Shadow of Doom (Dr. Palfrey) Read online

  ‘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.

  ‘Just a moment, sir, please.’

  In a moment everything went topsy-turvy, for the man who had been stopped dragged his arm away and smashed his fist into the attendant’s face. The attendant did not utter a sound, but staggered back. A woman exclaimed and a man lunged forward to stop the assailant. He too was struck with a savage blow, and fell.

  ‘I say!’ protested Palfrey, for someone bumped into him. There was confusion, people moving in all directions, men shouting, men running, Another attendant made an attempt to catch the violent one, and this time a little fellow prevented the man from being caught.

  Palfrey saw the little fellow shoot out a leg and trip the attendant up. The main quarry got clear away and raced towards the main gates, where a car was waiting. The little fellow seemed to stay and watch events, taking his chance. Palfrey drew near him, and murmured: ‘Neat, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded the little fellow, violently. ‘I didn’t do—’

  ‘Anything,’ said Palfrey.

  The little fellow delivered a short-arm jab, nicely calculated to hit Palfrey on the chin. Palfrey moved his head and swung his left fist. He connected. Next moment he was hugging the little fellow closely to him, and a crowd had collected about them. Airfield attendants broke through the crowd. The little man was bellowing protests, he would have the law on them, he wasn’t going to be set upon, he was a most indignant citizen. Yet Palfrey persuaded the attendants that he should be taken to the Superintendent’s office.

  That was after the car which had been waiting in the road outside had been driven off, but before the excitement was over.

  The little man was a red, round-faced fellow, flashily dressed. He appeared to be sizzling with indignation, but there was fright in his eyes. The Superintendent was a leathery middle-aged ex-R.A.F. man of the kind who would stand no nonsense, not even from distinguished visitors, and Palfrey stood aside while the attendants told their story.

  The Superintendent turned cold eyes towards the little man.

  ‘None of you saw this gentleman?’ His ‘gentleman’ was horribly derisive.

  ‘No, sir,’ said the attendants, in unison.

  The cold eyes were turned towards Palfrey.

  ‘You think you saw him trip up one of the attendants, sir?’

  ‘No,’ said Palfrey, and the cold eyes looked startled. ‘No thinking about it. He did. With malice. But for him, the man who first grew violent and then ran would not have escaped. Your attendants were very quick.’

  The attendants drew themselves up proudly.

  ‘The beggar got away,’ growled the Superintendent, and the attendants wilted.

  ‘Half-light, determined gentlemen, no wonder,’ said Palfrey. ‘Take it from me, please, that this individual prevented your men from doing their job properly.’ Until then he had looked so mild and apologetic that his air of authority seemed to come out of a box. ‘And give me a few minutes in private, will you?’

  ‘I insist on being released!’ howled the little man. ‘This is outrageous! I’ll go straight to the police—’

  ‘Your truest word,’ said Palfrey. ‘You will.’

  The little man was silenced for the time being, and the Superintendent’s brows met together in a frown which was partly of bewilderment. This Palfrey puzzled him.

  ‘Well, I can spare you a few minutes, Mr. Palfrey.’

  ‘Dr. Palfrey,’ smiled Palfrey. ‘Thanks very much. While we’re talking, could one of your men go and look at my car?’

  ‘Your car? It’s all right, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s what I want to know,’ said Palfrey. ‘It’s the horrid sight in the corner. Mercedes-Benz.’

  ‘Why, sir!’ exclaimed an attendant, ‘the man who got away was doing something to it, that’s why I stopped him.’

  He was excited and pleased with himself, and the other attendants were so intrigued that the little man saw a chance of running away, and seized it. He rushed to the door, pushing one attendant aside, flung the door open and raced along the passage. Attendants ran after him. There was the sound of a collision and a crash of crockery and metal. After a pause that lasted only for a few seconds, but seemed an age, the Superintendent gave a long-suffering sigh, and said:

  ‘That was my breakfast.’

  ‘Sacrifice in a good cause,’ said Palfrey, for when they went into the passage the little man was on the floor, looking dazed, and a massive steward was glaring down at him with a murderous glint in his eye. On the floor were pieces of cups and saucers, bacon, scrambled egg, toast and the usual etceteras of a substantial breakfast, including coffee, which spread sluggishly from wall to wall and smelt most fragrant.

  ‘He won’t get away again,’ said the Superintendent, and gave the necessary orders. It appeared that a corner of the tray had caught the little man in the eye, and temporarily blinded him. He was gasping and moaning piteously, but received no sympathy. The Superintendent watched him taken away, then looked at Palfrey. ‘Breakfast for two?’

  ‘That’s handsome of you,’ said Palfrey. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘In the meantime you can tell me what it is all about,’ said the Superintendent. ‘And, as we’ll have to wait a quarter of an hour, we may as well go and see what happened to your car – if anything.’

  ‘Happy thought,’ said Palfrey. ‘As for what it’s all about, I don’t know. Except that they appeared to have evil designs on my car. I’m fond of that car. Also, I have been attacked before. Some would say an H.I. Department, and some would say nothing at all.’ He beamed.

  As they stepped into the frosty October air the Superintendent’s eyes stopped being cold. They glowed, and he said, ‘That Palfrey!’ – as if it explained everything. The change relieved Palfrey, but the sight of the little canister in his car did not. It was small and round, like a cycle oil can, and everybody handled it with great care. Neither he nor the Superintendent guessed what it contained, but they were sure that it was in some way lethal.

  ‘So someone is after you in England,’ said the Superintendent, over breakfast of crisp, hot bacon and two eggs apiece, together with other things which did not normally appear on the breakfast menu at the restaurant. ‘I must say I envy you, Palfrey.’

  ‘Envy!’ Palfrey was shocked. ‘I nearly made a nasty blotch on the Great West Road; that’s no fit subject for envy.’ He talked fairly freely of the past, and the Superintendent rightly felt that he was privileged. Presently the police arrived, and the little man, who had given the name of Clarkson, was taken away, protesting again, and with a remarkably colourful eye to bear him out when he complained that he had been assaulted. The police also took charge of the m
ysterious canister, with a promise to treat it with the utmost respect and to await instructions for its disposal.

  In the course of the next few hours, items of news trickled in. First, Clarkson would not talk, and denied everything. Second, the canister contained a German explosive which would go off if subjected to much vibration, as near a car engine. Third, Clarkson’s fingerprints were found on the canister, but Clarkson still denied everything. Finally, in the early afternoon, when Palfrey was at Wimpole Street, Brett telephoned and told him that although van Doorn had arrived safely at Rotterdam airport he had not reached his home nor the University.

  The Dutchman was still missing twenty-four hours later.

  Chapter Three

  The Marquis Obtains Recruits

  Dias had small feet, and his trousers were cut so perfectly that the line from his waist to his ankle was absolutely straight, although it tapered off. It gave him a top-heavy appearance, for he had powerful shoulders and a big head. Bright eyes, dark brown in colour, lit up at the sight of Palfrey.

  ‘My dear Doctor—a thousand thanks,’ he said, effusively, extending a hand and clasping Palfrey’s. ‘I know the value of your time, I know that you have scarcely the opportunity to see all the patients who flock to your rooms. To find time for me among your illustrious patients is an honour indeed— a great honour,’ he continued, and lifted his eyes towards the ceiling, ‘and one which gives me hope.’

  ‘I’m so glad,’ murmured Palfrey.

  He opened his eyes wide; it was probably not the reception he had expected.

  ‘Sit down, please,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘May I continue to stand?’ asked Dias, taking a cigar-case out. ‘And will you permit me to—’

  ‘If you don’t mind, no smoking in here,’ said Palfrey. ‘Some patients don’t like it. Others can’t stand it. The effect of smoke on certain stomachs is distressing.’ He beamed, and looked at Dias’s stomach.

  He did not like Señor Fernandez y Dias, but he could not say on what he based his dislike, for the Castilian’s was not an unpleasant face. It was a clever one, thought Palfrey. The mouth was small and red, like van Doorn’s in colour, he was black-haired and clean-shaven, and had powdered after shaving. His eyes were fine, with lashes which would have been more becoming on a woman. His nose was a little prominent, but it was a well-shaped nose, and in spite of the fat jowl it was impossible to disguise the fact that he had a sizable chin. A handsome and imposing man, who seemed startled when asked not to smoke, but quickly covered his confusion.

  ‘I come on a mission of such great importance that I cannot too heavily emphasise it,’ said Dias. ‘Dr. Palfrey, I have travelled far, I am a man of many acquaintances, on my country’s behalf I have had the honour of meeting many famous men, and this—I do assure you—this is an honour greater than any hitherto bestowed on me!’

  ‘Oh, please,’ said Palfrey, shrinking.

  ‘But it is, sir, I insist that it is,’ boomed Dias. ‘I am standing’ – his voice was low, there was a quiver in it, and his chin seemed to quiver in sympathy – ‘before the greatest specialist in the treatment of tuberculosis in the world. Please!’ He raised his hand, palm outwards. It was a small, plump, white hand, and he wore three rings. ‘There is no doubt that I am right. In New York, in Paris, in London—everywhere I go, everywhere I am told—Dr. Palfrey might help you, there is none other.’

  ‘If I can,’ murmured Palfrey.

  ‘You are so good, so very good,’ said Dias, humbly. ‘I was told of your courtesy, also. My dear Doctor, I come because I am in great distress. Not for myself—I would ask no such favour for myself, please believe me, please. I ask for another, for the wife of our illustrious President.’ He bowed.

  ‘Oh,’ said Palfrey, and found himself trying to think of the name of the then President of Castilia. There had been several changes in recent months, and he had not been able to keep pace with them. There were suspicions that the purge of Nazi sympathisers, announced with such a blowing of trumpets early that year, had not been as complete as it was pretended. Castilia was still the Awful Child of South America, rated low by many politicians and journalists; governments, of late, had been chary of passing comment on Castilia’s internal affairs.

  ‘She is so beautiful a woman, so gentle, so long-suffering,’ said Dias, softly. ‘If only it were possible for her to come here, to stand beside me, you would understand the beauty, the charm, the magnetism of the President’s wife.’

  ‘You make it very clear,’ murmured Palfrey.

  ‘Thank you!’ boomed Dias, suddenly enlivened. ‘You are understanding, kind, and you raise my hopes. The President’s wife, Dr. Palfrey, is ailing! From this dread scourge which only you have mastered. She cannot travel. Specialists from the United States, from other countries, from all over the world,’ he went on extravagantly, ‘have tried, have done their best, have failed. It is said that she has no more than six months to live—six months, Dr. Palfrey. You—and you alone—might save her.’

  Palfrey said: ‘It is so difficult. I have so many other patients in this country.’

  ‘I know,’ said Dias, humbly. ‘The decision must be yours. I am waiting on your word, my dear Doctor.’

  ‘Very nice of you,’ said Palfrey. ‘It could not be for’ – he paused – ‘two weeks or more.’

  ‘But’ – Dias’s eyes rounded, blazed, he stepped forward and clasped Palfrey’s hand – ‘after that, you will come?’

  ‘No promises yet,’ said Palfrey. ‘I will try. Will you give me a day or two to see whether I can make arrangements?’

  ‘Gladly!’ cried Dias. ‘Gladly!’ He seemed close to tears. ‘You will never know how you have inspired me, never know how you have lifted up my heart. I believe that you will come. I believe that you will allow nothing to prevent you, I am convinced of it—I shall pray for it,’ added Dias, unexpectedly. ‘May I, then, wait upon you at this hour in two days’ time, for your decision?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Palfrey, and smiled.

  Chapter Four

  The Marquis Finds the Money

  Lyme’s was a small and exclusive chop-house not far from the Lanchester. They met there at half past one, and were escorted to a table by a venerable, soft-voiced, waiter, who hovered about them and made much of them, whispered promises and stole away. Lyme’s was remarkable in so far as there was always room for just another one or two patrons of long standing. There were mysterious doors leading to mysterious rooms, alcoves sheltered by heavy curtains, much red plush, a great variety of old prints on the walls, prints which meant nothing to the casual observer but much to habitués of Lyme’s. All the prints were friends, all the waiters were friends, a new face above a spotless white shirt-front was enough to cause comment. No one ever raised his voice at Lyme’s; somehow even the crowded little bar was quiet, but just as friendly.

  Palfrey looked about the room. He had come to Lyme’s chiefly because among the regular patrons were eminent gentlemen from the Foreign Office and the War Office, in fact from Whitehall in general. The Marquis of Brett was often there.

  ‘Hallo,’ said Palfrey, ‘there’s Bobby.’

  Drusilla looked round, noting that his voice was brighter. Two middle-aged men who contrived to look young, lean of figure and gay of face, had entered and were being ushered towards another miraculously vacant table. One was fair, the other dark. The fair one was Mr. Robert Fairweather, who had once been in a position to tell many secrets of Moscow, Teheran, Yalta and Berlin. Bobby had a bright and roving eye, and looked the last man to be the repository of State secrets. His friend was a stranger to Palfrey.

  Palfrey caught the fair man’s eye.

  Bobby waved, leaned forward and murmured to his friend, and sauntered over. As if by magic a chair was placed behind him and he sat down, although he could not have seen the chair put into position.

  ‘Judging from your expression, you wanted a word in my ear,’ he said, ‘and I can give you five minutes, old chap. Can’t desert th
e Old School any longer than that.’ He grimaced. ‘Fellow with a son wants a sinecure at the F.O.: the least I can do is to give him lunch and tell him that sinecures exist no longer. Shoot.’ Having given that command, Bobby did some more shooting himself. ‘I see you can’t keep your face out of the picture papers, old chap. Shameful vanity. It wasn’t even a good photograph. What’s this about going on the old travels again? I’ve heard whispers. Special authority for the Dr. Palfrey.’

  ‘His Excellency Señor Fernandez y Dias to you,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘Don’t hobnob with His Excellency,’ said Bobby. He dabbed with a table-napkin at the soft brown foam on his lips. ‘Nasty piece of machinery altogether. In Europe on some special mission. I wouldn’t trust him as far as his watch-chain stretches across his waistcoat. Friend of yours?’ he added, in sudden alarm.

  ‘A great friend,’ said Palfrey. ‘He offered me all the riches of the Andes if I will go to Castilia to heal the President’s wife.’

  ‘Wife,’ said Bobby, and looked at Drusilla. ‘Forgive your husband’s innocence. His Excellency the President of Castilia, just now, has no wife. But he has a harem, I’m told.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ asked Palfrey.

  ‘This ignorance,’ said Bobby, sadly. ‘Bruno.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Drusilla.

  ‘His Excellency Señor So-and-So Such-and-Such Bruno,’ declared Bobby. ‘There’s no doubt of it. I don’t know how long he will be President. Don’t go. He probably thinks you’re a surgeon and wants you to be at hand to take out the bullets before it can be said that he has died from his wounds. Someone will, of course, some day shoot at him. But this is fiction,’ said Bobby, ‘all but the name. I’m sorry about my Old School. Nothing I would like better than to gaze dreamily into Drusilla’s eyes. Does Sap ever tell you about your eyes, Drusilla?’