by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
Taking the Blame
First published in 1948
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1948-2014
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.
EAN ISBN Edition
0755136411 9780755136414 Print
0755139747 9780755139743 Kindle
0755138090 9780755138098 Epub
0755152263 9780755152261 Epdf
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.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
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.
Chapter One
Theft By Night
London lay sleeping.
The two men on the roof of Quinns worked swiftly but made little sound.
A third man stood in the darkness of Hart Row, placed so that he could see a policeman on his beat or a belated reveller.
The night was cool; heavy clouds, threatening rain, hid the stars. Street lamps shone on the fashionable goods in the shop windows of Bond Street, at one end of Hart Row, but there was little light near Quinns.
The men on the roof had placed a cowled lamp on the slates, and this shone on the hole they were making. For tools, they needed only a wooden wedge with a long handle. As each slate was levered up, one man took it away and placed it on a neat pile at the base of a chimney stack. The pile grew rapidly, the hole grew larger, until one of the men who crouched over it straightened up and grunted:
“I’m perishing cold. How many more are you going to move?”
“Not many.” His companion was masked, but the other’s face showed palely. “We haven’t any time to lose.”
A car swept along deserted New Bond Street, its headlights spreading a broad, white glow which touched the roof. The men crouched very low. Long shadows of chimneys of the adjoining building crept towards them: then the car passed and they were in darkness again, except for the light of the cowled lamp.
They went on with the job, but soon heard plodding footsteps in the main road.
“That’s a copper,” muttered the man who had first spoken.
“Stop whining, Dale. Slim will warn us.”
“He might have taken a powder, and—”
“Getting the wind up?” Through the eye-holes in his mask the speaker looked at the grumbler, whose face was in darkness except beneath the chin, which was touched by the hooded light. It made him look ghostly and grotesque. He had a square jaw and a thick neck, and was wearing a cap and muffler.
“If you can’t take it, clear out,” said the masked man softly.
“I can take it.”
“Then stop bellyaching.” The masked man’s voice was softer, mellower, the voice of an educated man; the other’s was much coarser.
The policeman walked past the end of Hart Row, his plodding footsteps faded, and the two burglars went on, the rough-voiced man placing slate after slate against the chimney stack as his companion prised them up. Soon the hole was large enough for a man to climb through. Beyond it they saw thick, wooden rafters, coated with dust and thick cobwebs, and the reinforced plaster of the attic ceiling.
“That’s enough,” said the masked man. “Pass me that lamp.”
The thick dust, the age-old wooden beams and the cobwebs showed more clearly. A big spider moved swiftly to the centre of its web and curled itself up. The masked man stood the lamp on a horizontal beam, stirring some dust. Suddenly he clapped his hand over his mouth – and sneezed. He made only a soft, stifled sound.
“That’s right, wake ’em all up,” the other muttered. “Wake the whole ruddy town!”
“Listen, Dale. If you can’t stand the strain, go down and relieve Slim, and send him up here. I was told you were O.K., but you’re going to pieces.”
“I’ve never run out on a job yet,” growled Dale. “But I’m used to working with clever boys—they don’t go sneezing all over the place because of a bit of dust. Don’t talk so much, Bud, or I might get nasty.”
“You’ll do as you’re told. Where’s the drill?”
“All fixed,” said Dale.
He handed his companion a brace fitted with a large bit. Bud placed the point of the bit against the plaster and began to turn the brace. A soft whirring sound followed, and more dust flew. Bud worked carefully and surely, without putting too much pressure on the tool. As the bit went deeply into the plaster, the noise became louder.
The bit went through the roof, and Bud lurched forward.
“Ah!”
“Got it?” demanded Dale.
“Yes, it’s through. This won’t take long now.”
“You’d think we had all night,” said Dale.
The masked man went on with his job, without comment. He drilled half a dozen holes, close together, to make room for his fingers. The old plaster would easily crumble away once they could get a good grip. In Quinns, the tiny shop below, there was a fortune for the taking.
There were jewels and objets d’art, paintings, porcelain, things of great beauty and value. Quinns was famous throughout the world, almost as famous as its owner, John Mannering. Quinns handled only rare and superbly lovely pieces, and chose them for their quality rather than their market value. In every corner of the world where men loved old and rare and beautiful things, the name of Quinns was known and respected.
It was as nearly burglar-proof as man could make it. The men on the roof knew that, and also knew that the only way in was through the roof.
Dale was nervous, this was a big job; but Bud seemed superbly confident. The plan was his, and Dale wasn’t happy about it; Dale didn�
�t like working with strangers. Bud had been introduced by a fence as a man who wanted a good cracksman for a big job – and also wanted a good look-out man, like Slim.
The plaster began to crumble; soon there was a hole large enough for Dale to get his hand through. He pulled at the edges of the plaster. It came away fairly easily, in small pieces. They could have made a large hole quickly with a hammer, but a man slept in the building.
In the distance, a clock chimed the hour; then Big Ben’s voice travelled clearly across the silent city. Other clocks boomed and donged; and when the bells stopped, the silence seemed more tense.
Another car came along New Bond Street, but this time Bud did not stop working, although Dale watched the growing shadows tensely. The light disappeared and there was no warning from Slim.
Little pieces of plaster dropped through to the floor of the room below, making slight sounds. The man who slept on the premises was on the floor below that. Such small noises wouldn’t disturb him.
“How much longer?” Dale muttered after a while. “One or two bangs with a hammer—”
“Would save us half an hour and might land us in the clink,” said Bud. “Don’t be a fool. I’ve had more than enough bellyaching from you. I thought you were good.”
Dale snapped: “I’ll show you I’m good!” He gripped the edge of the hole with both hands and pressed heavily. A lump of plaster came off in his fingers. He grabbed to save it from falling, and laid it aside. “You want to work fast,” he growled. He tried again, but this time couldn’t get a big piece off.
Tiny pieces kept spattering to the floor below.
Suddenly, a bicycle bell rang clearly. That was Slim’s warning.
“Listen!” hissed Dale.
Silence again, followed by heavy footsteps, a pause and a new sound – as of a door being rattled.
The men on the roof could picture the scene below. A constable turning into Hart Row, trying the handles of the shop doors, shining his torch inside, seeing nothing to alarm him and going on to the next shop. There weren’t many shops in Hart Row, but it seemed an age before the policeman finished and his footsteps faded.
“Okay,” said Dale, in an explosive little whisper.
“Slim isn’t asleep,” Bud remarked.
After twenty minutes the hole was large enough for the stocky Dale to climb through, and to shine the light down into the room. It lit up the pictures on the walls, others on display easels. The centre of the floor was empty except for two chairs.
“Forgotten me?” Dale growled.
Bud gripped his wrists as he lowered himself carefully through the hole. By resting his elbows on either side, he was able to hang easily, and hardly needed Bud’s help. He tried to hook a chair nearer with his right foot, but couldn’t reach it.
“Better hold me.”
Bud said: “All right. Take it easy.”
He gripped Dale beneath the armpits. Dale eased his elbows from the ceiling, and dropped slowly towards the floor. Bud could just see his head and shoulders; the floor and pictures were blotted out. For a few seconds he took the whole weight; then it eased.
“Okay!” Dale called softly.
Two minutes later, both men stood in the store-room; Bud was the taller by two or three inches. The cowled lamp spread a dim light to every corner, and up through the hole. They would go out that way; it was large enough to climb through easily now, and there was a way out to narrow alleys, from the roof next door.
They went to the landing. This was tiny, and a flight of crooked, wooden steps led from it to the next floor.
The jewels were in the strong-room, which was possibly electrically controlled.
“Time we had some real fight,” Dale said.
“Not yet,” said Bud. “Larraby might—” he broke off.
“Who?”
“Larraby, the man who works for Mannering.”
“You know the place pretty well, Bud. Pal of Mannering’s?”
“When I plan a job, I plan it. We’ll put a light on when we’re past Larraby’s room.”
“So you know where that is, too,” growled Dale.
“You talk too much,” Bud said waspishly.
Dale didn’t answer.
He took a large, khaki handkerchief from his pocket and tied it round the lower half of his face. Only his eyes and the top of his broad nose showed beneath his cap.
Dale led the way, carrying the lamp. At the next landing, he was more confident, and walked with a swagger. The stairs creaked, but not loudly. Three doors led off the landing, and each was closed. They reached the head of the staircase which led to the ground floor. This was wider and carpeted from the banisters to the wall. Small pictures, some miniatures and several gilt mirrors hung on the wall, the mirrors reflecting and magnifying the light.
The shadowy figures crept down the stairs.
Being inside had taken Dale’s fears away. He shone the light in this direction and that, to get the position of each door fixed firmly in his mind. Those who knew him well could have told Bud that he was always nervous when outside, but once inside was one of the best cracksmen in London.
Downstairs a dim light shone at the back of the shop, a lamp which burned to show passing policemen that all was well. They slipped past this into a small office at the rear of the shop.
“You say the strong-room’s down below?” Dale asked.
“That’s right—have to get the carpet up.”
“Need to move the desk?”
“Just back to the wall.”
“Okay, let’s get cracking,” said Dale.
They placed the cowled lamp on a shelf, then lifted the Sheraton walnut desk to the wall; that took only a few seconds. They rolled back the carpet, and at first glance appeared to be looking at bare, unpolished oak boards. Dale’s experienced eyes soon told him that there was a door in the floor.
“It’s screwed down.” Bud pointed.
“Okay,” said Dale. “Give me some elbow room.”
He now took complete control, found the screws which fastened the door, took them out and eased the door up. It creaked a little.
“After this, everything is electrically controlled,” Bud whispered.
“One thing at a time, Bud.” Dale raised the door up.
A short flight of steps led downwards, and he could just see a steel door which led to the underground strong-room. He nodded, as he straightened up.
“Know where the main switch is?”
“In a corner of the shop,” Bud said. “I’ll go and fix it.” He turned towards the door.
“Hold it,” said Dale, and there was a sneer in his voice, he’d gained confidence now that he was inside. “I thought you were smart. If we touch the main switch, the light over the door will go out. The dicks would see there was something up before you could say snap.” He opened his case, on the desk, and took out a small wall-lamp attached to a tiny battery. “This will fool ’em.”
“Shall we hear the bell in here, if Slim rings?” Bud asked.
“He isn’t likely to ring it,” said Dale. “The copper only comes along Hart Row once an hour, that’s if he thinks the sergeant’s out. We don’t have to worry for half an hour.” He took the battery set into the shop, stretched up and took the lamp out of its socket, and hung the battery lamp on a picture-hook.
“Now you can switch off.”
Bud turned to the corner, where the main switch was concealed by a small, wooden cupboard. The click as he pushed it up sounded loud. The light from the battery lamp was not so bright as that from the main current, but enabled them to see fairly clearly. They went back to the office, and Dale prepared to lower himself down the steps.
Bud glanced over his shoulder—
A little man with tousled grey hair stood in the doorway, with a dressing-gown over his pyjamas and a gun in his hand.
Chapter Two
Violence
Bud gasped.
Dale swung on his heel, saw the gunman, and slowly raised his
hands.
The little man in the doorway grinned, rubbed one eye absently, and lowered the gun an inch or two. Bud’s breathing was very loud behind his mask, Dale’s was hardly audible. The little man’s shadow reached almost as far as Bud’s – but they weren’t looking at his shadow, only at his face.
“You’re very wise,” he remarked casually, staring at Dale. “I think your friend should put his hands up too—it will be much better for him.” Bud took the hint. “Thank you. I won’t keep you like that for long, just until the police arrive. I wonder—” he paused, and his smile became positively cherubic. “I wonder if one of you would be good enough to lift the receiver and dial 999? It would be such a help.”
Dale said: “You dial it yourself, Larraby.”
“You know me?” Larraby looked surprised. “Well, well! you needn’t make difficulties, though. We may as well get this business settled and done with quickly. If you won’t co-operate, move into the corner—the far corner—and keep your hands very high.”
Dale moved back.
Bud said in a strangled voice: “I won’t—”
“I don’t want to shoot you,” said Larraby, “but I will, if you make any difficulty. Into the corner, if you please.”
Bud backed away.
Larraby stepped towards the desk and the telephone. His smile remained; his soft, chiding voice seemed to hover about the room. His gun kept both burglars covered, and they stood side by side in the corner. He stretched out his left hand to lift the receiver, and actually touched the instrument when a fourth man appeared in the doorway. Bud saw him and caught his breath, Dale didn’t move or utter a sound. Larraby stared at Bud, who couldn’t keep his gaze away from the figure in the doorway, then darted a glance towards the door.
The man there flung something at him as Dale leapt forward. The ‘something’, a heavy stone, caught Larraby on the arm. Dale snatched his gun away before he could shoot; the gun hit the floor. Dale drove his fist into Larraby’s face and hit him three times, fierce, savage blows which made Larraby whimper with pain. Then the new arrival came behind the little man and struck him on the back of the head with a length of iron piping.