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  Copyright & Information

  Shadow Of Doom

  First published in 1946

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1946-2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2013 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  ISBN EAN Edition

  0755136292 9780755136292 Print

  0755139623 9780755139620 Kindle

  0755137973 9780755137978 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers' Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.

  SHADOW OF DOOM

  Somewhere in Europe there are hidden stores of radium, stores hoarded by the Nazis, supported by a big business syndicate. It is up to Dr. Palfrey to find them – and soon, for he discovers that there is more to the problem than just radium and Nazis. The businessmen, their identities concealed by sinister black masks, aim to bring Europe to an economic standstill – and starvation …

  Chapter One

  Mirage

  Van Doorn stood with the cigar jutting from his lips, both hands clenched tightly by his side.

  ‘Sane men see mirages,’ Palfrey was saying. ‘Great men dream dreams. This would be a worthy dream. Personally, I believe you if you say there is radium in large quantities hidden somewhere in Europe.’

  ‘You do believe?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘It is perfectly logical. Radium doesn’t disappear. There have been questions in some circles. Where has it gone? There are rumours, ugly rumours. The Russians have helped themselves, the Americans have helped themselves, we have helped ourselves. All of that is nonsense.’

  ‘It is the easy answer to an awkward question,’ said van Doorn, ‘but I am glad there have been questions, it means that perhaps I shall be believed. There is one difficulty. I am not blind. I have studied the situation closely. Many doctors have reported hidden stores of radium, the Allied authorities have sometimes gone to great trouble to find it, and then found nothing. They become sceptical—but you know that.’

  ‘Yes.’ Palfrey nodded.

  ‘For a long time I have suspected that the radium was hidden,’ van Doorn went on. ‘There was much more at Rotterdam in the autumn of 1944 than when you freed us and took over the hospital. It was the same elsewhere, I heard. There was nothing certain about where it had gone, you understand, but there was suspicion that the Germans had taken it. Yet such a story would not be heeded, there have been many of them. I had to know. So I went to Berlin for two days, Palfrey. In Berlin there is von Kriess—you remember him, of course, von Kriess of Berlin?’

  ‘Yes.’ Palfrey nodded again.

  ‘He told me that a young doctor, a Nazi student, had been to Rotterdam and taken the radium,’ said van Doorn. ‘He had protested, knowing how it would be needed. The insolent youth insulted him. The talk we have heard so often—if the Nazis could not have Europe they would destroy it. And von Kriess had heard the same story from other places, too, of systematic pillage, radium stolen from many hospitals and institutions. It was, of course, out of spite, like the destruction of so many hospitals and so much medical equipment. That is not a mirage, Palfrey.’

  ‘No.’ Palfrey sipped his tea.

  ‘It was deliberate, determined policy,’ said van Doorn. ‘The Germans knew the importance of radium, knew that our difficulties would be halved if we had access to ample supplies. And they robbed us of it. The story is the same in Vienna, in Budapest, Berlin, Frankfurt, Cologne, even in Paris and Brussels, although more was found there than in the towns which were liberated much later. And I tell you, Palfrey, this radium can and must be found. Will you help?’

  ‘The question is not will I help, but can I?’ said Palfrey. ‘And another question: where is the radium? There are a few strong points still held by desperate Nazis, a few mountain fastnesses. They will give us little trouble and will be overrun in due time, but it will be almost impossible to get hold of the radium if it is in one of them. Or in several,’ he added.

  ‘I do not care what you say,’ said van Doorn. ‘It exists, and it must be found.’

  ‘I’m not raising objections,’ Palfrey protested. ‘My influence in high quarters is negligible, but the Marquis of Brett can move even Cabinet Ministers, and has the ear of the Prime Minister.’

  ‘Can we persuade this Marquis to help?’ demanded van Doorn, eagerly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘He will help and advise.’

  ‘Who is he?’ asked van Doorn.

  Palfrey waved his hand. ‘Oh, just a friend.’

  Undoubtedly the Marquis of Brett was a power behind the scenes. At one time many members of Parliament had considered his power sinister, had believed him a Nazi or Fascist tool. They had said so and been ignored, and had railed against the Government for its dallying with collaborators. Those days had changed. For while it was true that at one time the Marquis had been in close touch with Berlin and Rome, it was also true that he had worked in the closest co-operation with Whitehall – and, later, with Washington and Moscow. While the Nazi leaders thought he might one day be the British Quisling, he had been able to work effectively against them. This, and much of what he did, was disclosed when Berlin discovered the truth, and the Marquis of Brett became a popular figure in England.

  The Marquis was the man who had first thought of using secret agents from the Big Three nations together – Russian, American and British – on certain operations inside Europe. And he had selected Palfrey.

  A specialist in tubercu
lar diseases, from which so many suffered, Palfrey was also known as a man of courage and resource, despite his mild manner. He had pulled off a near-miracle on his first assignment, and this success had been followed by others equally brilliant. Almost inevitably he had become the leader of that mixed bag of agents in a department called, for record purposes, Z5. They were not always successful. Many of their members had been killed; others wounded and disabled. In fact, of all those who had worked for the Marquis of Brett, only Palfrey, his wife Drusilla, and the Russian, Stefan Andromovitch, had come through without serious injury.

  Palfrey had become almost a legend. He had worked in Europe, Africa and Asia, sometimes achieving what was thought impossible, sometimes frankly admitting failure. Throughout it all he remained the rather diffident, amiable, quiet-voiced man whose appearance was so deceptively at odds with his true character. The Press would have lionised him, given half a chance.

  Some rumours go into the papers; rarely with his photograph, but sometimes with Drusilla’s, who photographed well. But while he did not mind publicity for the successful exploits of Z5, which in war-time were a great boost to public morale, he shunned it for himself. Because van Doorn had heard of his activities he had come to him. If that radium existed, what risks were not worth running to find it?

  The taxi pulled up outside the Marquis of Brett’s Brierly Place home. Christian, the white-haired butler, greeted Palfrey like an old friend, greeted van Doorn courteously, said that Mrs. Palfrey and the Marquis were waiting, and led them upstairs.

  Brett was sitting at a large desk in a vast room. Two pillars supported the ceiling; they were of a reddish brown, mottled stone. The furniture was mahogany, brightly polished. Books lined the walls almost to the high ceiling. The tapestry curtains picked out the colours of the furniture and the mottled pillars.

  Brett’s head and shoulders were reflected in the highly polished desk, on which stood a silver inkstand, a blotting-pad with silver corners, and a telephone. He rose as they entered, a small, white-haired man with a benign expression, a handsome man, who carried himself well in spite of his seventy-odd years. At times there was a touch of hauteur about him – some called it arrogance – but it was absent as he shook hands with Palfrey and van Doorn.

  Drusilla Palfrey was sitting by the side of the desk when they entered. Now she, too, stood up. Nearly as tall as Palfrey, she held herself very erect so that she looked taller than he. She was dressed in a plain, dark-green suit, cut on severe lines, and wore a wide-brimmed felt hat of the same shade of green. She was dark-haired; most men looked at her twice; and Palfrey adored her.

  When they were seated, Palfrey said:

  ‘Professor van Doorn has brought me quite a story, Marquis. You’d be annoyed if I kept it to myself.’

  Brett looked sceptical.

  ‘That’s true,’ protested Palfrey. ‘In a manner of speaking, it’s up our street. I mean yours. Title— “Hunt the Radium”. How does it sound?’

  ‘Radium?’ repeated Brett, looking at van Doorn.

  Drusilla was not looking at the Dutchman, but at Palfrey. There was a gleam in his eyes which she had not known since he had been persuaded, against his will, to return to Wimpole Street and take up ordinary life again.

  ‘In large quantities,’ said van Doorn.

  ‘Let me tell the story,’ said Palfrey. ‘You put me right if I go wrong.’ He smiled apologetically at van Doorn, stole a sidelong glance at Drusilla, and then talked in short, crisp sentences, putting emphasis where it was most needed. He did not suggest that there might be doubt about the existence of the radium. He spent a few minutes explaining, as if to someone who could not understand the magic in the word, what ‘radium’ meant to ravaged Europe, and he finished on a hopeful note.

  ‘The time element is important. Weeks won’t greatly matter, but months will. January and February are bad months, likely to be the crisis months in Europe. The general position of drugs, equipment and hospital accommodation will be bad enough, but the radium shortage will probably be the most harmful. Can we do something by Christmas, do you think?’

  ‘We must!’ cried van Doorn.

  ‘The question is—can we?’ insisted Palfrey, looking hopefully at Brett, who was playing with a quill pen. Somehow it seemed fitting for him to use such a pen.

  ‘An expedition would need the right people, plenty of money and a general visa to move freely about Europe,’ said Brett.

  ‘Would anyone deny you that visa?’ demanded van Doorn.

  ‘Some might try,’ said Brett, ‘but I think we could get over that difficulty.’ His manner was reassuring, and van Doorn looked delighted, as if he realised that Palfrey had been right, they would get help from the Marquis. ‘Getting the expedition together and equipped might be difficult. It is so hard to say what equipment will be needed,’ Brett added.

  ‘This is not an expedition to the Arctic Circle,’ said van Doorn, gustily.

  ‘No, but in some ways it is more difficult,’ said Brett.

  ‘Not on the score of equipment,’ said Palfrey. ‘We could probably get that as we went along. If not, we could have it flown to us from England, or the United States. Lend-lease has done many lesser jobs.’

  Brett laughed. ‘Before we can call on such unlimited help we would have to convince everyone concerned that it was not a hare-brained notion, that there were real prospects of success. It is difficult to present to anyone a complete and satisfying outline of where the search would begin, where it would end, and what is likely to happen in the meantime. If we could say where the radium is we would have a stronger case. I think—if we are going to try to find it—it would best be a well-equipped private expedition with Government approval.’

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Palfrey.

  ‘If!’ cried van Doorn, scornfully, but there was a new light in his eyes. Palfrey and Brett kept saying ‘we’, as if they were already decided on the expedition and ready to take part in it.

  Drusilla was sitting back in her chair and looking very hard at Palfrey. He carefully avoided her gaze.

  ‘And as a private expedition it would need financing,’ said the Marquis.

  ‘Find us a philanthropic millionaire with a bent for taking risks,’ said Palfrey. ‘Can do?’

  ‘I might,’ said the Marquis, ‘and in any case I think we could get the money from different people. It need not all come from one source. The most difficult thing will be personnel.’

  ‘There are thousands of men already tired of inaction,’ said van Doorn; ‘that will not be difficult.’

  ‘We need the right men,’ said the Marquis. ‘Palfrey, for one, if he were not so busy. Adromovitch, if he were not in Moscow. Bruton, if the Federal Bureau would release him. It will take time to find the people who are able and free to help, Professor.’

  Now van Doorn was looking at Palfrey, as well as Drusilla, and Palfrey put his hands on the arms of his chair and rose to his feet.

  ‘First find the people, then the money, then—’

  ‘Will you lead this expedition?’ asked van Doorn, and there was tension in his voice.

  Chapter Two

  Aerodrome

  On the airfield the engine was warming up, and they could feel the wind from the four great propellers. Mechanics, dwarfed by the size of the machine, were still swarming about the passenger transport. The engines were floodlit, lights shone from the aerodrome buildings and from the restaurant-cum-waiting-room.

  Van Doorn and Palfrey stood near the door, huddled in heavy overcoats.

  ‘How long will it be before you start?’ asked van Doorn.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Palfrey. ‘Within a fortnight.’

  ‘As soon as that?’ Van Doorn’s voice was raised in excitement.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Palfrey, ‘and we shall come and see you first. This and that will b
e done meanwhile. Brett will start inquiries, there will be some put in hand today. Doctors and surgeons in the German hospitals will be questioned, and we might get something from them. If we get further confirmation of your story, that will go a long way towards getting us full Government blessing. Secret service has its uses, even today.’

  ‘Yes,’ said van Doorn. ‘Thanking you is difficult, Palfrey. You know what I feel.’

  ‘Why thank me?’ asked Palfrey. ‘Thank yourself, you started it. With the faith that moves mountains. Hallo, there’s an exodus of mechanics.’

  In the floodlit field he could see the mechanics leaving the huge machine. Soon a voice through the loudspeaker was calling on passengers to embark. There was a full company, every seat was booked. Palfrey walked with van Doorn to the foot of the lowered steps, and they shook hands. Then at the top of the steps van Doorn turned and looked down – and Palfrey tossed something up to him and said:

  ‘Catch! You want these.’

  Van Doorn clutched at a box of half-Coronas.

  Palfrey stood aside and let the other passengers say their farewells. It was cold. Dawn was breaking, but the artificial light seemed to make the sky dark by contrast. The last passenger climbed in, some of the crew followed, there were more commands through the loudspeaker, and the little party near the aircraft backed away. The machine moved; it became airborne; it disappeared towards the eastern sky. Before it was out of sight the sky had become brighter there, and they saw it, a tiny dark spot, against the brittle paleness of a clear dawn.

  Palfrey turned towards the car-park.

  The lights had been turned off now, and there was not yet enough daylight for him to see anything but vague figures moving here and there. Some cars were driven off, men and women were illuminated clearly by the headlamps. His own car was parked near the far corner of the car-park, and he could see its outlines. It was a Mercedes-Benz, only recently removed from its war-time garage, powerful, nearly ‘new’, a Goliath among the Davids there. Two or three men were walking away from it, as if they had been drawn towards such magnificence set among the lesser ten and twelve horsepower cars. Palfrey thought nothing of that until an attendant suddenly appeared near the gate and gripped the arm of a man who had come from his car.