Whether or no, I shall be in Guildford on Thursday, and Aunt Bess tells me that you’re not far away from there, so I am going to call for an hour or two on Thursday evening.
If you haven’t remembered ‘Gina’ yet, think of the story of the two goldfish we couldn’t divide into three! Oh, yes, three cousins.
Yours,
Regina Brent.
‘Gina!’ exclaimed Mike, swinging round with outstretched arms. ‘Gina, you in the flesh!’ He gripped her hands. ‘Three shares of two goldfish—oh, my hat, how many years does that take us back?’
‘Idiot, where’s your tact?’ demanded Mark. ‘Not many.’ He too approached, and when Mike freed her hands calmly took her right one, drew her nearer, and kissed her right cheek. ‘Cousinly salutations, Gina,’ he said gravely. ‘Mike isn’t himself, you’ve gathered that, or he wouldn’t have forgotten that cousins can kiss.’
He smiled as he stared into her laughing eyes.
A flash of lightning and another clap of thunder made him start, but not look away from her. Nor did Mike shift his gaze, but allowed Mark’s provocative sally to go unchallenged.
‘How long can you stay?’ he demanded quickly. ‘An hour or two just isn’t good enough. We’re on holiday, you’ll have to see that out.’
‘We’ll get a week’s extension,’ declared Mark. ‘I——’
He stopped abruptly, and his expression altered. So did Mike’s.
It was not surprising, for the laughter had gone from the girl’s eyes. The change was remarkable; a few seconds before she had been bubbling over with good spirits, but something had happened, something which saddened her. Both cousins realised it, both sought for an explanation; and Mark saw a possibility.
‘Gina,’ he said quietly. ‘The family’s all right?’
Regina stepped back, and sat on the edge of a chair. The room was very still, except for the beating of the rain against the windows. The next roll of thunder was farther away, but it produced a heavy, sonorous background to her quiet:
‘No. Mum and Dad are dead.’
‘Good lord!’ said Mike, and crushed out his cigarette. ‘I wish—I mean——’
Regina said quickly: ‘Look here, we’re starting off on the wrong foot. They’ve been dead over twelve months now, and—well, I’m over the shock and it’s surprising how often I don’t think of them.’ She paused, and then went on: ‘I suppose it was remembering you two, and the old house, and everything that went with it, but I shouldn’t have introduced the subject that way. A year is a long time,’ she added quietly.
‘Ye-es,’ agreed Mike. ‘All the same, I think I know how you feel. I’d no idea.’
‘We should have kept in touch,’ said Mark abruptly.
‘My coming here is not entirely an accident, or because I was near Guildford.’ She hesitated, aware that they were puzzled by her words. The gaiety in her manner, which had been so apparent when she first appeared, had faded, and they knew that she was still thinking of her parents. They remembered, too, that Regina had been an only child, and adored by Alice and James Brent.
Mike, at thirty-six, calculated that she must be thirty. No, twenty-eight or nine. He couldn’t be sure which, but in any case she would pass for twenty-five.
Mike said, ‘Did you say you didn’t come altogether by accident, Gina?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Regina. She hesitated, and then said: ‘It’s all rather fantastic, Mike and Mark, and you’ll probably laugh at me. But something queer happened, and Aunt Bess said you two might be able to help.’
‘If we can——’ began Mike.
‘We will,’ finished Mark. ‘Let’s have the story, Gina.’
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John Creasey
Master crime fiction writer John Creasey’s 562 titles (or so) have sold more than 80 million copies in over 25 languages. After enduring 743 rejection slips, the young Creasey’s career was kickstarted by winning a newspaper writing competition. He went on to collect multiple honours from The Mystery Writers of America including the Edgar Award for best novel in 1962 and the coveted title of Grand Master in 1969. Creasey’s prolific output included 11 different series including Roger West, the Toff, the Baron, Patrick Dawlish, Gideon, Dr Palfrey, and Department Z, published both under his own name and 10 other pseudonyms.
Creasey was born in Surrey in 1908 and, when not travelling extensively, lived between Bournemouth and Salisbury for most of his life. He died in England in 1973.
ALSO IN THIS SERIES
The Death Miser
Redhead
First Came a Murder
Death Round the Corner
The Mark of the Crescent
Thunder in Europe
The Terror Trap
Carriers of Death
Days of Danger
Death Stands By
Menace
Murder Must Wait
Death by Night
The Island of Peril
Sabotage
Go Away Death
The Day of Disaster
Prepare for Action
No Darker Crime
Dark Peril
The Peril Ahead
The League of Dark Men
The Department of Death
The Enemy Within
Dead or Alive
A Kind of Prisoner
The Black Spiders
This edition published in 2016 by Ipso Books
Ipso Books is a division of Peters Fraser + Dunlop Ltd
Drury House, 34-43 Russell Street, London WC2B 5HA
Copyright © John Creasey, 1942
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written 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 damage
Contents
1:The Fugitive
2:Loftus Sings
3:Find the Letter
4:Urgent Errand
5:Back from Adventure
6:Why Hang the Lady?
7:Red Leather Handbag
8:Quiet Night
9:Get Together
10:The Message
11:Provisionally the 21st
12:Sensation in High Circles
13:Search for Craigie
14:Little Man Doesn’t Know
15:What Craigie Knew
16:The Lamplighter
17:Full Value
18:Means of Persuasion
19:‘Snatch’
20:Crayshaw Grange
21:Trek to Dorset
22:The Truth about Crayshaw
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