There was pride in his voice, and there was reason for it. The girl in the photograph, dark and small-boned, was a beauty.

      ‘She’s my only cousin,’ he said. ‘But for her I would be—’ he broke off, abruptly, and forced a smile. ‘She shouldn’t be long now,’ he declared. ‘She’s been gone nearly half an hour. I hope she hasn’t had a spill and dropped the milk!’

      ‘Did she go by bicycle?’ asked Dawlish.

      ‘Yes. The farm isn’t far, but it’s uphill most of the way back. How I hate this place!’

      In a flash, the cheerfulness was gone, the smile disappeared, and they had a glimpse of the dark forces which tormented Simon Harcourt.

      Quietly Felicity began to cut bread and butter

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