Dead or Alive: A Frank Garrett Mystery

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by Patricia Wentworth


  She said against his shoulder,

  “Are you, Bill?”

  And Bill said,

  “We are.”

  THE END

  About The Author

  PATRICIA WENTWORTH was born Dora Amy Elles in India in 1877 (not 1878 as has sometimes been stated). She was first educated privately in India, and later at Blackheath School for Girls. Her first husband was George Dillon, with whom she had her only child, a daughter. She also had two stepsons from her first marriage, one of whom died in the Somme during World War I.

  Her first novel was published in 1910, but it wasn’t until the 1920’s that she embarked on her long career as a writer of mysteries. Her most famous creation was Miss Maud Silver, who appeared in 32 novels, though there were a further 33 full-length mysteries not featuring Miss Silver—the entire run of these is now reissued by Dean Street Press.

  Patricia Wentworth died in 1961. She is recognized today as one of the pre-eminent exponents of the classic British golden age mystery novel.

  By Patricia Wentworth

  and available from Dean Street Press

  The Benbow Smith Mysteries

  Fool Errant

  Danger Calling

  Walk with Care

  Down Under

  The Frank Garrett Mysteries

  Dead or Alive

  Rolling Stone

  The Ernest Lamb Mysteries

  The Blind Side

  Who Pays the Piper?

  Pursuit of a Parcel

  Standalones

  The Astonishing Adventure of Jane Smith

  The Red Lacquer Case

  The Annam Jewel

  The Black Cabinet

  The Dower House Mystery

  The Amazing Chance

  Hue and Cry

  Anna Belinda

  Will-O’-the-Wisp

  Beggar’s Choice

  The Coldstone

  Kingdom Lost

  Nothing Venture

  Red Shadow

  Outrageous Fortune

  Touch and Go

  Fear by Night

  Red Stefan

  Blindfold

  Hole and Corner

  Mr. Zero

  Run!

  Weekend with Death

  Silence in Court

  Patricia Wentworth

  Rolling Stone

  Not a breath. Nothing. Just a dead man lying there on the tumbled bed…

  PETER TALBOT, on assignment for his uncle, Frank Garrett of the Foreign Office, takes the place of Spike Reilly, member of a gang of art thieves that have recently added murder to their repertoire. Another burglary, and ‘Spike’ is the receiver of stolen goods on the terrace of the Cresswells’ impressive country place. The girl he loves, Terry Clive, is involved, not to mention others also staying at the house. Peter and Terry will find that pitting their wits against a merciless killer is the most lethal of pastimes for two young lovers.

  Rolling Stone was originally published in 1940, and is a treat for every mystery novel connoisseur. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

  “When I pick up a book by Patricia Wentworth I think, now to enjoy myself—and I always do.” Mary Dell, Daily Mirror

  Rolling Stone—Chapter One

  The rain fell in a fine, steady drizzle. The young man in the armchair looked up from the letter he was writing and glanced with dislike at a prospect where nothing pleased and man appeared viler than usual. It had been raining all day. Everything was very wet. And instead of being the cleaner for this continuous shower-bath, everything, steep tilted roofs, narrow street, small shops, and a wavering, havering, haphazard straggle of men women children and dogs, appeared to be even dirtier than usual.

  The room was a bare one, the arm chair dowdy, sagging, but not uncomfortable. The man who occupied it had one leg crossed above the other at a fantastic angle. He brought his eyes back from the window to a writing-block precariously perched against the tilted knee and went on writing. A loosely built young man of indeterminate features, in repose expressionless. But just now when he had looked at the rain they had changed. Something quick, vivid and angry had looked out. Then he was back at his writing, pen running fast, left hand steadying the block.

  “I think I’ve found the man. Wrong expression—as you were—I am on his track. Dictionary for sleuths, use of—don’t the department issue it? If not, why not? All right, all right, I’m coming to the point. You know I didn’t ask to be dragged into sleuthing, so you’ll just have to take me as you find me. It will, I feel, do you—and the department—a lot of good. Query—is the Foreign Office Secret Service a department? Probably not. That’s the sort of moss a rolling stone like me doesn’t gather. Yes, I’m really coming to it—the point, cher maître, the point.”

  Here the young man grinned suddenly, showing good teeth. He was ready to bet that no one had ever called Colonel Garrett cher maître before, and he had a clear and pleasant picture of what Garrett’s reactions would be. Then he went on writing.

  “He calls himself Pierre Riel. I am told he is Spike Reilly. I think he may be the goods. Someone told a girl, who told a man, who told a girl, who told another man, who told me that Mr. Spike had once talked in his cups. Moral of this—all criminals should join their local Band of Hope. I go now to take a room in the same pub as Spike. Viewed from the outside it presents every appearance of being about as low in the social scale as you can get. If I fall a victim to dirt, drains or bugs, I presume that a grateful government will pay for my obsequies.

  Yours unofficially,

  J.P.T.

  P.S. I shall post this on my way. Another thrilling installment tomorrow.

  P.P.S. Brussels has some fine architectural features and a lot of bells. I like it better when it doesn’t rain.

  P.P.P.S., or what comes next. It’s been raining ever since I got here.

  N.B. That is all, cher maître.”

  The grin showed again for a fleeting moment. Then, with the letter enveloped and stamped, suit-case in hand and raincoat on back, Mr. Peter Talbot clattered down a steep and rickety stair and sallied reluctantly forth into the rain.

  He posted the letter, and pursued a damp and devious course through a number of mean and narrow streets. The odd thing was that his spirits kept on rising. And, paradoxically, this was a depressing circumstance. He even groaned over it slightly himself, because, on his own private barometer, that sudden lift was a certain indication of cyclones ahead, and at this stage of the proceedings while the blood mounted to Peter’s head, he could still be aware that his feet were cold.

  He was whistling between his teeth when he came to the Hotel Dupin and pushed through into its narrow, dingy hall.

  A room? But certainly m’sieu could have a room. If m’sieu would register. And the suit-case of m’sieu would be taken up, bien sûr.

  Peter Talbot stood with the pen in his hand and looked at the register. Five—no, six names up, illegibly scrawled, the name of Pierre Riel. Something sang in his ears. He bent down and signed the good old-fashioned name of John Smith.

  Published by Dean Street Press 2016

  Copyright © 1936 Patricia Wentworth

  Introduction copyright © 2016 Curtis Evans

  All Rights Reserved

  The right of Patricia Wentworth to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her estate in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 1936 by Hodder & Stoughton

  Cover by DSP

  ISBN 978 1 911413 06 6

  www.deanstreetpress.co.uk

 

 

 
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