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    Death on Demand
    Death on Demand
    Death on Demand
    Ebook231 pages3 hours

    Death on Demand

    By John Creasey

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    The party girls of London are being targeted in a nefarious plot in the first Patrick Dawlish mystery from the Edgar Award–winning author.
     
    For a big bruiser of a man, Patrick Dawlish is as nimble as can be when it comes to solving crime. And all of his physical and intellectual strength will be needed when his life takes a decidedly violent turn . . .
     
    First, Dawlish realizes he’s being followed. Then, Diana Lefroy, heiress to millions, appeals to him for help. She’s being blackmailed by someone who has already killed two other local socialites whose deaths were ruled as suicides. After a good friend’s assault and a shooting, Dawlish is warned by Scotland Yard not to take matters into his own hands. The problem is, when Dawlish takes the reins, he gets results. And whoever is putting the fear of death into London’s most wealthy women is about to learn that lesson well.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateDec 31, 2024
    ISBN9781504098496
    Death on Demand
    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 on Demand - John Creasey

      Death on Demand

      A Patrick Dawlish Mystery

      John Creasey writing as Gordon Ashe

      Chapter One

      NOT WITH LOVE

      Out of the doors of the Carilon club came Mr. Patrick Dawlish, fair of hair and broken of nose and genial of countenance. Into Pall Mall he went, smiling here and nodding there, and stopping to exchange a word with a road-sweeper, for that was Pat Dawlish’s way. Moreover, the road-sweeper had murmured the name of a horse, two days before, and the horse had romped home at a hundred-to-eight.

      Nothing to-day? asked Dawlish.

      "I never tips but when I’m on a cert, sir, true’s I’m ’ere, an’ I don’t know of one for the next couple of weeks.

      But I have got another sort of tip for you, sir. I thought maybe you’d like ter know he arrived just after you, an’ ’e’s bin waitin’ outside the club all the time."

      Meaning who?

      Bloke with the black ’at an’ the brarn shoes, sir.

      The name of the small, slight, black-hatted man who followed Pat Dawlish—who was a vision in silver grey—was Balanka.

      Of Balanka, Pat Dawlish knew nothing. He did not recall having seen him in his life before, and certainly he had not known that he had been followed from his Brook Street flat that morning. As he strode along towards the Admiralty Arch he reflected on his good fortune, and the powers of observation of the road-sweeper.

      Most of all, he wondered why the little man followed him.

      That he was doing so could not be doubted. Probably he was finding it difficult to keep pace with Dawlish—who was six feet two—without appearing to hurry.

      Dawlish had not intended to return to Brook Street that morning. He had a luncheon engagement at the Regal, and one that he did not particularly wish to break. On the other hand the thought that he was being followed about London had considerable interest.

      The man in the black Homburg and the brown shoes waited at the end of Brook Street until Dawlish had gone into his flat, and then stepped across the road to a Daimler, complete with chauffeur. By that time Dawlish was watching from his front-room window.

      He saw Balanka—not knowing his name—speak to the chauffeur, who nodded, and at the same time lit a cigarette. Balanka went off, walking quickly, towards the far end of Brook Street: or the end opposite Piccadilly. Dawlish turned quickly to a telephone, and dialled a Mayfair number.

      A deep voice answered him.

      Ted, said Dawlish, there’s a little man with brown shoes and a black Homburg, pale face and a black line of moustache, approaching your place now. Will you go after him?

      But hang it, protested Mr. Edward Beresford, I’m meeting Joan—

      Never mind about Joan, get after the Homburg. He’ll be out of sight before you’ve stopped arguing—

      Oh, well, said Beresford, and the receiver went down.

      Patrick Dawlish, known to some as a man-about-town, to others as a man-never-in-town, to a third faction as a witless (and typical) dilettante, and to a fourth as a particularly shrewd if muscular young man, knew of no reason why he should arouse the interest of two people, one the chauffeur of a Daimler numbered—Dawlish had made a mental note—UZSK 12.

      It was some months since Dawlish had been active in the affair of the Speaker, when he had earned some notice in the Press, more at Scotland Yard and, presumably, a certain amount in that peculiar place happily designated the Underworld. He had experienced a crime-hunt, and if it had given him exercise both physical and mental, presented him with dangers not properly appreciated at the time, and enabled him to judge the activities of both police and wanted men, it had not left him with any great longing to put the Yard to rights.

      But there were limits.

      He reached this final decision with some firmness, and then thought to telephone the Regal. Yes, Miss Lefroy was there …

      Pat, you pig! You’re ten minutes late already—

      Only ten?

      Don’t try to be amusing, how long will you be?

      Miss Lefroy’s voice was low-pitched and rich, remarkably reminiscent of her undoubted beauty.

      As a matter of fact, Di, I—

      Pat, you’re not crying off?

      In Dawlish—as the police had admitted—there was an odd ability to sense when things were not as they should be. The note in Diana’s voice did not suggest anger or annoyance, but anxiety.

      Postponing, sweetheart.

      I know, said Diana in a quiet voice, that no one can expect to keep you for long, Pat, but just now I must see you.

      My dear girl, you’re being serious.

      I am—for once.

      It’s as well you qualified it. But why?

      I’ll tell you at lunch.

      In that case we’ll lunch. In fifteen minutes, and perhaps less, said Dawlish, and if you care to start ordering—

      Bless you, said Diana, and her tone was almost fervent.

      Dawlish replaced the receiver and eyed it with a comical expression. Then he rubbed his broken nose, for Diana Lefroy in such a mood was strange indeed.

      He waited five minutes in the hope of a call from Beresford. It did not come. He thought sympathetically of Joan Fayre, who would be waiting somewhere for Ted, decided that he could not help her, collected his hat and went out.

      He did not appear to take any interest in the Daimler.

      The Daimler’s chauffeur did not appear to take any interest in him. Nevertheless he chose the moment of Dawlish’s appearance to stretch his legs, yawning as he did so, and when Dawlish turned into Piccadilly, the chauffeur was no more than five yards behind him.

      Well, well, said Dawlish, and he beckoned a cab.

      It was coming slowly towards him, and he jumped in without loss of time. Quick though he was, the chauffeur contrived to get another taxi, and was slightly in front of Dawlish when he stopped at the Regal, which overlooked Green Park.

      The temptation to approach the chauffeur, who was red-faced and thickset, was considerable. Dawlish repressed it, and was greeted with respect and a smile by a tall commissionaire, two clerks, an acquaintance, and the assistant-manager. Yet to none of them did he extend more than a quick smile, for he had seen in one corner of the large foyer a slight, dark-haired girl patiently turning the pages of a magazine.

      It was not Diana Lefroy.

      But Dawlish approached her, and as his shadow fell over the pages, she glanced up.

      Hallo, Pat.

      My poor Joan, said Dawlish, and it’s all my fault. I’d been wondering how to get in touch with you to say he might be late, and might even not turn up at all, and—

      Joan Fayre had a piquant face rather than a lovely one. She could wear a light grey costume with considerable effect. She looked delightful, and yet in her eyes was an expression of disquiet.

      If you mean you’ve started some—

      I’ve started nothing, it’s been started for me. Dawlish spoke in haste, for from a cloakroom he saw Diana approaching. A little man followed me, reason unknown. I asked Ted to see where he went.

      Oh, I don’t mind waiting, but I’m always on tenterhooks in case you throw yourselves into some kind of trouble.

      Dawlish turned, and beamed at Diana, who had hovered as near as propriety permitted.

      Diana, of course, was dressed superbly. She was not piquant, she was breathlessly good to look at. The peculiar bronze tint of her hair was natural. The green-flecked eyes were as bright as stars, and usually laughing. And despite the earlier hint of anxiety in her voice, no suggestion of it showed as she smiled—her smile, folk said, captivated London.

      Introductions not being necessary, explanations can be, said Dawlish. He explained, not at length, and Joan called him a fool before he was led away by Diana to a corner table which Alphonse of the Regal had been delighted to find for her.

      The large restaurant was crowded, and yet it did not look too full. Their table was set in such a way as to make it difficult for anyone to hear their conversation, and it was secluded, with the help of palms. This, for Diana, who usually liked the centre of things, would have puzzled Dawlish in itself.

      She was disconcerted, and uncertain of herself, the rarest things imaginable where the famous Diana Lefroy, heiress to the Lefroy millions and the most renowned of English play-girls, was concerned. She said:

      Pat, a few months ago you—you played a part in—I mean you know the police, and—

      Oh, said Dawlish, and there was a pause as they selected hors d’œuvres. When the wagon was wheeled away he went on. Yes, I did and I do, up to a point. Trouble?

      She opened her bag, cloth-covered to match her bottle-green dress, and from it took a letter. She slipped it from the envelope and passed it across to him.

      That explains a lot of it.

      Hmm, said Dawlish, and unfolded what was no more than a note, typewritten but not signed, and bearing no address. It ran:

      This is the third time. £10,000 to-morrow. Or you will be the third to die. Need I remind you of Fay Longhurst and Belle Devoe?

      Dawlish read it again, recalling that in the past six months two women—rich and lovely and respected, as was Diana—had died, according to the Coroner’s Inquest, by their own hand. He read it a third time, and he looked up to see the fear in Diana’s green eyes.

      Chapter Two

      NOR IN ANGER

      It had started, said Diana, two weeks before, on a Wednesday, when a typewritten demand for ten thousand pounds had reached her St. James’s Street flat by post, and with it careful instructions as to how it should be delivered. She had ignored it. On the following Wednesday a reminder had come by the same means, and threatening her life if she failed to acquiesce—or if she went to the police.

      Yes, said Dawlish, and what did you do when you had the first note?

      Well, I thought someone was playing the fool—folks do, you know. She shrugged, but she did not convince Dawlish, who nevertheless appeared to believe her.

      And the second note?

      I—I was a bit worried. I still thought someone was fooling, and—well, I was going to talk to you about it but I was called out of town, and I’d practically forgotten it until this morning. This one jolted me. Fay and Belle hadn’t been mentioned before.

      "It would be a jolt,’ admitted Dawlish. He was puzzled because he felt that she was keeping something back.

      He filed the question for further attention, and talked at some length. No, she had no idea who they came from. No, she had never dreamed that Fay and Belle had been blackmailed or frightened. Yes, she could pay the ten thousand, but—would it be the last? And even if she paid, would she be safe?

      That’s a question, admitted Dawlish thoughtfully. I have my doubts, Di. On the other hand—

      No joker would talk about—about Fay.

      You were pretty good friends?

      We were. I could never believe Fay would kill herself, but the evidence was so overwhelming, and when I suggested it might have been—well murder, I was laughed at.

      You didn’t share the idea with the police?

      There was a fat Inspector—Livvy, I think his name was—and he looked serious and reassured me, and even stroked my arm. Not a man I liked. I—dropped it.

      No one else shared the thoughts?

      If they did they didn’t tell me.

      He nodded, and chicken arrived, to which Diana did scant justice, while Alphonse hovered in the background, vast and perturbed. For Diana to play with a meal was to suggest there was something grievously wrong with it.

      He had not known Belle nor Fay intimately—and until the past six weeks he had had no more than a nodding acquaintance with Diana. Belle, he remembered, had flung herself from a hotel window in Bayswater; Fay Longhurst had been found in a car, and had died of carbon monoxide poisoning.

      Drugs had been suggested. Despite strong denials from the families, it became the generally accepted theory, although it was not included in the verdicts.

      The affairs had died down, Pat recalled, and he even remembered that one of the evening papers had started a series of articles on the great drug scourge. Yes, the suicides were growing more vivid, but he would need to refresh his memory before he could come to any conclusion.

      Diana broke a five minutes’ silence.

      Well—can you suggest anything?

      She spoke dully, resignedly. Dawlish, most natural of men, found himself at a disadvantage with a strange and unnatural Diana.

      He might have been happier had he been sure that Diana was being wholly frank. The suggestion of a hoax had points: in her set—which Dawlish deplored—anything that might be considered a joke was tried, even in the worst taste. Yet the anxiety in her eyes had not come suddenly, she had brooded over the thing for quite a time.

      He had last lunched with her eight days before, and had planned to meet her again, but their tête-à-têtes had been disturbed by a summons from her parents, in Hampshire. Illness, Diana had told him.

      "I can suggest you go to the police," he said.

      I’m scared that they’ll know it, and—

      It was reasonable, and yet it failed to convince.

      So, he said, you’d like me to look into it.

      "Pat, it might be dangerous, I hate suggesting it, but if you could try to find whether—whether Fay and Belle were murdered it would be a help. If—if it’s really true, I’ll pay up. I daren’t do anything else."

      A shadow loomed over them, and Dawlish looked up into the fat, powdered, moustachioed and usually good-natured face of Alphonse. Alphonse hid most of the other tables from sight. He was a magnificent man.

      "M’sieu, a note for you—"

      He brought it from somewhere in his coat—suspiciously near his sleeve—and handed it to Dawlish with a flourish. A small white envelope, with a type-written surface. Dawlish glanced at it, and caught Diana’s eye.

      Diana had gone white.

      Thanks, Alphonse, said Dawlish. Where did it come from?

      A man, he bring it.

      Into the room?

      "Non, non! ’Ee geeve it to Artur, who geeve it to Georges, who ’and it to me." And he withdrew.

      Dawlish opened the note, while comparing the envelope with that in which Diana’s had been. They were of a size, and seemed of the same texture. He took the typewritten sheet out, and read hard-eyed:

      Mr. Dawlish, it has been conceived that your friendship with Miss Lefroy might tempt you to interfere. Do not make that mistake. Do not be persuaded because of your good fortune on one occasion that you—or anyone—can help her. She will, of course, appeal to you. Advise her to pay, and not to argue. Otherwise—but I am sure no threats will be necessary.

      What—is it? demanded Diana in a low voice.

      Dawlish looked at her, and she was startled to see

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