Traitor's Doom Read online

  Copyright & Information

  Traitor's Doom

  First published in 1942

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1942-2014

  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 2014 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

  0755136748 9780755136742 Print

  0755140079 9780755140077 Kindle

  0755138422 9780755138425 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.

  Chapter One

  The City of Light

  Light blazed from the windows of shops, street lamps, lumbering single-decker buses, horse-drawn cabs, and sleek, fast-moving taxis. Only in the narrow alleys leading to the river was there darkness. Neon signs blazed with announcements of cinemas, theatres, clubs and cafés; everywhere there was light, brilliant, unconcealed, bewildering and hardly credible to a man who had lived in blacked-out England for three years.

  Dr. Stanislaus Alexander Palfrey, tall and slight, round-shouldered, and vaguely apologetic of expression, walked slowly along the thronged sidewalk, staring into the brilliant shops and dazzled by the super-abundance of light by night.

  A hawker came shouting his wares, mixing Catanese with English, knowing that so near the Hotel del Roso there must be both Englishmen and Americans. Palfrey looked into the thin, pallid face and staring black eyes.

  Car horns blared in Palfrey’s ears, buses rattled past, taxis whirred along the road, horses drawing cabs trotted sharply and neatly close to the kerb. Although he appeared to go slowly he covered the ground swiftly enough, looking all about him. Twice he ignored outstretched hands and earned curses, not knowing what they were. A larger mendicant than most blocked his path, hissing gracias, señor. Palfrey made to pass him, not liking his heavy, beetle-browed face, but the man prevented him.

  ‘Move away, please,’ said Palfrey hesitantly. He knew that it was absurd to expect the man to understand English, so shook his head and made another attempt to pass.

  The mendicant clutched at his coat.

  Palfrey wrenched himself away and glanced right and left. For a few yards in either direction the sidewalk was deserted, although there were hurrying footsteps near by. The man made a grab at Palfrey again.

  ‘Here, I say!’ exclaimed Palfrey.

  The mendicant’s arm was arrested as his fingers touched Palfrey’s pocket. The mendicant gasped in genuine pain, then staggered back as Palfrey twisted his wrist, creating an exquisite agony which lasted only for a moment but was enough to make the man rum colour. The accoster turned and lumbered heavily away.

  Under the eye of the big bemedalled commissionaire at the Hotel del Roso, Palfrey stood and stared across the boulevard, sometimes imagining that he caught a glimpse of the lights reflecting on the waters of the Guan. He remembered stories of the underground rivers of Orlanto, of dark deeds committed there. He was reluctant to go indoors, but equally reluctant to go on. When a shadow fell across his path he started, and backed defensively towards the entrance.

  A man nearly as tall as himself, well-dressed, smiling and confident, looked upon him.

  ‘Aren’t you Dr. Palfrey?’ He spoke English like an educated Englishman, and Palfrey’s apprehension faded.

  ‘Why, yes.’ His manner grew nervous, he always appeared diffident with strangers. ‘Yes, that is so. How remarkable that you should know my name, sir.’ He blinked at the other, who was a youngish, broad-shouldered man, lean and pleasant-looking.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ the stranger said, taking a cigarette-ease from his pocket. ‘All Orlanto knows that the famous Dr. Palfrey has been attending Don Salvos, and your photograph has been in the papers regularly of late. What papers there are,’ he added humorously.

  ‘Oh, I understand,’ said Palfrey. ‘My photograph—well, I hardly expected that. But not knowing Catanese, I don’t look at the papers, of course.’ He smiled. ‘Er—you are English?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the stranger. ‘My name is Clive.’

  ‘Indeed. How do you do, Mr. Clive?’ Palfrey looked hard into the pleasant, smiling face. ‘Tell me, aren’t you positively flabbergasted by the light? I can hardly believe it. This, in Europe! Why, I had forgotten what street lights looked like.’

  ‘Well, Catania isn’t at war yet,’ said Clive practically.

  ‘Oh no, I realise that.’ Palfrey looked apologetic. ‘But I am intrigued. I ventured a little way along the road just now, but I thought I had better not go too far.’

  ‘I know,’ said Clive. I saw you.’ His smile widened. ‘Things are so bad in Orlanto that the most respectable people will beg or borrow if they see an easy victim, or what they think is an easy one. If I were you I would keep my hand in my pocket and dispense charity through one of the authorised institutions.’ He did not apologise for thrusting advice upon a stranger, but eyed Palfrey humorously. ‘If you don’t, there will be a queue waiting for you every time you come out of the hotel.’

  ‘Really!’ exclaimed Palfrey. ‘I had no idea that things were so bad here. Thoughtless, of course; had I only spent a few minutes thinking I must have realised that conditions would be difficult. Neutrality is certainly a myth, just a myth.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Clive dryly. ‘On the whole I think I’d rather be mythically neutral and show lights, than actually at war and show none. That’s just one of the minor advantages of the myth. Before the war the average Catanese could ha
rdly get enough to live on; now food and money are ten times scarcer, prices have gone sky-high, begging has become a profession, but’ – he shrugged – ‘since it was always an uphill fight for the poor devil, he’s not affected by the present situation as much as you might think. Is this your first visit?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. I have been to Madrid, and once I spent a week in the Portugal hills—or should I say mountains?—but both times I came through France. Catania is new ground to me, and hardly expected to be here during the war.’

  ‘You came on a good cause,’ said Clive. ‘Don Salvos is the good Samaritan of Orlanto.’

  ‘So I understand.’ Palfrey’s enthusiasm grew warm. ‘A great philanthropist, a great gentleman! It always fills me with a new faith in human nature when I hear of a man of wealth and high estate devoting himself to the care of the poor. I felt it an honour to be asked to see him.’

  ‘How is he?’ asked Clive.

  ‘Oh, I am glad to say that he is making progress,’ said Palfrey confidently. ‘The worst symptoms have been checked, and I think that he will continue to improve until he is quite well again.’

  ‘Remarkable!’ exclaimed Clive.

  Palfrey’s voice grew a little sharp.

  ‘And why remarkable, sir?’

  ‘Because I had always thought a man in the advanced stages of tuberculosis was doomed,’ said Clive. I bad read about your researches, of course, but the world Press has been full of news of researches, some new cure or other has been talked about so often that I grew sceptical of yet another. I offer you my warmest congratulations, Dr. Palfrey.’

  Palfrey shrugged his shoulders, was silent for a moment, and then Clive went on: ‘Perhaps you would care to see the sights. May I offer my services as a guide?’

  Palfrey looked startled.

  ‘That is very good of you, sir. Do you know Orlanto well?’

  ‘Well enough,’ said Clive. ‘And I’m at a loose end for the evening.’ He turned in the opposite direction to that which Palfrey had already explored, and continued: ‘What part of the city intrigues you most?’

  Palfrey fell into step, now eager-voiced.

  ‘To be frank, what I think is called the café quarter. I must confess to obtaining a somewhat vicarious thrill from such places; and in Orlanto, meeting-point of the unofficial envoys of the warring powers, I feel that I shall rub shoulders with many men who risk their lives in the service of their countries.’

  Clive looked at him sharply.

  ‘You mean spies?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ said Palfrey. ‘Am I indulging in melodrama?’

  Clive regarded the other’s bright eyes curiously. ‘There is a little place about half a mile from here that might intrigue you.’

  ‘You are more than good,’ said Palfrey. ‘More than good.’

  They walked at a fair pace along the wide boulevard, were approached frequently for alms, or offered a miscellany of useless trifles from hawkers’ barrows. People hustled past them in both directions, and Palfrey stared about him as if anxious not to miss a single item visible in this marvellous City of Light.

  Soon they reached a by-road, where the lights were dim, and the class of the shops grew obviously poorer. Clive put a hand on Palfrey’s shoulder.

  ‘We turn down here,’ he said.

  Palfrey found himself in a shadowy thoroughfare, the gloom making a sharp contrast with the brighter light of the main street. Turning another corner a brilliant glare met his eyes in the centre of a narrow, cobbled lane.

  Blazing neon signs made him blink, but drawing nearer he read: ‘Café del Porto, Virtuoso’. Other lights enabled him to see large crudely painted signs on which women in scanty attire predominated.

  Two or three well-dressed women were leaving the café, escorted to a taxi by a well-dressed man who opened and closed the door for them. The taxi moved off, and the man turned to the newcomers, paused, and raised his hands. His bland, clean-shaven face was pale, his eyes and teeth glistened, his English was good.

  ‘Señor Clive! I am delighted! It ees some time since I see you, yes?’

  ‘Quite a while, Manoel,’ said Clive good-humouredly. ‘This is Dr. Palfrey, who has come for a little light entertainment.’

  Manoel turned to stare at Palfrey.

  ‘Doctaire Palfrey! Señor, I am the proudest man in all Orlanto!’

  He led the way inside, followed by Clive and Palfrey. The foyer was less brilliantly lighted than the facade, and there were several shadowy alcoves; in some of them women were waiting with faces half-averted. From somewhere not far off there came the strains of music, which grew louder as Manoel led the way to a flight of wooden stairs which ran downwards.

  Palfrey stood and stared.

  Five hundred people were in the room, sitting at tables surrounding the small dance-floor and the orchestra. Coloured lights glinted on white damask and glittering silver, on glasses filled with red wine and white, on the silver-covered ice-buckets for champagne, on the jewellery of the women – most of whom were in evening-dress, although a few wore day clothes. Most of the men were in lounge suits, although there were one or two uniforms with polished buttons catching the lights.

  A hum of conversation interspersed with laughter vied with the music, but was no more than a background to it. Smiling faces, glistening teeth and merry eyes were everywhere, although Palfrey was quick to look at individuals and drew in a sharp breath when he saw several bullet-headed men, unmistakably German. All of them had women-companions, all were joining in the laughter or the conversation.

  Two or three people glanced towards the newcomers, but no one appeared to take heed of them until, with Manoel guiding them, they reached a table set for four, well-placed for the dance-floor and the orchestra. Hardly had Manoel drawn out chairs than a waiter approached, two girls behind him, tall, dark-haired, smiling and vivacious.

  ‘Señor Clive!’ said one warmly. It is a delight to see you! You have deserted us for too long.’

  ‘Hallo, Margarita! And you, Mepita. I have chosen a good night.’ Clive took their hands, and bowed over them. ‘Allow me to present my good friend Dr. Palfrey.’

  Palfrey peered nervously into the laughing eyes of Margarita and Mepita, and before he realised it they were sitting at the table, while Clive was deep in orders to the waiter.

  Champagne was brought quickly, the waiter filled the long-stemmed glasses and plunged the bottle back into the ice-box. Palfrey sipped warily, nodded approval, began to talk freely. Mepita encouraged him, until the music started again and Clive suggested dancing.

  ‘I am no good at it,’ protested Palfrey quickly. ‘I—er—I’d love to, but—’

  ‘Mepita can make an elephant dance,’ said Clive, ‘and you’re no elephant.’

  He watched Palfrey allow himself to be guided to the floor, already filling, and followed with Margarita, whose dark eyes lost much of their gaiety as Clive swept her away from the other couple.

  ‘So you have him here, señor?’ she said quietly.

  ‘Ye-es,’ answered Clive softly. ‘It wasn’t as difficult as I thought it might be.’ He guided her skilfully across the dance-floor, and at the stairs which led to a small gallery by the exit doors stopped and looked about him. A side door opened, and Manoel came into sight.

  Clive and Margarita joined him.

  ‘You have done well, señor,’ said Manoel softly. ‘So early as this, I did not expect it.’

  ‘The rest is up to you,’ said Clive shortly. ‘Take my advice, and be careful. Palfrey isn’t the fool he looks.’

  ‘But, señor—’

  ‘Palfrey isn’t the fool he looks,’ repeated Clive insistently. I saw him handle a pickpocket as if it were child’s play. You mustn’t give him a chance to defend himself or he’ll cause real trouble.’
/>   Clive and Margarita danced their way towards the other couple, soon near enough to Palfrey to hear him laugh and to see his flushed cheeks, as if the champagne was already working.

  Chapter Two

  A Considerable Shock for Dr. Palfrey

  ‘Superb!’ declared Palfrey in a loud voice. I haven’t had such a celebration since my college days! What time is it now?’ He glanced at his wrist-watch, and widened his eyes. ‘Nearly midnight! I should have guessed ten o’clock. And of course we shall have to see your friends home.’

  ‘Our friends,’ said Clive dryly. ‘But you needn’t worry about that, they live here.’

  ‘Really! Well, that solves one problem. Here they come, Clive. Er—will you talk to them? Tell them how essential it is that we must get back.’

  Margarita and Mepita were prettily disappointed, but utterly charming. One more drink, and that would be all. A special drink, which they had ordered already; Juan was bringing it now, but they had expected it to mark the half-way stage, not the end of the evening.

  Palfrey was nervously apologetic.

  The girls took their glasses, Mepita handed one to Palfrey, Margarita one to Clive. They drank; Palfrey coughed a little, and Mepita laughed.

  He finished his drink, coughed again, bowed to the girls with careful dignity, and staggered a little as he moved from the table.

  He stumbled up the stairs.

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ he muttered to Clive. ‘It—er—must be the heat. I felt perfectly all right ten minutes ago. That last drink was too much, perhaps. A pity.’ He reached the top of the stairs, and then the foyer, where Manoel came forward to greet them.

  Clive and Manoel exchanged quick glances.

  The girls went off, both blowing kisses and laughing. Palfrey leaned on Clive for support.