Shadow of Doom by John Creasey Page A

looked at his eyes thoughtfully; they were the eyes of a man who was not thinking much about what he was saying.
    Even when he saw Stefan his expression did not change.
    Charles, ruefully apologetic now, squeezed in the back with Palfrey and Drusilla. The driver strapped on their luggage and went back to his seat, still in a curiously mechanical fashion. He started off at a slow pace, and they drove through some of the poorer streets. There was comparatively little bomb or shell damage to be seen, only here and there were there noticeable gaps in the buildings. Most of the houses were small and squalid-looking. Listless children stood about in the streets, very few of them playing. There were old women and old men sitting at windows, looking out, many of them with pipes in their mouths. Palfrey did not see one who was actually smoking; the pipes were empty.
    Turning a corner, they came upon a large crowd of silent, indifferent people, pathetically reminiscent of the marchers they had seen in Paris, but these people were not marching. They were shuffling slowly towards a stationary van at the far end of a long street. Men, women and children were in the line, silent, except for the cries of children and the reproving voices of the parents.
    Palfrey leaned forward. ‘Slow down, please,’ he said.
    The taxi-driver obeyed. They drove slowly past the van. People coming away from it were carrying basins, bowls or cups of steaming soup. Three flushed women behind a counter in the van were serving soup as quickly as they could. As the taxi drove past one spilled a little, and Palfrey saw the eyes of a dozen people turn towards the pool on the counter – hungry, reproachful eyes.
    Charles leaned forward and whispered to Stefan:
    â€˜Is this better?’
    â€˜Now, my friend,’ said Stefan, chidingly.
    They came out of that long, narrow road of mean houses into a broader throughfare, where trams were running and there were crowds of cyclists. Free-soup kitchens were up and down the road, and they were all besieged. There were few police about; it was as if the police knew that they would not be needed, the people were too docile.
    Ahead of them, when they turned another corner, were the docks. Derricks and cranes stretched in all directions almost as far as the eye could see. The funnels of cargo ships alongside for unloading were like dark rectangular blots on the blue sky. The water of the docks seemed blue and smiling, but there were no smiles on the faces of the people.
    Hundreds of men were standing about near the docks. Some gates were locked. Now they found the police in strength and there were also armed soldiers, all of them Belgian. There was a sullenness about the ‘docility,’ and Palfrey, watching the scowling people, sensed that they were hostile towards the taxi and its occupants. The driver tried to put on speed, but could not. Men in twos and threes were crossing the road in front of them, deliberately forcing them to slow down, but never going so far as to make them stop. When they were half-way along the dock-side road something smashed against the window nearest Drusilla. Instinctively she drew back. Mud was on the window, and began to slide sluggishly down, darkening the interior of the car. They had hardly recovered from the shock before there was another smack; the driver put on his brakes quickly, for the windscreen was covered with mud and he could not see in front of him.
    â€˜I will hurry,’ he said, as he jumped out. ‘There has been a strike for many days.’
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    Lionel Mann, of The Times, was a thin, wiry, terse-speaking man. He had been in Antwerp for some months, and some of his articles on Black Market had not made nice reading. He knew Palfrey by reputation, and, over a whisky-and-soda, was morosely eager to talk. He did not like the ways things were developing down in Antwerp and, from what he could gather, in many other towns. What was it like in