Shadow of Doom (4 page)

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.

 

 

‘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 of 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.

There was one other thing which Bane and Anderson had in common. It amounted to a phobia, and had earned both of them rebukes from high authority. They were anti-Soviet. On that their public reputations were mainly based. The public would have heard of them only seldom, and quickly forgotten them, but for their anti-Russian tirades.

Bobby finished his brandy and looked at his watch.

‘I ought to go,' he said. ‘Not unexpected, you say?'

‘If Dias has planned an expedition it has to be financed,' said Palfrey, ‘and Bane and Anderson do finance things.'

‘That isn't what you meant,' said Bobby.

‘Now, come,' said Palfrey. ‘Isn't Dias anti-Russian? Isn't that a likely meeting-place for them, a mutual ground on which they can plan their actions?'

‘Shortage of radium won't hurt Russia particularly,' said Bobby, and then pulled a face at Palfrey's expression. ‘Now what have I said?'

‘Of course it will hurt Russia particularly,' said Palfrey. He felt suddenly more hopeful about Stefan. ‘Of the Big Three, only Russia has great numbers of people suffering from years of privation—privation of a genuine kind. Russia will be hit badly by a world shortage of radium. That,' he added, almost dreamily, ‘is my one reason for hoping that Andromovitch will be released to help us.'

‘The big fellow?' asked Bobby. ‘I've met him, haven't I? Well, perhaps you're right. Mine not to give opinions, mine but to state the facts. As I have. Tell a soul and I shall leave you both out of my will.' He heaved himself out of his chair. ‘Sorry about the empty decanter,' he said, and took his leave.

Palfrey saw him to the street door. There was no shadowy figure outside, nothing to indicate that he had been followed. He had said a great deal of great interest, and had given Palfrey much to think about, but in spite of that Palfrey was chiefly concerned with Charles Lumsden's disappearance.

He decided to wait until midnight, and then telephone the Old Man again.

Charles Lumsden was not aware of being followed when he left Palfrey's flat. He was smiling to himself, amused in a bitter sort of way. It was like the Old Man to work something on these lines. There was no real love lost between them, and he knew that he was regarded as the prodigal son. He felt a sense of injustice.

Was this new affair of Palfrey's really a show for him?

He half wished that he had not given his undertaking. He was playing into the Old Man's hands. Life in London was not too bad; in fact there was much to be said for it. London still had its night-life.

‘The truth is,' said Charles to himself, ‘I don't know what I
do
want.'

By then he was walking along King's Road, mildly irritated because there was not a taxi in sight. He was an ass, he should have kept his taxi waiting. Buses bored him. They stopped too often, and conductresses were always pert and conductors usually insolent.

There were people walking behind him, but he did not really notice them until he came to a corner and found a man on either side of him. They jostled him, and he drew back.

‘Excuse me,' said one of them, ‘could you oblige me with a light?'

That was a time-honoured danger-signal, but it was a new one on Charles. In his experience, when people asked for a light they usually wanted something else. Sometimes it was an opening to tell a plaintive begging story. He was prepared to give them a light, but nothing more, and put his hand in his pocket. As he did so he was seized by both arms and something was thrown over his head, a thick cloth, which almost suffocated him. He tried to struggle, but was lifted clean off his feet. He felt frightened and foolish. Something struck his head and darkness engulfed him …

 

The cord which tied the bag was loosened, and the bag withdrawn from his head.

At first the light was so bright that it hurt his eyes. He closed them involuntarily, and kept them closed until they felt easier. Then he opened them and looked about him – and jumped in alarm!

The three men wore black masks.

The masks were hideous. They covered the faces, leaving gaps only for the eyes and the mouth. They were hard-looking and shiny, and would have filled most people with alarm, for in their hideousness there was something both sinister and menacing.

The man facing him sat at a small desk. The others were on either side of him, standing a foot in front, obviously to make sure that he saw all three masks. These men were much of a height, about the same height as he was, but the man at the desk seemed taller and thinner.

‘Mr. Lumsden,' said the man at the desk, I am going to ask you several questions, and on your answers will depend your life. Make no mistake about that.'

Charles stared at him without speaking.

He was feeling really angry now, more angry than frightened, although the last words had a chilling effect on him. He wished he could see what the man really looked like. He was dark-haired, the light reflected from the black, shining top of his head, but Charles could see nothing of his face. He was well dressed, and he had not attempted to cover his hands.

‘Do you understand?' he demanded.

After a pause, Charles said: ‘Yes.'

‘That is better,' said the man at the desk. ‘Now, Lumsden, don't waste time, answer me at once. Why did you go to see Palfrey?'

‘I had an appointment with him.'

‘What about?'

‘I didn't know until I saw him.'

‘Who made the appointment?'

‘My father made it for me.'

‘You are a dutiful son,' sneered the man at the desk, and Charles flushed. ‘Is your father financing Palfrey in some wild scheme?'

Charles looked genuinely startled. ‘Not so far as I know.'

‘You have been warned to tell the truth,' said his questioner.

‘You don't want me to guess the answers, do you?' snapped Charles.

‘No, Lumsden, we want the truth. Think carefully. Has Palfrey persuaded your father to finance a project?'

‘Not so far as I know,' repeated Charles, and licked his lips. ‘The Old Man doesn't finance wild-cat schemes, he's too careful with his money.' He said that with great feeling.

‘I see,' said the man at the desk. ‘What did Palfrey say to you?'

‘Not much,' said Charles.

He saw the other's hands clench.

‘I warned you, Lumsden. You were with Palfrey for an hour. He must have said a great deal in that time.'

‘Don't be an ass,' said Charles, surprising himself with his daring. ‘I can talk nonsense for a whole evening. Palfrey asked a lot of questions, where I'd been, what I'd been doing lately, and rather hinted that he thought I might like a spot of fun. That's all.'

He hoped it sounded convincing.

Then one of the men by his side turned quickly and, without warning, kicked him viciously on the shins. The pain was intense; Charles gasped and staggered into the other man, who struck him across the face and sent him reeling back again. Fear rose up in him like a raging sea, and he felt sick with it and with pain.