Shadow of Doom

by John Creasey

  Palfrey and Bruton watched him breathlessly.

  ‘I think we’ve lost them,’ Bruton said.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Palfrey.

  The driver was away for at least five minutes. When he came back he was beaming broadly and had his thumbs up. Palfrey got out of the taxi, smoothed down his hair, and said: ‘You’ve been very good.’

  ‘I am glad to help,’ said the Swede, cheerfully. ‘I have a great admiration for the English. Where are you going, please?’

  ‘That’s a poser,’ Palfrey said. ‘Poser?’ The man looked startled.

  ‘A problem,’ said Palfrey.

  The driver looked a little less happy as he glanced from one to the other, and rubbed the flat of his hand along his trousers. Palfrey knew that it was dawning on him that they had fled from the police. Palfrey was wondering how far they could use the taxi and take advantage of the driver’s obvious friendliness. A few words would set his mind at rest about the police, but would they be justified? Matthew Lumsden was dead by now; it was possible that Bane or Knudsen would accuse them of the murder. The police might already be hunting for them; if Bane or Knudsen succeeded in putting the machinery of the law into action it would move rapidly.

  Bruton said: ‘Sap, I wonder if Neilsen is at home. The Marquis said he lives in Bikka Street.’

  ‘Bikka Street,’ said the driver. ‘That is in Haga.’

  ‘Where are we now?’ asked Palfrey.

  ‘Rorstrand.’

  ‘Are we far from Haga?’

  ‘It is north,’ said the driver, ‘a long way north.’

  ‘Can you take us there?’ asked Palfrey.

  ‘I can,’ said the driver. He hesitated, looked from Palfrey to Bruton and back again, and then said decidedly: ‘Yes, I will take you. It will cost one hundred krone.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Palfrey.

  The driver was obviously still a little uneasy. He hustled them into the taxi, exchanged a few words with a colleague who was washing down another taxi, and then drove off at high speed. They did not touch the centre of the town, but drove along a fine road, through wooded tree-clad country, with glimpses from time to time of a vast stretch of water which shimmered beneath the bright sun and tree-clad islands raising rocky heads clear from the surface. It was cold, and Palfrey began to feel it for the first time. Now and again he shivered.

  Haga, the residential suburb on the shores of the Brunnsulken, had a position of such beauty that, had he had more time to look about him, Palfrey would have been enthralled. Now he was filled with burning anxiety. Neilsen had been a resident agent in Stockholm at the beginning of the war, had been injured and put on the retired list. The Marquis had specifically mentioned him, but he might not be at home; if he were, he would joyfully help them.

  They reached the top of the hill leading to the suburb, and looked down on more tree-clad slopes, dotted with white houses, their red and blue roofs catching the sun. It was a modern fairy-land. Beyond the shores the tiny wooded islands which starred the lake appeared in sharp relief.

  ‘Bikka Street,’ said the taxi-driver, aloud. He slowed down and called to a woman, who directed him. Soon they were in a winding road with houses of pleasing aspect on either side, set in trim gardens, with rows of great trees between each garden. Every house had a number.

  ‘Neilsen’s number is 36,’ Bruton said.

  ‘We are near,’ said the taxi-driver, and pulled up outside a white house with a finely built rockery, and stone steps leading to the front door.

  ‘You’ve been very good,’ said Palfrey. ‘We hope to find friends here.’ He took out his wallet and put two 100-krone notes into the man’s hand. He smiled. ‘Don’t believe what you might hear about us, please—and say nothing!’

  ‘I have a silent tongue,’ said the taxi-driver. He saluted and made off, and Palfrey and Bruton stood watching him. He disappeared round a bend in the road, their last link with the immediate past. They looked at each other, unsmiling, and then Bruton grinned and took out a cigar.

  ‘We’ve been lucky so far. Maybe we’ll get another break. Come on.’

  They walked side by side up the steep path to the front door. Palfrey rang the bell. There were two doors, and between them a glass-enclosed hall, one side with painted wooden shelves where plants grew in profusion.

  The interval before their ring was answered seemed unending but Palfrey did not ring again.

  He was trying to weigh up the situation, to calculate their chances. Much had happened so swiftly that there had been little time to think. Knowing that Bane, Knudsen and Dias were in league with one another was one thing; proving it another. If they had managed to escape with Matthew Lumsden their task would have been much easier, but now the immediate prospects were bleak. He admitted that he thought it unlikely that Knudsen would keep away from the police, it was almost certain that the hunt was on. And there was Lozana and his bunch of thugs; they would not give up easily, and they would not take chances.

  The door opened and a trim-looking woman stood there.

  Palfrey said, in English: ‘Is this the home of Mr. Neilsen?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and to their astonishment she smiled warmly. ‘You are Dr. Palfrey, I think? My husband has been expecting you. Please come in.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Long Arm of the Marquis

  Neilsen was a dapper, dark-haired man, anything but a typical Swede. He came hurrying along the hall as they entered. His left coat-sleeve was empty, his right hand was extended and gripped first Palfrey’s, then Bruton’s, with obvious pleasure. He was smiling broadly as he led a bewildered Palfrey in to a long room on the right. His wife went off, murmuring something about luncheon, while Bruton rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, and said:

  ‘So you were expecting us?’

  Neilsen laughed. ‘The Marquis told me you might look in.’

  ‘Did he!’ exclaimed Palfrey. ‘When?’

  ‘By cable, yesterday,’ said Neilsen. ‘He also said that he expected you would be in some trouble if you came—is that so?’

  ‘Plenty of trouble,’ said Bruton, and drew a deep breath. ‘The sly old fox!’

  ‘There is not much that the Marquis does not anticipate,’ said Neilsen. ‘But, my friends, sit down! You are quite safe here, I assure you. If there should be an alarm there is a path at the back of the house which will lead to sanctuary for the time being, and we shall not be caught unawares. What has been happening?’

  They told him, briefly, enough to make him realise the seriousness of the situation. Bruton did most of the talking. Palfrey was trying to digest the fact that the long arm of the Marquis had reached out so swiftly to Stockholm and brought them at least temporary sanctuary. It was good to sit back at ease, with a man whom they knew to be a friend; good to see the glow in Neilsen’s eyes, proof, if proof were needed, that he longed to be back with Z.5, and was reliving that part of his life which he had spent in the service.

  When they had finished talking, Neilsen said, thoughtfully:

  ‘You were wise to lodge no complaint against Knudsen, he is well respected here, and has powerful friends. I will not ask if you can be mistaken—for my part I do not greatly like the man. I was convinced that during the war he did more than trade with the Nazis because he had to, I was never sure that his sympathies were pro-Allied. That does not greatly matter. What matters is what you are going to do now.’

  ‘First, send word to Brett,’ said Palfrey. ‘Then get word to Drusilla and Stefan, to make sure they don’t walk into trouble at the Splendor. When that’s done I’d better go and see Bane again,’ he added. ‘He’ll still be there—Neilsen can probably find which room.’

  ‘Openly?’ asked Neilsen, in surprise.

  Palfrey smiled. ‘No. By night. Much rests on B
ane, and getting a confession from him. Everything rests on that, I suppose. It’s a thousand pities they killed Matthew Lumsden.’

  ‘Obviously they knew the danger,’ Neilsen said. ‘When is your wife due at the Splendor!’

  ‘It might be any time,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘I must go myself,’ said Neilsen; ‘no one else will recognise her—although there are several people in Stockholm who would recognise Stefan! I will go at once and have a word with my friends—there are still some who will gladly work with me again.’

  ‘What trouble will you get into if we’re caught here?’ asked Bruton.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Neilsen cheerfully.

  He left almost immediately, driving a small Opel car. When he had gone Palfrey and Bruton washed and tidied up in the spacious bathroom, looking over the lake from the window, content for the time being with the way things were working out for them.

  Neilsen’s wife called them to lunch; there were hors d’oeuvres as only Scandinavians know them, strange shellfish, fleshy fish as tiny as sardines but not cured in oil, all topped with raw egg and a piquant sauce, a meal in itself. Broiled trout followed and, for Bruton, ice cream – the presentation of which gave Mrs. Neilsen obvious delight. She spoke good English; she knew what work Neilsen had done before his injury, and it did not seem to occur to her that complications might follow their visit. She led them upstairs, after lunch, to a long, low-ceilinged room overlooking the lake, a room with twin beds where, she said, they should rest and look out of the window and feast themselves on the beauties of Sweden, and be ready for what the night might bring forth.

  There was no question of resting.

  They examined Matthew Lumsden’s papers, which told them nothing, and talked in low-pitched voices. There was a hush over Haga, and it seemed that loud voices would break the spell of security which had come upon them. There was something illusory about that security; it might be broken at anytime. When they heard a car moving along the road they stopped and listened, but the cars all went past. They watched the clock at first. An hour passed, and they had said all that they could usefully say. The problem was crystal clear; they had to prove their case against Bane and the others. Bane would be warned now, there was no question of taking him by surprise. Two hours passed. Mrs. Neilsen called them; if they were awake, they would be ready for tea.

  They were at tea, served at the table, a meal far larger than they wanted, when the telephone rang. Mrs. Neilsen jumped up, went out of the room to answer, and then called: ‘Doctor, it is for you.’

  Palfrey hurried into the hall. ‘Hallo,’ he said, and to his surprise heard Stefan’s voice.

  'Hallo!’ he cried.

  ‘Sap, listen,’ said Stefan urgently. ‘Drusilla is with Muriel and Charles at the Splendor, there was no chance to get them away. They are with Bane, of course, and I do not think they will be there long. I have talked to Bane.’

  Palfrey said in a tense voice: ‘Go on.’

  ‘It is the old story,’ Stefan said, ‘except, of course, that we cannot rely on anything that Bane promises. He offers Drusilla’s life for yours and Corny’s.’

  ‘As simply as that,’ said Palfrey, heavily.

  ‘As simply as that.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Near the Splendor. I am watched. Neilsen gave me a message—I do not think he is watched yet. It would not be wise for me to come to you, it will only bring them to your hiding-place, and that may be useful later on.’

  ‘Can you speak to Neilsen?’

  ‘Yes, he is waiting near the telephone-box, as if he wishes to use it. I can open the door enough for him to hear.’

  ‘Ask him to tell you of a place where we can go,’ said Palfrey, ‘and then to come back here. If he can arrange for a taxi it will be a help.’

  ‘I do not think there will be much chance of obtaining a taxi,’ said Stefan. ‘There is a police search going on for you and Corny; this man Knudsen has acted swiftly. You are, of course, accused of Matthew Lumsden’s murder.’

  ‘You know a lot about it,’ Palfrey said.

  ‘Bane was very informative,’ said Stefan.

  ‘And cock-a-hoop,’ guessed Palfrey. ‘All right, Stefan. I’ll be ready to move as soon as Neilsen names the meeting place. It will have to be after dark, but that won’t mean a long wait, it gets dark early here. Is there any way of finding out when Drusilla leaves the Splendor!’

  ‘Neilsen has promised to do all he can,’ said Stefan. ‘Goodbye, my friend.’

  He rang off.

  Palfrey replaced the receiver slowly, and turned to see Bruton and Neilsen’s wife looking at him anxiously. He raised his hands and dropped them, and his face was stern. He said: ‘They’ve got Drusilla, of course. That was Stefan.’

  Bruton did not speak; Mrs. Neilsen turned and walked away.

  ‘The old, old way,’ said Palfrey, with an effort. ‘If ever I start on a hunt again I’ll make a firm rule—never split up.’

  ‘Did Charles betray her?’ asked Bruton.

  ‘I don’t know. We’re waiting for Neilsen now, and meeting Stefan after dark.’ He went into the dining-room and looked out over the lake, where the first veils of dusk were falling; and he longed for darkness.

  The end of the hunt was in sight now. The only question was what sacrifices would be demanded of them – of him – of Drusilla?

  It was pitch dark.

  Neilsen led them from the car, which he had pulled up in a side street near the Stortog, the old market-place, in the centre of Staden. The road was narrow and there were old houses on either side. They walked unnoticed along the crowded sidewalk. Neilsen led them down a narrow alley, where all was dark, down a flight of steps towards the channel between the north and south islands. Few people were here. They trod softly on the smooth road, Palfrey gripping Neilsen’s coat, Bruton close behind him. They could hear the gentle lapping of the water not far below them. The lighted bridge spanning the channel was crowded with people and traffic; they could hear the noise of the traffic and the rumble of voices, and yet close to them the silence seemed complete.

  ‘Be careful here,’ said Neilsen.

  He led them down another flight of steps, and then along the bank of the channel, then up more steps, into a narrow street where houses overhung the water. Lights shone from a few of the windows, but there was no street lamp; Neilsen whispered that he had taken the lamp bulb away some time before.

  He stopped outside a door and tapped.

  It opened at once. They could see an old man silhouetted against a dim light. Neilsen spoke to him and he stood aside.

  They entered a narrow hall, went up a flight of stairs, and then Neilsen opened another door, and a brighter light shone out, shone upon Stefan – and Charles Lumsden.

  They sprang up.

  ‘Palfrey, I’m terribly sorry,’ Charles burst out, ‘it’s too ghastly for words.’ He did not know when not to talk, and Palfrey smiled at him, understanding. ‘And it was my damned fault!’ cried Charles. ‘If I hadn’t trusted that accursed girl it would never have happened!’

  Palfrey said: ‘That’s too much to say.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Charles. ‘If I hadn’t trusted her, if I hadn’t persuaded Drusilla to trust her, we would never have left Berlin. She told me that she knew Bane was in this business, that she was working against him; she told me that she could make sure that nothing went wrong, and—and we walked right into trouble. We went up to her room—we’d booked a room—and Bane and that kite Knudsen were in there, as well as Lozana—we didn’t have a chance, Lozana and Knudsen were armed. We just walked right into it, and’ – he clenched his hands and glared at Palfrey – ‘Muriel, the slut, laughed. Laughed!’

  ‘Now, steady,’ said Palfrey. ‘We’ve got the future to face not the past to brood ov
er. Is Drusilla still at the Splendor!’

  ‘As far as we know.’ Neilsen said. ‘My wife is watching, so are friends of mine. If she is seen to leave, we shall have news soon.’

  ‘What can we do!’ cried Charles. ‘They let me go, knowing I would do nothing to risk ’Silla’s life.’

  Palfrey looked at Stefan. ‘We’ll find something we can do, it can’t be hopeless yet. What happened to you?’ There was no reproach in his voice, he just wanted to know.

  Stefan said: ‘It was cleverly done, Sap. We reached the hotel together, from the airport. Lozana was in the lounge. I saw him, and watched him. The others went upstairs to their room. Five minutes afterwards Bane came down and spoke to me—and told me the situation. He was brutally frank. He said that you knew the truth but hadn’t proof of it. He staked Drusilla’s life against you and Corny giving yourselves up to him—but I have told you of that.’

  Palfrey said: ‘Doesn’t he think I’ll tell you what I know? Hasn’t he given himself away? Does he think we will do nothing, even if we do give ourselves up? Does he think we’ll let him get away with it?’

  ‘He can only try,’ said Stefan, ‘he has no other chance. There is danger for him and the others as acute as for ourselves. He is relying on Knudsen’s influence with the Government and with the police to discredit any report we make in Stockholm, and he does not think that we can get in touch with London.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘And can we?’ asked Stefan, softly.