Death of an Assassin

By John Creasey

Roger ‘Handsome’ West of Scotland Yard is charged with ensuring a Prince arrives in London safely. However, as the oil-magnate Prince crosses a Cathedral Square, full of crowds there to greet him, a shot rings out. The Prince’s main Counsellor lies dead. Jim Barnett catches it all on camera, but then he too is murdered. It is up to Roger West to solve the mystery, but just who is he up against?

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Stratus
• Release date: May 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780755137176

John Creasey

Master crime fiction writer John Creasey's near 600 titles have sold more than 80 million copies in over 25 languages under both his own name and ten other pseudonyms. His style varied with each identity and led to him being regarded as a literary phenomena. Amongst the many series written were 'Gideon of Scotland Yard', 'The Toff', 'The Baron', 'Dr. Palfrey' and 'Inspector West', as JJ Marric, Michael Halliday, Patrick Dawlish and others. During his lifetime Creasey enjoyed an ever increasing reputation both in the UK and overseas, especially the USA. This was further enhanced by constant revision of his works in order to assure the best possible be presented to his readers and also by many awards, not least of which was being honoured twice by the Mystery Writers of America, latterly as Grand Master. He also found time to found the Crime Writers Association and become heavily involved in British politics - standing for Parliament and founding a movement based on finding the best professionals in each sphere to run things. 'He leads a field in which Agatha Christie is also a runner.' - Sunday Times.

Book preview

Chapter Two

The Murderer

Anne lay on her bed, facing the window which overlooked the courtyard of the hotel. The murmur of falling water came clearly, but not enough to irritate her; rather it destroyed the sense of loneliness. There were movements in the courtyard, sometimes, but nothing that really alarmed her, because she knew that hers was an inside wall, not easily reached even from the courtyard floor.

It was still very warm.

Since putting the light out, she had opened the windows and the shutters, but wasn’t sure that she should have done. Now and again she heard the vicious hum of a diving mosquito, probably this was keeping her awake at least as much as memory of what she had seen.

It was more vivid, now.

The glistening crimson of the dying man’s blood seemed to shimmer in front of her eyes. She knew it was absurd, but couldn’t get rid of the image. There were other things, too; the Arab chieftains, the Prince, the startled look on the face of the man in the grey suit, and then the odd way in which he had fallen. She told herself that she would never be able to forget it.

She saw the frightened ‘child’ turning and running away.

She did not feel particularly proud of herself, because as soon as they’d escaped from the crowd to the café in the galleria, she had all but fainted. Jim Barnett had pulled her round, making her have a thimbleful of brandy before a cool drink, but she was afraid that he had felt embarrassed by the scene she caused – although he couldn’t have been nicer. To make it worse, there had been the attempt to rob him on the way back to the hotel. Together with recollection of what had happened in the piazza, the heat, and the excitement, that had made Anne feel really ill again, and given her an unbearable headache. She had come here, taken off her dress and unfastened her girdle, and rested in the shadowy room; now, she felt much better.

Jim had gone off to meet some business friends.

Anne knew that he had hoped that she would have a drink with him before he left, but wasn’t sure that she was sorry to have missed it. He might try to get too friendly. There was something fascinating about him, and yet he’d been almost too glib when he’d first spoken to her in the hotel lobby, three days ago. Since then he had taken charge much more completely than she had intended. She hadn’t come to Milan to be made a fool of by a gallivanting Englishman.

But undoubtedly she liked him.

She wondered if he was back. Her travelling clock, with its illuminated dial, told her that it was well after midnight. Was that late or early in Milan? She wasn’t sure, and until tonight she hadn’t given it a thought. She wouldn’t, now, but for the restlessness and the fears she couldn’t really explain. She tried to tell herself that she couldn’t get to sleep because she’d rested so much of the day, but that didn’t make it any less trying.

It was so hot. Suffocating.

She got up, and moved slowly about the room, and movement gave her an illusion of coolness. The water in the fountain whispered. She went to the window. A single light shone in the courtyard, over an arched doorway opposite her window, and at least forty feet away from her. She could just make out the tables and chairs and the big umbrellas. Meals were served down there; she had been sitting alone at her table when Jim had first joined her.

Was he back?

She knew that his room was within sight, because he’d told her that it overlooked the courtyard. She had taken it for granted that he had been trying to find out where hers was, and had been evasive. Afterwards, she had laughed at herself; if he wanted to find out, a hundred lire or so to the reception clerk would make it easy.

Would he be as friendly tomorrow? Or would he have had enough of her? The ironical thing was that now that she thought she had put him off, she was feeling more interested in him. Tired-looking clear brown eyes.

A light went on, opposite her.

It showed the shape of the window clearly; the shutters were open, too. She wasn’t the only one who wanted to get as much fresh air as possible, despite the mosquitoes. Glad of something to distract her attention, she watched idly, wondering if by any freak of chance it could be Jim. If so, had he just come in, or was he restless, too?

First, she saw a shadow.

Then, she saw Jim Barnett – unmistakably him, tall, with a long face, a high-bridged nose, a cigarette drooping from a corner of his mouth. He was on the other side of the room, moving from the door, and there was no reason at all why he should come to the window. But he was drawing nearer. Should she stay here, and let him see her? She knew even before she put the question to herself that she couldn’t, but waited for a moment, watching him. He was yawning.

She smiled at the way he tapped his mouth, took his hand away, and then yawned as if his head would split in two. He tapped his mouth again, finished rather suddenly, and turned round very quickly, as if startled.

Why—?

She saw another man leaping at him; and she saw the flash of the knife.

She screamed.

Jim Barnett hesitated as he stepped out of the lift at the Hotel Mucci. The lift was automatic, and he closed the doors quietly and looked along the brightly lit passage to Number 23. His room lay in the opposite direction, but Anne Pegler’s was along there.

He wondered if she was all right.

He chuckled, softly; and he looked flushed and excited. He felt that he wanted to talk to someone – anyone would do.

Anne was a good listener. An odd little creature who was a self-confessed twenty-three; it wouldn’t have surprised him had she been nearer nineteen. She had the freshness and in some ways the naiveté of his own sister as he remembered her at twenty. Griselda had soon come through that danger period.

He might be wrong about Anne, of course; there were the shy-seeming types who were actually as bold as their most blatant sisters. She said she was here alone; a friend who had planned to tour Italy with her, for a three weeks’ holiday, had been taken ill at the last moment. It wasn’t really surprising that she had decided to carry on, there was obviously a streak of independence in her, and something more: obstinacy. He hoped she hadn’t had too much of his company; that he hadn’t overdone the heartiness, the odd squeeze—

The thought made him chuckle again.

Could anyone be as sweet and innocent as that?

She had looked ill when she had gone to her room, just as bad as when she had seen the assassination; but that wasn’t at all surprising. It was common knowledge that it had been a pretty messy affair. Colonel Yahuni, close friend and adviser of the young Prince Asir, had died almost instantaneously; certainly before a doctor had reached him. The Prince had not been scratched; there seemed little doubt that by throwing himself in front of the Prince, Yahuni had saved his life.

It was the talk of Milan.

If it came to that, it was the talk of the world’s capitals, for every newspaper would have headlines on it.

Barnett sauntered towards his own room.

No one was about, and he could hear nothing. He was pleasantly tired; had dined and wined fit for any king, had had a wonderful time. Wonderful! He was going to get exactly what he wanted, too. Now he could sleep the clock round, without a care in the world. Should he go to Anne’s room? A gentle tap wouldn’t wake her, and if she was lying awake it might cheer her up to know that he had taken the trouble to go along. She might be—

Yes, no, yes, no—

"No!" he decided explosively, and quickened his pace towards his own room.

He had no inkling that anyone was there as he slid the key into the lock, and twisted; and there was no light and no sound except a faint noise from the fountain, and the dim glow which he knew was over the door in the wall. The shape of the window showed clearly. He yawned, pressed down the light switch, and sauntered towards the window. He knew that the girl’s room was almost opposite, but wasn’t sure that she knew where his was. Still waters, remember. If she was well-disposed – even accommodating – it could be very pleasant for the next two or three days. Then she would start back to England, and he would probably have to go south, to Rome.

He thought he saw a figure outlined in the girl’s window, but couldn’t be quite sure. Yawning and tapping his mouth, he pretended to notice nothing, but went nearer. At forty-two, it was ludicrous, but his heart did start to beat quickly in a kind of hopefulness. If she was there, hoping to catch a glimpse of him—

Fool!

He took another step forward, and then heard the sound behind him. He swung round.

The girl vanished from his mind as if she had never existed when he saw the youth coming towards him with a murderous upraised arm; a bright knife in it. He had seen the brute before, making the same sweeping motion as he was doing now. Then Barnett had been half prepared, but now he was off his balance.

He struck out, wildly.

The youth ducked, then came in under Barnett’s guard; the knife stabbed upwards.

In that moment, Barnett knew that he couldn’t escape. He felt the agony of death before the knife point broke the skin; he felt the white-hot, searing pain as the blade ripped. He groaned awfully, beat about wildly but uselessly with his arms, then began to fall. He tried to hold himself together, as if his hands could close the dreadful wound.

He felt the warmth of his own blood.

He did not feel the stab which slid between his ribs, cutting off life.

Chapter Three

Orders From The Yard

Roger West walked briskly along the Madeleine Boulevard on a day when it was too warm for briskness, in spite of the shade of the trees. Everything looked harsh; the colours at the news and magazine stands were more vivid, the blue uniforms of the traffic policemen and the white of their batons looked sharper, the colours of the tables and chairs beneath the glass roofs and the striped awnings of the cafes looked more brilliant. The leaves of the trees were a vivid green, the reds and blues, the yellows and browns of cars were riotous.

He was humming as he walked, arms swinging, a big, well-proportioned man, good-looking enough to make a lot of little Parisiennes look at him quickly from under sharply defined eyebrows. To do him full justice, he noticed hardly any of them, except one really well-turned-out woman who looked straight ahead of her.

Janet would say she’s American, Roger West said to himself, and grinned. She’s probably right. He watched the woman walk to a news-stand, and followed at a discreet distance. Let’s find out. She picked up a New York Herald Tribune and folded it and put it under her arm. Full marks to Janet, Roger murmured, and followed the woman to the stand and picked up a copy of Le Matin. He could have bought an evening paper, but preferred the morning’s news – and he liked to practise his French. He scanned the headlines, translating as he went, not always accurately, and skipping unfamiliar words. This was quite a sport with him and Janet.

He reached the Rue Scribe, and missed a step. Hallo, he said, aloud. Nasty.

A man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and thick-soled shoes glared angrily because he had to sidestep; Roger didn’t notice him. Massive, eyed by most of the women at the cafe on the corner, he skimmed the double-column headline halfway down the page. Attentat contre Prince Asir, it read, and then beneath it: Le Colonel Yahuni est Mort.

Oh, hell, Roger muttered, and lowered the paper and walked on towards the hotel. His high spirits had vanished, and they’d take a lot of bringing back.

There were more reasons than one.

First, Yahuni. The Colonel – the Colourful Colonel according to the newspapers, and as usual they were pretty near the mark – had spent two weeks in London, only five weeks ago. He had arrived ostensibly to study British police methods, and for that Scotland Yard was a Mecca; actually to check the proposed security plans which the police would put in hand when Prince Asir made a projected visit to London. To Chief Inspector West of the Yard, Arabs were almost an unknown quantity. He learned the old, simple lesson: men were men. He had come to have a warm respect, true liking, and considerable admiration for Yahuni. He knew, from confidential sources, that the Colonel was the strength and the security behind Asir, the one wholly trustworthy adviser of the young Prince. He had left nothing to chance, had astonished hardened Yard men who had a lifetime’s experience of security measures, by his questions and suggestions.

Yahuni had left a list of known Zara Brotherhood sympathisers known to be in London; since then, Roger had been checking them, one by one, preparing dossiers, making sure that when the Prince arrived, every single one would be accounted for, and closely watched. To a Londoner, used to the matter-of-factness of London crowds, the thought of assassination on a processional route was remote; but it hadn’t been remote to Colonel Yahuni.

They will try, he had said. In Jardia, perhaps, or Paris, in Cairo, in New York, here in London. Sooner or later, they will make the attempt. The Prince knows it, and I know it. I will tell you something, Roger West.

Roger had waited for it.

The Prince has never married because it would bring danger to his wife and to his children, Yahuni had said. He has a brother to succeed him. A weak one—

Far-fetched?

Well, Yahuni was dead. A plump, lively, highly intelligent, remarkably honest, and supremely loyal man, he wouldn’t be able to watch over his beloved Prince any more. In proving himself right, he had died.

That wasn’t all.

If they’d try once, they would probably try again. In a few weeks Prince Asir would be in London. The job of coordinating all the security measures would be his, Roger’s; that had been decided when Yahuni had been in London, and there wasn’t likely to be any change in plans.

He had looked forward to renewing his acquaintance with Yahuni.

Well, there it was.

He read more carefully, made sure that the Prince was not hurt, and then reached his hotel, the Monde. That was, of course, an absolutely unwarranted extravagance; or would have been had the Yard not been helping out. He’d come partly on business, going over some cases of common interest with the Sûreté Générale, trying to block confidence tricksters and smugglers who worked between London and Paris. The job hadn’t been onerous, there was only Janet’s bill to pay out of his own pocket, and they’d had a week more or less to themselves.

He folded the paper and tucked it under his arm, then made for the lift. A liftman in pale-green uniform greeted him with a bright smile.

"Troisième, m’sieu?"

Play the old game.

"Ah, merci. Troisième éstage, s’il vous plait." They chuckled.

Roger stepped out of the lift, and turned towards the passage and his bedroom. It overlooked the street, which meant plenty of noise and also what fresh air there was; not in fact a great deal, for Paris petrol fumes seemed more odious and penetrating than London’s. Never mind that: he mustn’t go into Janet looking glum, but bright and cheerful. Well, why not? He had two tickets for the Folies Bergère in his pocket, at 750 francs each, which was reasonable; and tickets for Paris de Nuit, which knocked a large hole in eight thousand francs between them, but, with any luck, should be worth it; for Janet, anyhow. The Lido was safe for sensation; he didn’t know anything about the attractions of the other places they would visit. A dive in Montmartre, of course, and probably a haunt of ‘vice’ in Montparnasse. He was almost certainly a fool not to call someone at the Sûreté and tell a sad tale of wanting to be shown round Paris. The officers of the Sûreté would also have expense accounts.

Roger reached the door of Room 314. He had the key. He braced himself, took the tickets out of his pocket, thrust the door open, and marched in.

Hallo, there, anyone at home?

He couldn’t see Janet in the bathroom, the door of which was open; and she didn’t call back, which was unusual. Had she slipped out – no, there she was, in the window, ironing. He stopped and stared, watching the rhythmic movement of the iron over one of his