I'm not sure whether it's just that I'm getting a bit sick of John Creasey (shock horror!), or whether this one and the Creasey I read before it are simply not up to par.

I've very much enjoyed Creasey's works over the years, particularly the Gideon, Inspector West, Toff and Baron series, so hopefully this is just a blip.

This is an early novel, from the 30s, and it seems to me as though Creasey hadn't differentiated his style sufficiently from that of Leslie Charteris' Saint novels. Nor do his characters and plot have the style, wit and coherence that one would find in a Saint novel. Thrown into this messy, bland and overly complicated mishmash is a kind of pseudo-Wodehousian Drone's Club member type of upper-class laddish silliness, again without an ounce of the wit and humour of the original. Very disappointing.

In fact, writing this review has made me reconsider the score I've given the book. Two stars is a bit too much. ( )