Shadow of Doom (9 page)

 

The aircraft touched down before midday. Palfrey's first impression was of efficiency and contentment. The airport 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 the 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!'

Palfrey murmured: ‘Nice of you. So you don't know why he came?'

‘I am not even sure that I wish to know,' said Mynhem, unexpectedly.

‘I am afraid that he was killed because of his journey, my friend. I feel the burden of my responsibility is too great to take risks with myself.'

‘Yes,' said Palfrey, ‘of course. I don't want you to take risks. What I do want to know is whether van Doorn mentioned any other names besides von Kriess in Berlin, and whether he gave you the impression that he knew there was danger.'

‘He gave me no names,' said Mynhem. ‘As for danger …' He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I do not know whether you understand our reaction to
physical
danger. We have been used to it for so long that we hide fear quite easily, without any particular effort. Life has been dangerous in every way for so long, security is the thing to which we have not yet grown accustomed.'

‘I know what you mean,' said Palfrey. ‘Did you see the body?'

‘No,' said Mynhem, ‘it was not brought here. I believe that the face was badly mutilated.'

‘Face?' said Palfrey sharply.

‘Yes, my friend—he suffered much before he died.'

 

 

Van Doorn's house had escaped serious damage.

It was grey, but had once been white. The garden was cultivated for vegetables where there had once been only flowers, tulips of great variety, tall and stately, inviting strangers to gaze. During the occupation, Mynhem had told Palfrey, van Doorn's house had been used by the Gestapo and kept in fair condition. Even the paths were in good repair, and there was a very old man working in the garden when Palfrey's car drew up.

Palfrey and the others got out and looked at the house. It had two floors, but it looked low. There was grace in its lines, and it fitted in well with the flat landscape beyond, for it was on the outskirts of the city. There were other houses near by which had not been greatly damaged, but all needed decorating – it was as if the searing breath of desolation had passed over every street, withered it, and passed on.

Charles said, awkwardly: ‘We won't all barge in, Palfrey, will we?'

‘I think so,' said Palfrey. ‘Come along.' He led the way with Drusilla, and the old gardener put down his spade and stared at them, as if he had some dread memory of similar visitations. They passed out of his sight. Not far away was a small, dark man, who apparently had nothing to do. Palfrey knocked at the front door, which was painted white, although the paint was flaking and in places yellow wood showed through.

The door opened promptly, and a girl stood there.

She did not seem surprised to see them, nor embarrassed by so many strangers. She inclined her head courteously, and Palfrey handed her a note which Mynhem had given him, introducing them. She stepped aside and asked them in, speaking in English, although she shot a quick, puzzled glance at Stefan.

She was young, not much more than twenty-three or four, thought Palfrey. She had fair hair, cut short, parted in the middle and falling in soft waves to the middle of her cheeks. It was glossy with brushing. Her complexion was good, although she was much too thin. She wore a housecoat which had been patched and patched again, but it fitted well, and there was a hint of courage in the squared shoulders and the fitting waist, defiance of conditions and pride of appearance. She wore no stockings and her wooden shoes were dark brown in colour.

As she finished reading, her colour deepened, and she looked up at Palfrey. Her eyes were a clear grey. She was not beautiful, she was not lovely, but there was frankness in her gaze, in her broad nose, her smooth forehead and her squared chin. Her lips were full, wide, set gravely – until she looked up, when they parted and her eyes widened, as if she could not believe what the letter said.

‘Are you—Dr. Palfrey?'

‘Yes,' said Palfrey.

She said: ‘Thank
God
you have come!'

She turned away hastily. He did not need to ask why, for he had seen the tears in her eyes. When she looked round again, however, she was smiling.

‘I am very glad to meet you, Dr. Palfrey. And …' She looked from one to the other, Palfrey introduced them, she bowed gravely and led them into a large, low-ceilinged room. It was surprisingly well furnished, and for the first time Charles saw the legendary spotlessness of a Dutch home. There was perfection of cleanliness everywhere, little polish but evidence of the labour freely bestowed. There were skin rugs over parquet flooring, comfortable chairs and settees, odd tables and a radio set in one corner. In spite of the neatness, it had an air of being lived in.

‘Please sit down,' said Anna van Doorn.

‘Thank you,' said Palfrey.

‘Why have you come?' asked Anna.

‘Because we want to find out what happened to your father,' said Palfrey.

‘I hoped that was so,' said Anna. ‘He is not dead; of that I am certain.'

Palfrey did not speak. Charles, after staring at her, suddenly turned his head and looked out of the window, as if he could not bear to look at her sorrowing face.

‘What makes you say that?' asked Palfrey.

‘It was not
his
body,' she said. ‘They said it was, but I am convinced that it was not.'

‘What makes you feel sure?' asked Palfrey.

‘Because the thumbnail of my father's left hand was split,' said Anna, ‘and the thumbnail on the dead man's hand was not split. The nails of all the fingers were of a different shape, also. I know that my friends believe that I am not reasonable about this, and for that reason I have said little, but I am telling you because he had such great faith in you.'

‘And you are quite sure?' said Palfrey.

‘I cannot allow any doubt at all,' said Anna. ‘
I
know his hands. Had the body been of my father, I do not think I could have gazed upon it without breaking down. I did not. It was not my father. It is supposed to be, that is all. I am quite sure that he is alive.'

‘Did you tell the police?' asked Palfrey.

‘I told the police that I could not be sure,' she said, ‘because the face was so horribly mutilated.' She was quite calm; she had looked upon horrors and grown used to them. ‘Others who knew my father said that the body was his, and that was accepted as true.'

‘I wonder why the body of any other man should be substituted,' murmured Palfrey.

‘I have no idea,' she said, ‘but I think I know why he was taken away.'

‘Go on, please,' said Palfrey.

‘And I think you also know, or you would not be here,' said Anna. ‘He went first to Berlin, to see von Kriess about the radium. When he came back he told me that he was sure you would set everything aside and try to find it, he was sure that it was in existence. So he flew to London. It is clear that others knew what he had discovered, and wished to know more from him.'

‘It could be,' said Palfrey.

‘It is,' said Anna. ‘Why have you come, Dr. Palfrey?'

‘To find the radium, of course.' Palfrey said.

Her eyes lighted up. ‘So you are going to try?'

‘I'm going to find it,' said Palfrey, gently.

‘He was so sure,' she said, and took a step forward and pressed Palfrey's arm. ‘He was convinced that you would fight for it, that you would know of its importance. And your friends are to help?'

‘Yes,' said Palfrey.

‘I also wish to help,' she said, simply.

‘Of course,' said Palfrey, and she seemed surprised and relieved that he did not immediately tell her that it was impossible. ‘The question is what you can best do to help.'

‘I have also wondered that,' she said, ‘because' – she smiled again, and released his arm – ‘I also felt sure that one day you would come. There is little that I can suggest, in some ways I am so helpless, but—did he talk to you of Frau von Kriess?'

‘No,' said Palfrey.

‘She was here with her husband,' said Anna, ‘and I will not have it said that she was anything but a good woman. She did much to help us while she was here, more than many of the Germans liked. She
was
a good woman. Now she is in Berlin, and her husband, and—it was my father's belief that she knew as much of the truth
as
her husband, or more. Did my father say that to you?'

‘No,' said Palfrey.

‘He would not because he was not sure,' said Anna, ‘but he
felt
sure. There was another name he mentioned—a strange name, not German and not Dutch. I have tried to remember it but I have failed—I am sorry.' In her gravity she was appealing, her heart seemed to live in her eyes. ‘One day I shall remember it. But there
is
one thing I can tell you,' she added, firmly.

‘Yes?' said Palfrey.

‘Since Hertingen I have been followed,' said Anna. ‘In Rotterdam I am always followed. No one approaches close to me, and yet I see the men—always the same men—wherever I go. I have told no one, because I do not see how it can help the police, who have so much to do, but—sometimes it frightens me.'

‘What are the men like?' asked Palfrey.

‘One of them is so small,' she said. ‘Smaller than I. He has a dark face, and a scar on his chin, and he is always touching his chin. The other man is hard to describe, because he is so ordinary. But I do not think you need go far to see them, Dr. Palfrey.'

‘Are they here?' asked Palfrey, sharply.

‘I have seen them from the window this morning,' she said. ‘Sometimes they pretend to be working, sometimes they are doing nothing. That small dark man—I hate the sight of him!' She paused, and then suddenly moved forward, not to Palfrey but to Drusilla. She put out her hands and Drusilla took them. She said with a catch in her voice: ‘Please, make him believe me. I am telling the truth, it is not imagination. Make him believe me!'

‘He does believe you,' said Drusilla.

‘There is doubt in his eyes, as there is always in Dr. Mynhem's. I can see that doubt, I tell you my father is alive, they have not killed him; you must find him for me, you must find him!' She turned on Palfrey, and had he not taken her arms and stopped her she would have flung herself on her knees in front of him, ‘I have told you the truth, you must believe me!'

‘Now steady,' said Palfrey, smiling. ‘I haven't doubted you. What you say is reasonable, you see. No need to mutilate your father's face beyond recognition, all they could reasonably want to do was to kill him. No point in torture, either, at this stage. There are simpler, subtler ways of making him tell them what he knows. Anna, we want your help, you know.'

She drew back, with her eyes glistening.

‘I will do everything I can!'

‘And the first thing you do,' said Palfrey, ‘is to leave here, half an hour after we have gone, and walk to the centre of the city, along the main road. Is that clear?'

‘Of course.'

‘Just that,' said Palfrey, ‘and make no sign if you see your dark man. Make no sign if you see us.' There was a lilt in his voice. ‘This is the first time we have made real progress!'

‘And—you
believe
that my father is alive?'

‘Of course,' said Palfrey.

They left soon afterwards. She stood on the porch and watched them climb into the car, as grave-faced as she had been when she opened the door. She did not wave nor smile. They drove off, and she turned back into the house, closing the door quietly.

As she did so a man appeared at the side of the nearest house, an ordinary-looking man, poorly clad, who walked swiftly towards her house. From a smaller building not far off came another man, very small, with a black, ugly face.

They converged upon the front door.

The old gardener watched them, and then turned and went on with his digging, as if he knew that there was cause for alarm, yet could not stir himself to interfere.

 

When the car was round the first corner, Palfrey tapped Drusilla, who was driving, on the shoulder. She pulled up at once. Charles was in the middle of saying that it was crazy to leave Anna there, and Palfrey should not have encouraged her to believe her father was alive; for even if the body had been that of another man, there was little chance of getting van Doorn back alive.

He broke off in surprise when Palfrey opened the door.

‘Come on,' said Palfrey, and Stefan, at Drusilla's side, opened his door and climbed out. ‘Park half a mile further along the road, 'Silla,' went on Palfrey, ‘we'll join you there. Come on. Charles! We're in a hurry!'

‘But—'

‘Dark man and vague man probably at the house now,' said Palfrey. The dark man was near when we arrived—didn't you see him?'

‘No,' said Charles.

‘You must learn to see through brick walls,' said Palfrey flippantly. He slammed the door, and smiled at Drusilla. ‘No tricks,' he ordered, ‘and park near a traffic cop!' He stood on the sidewalk until the car was out of sight, and then turned back towards van Doorn's house. ‘A tricky approach is indicated,' he said. ‘You stay near the front gate, Charles. Stefan and I will look round the back. If there should be trouble, weigh in with all you've got. It might be your chance for a spot of revenge,' he added, encouragingly.

‘Can't I come?'

‘No,' said Palfrey. ‘Strict obedience to all orders is most necessary. We won't leave you out in the cold.' He patted Charles's shoulder, and the younger man went with some bewilderment along the road towards the front of the house. The old gardener was still working, and this time he did not stop.

Charles saw Palfrey and Stefan disappear behind a high hedge at the back of the house. He did not see them again for some time. Some realisation of the task he had been set came to him. He looked about him, half expecting and certainly hoping that strangers would approach the house, but the street seemed deserted now.

Palfrey and Stefan approached the back door quite openly.

They could not see the gardener nor Charles, nor could they see anyone inside the house, although the windows were built low and they could see into the back rooms. Palfrey reached the door, and Stefan looked into the nearest room. He was trying the windows, while Palfrey turned the handle of the door and found it locked.

‘There is room for you, I think,' said Stefan.

He had a window open a little. Palfrey put his hand inside, and was able to touch the catch which fastened it. He lifted the catch off, and there was a loud snap. He waited for a moment, listening intently. The only sound he could hear was a low-pitched murmur of voices inside the house. He opened the window and climbed in. It was a dining-room, with a red-tiled floor and fumed oak furniture, the walls were painted with a frieze of tulip fields, beautifully done. He hurried towards the back door, opened it, and let Stefan in.

The murmuring sound was louder now.

They went on carefully. A closed door was between them and the hall. They stepped into the hall, and the murmuring became clearly identifiable now – a man was talking in Dutch. Palfrey did not know Dutch well enough to understand what was being said, but the threatening note was the same in all languages. Yet he did not immediately go into the room from which the voices came, but opened the front door, softly. Charles was staring towards it. Palfrey raised a hand, motioning him away. Charles looked disappointed, but did well – he turned on his heel and walked briskly along the road, towards the centre of the city.