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    Death in High Places
    Death in High Places
    Death in High Places
    Ebook236 pages3 hours

    Death in High Places

    By John Creasey

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    About this ebook

    British sleuth Patrick Dawlish is led on a merry chase through a maze of danger in this World War II mystery from the Edgar Award–winning author.
     
    Known to navigate any situation with an uncanny calm and confidence, Captain Patrick Dawlish has become the go-to man for not-so-official investigations. He’s been pulled from his regiment before with very little notice, so he’s not surprised when he’s ordered to embark on another top-secret assignment. Only this one stays top-secret for far too long . . .
     
    The mission is so important that Dawlish’s friends, Ted Beresford and Tim Jeremy, are also given leave to order to assist. But when the three men arrive at their destination in Salisbury, their meeting is unceremoniously canceled. Two of their contacts are killed, one is in the hospital, and one has disappeared. All Dawlish knows is that those involved have something to do with post-war reconstruction. Fumbling about in the dark, with assailants at every turn, it becomes all too clear that knowledge can be dangerous—and the thirst for knowledge even more deadly . . .
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateDec 31, 2024
    ISBN9781504098458
    Death in High Places
    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 High Places - John Creasey

      CHAPTER ONE

      WHITEHALL WARRIOR

      Captain Patrick Dawlish of the 3rd East Loamshire Regiment sat back in a dilapidated armchair, an empty pipe between his lips. His eyes were fixed, a little bleakly, on a hole in the toe of his left sock.

      From a vast fireplace in which several bricks were missing, a thin wisp of smoke rose from what his batman, rather optimistically, had intended to be a fire.

      Dawlish’s eyes travelled from his toe to the fireplace with an expression of revulsion.

      ‘Not a pipe to smoke nor a spot to drink—Lord, why did I have to be sent here?’ he declared to the otherwise empty room. He brooded for several seconds, and then said more briskly: ‘This won’t do, I’ll get frostbite, April or not.’

      He reached over, and pulled a haversack from a nail on the door. Amongst the miscellany inside were several socks, and he searched through them until he found one comparatively holeless. As he finished lacing his boot, the door opened. The light from three candles flickered in the draught, and one went out.

      ‘Shut that perishing door!’ snapped Dawlish. ‘Isn’t it bad enough when it’s closed?’ He peered through the smoke towards the newcomer, recognising a red-faced subaltern of incurable good-humour. ‘Oh, it’s you, Kemp, is it? What’s the news?’

      ‘I’m afraid there isn’t much, sir,’ said Lieutenant Kemp brightly. ‘We’ll have to bed down for the night, there’s no chance at all of getting over the hills. It’s snowing, actually.’

      Dawlish glared at him.

      ‘No need to look so happy about it. How are the men?’

      ‘They’ve built a fire in one of the barns,’ said Kemp, ‘and they’ve found a whopping great saucepan. It smells as if they’re making some kind of stew.’

      Dawlish grinned.

      ‘Bless their hearts. Try to get a mug of whatever it is for me, will you? Have you seen Carter?’

      ‘He’s pottering about in the barn,’ Kemp assured him. ‘D’you want him?’

      ‘Oh, let him potter,’ said Dawlish, mentally condemning his batman to perdition. ‘We’d better see what we can do with the fire.’ He went on his knees in front of it. A gust of wind sent a cloud of smoke into his face, but at the same time, as if by magic, a tongue of flame shot upwards. He stood up, wiping the tears from his eyes. ‘Roughly speaking, how far are we from the nearest village?’

      ‘About six miles,’ said Kemp. ‘I didn’t realise Wiltshire was so desolate, did you?’

      Dawlish shrugged.

      ‘It’s not Wiltshire, it’s the weather. Or me,’ he added. ‘Kemp, I’m fed up with manoeuvres. D’you know how many I’ve been in this year? Nine. Nine! West of Scotland, east of Scotland, Westmorland, Yorkshire, North Wales—the lot!’

      ‘I don’t think they’re bad fun on the whole,’ said Kemp. ‘I know this is only my second, and the other was only a local show, but they give us something to do. I say, sir, d’you think there’s much chance of us being drafted abroad soon?’

      Dawlish rubbed the back of his head.

      ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve heard nothing officially. There’s only one thing that’s certain in the movements of the regiment: I’ll stay in England. Battalions by the dozen get drafted abroad, but not me. They must think I’ll get homesick.’

      ‘You can’t tell me that’s the reason,’ said Kemp earnestly. ‘Er—you don’t mind me saying so, I hope, but I’ve read about you. Often thought I’d give years of my life to be with you on one of your—er—shindies.’

      ‘If you were on one of my shindies you’d add years to your life all right,’ said Dawlish, laughing a little grimly. The fire was burning now, even giving out a little heat. Dawlish stared at the flames, temporarily oblivious to Kemp’s presence. He was thinking of the ‘shindies’ which had presented themselves to him from time to time, alleviating the deadly monotony of camp life for a few brief, dangerous days.

      He thought of his friends, Ted Beresford and Tim Jeremy. Of Felicity, his fiancée, who had been involved as often as the others, and come out with colours flying. Felicity, a member of the A.T.S., was driving Whitehall warriors about in large cars, he knew; her last letter had contained some vitriolic passages to that effect.

      Kemp interrupted his flow of thoughts.

      ‘I just come in, sir, to make sure it was all right to stay here for the night.’

      ‘What?’ said Dawlish. ‘Oh yes. I’d better do some reports, I suppose. Nothing’s come in over the air?’

      ‘Nothing, sir.’

      ‘Well, well,’ said Dawlish, ‘not only perishing cold, but apparently forgotten.’ He gave instructions for the placing of guards, and was about to add a plea for a mug of stew, when his batman came in, red-nosed and blue-lipped.

      Dawlish did not like Carter. He had, however, a rather offsetting habit of doing something really brilliant when Dawlish had given up all hope of making him act with even average common sense.

      Now Carter brought in a tin plate loaded with steak pudding, beans and carrots. Under the incredulous eyes of the two officers he placed it on a bare kitchen table, sniffed, and asked whether the lieutenant was ready for his dinner also.

      ‘Good Lord, yes!’ exclaimed Kemp. ‘I’ll be back in a moment, sir.’ He hurried out of the room, while Carter assured Dawlish gloomily that he had happened to find the tinned pudding and vegetables quite by accident.

      Dawlish chuckled.

      ‘You have my permission to have some more accidents, Carter, plenty more accidents, if they get results like that.’

      A little more than twenty minutes later Dawlish and Kemp were sitting in front of the fire now briskly burning; warm, fed and comparatively comfortable. Dawlish visited the barn, found the atmosphere one vast fug, received prompt and hearty assurances that everything was all right and, after a quick inspection of the sentries, had returned to the old farmhouse. The snow, which had started late in the afternoon and come down heavily, helped by a wind which reached gale force, had almost stopped.

      Kemp and he were reading a page each of the Daily Cry when there was a tap on the door.

      ‘Message waiting for you, sir.’

      Dawlish thanked his stars that he had not taken off his boots again and went out into the night, climbed into the radio van and lifted the receiver of the radio-telephone.

      ‘Captain Dawlish speaking.’

      ‘Hold on, please. Colonel Cranton wants you.’

      ‘Hold on,’ muttered Dawlish, ‘with both hands nearly frozen!’

      He heard a rustling over the wireless, as if papers were being shuffled, while he tried to picture Cranton, a little, monkey-faced man for whom he, and most others who had worked with him, felt a considerable respect.

      He wondered what had led up to this call.

      The large office was warm and thick with smoke. Cranton sat at his desk, glancing across the room to a man who had been with him for the past two hours. Cranton had respect and liking for the Under-Secretary to the Home Office, who had told a story at great length and then asked for Cranton’s advice; it was pleasant to be asked for that, and to know that it would be taken into account.

      ‘Dawlish is the man,’ Cranton had said without preamble. ‘I think he’s in Wiltshire, on the Southern Command show. Have you met him?’

      The Under-Secretary shook his head.

      ‘I’ve heard some odds and ends about him, Cranton, and I imagine he’ll do. He throws his weight about a bit, though, doesn’t he?’

      Cranton’s wizened face split in a wide smile.

      ‘When it’s necessary. He doesn’t take easily to red tape, and is apt to adopt a do-it-my-way-or-do-it-yourself attitude when it’s the only chance of getting results. Usually he gets away with it. Amusing fellow in some ways. He told me once that the big fear of his life was that he would be given a room here, with some red ribbon to put round his hat.’

      The Under-Secretary smiled appreciatively.

      The telephone rang and Cranton lifted the receiver, held on for a few seconds and then said briskly:

      ‘Is that you, Dawlish?’

      ‘Yes, and I’m perishing cold,’ he was told in heartfelt tones. ‘This is an open van, and it’s snowing fit for the Alps. Who is that?’

      ‘Colonel Cranton.’

      ‘Oh. I’m sorry, sir.’ Dawlish contrived to put a tone of surprise into the words, and Cranton smiled as he went on: ‘All right, I won’t keep you long. Just where are you at the moment?’

      ‘Somewhere near Warlingham on the Salisbury downs,’ Dawlish told him. ‘We’re bedded down for the night, I hope. The road’s impassable for traffic.’

      ‘Hmm,’ said Cranton. ‘Salisbury. Yes.’ He paused and looked towards the Under-Secretary, who was leaning forward in his chair, suddenly tense. ‘I’d like you to get to the White Hart, in Salisbury, by lunch-time tomorrow, Dawlish, even if you have to wear snow-shoes. Eh? … yes, I’ll arrange for orders to be sent through to that effect … I don’t yet know, but I think so.’

      There was a different tone in Dawlish’s voice.

      ‘What kind of a show is it likely to be, sir?’

      ‘I’ve no idea, yet … yes, it could be done … I’ll see what I can do. All right, go and get yourself warmed up. I’ll see you at the White Hart. Goodnight.’

      He rang off abruptly, then looked across the office to the Under-Secretary.

      ‘We think the trouble is starting from Salisbury, and Dawlish is almost on the spot. Do you believe in omens?’

      ‘I believe in coincidence,’ said the Under-Secretary. ‘Sometimes. What did he say?’

      ‘That if it’s likely to be a big show he’d like to have his friends Jeremy and Beresford with him,’ chuckled Cranton, ‘and he even suggested it might be an idea if his fiancée could be there, too. She’s driving Boodles, I think, so that will be easy.’

      The Under-Secretary looked back at him quizzically.

      ‘You believe in letting Dawlish have his head, don’t you?’

      ‘Well, yes,’ said Cranton, no longer smiling. ‘And if you had seen the man at work you’d know why.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      GATHERING OF FRIENDS

      In a bedroom at the White Hart Hotel, Salisbury, almost under the shadow of the great spire of the cathedral, a grey-haired man with sharp features and the severe expression popularly, but often erroneously, attributed to members of the legal profession, pulled the bedclothes up to his chin and peered across the dimly-lit room to a woman sitting at the dressing-table. He could see her face in the mirror, but the subdued light robbed it of the lines which daylight would have revealed, making her look younger than she was, and almost beautiful.

      Painstakingly, she was smoothing cream into her cheeks when he spoke to her.

      ‘Are you comfortable here, Paula?’

      She turned, her expression almost venomous.

      ‘You know damned well that I am. Why the devil do you always have to move when I’m getting to know some decent people?’

      The man smiled, without amusement.

      ‘For one reason, my dear, to try to make sure that you don’t make friends with the wrong people. For another, it’s much wiser to move around.’

      ‘You’re as nervous as a coot,’ the woman snapped.

      ‘I’m older and wiser than you,’ said the man quietly, ‘although perhaps not much of either.’ His smile vanished as he saw her lips tighten. ‘Sooner or later we shall be suspected. You know that, don’t you?’

      ‘Not if you keep your nerve.’

      ‘And if you, perhaps, curb your thirst, and love of uniforms,’ sneered the man.

      ‘That’s a lie! I haven’t been tight for months. And what about the news I pass on to you. If I didn’t get on well with uniforms, there’d be a lot you wouldn’t know.’

      ‘Crumbs of information, my dear, do not make a loaf,’ said the grey-haired man sharply. ‘Your sense of your own importance can be dangerous, too. Don’t allow yourself to think you are a key-agent, Paula, remember even I can hardly call myself that. A key-agent,’ he repeated, closing his eyes and folding his hands on the bedspread. ‘I have progressed a long way. Do you know that there was a time when—’

      He stopped abruptly, at a tap on the door.

      ‘A letter for Mr. Mooney,’ a woman’s voice announced. Quickly Paula took the letter, then closed and locked the door.

      Mooney, sitting upright in bed, snatched it from her. The atmosphere in the room had grown tense, with an expectancy that was almost fear; it was as if a third, invisible presence had joined them.

      Mooney read quickly, and then let the letter fall. The woman picked it up, her eye running quickly over the written page.

      A Captain Dawlish will be arriving some time tomorrow. Assess him, report at once, and then move from Salisbury. Further instructions will be sent to the Royal Hotel, Amesbury.

      K.

      P.S. Let Paula get acquainted with Dawlish.

      The man in the bed had grown suddenly tired and old, while the woman’s eyes glistened as she read and re-read the postscript. Yet in spite of the triumph she was feeling she did not gloat; Mooney’s expression forebade it.

      Within five minutes she had gone to her own room, next to his. Although they were registered as Mr. and Mrs. Felix Mooney, and both were married, it was not to each other.

      When she had gone, Mooney re-read the letter, frowning. He thought: I wonder how he gets his information? I wonder why we have to leave so urgently?

      Through the revolving doors of the White Hart went a man so large that there was barely an inch to spare. He was in uniform with three stars on his shoulder, and the receptionist had just decided that he was very plain indeed, almost ugly, when he smiled.

      ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Do you know anything about a Captain Dawlish?’

      ‘I don’t think so, sir. Is he staying in the hotel?’

      ‘I haven’t the remotest idea,’ said the large man, taking out a cigarette-case. ‘He asked me to meet him here before twelve-thirty, but he always had weird ideas of time.’ He beamed again, and the receptionist decided that she had been absolutely wrong in thinking him plain. ‘I’ll wait, if I may. I suppose I can get a drink?’ he added anxiously.

      ‘Of course, sir, the porter will send the order for you.’

      ‘Good, thanks.’ The large man went slowly across the lounge to a chair near the fire, lit his cigarette and appeared to go to sleep, although a lift of his finger brought the porter to him.

      ‘Bass?’ he asked.

      ‘I’m afraid we’re out of stock, sir, but we’ve a very good pale ale. I can recommend it.’

      ‘Good,’ repeated the large man. ‘Preferably in a tankard.’ He nodded as the porter went off, and then grew aware that two people were eyeing him with some interest.

      One was a sharp-featured, oldish-looking man, the other was a woman of perhaps forty. She wore a little too much make-up, and her expression, the officer decided, could only be described by the word ‘inviting’. He decided, too, that he was too tired to follow it up, for he had been travelling since two o’clock that morning from Norfolk. Only on the last fifty miles had the sun shone, and even then the snow had remained thick on the roads.

      Before his beer arrived the doors opened again.

      Another captain, nearly as tall as the large man but very much thinner, entered briskly. He stifled an exclamation, and approached the big man quickly. The first arrival rose at once.

      ‘Well, well, well! It looks like being quite a party. Pat’s not here yet.’

      ‘Have you ever known him early?’ demanded the thin man in mock despair. ‘Ted, my son, it’s good to see you. What’s up—any ideas?’

      ‘I leave ’em to Pat,’ said Ted Beresford, and stifled a yawn. ‘I’ve been travelling since the small hours, curse it. You look so darned fresh that you must be stationed here.’

      ‘Wrong,’ said Tim Jeremy. ‘I was in London, on a long weekend.’ He winked. ‘What about some beer?’

      Beresford repeated the order, so that they were both drinking from pint tankards when Dawlish entered.

      He eyed the porter.

      ‘Whatever they’re drinking, a large one for me, please.’ He nodded pleasantly.

      No one would have suspected that all three were close friends, separated by the demands of war which had kept them apart for the last six months.

      Dawlish sank into an

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