Shadow of Doom (Dr. Palfrey)

by John Creasey

  ‘Occasionally,’ said Drusilla.

  ‘Then he is a Sap. They should be a subject for breakfast, luncheon, tea and dinner, cocktails, liqueurs—what have I forgotten, there should be seven.’

  ‘Elevenses,’ said Drusilla, gravely.

  ‘And clever, too,’ marvelled Bobby. ‘I take it you want to know whether one of Bruno’s beauties has T.B., Sap?’

  ‘Please,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘Nothing guaranteed,’ said Bobby, ‘but I’ll try. Delicate subject, you know. Touchy people, these South Americans. Few are such rogues as His Excellency Señor Fernandez y Dias, however. The man has a reputation for chicanery second to none. Secret missions are his speciality, and I did hear say that he had a scale of charges. Mission to Washington, 1000 silver dollars; to London, 10,000—look what it costs to travel— to Madrid before the end of the war, a million, more or less; to Berlin also before the end of the war, billions! A clever man, a dangerous man, and he’s never yet been caught out. But he catches a lot of people. Will you be at home tonight?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bobby, and finished his stout. He rose, and the chair was taken away from him. ‘Be sorry for me,’ he said, and sauntered back, smiling his apologies at the solitary figure of the Old School.

  It was three o’clock before they left Lyme’s. Immediately they reached the flat they were off again, for Drusilla’s maid was waiting for them with a message: the Marquis of Brett would like to see them as soon as possible. That suggested further progress. It was all going swimmingly, thought Palfrey; his doubts and hesitation had gone, he had almost forgotten the consulting rooms. In the visit of Dias there had been an irresistible challenge.

  Brett was in a downstairs room, small, charming, displaying some rare and very valuable pieces of Sheraton. In that room he rested most afternoons, but if he had been asleep he hid the traces well.

  ‘News?’ asked Palfrey, almost too eagerly.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll have any need to worry about the money,’ said the Marquis. ‘Lumsden is interested.’

  That was like the Marquis. Few preliminaries, just a simple sentence or two which said a great deal. The name ‘Lumsden’ conjured up a vision of a big, gruff-voiced man, a manufacturer of internal-combustion engines who had worked himself up from being an apprentice in a small engineering shop to a controller of many millions. Steadfastly he refused a knighthood and greater honours, constantly he reviewed worthy causes and gave much money to them. A solid, stolid Midlander who stood no nonsense.

  ‘Wonderful!’ exclaimed Drusilla.

  ‘He would like to see you, Sap, this afternoon if you can manage it,’ said Brett.

  ‘If!’ cried Palfrey. ‘Where?’

  ‘At his house,’ said Brett. ‘Drusilla had better stay and tell me what has been happening this morning. Something has, I know or your eyes wouldn’t be quite so bright.’

  Palfrey left Drusilla and went by taxi to Lumsden’s house which was in Grosvenor Place, a tall, grey, drab building, the exterior giving no hint of the magnificence inside. Lumsden did not hesitate to enjoy the advantages that money could bring him. He was a widower with a daughter and two sons, one of them with a reputation for fast living.

  On the way Palfrey was too absorbed in contemplation of getting Lumsden’s financial backing to think much of what Bobby Fairweather had told him, but it was at the back of his mind. He was not really surprised that Dias had frequently taken special missions to Axis countries during the war. Many of the missions were suspect, but few people knew exactly what had transpired. That they had to do with the building up of large fortunes for Axis leaders was the most popular theory, and probably that was not far wrong.

  In his study, Lumsden took Palfrey’s hand in a powerful grip. Palfrey, who looked as if he had a limp handshake, responded with one as powerful. Lumsden’s grip relaxed and he smiled.

  ‘I’ve often heard of you, Dr. Palfrey,’ he said. ‘Sit down, man, make yourself at home.’ He pushed cigars and cigarettes across a black-topped table, and sank into an easy chair. He was dressed in Harris tweeds and looked shaggy of hair and eyebrows. He had shaved badly, and there was a cut near his right ear. Deep-set eyes seemed to penetrate to Palfrey’s thoughts. It was easy to understand this man’s success. ‘Now tell me all about it,’ he said, when Palfrey had lit a cigarette.

  The Palfrey who answered was the Palfrey of the consulting-room, crisp, decisive, allowing no doubt. The radium was there, but it could not be expected that the Government would finance the expedition to obtain it until they felt convinced of its existence and sure that there was a reasonable chance of finding it. The cost of the expedition could not be calculated in advance, and he would not like to venture an estimate.

  He talked for five minutes, judging that enough for Lumsden, whose face fit up with a smile when he finished.

  ‘Thank you, Palfrey. Ay, it’s good to hear a man who knows what he’s talking about. The Government should back you, but we won’t go into that, I know they won’t. I will—on one condition.’

  ‘To what limit?’ asked Palfrey.

  ‘I’ll set no limit.’

  ‘That should make a condition easy to bear,’ said Palfrey.

  Lumsden laughed. ‘You’re blunt, Palfrey, though you don’t look it. Now I’ve a shock for you, and I don’t think you’ll like it. I want you to take my son along with you.’

  Palfrey kept a poker-face; but his hand strayed to his hair.

  ‘Which one?’ he asked.

  ‘Charles,’ said Lumsden, and added: ‘The wild one.’ His eyes were smiling, but behind the smile Palfrey thought he sensed the old man’s regret that he had to call either of his sons ‘the wild one.’ He felt quite sure, too, that Lumsden doubted whether the condition would be accepted.

  ‘Why wish this on to him?’ Palfrey asked.

  ‘Or why wish him on to you?’ said Lumsden, ‘It will do him good, Palfrey. He’s a fool in some ways. He’s young—or youngish. Twenty-six. He spent most of the war in the Middle East, behind the lines, and he got soft. He wants hardening. I think the right stuff is in him—I’m talking to you,’ Lumsden added, ‘as a doctor. About Charles.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Palfrey, ‘but if I take him, my friends must know all there is to know about him. I can’t keep details back. He might be the weak link.’

  ‘Ay, tell them, but only them,’ said Lumsden. ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ll have to see him,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘I’ll tell him to come to you,’ said Lumsden.

  ‘Does he know what you have in mind?’

  Lumsden gave his deep laugh again. ‘I’ve told him nothing except that you need some young men with time to spare and who can speak several languages,’ he said, ‘and he can talk in a good many. I think he can rough it. I want to know,’ went on the millionaire, ‘what he can stand and whether he has a breaking-point, and I’m prepared to pay all your expenses to find out.’

  ‘It seems fair,’ said Palfrey. ‘Supposing we find the radium?’

  ‘Now, watch yourself,’ said Lumsden, growling; ‘I want no return for my money except the truth about Charles. I’m after no interest on outlay or share of profits. You ought to know better than that.’

  ‘I must be sure,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Lumsden. ‘All right, Palfrey. You won’t have much time to spare. I won’t detain you.’

  ‘Let’s not go too fast,’ said Palfrey. He took another cigarette, then leaned back in his chair and was lost in it. ‘Your son might be helpful in more ways than one. He will be exposed to danger on the Continent, he might be exposed to some before we start.’

  ‘Ay,’ said Lumsden, drawing his brows together. ‘How?’

  Palfrey said: ‘If he joins us, then I would like a story put out in the Press. That he’s coming with me on a mysterious special mission. I can get it in tomorrow morning, and for two days he might, like me, be a marked man. Also he might be appro
ached by strangers who are not well disposed towards us. Am I clear?’

  ‘He’ll not betray you,’ said Lumsden.

  ‘Will you accept the risk for him?’ asked Palfrey. ‘He isn’t used to this work. If he is looking out for trouble he might betray the fact unwittingly. If he’s approached by other people, innocence will serve a better purpose than knowledge.’

  Lumsden was silent for a long time, and then he said, quietly, with a gentle smile: ‘Do what you will, Palfrey.’

  ‘Danger notwithstanding ?’

  ‘Ay.’

  Palfrey said: ‘It’s a pity you’re not able to come yourself, sir.’

  Lumsden was still chuckling when Palfrey left, and Palfrey was smiling. The smile grew set as he walked across Hyde Park Corner. There was a great risk in taking a man who was inexperienced in such affairs. Charles Lumsden might become a burden, might need protecting, might put the brake on them at a time when without him they could move quickly. Yet it had taken Brett some time to find a sponsor; that meant that not many people were willing to risk the money.

  It was not easy to reach a decision.

  He went back to Brierly Place and told Drusilla and Brett. Drusilla was in two minds; Brett turned the scales by saying that if Palfrey received a good impression of the man he should take him.

  Palfrey regarded the Marquis owlishly. ‘That’s fair, I suppose. Or is it? Are you putting something across me, Marquis?’

  ‘My dear fellow!’ protested Brett.

  The answer was not really an answer, and was certainly not satisfying. There was more in Brett’s mind than he chose to discuss. It might be of little significance, yet Palfrey was uneasy. Why should Brett keep anything back? Why add even a little to a mystery already deep enough?

  ‘It’s probably my imagination,’ thought Palfrey.

  ‘So it’s up to me,’ he said to Drusilla. ‘We’re going to have a busy night tonight, my sweet!’

  Charles Lumsden was due to call at the Chelsea flat at half past six. Bobby Fairweather was not likely to arrive until after dinner.

  It was a fine afternoon, warmer than it had been for some days, and they walked to Chelsea. Palfrey kept a watchful eye about him, but did not think that they were followed. At Victoria he bought an evening paper, glanced at the Stop Press, and stopped in his tracks. Drusilla looked down, and read:

  Body of Dutch Surgeon Piet van Doorn found in the estuary of the Schelde in early hours this morning.—Reuter.

  There was nothing they could usefully say.

  Charles Lumsden surprised them.

  He was short and stocky and looked in good condition. His eyes were the same bright grey as his father’s, and had something of the same penetrating directness. He was dressed well, with a touch of exaggeration at the shoulders and the waist, but he was not the feckless type Palfrey had feared and expected. He showed a genuine curiosity. The Old Man had let out one or two intriguing oddments, and rather wanted him to string along with Palfrey. The Old Man probably thought he needed to be taken away from the fleshpots for a bit, and he, Charles, would not deny that. The smile which accompanied the admission was frank and friendly.

  Palfrey told him the story, omitting only the word ‘radium’. He made mystery of the thing they were looking for, a mystery which seemed to amuse Charles.

  ‘It sounds all right,’ said Charles, when Palfrey had finished. ‘This isn’t going to be a pleasure cruise, though, is it?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘Is it tied up with the business in the papers?’ asked Charles. ‘I mean, you and van Doorn. They pulled the old boy out of the River Schelde, didn’t they?’ He was quite serious, there was nothing flippant about this ‘old boy’ as there was about the Old Man.

  ‘It’s probably connected with that,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘I thought so,’ said Charles. ‘And I expect the Old Man rang you up and persuaded you to take me along for the hardening process. The question is, am I your man?’

  ‘The question is whether you’ll come,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charles.

  They shook hands on it, and Palfrey dispensed drinks.

  It was obvious that Drusilla was also well impressed.

  Charles left when it was practically dark. Palfrey saw him to the front door, and when he had turned into the street, went after him. In the gloom he saw a shadowy figure moving in Charles’s wake, but he could not get close enough for a clear view. He continued to walk to the end of the street. Charles turned right, so did the shadowy figure.

  At half past nine there was no sign of Bobby Fairweather, which was disappointing. Just as the half-hour struck the telephone rang, and Palfrey heard Old Lumsden’s voice.

  ‘I’ve been waiting to hear from one of you,’ said Lumsden. ‘Is Charles still with you?’

  ‘No,’ said Palfrey, and felt the first tremor of alarm.

  ‘He hasn’t come back here,’ said Lumsden.

  ‘He told me he would go straight back and tell you that we had clinched the deal,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘I see,’ said Lumsden, and did not speak for some time. ‘I see, Palfrey. I hope nothing’s happened to the boy.’ There was another pause. ‘Well, I can’t say I wasn’t warned. Have you any idea where he might be?’

  ‘No,’ said Palfrey, ‘none at all. If he doesn’t turn up soon I’ll make inquiries.’

  When he rang off he took a coin from his pocket and flicked it absently into the air. Drusilla had heard enough to know that Charles had not reached home, and the same thought was in her mind as in Palfrey’s: that he had been waylaid.

  Palfrey was still tossing up the coin when the front-door bell rang.

  Chapter Five

  The Remarkable Adventure of Charles Lumsden

  ‘Hallo,’ said Bobby Fairweather. ‘I turn up, you see. Better late than in the morning. I have been delving deep, as per request—also,’ he added with a grin, ‘as per instructions received on, I believe, the instigation of your pal the Marquis. I never know what it’s safe to say to you people, your friends are so high in the political heavens. Thanks.’ He sat down in an easy chair and stretched his legs.

  Drusilla took out the brandy glasses.

  ‘My, my!’ said Bobby. ‘You must be anxious to get on my right side. The last drop of fine old French for Bobby! A nice warm glass, please.’ Drusilla put the glasses in front of the gas fire, while Palfrey leaned against the mantelpiece and eyed the Foreign Office man.

  His Excellency Señor Fernandez y Dias,’ said Bobby, with great dignity, ‘is certainly up to No Good. Another secret mission, and not concerned with Whitehall. That’s offended the big wallahs. I might say annoyed. Dias comes with diplomatic privilege and does very much what he likes. He claims the sanctuary of the Embassy on his comings and goings, but he hasn’t once made a formal visit to the F.O., so—secret mission.’

  ‘Any idea about what?’ asked Palfrey.

  ‘The pluck of the Palfreys,’ murmured Bobby, and raised his glass. When he had sipped, he said: ‘I had one or two tentacles put out today. There was a party of sorts at the Lanchester thrown by Dias. Much wine flowed, much work was thrown upon the digestive organs; ostensible purpose of the gathering: the discussion of new railway projects in South America. Also, new ships for ditto. Present were Dias, his private secretary whose name is Lozana— sleek, dark, scented, forty, an obscure official at the Embassy, and—’ Bobby paused, as if to marshal his thoughts, actually to increase their interest. Neither of them gratified him by asking him to hurry. ‘Anderson,’ he said, ‘and William K. Bane.’

  “Which Anderson?’ asked Palfrey.

  ‘Ours. Mr. Joshua.’ Bobby looked peeved. ‘Why don’t you open your mouths and gape with the surprise which you should feel at the sensation?’

  ‘No sensation,’ said Palfrey; ‘something of the kind isn’t altogether unexpected.’

  Joshua Anderson was a power in financial circles in Great Britain. He was one of the old school o
f financiers and his spiritual home was undoubtedly Wall Street. His speculations were vast and his gambles greatly daring, but he had never been on the wrong side of the law, and he had made fortunes for those people who followed his judgement or his luck. One day, said the Jeremiahs, Josh would come a cropper. When he did, tens of thousands of small English ‘capitalists’ would lose their all, and Josh would probably spend the rest of his life in prison. He was a man of sixty, a small, wiry, berry-faced man with a caustic sense of humour. He was affectionately known as ‘our Josh’ by most of his friends. He did not live in state; he seemed interested only in money, and he had never tried to buy a title, which was so frequently the end and object of his kind. Only in that was he like Lumsden.

  William K. Bane was a younger man, in the early fifties, an American from the Middle West. He had stormed Wall Street in the middle twenties, and won for himself a reputation second to none. He was, according to the many stories which circulated about him, a kindly man. His staff hero-worshipped him. He was benevolence itself. The responsibility for the many big crashes on Wall Street was not his; he had tried to prevent them. He appeared on the American scene as a big, rough, genial man, a New World Croesus, and the word ‘sinister’ seemed remote from him. Yet there were rumours of the kind which often damn a man. They did not damn Bane, but they made many people suspect his good intentions. He had first come into the limelight in Great Britain as a public figure for condemning the original Roosevelt Lease-Lend plans. He became one of the strongest of the pre-war Isolationists, and yet when the United States entered the war he put his millions and his influence on the side of the Administration. Contradictory, even-tempered, good- humoured, he wielded much power. One of his strongest platforms was the unity of the Americas. He opposed the antagonism towards Castilia when Castilia was probably the most unpopular country in the New World. He strove for good neighbourliness, he said, and he wanted to see America, not just the United States of America, so strong and powerful that it could defy all possible attacks from the outside world.