Shadow of Doom (7 page)

 

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.

 

 

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.

‘Dias's man, yes.'

Palfrey looked astonished. ‘Do you know him?'

‘My friend,' said Dominade, leaning forward and lowering his voice, ‘I worked in Paris during the occupation. I continued my work—and at some other work I worked overtime. Ha-ha! In my official capacity I sometimes assisted the Germans. So I sometimes knew when Señor Fernandez y Dias was in Paris on a special mission from South America. And I tell you, I met him and his man, Lozana, and I would not trust them—that much!' Dominade snapped his fingers loudly. ‘That much!' he repeated, and snapped them again. ‘But they have, you understand, the diplomatic privilege. There is little I can do.'

‘That little may be enough,' said Palfrey. ‘I want to go into the
Royale
and have freedom of movement. That goes for my friends as well. I would not like to get into trouble with the management or with the police.'

Dominade's eyes creased at the corners.

‘That is simple! The manager is a great friend of a friend of mine; it will be arranged—when?'

‘At once?' murmured Palfrey, hopefully.

‘At once!' cried Dominade, and snatched up the telephone. He talked in French with bewildering speed, replaced the telephone and picked up another, replaced that and waited, and before either of them spoke one of the telephone bells rang. Dominade listened, his eyes brightened and he plucked his beard. ‘My friend,
all
my thanks!' he cried, and banged down the receiver. ‘
M'sieu le Docteur,
it is arranged. M'sieu de Morency will introduce you and your friends to the manager, that will then be secure for you.'

‘I can't thank you enough,' said Palfrey.

‘Nonsense!' declared Dominade, ‘it is but a little, and too little. Ask more, now or at any other time.' He stood up and offered his hand. ‘It has been a privilege to meet the great Dr. Palfrey.'

‘You're very kind,' murmured Palfrey.

Outside, de Morency was waiting for him. De Morency had known that the manager of the
Royale
was a friend of a friend of Dominade's. It had all been arranged pleasantly, honour was satisfied, Dominade had been afforded an opportunity to express his thanks and also to condone unorthodoxy.

‘You get ideas, Sap,' said de Morency, as they drove in a small car towards the
Royale.
‘I am glad that you have broken away from those dusty consulting-rooms.'

‘Oh, they weren't dusty,' said Palfrey, absently.

He did not talk much on the journey, nor when he was taken into the hotel and, at the first opportunity, introduced to the manager, whose name he promptly forgot. De Morency was to introduce Erikson and Bruton a little later. Drusilla was at the
Bristol
for today, Palfrey said, there was certainly nothing she could usefully do. Stefan was with her. For such a job as he had in mind the big Russian would be too conspicuous.

He wanted, of course, to search Lozana's room at the
Royale.

He had no lingering doubts about Dias and Lozana. Pedro's death that morning, in a car accident, would have convinced him, even if he had not already been reasonably certain that Dias and Lozana were in active opposition to him. He had not worried Pedro a great deal, but asked a few leading questions, feeling sure that Pedro would hurry to tell Lozana. The best had happened, for Pedro had gone in person, instead of telephoning. There was nothing remarkable in the fact that Lozana had straightway gone to the Embassy, but it was worth noting.

Lozana, he learned, was in his room, but had ordered a table for two. He had not said who his guest was to be, but had hinted that he would be a personage of some importance.

‘Oh,' said Palfrey, and looked at the manager whose name he could not remember. ‘Could that table be laid for three?'

‘But,
m'sieu,
it is ordered for two.'

‘Yes,' said Palfrey. ‘Just a little mistake. Do you think you could arrange it?'

I will, since I am asked by such a good friend to help you,' said the manager, ‘but it is a most unusual thing, and I would not do it for many people.'

‘Three,' said Palfrey.

‘Three,
m'sieu.
'

Palfrey sauntered into the main lounge. It was divided by a passage connecting the front hall with the restaurant, and was like a Tower of Babel. Paris fashions remained varied and distinguished, and here too Paris looked remarkably normal. Palfrey hid himself behind a palm, smoked cigarettes and drank coffee, until he was joined by Erikson and Bruton, who came with de Morency. He did not think he was being watched by anyone that morning, and no one had shown any particular interest in any of them.

‘Now what, O Chief?' asked Bruton, lazily.

‘You and Neil will have a shot at Lozana's room when he's at lunch,' said Palfrey, ‘and Raoul will keep his eyes open and warn you if there is trouble in the offing. You know what we're looking for. Addresses in Europe, particularly of Germans, anything that might help us.'

‘What are you going to do?'

Palfrey twisted some strands of hair about his forefinger.

‘I am going to tell Dias what we're looking for,' he said, and so surprised them that not one of them asked him whether he were mad – at first. Then all three declared that he was, but he persuaded them to change their minds, or at least suspend judgement.

He was alone when Dias arrived with much ceremony. Dias was accompanied by his two attendants, one of whom stood near one door, the second by the other door of the dining-room. He looked magnificent. Lozana was somewhat chastened, Palfrey thought, as he observed them from his point of vantage. He saw Dias look down at the table, and then stare at Lozana. Words passed. Dias pointed to the places laid – three stabs of his finger towards three places. Lozana shook his head. He looked about him, as if for a waiter to rectify the mistake, and then he saw Palfrey, who advanced smilingly towards him.

Dias also saw him, and immediately radiated good-humour. He took Palfrey's hand in both of his.

‘What a happy chance, Dr. Palfrey! By mistake a third place was laid at my table' – he did not say Lozana's table – ‘and here, by remarkable coincidence, you are able to take it. I
beg
of you to find time to lunch with me. And with Señor Lozana. I wish only that your wife were here, but—but perhaps she
is,
Doctor?'

‘No,' said Palfrey. ‘She has gone with my friends to Versailles. To see the gardens.' He smiled as he sat down, and Dias beamed his satisfaction. Lozana looked wary, but Dias was always wary, no matter how he looked. ‘I invited myself,' Palfrey added.

‘I beg your pardon,' said Dias.

‘The third place,' said Palfrey. ‘I suggested it.'

‘Then that is remarkably kind of you,' said Dias. ‘You remembered my invitation, and to accept it in such a practical fashion—I am full of admiration, Doctor!'

‘Thanks,' smiled Palfrey.

‘We shall have champagne!' declared Dias.

‘The wine of the country,' said Palfrey. ‘Why not? And we have much to celebrate, haven't we?'

‘Such a meeting is worthy of celebration,' agreed Dias.

‘I didn't quite mean that,' said Palfrey.

Dias sat back and looked at him. Lozana seemed on edge, and was sitting upright. The head waiter came and was obsequious, which showed how effectively Dias hypnotised such personages. Other waiters flowed towards them and placed plates in front of them, champagne glasses, the silvered bucket of ice containing a dusty bottle. All this was done while the three men sat in silence.

At last Dias said: ‘What did you
quite
mean, Dr. Palfrey?'

‘Our mission,' said Palfrey, and speared a tiny sardine, a wafer of olive and a tiny square of potato covered with a white sauce.

‘Mission?' echoed Dias, in a husky voice.

‘That's right,' said Palfrey. ‘The search for the radium.'

‘Ra-dium,' sighed Dias.

‘Of course,' said Palfrey, after eating with relish. ‘I wish you'd told me why you were so interested in me before. It's no secret. Van Doorn came and told me that there is radium hidden in Germany, and I want to find it. That's quite straightforward. Apparently you want it. Need we fight about it?'

‘
Fight?
'
breathed Dias.

‘After all,' said Palfrey, ‘this isn't England. And I am here and I've started. You didn't kill Charles Lumsden and you didn't kill me and my friends last evening. On the whole, you aren't having a very good time, are you? As I say,
need
we fight?'

After a long, breathless pause, while Palfrey speared more delicacies from among his
hors-d'oeuvres,
Dias said: ‘Are you suggesting that we should work
together,
Doctor?'

Palfrey laughed; Lozana gasped; Dias stared fixedly at Palfrey, and gradually his cheeks and his jowl darkened, for he realised what he had done, he had
told
Palfrey what Palfrey wanted to know.

‘Not exactly,' said Palfrey. ‘I'm suggesting that you should drop out, before you get hurt. But your plate, Excellency, it is nearly full. Eat up!'