The Hounds of Vengeance

By John Creasey

Z5 is given the task of finding and capturing a Nazi fugitive. It’s chief agent, Dr. Palfrey, manages to learn more than anyone expected when he discovers that far from being alone, the man is only one of a growing and powerful band who, resenting their country’s defeat, are now bent on revenge upon those that brought it about. He must defeat them and their objective.

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Stratus
• Release date: Oct 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780755137459

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 Hounds of Vengeance

First published in 1945

© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1945-2014

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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www.houseofstratus.com

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 One

The Chase

The sharp crack of a shot broke the morning stillness. A lesser sound followed, as the bullet struck a rock, and then the echo of the first report came rolling back from the surrounding heights, vibrating through the sultry air. Frightened birds took wing and sped swift and silent through the grey dawn. In a field surrounded by piled-up stones, built to keep off the biting wind of winter, a flock of sheep took notice; one unfolded its rust-coloured legs and stood up, and the others followed suit.

Silence fell again over that bleak mountain scene. Shot and echo had gone, and might never have been.

Behind the north wall, on their knees and each carrying a rifle, were two men. They were clad in heavy clothes, muffled up to their necks, and they wore cloth caps pulled low over their ears and foreheads.

Somewhere afar off, on the other side of the hill which seemed a world apart from the crouching men, came a rumbling of dislodged and falling stones; swiftly after it followed a second shot. The sheep pranced and began to run towards the south wall with clumsy, startled movements.

‘So it wasn’t at us,’ said one of the men, ‘but at Conroy and your friend Davies.’ The speaker was an Englishman.

‘Dai Davies will lose his head if he is not more careful than that,’ said the second man, in a soft, flowing Welsh accent. He rose from his knees, but kept bent almost double, and with surprising speed and silence stalked up the steep slope, reaching the cover of a boulder without bringing a shot down on him. He turned and beckoned. The Englishman, much the taller of the two and a stranger to the district, rose almost upright but made good speed. He also reached safety without attracting attention, and the Welshman smiled again.

Blue serge police trousers showed below his long overcoat and the thick hobnails of his boots glistened as he went down on his stomach and squirmed his way to the edge of the boulder, to get a better view. The Englishman, whose name was Palfrey, did the same on the other side of the boulder, and a little way off the other two men, stalking their human prey, did likewise. More daring now, the Englishman looked upwards. For the first time since dawn he caught a glimpse of the quarry; he noted a bare head, powerful shoulders, and the dull barrel of a rifle.

A bullet struck the boulder not far from him. He withdrew again and just stopped himself from reminding the Welsh policeman that they must catch their man alive. He had chased this man across Europe; he could have killed him a dozen times, but the fugitive would be no use to anyone if he were dead. After his capture he would probably be tried and hanged or shot, but that was not Dr. Palfrey’s concern.

‘He can’t have much more ammunition,’ he called.

‘Only one bullet would be enough, Doctor,’ said the Welshman. ‘Dai, Dai, what are you doing, man, he is not looking your way now!’ He sighted his rifle again as he mentioned the other Welshman, and Palfrey, peering round the boulder, saw a little shower of chippings fall from a rock several feet above the bare head. The Welshman had certainly not needed reminding.

He heard a rumbling sound from the other side again, and the bare-headed man disappeared.

The Welshman snapped: ‘Come now!’

He sprang to his feet and raced up the hillside, no longer trying to move noiselessly. Palfrey got to his feet more slowly but followed him, his long legs giving him an advantage over the stocky Welshman. The climb was so steep that he would not be able to use his rifle even if it became necessary. He caught another glimpse of the bare head when he was twenty feet away from the summit, thought of throwing himself down, then saw the head moving away. Before he could reach the top the fugitive and the other men had started to run down the hill; when he got to the highest point he could see them racing down, with the bare-headed man moving swiftly between boulders and shrubs towards the rock-strewn valley.

‘Well, he can’t get away now,’ murmured Palfrey.

He did not go fast, and the others drew well ahead of him, his Welsh companion leading, Dai Davies next, a short man – Conroy – more wary of the rocks and less surefooted, following them.

The fugitive leapt a stream where it was no more than a yard wide, and started up the further hillside. To make sure that he could not dodge to one side and repeat the trick he had already played, the two Welshmen separated, one going right and the other left. Conroy and Palfrey stayed behind to prevent the fugitive from doubling back on his tracks. He was out of sight, now.

Conroy stepped behind a boulder, and Palfrey joined him. Dai Davies was also out of sight, but the other Welshman was going ahead.

‘Morgan thinks he’s out of ammunition,’ Palfrey said.

‘Maybe he is,’ said Conroy, in an unmistakable American accent. ‘If so, what are we hiding for? Come on!’

He broke off, as the quiet was broken by another sharp report. The nearer Welshman stopped so suddenly that it looked unnatural. He took a step forward, a slow, halting movement, and then he fell backwards and pitched head first down the hillside. He began to roll, gathering speed until he thudded into a boulder.

Palfrey stepped from his cover and hurried towards the Welshman, who did not move. Conroy passed Palfrey on the way up the hillside, angered and determined to put an end to it. Palfrey knelt down beside the Welshman, whose eyes were closed and who had an ugly bruise on his forehead. Palfrey looked for the wound and found it on the right side of his thigh; he had banged his head against a small stone, which had knocked him out.

The wound was bleeding freely. Palfrey padded it with a handkerchief, then buttoned the man’s coat tightly about him, to keep him warm; there was no risk of him dying.

The others were two hundred yards away and the fugitive was near the top of the second hill. If he managed to reach it ahead of his pursuers he would be in a strong position again. Conroy had realised that and, ignoring the risks, was climbing as swiftly as he could; by going direct he shortened the distance. The fugitive looked round and loosed another shot, but it went wide. Conroy fired, using a revolver, and the fugitive dived for cover while Conroy raced straight on.

Palfrey watched hopefully.

Between Conroy and the fugitive was a patch of bright green. The fugitive skirted it; Palfrey thought that he did not want to lose the shelter of the rocks and boulders. Conroy plunged straight into it, and as he did so, a high-pitched shout came from Dai Davies.

‘Mind, there!’

With a sickening sense of helplessness Palfrey saw Conroy sink ankle deep into green mire. The American tried to get his feet free, but could not raise them. Palfrey and Davies turned away from their quarry and hurried to his help. By the time they reached him he was struggling hard to get out of the bog; the squelching noise as he dragged himself through the slime merged with their footsteps and the rattle of falling stones as the fugitive reached the top of the hill and disappeared.

Heavy-hearted, Palfrey walked up to the summit of the hill. All the advantage they had gained had gone, and the odds against the fugitive had been halved. The only satisfaction was that sooner or later he would be driven out of the mountains to search for food, and it could only be a matter of time before they got him.

From the hill-top they could see their man.

He was resting against a boulder, in full sight, some way up the side of the mountain beyond. Great walls of rock stretched cold fingers towards the sky, which was darkening now, as if night were falling. The light had died out of the east and a sluggish pall of mist moved down the mountainside. A few wispy patches hovered near Palfrey, ephemeral phantoms which dispersed and then formed again. One came between them and the fugitive, completely hiding him from sight.

Conroy was not a man to wait patiently, thought Palfrey, and if he tried to join them and got caught in the mist he might never get back to the village. He retraced his steps, but found Conroy still cleaning the mud and slime of the bog from his boots. A cloud of mist rolled sluggishly over the brow of the hill, hiding Davies, the hill summit and the mountain. In only a matter of minutes the mist was swirling about them, and he could not see ten feet in front of them. It was cold and clammy, and seemed to cut them off from the world.

‘Why did you have to come back?’ Conroy growled.

‘It isn’t safe on the other side while the mist is about,’ said Palfrey. ‘It’s no use throwing our lives away.’

He controlled a shiver and looked behind him, but the wall of mist was impenetrable now, and he could hear nothing except Conroy’s heavy breathing. In the space of five minutes the whole aspect had changed, and he did not trust himself to walk a dozen yards.

He thought of the injured Morgan, lying down the hillside, unable to move and with the mist rolling over him.

Conroy said: ‘The mist might be in patches, Sap.’

That was wishful thinking. Twenty minutes passed and they were still surrounded by the clammy greyness, still cut off from sight and sound. Then the numbing silence was broken by the muffled sound of a shot. Two others followed and the mist carried the echoes back, softening them yet making them sound more sinister. Silence fell again.

Chapter Two

Out of the Mist

Conroy stood up from the boulder and peered towards the summit of the hill. His small, lean body was aquiver and his chin was thrust forward.

‘It must be clear up there. I’m going!’

‘We’ll try,’ said Palfrey, ‘but watch your step.’

As Conroy moved before him, his body was suddenly immersed in the mist, and he disappeared, but his footsteps were audible. Palfrey, filled with misgivings, followed him. Suddenly he came upon him standing still and looking helplessly around. The mist seemed thicker and even boulders a yard in front of them were hidden until they kicked against them.

They forged ahead, and after a few moments were able to see the shapes of rocks emerging from the mist ten and twelve yards ahead of them. Then, suddenly, they stepped out of the mist and found themselves in brilliant sunlight; it was uncanny. They could see the mountain, clear of the enshrouding grey cloak, its peak burnished with the sunlight. There was a clear stretch of hillside for perhaps two hundred yards, but beyond that the mist spread in all directions. The sun was shining on a tiny stream, but gradually that faded out of sight; they were worse off now than if they had stayed by the patch of bog. The menacing cloud drew nearer.

By some freakish eddy, the mist coming down divided into two and passed on either side of them, so that they were able to see a long way up the mountain but only for a short distance on either side. They concentrated on the patch which they could see, and suddenly Palfrey exclaimed: ‘Is that Davies?’

He pointed towards a boulder. With one accord he and Conroy went forward, going towards the mist yet less conscious of it; if it were Davies they could get some expert guidance on what was best to do. Davies’ cap was gone: so was his rifle. As they came upon him, he managed to sit up against the boulder. There was a red furrow along his temple and an ugly cut on his right cheek. His eyes looked dazed, but he managed to speak.

‘The doctor, is it? A bad day you have chosen for this, Doctor, I am sorry to say.’

‘What happened?’ Conroy demanded, as Palfrey knelt to examine the injured man. It was a bullet wound which had knocked him unconscious, but it was not deep; he had been as lucky as Morgan. The bruise and cut had been caused by falling against a rock.

‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’ asked Palfrey.

‘No, Doctor.’ Davies spoke with an effort. ‘I thought I had him; he pretended to be hit, and then he fired at me from ten yards – a fool, I was. Doctor, you made one mistake.’

‘What was that?’ asked Palfrey.

‘You thought that he was a stranger to the mountains,’ said Davies. ‘No stranger, that man, he knows them well. There is one track round the mountain and he took it – the only safe one, it is, and the mist did not worry him. It will be some time before you find him.’

‘If we ever find him,’ Conroy murmured, gloomily.

‘One track there is and only one,’ Davies repeated. ‘He will have to take it, and there is a village he will have to pass. If we could go back to Carron, we could telephone to have a look-out kept, but—’ he broke off, looking past Palfrey towards the distant village.

They followed the direction of his gaze.

A few massive-hill-tops rose out of a sea of grey; everything else was hidden. The sun had gone and there was mist above them although they remained in a clear patch of mountainside. It was so cold that Palfrey began to shiver.

Conroy said: ‘We must get back to telephone!’

‘Better he should escape than we should lose ourselves,’ said Davies. ‘You do not know the mountains, or you would not talk like that.’

Palfrey helped him, and he rose unsteadily. Then setting his lips, he began to walk down, with the others supporting him on either side. In spite of the handicap they made better progress through the mist than they had done when on their own, and Davies seemed to have an uncanny knowledge of the terrain, now turning right and now left to avoid boulders and patches of bog. They were completely enveloped in mist again, although it was thinner now, but their clothes were covered with a thin film of water which clung to the cloth in little globules.

Morgan was sitting up, but had not tried to stand. Water dripped from his moustache and his cap, and he was shivering. Looking at him, Palfrey knew that unless he were taken somewhere warm and dry he would get feverish; what would happen afterwards was unpredictable.

‘Can we find shelter?’ asked Palfrey.

‘Yes indeed we can,’ said Davies, ‘half a mile away it is, we left it on our right when we came up. Easy to find, too, even in the mist, because you have only to follow the course of the stream, and the house is built by its side.’

Palfrey and Conroy made a chair for Morgan, and Davies helped him to sit between them. Slowly and awkwardly they made their way down the hillside, Davies never more than a couple of yards in front of them. They stumbled and slipped, and Morgan must have suffered agony, but he made no complaint, and once or twice essayed a joking remark. Palfrey drew in a breath of relief when he saw the river, with the mist rising from the surface.

‘Near we are, now,’ said Davies, suddenly.

He pointed to three boulders in the stream, stepping-stones worn down by usage through many years. A smell of peat smoke, faint but acrid, came to Palfrey. As they passed through a gap in a wall a collie dog came out of the mist and leapt at Davies; the beast made no sound, but its hair was bristling and its teeth bared. Its jaws snapped a few inches in front of Davies, who growled at the beast but otherwise ignored it as he strode on. The dog backed a few paces and watched them pass. It was nearest to Palfrey, who had to control himself not to look over his shoulder, fearful of another leap or the sharp snap of teeth in his ankle.

‘Dai Lewis, where are you, man?’ Davies called out.

A man in the doorway uttered a word which Palfrey did not understand. The dog turned and made off, casting many sly looks behind it. As the mist closed about it, the man in the doorway spoke in Welsh, but Palfrey understood his meaning; this man was hostile.

He was tall and lean and bearded. His eyes were dark, set deep into cavernous sockets. He wore a khaki shirt, knee-breeches and muddy leather leggings. The shirt was open at the neck, showing a thick mat of black hair.

‘What is it?’ he demanded.

‘Warmth and rest we need, for John Morgan, who has been hurt,’ said Davies, ‘and food for us all, Dai Lewis.’

Lewis stared at him, then at Palfrey and Conroy. He seemed reluctant, but he moved aside and let them enter, although he made it difficult for Palfrey to get through. The room which they entered had a low ceiling from which hung several ham-shaped paper parcels. It reeked of peat smoke from a fire, glowing red in a huge open fireplace, over which hung a black cauldron. A stack of peat was at the side of the fireplace. The warmth was stifling, and Palfrey very soon grew too hot.

Dai Davies behaved as if they had been made as welcome as kings, sitting down on an upright chair in front of the fire and warming his hands, then standing up and pushing Palfrey forward. Conroy squeezed himself between Palfrey and the side of the fireplace. The peat smoke made them cough. Steam was rising from the cauldron, but there was no smell of stewing meat.

The place was lined with a dusting of smoke and smuts which had settled, but the stone floor had been recently scrubbed and parts of it were still wet. A strip of hair matting stretched from one side of the room to the other. In one corner was a loft-ladder, which served as the staircase to the room above. A doorway without a door was in the middle of the wall opposite the window and Palfrey caught a glimpse of someone standing there.

Wide open, startled eyes in a pale face, braided hair like a dark, glistening halo, bare arms held across her breast with the fingers clasped, a girl stared at him. He could not judge her age because he could not see her well, but those things he could see were vivid, registering on his mind in a way that was unforgettable. She seemed to be dressed in a shapeless frock of drab brown cloth which merged into the background of the wall behind her.

The man by the door stepped forward; there was silent menace in his expression.

The girl sent a single, frightened glance towards him and then turned away. She kicked against a bucket, which clattered noisily, then her footsteps sounded somewhere outside. The man strode across the room, ignoring his visitors, and went out; his footsteps were heavy and deliberate.

Palfrey looked at Dai Davies, who shrugged his shoulders.

‘Who is she?’ asked Palfrey.

‘His wife,’ said Davies. ‘Poor Dilys bach. Now, John! Better it is now that you’re in the warm. Do you need to do anything more to the wound, Doctor?’

‘I shall want hot water and—’ Palfrey broke off, looking about the room as if despairing of getting what he needed in this place. Davies nodded, stood up and went outside. He was suffering no ill-effects