Free Shadow of Doom by John Creasey

pile, and across the front page were streamer headlines:
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    Bastille Hospital Destroyed by Fire
    MANY CASUALTIES AFTER LABORATORY EXPLOSION
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    Palfrey’s spirits drooped, but he did not let himself dwell too much upon the loss, which would be so hard to replace.
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Chapter Nine
The First Clue
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    Papa Giraud had been suspected by the French authorities for a long time, but no one had yet been found to give evidence against him. True, he had supplied the Germans with wines, but so had many other merchants who had worked for the Underground. Papa Giraud had worked for the Underground too – not very much, it was true, but during the worst of the terrors men of the liberation front had found refuge in his rambling cellars, which was certainly a point in his favour. He was so very old, also. One could not expect a great deal from him.
    Yet rumours persisted.
    There was talk of men who left his house by night and returned before dawn, men who were rarely seen except as shadowy figures, with the collars of their coats turned up and their hats pulled low over their eyes. They were apaches, perhaps, who worked for Papa Giraud.
    Lozana did not go there himself. He sent Pedro, one of the men whom Charles Lumsden had seen.
    That night a man left Papa Giraud’s house, which was, in fact, a part of his warehouse, and hardly fit for human habitation, and slipped along the Rue de Casse. When he reached the end of the street and a ray of light from a wall-lamp shone upon him he was seen to be dressed in ragged clothes, his shoes were down at heel, he looked a typical resident of the district. Not far away he went into a bistro where there was much gaiety and wine, raw new wine for the most part, which few of the patrons really enjoyed. He was led to a room upstairs, and came out half an hour later, well dressed, swaggering, and carrying French identification papers. Gendarmes did not look at him twice. There was no such thing as a ‘typical’ German, the French knew that; a German could look like a Frenchman or an Englishman, although so few of them did. This one, who had sheltered for so long at Papa Giraud’s, certainly looked like a Frenchman, and not the best kind of Frenchman at that. He was young, his suit was wasp-waisted, his coat-shoulders were padded. He went to the Bristol.
    He was a stranger there, so far as the French staff knew, but when the hotel had been taken over by the German authorities he had been there frequently, and there was little he did not know about the hotel. He had been drinking alone for a few minutes when a man joined him – and Charles Lumsden would have recognised this man quite well. He was the Englishman with the cultured voice.
    â€˜They are all upstairs together,’ said the Englishman, ‘and the room is Number 57.’
    The German nodded.
    A little later he went upstairs. Only residents were allowed there, but who was to know the face of every resident? Certainly not the floor staff, and certainly not the other guests. He walked slowly, as if he were there by right, until he drew near Room 57.
    He could not hear what was being said inside the room, because of the double doors. He stood listening for a moment, and then looked up and down the passage. No one was in sight. He took a penknife from his pocket, but it was rather larger than most penknives, and it had several curious-looking blades. He opened one, thrust it into the lock, and twisted and turned swiftly.
    The German opened the outer door of Room 57. There was just room for him to stand inside the space made by the two doors and to have elbow-room, so he closed the outer door and began to work with his knife again. Now he could hear a murmur of conversation and an occasional outburst of laughter. The fools had no idea that he was there.
    There was a heavy weight in his coat pocket. The feel of it against his side was very satisfactory, for it was a hand-grenade. In a few minutes now he would