The Sons of Satan

Copyright & Information

The Sons of Satan

First published in 1948

© 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.

www.houseofstratus.com

About the Author

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.

Book I

Chapter One

Return Of A Wanderer

Mallen stood by the ship’s rail, his pipe between his teeth, the warm sun bright on his tanned face. The gap between the liner and the quay slowly lessened.

Mallen was smiling, but inwardly he felt a touch of bitterness. Nearly everyone on board was searching the crowd below, nearer and clearer now, for the sign of a familiar face. There would be reunions which set the seal on homecoming – but not for him.

He took out his pipe and smiled more freely; the moment of self-pity had done him good and he could laugh at himself. He became aware that someone was looking at him, and he turned and looked at the woman by his side.

‘Are you being met?’ she asked.

‘I doubt it,’ said Mallen.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

She spoke quite simply – a good-looking woman whom he had seen frequently on the trip but with whom he had not exchanged a word. She had fine brown eyes and full lips and a figure admirably set off by a bottle-green tailored suit.

‘Are you being met?’ asked Mallen.

‘Yes – some friends. Are you going straight to London?’

If he said ‘yes’, thought Mallen, she would probably suggest that they travel together, and he did not want that; he preferred to be on his own on this return to England after nearly twelve years abroad.

‘No, I’m staying in Southampton tonight.’ He had not even thought of staying in Southampton, but this was only polite conversation, quite insincere.

Suddenly her face was transformed, she looked radiant, her right hand shot up and she began to wave.

‘Good-bye,’ murmured Mallen.

She did not seem to hear him. He turned and would have slipped unobtrusively away, but he cannoned into a man behind him, a huge fellow whose big features had a rather Mongolian cast, with the high cheek-bones and slightly slanting eyes.

‘I am so sorry,’ he said. The careful articulation made it evident that he was not English. He smiled charmingly as he went on, ‘I am too eager to see my friends.’

‘And what greater joy can a man know?’

The question came from a man who appeared behind the giant. His voice was deep and mellow. The wind stirred his mane of golden hair, which matched the golden colour of his habit: for this man was a friar, although of what sect Mallen did not know – there was a group of them on board.

The giant nodded gravely.

The woman had turned, her face glowing from the pleasure of reunion although a stretch of water still separated her from her friends. She looked at the giant and the monk.

She seemed to freeze. Fear replaced radiance, the colour receded from her cheeks as swiftly as a mirage before aching eyes. The moments passed, and she made an obvious effort to regain her poise.

Mallen forced himself to speak.

‘Good-bye,’ he said again.

She put out her hand. The giant and the monk moved off, in different directions. She did not look after them.

He gripped her cool hand, smiled, and turned away, forcing himself not to look back until he reached a corner. Then he turned so that he could see her profile. She was waving again, looking gay and carefree. The giant was further along, staring at the crowds. Had it been imagination, or had recognition flashed into her mind when she had seen the man, and brought fear with it?

Mallen tried to shake off the uneasiness.

He was in no hurry; a steward had told him that it was not worth rushing unless he were anxious to be among the first off the boat. It would take hours for all the passengers to disembark. He went to the smoke-room, had a leisurely drink, then strolled towards the cabin deck. The light was dim.

He turned into his own passage and, at the far end, saw the unmistakable figure of the giant disappearing round the corner. A door opened, a face appeared and then disappeared again like a rabbit scuttling into a burrow. Mallen frowned. The giant had reminded him of the incident by the rail, and he seemed to see the woman’s face again, momentarily frozen with fear. He must have imagined it.

He sat on the side of his bed, looking at his three large suitcases. Two were locked, but the third he had left open for his last-minute odds and ends. He had left his passport in the open case. He rummaged through it, but failed to find the packet at the first attempt. Concentrating, he tried again – and then he sat back, frowning, for the passport wasn’t there. He shrugged his shoulders resignedly, and took out his keys.

Mallen opened another case. His papers were packed halfway down. He turned back a few of the folded clothes on the top, and then felt among the papers for the passport; his face cleared when he touched it. He drew it out carefully, so as not to disturb the clothing too much. As he did so his fingers rubbed against something smooth and cold. He drew it out.

He had never seen it before.

It was about five inches square and two inches deep. It was of bright, cold, polished metal; if anything had been packed long in the warm case in the warm cabin, surely it would have lost that coldness.

He stared at it, frowning.

It was sealed with a metal seal, which he examined as he weighed it in his hand. It was not particularly heavy, just a plain metal box.

‘Now what is this?’ he asked himself aloud.

When he realised that he had left the door open and people were passing, he closed the door.

Why should anyone break into his cabin, open his case and pack this? He knew no one on board – and anyhow, no one else had a key to his case. With quickening interest he leaned forward; could see scratches on the brass plates, evidence that someone had used a tool with which to pick the lock.

Speculation was useless but inevitable. The more he thought about it the more likely it seemed that someone wanting to smuggle the box into England had not dared to carry it in his own luggage, and had selected his – at random! Was that likely? Could there be any other explanation? Mallen asked himself.

They would not expect him to find the box until he was on shore or until the customs officer asked him what was in it. There was an even chance that it would not be noticed. Luggage was often cursorily searched. If he followed his theory to its logical conclusion, his case had been deliberately selected and he would be watched going through the customs shed. When safely through, someone would try to get the box back.

What else could the solution be?

Suddenly his eyes crinkled at the corners.

‘All right,’ he exclaimed. ‘We’ll see!’

He put the tin back, quickly locked the case, and finished the other packing. He went out.

The passage was deserted, and deliberately he quickened his step. The ship had been a kind of no-man’s-land and he had wanted to linger in it, because the England to which he was returning would be a strange place, a lonely place, for a man without friends or relatives.

Should he start farming over here? Or would he find the vast ranches of South America beckoning him back? Had he been wise to give up, to respond to an overpowering call from England, one without words and without reason but one so loud that he had not been able to resist it?

He was now a wealthy man.

He reached the foot of the staircase leading to ‘A’ Deck. Wealthy men from the Dominions or abroad were often the prey of confidence tricksters – that was a truism. He had not given it any thought before, but now the little tin box and the mystery surrounding it brought it to his mind.

He smiled and had started to go up, when suddenly and without warning a cloth bag was thrown over his head and he felt a cord tighten about his neck. His pipe was knocked from his lips and he felt the sharp sting of hot tobacco on his chin. He was so surprised that he did not think of defending himself; darkness had descended on him, that cord was tightening at his neck, and hands were plucking at his clothes. His legs were swept from under him, but someone saved him from falling and lowered him to the floor. Hands patted him from shoulders to legs, dozens of hands, it seemed, light and prying. He could hear men breathing. His chin was stinging and he could smell burning. The shock had passed, and he was prepared to strike out now.

Then, suddenly, the hands were withdrawn.

He heard the pattering of footsteps which gradually faded; and there was silence. The smell of burning grew stronger. He sat up and, forcing himself to act slowly, plucked at the cord. It loosened easily and he took the bag from his head. He blinked in the bright light shining down the staircase. The bag was smouldering, and he dropped it and stamped on it, then retrieved his pipe. His chin was sore, and he felt a little blister on it.

He smoothed down his hair bewilderedly.

No attempt had been made to injure him, only to search him. No one had troubled to look into his pockets, only to tap his clothes, obviously sure that they would quickly tell if the thing they sought were there; so it must be something bulky such as the tin box.

‘It can’t be anything else,’ he said aloud.

‘I beg your pardon,’ a man murmured.

Mallen swung round, to find himself looking into the face of the giant. The man had approached without a sound, and was just behind him, with a puzzled smile on his face, his eyebrows raised a little.

‘What the devil are you doing here?’ snapped Mallen.

The giant looked even more puzzled.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, in his careful English. ‘I was about to pass. I thought you addressed me.’ He inclined his head slightly and went on. Mallen watched him walking up the steps, blotting out the light.

No one else was near.

The woman at the rail and her fear, the big Russian, the little box and the attack on him: all these unusual incidents jostled together in Mallen’s mind. It seemed as if they must be connected in some queer way. He must concentrate; try to find out how he came into this. The box was in the travelling-case, which was now on its way to the customs shed; he might be able to open the case and take out the box before it was examined, but would he serve any purpose by doing that? He assumed that someone did want him to smuggle the box out of the country, and began to imagine sinister things about its contents. If it were examined and proved to contain valuables – jewels, for instance – he would find himself in difficulties, charged with attempting to evade customs duty. His statement that he did not know that it was there would take some believing.

He would like to try to get the box through and to find out what would happen if he succeeded. But unless he reported the discovery now, how could he protect himself?

Abruptly, Mallen turned from the foot of the staircase and hurried along to the Purser’s office.

‘Good morning,’ said Mallen. ‘A rather queer thing has happened and I think you ought to know about it.’

‘Indeed, sir?’

‘Yes.’ Mallen lifted up the cloth bag, and saw that he had caught the interest of the Purser. ‘I was about to go on deck when this thing was thrown over my head and drawn tight.’

‘You were attacked!’ exclaimed the Purser.

‘That’s right,’ said Mallen dryly. ‘I wasn’t hurt and nothing was stolen. I can only think that I was mistaken for someone else, and my assailants discovered their mistake a little too late. Will you look after this for me?’

‘I will, sir,’ said the Purser earnestly. ‘I’ll report it at once. The trouble is that so many people are going and coming on the ship that—’