by John Creasey
‘Who’s that?’ asked Palfrey.
‘Oh, that’s Gus,’ said Erikson. ‘We use him when we’re in Paris. Our watch-dog. We started to use him this time,’ continued Erikson, still exaggerating his Middle-West accent, ‘after we read about your airfield bother, Sap. I guess we preferred to make sure the Packard wasn’t blown up.’
‘A good thought,’ said Palfrey.
In the room at the Hôtel Bristol which had been reserved for the Palfreys Bruton lit a cigar and Erikson filled his pipe.
No audience could have been more appreciative. Bruton sat on one of the twin beds, and Erikson lounged on a window-seat. Drusilla had a chair in front of the dressing-table, and toyed with a brush, while Palfrey squatted on the luggage rack. He took remarkably little time to tell a comprehensive story.
‘Well, well!’ said Bruton, when he had finished. ‘That’s one of your best for a long time, Sap. I’m looking forward to meeting Señor Dias!’
Erikson said: ‘Did you have to have this man, Charles Lumsden?’
‘As it worked out, yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘I think he’ll be all right.’
‘It seems to me that Charles Lumsden’s earned his ticket,’ said Bruton. ‘He didn’t have a nice time. When is your big luggage due?”
‘Tomorrow.’
‘And we start off tomorrow?’
‘Not so fast,’ said Palfrey. ‘We want to find out what Dias is doing in Paris, and that may take a day or two.’ His manner was one of studied casualness. ‘We want to give Stefan time to settle down, too.’
‘Raoul can get a line on Dias, maybe,’ said Bruton.
‘Have you seen Raoul?’ asked Palfrey.
‘Not yet,’ said Bruton.
They did not have to wait long, for de Morency was at that moment downstairs.
He did not send up his name, but came straight up and tapped on the door. When Palfrey called ‘Come in’ he thrust the door open, and called: ‘Déjeuner pour madame et messieurs!’ and strode inside.
There was devilment in the Frenchman; no one who saw him for the first time could long remain in doubt about that. It was in the gleam of his eyes and the smile on his lips, in the lean cut of his face, in the set of his shoulders. A mercurial man, a man who had no enemies except those whom he selected, for he was everyone’s friend, and if there was devilment in him there was nothing of the Devil. He was dark and immaculate, and seemed never to be still. He strode past Palfrey, his eyes dancing, went straight to Drusilla, put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her heartily on both cheeks: ‘And for madame—my heart!’
Erikson kicked him, gently.
‘All we require to make it perfect is Stefan,’ said de Morency. He saw Palfrey’s grin, and cried: Is he coming? But it is perfect! We must drink on that, and drink deep!’
Stefan Andromovitch was a remarkable man in more ways than one. The way which was noticed by everyone who saw him was the physical. He was a giant of a man, standing six feet seven, with vast shoulders, a man at whom people turned to stare in the streets, only to look away hastily, as if they were afraid of causing offence to the Colossus. Had they been able to look closely into his eyes, however, they would have known that there was no need to fear causing offence. Stefan had calm eyes, large, grey, slanting upwards slightly towards the temples – there was another hint of the Mongol in him, too, for his cheek-bones were high – and ever ready to smile. Yet they were often grave eyes. He had seen many horrors. He had been among those who had fought when the Nazi avalanche had descended upon Russia, had been in the defence of Moscow, and might have reached a high position in the Red Army but for his other qualifications – a quickness of mind and eye which had made the Kremlin experiment by sending him behind the German lines with an intelligence detachment.
So large a man was, in the opinion of many people, useless for secret intelligence work. No one really understood how Stefan overcame that disadvantage. The fact remained, however, that when the Marquis of Brett had first suggested the inter-Allied Intelligence Branch, known as Z.5, Stefan had been the Russian representative.
He had quickly won Palfrey’s heart.
He had a serene temperament, ability far above the average, a quiet sense of humour and – of major importance – he did not expect English, French and American representatives to see all things in the same light as he did. He was not, he often admitted, a prominent Party man. He preferred people to parties, and the more varied the people the more he liked their company.
Drusilla and Palfrey were sitting up in bed, drinking coffee and eating the soft, delectable French rolls which had come back from their war-time hibernation, when a loud tap at the door made them jump. ‘Hallo?’ said Palfrey.
‘Is a visitor permitted, m’sieu?’ asked the chambermaid, meekly.
‘Oh yes,’ said Palfrey, expecting one of the others, and Drusilla pulled her bed-jacket round her shoulders. ‘Come in.’
Stefan appeared, ducking in the doorway, his face one vast smile. Palfrey nearly upset his coffee. Stefan took Drusilla’s face between his hands and kissed her roundly, gripped Palfrey’s hand, engulfing it completely, and then stood at the foot of the beds, grinning from one to the other.
‘So it is all true,’ he declared, ‘you are both here—all the time I have been trying to convince myself that it was a poor joke, my friends.’
For once he talked a great deal, plied them with questions, told Drusilla there was no need for her to get up yet, breakfast could be sent up to the room for them all.
It was good to see him excited.
Drusilla went to bath. Stefan sat cross-legged on her bed and plied Palfrey with more questions, mostly about the expedition. Palfrey voiced his puzzlement about some of the aspects, and Stefan said crisply: ‘Of course you are puzzled, Sap. So am I. They would not bring us all together again for a private venture, the thought of that is absurd.’
‘Much thanks,’ murmured Palfrey. ‘The others think I have another bee in my bonnet.’
Stefan frowned. ‘A bee in your bonnet?’
Palfrey laughed. ‘Sorry! Old English slang. It means they think I’m crazy.’
‘Oh, I would not disagree with them there, but on this particular matter, no, you are not mad,’ Stefan said, cheerfully. ‘What I cannot understand is why we have not been fully informed. It would appear that nothing much is known, but they think we might make discoveries of some significance while we are after this man Dias.’
‘It started before anything was known about Dias,’ said Palfrey. ‘At least, before I knew anything about him.’
‘Perhaps it was already known that Dias was in search of the radium,’ said Stefan. ‘Well, my friend, I must bath, and Drusilla will want to dress. Afterwards we shall have breakfast in here, with Corny, Neil and Raoul—let me spring myself upon them without warning, they are probably not expecting me until later in the day.’
‘What a big little boy you are!’ said Palfrey. ‘Yes, I’ll tell them we are going into secret conclave over breakfast. Have you booked a room here?’
‘One was booked for me,’ said Stefan; ‘I was given all possible help in Moscow. That made me wonder whether I was going to help you on some small affair. I mean comparatively small,’ went on Stefan, hastily, ‘not a matter which would really justify all of us working.’ He stood up. ‘We need not talk about it too much, we know that we are looking for something else and we can be watchful. All right?’
‘Yes,’ said Palfrey.
‘Until breakfast, then,’ said Stefan. ‘And after breakfast, I hope that you will introduce me to Señor Dias.’
‘His Excellency Señor Fernandez y Dias,’ corrected Palfrey. ‘We’ll try to get an audience of some sort, or view him from afar.’
He laughed as Stefan went out, and was still smiling when Drusilla came back from the bath, glowing, radiant,
bubbling over with excitement. Stefan had that effect on his friends.
Before the others arrived for breakfast Palfrey looked at the morning papers. Le Temps was on the top of the pile, and across the front page were streamer headlines:
Bastille Hospital Destroyed by Fire
MANY CASUALTIES AFTER LABORATORY EXPLOSION
Palfrey’s spirits drooped, but he did not let himself dwell too much upon the loss, which would be so hard to replace.
Chapter Nine
The First Clue
Papa Giraud had been suspected by the French authorities for a long time, but no one had yet been found to give evidence against him. True, he had supplied the Germans with wines, but so had many other merchants who had worked for the Underground. Papa Giraud had worked for the Underground too – not very much, it was true, but during the worst of the terrors men of the liberation front had found refuge in his rambling cellars, which was certainly a point in his favour. He was so very old, also. One could not expect a great deal from him.
Yet rumours persisted.
There was talk of men who left his house by night and returned before dawn, men who were rarely seen except as shadowy figures, with the collars of their coats turned up and their hats pulled low over their eyes. They were apaches, perhaps, who worked for Papa Giraud.
Lozana did not go there himself. He sent Pedro, one of the men whom Charles Lumsden had seen.
That night a man left Papa Giraud’s house, which was, in fact, a part of his warehouse, and hardly fit for human habitation, and slipped along the Rue de Casse. When he reached the end of the street and a ray of light from a wall-lamp shone upon him he was seen to be dressed in ragged clothes, his shoes were down at heel, he looked a typical resident of the district. Not far away he went into a bistro where there was much gaiety and wine, raw new wine for the most part, which few of the patrons really enjoyed. He was led to a room upstairs, and came out half an hour later, well dressed, swaggering, and carrying French identification papers. Gendarmes did not look at him twice. There was no such thing as a ‘typical’ German, the French knew that; a German could look like a Frenchman or an Englishman, although so few of them did. This one, who had sheltered for so long at Papa Giraud’s, certainly looked like a Frenchman, and not the best kind of Frenchman at that. He was young, his suit was wasp-waisted, his coat-shoulders were padded. He went to the Bristol.
He was a stranger there, so far as the French staff knew, but when the hotel had been taken over by the German authorities he had been there frequently, and there was little he did not know about the hotel. He had been drinking alone for a few minutes when a man joined him – and Charles Lumsden would have recognised this man quite well. He was the Englishman with the cultured voice.
‘They are all upstairs together,’ said the Englishman, ‘and the room is Number 57.’
The German nodded.
A little later he went upstairs. Only residents were allowed there, but who was to know the face of every resident? Certainly not the floor staff, and certainly not the other guests. He walked slowly, as if he were there by right, until he drew near Room 57.
He could not hear what was being said inside the room, because of the double doors. He stood listening for a moment, and then looked up and down the passage. No one was in sight. He took a penknife from his pocket, but it was rather larger than most penknives, and it had several curious-looking blades. He opened one, thrust it into the lock, and twisted and turned swiftly.
The German opened the outer door of Room 57. There was just room for him to stand inside the space made by the two doors and to have elbow-room, so he closed the outer door and began to work with his knife again. Now he could hear a murmur of conversation and an occasional outburst of laughter. The fools had no idea that he was there.
There was a heavy weight in his coat pocket. The feel of it against his side was very satisfactory, for it was a hand-grenade. In a few minutes now he would fling open that door and throw the grenade, a very powerful one. None of those inside would have any chance to escape, no one was likely to live in that room.
He heard the second lock click back. He waited, on edge for the noise had seemed loud, but at the same moment someone had laughed, and it was doubtful whether the people inside the room had heard the sound at the door.
He turned the handle.
As he did so something touched the back of his neck. He jumped in alarm, and tried to turn round, but he could not. The something was a hand, and thumb and fingers were so large and long that they were able to encircle his neck. One moment he had been standing there with bated breath, the next the breath could not be drawn into his lungs, he seemed to be bursting, he had not even the strength to struggle.
The door opened, and Palfrey stood in front of him.
‘Why, hallo,’ he said, and grinned above the German’s head at Stefan. ‘Visitors?’
‘One visitor,’ said Stefan. He pushed the German forward and let him go. Breath and life came back, and the German, whose mind had been trained to think of nothing but the task he had been given, never to worry whether he might lose his life, thrust his hand towards his coat pocket. He took out the grenade – and a little man, Bruton, appeared from behind the door, held his wrist and, with the easiest movement imaginable, took the grenade away. The pin was still in.
‘Dear me,’ murmured Palfrey. ‘How very unfriendly!’ He glanced at the German, who stood against the wall, at bay, looking as if he would gladly fling himself at them. But there were five men as well as a woman, and the men were standing in a half-circle in front of him, all looking at him with great interest. All were smiling, as if they were amused by this wasp-waisted individual.
‘What can we do for you?’ asked Palfrey, who was the middle man of the five, standing immediately in front of the German. He spoke in French, but the man did not answer. He tried German, and although he got no answer he got a response, a start of surprise, making it obvious that the man had not been expecting to hear his native language.
‘You must talk, you know,’ said Palfrey, still in German, ‘because we’re all very interested in what you have to say.’ He gave the impression that this was a wonderful joke, and the German would gladly have smashed his lips against his teeth.
The men stood quite still in front of him.
The woman was sitting at the dressing-table, and he could just see her reflection. She was doing something to her nails, as if she did not want to see what the men were doing. The German tried to back closer to the wall, but could not. He was stiff with disappointment and perhaps with fear, and his eyes were moving in all directions, as if he were seeking a way of escape.
Then the huge man who had taken him unawares between the two doors stretched out a hand, gripped his throat again, and exerted that terrifying, suffocating pressure.
The woman got up abruptly and went out of the room.
The Rue de Casse was certainly not a showplace, but strangers there were not always molested. The huge man among the four who turned into the street about the time that de Morency entered the Sûreté Nationale would have discouraged any hopeful thief, in any case. The four men seemed in excellent spirits, and were doubtless feeling reckless.
They stopped outside Papa Giraud’s door. They knocked.
‘He told us so,’ said Palfrey, ‘and he told us also that you had given him the information against us, you had told him that we were worth killing. Why Papa Giraud?’
‘It is a lie—a great lie!’
‘Papa,’ said Palfrey, gently, ‘we do not wish to hurt you. But we will have the truth. Why did you send him?’
The tip of Papa Giraud’s tongue ran along his lips, he seemed to get more shrivelled as Palfrey looked at him – and he backed towards the stove. His hands were by his sides, and one of them he jerked backwards. He did not touch anything near the stove, for Bruton seized his
wrist. There was a moment of tense silence, and then Giraud began to shiver violently. It was no fault of his, he was in terror of his life, they made him shelter them, they threatened him with such penalties if he refused. He had no wish to harm anyone, he was a helpless old man …
Palfrey was already well pleased with what had happened. Before he and the others had left the Rue de Casse, Papa Giraud had told them about the man who had come to visit him and had asked for the services of the young German. What was more, Papa Giraud had given him the man’s address. He was staying in a small hotel in a turning off the Rue de l’Opéra.
Chapter Ten
The Disappointment of Señor Dias
It was a great day for Inspector Dominade, and he made that clear to Palfrey. The infamous Giraud under lock and key at last, a nest of vipers smoked out and, by far the most important, he assured Palfrey, a Black Market warehouse unearthed. The Black Market was no better, it was giving rise to much trouble – perhaps Palfrey had seen the processions.
‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘Hunger-marchers don’t usually march for fun.’
‘No, my friend,’ said Dominade. ‘They march in fear, fear of the coming winter. The accursed Black Market – even coal and wood are affected, there will be great disasters in France if conditions remain as they are.’
‘Coal means transport,’ said Palfrey.
‘They have transport,’ said Dominade. ‘There is nothing they do not have, these thrice-damned vultures who steal the people’s food and sell at fabulous prices, who have influence in so many places and agents everywhere. But I weary you. Dr. Palfrey! Anything you want from me is at your command.’
Palfrey, who had called to bring a signed statement, declared that he wanted very little. He had really come to congratulate the inspector on the efficiency of his arrangements the night before, and to apologise if he himself had been a little irregular. He had so often worked when the police were against him that he sometimes forgot when they were on his side. That was a great joke, and they both laughed. Dominade heartily, Palfrey politely. There was, however, one other small thing. Palfrey had gone to see a man named Pedro at a small hotel near the Rue de l’Opéra. It was a curious thing, but he had seen this man in London, and had wondered what he was doing in Paris, because he had a bad reputation. Shortly afterwards Pedro had gone to the Hôtel Royale, in the Rue de Rivoli, and stayed for some time with a distinguished South American, Juan Lozana. Dominade’s lips curled.