by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
Murder: One, Two, Three
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.
EAN ISBN Edition
0755136101 9780755136100 Print
0755139445 9780755139446 Kindle
0755137779 9780755137770 Epub
0755152212 9780755152216 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
Michael and Daphne
“Oh, darling,” Daphne Mallow said, “aren’t you coming to bed?”
Michael, her husband, leaned back in his arm chair, a comfortable arm chair made on modern lines, upholstered with a vivid red tapestry, which showed up strikingly against the off-white carpet and the off-white walls. For a small house, this was as modern as one could be. It belonged, inside at least, to the top of some mighty building in New York, or Stockholm, anywhere except in the English countryside. But it had “something”, and it was comfortable.
It was even paid for.
“Darling,” Daphne insisted, “aren’t you?”
Michael just grinned.
She shook her head, very slowly, with pretended exasperation. It wasn’t all pretence, perhaps, but the reality of it didn’t go very deep. She loved looking at him as he was now – completely relaxed, long legs stretched out, wiry hair untidy with that attractive wave, almost the first thing about him which she had noticed.
Sometimes she had a sneaking kind of guilty thought: he was too good looking.
Could any girl be blamed for falling for him? And could he be blamed, if—
He pursed his lips in the shape of a kiss, and his eyes still mocked hers. His were blue, hers grey. This was the way he would often make her get up, move to him, kiss him. But she couldn’t be sure that was what he wanted.
It wasn’t.
He moved his lips, very slowly, and formed the word “No” with great deliberation. “I am not coming to bed.”
“Oh, you brute!”
“On the contrary, the brute in me is being subdued for the time being,” declared Michael. “I’m going to read for a bit, but you get to bed, sweet. You look very tired. I’ll make you a milk drink.”
“I’m not a bit tired!”
“You look worn out,” he teased. “Shadows beneath the eyes, haggard lines at the mouth, faint wrinkles at—”
“I haven’t, really, have I?” asked Daphne, in a sudden flurry of alarm. “Wrinkles, I mean. I’d hate—oh, you devil!”
But she laughed.
He could fool her almost any time he liked. She took him as she took life: literally. It wasn’t that she lacked a sense of humour, was just that she had a simple, direct approach to living, and did a great number of things without really thinking. Fooling him and being fooled made life good. It was, most of the time.
Now, for instance?
She felt happier tonight than she had for several days, and that was because Michael was happier; well, free from whatever had been on his mind. He had been moody and almost irritable, and for the better part of a week any hint of good humour had been forced. It wasn’t, tonight.
She could only guess what the trouble had been.
Money, most likely; and when she thought that, she added fiercely to herself: “Of course it’s money!” He gambled too freely, and spent too much money on trifling but expensive presents for her, and she knew that he was often in debt. He seldom told her so, and didn’t show her his bank account; he just paid a regular amount into hers, and left the housekeeping entirely to her. Three times he’d had to ask her to do without any money for a week or two. She’d always managed; but it had made her realise how near the bone he was.
If not money, then – a girl?
She fought against believing that. She had never had any proof, never anything which really convinced her that he did more than flirt. The trouble was that he was away so often; she wished he had any job but that of a commercial traveller.
Representative!
She sometimes wondered whether he was out more often by night than he need be. She just wasn’t sure. One part of her mind told her that she didn’t want to find out, but much of the time she felt a nagging uncertainty, especially when he was away. When he was home, like this, leaning back in the chair which seemed to have been made for him, she had hardly any fears at all. He seemed so happy with her, and looked so good; “good”, that was, in the sense of being wholesome and likeable. The way he smiled, the way he laughed, the complete relaxation of his long, lean, virile body as he sat there, accounted for part of this; but she had to admit one thing.
She was never really sure what he was thinking; never quite certain what was going on behind those blue eyes, even when he was smiling.
All she knew was that she loved him desperately; an odd thought, even of the possibility of losing him, could hurt.
“What time is it?” she asked suddenly.
“Turn your head and look, lazy.”
“I want to look the way I am looking,” Daphne said. “I like the view.”
He seemed startled, and sat up; then jumped up and crossed swiftly to her. She hadn’t time to get out of her chair, one as large and as vivid as his. She had dark hair, as straight as hair could be but for a good hairdresser, and the creamy complexion that had gone out of fashion in the early days of Queen Victoria. She was just a little plump, and beautifully
formed; she would have been ideal for a chocolate box or the chorus of the Folies Bergère.
Suddenly, he was leaning over her, his hands were upon her, his lips were on hers. Without a word, without a thought, only with thudding heart and a strange, almost frightening breathlessness, they were together. His hands were so gentle, yet he drew her from the chair, together they went out of the room.
Wind, cutting through a tiny opening at the top of the bedroom window, made the door slam.
They hardly noticed it.
Half an hour later, he got up, slid into a dressing gown, grimaced at her, and went along to the kitchen. She lay in a glorious state of drowsiness, listening to the wind, knowing that the sea must be raging furiously, wondering idly what it was like at Tony’s cottage.
She liked the cottage.
In a way, she preferred it to this little house, but wishing and dreaming didn’t hurt.
She forgot Tony and the cottage.
She was still drowsing when Michael came in, with a whisky and soda for himself and the milk drink for her, steaming hot and bubbly and creamy on the top. He flung her a wrap, as she sat up, yawning. She would be asleep within five minutes, with or without the milk drink, but he liked to fuss her, and she enjoyed being fussed.
She was flushed; lovely.
“You won’t be too late, darling, will you?”
“A lot of difference it will make to you, you’ll sleep like a log,” he said, wrinkling his nose at her. “What we want are twin beds, poppet.”
“No! Never!”
He laughed.
She found herself laughing, too. She thought how good he looked, with the old silk dressing gown loosely round him, and his long legs poking out, the flesh firm, the skin tanned to a pale brown. There wasn’t a thing about him that she would ever want altered. Eyes, nose, mouth, legs, arms, lean, strong body – even the back of his head!
It was when they were like this that he occasionally talked more freely; confided, if he had any worries; told her that he didn’t really want to talk about troubles with her, because he didn’t like worrying her. If he guessed how desperately she wanted to share everything – but it was no use, he was never persuaded that she did.
The first time he had ever talked like that was after he’d fallen down a few feet of cliff, several years ago. He had been terrified, and shown it while he had been hauled to safety; he had told her, later, how he always feared physical injury. Other things had shown her that he hadn’t much physical courage, but – she wasn’t thinking about that, then.
Would he start talking tonight?
She almost hoped not, because she was so tired. The warm, steamy fumes of the drink had crept into her, her body was beautifully relaxed, she was glowing, without being too warm. If he got in beside her, they’d soon be sticky hot; but if he started to talk she would have to sit up and make herself open her eyes wide.
He stood up and took the cup.
“Bless you,” he said. “’Night, sweet. I won’t be too late.”
He blew her a kiss, and went out, putting the light out from the door switch. In the darkness, she lay with her eyes closed and the warmth stealing about her; she always felt like this after he’d brought her a drink. She could see him, as clearly as if her eyes were wide open and he was in a brightly lit room. With the touch of recklessness in his expression, true gaiety in his eyes, he had a quality that could make her heart leap and then thump wildly with excitement.
It didn’t, now.
She’d wake up in the morning, and he’d be beside her; or else he would be standing by the side of the bed with the morning tea tray. When he was at home he didn’t mind getting up first, didn’t mind helping out in any way, and he was usually completely natural – except during those bad spells.
Thank goodness this one was over. They’d have a wonderful weekend.
She went to sleep.
She didn’t know that it was a drugged sleep.
Michael Mallow looked through two newspapers, while sitting in the arm chair, smoked three cigarettes, and heard a clock strike eleven. He didn’t glance up. His order book lay beside him, but he didn’t open it. For ten minutes, he leaned back, smoking and staring at the tiny electric clock let in the wall above the fireplace.
There were small recesses in all the walls, with delicate wrought iron work in front of them, flowers growing from these. Everything was bright, fresh, clean. Red predominated; the bright red colour of blood.
He looked round, slowly.
Then he got up, and went along to the bedroom. He stared down at Daphne for several seconds, although he could only just make out the shape of her head and shoulders; the dim light came from the hall. The curtains were drawn, and he left them like that. He picked up his clothes, made sure that he had a collar and tie, and went out. He’d left studs and cuff links in his shirt.
He lit another cigarette, and began to dress. When he had finished, he went into the hall and took a raincoat off the small, box like hall wardrobe. Outside, the wind was smacking at the door, and rattling it, but he knew that little short of an explosion would wake Daphne.
He went out.
The wind leapt and blew wildly through his hair. He smoothed the wiry mass down, his palm brushing over the back of his head. He did that several times, but it made no difference; at last he gave it up. The wind was behind him as he walked towards the shed at the back, where he kept his car, and Daphne kept her bicycle. Being behind him, it got under that wiry hair, and seemed to lift it straight up from the crown of his head. It was coming straight off the sea, and although it called for more balancing than usual, he made good progress.
It was twenty five minutes to twelve when Michael Mallow settled in the saddle, and started off.
The cottage he was going to visit was only two miles away, and the road was level except just the last few hundred yards; there, it rose sharply. If she went by bike, Daphne always had to push it up that last stretch.
The road was just a pale ribbon beneath the stars. He didn’t put on the lights, front or rear. No one else was likely to use this road tonight, because it fed only the cottage and a village which was eight miles away over the cliffs but only four miles away across country.
As he drew nearer the cottage, the road ran close to the cliffs. Now, the wind merged with the mighty roaring of the waves. It was as if a thousand lions, wakened out of wanted sleep to sudden wrath, were bellowing and roaring at the same time. The strange, thwacking sound of waves smacking against the rocks, the seething, roaring tumult, the long drawn out and menacing hiss with which waves drew back, as if to get ready for another assault, had a hypnotising effect. The front wheel of the bicycle wobbled off as if it was being drawn towards the edge of the cliff.
The big rock which made a dark shape against the stars and marked Demon’s Cove, rose out of the darkness, and then fell away. Here, Mallow got off the bicycle. He was gasping for breath, but didn’t stand about for long. The lights were on at the cottage, as if Tony Rawson, who owned the cottage, was waiting to welcome him. The wind, suddenly capricious, lifted his hair straight up from his crown again.
The seas roared.
The light beckoned.
Soon, he was near enough to the cottage to hear the faint sound of music.
Then, he saw a man, near by; a man in the shadows.
Suddenly, he felt fear.
Chapter Two
Frightened Michael
Daphne Mallow woke up.
It was the kind of waking to which she was used; there were faint noises which penetrated the blanket of sleep, and insisted on getting a hearing. She didn’t open her eyes at first. Michael was probably getting up. He might be coming in with the tea, and that would be a pity; she would love another few minutes here.
Laziness!
She opened one eye.
Michael was in the room, and it was broad daylight. He was fully dressed, and bending over a case which stood open on a small table by the window. He was putting so
mething in the case. He kept looking out of the window, jerking his head up every time. He didn’t look round at her for a long time, and she was so startled that all she could do was stare.
He was packing a suitcase, something he never did unless he had warned her that he would be away for a day or two.
This was Saturday; he was never away on Saturday.
His movements were quick and hurried; he was always a careless packer, and she usually did the job for him. Why was he packing? Why did he keep looking out of the window, as if frightened of what he might see?
He turned, to take something out of an open drawer, and saw her.
Now, her eyes were wide open. She lay on her back, only her face visible above the sheet. He stopped moving, and his hand was actually hovering above the open drawer, not dipping in, not coming out. She had never seen him look like that before, and it sent fear cutting into her. All the glow of the bed and all the snugness was gone, taking away thought of a few more minutes of sensuous comfort.
She opened her mouth stiffly.
“Mi—Michael,” she whispered.
“How long have you been awake?” he asked. His voice was also pitched very low. He withdrew his hand from the drawer, and turned to face her, but he didn’t come forward. The expression was still new to her; and frightening. It was like looking at a stranger; and being looked at by one.
This wasn’t her Michael.
He repeated harshly: “How long?”
“I’ve only just—just woken up.” She started to hitch herself up. “Michael, what—?”
“Don’t ask questions,” he rapped. “Don’t—” He broke off.
She was halfway up on her pillows, by then, and her arms and shoulders were bare. He didn’t look anywhere but into her eyes. She could just see the reflection of her face and creamy shoulders in the dressing table mirror, but she didn’t see them; only Michael.
He looked desperately ill.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t want to wake you. Meant to leave a note. I—I’ve got to go north. Special job, outside my usual territory.” The lie was so transparent that it was a wonder he thought it worth uttering. “Have to drive all day today, and tomorrow. Must be—be in Glasgow first thing on Monday morning.”