Shadow of Doom by John Creasey Read Free Book Online

He did not look up. He expected another onslaught, but it did not seem to matter greatly.
    â€˜Lumsden,’ said the man again.
    Lumsden stayed with his head bowed.
    He heard movement, and shrank away. He felt hands at his arms, but this time they held him firmly and did not belabour him. He was led out of the room. The bright light of the passage hurt his eyes. He opened them only because he thought the men were going to take him downstairs, but they took him along a passage and into another room. There the light was subdued. That was all he noticed at first. They put him into a chair, and he sat there, helpless but at ease – or as much as his bruised body would allow. He did not move. He did not notice the men leave him.
    Afterwards he considered it the most remarkable incident of this incredible adventure.
    The door opened.
    It was some time after he had been brought in here, for he was able to lift his head, and through a mist of tears and through the strands of hair in his eyes he saw a girl. She was young. There was nothing remarkable about her looks; she was just a pleasant-looking fair-haired young girl of twenty or so, in a plain grey dress which became her. There was sadness in her eyes as she approached him, and she said: ‘I am so very sorry.’
    â€˜Please,’ said Lumsden, in a croaking voice. ‘Don’t say that, please.’
    â€˜I know what you are feeling,’ she said.
    She sounded so sad, and the expression in her eyes seemed to indicate what she really felt. She moved behind him. He heard the sound of a tap turned on, and running water, and the clink of a tin or something hard against a bowl.
    â€˜Come along,’ she said, unexpectedly.
    She was by his side, helping him up. He did not think he would have tried to stand for anyone but her. He made an effort, and she steadied him. He had to lean against her, and she was surprisingly sturdy. She led him to a hand-basin, filled with water. There were bandages on a table by it, lint, adhesive plaster, other oddments of first aid and a large sponge. She pulled up an upright chair and made him sit down. Then she draped a towel about his shoulders, tucked it inside his coat collar, and began to sponge his face, after brushing the hair back with gentle fingers. The sponge was impregnated with an antiseptic, and it stung, yet it had a soothing effect almost at once, and he did not resent it.
    She squeezed the sponge into the bowl, and he was surprised to see it coloured red. Blood, of course.
    She sponged him again, using a little more pressure, then told him to sit still while she dried his face with a hand-towel of some soft, fluffy material. It was soothing and refreshing. Then she took a comb and combed his hair back; that was soothing, too.
    â€˜I must look a mess!’ he muttered.
    â€˜I have seen worse,’ she said.
    That did not strike him as odd at first, but a little later he realised what it implied. For the moment he raised his head and looked into the splash-back mirror.
    He did look a mess.
    Both his eyes were swollen, and there was a cut over one of them, still bleeding a little but not enough to worry about. There was another cut on his right cheek, which was also puffy, red and blue. There were scratches on his neck and his forehead, and there was a cut on his lip; that was bleeding more than any of the others. The girl came forward and dabbed it gently with a small sponge. He looked up at her, trying to smile.
    â€˜You’re very good,’ he said.
    â€˜I—I want to help,’ she said, ‘but there is so little I can do.’ There was another emotion besides sadness in her eyes now; a hint of fear. She looked over her shoulder. The she tiptoed to the door and stood listening with her ear pressed close to the keyhole, which was placed high so that she only had to stoop slightly. She came back, slowly, soft-footed.
    â€˜I thought I heard someone,’ she said. ‘They won’t