The Touch of Death

by John Creasey

  It was only now that he was really rejecting the thought, seeing it for what it was – a different way of breaking down his resistance. Palfrey had talked of plot-counter-plot, and could not have been more right. Yet Banister wanted to believe her.

  Would Palfrey say that he should go?

  Banister reached the hotel, and went up to his room on the first floor. He opened the door. He stopped abruptly, for a newspaper was spread over a table which had been pulled closer to the door, so he couldn’t fail to read the headline. It was a small one, marked with blue pencilled crosses.

  It read:

  MYSTERY PLAGUE IN INDIA

  Village Wiped Out

  He couldn’t hear a sound except that of his own breathing, and the thumping of his heart. He didn’t ask himself who had put the newspaper there – he just read on.

  “Reports from Malpore Province, Central India, tell of a village of fifteen hundred people wiped out by a mysterious plague. A Government technician, arriving on a visit to the village in order to help to increase food production, found every inhabitant dead – some in their homes, some in the streets.

  “According to the first report, many wild animals were found dead also. Vultures which had descended to pick flesh off the bones of the dead had also died. Wild animals which would normally have gone to attack the village now gave it a wide berth, according to later reports. Government officers and a medical unit have been dispatched to investigate.—Reuter.”

  Banister’s heart still beat furiously, but he was beginning to think again. He closed his eyes, and tried to picture the village. He didn’t know India except from books and pictures, but he could imagine that place. He could see the flashes as the people died. He could imagine the horror in the people who had touched the fatalis carrier – the killer, like the fish. He seemed to see the pool again and the fish swimming, with the sun on all their colourful beauty – and then the killer sliding in from the bucket, and fish after fish rising; and as it rose each fish took on the face of a man, of a woman or of a child.

  Banister dropped the paper. He was smoking a cigarette, although he didn’t remember lighting it. He stood by the window. He could just see a corner of the main street, and the road which led towards Whaka, in one direction, and towards the lake in the other.

  He could see Rita’s face, her smile, hear her reasoned arguments.

  He clenched his teeth.

  There was a tap at the door.

  He spun round, swiftly; one could be certain of nothing, and Rita might have talked as she had to lull him into a false sense of security.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Palfrey.”

  “All right,” he said, and went across and opened the door.

  Palfrey was alone.

  “Come in.”

  He saw Palfrey’s eyes narrow, as if surprised by the look on his face. It was characteristic of Palfrey not to speak but to notice the newspaper, in the crumpled heap, and pick it up. He smoothed it out and read.

  “Did you send it?” Banister demanded.

  “No.”

  “Did you know about it?”

  “A week ago.” Palfrey was taking cigarettes from a gold case. Palfrey was just an ordinary human being, rather tall, slightly round-shouldered – with that weak-looking chin and the full, generous mouth and the friendly eyes which could change so disconcertingly, and with lids which sometimes seemed to hide their brilliance. Men almost worshipped him, remember. “It’s the first one to leak into the Press.”

  “So there have been others,” Banister said, and the words seemed to choke him.

  “Three others.”

  “Where?”

  “China, not far from Pekin. Greece – a little mountain village near the Albanian frontier – and Ireland.”

  “Ireland?”

  “Eire,” Palfrey said very precisely, “if you prefer it that way. A tiny village in the hills near Killarney. No one heard about it for several days.”

  “You could tell me about these things,” Banister said, and then growled: “Don’t take any notice of me. It was a hell of a jolt. So was that newspaper – if you didn’t put it there, who did?”

  “Probably one of the servants. I’ll check,” Palfrey promised. “It doesn’t matter what precautions we take, they can always slip through sooner or later.” He sat on the arm of a chair, holding the newspaper, drawing at his cigarette. “How did you get on?”

  Banister said heavily: “She invited me to go with her – to some mysterious place. She said she would give me a demonstration of the good which will come out of fatalis. All for love!”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth he wished he hadn’t added that; it was like a form of betrayal.

  “We’ll have to think about it, shan’t we?” Palfrey said.

  Chapter 9

  Suddenly it occurred to Banister that Palfrey looked tired; as if he was in desperate need of rest. Was it just physical and mental weariness, or was it reaction to the deadly things he knew about and tried to defeat?

  “What else did she have to say?” Palfrey asked. Banister drew a deep breath, and forced himself to go on. He kept picturing a dead, deserted village – four of them. Horror crept into his body, like the chill from damp ground.

  “She talked a lot of blah. How this could be used for the good of mankind. Would I go with her and see for myself? She said that I’d be set free later.” His grin was taut, he could feel his lips stretching across his teeth. “Also, that she was inviting me, because she was still in love with me.”

  Palfrey didn’t speak.

  “She also said that you would want me to go,” Banister told him abruptly, “Do you?”

  Palfrey sat on the arm of the chair, with the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and the newspaper by his side. Banister could see the blue-pencilled crosses by the side of that headline about a mystery plague – plague, remember.

  “Well, do you?” Banister asked harshly.

  Palfrey smiled gently.

  “On the whole, I think so. She might really be in love with you. She may be a killer, but she isn’t a fool. She may be a fanatic. We had a spot of bother once with a man who was so appalled by the moral turpitude of civilisation that he decided that the only way to deal with it was to destroy the lot of us. With a bit of luck, he’d have managed it, too.” Palfrey shrugged. “Remember what we were saying about the power of individuals and small groups in this scientific age. Also, remember that, as a naturally immune subject, you must be of absorbing interest to Rita’s employers, so there’s good reason to think you’d be looked after for a while. Prepared to go?”

  He dropped that question out almost casually.

  “How will it help?”

  “We shall try to follow you.”

  “Supposing you lose me?”

  “We can’t guarantee anything,” Palfrey reminded him, quietly, “but a lot would depend on not losing you, wouldn’t it? If it were humanly possible to follow, we should. We’d arrange for you to take a few oddments with you that would enable you to tell us where you were, too. Or at least, they would give you a chance to.”

  “So Rita was right,” Banister growled.

  “She’s probably right about a lot of things. She’s obviously a reasonably good student of human nature,” Palfrey said mildly. “But it’s entirely up to you, Neil. In some ways this would be better than the way I thought it might turn out, but—”

  He broke off.

  “What way was that?” asked Banister.

  “We thought they might kidnap you.”

  Banister didn’t comment.

  “We thought that when they knew you weren’t affected by the fatalis, they would regard you as a human freak well worthy of careful investigation,” Palfrey explained. “It’s true that they�
��ve had several shots at killing you, but Rita tested you out again and found that you aren’t affected – and from that moment, she changed her tune.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Banister, “I wish I could get the horror of it out of my mind.”

  Later, when Palfrey had gone, a letter arrived for Banister. He had been taught to be wary of all unexpected letters. This was bulkier than most, too. He went towards the cloakroom, holding it in his hand.

  He could open it, and it could explode.

  Or there might be a flash . . .

  “Oh, to hell with it!” he growled.

  But he opened it very cautiously in the cloakroom. Nothing happened. He held his breath when he actually folded the flap back; and still nothing happened.

  He slid the contents out very carefully.

  It was a fold of newspaper, and when he unfolded it, he saw the now familiar headline: Mystery Plague in India. Surely she didn’t think it was necessary to tell him twice.

  Two white cards fell out.

  He picked them up, and read:

  “Dr. & Mrs. Montagu Scott will be happy if you can join them at a dinner-dance on Tuesday of this week at 7.30.”

  Across one of the cards was scribbled: “Do come, Neil. I’ll call for you at 7.15.”

  The signature was Rita.

  Today was Tuesday.

  This time, Rita had brought an American sedan.

  She drove well, and obviously knew her way about the town. She took several turnings before she drew up outside a large house, which was on a hill overlooking the lake. It was nearly dark, and the evening had a gentle beauty. The last rich gold of the sun touched the mirror-like surface of the lake, and seemed to beckon anyone who watched it.

  Rita had not hurried.

  One of Palfrey’s men pulled up behind the car; and another was at the corner.

  “I’m sorry it was such a short notice,” Rita said, as they walked towards the front door together. She wore a three-quarter-length evening-dress of black net against a red petticoat, and had a scarlet wrap. Her dark hair glowed. The softness of her beauty matched the enchantment of the evening. In a curious fashion Banister’s bitterness thawed. He could see her as she was, dispassionately.

  Dr. and Mrs. Montagu Scott were an elderly couple, rather charming, pleasant, vague.

  “My aunt and uncle,” Rita introduced.

  It was all so normal.

  The house was larger than it looked from the outside, and a ballroom overlooked the lake itself. They caught the last golden glow of the sun on it, and the shimmering magic of the water. Soon they were among a crowd of youngish people, two or three pretty girls, two or three good-looking men; the rest of them were ordinary. Most had white dinner-jackets, one or two had purple. Drink flowed – cocktails, whisky, gin. A band played softly at one end of the room.

  “Neil,” Rita said, “you always dance as if you love dancing.”

  “It can be amusing.”

  “Don’t you ever show enthusiasm these days?”

  “I don’t feel enthusiastic. Did you send me both cuttings about the Indian village?”

  “Yes,” Rita said. “You have to know how serious it is.”

  He could have struck her.

  Rita danced as well as any woman he had ever known, and carried his mind back to the days when there had been their love; and no fear, no sense of horror. The lighting was subdued; for a waltz the floor wasn’t crowded.

  “Have you talked to Palfrey?” Rita asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Was I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you coming with me?”

  He felt the pressure of her hand tighten; she didn’t miss a step, but there was a slight hesitation in the smooth rhythm of their steps.

  “I don’t think so,” Banister said, because Palfrey had wanted him to stall.

  Rita’s voice seemed to cut into him.

  “Why not? Are you still frightened?”

  “Yes.” He looked into the brown beauty of her eyes. “It isn’t only the possibility of dying,” he said very quietly, “it’s the warped mentality behind it all – the thing that can make you, Rita Morrell, indifferent to the death and the terror of a whole village of people. You look sane. You’re very lovely. Yet this is a horror that makes your beauty as ugly as sin.”

  The music stopped.

  They moved slowly towards the side of the room, then Rita changed direction and they went to the open doors. Several other couples were walking about the sweeping lawn, just visible in the afterglow. Now stars dotted the heavens and promised brightness for the night. There was a murmuring, as of the water of the lake against the shore; and the soft humming of insects.

  Rita was holding his arm tightly.

  “Neil, you’re wrong, hopelessly wrong. It isn’t ugly, it isn’t madness. If you could see real beauty—”

  “You’re playing on words, twisting them, trying the old, old game – making the lie so big that it ought to convince. It doesn’t convince me. I can see your beauty, and I tell you that it’s as ugly as sin. I ought to—”

  “Ought what?”

  “I ought to kill you,” he said harshly. “Then they couldn’t use you any more.”’

  “Neil, listen to me.” They faced each other, and she took his hands, and he noticed that hers were warm. The light from the house shone upon her eyes; he could see every delicate line of her face and the seductive beauty of her mouth, the white gleam of her teeth as her lips moved. “Come and see for yourself what we’re doing.”

  “I’m fond of life,” he said.

  There was a moment of silence. Then: “It’s the only way to save your life,” she said quietly. “You can’t escape for ever. They’ve tried five times to kill you, and—”

  “Six,” he sneered.

  Her eyes filled with annoyance; anger.

  “Why are you tormenting yourself? It’s the only way to save your life. They tried five times and failed, and I persuaded them to let me try to convert you. Come with me. If you should want to come back, we’ll let you.”

  “Who says so?”

  “I do.””And who can forbid it?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You see,” Banister said roughly, “you can promise me freedom but can’t guarantee that I’ll get it. What’s the real truth?” He found himself gripping her arm, very tightly; shaking her. “Come on, tell me – what’s the real truth? You say you hope that I’ll be converted, you think that if I can be fooled into coming with you, I might even believe the hideous nonsense you talk. You think that once I’m with you I won’t want to come back here. Isn’t that it?” He shook her again; but he kept his voice low. “Isn’t that it?”

  “I think they’ll let you come away. I think they’ll want someone to tell Palfrey and everyone else what we’re doing. You can be the messenger, if you want to be. I don’t need to lie to you.”

  “You’re lying now.”

  “I’m not!” She almost spat. “Why can’t you see that I’m trying to save you? If you won’t come, they’ll kill you. Or they’ll kill others, and you’ll feel that even more. They’ll force you into going with me, because they—they want you.”

  “That’s fine,” he said savagely. “They want me, so you pretend to be in love with me, try to bribe me into going by promising me yourself!”

  “Neil—”

  “I ought to hate the sight of you, I ought to cringe at the touch of you,” Banister growled. He caught his breath, then crushed her to him, kissed her, felt the hard pressure of her teeth against his lips, then against his teeth. The seductive warmth of her softness pillowed his breast. She affected him like a drug.

  Then he saw a flash, like lightning over the lake.

  Another flash ca
me.

  He felt Rita wrench herself free as a scream shivered on the air, touching the night with horror. He saw Rita racing towards the ballroom. He saw men and women cringing back, staring at something in the middle of the room. He heard a yapping sound, a dog barking. He raced after Rita, and saw what she could see – two girls and a man lying on the floor, stretched out – and the dog, a terrier, yapping at the others, forcing them back.

  He heard Rita say gaspingly: “He’ll kill them all, he’ll kill them all.”

  Chapter 10

  All that it meant and all the horror that it might mean flashed through Banister’s mind. The dog, yapping at the cowering dancers; the couples clutching each other and pressing back away from it – and the two dead girls and the dead man.

  The dog might escape, and if it did, would roam the town. Whenever it brushed up against a man, a woman or a child, there would be a flash – and death.

  The fear of the humans would terrify it; Banister sensed something of that now; the dog itself was being driven mad by the terror which it caused in others.

  Rita spoke again, as if she were praying that the dog would hear her and understand.

  “Don’t go out, Pip, don’t go out.”

  A man moved forward from the crowd on one side, as if he intended to sidle up towards the dog and grab it.

  “Don’t do that!” Rita screamed.

  The man turned. The dog, turned, too, and frisked about, snarling at the man. Banister couldn’t be sure, no one could be sure – but the man’s leg and the dog’s teeth must have touched. There was a flash, and the man went down, falling flat; his head thumped against the floor.

  A girl screamed.

  “No, no, no!” breathed Rita. “I—”

  She blocked Banister’s path. He gripped her shoulder and thrust her to one side.

  “Don’t!” she gasped, and clutched his hands. “He might be too strong for you, he—”

  Banister pushed her to one side. He heard men running behind him, heard Palfrey’s voice.