Shadow of Doom (Dr. Palfrey)

by John Creasey

  ‘That’s right,’ she said warmly. ‘Make yourself say that, don’t admit anything at all.’

  He said: ‘You don’t seem to believe me.’ It sounded weak, his voice was querulous, and he felt anxious to talk about something else – about her. ‘Why do you stay? They can’t force you against your will.’

  ‘They can,’ she said. ‘My mother—’

  She broke off, and there were tears in her eyes. At great discomfort, he leaned forward and gripped her hand. She forced the tears back. She raised her head, and took her hand away.

  ‘I prefer not to talk about it,’ she said. ‘I can do a little, as I am doing for you.’

  ‘It’s incredible!’ said Charles. ‘I can’t believe there have been others.’

  ‘There have!’ For the first time her voice was sharp. ‘Don’t underestimate them, that would be foolish. They know all the beastly tricks, they’ve had plenty of practice. I—’ She broke off again, and the fear came back. ‘Hush!’ she enjoined.

  At first he could hear nothing; and then he heard faint sounds of movement. He thought at first they were in the passage, then he realised that they were in the next room. There were voices, but he could not distinguish what was said. He thought a man and a woman were in there.

  The girl’s face hardened. She stood up quickly and pushed the chair further away, stepped to the wash-basin and began to collect the first-aid equipment. In a low voice, she said: ‘Don’t let them think I’ve said anything.’

  He was not able to speak to her again, for the door opened and a man came in. It was a shock that he was not wearing a black mask. He was dark-skinned, good-looking and well dressed. He was also tall and thin, and Charles thought at first that he was the man who had questioned him, but this voice was entirely different, deeper, slower, that of an educated Englishman, without a trace of accent.

  ‘How is he, Muriel?’ he asked.

  ‘I have seen worse,’ she said, quietly.

  ‘Nothing seriously wrong with him?’

  ‘No.’

  The man approached Charles and stood looking down, with a supercilious smile on his lips. He stood there for some minutes, while Charles peered up, more than ever conscious of his swollen eyes. It was becoming difficult to see out of one of them.

  ‘It’s a good thing for you that you convinced them that you knew nothing,’ he said, ‘or you would have been in a bad way, Lumsden.’

  ‘Someone else is going to be in a bad way before I’ve finished,’ said Lumsden, speaking with difficulty.

  ‘Threats?’ murmured the other. ‘They won’t serve you. I shouldn’t harbour thoughts of vengeance, if I were you. In fact you’ve little cause for complaint, and you’ll have less soon. Take my advice, and don’t go shouting about this to the police, or you will get hurt.’

  Charles said nothing.

  ‘And take another piece of advice from me,’ said the man. ‘Have nothing to do with Palfrey. He’s the cause of all this. He isn’t what he seems.’ He turned abruptly. ‘Come along, Muriel.’

  They went out.

  Left alone, Charles examined his surroundings for the first time. He was in a large room, a bedroom with a double bed. There were two doors; he had not noticed the second one before. It led to the room where he had first heard movement. Someone was still moving about in there – someone was singing – singing! It was a woman who sounded incongruously light-hearted. He listened intently at first. The singing stopped after a while, and then, without warning, the second door opened.

  Charles had a vision of a girl, not much older than Muriel, dressed in a robe of some clinging material, dark, breath-takingly lovely. She was smiling at him.

  ‘’Alio,’ she said, and held out her hands.

  Charles was too much on edge to find it funny.

  Four men were sitting in the room where Charles had been ‘questioned’. None of them wore a mask. The masks were on the desk, fitting into one another, and the top one still looked hideous. The men were smoking and drinking, and seemed at peace with the world. They sat in relaxed silence, but all of them looked up expectantly when footsteps were heard outside. One of them was the Englishman with the cultured voice, the others were the men who had been there with Charles.

  The door opened, and Muriel came in. She was in a different dress, she looked charming, and she was smiling demurely.

  ‘Well?’ said the Englishman, as she closed the door.

  ‘I don’t think he knows anything,’ she said. ‘I led him on pretty well; he fell for the line.’ She laughed. ‘If he’d known anything I think he would have told me. I warned him about Manita, of course, she won’t get anything—but there isn’t anything to get.’

  ‘I can’t understand why Palfrey saw him,’ said the Englishman.

  ‘Probably Palfrey thought he wasn’t tough enough,’ said Muriel. ‘He isn’t. If he’d known anything I doubt whether he would have taken the second beating.’ She stepped to the desk and took a cigarette from a box, tapped it on her nail, and lit it. ‘You’ll have to do better than that for Palfrey,’ she said. ‘What are you going to do with Lumsden?’

  ‘He doesn’t know where he is,’ said the Englishman. ‘We’ll take him away and turn him loose.’

  Muriel took her cigarette from her lips, and said in a honeyed voice: ‘Is that wise? He’s seen you, remember.’

  The Englishman laughed. ‘And he’s seen you.’

  ‘I don’t exactly want to spend a few years in prison,’ said Muriel.

  ‘It would have been better to have thought of releasing him before you let him see you,’ said the man with the sing-song voice. ‘Oh yes, much wiser, very much.’ He took his hand out of his pocket; in it was a small automatic. ‘Now this will be.’

  ‘We’ll take him out and turn him loose,’ said the Englishman, sharply. ‘Let’s have no argument.’

  In spite of that, there was argument. It grew heated, voices were raised; only the Englishman and Muriel, who both favoured Charles’s release, kept cool during the next half-hour.

  In the middle of the quarrel there was a tap at the door. Another man appeared, bowed and murmured something in Spanish. To English ears the words included sounds something like ‘Excellency—Hortelan—Dias.’

  ‘We’ll let Dias decide,’ said Muriel, ‘he won’t allow any argument. And if I were you I wouldn’t keep him waiting.’

  Chapter Seven

  News from Moscow

  Drusilla woke Palfrey just after nine o’clock. She was dressed and bright-eyed; obviously she had slept well. There was a tea-tray on the bedside table. From the kitchen came the sound of the Welsh maid, singing in a soft, happy voice There were the usual sounds from the street and from the river, and Palfrey drank his tea and listened to them.

  She did not try to cheer him up by saying that Charles might turn up alive, for neither of them expected it. Yet when, after breakfast – it was nearly half past ten – the telephone rang, Palfrey was across the room like a shot.

  ‘Is that Dr. Palfrey?’ asked an impersonal voice.

  Palfrey said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hold on, please, Chief Inspector Rowse would like to speak to you.’

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Drusilla urgently.

  ‘The Yard,’ said Palfrey. His heart was beating uncomfortably fast, and he steeled himself for the reception of bad news. The delay was considerable, and when Rowse came on the line he was apologetic.

  ‘Sorry to keep you holding on, Doctor, I was called away, I’ve some news for you. We’ve found Charles Lumsden.’

  ‘Safe?’ Palfrey’s voice rose.

  ‘Badly knocked about, but alive,’ said Rowse. ‘He was in the river near Putney. As a matter of fact it’s a miracle that he’s alive at all. They meant to drown him, but a man on beat duty on the bridge heard the splash and investigated. He saw a bundle in the river, and— well, they got him out between them.’

  Palfrey said, in a voice unsteady with relief: ‘You’re a bit mixed on the “theys”.’


  Rowse chuckled. ‘I’m sorry. The first “they”— two or three men in a car which we haven’t yet traced and who will probably never be found drew up on the middle of the bridge and dumped your friend over. Sorry to be so callous, but that’s exactly what-happened. The policeman went in after him, after blowing his whistle for help—the second “they” were the people who gave him that help.’

  ‘Is Lumsden conscious?’ asked Palfrey.

  ‘He’s asleep in a Putney nursing home,’ said Rowse, ‘but as far as I can gather he shouldn’t be beyond recovery. Apparently he was beaten up.’

  ‘Nice and casual acceptance of brutality by the police,’ murmured Palfrey. I ought to say: get the first “they”. I won’t because I know you will if it’s possible. It is of vital importance.’

  ‘We won’t let the grass grow under our feet,’ Rowse assured him. ‘The nursing home is in Lower Richmond Road—Riverside. Quite a small place, I believe. We’ve a man there to take his statement as soon as he comes round.’

  ‘There will soon be two men,’ said Palfrey. ‘Very many thanks, Chief Inspector!’

  Charles was awake when they got to the nursing home. Quick as they were, Old Lumsden had got there ahead of them. Charles had made some kind of statement to the police, and satisfied them, and he told the same story to his father. When, after what seemed an age, Palfrey was alone with him in the small, pleasant room, he said: ‘They don’t know half of it yet.’ His voice quivered with suppressed excitement.

  Before they left, Lumsden put an envelope in his hand. Palfrey murmured his thanks but felt a little disquieted. It was probably the ‘financial backing,’ and he would have preferred that to be arranged through Brett.

  He did not open the envelope until they were back at the fiat.

  It was a letter of credit limited to £50,000.

  Last-minute difficulties with supplies brought disappointment. It was decided, after all, to leave for Paris on the following Monday. On the Saturday word came through that de Morency was available, and waiting with Bruton and Erikson in France. There was still no news from Moscow, and the temporary burst of optimism which Palfrey had felt when talking to Bobby Fairweather had subsided. There would be a serious weakening of their combined strength if Stefan were not with them, yet it was not reasonable to expect him.

  In the middle of the preparations a telephone call from Christian brought the news that the Marquis had been called out of London on urgent Government business, so urgent that he had no chance of saying good-bye. He had wished them godspeed, said Christian, and would be eagerly awaiting news. There was one message of very special importance: the Marquis wanted Palfrey and the others to understand that the code used in the past on official business could be used for messages.

  ‘Thank you, Christian,’ said Palfrey; ‘we’ll see you when we get back.’

  ‘My very best wishes, sir,’ said Christian. ‘Good-bye, sir.’

  Palfrey replaced the receiver.

  ‘Darling,’ said Drusilla, ‘you’ve got that bewildered look in your eyes.’

  ‘I am bewildered,’ admitted Palfrey. ‘Brett suddenly called away. Official code for an unofficial jaunt. Hum!’

  Drusilla said slowly: ‘Does it mean that he expects us to run into serious trouble?’

  ‘Darling,’ said Palfrey, ‘you’ve got that “I-never-ought-to-’ave started” look in your eyes!’

  There was a further orgy of buying: cigarettes, tobacco, first-aid equipment, small tools – a cracksman’s kit, said Palfrey, and meant it, for each of the men – maps large and small, and an assortment of weapons and ammunition. The permission to use the code had meant that Brett expected serious trouble.

  Why had he not been wholly frank?

  There was a warning from Bobby Fairweather. They should take plenty of provisions, for they could not rely on living on the country. Food conditions in Europe were terrible.

  They had acquired, through Brett and the War Office, two jeeps, to carry all stores. The Mercedes-Benz was to be taken across the Channel with the jeeps; in Paris, Erikson and Bruton had a Packard which had been made specially for rough roads. Palfrey admitted a little ruefully that they seemed to be ready for a six months’ tour through unexplored territory, but he felt more secure when he knew that all reasonable supply emergencies were anticipated and provided for. Petrol and oil would have to be taken from military depots on the Continent, and they were given special authority.

  Nothing was discovered about the men who had thrown Charles into the Thames. No further attacks materialised. His Excellency called again, highly polished and highly apologetic, hoping that Palfrey was still in London, and ventured another appeal. Palfrey was sorry, really sorry, he said, but circumstances made it impossible. Dias was desolate, but not by a word or a gesture did he suggest that he suspected the real reason for the refusal. He said that he would not cease trying, he would come again and again until at last Dr. Palfrey had embarked on his journey to South America. Palfrey even began to doubt whether his suspicions were justified.

  Then came a cable from Moscow to lift their spirits high. It read: Paris, Tuesday – Stefan.

  That was the first time, said Drusilla, that Palfrey really looked himself. The news brought a brighter colour to his cheeks and his step became more jaunty. On Monday morning, at the airport – they were to fly; the car, jeeps and equipment would of course follow them by boat – he was, if anything, a little too confident. There had been another message from Brett, which made it clear that he had heard from Moscow, where the quest was warmly approved; there were no obstacles in their way except some which the Nazis had erected and which had been removed; and they could not guess what these might be.

  ‘And opposition from Dias,’ mused Palfrey. They were sitting in the transport ’plane, waiting for the take-off.

  ‘There is one peculiar thing about Dias, if he’s against us,’ said Drusilla, who rarely spoke unless to the point. ‘If Dias were in touch with the Nazis beforehand, surely they would have told him where the radium was hidden.’

  ‘That’s a point,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘So he should be able to get there first,’ said Drusilla.

  ‘Darling,’ said Palfrey, softly, ‘you are not at your best. If he thought he could safely get there first he wouldn’t worry about stopping us. He’d go and collect. Oh, we start level, don’t worry about that. I—’

  He broke off in sheer amazement, for towards the aircraft, which was on the point of departure, came two men. One of than was Dias.

  Chapter Eight

  Gathering of Friends

  With Dias was a slim, sleek man with fine brown eyes and curling eyelashes, a wide sensuous mouth and a pointed chin. His hair was black, pomaded, and brushed straight back from his high forehead. He was a Valentino of a man, a fitting foil for the vast South American, who was breathing heavily as he climbed into the cabin. His companion gave him support.

  ‘Thank you, Lozana, thank you,’ said Dias, in English.

  ‘My dear Doctor!’ he cried, and thrust forward his hands, took Palfrey’s unwilling left hand and pumped it up and down, pressed and fondled it, talking all the time. ‘How delightful to see you. What a remarkable—most remarkable—coincidence, and what a happy choice! We travel together!’ He released Palfrey’s hand and raised his own. Some passengers were amused by Dias’s flamboyance, others were obviously annoyed. The steward came into the cabin, the last of the crew, and called out: ‘Take your seats, please!’

  ‘And—and,’ cried Dias, high above the racing of the four great engines, ‘and this is your wife? Señora, ever your most devoted, most humble, most admiring servant!’

  ‘How are you?’ murmured Drusilla.

  ‘… your seats, please!’ cried the steward.

  Palfrey and Drusilla went to the Customs hut at Le Bourget where their luggage was examined with deceptive carelessness, marked, and released. They left the hut, and looked at the crowds about the busy airport, one of t
he busiest in Europe. There were some taxis, and private cars, and this was deceptive, for at the first glance it looked very much the same hustle and bustle and excitement as there had been before the war. But in the back-ground there were dog-carts, pulled by cyclists, replacing taxis.

  They were to be met, but did not see anyone they knew. Then from behind them a man spoke in a broad American accent, slurred Middle West.

  ‘Howdy, strangers, I guess it’s good to see you folks around here.’

  They swung round. A short, wiry man was standing there and grinning at them. By his side was a taller man, as tall as Palfrey, loose-limbed, shaggy-looking, with straight fair hair and fair prominent eyebrows and an untidy moustache. He looked as if he had lived among corn and come to look like corn. He too was grinning broadly.

  ‘Strangers?’ said Palfrey. ‘What strangers?’

  Little was said, but there was an orgy of handshaking.

  The small man was Bruton, the tall one Erikson, who came of Danish stock and looked as if he had reverted to the type of his forebears. Bruton often said that he was American as far back as his family could remember, and there was some truth in that. He came of Cornish stock, of one of the earliest settler families. His eyes were dark blue and he always looked as if he needed a shave. Unlike Erikson’s, his hair was crisp and curly. He was a good-looking man, and would have been remarkable had he been above instead of below middle height. Erikson looked magnificent.

  ‘I’ll take your grip,’ said Erikson, and collected it. ‘The automobile is parked over there.’ He nodded towards a Packard, by which a man in a bright-blue suit was standing at ease, with an expectant smile on his broad face.

  ‘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.’