by John Creasey
They reached the corner of the street.
Gendarmes were struggling to keep back the crowd, which was pouring into the roadway, preventing traffic from passing. Firemen were bellowing, bells were ringing, but the people seemed to have lost their heads and would not move aside. Some distance along the road they were roaring, a deep-throated angry roar.
Stefan said: ‘Mob law, Sap.’
Palfrey said: ‘Can you force a way through?’
‘Yes,’ said Stefan.
He thrust his way forward, striking out when people tried to get in his way. The fire further along the street was brighter now, and in the lurid red glare faces were clearly visible. People at the back of the crowd were taking up the roar. Stefan forged ahead, with Palfrey close by him, and the crowd closed behind them. The gendarmes were helpless now, and gave up the struggle.
They reached Number 17.
It was ablaze from the first floor up, and flames were beginning to shoot skywards. A stronger cordon of police had managed to keep the masses out of the grounds, but a few people had passed them and were flinging stones and bricks into the windows; glass was crashing, the roar of the mob was louder, almost drowning the sound of the flames.
De Morency came up.
‘You’re too late,’ he said. His voice was harsh. ‘I hoped you’d get here in time, Stefan.’
Palfrey snapped: ‘Where are Corny and Neil?’
‘Oh, they are all right,’ said de Morency sombrely. ‘We were all inside when the crowd first arrived—they broke down the front door and stormed in. We got Garon away from them and kept him for a while, but they got him back at last. They’re quite mad. It was Garon or us,’ he added, defensively. ‘We did all we could.’
Palfrey said: ‘Where is Garon?’
‘You will see,’ said de Morency.
Erikson and Bruton came up, and they too were morose, as well as disappointed and angry with themselves, for they believed they could have done more. For the time being they stood by, with people jostling them on all sides, watching the flames. One fire-engine had forced its way through, and the gendarmes were again laying about them to clear a path for the men, but nothing could save the house.
Palfrey said again: ‘Where is Garon?’
‘Up there,’ said Bruton.
The heat was almost suffocating, smuts fluttered down on to their faces, and it was difficult to breathe. They moved back. Stefan worked with the police, shaming the others by his example. They forced the crowd back and the firemen came through – and as they started to rig the hoses the roof of the house crashed in. Flames shot hundreds of feet into the air, and there was a concerted roar of alarm. The people rushed back, unbidden now, but there was no immediate danger.
Then, in a window of the second floor, a man appeared.
He was visible against the fiery glow, a tall, bearded man – and his beard was on fire! He was screaming and gesticulating, snatching at his beard, trying to put out the flames. His hair caught fire, and went up in a blaze. They could hear his screams above the roar of the flames, for the crowd was hushed now, and stood watching with bated breath.
The man, in a frenzy of pain and torment, flung himself out of the window.
It was Garon. When he was picked up his neck was found to be broken.
Chapter Twelve
Charles Arrives
It proved that the ringleaders of the mob which had started the attack on Garon had deliberately set fire to the house. That was the point on which Palfrey tried to concentrate. Had they gone for Garon, dragged him from his house and hanged or knifed him, the obvious explanation would probably have been the right one. Garon was distrusted and hated – and Garon had been sacrified to appease the anger of the crowds.
Next day Palfrey learned more about Garon.
It was Dominade who told him most, a worried Dominade, in whose district the outrage had been committed. There was no proof that Garon had been a Black Market trader, but the people believed he was. He had been a consultant to the Government, and the people blamed him as well as the Ministers. The Paris Press was divided; some demanded the immediate resignation of the ministers concerned with food and its distribution, others upheld both the Government and Garon. It was impossible to say which was right; only one thing stood out crystal clear: the food situation had in it the seeds of disaster.
Palfrey sent a report to Brett, in code; that was the least he could do, although it was hardly a matter for an Intelligence Department.
He would not commit himself to an opinion about Dias’s activities where Garon was concerned. The fact that the name had been in the book was not evidence enough to show that Dias and Garon were associates. It was even possible that Dias had marked Garon down – for death, thought Palfrey.
He told only Stefan of that, as they were sitting in the lounge of the Bristol on the following evening. Drusilla was upstairs, and they were waiting for her before having coffee. De Morency, Erikson and Bruton had gone to the theatre, for there had been no work on hand for the night. All trace of Dias had been lost. What particular play they had selected Palfrey did not know.
All three of the men had been morose all day, blaming themselves for the death of Garon. They were convinced that if they had acted more quickly they might have saved his life, and the terrified man would probably have told them the truth. De Morency had telephoned from the house for Stefan, believing that Stefan’s strength might help them to save the man, but help had come too late.
It was better, Palfrey thought, to let them get the incident out of their systems in the way they thought best.
Stefan, who rarely smoked, rolled a cigarette between his fingers, and murmured: ‘You think perhaps Dias inspired that mob?’
‘He might have done,’ said Palfrey. ‘I was on the list, and he’s tried to kill me. I know it’s guesswork. I won’t even say that I think it’s likely, but it is possible.’
‘And leads us where?’ asked Stefan.
‘Nowhere. That’s the devil of it.’ Palfrey lit a cigarette and moodily watched the smoke. ‘If all of us in the book were concerned with food or food distribution I would be inclined to say that we knew what Dias was really doing. But von Kriess isn’t connected with food.’
‘What about the others?’ asked Stefan.
‘One is Jacques Midaut, of Antwerp,’ said Palfrey. ‘A shipowner, and owner of some of the Antwerp docks. The other is Kurt Knudsen, a Stockholm fishing-fleet owner. I think we’d better wait for more developments. Before going to Rotterdam, you and I had better go to Antwerp. That’ll be the only change in plans, so far—unless we get news of Dias.’
‘I think you are wise,’ said Stefan. ‘Will you leave a message for Charles Lumsden?’
‘Yes,’ said Palfrey, and his eyes brightened; they aways brightened when he saw Drusilla.
She walked towards them slowly, dressed in the green suit, eyed surreptitiously by many men. Palfrey stood up and pushed a chair forward. A waiter came at once; waiters rarely kept Drusilla waiting for long.
They were drinking coffee, and Palfrey was looking towards the dining-room, now nearly empty, when a voice spoke from behind him.
‘Hallo, Palfrey!’
Palfrey swung round.
‘Charles!’ said Drusilla, in surprise.
Stefan got up quickly, towering over Charles Lumsden.
The young Englishman was beaming, highly pleased with himself. He showed few traces of his London misadventure. Two small pieces of sticking plaster, one on his temple and the other on his cheek, and an eye which was slightly swollen, were all that remained.
His eyes widened when Palfrey introduced Stefan.
‘I was afraid you’d move on without me,’ he said, ‘and decided to come ahead of time. I hope it’s all right,’ he added, rather anxiously.
Chapter Thirteen
More Evidence of Unrest
The aircraft touched down before midday. Palfrey’s first impression was of efficiency and contentment. The a
irport officials and stewards were friendly, there was no noticeable shortage of taxis, the lunch at the restaurant was excellent. Aircraft were landing or taking off every few minutes; the atmosphere of hustle inseparable from a large aerodrome seemed more pronounced here. It had an exhilarating effect on Palfrey and Drusilla, but Charles had lost much of his ebullience. Stefan regarded everything and everyone with serene calm, and always had a reassuring influence on them all. It was very seldom that he showed any sign of losing his temper.
‘This seems better,’ Drusilla said.
‘Much,’ agreed Palfrey.
‘We have not yet seen Antwerp,’ said Stefan. ‘But perhaps we are suffering from the gloom which followed our comparative failures—Paris was, perhaps, not so bad as we imagined.’
Charles snapped: ‘Were there food riots, or weren’t there?’
‘I have seen many worse,’ said Stefan. ‘Are we going straight to an hotel, Sap?’
‘I think so,’ said Palfrey.
‘I’d certainly like to,’ said Drusilla.
Erikson had given them the name of a small hotel near the docks, which he said was central and extremely good. Their taxi-driver said at once that he knew it. He was a quiet man, and Palfrey looked at his eyes thoughtfully; they were the eyes of a man who was not thinking much about what he was saying.
Even when he saw Stefan his expression did not change.
Charles, ruefully apologetic now, squeezed in the back with Palfrey and Drusilla. The driver strapped on their luggage and went back to his seat, still in a curiously mechanical fashion. He started off at a slow pace, and they drove through some of the poorer streets. There was comparatively little bomb or shell damage to be seen, only here and there were there noticeable gaps in the buildings. Most of the houses were small and squalid-looking. Listless children stood about in the streets, very few of them playing. There were old women and old men sitting at windows, looking out, many of them with pipes in their mouths. Palfrey did not see one who was actually smoking; the pipes were empty.
Turning a corner, they came upon a large crowd of silent, indifferent people, pathetically reminiscent of the marchers they had seen in Paris, but these people were not marching. They were shuffling slowly towards a stationary van at the far end of a long street. Men, women and children were in the line, silent, except for the cries of children and the reproving voices of the parents.
Palfrey leaned forward. ‘Slow down, please,’ he said.
The taxi-driver obeyed. They drove slowly past the van. People coming away from it were carrying basins, bowls or cups of steaming soup. Three flushed women behind a counter in the van were serving soup as quickly as they could. As the taxi drove past one spilled a little, and Palfrey saw the eyes of a dozen people turn towards the pool on the counter – hungry, reproachful eyes.
Charles leaned forward and whispered to Stefan:
‘Is this better?’
‘Now, my friend,’ said Stefan, chidingly.
They came out of that long, narrow road of mean houses into a broader throughfare, where trams were running and there were crowds of cyclists. Free-soup kitchens were up and down the road, and they were all besieged. There were few police about; it was as if the police knew that they would not be needed, the people were too docile.
Ahead of them, when they turned another corner, were the docks. Derricks and cranes stretched in all directions almost as far as the eye could see. The funnels of cargo ships alongside for unloading were like dark rectangular blots on the blue sky. The water of the docks seemed blue and smiling, but there were no smiles on the faces of the people.
Hundreds of men were standing about near the docks. Some gates were locked. Now they found the police in strength and there were also armed soldiers, all of them Belgian. There was a sullenness about the ‘docility,’ and Palfrey, watching the scowling people, sensed that they were hostile towards the taxi and its occupants. The driver tried to put on speed, but could not. Men in twos and threes were crossing the road in front of them, deliberately forcing them to slow down, but never going so far as to make them stop. When they were half-way along the dock-side road something smashed against the window nearest Drusilla. Instinctively she drew back. Mud was on the window, and began to slide sluggishly down, darkening the interior of the car. They had hardly recovered from the shock before there was another smack; the driver put on his brakes quickly, for the windscreen was covered with mud and he could not see in front of him.
‘I will hurry,’ he said, as he jumped out. ‘There has been a strike for many days.’
Lionel Mann, of The Times, was a thin, wiry, terse-speaking man. He had been in Antwerp for some months, and some of his articles on Black Market had not made nice reading. He knew Palfrey by reputation, and, over a whisky-and-soda, was morosely eager to talk. He did not like the ways things were developing down in Antwerp and, from what he could gather, in many other towns. What was it like in Paris?
Palfrey told him what he knew.
‘It’s pretty well the same here,’ said Mann. ‘Chief trouble, transport. But’ – he scowled ferociously – ‘the B.M. wolves find it. Plenty of it. I don’t know who’s to blame. My opinion of the Government is that it’s sound. But I wouldn’t say the same of all civil servants. This dock strike—who can blame the men? Midaut is behaving like a swine. He’s got a good reputation, used to be all right, but now’ – Mann swallowed his whisky and put his glass down with a bang. ‘He seems to have lost his senses. There is work at the docks by night. Not only his—all over the place. Usually manhandled supplies. Sometimes with lorries and vans. Of course the men don’t like it. They feel sure the food is going where it shouldn’t.’
‘Is it?’asked Palfrey.
‘I wouldn’t like to commit myself,’ said Mann, ‘but something odd is happening.’
‘Do you know Midaut?’ asked Palfrey.
‘Yes. He used to see the Press whenever they asked for it; now he surrounds himself with a bodyguard and won’t open his mouth. I’ll tell you one thing, Palfrey: that man’s frightened. And if he’s behind Black Market he’s got good reason for being frightened, because one day the crowds will really go wild. When I say they’ll tear him limb from limb, I mean limb from limb and finger from finger. They’ve been good, these Belgians, but it mustn’t go on much longer. What are you after Midaut for?’
Palfrey smiled. ‘I’m looking for some radium.’
‘Radium!’ said Mann. ‘Here, give me another drink.’ He drank. ‘Radium,’ he said, witheringly. ‘Don’t try that one on me. I suppose you want an introduction to Midaut?’
‘It would be helpful,’ murmured Palfrey.
‘Don’t be so sure,’ said Mann. ‘It probably won’t get you past his outer defences.’ He scribbled a note, all the same, and Palfrey, deciding to waste no time, went immediately to the dock-owner’s offices. He was assured that Midaut was not there. He went to his home, a flat in the best residential part of Antwerp, overlooking the Schelde and the grim Forte de la Flandre, with the swing-boats, skittle-alleys and fairground of the Kursaal near by.
Midaut, he was assured, was not there.
The next morning the Belgian newspapers were splashed with sensation; Jacques Midaut had committed suicide and had left a letter saying that the ships were being unloaded by night and the cargoes were going to the Black Market. He declared that he had been blackmailed into helping, that he could stand it no longer and intended to take the easy way out. Leading articles shrieked for action, the Government stepped in; by the end of the day negotiations with the strikers were over and the men were back at work.
There was new life in Antwerp, noticeable in the squared shoulders and the springy steps of the people, but it did not make any reduction in the number of pale, hungry faces, in the crowds which besieged the soup kitchens, or in the activities of the Black Market.
It was little more than half an hour’s flight from Antwerp to Rotterdam. Palfrey and his party reached there on the day after t
he Antwerp strike had been settled. All three of them were quiet as they left the airport, as if they were afraid of what they would see about them. In the centre of the city the devastation was the more remarkable because a few streets and squares had been left untouched. There were the usual food queues, the usual thin, unhealthy faces.
Palfrey took the others to the University Hospital, near the Zoological Gardens and overlooking the park and the river. Inside there was bustling efficiency. The out-patients’ rooms were crammed; here the whole suffering of a nation was evident – mute, patient, terrible in its intensity.
Palfrey sent up his card to Dr. Mynhem, a man whom he had met in London. Mynhem came hurrying down the broad stairs, white-smocked, bearded, wearing pince-nez. He had once been a very fat man, but was now lean; his coat sagged about him, he was too small for all his clothes. But there was brightness in his eye as he pumped Dr. Palfrey’s arm, greeted Drusilla and the others courteously, and took them upstairs. He had only a small room for an office. ‘I am sorry it is so small,’ he said, ‘but there is too little space, the larger offices have been used for wards, we are managing somehow, Palfrey. Accommodation is so short. Now—how can I help you?’
‘I’m here about van Doorn,’ said Palfrey.
‘Ah,’ said Mynhem, and his eyes looked sad. ‘That was a wicked thing, Palfrey. He went to see you, did he not?’
‘Yes,’ said Palfrey.
‘He told me that he was going,’ said Mynhem, ‘but he did not tell me why. That was when he called here after he had been to Berlin. He was secretive, you understand, he would not tell me a great deal, but he was also greatly excited. He left in the highest of spirits, after he had asked me what I thought of you and’ – Mynhem smiled – ‘I had given him a satisfactory opinion!’