Sleepy Death

Sleepy Death

A Patrick Dawlish Mystery

John Creasey writing as Gordon Ashe

CHAPTER I

WELCOME HOME

She wasn’t so much beautiful as charming. She was small, dark and nicely made, and wore clothes which had come from Mayfair or Paris. There was a look of quicksilver about her, of vitality. She walked to and fro across the station, obviously impatient, and kept looking at the clock. She behaved as if no one else were at Victoria, although thirty or forty people were waiting for the arrival of the Golden Arrow from Paris, including several Cooks’ men and agents from other travel agencies.

The Golden Arrow was ten minutes late, belying its reputation as one of the most punctual trains in England.

Several men, being men, watched the girl. One was large and ungainly to look at; most would have thought him ugly. He had untidy dark hair and big features, large eyes partly covered by drooping lids, and he wore a dark brown suit which needed pressing. He did not appear to take much notice of the girl, but probably he observed more than anyone else; he was sure that she was on edge and thought it was partly due to fear.

The girl stopped a porter.

Is it never coming?

Won’t be long now, miss. The porter looked at her and even his dull life was brightened. He smiled. Five minutes, at the most.

Thank you.

She turned away.

The big, ungainly man was able to admire her profile. He saw her head lift sharply, as she caught sight of someone coming into the station. She stared—and the big man looked to see who had caught her eye.

It was a man.

He was neither short nor tall, was well-dressed and sleek. He was smiling. It wasn’t a pleasant or reassuring smile. Gloating? It was as if he were getting pleasure out of someone else’s pain.

The big man was not close enough to see the expression in the girl’s eyes, but he saw her turn away. The sleek man made a beeline for her. Before he reached her, she quickened her pace. She made for an exit, and didn’t glance back. The sleek man frowned, but his smile didn’t fade altogether; he was very sure of himself as he walked after the girl.

The big man followed, walking with a pronounced limp but making good pace. When he reached the booking-hall, both man and girl had disappeared; if he wanted to find them he would have to leave the station. He stood watching for a few minutes, then shrugged and turned back to the crowd waiting for the Golden Arrow. It was much larger, now, but no longer seemed the same crowd. Some of the life had been drawn out of it.

Patrick Dawlish and his wife, Felicity, sat opposite each other in a compartment of the Golden Arrow as it roared through Clapham Junction station, scornful of London’s drab grey roofs of nearer suburbia. Dawlish, a very large man, with corn-coloured hair and good features except for a broken nose, looked at Felicity unsmilingly. His expression was blank, his cornflower blue eyes were dull.

Clapham Junction, said Felicity. Now we shan’t be long.

Dawlish stirred. Eh?

Clapham Junction, repeated Felicity.

Oh, yes. He beamed, and turned his head. So it was. Well, well, Now we shan’t be long.

His wife frowned.

Darling, she said.

Yes, dear?

What’s on your mind?

A beautiful woman.

I’m not surprised. You haven’t given me a minute’s attention for the last hour.

Too engrossed, said Dawlish. Too far gone. How on earth do you do it?

Put up with you? I don’t know, said Felicity, with feeling. I must have been given a special gift of patience. Goodness knows, I need it.

Unkind, reproached Dawlish. The train slowed down, and a little green electric suburban train roared past impertinently. But I forgive you. I feel very kindly towards you, and full of admiration. How many women could spend ten days in Paris, stay up until three o’clock most nights, go gadding about by day, try on about a hundred models and be fussed and fiddled with by Paris dressmakers for ages, then finish a twelve-hour train journey and look as fresh and lovely as you? Don’t tell me the secret, let me revel in mystery.

Felicity laughed.

Fool. Bless you!

I’ll have you know I speak only the truth. You don’t look a day older than when I first met you.

Felicity smiled; loving all this.

In fact, said Dawlish, I’ve been pondering over various aspects of this phenomenon for the past hour.

"I know that’s a lie, said Felicity. Don’t spoil it. Darling—"

Yes?

You did enjoy yourself, didn’t you?

It was gorgeous.

Be serious.

I couldn’t be more serious. I love champagne, even at four thousand francs a bottle. I love the night clubs, too; there’s no place in the world like Paris. Dawlish grinned. You must take me there again one day. I wouldn’t be safe without a chaperone.

At least I know that, said Felicity. Well, here we are. She leaned forward, and Dawlish kissed her cheek. It’ll be nice to be home again.

Ah, said Dawlish. Still no place like it. Sure you feel up to the car journey tonight? We could stay in town; there’s always room at Tim’s, and then drive down in the morning.

I wouldn’t keep you away from your apples and pigs for another five minutes, for anything in the world, said Felicity.

They were running into the station, passing porters eager and ready to take luggage. It was characteristic of Dawlish that he didn’t stand up until the train had stopped—and normal that a porter should be waiting for the crook of his little finger. Three minutes later they were walking behind the porter as he trundled his trolley and their five suit-cases towards the barrier. They were halfway along the train, and the seething mass beyond the barrier was in constant motion.

Their car was garaged a few hundred yards away.

I’ll go and get the car, you wait with the luggage, Dawlish said. I won’t be long.

All right, darling.

They were through the barrier, and Dawlish took two long steps towards the exit when he heard his name called. "Pat!" He looked round. Felicity, only a yard behind, was staring towards the caller.

He was the big, untidy man who had observed so much.

Well, would you believe it? demanded Dawlish of Felicity. Ted’s come to welcome us home. They went together and joined Edward Beresford—and side by side the men looked like giants in a race of pigmies; Felicity, although tall for a woman, was a head shorter than Dawlish. She had to look up at Beresford, as he took her hand; her expression was undoubtedly tinged with suspicion.

Now this, said Dawlish, is friendly of you. We’ve just about time for a quick one, too. Fel’s anxious to get home tonight, and—

"I’m anxious!" exclaimed Felicity.

You can’t get back soon enough to find out how much dust has accumulated since you left and whether Bessie’s had a major disaster with the china. Dawlish squeezed her arm. Hallo, Ted. How’s Joan? Infants? Everyone?

Fine.

Good. They were walking together now, and the porter with the trolley followed them.

Beresford, who had a deep voice, said, I suppose you must go down to Haslemere tonight.

There’s no compulsion, Dawlish said. Why?

I’d like a chat, said Beresford airily. Supposing we go to Tim’s flat? He’s out, but he’ll be back later. He’d like to see you, too.

Dawlish looked down at his wife. She shook her head slowly, and the suspicion in her eyes was more marked.

Home, she said.

You heard, said Dawlish severely. We must go home. The dust can’t wait.

Beresford mumbled.

Oh, well. Can’t be helped, I suppose. He looked unhappy. Can’t say I blame Fel. On the other hand, I think you ought to hear all about this. Odd business.

We don’t want to hear anything about any odd business, declared Felicity. Pat, you hound, you know something about this. That’s what you were thinking about in the train. Own up.

Not true.

I’ll bet it is!

He couldn’t have known anything about it, said Beresford firmly. I didn’t know myself until last night, and wasn’t sure that it was anything worth worrying about until this morning. So I had a word with Tim.

Damn Tim! said Felicity, with feeling.

Tell you what, said Dawlish, as if inspired, you two wait here while I go and get the car.

He didn’t give Felicity a chance to argue, but turned and hurried off. The porter looked from him to Felicity, and scratched his head. Felicity stared after him until he was out of sight, and then looked back at Beresford.

Just leave it here, Beresford said.

What?

Not you, Fel. The porter, said Beresford hastily. Come back in a quarter of an hour.

Right, sir.

Beresford beamed at Felicity and pointed to the five suit-cases, four of which were large ones, and asked ingenuously, Have any trouble with customs?

Never mind Customs. Felicity sounded angry. Why on earth did you have to do this, Ted? It’s too bad. It’s bad enough when Pat’s in England and gets mixed up in mystery, but when you and Tim get involved in something and then have to wait for him to pull you out of the mess, it’s—

Too bad, said Beresford forlornly. I know. Still, Pat will be Pat. Don’t blame me for what he is. Everything would be all right if he’d become a policeman, then it would just be his job.

Well, it isn’t his job.

Beresford smiled broadly at her. Smiling, he wasn’t ugly. His eyes smiled, too, as he pressed her arm.

Sometimes it must be hell to be married to him. I know. On the other hand, Fel, he really has a flare for detection. He’s never come off second best, either. Being Pat, you wouldn’t want him to stand by if he could lend a useful hand. I think he can, this time. As a matter of fact, I had a word with Bill Trivett this morning. Went along to Scotland Yard to see him. I put a theoretical case to him. An old man who moves in highest circles, being blackmailed. As simple as that, actually, but with one unusual slant. I wasn’t to divulge the victim’s name to the police, but could name the blackmailer. Directly I did, Bill said it was a job for Pat.

Felicity did not thaw.

That’s the Yard all over. If they can’t do a thing themselves, they expect Pat to do it. Who is the old man? Why should Pat help him? Give me one good reason?

Beresford still smiled, but more gently.

The old man’s worth helping, I think. The blackmailer’s made hell for him. The police have been after this particular blackmailer for years and haven’t been able to get him. They think Pat might. Pat isn’t restricted as to method. You know, Beresford went on, this isn’t one of the big shows, it’s simple and human, and I think you’d be sorry if you stopped Pat from taking it up."

Blarney, said Felicity. Anyhow, you know perfectly well that I couldn’t stop Pat if he’d made up his mind to do a thing. I suppose we’ll have to come to Tim’s. Why Tim’s place, anyhow?

The old man’s there, waiting to see the great Dawlish, said Beresford.

‘The Great Dawlish’ strode along the Vauxhall Bridge Road towards the garage, and most people who noticed him would have suspected that his brains had been lost in brawn. He looked wooden-faced and dull. He took no apparent interest in anyone. He did not even wonder why Ted Beresford had thought anything urgent enough to meet him.

It was more than ten years since he had first become a national figure because of his peculiar flare for a particular brand of two-fisted detection; he still marvelled that anyone singled him out from the crowd.

Superintendent William Trivett of the Yard, a long-headed policeman who seldom had patience with amateurs, had been heard to say that Dawlish must have a sixth sense. Whereat Dawlish had laughed.

As he walked, thinking mostly of Felicity, something happened to Dawlish. He passed hundreds of people, dozens of buses, as many taxis and more private cars, without really noticing them, yet he ‘noticed’ that he was being followed, although he hadn’t consciously looked at the man. He simply knew that he was being followed; so obviously, the next step was to find out who it was.

CHAPTER II

ACTION

The garage was in a narrow cul-de-sac, and the turning off the main road was marked on one side by a telephone kiosk and on the other by a café; not the kind of café which Dawlish would frequent by choice. He didn’t enter now. He turned the corner, and actually began to whistle.

Two oil-daubed mechanics were tinkering with a little M.G. roadster outside the garage, which was small, but run by a man who had genius in everything concerning internal combustion. Dawlish always had his car serviced there when in London. There was a row of lock-up garages next to the workshop, and Dawlish went straight to one, nodding to the mechanics, who stopped work to nod back.

He unlocked his door.

His black Rolls-Bentley glowed at him. He patted the nose, as he might a horse, climbed in, fiddled and, two minutes later, drove the car out of the garage and pulled up beside the petrol pump.

The mechanics stopped again and a small lad in dirty overalls came up leisurely.

’Morning, sir.

Hallo, Joe. Fill her up, will you? Everything else been checked?

All okeydoke, sir.

Good. Dawlish nodded, leaned against the front of the car and lit a cigarette. For the first time he looked for the man who had been following him. Several men were crossing the end of the road; only one loitered. He was short, dressed in a draught-board yellow-and-black sports jacket and a pair of flannel trousers, and wore a trilby hat with a large brim which was pulled low over his forehead and hid his eyes. There were probably several replicas of him in London. He showed no outward interest in Dawlish, but was looking his way. Casually he turned and disappeared.

The two mechanics had returned to their tinkering and the boy was setting the pump. None of them saw Dawlish move. The boy said:

How many do you think she’ll take, sir?

There was no reply, and he stared—and gaped. Dawlish was at the corner; he’d reached it so quickly that he might have taken a flying leap.

Cor!