Shadow of Doom

by John Creasey

  Muriel’s palpable trick to win his confidence enraged him.

  He telephoned for Stefan, who came at once.

  Upstairs, Frau von Kriess had quieted, and Palfrey ordered coffee for her. Muriel was still sitting by her side, the perfect nurse. She had taken off her hat and coat; beneath it she wore a well-cut tartan suit. Palfrey no longer seemed to impress her, but she looked with unfeigned admiration at Stefan.

  Palfrey said: ‘What were you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ said Muriel.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I can’t make you,’ Muriel said, coldly.

  Palfrey deliberated for some time, while she stared at him boldly. To judge only from appearances, she was likeable and she sounded sincere, but he could not judge from appearances. What he had to do was to make up his mind whether to assume that she had nothing to do with the murder, and let her go – as the civil police would doubtless do, for von Kriess had been killed while he and Muriel had been sitting together in the waiting-room; she had not used that knife.

  He could arrange for the Allied Security Police to detain her, but he doubted whether that would get the desired results. The girl knew a great deal, she was fighting hard in her own way against them, and he was sure that it would not be long before she tried again, through Charles. Charles was the right man to tackle her; believing him weak, she would probably betray herself. He decided to take no action.

  While he was being questioned, with great respect, for the civil police had been told that he was a man of influence, two middle-aged German women arrived, alarmed and tearful. They had been summoned by the old man, and were relatives of von Kriess.

  Muriel let them take her place in the woman’s room, and as she came downstairs Palfrey was being wished a polite good day by the police.

  ‘Your turn,’ he said, and she looked at him angrily.

  She was questioned for ten minutes, then came out and found Palfrey and Stefan waiting for her in the hall. She seemed relieved. She put on her hat and coat, using a small mirror in a hall-stand as she did so, without looking at them. She had given up all attempts to disarm him. When she had the hat on at the right angle, she said:

  ‘I am afraid you are quite mad, Dr. Palfrey.’

  ‘Oh, I am,’ said Palfrey. ‘No one but a madman would let you go. Tell Dias I shall be with him soon.’

  She swung round. I—do—not—know—Dias!’ she flung at him, and stalked past an astonished policeman into the street.

  Stefan followed her.

  A doctor came, saw Frau von Kriess and, when he came downstairs, told Palfrey impressively what a great shock she had endured; she must not, he said, be disturbed for at least twenty-four hours. The doctor went off and Palfrey went upstairs to see for himself. The woman was just conscious and was suffering from another trembling fit.

  ‘Twenty-four hours it is,’ murmured Palfrey, glumly. ‘I hope there’s no news of Dias before I can talk to her, I shan’t know what to do first.’

  There was no news of Dias.

  That was exasperating. Worse, Frau von Kriess reacted badly; the shock had gone deep, and Palfrey knew that she would need forty-eight hours to recover enough to be questioned. He was haunted by Anna’s assurance that von Kriess had said that his wife knew a great deal, and by his own dissatisfaction. Nothing had gone as might have been expected; the secrecy in London seemed, even now, to have been unnecessary and melodramatic, as if he and the others could not have been trusted with the information. Bane’s part puzzled him, and nothing more was heard from Muriel. Stefan had followed her to an hotel, but had not lingered.

  Palfrey was, he told Drusilla, putting his feet all over the place and never in the right spot.

  He saw Frau von Kriess on the second day.

  She was very much better, and sitting up in her bedroom. Her relatives fussed about, scolded Palfrey for calling, begged him not to worry poor Bertha too much. Palfrey promised, asked a few preliminary questions – and released a torrent of pent-up emotion. Yes, she knew that her husband had been in danger; it was the Nazis – always the Nazis! He had opposed them too often. In Rotterdam he had been in great disfavour, in fact he had been sent to Holland because he had offended the Nazis. This was vengeance, she had no doubt at all.

  Yes, he had received unexpected visitors; she well remembered van Doorn’s visit, but she did not know what it had been about. Her husband had never confided in her, he had said that it was better for a woman not to know everything in these dangerous days. She knew what he meant, of course. Once she had been interviewed by the Gestapo, only highly placed friends had arranged for her to be saved from prison. The Gestapo had wanted to know what her husband did when he was not working; his loyalty had been suspect from the beginning; that was all she could say, his loyalty had been suspect. She had known that he hated the régime, but he had never admitted it to her, she had judged only from his actions. And now they had revenged themselves, and he was dead …

  Palfrey could get nothing more from her, and felt convinced that she knew nothing more.

  Had Anna van Doorn lied to Him? Or had she been guessing? Or – and Palfrey thought that this was the more likely explanation – had she believed that Frau von Kriess could tell him of her husband’s long-lived hostility to the Nazi régime? Was that the vital clue?

  He went back to the Club, and had not been there for long before a Russian attendant, speaking English with a broad American accent, called him to the telephone. Stefan, Drusill and Charles were out, for the day was warm, and they were all feeling the need for exercise. This inaction in Berlin was the most trying feature of the quest, so far.

  ‘Sap!’ He heard’s Charles’s voice, pitched on a low key, obviously urgent. ‘Sap, I’ve met Muriel, we’ve fixed a date for this evening, and are going straight on from here. All right?’

  ‘Good man!’ said Palfrey.

  ‘Any special instructions?’ Charles’s conspiratorial whisper made Palfrey smile.

  ‘No,’ said Palfrey. ‘Use your own judgment.’

  ‘Then I’ll get off,’ said Charles. ‘Cheer-ho!’

  Palfrey put up the receiver, strolled away from the telephone booth and, feeling depressed by his own company, sat down in the lounge-hall and listened to the chatter of conversation. The conversation pleased him because English, American, Russian and French voices were all raised, and the basic language was English, although there were variations which were amusing in themselves. He found himself drowsing, wished he knew which way Drusilla had gone – and suddenly found a man shaking his shoulder vigorously.

  ‘Oh, hallo!’ said Palfrey, sitting up and blinking.

  The telephone, please,’ said an English orderly.

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ said Palfrey. He opened his eyes wide, astonished that he had actually fallen asleep, hurried to the booth and was asked to hold on. It was a call from long distance, from Stockholm.

  News from Erikson at last! Which part of the continent had Dias chosen to visit this time? wondered Palfrey. It was crazy that the man had such freedom of movement; there was something radically wrong, and he could not place it.

  ‘Sap?’ Erikson’s voice, sounding very faint, came on the wires.

  ‘Hallo, Neil!’ said Palfrey, heartily. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the Splendor Hotel,’ said Erikson.

  ‘What news?’ asked Palfrey.

  ‘Just a moment,’ said Erikson – and that seemed a curious thing to say. ‘Just a moment, Sap. I—Listen, listen hard, I won’t have long. Knudsen—’

  Palfrey heard nothing more, not even a gasp – just silence, as if Erikson had been cut off. He did not come on again. Palfrey put through a call to the Splendor at once, by his urgency won priority, inquired, and was told by a girl who sounded composed: ‘I am sorry, sir, Mr. Erikson was taken
ill while telephoning, and he is dead. I am sorry, sir.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Otto Knudsen of Stockholm

  Palfrey and Bruton reached Stockholm that night, after dark.

  There was no difficulty in tracing Erikson’s movements.

  The Splendor Hotel was near the North Bridge on Staden, which connected the main parts of the Northern Venice. The room next to his – or rather a suite of rooms – had been occupied by Señor Dias until that afternoon, when Dias had left, together with others of his staff who had stayed in less pretentious quarters. There was no chance, Palfrey was told, of booking a room there for that night. Palfrey, who badly wanted to be on the spot, telephoned the British Embassy; had they any influence?

  They had.

  The manager of the Splendor, who took them to their room and declared himself honoured to receive such guests, was shocked when they mentioned the death of Erikson. At the Splendor! Gentlemen, such things did not happen!

  Palfrey looked at him levelly. ‘I was talking on the telephone to Mr. Erikson when he died,’ he said.

  The manager apologised at once; he was sure that Dr. Palfrey understood that it was not good for the reputation of an hotel to have it known that there had been a sudden death in the telephone booths. In fact the unfortunate Herr Erikson had been taken ill while on the telephone, but had died in his room, where he had been taken by the attendants. The attendants had called for a doctor, perhaps Dr. Palfrey would like to consult him?

  ‘Please,’ said Palfrey.

  The doctor, a young brisk man, came at once. He was the resident doctor, he said, and he had been on hand when called to Herr Erikson’s bedside. There was no reasonable doubt that the cause of death was heart failure; perhaps it was known that Herr Erikson had a weak heart?

  ‘Weak heart my foot!’ said Bruton.

  ‘I assure you—’ began the doctor.

  Palfrey said: ‘It was probably a strong injection of nicotine, Doctor. Our friend was perfectly fit, but on a dangerous mission. Where is he now?’

  ‘At the city morgue,’ said the doctor, badly shaken. ‘I can arrange for you to see him, Dr. Palfrey, if you would like that.’

  Erikson had died hard, and death had not been kind. There was no sign of the smile which had been so characteristic of him in life. His lips were twisted, as if in pain, and his eyes were shadowed, as if he had known what was about to come to him, and had tried to fight it off.

  Palfrey examined him …

  There were two punctures. One, in the thigh, was older than the one in the arm – the right arm. Both were swollen a little where the injections had been made. Palfrey examined them closely, asked for a magnifying-glass, peered intently through it, and then took out his penknife and probed gently. He removed a tiny strand of white cotton, hardly large enough to be seen by the naked eye, from the puncture in the right arm.

  The doctor said: ‘Then it was injected through his clothes!’

  ‘While he was speaking on the telephone, yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘A bad business. Nicotine or a drug in the same category. There will have to be a post mortem please, to make sure.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said the doctor. ‘I will make the arrangements at once. I hope that you do not think that I suspected anything of the kind.’ He was obviously a little apprehensive. ‘There were no indications, except of cardiac failure.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Palfrey. ‘It was induced cardiac failure. It would not have happened.’ he added, sotto voce, ‘if he hadn’t got very close to the truth.’

  ‘The truth, Doctor?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Palfrey. ‘I’m talking to myself.’

  Bruton had finish his investigations, and was waiting in the hall. He was terse and to the point. Only a waiter had been near the spot at the time, and he had seen Erikson collapse. He could not explain it, for Herr Erikson had seemed so well only a short time before. He had seen two men near the telephones when Erikson had been in a booth but he did not remember them well.

  ‘It was probably Lozana.’

  ‘Or one of his breed,’ said Palfrey. ‘Have you found out where Neil had been?’

  Bruton said: ‘Yes. There was a note in his diary. Appointment to see Knudsen at two o’clock this afternoon. It looks as if he came straight back here and walked into it.’

  Erikson had always kept a diary when he was working on his own. He had used a kind of shorthand which all the others could understand, but was Greek to anyone who did not know the system. The other notes were what they had expected; he had seen Dias and Lozana, there was no indication that they were persona grata with the Swedish authorities, and one official visitor had left Dias in a state of considerable anger.

  ‘He probably had his marching orders then,’ said Bruton. ‘Dias hadn’t been to see Knudsen, so far as Neil knew.’

  They learned that Knudsen was away, but would be at his office next morning. That meant an evening with little to do.

  They went upstairs to unpack their cases. As they reached a bend in the stairs a man who was coming towards them turned abruptly and retraced his steps. They did not see his face. Palfrey gripped Bruton’s arm tightly, hurried up the next flight of stairs, and saw the other man turning into a passage. Palfrey approached it, and peered round the corner cautiously. A man was looking out of an open door, peering as Palfrey was doing, obviously anxious not to be seen.

  A very thoughtful Palfrey moved quietly away. When he joined Bruton the American said; ‘Now you’ve had a shock. Who was it?’

  ‘Matthew Lumsden, brother of Charles,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘The man who was in Rotterdam?’ said Bruton, sharply.

  ‘Yes. Curious, isn’t it? At the time it looked like a coincidence,’ said Palfrey. ‘Now I wonder. If he’d faced it out there wouldn’t have been anything remarkable about it, but he didn’t want to be seen.’

  Bruton said: ‘You’d better go to Knudsen’s on your own. I’ll keep an eye on Mr. Matthew.’

  ‘Not this time,’ said Palfrey. ‘We’ll work in pairs until it’s over.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Bruton. He went on with his unpacking, folded a shirt and put it carefully away, then said abruptly: ‘Sap, there’s one thing that’s giving me plenty to think about.’

  ‘Only one?’ asked Palfrey.

  ‘This one matters,’ said Bruton. ‘Only two of the six people on the list I found in Lozana’s room are alive. You’re one, Knudsen’s another.’

  ‘I had noticed it,’ said Palfrey, mildly. ‘That’s one of the reasons why I’d prefer company.’

  Bruton nodded. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said. ‘I keep thinking that I can see Knudsen with a knife in his back.’

  ‘We ought to find out where Bane is,’ said Palfrey.

  It was not remarkable that Bane was known at the hotel, and there was nothing really remarkable in the fact that he had given up his room and left about the same time as Dias. Palfrey wondered if he were justified in thinking it odd that Bane had left no message for them. Perhaps the American had been annoyed by Palfrey’s continued distrust.

  They went out to Knudsen’s house, which was at Carlberg, built on a hill and surrounded by great pine trees which gave it protection against the high winds that sweep across Sweden from the Atlantic. From the hill the views were incomparable. They could see over the great city, built on land almost completely surrounded by water. The long tongue of Ulfsunda Fjord ran from Carlberg into the heart of the city, and was crowded with small craft.

  In the far distance they could see the countless tiny islands off the coast; Staden which jutted out into the water, connected by three bridges to Norrmalm, and in a more southerly direction, Sodermalm.

  They could see the great quays, the gardens and parks, bright green amongst the mass of buildings, the spires of the great church. The ch
urch of St. Johannes, high on the Brunkebergsas, towered above the city.

  They did not go too near the house, but made inquiries at a small shop with a paper-stall outside, near the foot of the hill. They were looking for a friend who was to have met them there, they said – a very fat man.

  Palfrey described Dias.

  The old man at the stall was in no doubt; the man they described was like a man who had called once or twice, a man interested in the house on the hill. He had visited that house.

  Palfrey thanked their informant warmly, and they returned to the Splendor. Dias and Knudsen were, presumably, acquainted.

  Palfrey and Bruton had not been followed.

  They could not find Neilsen’s name in the telephone directory, but they decided not to go to see the man that night. No one else whom they knew appeared to be at the hotel. The police visited them in connection with Erikson’s death, and seemed reluctant to admit that he had been murdered; it might, they suggested, have been suicide.

  Palfrey left them in no doubt of his opinion.

  Early next morning they set out to call on Knudsen.

  One of the things which most puzzled Palfrey was the fact that sometimes they were so closely watched that there seemed danger lurking at every corner, while at other times no one took the slightest interest in them. It might be that whenever they were dangerously close to Dias they were watched, and when he was safely away from them he withdrew his men.

  Knudsen’s office was in a tall white modern buildings near the docks, overlooking the port with its ceaseless activity. Small motor craft were moving briskly about the waters of the Lake Malar and, beyond Staden, the Saltsjo which stretched to the Baltic, forty miles away. In the distance they could see two larger vessels further out to sea, and, on the horizon, the smoke from a dozen or more small craft – fishing trawlers, Palfrey thought. Other steam trawlers were berthed and they could see fish being unloaded, great piles of silver shimmering in the morning sun. Everywhere wooded islands rose out of the water, some large but mostly small.