Shadow of Doom (Dr. Palfrey)

by John Creasey

  ‘Aren’t you convinced?’ asked Drusilla.

  ‘I am not,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘I think you’re being awkward for the sake of it,’ declared Bruton.

  ‘Sap is never awkward for the sake of it,’ declared Stefan. ‘Can we help, Sap?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Palfrey. ‘There is something we haven’t seen properly. I don’t know what. We’re looking in to a mist. It was not right and proper that we should be kept in the dark from the beginning. The Marquis put up a fair case, but no more. Each one of us could have been trusted with the facts, and relied on to make it look as if we were after radium. Charles, perhaps, was the one exception—sorry, Charles,’ he added with an apologetic smile, ‘I mean from the official standpoint. You were an unknown quantity. But we could have kept it from you, the radium story would have been good enough cover.’

  ‘Anything would be good enough for me,’ said Charles, without bitterness. ‘I’m odd man out, and don’t I know it!’

  ‘I have a firm conviction that we shall be very glad of you before we’re through with this,’ said Palfrey, and looked at him steadily. ‘There’s one particular thing you may be able to do, and which none of the rest of us could. We’ll come to that later. The immediate and most important problem is: why were we kept in the dark? The Marquis can talk until he’s blue in the face, but he won’t convince me that it was necessary—on the grounds that he’s given us so far, at all events.’

  ‘Will it help to worry about it?’ asked Drusilla. ‘We know where we are now.’

  ‘That’s the problem—do we?’ asked Palfrey.

  He was inclined to agree, however, that Drusilla was right – it was not a thing for them to worry about now. Yet it was on his mind all the time, nagging at him, refusing to leave him alone. It had started when Brett had gone, and they had seen him off at the Tempelhof Aerodrome, with a splendid company of the Allied Nations in the official send-off.

  He had left the previous afternoon.

  It was now early morning, and they were not yet en route for Stockholm. Word had come through from Erikson that Dias was not exactly welcome in Stockholm, and it seemed likely that he would soon leave there. The others did not want to make the journey for nothing. Erikson was expected on the telephone at any moment. Meanwhile they sat about the big front room, now back to its original state and being used properly, for Palfrey was lounging back in an easy chair, and Drusilla was lying on a couch.

  Outside it was still raining, but the mists had cleared.

  Stefan said: ‘Corny, I feel like walking. Who else is coming? Drusilla, leave your difficult husband and come with us.’

  ‘Who said I wanted to go out?’ demanded Bruton.

  ‘I did,’ said Stefan.

  It was not Stefan’s habit to break up the party without a good reason, and the reason was obvious to Palfrey and Drusilla, and became obvious to Bruton. Since Palfrey had spoken to Charles, Charles had been sitting in a brown study, obviously aching to be told what Palfrey thought he could do. Palfrey would have enlarged upon that then had he wanted the others to hear. As he did not, Stefan decided to give him an opportunity of being with Charles for half an hour.

  ‘Coming, Charles?’ asked Drusilla.

  ‘Er—no, no, thanks,’ said Charles, and showed almost indecent pleasure that they were going.

  Palfrey sat back, pulling at his hair.

  ‘I say. Sap,’ said Charles, when the others had gone, ‘were you pulling my leg, or is there something I can do?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘Much. If you can stand up to it.’

  ‘I think I can,’ said Charles.

  ‘So do I,’ said Palfrey, ‘but it will be a big test. It concerns Muriel.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charles, and stiffened.

  ‘There isn’t much doubt that Muriel thinks she convinced you of her innocence,’ said Palfrey, ‘and equally there’s little doubt that, by the enemy, you’re looked on as the weak link in our chain. They will undoubtedly try to find out what we’re doing. The most likely way is through you—via Muriel.’

  ‘Good lord!’ said Charles.

  ‘I don’t think that’s so surprising,’ said Palfrey. ‘They almost certainly know that we’re in Berlin. It wouldn’t surprise me if they know about the conferences. Brett made it clear that there are serious leakages of information in the most unexpected places. My own opinion is that Muriel is probably in Berlin.’

  ‘Would she be allowed to stay?’

  ‘In Rotterdam she was supposed to be an American,’ said Palfrey. ‘And as faked passports and permit visas are being used fairly widely, I think she could justify her presence without much trouble. She’s been working on Bane, but there isn’t much chance that she had any success. I think she’ll have another shot at you.’

  ‘And if she does, what then?’ asked Charles.

  ‘You must have a story for her,’ said Palfrey, ‘a convincing story, with just enough of the truth to make it really plausible. If we invent such a story, will you give it a trial?’

  ‘Like a shot,’ said Charles.

  ‘Knowing that if you’re caught out it will undoubtedly mean curtains,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charles. ‘I want to work my passage.’

  ‘Good man!’ said Palfrey, briskly. ‘When the others get back we’ll go into a huddle about it. I wanted you to have the chance of refusing without an audience, but’ – he laughed – ‘I didn’t think there was much danger of a refusal.’

  ‘If I get the chance,’ said Charles, soberly, ‘I’ll see it through.’

  ‘Good!’ said Palfrey. ‘And now I’m going out, I must see von Kriess.’

  He went alone, but he was followed by two American security officers. In Berlin as well as in the other big cities there were still terrorists who tried to create confusion. Their numbers were small and their successes few, but Palfrey was glad that he had the two men behind him.

  Von Kriess lived in the Lieberplatz, near a hospital which was one of the few places which had escaped the worst ravages of aeriel bombardment. Palfrey was deep in thought, and gave little attention to what was going on around him. He reached the house, which was one of a short terrace, and rang the bell. He had to wait for some time. He rang again, and an old man admitted him, a grumbling old man who asked his name as if he thought that callers should not be permitted, repeated it, and led the way, still muttering under his breath, to a waiting room. Herr von Kriess was engaged, he would probably not be able to see Herr Doktor Palfrey. Palfrey found it strange to be using his own name in Berlin, stranger to hear ‘Herr von Kriess’ instead of ‘Herr Oberst,’ as it would have been but a little while before.

  He entered the waiting-room, and a woman sitting in one corner put down a magazine. It was Muriel.

  She was wearing a Persian lamb coat with a small fez-shaped hat of the same fur, and she looked demure and delightful. Palfrey had little doubt that she wanted to create the impression that this was a chance meeting. He did not think it was. He felt sure that she had been in the house, that he had been seen approaching, and that she had taken up her position in order to create the greatest element of surprise.

  She smiled up at him.

  Palfrey said: ‘Hallo, Fräulein!’

  She laughed. ‘You know better than that, Dr. Palfrey.’

  ‘I thought I was seeing visions,’ said Palfrey. ‘Miss Corliss, isn’t it? A friend of my friend William K. Bane. Astonishingly small world, don’t you think?’ Gravely, he shook hands. ‘Is William K. with the doctor?’

  ‘I think he has left Berlin,’ said Muriel.

  ‘Oh. The man does move so fast,’said Palfrey, aggrievedly, ‘one can never be sure whether he’s here or there. Has he gone far?’

  ‘He didn’t confide in me,’ said Muriel.

  ‘Well, well!’ said Palfrey. ‘Disappointing. I hoped you could tell me where to find him. I did hear that he was coming to see von Kriess, and I hope to get news from von Kriess. Do
you think there is much hope?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ said Muriel.

  ‘Pity,’ said Palfrey, ‘but there it is, one can’t expect too much.’ He beamed. ‘How is His Excellency?’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Muriel, and added: ‘I thought they had stopped using titles in Germany now.’

  ‘In Germany, yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘I was thinking of Fernandez y Dias. Isn’t he a friend of yours?’

  ‘I think you must be confusing me with someone else,’ said Muriel. ‘Wasn’t Dias the man who often saw William K. in Rotterdam?’ Her lips curled. ‘That fat greasy South American.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘Not a nice South American, either; I wouldn’t get friendly with him, if I were you.’

  ‘I won’t any more than I can help,’ said Muriel. She stopped smiling, and her voice was low-pitched, almost appealing. ‘Dr. Palfrey, I came here hoping to meet you. You know how I once helped your friend Lumsden. I want to help again. If you will give me a chance, I think I can prove to you that—’

  ‘You’re really on our side,’ said Palfrey, sceptically.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dear me!’ said Palfrey. ‘We shall have to go into this. You helped Charles Lumsden into the river at Putney, you helped Bane into a queer spot with Dias, and—’

  He broke off, and swung round towards the door, for from the passage there came a high-pitched cry of horror and alarm.

  There followed running footsteps, a deeper voice, a woman’s voice raised calling upon God. Palfrey reached the door and flung it open. The girl moved almost as quickly, and was behind him in the passage. A door further along was open and the old man was disappearing through it. The woman’s cries were coming from there. Palfrey strode to the doorway, looked over the old man’s head, and saw von Kriess lying across his desk, with a knife in his back. A little dumpy woman was standing by him, clutching at his hand and hugging it to her, calling his name aloud; but von Kriess did not move. The window wide open,and beyond it was a great expanse of rubble, where the murderer had doubtless made good his escape.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Muriel asked, in a hushed voice.

  ‘What I should have expected,’ Palfrey said, savagely, and turned to face her, his eyes glittering. ‘If you’ve had a hand in this, my black angel, I’ll never rest until you’re hanged.’

  She said: ‘You must be mad!’

  ‘Mad!’ said Palfrey. He laughed bitterly, and turned away from her, looking at von Kriess, seeing that he was dead.

  He did not interfere with Frau von Kriess, but spoke sharply to the old man, who was standing and staring with his mouth agape.

  ‘Telephone the civil police,’ he said, ‘at once!’

  The old man started, looked at him as if in defiance, then changed his mind and moved to the telephone, which was on the corner of the desk. He talked above the woman’s low cries, which were getting quieter. She was no longer pressing the dead man’s hand close to her bosom, but held it lightly, with a tenseness that suggested she did not want to let him go; she was afraid of losing touch with him.

  Muriel went to her side.

  Palfrey knew that the girl was clever, knew from Charles how well she could affect sympathy, and yet he was surprised at the gentle way she talked, and then led Frau von Kriess out of the room. She had a soothing effect even on Palfrey, who was bitterly angry with himself, for he thought that he could have prevented this thing from happening.

  That was not quite true.

  The Marquis knew that von Kriess was involved, so did the others. The man should have been watched.

  Thinking like that was pointless.

  Palfrey examined the wound. A single thrust to the heart, from behind, had killed von Kriess instantaneously; at least he had not suffered. He had not been dead long. Palfrey did not think it would be easy to find the murderer from clues left in that room. It was like the death of Laander, swift and sudden, a swoop out of the blue.

  Palfrey went outside, called the American M.P.s and told them what had happened. One came into the house, the other went to report. Palfrey returned, looking from room to room for Muriel and Frau von Kriess. He found them on the first floor, in a bedroom, and there was a pleasant smell of eau-de-Cologne. Muriel was sitting by the side of the bed, Frau von Kriess was leaning back on the pillows, with her eyes closed. Muriel had flung a blanket over her, for the woman was shivering from the shock.

  ‘Do you know the house?’ Palfrey asked.

  ‘No,’ said Muriel.

  ‘Find the old man, please,’ said Palfrey. ‘Get hot-water bottles and the usual things for shock. Hurry, please.’

  He thought she would tell him to go himself, but she got up and went out. Palfrey took her place, lifted Frau von Kriess, pulled back all the blankets and sheet and put the woman right into bed, with all the bedclothes piled on top of her. She was shivering-uncontrollably, and her teeth were chattering. Palfrey did not speak as he stood there smoothing her forehead, his hand on her wrist. Muriel and the old man brought in more bedclothes and a stone hot-water bottle.

  There were voices downstairs.

  Palfrey went to the head of the stairs and called the remaining American, who came up promptly.

  ‘I want you to stay with Frau von Kriess,’ said Palfrey. ‘She is not to be left with the girl in there, nor with the old man. I’ll send word, and you’ll have relief before long.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said the security man, laconically.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Palfrey.

  He went downstairs, but no one seemed interested in him. German police were busy with photographs and finger-print powder, working quietly and efficiently; to give them their due, they were always efficient. So was Dias! Von Kriess had died at Dias’s instigation; there was no reasonable doubt of that. Von Kriess, Laander, Garon, Midaut, de Morency – the tally was increasing. For the first time since the beginning of the affair Palfrey felt hopeless; he had set much store on von Kriess, and on his wife.

  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 reli
eved. 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.