Shadow of Doom (16 page)

 

It was time, said Palfrey, that Erikson and Bruton had a joy-flight. They left that night for Berlin, on the same aircraft as Bane. Palfrey did not see them off, but went with Drusilla, Stefan and Charles to the British Consulate, and there put through a telephone call to Brett.

‘Drusilla nearly came over,' said Palfrey, after exchanging greetings, ‘but we hoped you could get the information for us without that. Have you had any luck?'

‘Yes.' Brett's voice was crisp, almost brusque. ‘Bane is what he says he is, but strictly unofficial. There are widespread Black Market operations, but we cannot investigate except in Occupied countries. Are you any nearer the radium?'

‘No,' confessed Palfrey. He did not like admitting it but it was no time for half-truths.

‘I think you'd be wise to concentrate on it,' said Brett.

There was little more. Palfrey rang off, rubbed his forehead, looked ruefully at the others and told them the gist of what the Marquis had said. Stefan pulled a wry face, Drusilla looked worried. The only one who was not greatly affected was Charles. Charles had obviously pulled himself together and was determined not to make a fool of himself again.

‘I don't see that his approval makes all that difference, Sap. Why be down in the mouth about it?'

‘That wasn't our friend Brett,' said Palfrey. ‘That was the Marquis of Brett, very formal, very much the member of the Government. He wasn't disapproving, he was warning me as clearly as he could that there have been complaints about our goings-on. The Chief of Police is perhaps not so friendly as he makes out; he has been telling High Authority that we don't appear to be very interested in radium.'

‘Well,' said Charles, ‘
are
we?'

Palfrey laughed, without much humour. ‘I am,' he said. ‘Well, we'd better get some sleep, we want to be off early in the morning.'

‘To Berlin?' asked Charles.

‘Yes. After radium and von Kriess,
not
after Dias,' said Palfrey.

He lit a cigarette, and said nothing more. Drusilla was subdued. Stefan, who knew Brett almost as well as his friends, knew that Palfrey had not misunderstood what Brett had said.

 

For the first few hours of the journey across Holland and Western Germany there was desolation on all sides. Villages had been abandoned completely, they were still wrecked and unlived-in; windows gaped, splintered doors hung from the doorways. Churches and houses were blasted and holed, fields that had once been fruitful were overgrown, cattle seemed hardly to exist – it was a vista of destruction in itself enough to depress them.

They crossed the Lower Rhine at Wesel, over a bridge which was still being repaired. There were notices in French, English, Flemish, Dutch and German, warning heavy traffic that the bridge must not be used; an odd contrast to the time when the Rhine had been crossed, when the bridge had been shaken by the thunder of tanks and heavy guns, and had borne the weight of the liberating armies, as they passed into the heart of the Reich.

They came to Berlin.

Palfrey, Stefan and Drusilla had been in Berlin in 1944, they had seen something of the devastation caused by Allied bombing, but now, in the gathering darkness, they looked about them and saw, with stifled horror, the desolation which seemed to have reached its height – or its depth – in the first city of the Reich. No man could look upon it for the first time without a lump rising in his throat.

Palfrey said: ‘Well, it was an ugly blot, anyway.'

‘Where are we going?' asked Charles, looking at the controls of his jeep.

‘The United Nations Club,' said Palfrey.

What could Dias do
here?
What could anyone do?

Was he right to feel this acute depression, to sense the physical horror of blasted Berlin? Would he have felt that horror so acutely had he not spent so much time in Rotterdam and learned what there was to learn? In his heart he knew that it was not so much what he saw but what he imagined that caused his horror. He imagined resentment, deep down, smouldering, dangerous, resentment not only in Germany but in Holland, in the other countries, in France – yes, it had been evident in France. Resentment perhaps against Fate, resentment which bred hatred, out of which came the spawn of future wars.

They were directed by two American military policemen to the United Nations Club, where they hoped to find Erikson and Bruton waiting for them. They pulled up outside, and Bruton came hurrying down the steps, jaunty, unimpressed by the ruin about him. In fact there was not so much just there. The broad highway was nearly empty of traffic, it was the beginning of the famous
autobahn
which led from Berlin to Cologne. Some buildings had escaped destruction, several had been repaired; like Bruton, they had a jaunty air, as if they were conscious of the fact that they were the first of many which would soon stand there, superior, privileged, aloof.

It was a curious impression, and Palfrey was amused by it – amused for the first time since they had left Rotterdam.

Bruton was in high spirits.

‘You made good time,' he said. ‘And you've come just in time to move again, Sap!'

‘Where to?' asked Palfrey, quickly.

‘Dias is in Sweden,' said Bruton. ‘He was chased out of Berlin—boy, was he chased! They wouldn't let him stay more than one night, he went off protesting even when he climbed into the airplane. He doesn't like Americans, English or Russians, because they all had a hand in it. No, sir, no one in Berlin has a kind word for His Excellency Señor Fernandez y Dias. It did me good, Sap, just to see his face when he left.'

Palfrey said, with great deliberation: ‘It's done me good just to hear you talk for one minute. When did he go?'

‘This morning. There were two airplanes for Stockholm,' added Bruton, ‘and Neil got on the second. So did Bane. It looks as if we'll have to leave the luggage behind, and fly over.'

‘Possibly,' said Palfrey, as they walked into the building. It was comfortably furnished and had a curious atmosphere combining that of a London club with that of a good hotel. American, Russian, French and English officers were sitting in the lounges, and there was a good display of flags of the three nations. ‘Have you looked up von Kriess?'

‘No,' said Bruton, ‘except to make sure he's still around. And his wife—Anna said something about the Frau, didn't she?'

‘Yes,' said Palfrey.

It was astonishing how his spirits had been lifted by the simple fact that Dias had not been allowed to stay in Berlin. Probably the depression because of the comparative failure of his mission had made him take the wrong view of the Marquis's brusque warning. ‘Have we got rooms?'

‘Have we got rooms!' said Bruton. ‘Have we got the royal suite!' He led the way up a flight of wide stairs to the first floor, flung open a door and stood aside for them to enter. It was easy, in that luxury, to forget the scenes outside and
en route.
There were three rooms with communicating doors, a bathroom, and a long narrow lounge which ran the whole length of the suite; the furniture was superlatively comfortable. ‘Why the honour I don't know—perhaps they've heard of you in Berlin, Sap.'

Palfrey laughed.

Yet there was something he could not properly understand.

He was not meant to understand it. Bruton's gleaming eyes told of secret knowledge, Bruton's insistence that they should get a bath and dress quickly was another indication. Palfrey had no desire to hurry, and twice while he was lying in the hot bath watching the curling eddies of steam, someone tapped peremptorily on the door. Bruton, undoubtedly. Palfrey stirred himself.

It was good to change into fresh clothes, but he did not like looking out of the window. Yet his spirits had soared; Dias
had
been given marching orders quickly. Palfrey knew now that the fear that had most affected him was that the United Nations were condoning Black Market.

Drusilla had allowed herself an afternoon gown, which would serve as a dinner-gown. It was black with white trimming, and she looked exceedingly well in it. It was good to see her out of suits, to see her taking extra care with her make-up. Palfrey kissed the nape of her neck.

‘Why so bright-eyed?' he demanded. ‘Has Corny told you this secret?'

‘No, but he's sure it will please,' said Drusilla.

‘How much longer?' called Bruton, from the door. ‘Almost ready,' said Drusilla. She turned to Palfrey. ‘Am I all right?'

‘All right!' he groaned. ‘Why must I share you with others?

I feel romantic tonight. Good lord!' he said, and shook his head, marvelling. ‘The inconsistency of the human race. Meaning me. Coming, Corny!' he called, linked arms with Drusilla and led her to the door.

Splendour lay ahead of them!

While they had been out of the long front room it had been transformed. Gone were the easy chairs, no longer was it a place for indolent lounging. Down the centre was a long dining-table glittering with crystal, dark polished wood with snowy-white mats, silver which was so highly burnished that it reflected dazzling light. Chairs were arranged on both sides and one at either end. Even a red plush carpet was down, and by the door stood two waiters in formal dress, grave and yet excited men – nearly as excited as Bruton. In Bruton there was much of the eternal child, and now his eyes danced and he clapped his hands together. He took Drusilla's arm and led her round the table, while Palfrey followed with a dazed look in his eyes. They made a complete tour of the table. Bowls of roses and carnations gave a glory of colour and scent. Finger-bowls stood by each plate and by one place was a small black box.

‘Well, how does it strike you?' demanded Bruton, lighting a cigar and holding it at a jaunty angle. ‘Some reception for the Palfreys! It's a pity there isn't someone else more deserving, but you were the only people on the way here.'

‘Thanks,' said Palfrey. ‘Certainly most undeserving, my half of the Palfreys.' He looked at Drusilla's shining eyes. ‘My turn,' he added. ‘Well?' After a long pause, Drusilla said: ‘I wish I had a different gown!'

‘I'll give up!' gasped Bruton, after a pause nearly as long. Palfrey squeezed Drusilla's arm.

‘The right spirit,' he said. ‘Splendour to match splendour, but you haven't done so badly. Why all this, Corny?' ‘You'll see,' said Bruton.

‘Don't tell me that you're going to bring Dias in to watch us gloating,' said Palfrey, ‘and the talk of Sweden was all my eye.'

Bruton laughed. ‘Dias is out of the country, that's certain. I can't guarantee that all his boy friends are, but they won't cause any trouble tonight, Sap.'

Palfrey was counting the places. ‘Eight—nine—ten—eleven—twelve,' he said. ‘How many fair ones?'

‘That's the one thing we fell down on,' said Bruton; ‘Drusilla will be the only woman, but she can stand it for one evening.'

He raised his head; obviously he had been listening for someone's approach. ‘Ah,' he said, and sped to the door, which one of the waiters was opening.

Palfrey drew Drusilla back from the table to the side of the room. They were still holding hands. The waiters bowed. Bruton stepped into the passage and then returned, accompanied by two men, one squat, sturdy, powerful, the other taller, not so broad but powerful-looking. They were high-ranking officers of the Red Army, and were in ceremonial dress. They were smiling broadly, and were obviously enjoying their share in the joke. The eternal children; Palfrey was enjoying himself hugely.

Bruton brought them forward, like a boy showing off his favourite relatives. He was suddenly formal. ‘Mrs. Palfrey, allow me to present General Alexi Zukkor—Colonel Akim Chenov.'

There were bows, handshakes, laughter. General Zukkor was the short squat man. He had a broad face, a merry face, and he was certainly enjoying himself. Colonel Chenov was, perhaps, a little graver; he smiled more with his eyes than with his lips, but he smiled often. They made much of Drusilla, and told Palfrey that they had often heard of him and were delighted to meet him. They had a special message for him …

Years before, when Palfrey had been in Russia, he had met the Man of Steel, and from him came the special message to be remembered and to congratulate him on his more recent work, to express confidence that he would be equally successful with any further work he undertook.

Was there a deeper shade of meaning to the last part of the message, wondered Palfrey.

Bruton disappeared, and came back with a lank American, General Pitard, and a burly American, Colonel Mond, both of whom obviously knew the Russians well. The party grew more frolicsome and wine began to flow. They were talking and laughing when a little whippet of a man came in, English to the backbone, straight as a ramrod, a man who, to all appearances, had no chance at all of fraternising successfully with the officers of the Red Army. With him was a tall, fair-haired, youngish major, a ‘typical' Englishman.

The whippet took General Zukkor to a corner and talked earnestly, then rejoined the main party and became its life and soul when Zukkor and Chenov would allow him. These men, all six of them, were old friends, and behaved as if they had known one another all their lives. All talked English – the Russians slowly and painstakingly over some words but fluently enough most of the time.

Stefan came in and drew up in surprise on the threshold. He was led forward by Bruton, still acting as host, and then saw Chenov and threw ceremony to the winds. The sight of the giant and the Colonel embracing each other ought to have been amusing but was not; obviously they
were
friends of a lifetime, as they could not talk quickly enough. Rarely had Palfrey seen Stefan so animated, so entirely happy.

Palfrey had forgotten completely the desolation outside.