Red Terror by Hugh Clevely

Book Details

Red Terror – The folly of taking a shortcut in an area he doesn’t know leads a man into a fight for his life between factions of the Russian Revolution that have exiled to Britain.

Walking cross country at night in the rain is always an uncertain proposition. James Steele seeks shelter in a barn looking for a quiet moment to have a smoke, gather his wits and try to find his path forward when a woman runs into the barn in fear of some pursuers. Those pursuers quickly follow and Steele fights them off to protect the lady only to find that she has disappeared.

What began as a minor mystery of which way to go, becomes a much larger mystery of why three Russians could possibly be after a beautiful young lady.

Red Terror (1930)
Chapter 1. – Rain— and Drama.
Chapter 2. – The Lonely House.
Chapter 3. – At The Russian Restaurant.
Chapter 4. – Rogues and Diamonds.
Chapter 5. – Steele Gets Busy.
Chapter 6. – The End of Petroff.
Chapter 7. – The Get-Away.
Chapter 8. – The Final Curtain.

Hugh Desmond Clevely (1898-1964) was born in Bristol, England. He was educated by his uncle, a vicar, and spent his early life in the vicarage. He was a pilot in the RAF during the Second World War and finished the war as wing-commander.

Clevely wrote more than thirty titles for The Thriller an influential story paper that made famous ‘The Saint’ by Leslie Charteris and ‘The Toff’ and ‘The Baron’ by John Creasey. He also wrote under the pseudonym ‘Tod Claymore’ for a series of nine novels with the main character of the same name. After the war Clevely contributed about a dozen titles to the hugely popular Sexton Blake series.

Red Terror was published in The Thriller in the July 5, 1930 issue.

Red Terror has 11 illustrations.

Files:

1. Clevely-RedTerror.epub

Excerpt: Red Terror

Chapter 1.

Rain— and Drama.

“HADES!” said James Steele softly, but in a tone of deep exasperation; and he withdrew his left foot, with a loud sucking sound, from an unusually deep and clayey puddle.

He was in a very bad temper, and he had some excuse. His clothes were wet through, and muddy; his hands were scratched and bleeding; his right ankle was slightly twisted, making walking unpleasant. Once he had fallen into a deep ditch, lined with blackberry bushes, and with a foot of water at the bottom; once he had stepped into a little stream, up to his knees; continually he was treading in clayey puddles.

The night was very dark, and was made blacker by the overhanging branches of the trees that clustered thickly all round him. On either side of the narrow path that he was following, was a luxuriant growth of thorny bushes, that snatched continually at his coat and trousers. It was raining fast, and he did not know where he was. All he knew was that somewhere, within a radius of about six miles, was a comfortable inn, where his luggage and a hot drink awaited him.

He had started, at six o’clock on a pleasant summer evening, to walk the twenty odd miles between the villages of Hindmarsh and Storfield. At eight-thirty, having covered half his journey, he had stopped and had some supper at a country inn. That supper had been the cause of his undoing; he had foolishly followed the directions given him by the landlord of the inn, for finding Storfield by means of a short cut across fields and through the Trowhurst Woods. At ten o’clock it had begun to rain. At ten-thirty he had realised that he was hopelessly lost. Now the luminous dial of his wrist-watch informed him that it was a quarter past eleven, and he was still hopelessly lost. But he supposed that if he went on walking, he was bound to come to the edge of those cursed woods sometime.

In spite of his bad temper, he smiled slightly at his own discomfiture; hunched his big shoulders determinedly; and started to walk again. Ten minutes later his patience was rewarded; the darkness in front of him became a little less black. He had reached the edge of the woods.

He climbed over a fence, and began to walk across a field. In a corner of the field, a black square shape caught his attention— a barn. He paused. In his pocket, in a waterproof case, were five slim, black cigars. Ten minutes, more or less, couldn’t make much difference, and he could do with a smoke. He crossed the field to the barn, opened the door, and stepped inside. The barn was full of turnips, and he sat down on a pile of them, lit a cigar, and stretched his legs out luxuriously in front of him. That was better.

For five minutes he smoked tranquilly; then, of a sudden, he sat up with an air of close attention, frowning slightly. Footsteps were approaching the barn from across the fields—the footsteps of someone running quickly. Why, Steele wondered, should anyone be running across a field at half-past eleven on such a night. With a quick movement, he extinguished his cigar-stump on a turnip and stood upright. The footsteps came nearer, and now, mingled with them, Steele could hear the quick breathing of someone in a frantic hurry and very badly frightened. He waited. The footsteps came nearer, and now, mingled with them, Steele could hear the quick breathing of someone in a frantic hurry and very badly frightened. He waited. The footsteps stopped, and Steel saw silhouetted in the entrance to the barn the slim form of a girl in evening dress. For a moment she stood there, looking anxiously in the direction from which she had been coming; and in the distance Steele could hear the sound of other footsteps. Then she stumbled into the barn, almost into Steele. It was obvious that she was about done.

Steele put out one hand and seized her arm, to steady her.

What’s the trouble?” he asked.

She gave a little startled cry, and tried to wrench her arm away. But he did not let it go.

“What’s the trouble?” he repeated.

“Those men,” she gasped. “Don’t let them catch me! Hide me somewhere!”

Steele noticed that her voice was low and rather attractive. He noticed this, not because he was interested in girls or their voices, but simply because he was in the habit of noticing things.

“Get behind that big pile of turnips,” he said curtly. “You’ll be all right!”

During this conversation, the pursuing footsteps had come closer, and through the open door of the barn Steele saw three men approaching rapidly. A few yards from the barn they paused, and one of them pointed towards it and said something in a guttural, foreign tongue. Then they came on again.

Steele stepped forward suddenly, his big figure seeming almost to fill the doorway of the barn.

“What do you want?” he asked roughly. “Don’t you know you’re trespassing?”

In the darkness Steele could see that one of the three was a big bearded man, wearing evening dress. The other two wore ordinary day clothes. The bearded man answered.

“We are looking for my niece,” he answered. “She came this way. Have you seen a young lady?”

His English was correct, but his accent was slightly foreign. He paused, and added: “She is, you understand, not quite —not quite right in her mind. She has to be looked after.”

Steele heard a faint gasp from the pile of turnips behind him. For a moment he hesitated. He had no desire to protect a mad woman from her keepers.

Something rustled in the bearded man’s hand—a banknote.

“You have seen her?” he asked insinuatingly.

It was the offer of money that principally decided Steele. But, in addition, something in the man’s voice annoyed him.

“I haven’t seen any young lady,” he said. “You’d better go home.”

One of the bearded man’s companions said something in a shrill, excited voice, and pointed at the barn. The bearded man slipped the banknote back into his pocket.

“My man says he saw the young lady enter the barn. We shall enter and search,” he declared arrogantly.

“Try it,” said Steele grimly.

For an answer, without the slightest warning, the bearded man suddenly sprang forward. No doubt he hoped to catch Steele unprepared. His hopes were doomed to disappointment. For three years Steele had been the first mate of a sailing schooner trading between San Francisco and the South Seas. During that time he had formed a habit of always being prepared for a sudden attack, and the habit had clung.

The bearded man sprang straight up against an extended right arm, hard and stiff as a steel rod, with fifteen stone of bone and muscle to support it. The effect was very much the same as if he had sprung into a brick Wall. He simply hit Steele’s fist and staggered back.

“I think you’d better go home,” said Steele coolly.

The bearded man uttered a harsh command in that foreign language. With one accord, all three men hurled themselves at Steele.

He asked for nothing better. It was nearly a year since he had had a fight of any kind, and this looked to be quite a promising little scrap. As the three men sprang, he also sprang, and his right fist, with all his weight behind it, came round in a short, hard hook on to the point of the bearded “man’s jaw. Meeting it in the full flight of his spring, the bearded man seemed to hesitate for a fraction of a second in the air. Then he fell heavily on to his back and lay quite still.

Almost instantaneously Steele’s left shot out, and another of his opponents staggered back, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. The third man got in one good punch on Steele’s left cheek, before Steele’s right came over once again and laid him sprawling.

“Now are you going home?” said Steele politely.

For a long second there was no answer. Then the bearded man began to rise slowly, and rather dizzily, to his feet. For a moment he stood quite still, with the air of a man who is not quite certain what has happened. Then recollection came to him. With a fierce, muttered exclamation, he made a sudden snatch at the side pocket of his dinner jacket, and drew out a short, squat automatic pistol.

Excerpt From: Hugh Clevely. “Red Terror”