The Wings of Peace

By John Creasey

The Prince of Barbares, or the scourge of India? Dr. Palfrey and Z5 are up against an Indian mystic who is said to possess the ability to transmit images straight into the minds of his victims. They can take the form of depicting either a glorious picture of heaven, or a horrible one of hell, depending upon the Swami’s desire. Palfrey believes his real goal is to rekindle trouble between India and Pakistan and set them further against each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Stratus
• Release date: Oct 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780755138517

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.

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Copyright & Information

The Wings of Peace

© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1948-2014

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior 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 damages.

The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

Typeset by House of Stratus.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

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About the Author

John Creasey

John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. 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, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

He also founded the British Crime Writers' Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.

Chapter I

THE FRIGHTENED WOMAN

The ringing sound was in her ears, low-pitched, persistent. Brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr. A man passed the telephone kiosk and glanced at her. It was a casual, uninterested glance, but made her hold the telephone so tightly that her knuckles showed white. She looked blankly through the glass, as if staring at the terrace of small houses across the road, but she was actually watching the man, who reached the corner and disappeared. She relaxed a little. Brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr. Would they never answer? A cyclist came along the road, whistling; only a boy, and a boy could not be one of Them; but she was glad when he went out of sight. A young man, smart in black coat and striped trousers and wearing a Homburg hat, walked along the other side of the road. Was he an enemy? The door of one of the houses opposite opened and a young woman appeared, her hair a mass of yellow curls, her flimsy white frock ruffled by the breeze which stole along the street. The young man waved, the young wife waited for him, radiant, welcoming.

The woman at the telephone smiled with relief. Brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr. The young couple went indoors, arm in arm, and the door closed; the street was empty except for the frightened woman. Her smile faded. This might be her last chance, and there was no answer. A car slid by, with an elderly woman at the wheel and a child pressing its face against the window, a round, eager, inquisitive face – fresh and delightful, the expression in marked contrast to that of the woman in the kiosk.

Her cheeks were pale, her lips almost colourless, her narrowed eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, as from lack of sleep, and there were dark patches beneath them. Her brown hair fell untidily about her shoulders, there were loose hairs and specks of dandruff on her coat. She kept her left thumb lightly on Button A. Brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr. No, there would be no answer.

Should she try again? The exchange might be ringing the wrong number.

She pressed Button B, and two pennies clattered into the little receptacle. She took them out, rubbed them between her moist fingers, replaced the receiver and waited. The street remained empty and silent. When she had entered the kiosk the light had been good, now it seemed that dusk was falling; the brightness had gone out of the evening. There had never been any brightness for her that day, but at least she had been able to see. The onset of darkness terrified her. Fear showed in the darting glances of her eyes, in the way her small, white teeth bit at her underlip and brought some colour into it.

She put the pennies into the slot again and dialled the number which she would never forget. CHE 18181; Chelsea one-eight-one-eight-one. She pictured a luxurious apartment which was empty – empty, when she so desperately needed to find someone at home. No, not someone, the man, the man whose life she wanted to save; she had never seen him although she had heard his name, long before she had come to England.

The ringing sound started all over again. Brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr. Yes, it was getting darker, and now she saw why. A leaden cloud loomed above the rooftops, spreading from the west, where it hid the setting sun. A man strolled by, mopping his forehead with a coloured handkerchief; of course, it was hot – much hotter in the kiosk even than in the street, but she hadn’t realised that this partly explained her smarting eyes; they felt as if they were filled with tiny particles of sand. She pushed the door open an inch with her foot, but the slight wind came from the other direction and there was no coolness for her. Brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr. The man disappeared. At least she had one reason to be thankful; this was a short street, a crescent, and the telephone kiosk was placed in the centre, so that she could see each end and every corner; there was no danger of being observed without seeing who watched her. And she had been here for over ten minutes, ten whole minutes without being seen, without feeling the intense gaze of a pair of brown, murderous eyes.

A taxi turned the corner.

‘It’s no use,’ thought the woman drearily, ‘he’s not in. I wonder—I wonder how far away it is?’

She was a stranger to London. The faded words on the notice-panel with its bright metal surround meant little to her. She had read the instructions carefully, learning how to call the number; she was sure she had done everything properly. Now she looked at the line near the top: the number of this box is park 35312. Park – where was Park? Somewhere near Addison Road, that was all she knew. How far away from Chelsea was she now?

The taxi had slowed down, but came towards her. Why she had not realised at once that a taxi might bring danger she did not know, but now she glanced up – and saw the man looking out of the window. He was small and brown-skinned, although dressed in ordinary clothes, like anyone else in London. His features were broad; he was eager, in an obscene similarity to the child she had noticed.

He saw her!

Terror flared up, blazing in her eyes, showing in the way she tightened her grip on the telephone. She stared back as if transfixed. She saw him disappear inside the cab, then tap the partition which separated him from the driver. She banged the telephone back on its rest without noticing that it was not properly balanced, pushed open the heavy door and squeezed out. The taxi, moving even more slowly now, was twenty yards away from her. She ran – ran – in the opposite direction, towards the corner which was so blessedly near. At the corner she looked round; the taxi was turning round at the far end of the crescent. She herself turned – and bumped into a little man with dusky skin and brown eyes with their curiously brownish whites. He gripped her wrist.

Miss Dyer, please!

Let me go! she gasped. Let me go!

She tried to free herself, but his grip was too tight. The taxi drew nearer. This was another short, quiet road, with tall plane trees growing at intervals through the pavement, and with tall, narrow, terraced houses on either side. Not far away cars and buses were passing, their lights already on, but here it was gloomy and dull and lonely.

"Miss Dyer, please," protested the dusky man softly.

The taxi drew alongside, the other dark man stepped out, glancing round at the taxi-driver.

Just one moment, he said. Now, Miss Dyer—

She wrenched herself free, terror lending her strength, pushed the first man away and raced towards the lights and the buses, towards the crowds. One of the men turned and followed her. Although he seemed to walk, not run, he kept pace with her. The taxi-driver called out, the other dusky man spoke to him placatingly. And then, when the girl was still some distance from Kensington Road, and her pursuer very near, a door opened and half a dozen young people spilled out of a house, laughing and gay. One stumbled on a step and bumped into the dusky man.

S–sorry! It was a girl, vivid in the light which streamed from the house, her hair like gold which had come out of a ringlet mould, her lips glistening red. She was smiling – but the smile faded because she was so close to the man’s brown eyes, and something about him scared her. He glanced at her briefly, then stepped aside and hurried after the running woman, who had reached the corner.

‘’I say, what’s this?" asked a young man in the party.

I knocked into him, and he looked as if he’d like to cut my throat, said the girl. She was shaken, but giggled. A black man.

I’ll knock his ruddy head off, said her companion extravagantly. "I—Hallo, there’s a cab. Taxi. Taxi!"

But the taxi sailed past; the dusky man inside it was not visible because he sat back in a corner. The party walked towards the main road in twos, unaware that they had saved a frightened woman from being caught, and had given a man they did not know another chance to live.

The frightened woman reached the crowded pavement of the main road and stopped running. She glanced behind her; the man she feared was not in sight. She darted across the road through a gap in the traffic. The lights had seemed bright before, but now they paled, because the setting sun was touching the edge of the dark cloud and spreading orange and gold brilliance over the rooftops. Once on the other side of the road she felt safer. Where there were crowds no one could hurt her. The few who had noticed her running, and seen her agitation, quickly lost interest. She found herself close to an uneven line of people, and a huge red bus drew up smoothly. She would get on this, wherever it was going. A little old man stood at the back of the queue and the woman gasped: Excuse me—

Yes, miss, said the little old man courteously.

Can you tell me – how to get to Chelsea?

That’s easy enough, said the little old man. I should take this bus as far as Walham Green, and then catch a number eleven. They moved up with the crowd. It’s a long way round, but quite direct and very easy if you don’t know your way about.

"I—I don’t. Thank you."

It’s a pleasure, said the little old man, reaching the platform and standing aside. After you, miss.

Hurry on, please, urged the conductor, his finger already on the bell. "On top only – on top, I said. He put out his left arm to bar the frightened woman’s way as she went blindly towards the inside. Why don’t you listen? He looked more closely at the woman and his voice softened, his eyes no longer glittered with exasperation. Okay, miss, up yer go."

The bus started while she was on the steps and threw her against the side, but she reached the top safely, with the little old man behind her. She couldn’t see a vacant seat. A mass of shoulders, necks and hats confronted her through a smelly haze of tobacco smoke. Clutching the handles of the seats, she made her way along; there was one seat right at the front, and she sank into it. She didn’t see the little old man again, although presently she came out of her stupor and looked round; there was no sign of the dusky man. A tiny bell kept ringing sharply, people spoke, a voice repeated over and over again: Tchoo—tchoo—tchoo.

The conductor reached her.

Where to, miss?

"Wal—Walham Green, is it?"

Well, you oughta know, said the conductor with a grin. Threepence. Seeing that she was still doubtful, he asked, Where d’you wanta go?

Chelsea.

"Then Walham Green’s okay, catch an eleven from there. Tchoo! He punched a ticket, and she groped inside her handbag and produced half a crown; that was all the money she had. The man gave her the ticket and her change. Tchoo! He staggered back along the bus, and before he had reached the stairs the man sitting next to the frightened woman said, Excuse me." He pushed past and she moved to the inside seat.

It grew dark on the journey; really dark, not simply dull because of the huge cloudbank, which appeared to have passed over London, for the stars glimmered clearly. A few shops were lighted up; the bus passed cinemas which blazed with lights and cafés crowded with people. In places, the pavements were thronged, in others, almost empty. The bus swayed, but the seat was comfortable; her eyes kept closing. The seat next to her was occupied at times and empty at others. The bus kept stopping and starting, the conductor’s familiar refrain went on rhythmically; now and again he cracked a joke. She began to wonder when she ought to get off, but stayed where she was until the conductor bellowed up: "Walham Green! Walham Green!"

The frightened woman jumped up and hurried along the top deck, slipped, saved herself from falling down the stairs, and darted off the bus, giving the conductor a single, grateful glance. He pointed and spoke – his words sounded like, Just along there. She nodded. Another bus came up as his moved off; and she read the 11 on the front. She got on. This time there was room inside.

The bus started.

Fespliz, said the new conductor, a short, dark man with a lined face. Where to, miss?

I want to go to Chel—

She broke off; she couldn’t finish the word, for at that moment the dusky man sprang on to the platform!

There was no doubt that it was one of Them; she caught a glimpse of his eyes, turned towards her, before he went upstairs. But the bus rattled along at a good speed, she couldn’t get off now.

Town Hall? asked the conductor.

Is—is that Chelsea?

If it ain’t, they must ‘ave looked slippy movin’ it, said the conductor. Tuppence, please. His bell rang. Ping! Should she get off?

If she did, the dusky man might see her from the top, and would catch up with her again; she had lost all hope of avoiding him; now her one chance was to reach the Chelsea home of the man whose life she wanted to save. She had better stay where she was. She sat in a corner seat, her hands clenched on her black handbag, glancing round at the stairs every now and again. More lighted shops and windows and people and traffic, until suddenly the little conductor said: "Town Hall – Chelsea!"

The woman jumped up. Thank you, she muttered as she passed. She stepped down on to the pavement. A theatre was a few yards away from her, with a lot of lights in the foyer. Outside it stood a policeman, a tall, solid-looking man, talking to another in uniform – a commissionaire.

The dusky man had also left the bus, but did not approach her, because she went towards the policeman, who broke off his conversation and asked politely: Yes, miss?

Can you—can you tell me where River Walk is, please?

Yes, miss. The man pointed with a broad forefinger. Cross the road, take the second on the left, go right to the end, and there you are. You can’t miss it – second left, and right to the end.

Thank you—thank you very much.

The dusky man had already crossed the road. She saw him walking along towards the second turning on the left. The woman hurried across – and turned in the opposite direction.

Outside the Chelsea Palace the policeman laughed and the commissionaire shook his head.

Just like my ole woman, he said. Tell ‘er to turn right an’ she always goes left. Yer know what? Before she decides which is right and which is left, she always ‘as to touch ‘er wedding ring!

Lucky thing for her you married her, remarked the policeman. But he looked thoughtfully across the road, as if something in the woman’s manner had puzzled him. Well, I’d better get along, George, he said. Be seeing you. He crossed the road with that ponderous gait which policemen develop, and which can be surprisingly fast, and followed the girl. She took the first turning to the right, and stopped outside a lighted window to ask another man how to reach her destination. The policeman heard her clearly. The man she asked gave her directions, different from the first, sending her a long way round. The woman walked on briskly enough now – almost too briskly.

Oh, well, said the policeman, and lost a chance of fame.

The frightened woman reached the end of the road and turned right, as she had been directed. She knew that the dusky man had heard the policeman’s directions, and guessed that he had gone ahead of her. By taking this route, she might avoid him. At least it was worth trying. Anything was worth trying.

It was very dark along here; there were no street lamps. Footsteps pitter-patted along the pavement, shadowy figures passed her. She saw two people in a doorway, and the sight of them made her heart turn over, but she walked past, and they did not appear to notice her. At the next corner, where she had to turn right again, a young man stood in the light of a window, sprucely dressed; he peered along the road, and took a step forward as the frightened woman appeared; then he backed away, obviously disappointed.

Ex—excuse me, she said, but can you tell me where River Walk is?

"This is River Walk," said the young man gruffly.

Oh. Thank—thank you. Do you know where number seven is?

Other end, said the young man, pointing. You can’t miss it, it’s detached.

River Walk seemed a long street, and even darker than the one which she had left. Nothing would go right; if number seven had been this end she would have been there by now. As it was, the dusky man would almost certainly reach it before she did, and he must have guessed where she was going, why she was going. He might be waiting near the house. Dare she go on? Dare she?

If she hurried she might get there first, and that was all that mattered.

She hurried, half-walking, half-running. No one appeared. Some windows were lighted, but the curtains were drawn; only pale yellow squares showed against the houses. Two fanlights showed; she saw that she had reached number twenty-one – so it couldn’t be far now. Number seven – and she couldn’t miss it according to the young man, because it was ‘detached’.

She reached it; a car turned the corner as she arrived at the gateway, and in its headlights she saw the numeral ‘7’ which was painted in white on one of the gate-posts. The car passed; but she knew its lights must have revealed her to the dusky man if he were waiting there.

She turned into the gateway, trembling, cold. The house was in darkness. She could just discern the outline against the star-dusted sky. A low, square house, with a tall tree in the front garden; those things were visible. But there was not a sign of a light, not even a crack, when she reached the porch. She just made that out, and hesitated, turning and looking over her shoulder.

A movement nearby made her jump, set her heart racing. Was—was the dusky man in the garden? Could he see her? She knew that he and his friends had cat’s eyes, they could see almost as well by night as by day. But all she saw was the brooding gloom of the garden, and the street, and a yellow patch shining against a blind not far away.

She backed into the porch.

Another car came towards the house, its headlights throwing a good light. She touched the door, watching tensely. She now saw that the gate was tall, that number seven was surrounded by a high wall. But the light was bright enough for her to see the top of the hedge against the wall, the branches of the tree, even the lawn and the flower-beds in front of the house, but she could not see the dusky man. For the first time since she had seen him get on to the number eleven bus, she thought that she might have evaded him. Her heart beat fast with reviving hope as she turned. The fading light of the car lamps showed the bell, the knocker and letter-box, brassy and bright against the dark door. She put her forefinger on the bell.

But – the house was in darkness; of course, no one was there.

She would wait until someone came, she would wait all night if need be, she . . .

Miss Dyer, came a soft voice, not far away, "you are being very foolish, very foolish."

He was not twenty feet away from her! He stood on the grass beneath the outflung branches of the tree. She could just make out his small, lithe figure. He stood still – no, he moved towards her.

It is your own fault, he said, in that soft, lisping voice; we did not wish to harm you.

She gasped: Go away! Go away!

That was futile; she hardly knew why she spoke. She stared, transfixed, hemmed in by the porch. If she tried to get away now he would catch her – and this time he would not let her go. Desperately she pressed the bell again, though hope was dead in her heart.

There is no one here, he said. His footsteps sounded on the gravel, and she was able to see his face because another car was approaching and the faint glow of its headlights spread as far as this. The headlights grew brighter; now she could see her persecutor clearly, he was only a couple of yards away from her; smiling. There is no one here, he repeated, and drew his right hand from his pocket.

She saw a knife!

No! she screamed. No!

The dusky man sprang forward.

Chapter II

THE STARTLED MAN

Ramsay watched a girl approaching along the wide passage, and admired her graceful carriage and neat, well-dressed figure. He guessed that she was coming to him, and stood up as she drew near. He thought she was preoccupied, although she greeted him with a pleasant smile, and: Are you Mr. Ramsay?

Yes.

Will you please come with me? she asked. Mr. Manning will be able to see you soon.

Thanks, murmured Ramsay, and obediently went with her.

Actually, he followed, because she walked quickly and drew ahead of him after the first few paces. It seemed that she wanted to lead the way, and he had no objection. Her dark hair was braided and wound about her head, she wore a navy-blue two-piece – a long coat and full skirt. They passed several closed doors before reaching one at the end of the passage which stood ajar.

If you will wait in here, she said, pushing the door wide open, Mr. Manning will send for you. She looked at him, without paying him much attention, although as she turned away she frowned; perhaps the faint smile on Ramsay’s lips had surprised and mildly displeased her. As he passed her she shot him a quick, appraising look; then she closed the door on him and was gone.

It was a small room, panelled in walnut. The furniture was comfortable and modern. On a highly-polished desk a dozen magazines were laid out, so that each title showed. There was also a box of cigarettes and a heavy metal lighter in the shape of a knight in armour – the kind of thing which Ramsay had often seen and vaguely desired. He sat down and sank into soft cushions; this chair was really made for comfort! And the cigarettes were surely an open invitation. He took one and picked up the lighter, intrigued by it and determined to find out if it worked. The helmet came off, and disclosed the wick and roller; it lit at the first flick. He drew on the cigarette and leaned back, looking about him, although there was little to see.

The walnut panelling was bare, except where a small clock was let into one panel above a fitted electric fire. There was one window, rather high up, which was wide open. He picked up the nearest magazine, a Sphere dated May 9th – and he imagined that all the others were equally up to date; the atmosphere of this place impressed him, although he would have said that he was a difficult man to impress. Just now he was at once curious and hopeful.

Before joining the army he had been called a promising young man by the knowledgeable ones of Fleet Street, and already making progress. Since leaving the army after a full, sometimes arduous and dangerous, and sometimes lazy and safe five years, he had not been able to ‘settle’. He was the first to admit that the fault was largely due to his own introspective restlessness, but there were contributory factors. Chief of these was that Fleet Street was overcrowded; shortage of newsprint meant small newspapers and small newspapers meant small – or at least smaller than pre-war – staff. Plums in the game were not easy to come by; he did not expect one to drop into his lap, but he wanted to start reasonably near a tree which offered promise of good fruit, and he had not been successful. Not nearly successful.

He had come to see Manning about ‘a job’ – rather a vague kind of job, connected with publicity. He had been told about it by a friend who knew Manning slightly, and had given him an introduction. He had written to Manning a week ago and, that morning, had received a brief note asking him to call at the offices of Global Products, Limited, in the Strand. The only unusual thing about the appointment was its timing; half past six in the evening was late. That did not worry Neil Ramsay, although the reason for it intrigued him. If one could understand the small things it was so much easier to understand the large.

He had heard a little about Manning from his friend. That Manning, for instance, was a millionaire, and that Global Products was a thriving business likely to expand, and that he would be lucky if he managed to get in on the ground floor. He had been warned that Manning was inclined to be autocratic, yet the last thing the millionaire would want – or tolerate – was obsequiousness.

You may not like him, the friend had warned, but you’ll have to admit that he’s a personality. One other tip, Neil – if you get an interview, talk in big figures. Big figures impress Paul Manning.

This friend was a man who knew everyone; a Fleet Street character who, it was vaguely rumoured, had done some mysterious work during the war for M.I.5. There wasn’t a more popular or more trustworthy man on the street, and Ramsay had fully expected some results to come of his introduction.

Ramsay turned the advice about big figures over in his mind as he smoked and waited, patiently enough. His time was his own. No one had any claim on him. He also reflected on other things he knew about Manning; that the millionaire had been in India during most of the war, for instance, and that his return to England was partly due to the disturbances in India – or that, at least, was what the friend had told him. He had no idea what Manning looked like.

A door opened – not that which led to the passage, but one to an inner sanctum. He caught a glimpse of a short man with a turbanned head, and another, tall, elegant, imposing.

Yes, the boy’s all right, began the elegant man, better to let him stay— He broke off, catching sight of Ramsay. Immediately he stretched out a long arm and gripped the handle of the door which he had just opened with slender white fingers. Not this way, he said, what am I thinking about!

The last sentence sounded forced to Ramsay; as if the elegant man had uttered it for his especial benefit. The door closed, but not before he had seen the brown eyes and dusky face of the turbanned man, whose dress was otherwise conventional. Once the door closed, no sound of voices penetrated into the outer room.

It looks as if the great man made a slip, mused Ramsay. I wonder why he didn’t want me to see the Indian.

He was left alone for another ten minutes; a second cigarette. Then the passage door opened and another girl appeared. She was almost a replica of the first, except that her stylishly-dressed hair was brown and her dress dark green. She smiled rather more attractively, too.

Will you come with me, Mr. Ramsay, please?

Gladly, said Ramsay, getting to his feet.

This girl looked at him lingeringly; he knew that look of old, and concealed a smile. It was hardly his fault if the way little lines at the corners of his blue eyes crinkled when he smiled was almost irresistible to a certain type of woman. He knew, without being vain, because at least the war had knocked silly nonsense of that kind out of him, that he was a presentable young man. He was clean-shaven, and fair-haired – had he not kept it short, his hair would have been wavy; although it was cut severely at the sides and back, it curled on top. He had a likable face. His short nose was rather thick, the result of a hefty punch in his ‘teens when a broken bridge had not properly mended, but he had a well-shaped mouth, with upward curves at the corners, and a good, square chin with a shallow cleft. On the right of his chin was a small brown mole from which grew one long, silky hair, maintaining an uneven fight against the bristly stubble on his chin whenever he needed a shave. He had shaved especially for this interview, however, but, after careful deliberation, had decided not to put on his ‘best’. He wore a loose-fitting, smooth-textured sports coat of dark brown and newly-pressed flannels.

The girl reached another door, not far from the room in which Ramsay had been waiting, and tapped. There was no audible reply, but she opened the door immediately and stepped inside, giving Ramsay a quick, smiling glance as she did so. Then the smile disappeared and she spoke quietly, as if mechanically. Mr. Ramsay, sir.

Thank you. Come in, Mr. Ramsay, said Manning.

He rose from a chair behind a huge, flat-topped desk which stood with its back to the window in a long, high-ceilinged room. This was very similar to that from which Ramsay had just come, except that it was bigger. Carpet, easy chairs, panelling – all were exactly the same. There were one or two additional pieces of furniture; a cabinet against one wall, two small tables, a wireless set on a walnut stand. On the desk was a massive silver ink-pot and a silver cigarette-box and several telephones; in front of the ink-pot was a single sheet of blotting-paper. Seldom had Ramsay seen a desk so tidy.

But he was much more interested in Manning.

It was the elegant man who had opened the inner door of the waiting-room and then hastily closed it again. His iron-grey hair swept up from his temples and back in long waves on either side of a wide, white parting. His features were rather thin but perfectly cast; Ramsay had an impression of looking at a plaster model, because Manning’s face was uniformly pale – except for his well-shaped, red lips and greenish-grey eyes. His forehead was broad and high.

Elegance was the word, Ramsay mused, as he shook hands; it was in every line of Manning’s light-grey suit; in his movements; in the set of his head. He even created an impression of affectation, because he wore a Gladstonian collar with a pale grey cravat; the shoulders of his coat were very square, and the waist was exaggerated.

Sit down, Mr. Ramsay, he invited; or commanded.

Thank you, murmured Ramsay.

Elegance or not, here was undoubtedly a personality. The intent gaze from those keen eyes was searching, many people would find it embarrassing. Ramsay felt instinctively that he would hate to lie to this man.

I’m afraid I’ve kept you waiting, Manning said in a quiet, mellow voice. I had an unexpected visitor. But perhaps we can make up for lost time. A faint smile curved his lips. You had an introduction from Samuel Wilson, and you are something of a specialist in publicity.

That’s right, said Ramsay.

The smile played at the corners of Manning’s lips again, and he deliberated before saying: Specialist, Mr. Ramsay?

Journalistic training, with some years with a publicity agent, said Ramsay, and with clear and decided views of my own, sir.

Ah, clear and decided views, said Manning. He sat down in a high-backed chair and rested his hands on the wooden arms; the chair was rather like a throne. It isn’t often in practice that those two things run together. Many people have decided views, usually extremely stubborn people, but not clear ones. Because stubbornness implies bias, bias cuts vision short or reveals only one side. Clear views should mean – well, what is your opinion, Mr. Ramsay?

Ramsay laughed.

I’m sorry. Clear and decided was a cliché.

I don’t greatly care for clichés, said Manning, but I think we understand each other on that point, anyhow. I like my personal staff to see everything, the good and the bad. Tell me, have you ever built up – I use the words advisedly – any particular individual?

I’ve helped to, said Ramsay.

And disapproved, doubtless, of the way in which the others set about it? suggested Manning, with a hint of sarcasm in which there was no sting; his manner was mellow and amused, and Ramsay suddenly desired this job above everything else. Obviously Manning wanted to be ‘built-up’; making such a man as this a public figure would be a fascinating task.

He smiled and nodded.

I see, said Manning. Tell me, in as few words as you can, what you would require to create a public figure.

That was a challenge; Ramsay felt that the decision, as to whether he got the job or not would be made largely because of the way in which he accepted that challenge. The phrase ‘in as few words as you can’ suggested that Manning did not want to waste time, and was prepared to allow him little for cogitation. He still had the feeling that this man was summing him up, and that he had never before been so searchingly appraised.

He framed his first words carefully, then let himself go.

First of all, a personality. After that, money. The amount would partly depend on the time at my disposal. Next, readiness on the part of the personality to be advised by me, and to co-operate – being a public figure can be an exhausting business. After that – as many social graces as possible. He