Free Shadow of Doom by John Creasey Page A

fling open that door and throw the grenade, a very powerful one. None of those inside would have any chance to escape, no one was likely to live in that room.
    He heard the second lock click back. He waited, on edge for the noise had seemed loud, but at the same moment someone had laughed, and it was doubtful whether the people inside the room had heard the sound at the door.
    He turned the handle.
    As he did so something touched the back of his neck. He jumped in alarm, and tried to turn round, but he could not. The something was a hand, and thumb and fingers were so large and long that they were able to encircle his neck. One moment he had been standing there with bated breath, the next the breath could not be drawn into his lungs, he seemed to be bursting, he had not even the strength to struggle.
    The door opened, and Palfrey stood in front of him.
    â€˜Why, hallo,’ he said, and grinned above the German’s head at Stefan. ‘Visitors?’
    â€˜One visitor,’ said Stefan. He pushed the German forward and let him go. Breath and life came back, and the German, whose mind had been trained to think of nothing but the task he had been given, never to worry whether he might lose his life, thrust his hand towards his coat pocket. He took out the grenade – and a little man, Bruton, appeared from behind the door, held his wrist and, with the easiest movement imaginable, took the grenade away. The pin was still in.
    â€˜Dear me,’ murmured Palfrey. ‘How very unfriendly!’ He glanced at the German, who stood against the wall, at bay, looking as if he would gladly fling himself at them. But there were five men as well as a woman, and the men were standing in a half-circle in front of him, all looking at him with great interest. All were smiling, as if they were amused by this wasp-waisted individual.
    â€˜What can we do for you?’ asked Palfrey, who was the middle man of the five, standing immediately in front of the German. He spoke in French, but the man did not answer. He tried German, and although he got no answer he got a response, a start of surprise, making it obvious that the man had not been expecting to hear his native language.
    â€˜You must talk, you know,’ said Palfrey, still in German, ‘because we’re all very interested in what you have to say.’ He gave the impression that this was a wonderful joke, and the German would gladly have smashed his lips against his teeth.
    The men stood quite still in front of him.
    The woman was sitting at the dressing-table, and he could just see her reflection. She was doing something to her nails, as if she did not want to see what the men were doing. The German tried to back closer to the wall, but could not. He was stiff with disappointment and perhaps with fear, and his eyes were moving in all directions, as if he were seeking a way of escape.
    Then the huge man who had taken him unawares between the two doors stretched out a hand, gripped his throat again, and exerted that terrifying, suffocating pressure.
    The woman got up abruptly and went out of the room.
    Â 
    The Rue de Casse was certainly not a showplace, but strangers there were not always molested. The huge man among the four who turned into the street about the time that de Morency entered the Sûreté Nationale would have discouraged any hopeful thief, in any case. The four men seemed in excellent spirits, and were doubtless feeling reckless.
    They stopped outside Papa Giraud’s door. They knocked.
    Â 
    â€˜He told us so,’ said Palfrey, ‘and he told us also that you had given him the information against us, you had told him that we were worth killing. Why Papa Giraud?’
    â€˜It is a lie—a great lie!’
    â€˜Papa,’ said Palfrey, gently, ‘we do not wish to hurt you. But we will have the truth. Why did you send him?’
    The tip of Papa Giraud’s tongue ran along his lips, he seemed to get more shrivelled