The Touch of Death

by John Creasey

  This time, they went in the opposite direction to the one they had taken when they had gone to the factory and laboratory levels. They reached the end of a wide street, then turned down a narrow alley, and came to a large square, where there were several larger buildings. These were the cinemas, theatres and lecture halls. Two or three men were about, busying themselves at the entrances, but that was all.

  The doorway of Hall Three was at a corner.

  Two men stood outside, dressed in exactly the same way as the others in High Peak, but they were like guards; bodyguards. They were not armed, but guards would need no weapons where a touch of the hand could kill.

  A man on duty at the swing door bowed slightly and opened it; that was the first sign of obsequiousness that Banister had seen.

  They went into a dimly lighted hall. It was large enough for five hundred people or more, but only a dozen or so were present, all seated at the back.

  A shadowy figure approached Banister and Rita.

  “Will you please sit down – Anak will see you afterwards.”

  “Very well,” Rita said.

  They sat down in comfortable chairs; foam-rubber cinema seats, which tilted slightly. It was warm – the same even temperature that seemed to be general everywhere within the mountain fastness. There was a moment of silence, then a man’s voice came, speaking very clearly in English; a slow and deliberate voice.

  “You are about to see actual pictures taken three days ago, on the nineteenth of November, of incidents which took place in Kelsingham, a small town in the Cotswold country of England. Kelsingham was the home of Professor Morris-Jones, whose services were required by the Upper World. A man named Bruton, an American—”

  Banister felt a shock, as if he had been touched by an electric current.

  “—was for some reason not yet known with Professor Morris-Jones at the time that he was due to leave his home. Bruton, who works with the now notorious Dr. Palfrey, appeared to have some prior knowledge of the journey planned for Morris-Jones. Bruton had arranged for the home of the Professor to be closely guarded.

  “Project Thirty-nine was used,” went on the man with the slow, deliberate voice, “this time through the medium of a cat. The effect you will see . . .”

  The voice faded into nothing.

  There was silence; yet Banister’s flesh crawled.

  Then pictures came on the large cine-screen. They were in black and white, but very clear and three-dimensional; it was as if they were sitting and looking at the actual scene. Shots of the Cotswolds, the trees bare and dark against a cloudy sky, shorn even of the last leaves of autumn. A long, low house of Cotswold stone, with mullioned windows – part of a world that might have been a million miles away from here.

  Men were moving about outside; five or six of them. Bruton appeared, stepping out of a car which drew up slowly; he walked briskly to the front door. He was exactly the same as when Banister had last seen him, had much of the familiar brisk confidence. He knocked at the door and turned and smiled, as if he knew that a camera was focused on him.

  Rita leaned forward and whispered: “We have developed automatic cameras which can be placed wherever we wish, and are subject to remote control.”

  Banister squeezed her knee, as he would, perhaps, in any cinema when he didn’t want to speak.

  Her hand slid into his.

  The door of the house of Cotswold stone opened, and Bruton went in.

  Until that moment, the film had been silent. Now sounds came, soft at first, and far away. The engine of a car. Voices. Footsteps. A man came into sight, walking slowly. He was one of the guards. There was a close-up of him, of his big, good-looking face; he showed a kind of confidence.

  There was a long shot – of a cat.

  Banister felt Rita’s hand tight in his.

  It was a black cat, just a black cat, which appeared, slinking, round the corner of the garden wall.

  Then: “Hallo, puss.”

  The cat drew nearer the man. Another close-up showed its eyes, expressionless, glowing; and its whiskers, its mouth.

  It opened its mouth. “Miaou.”

  The shot changed. The man was approaching the cat, which stood quite still, back slightly arched, staring up. The man’s fingers were long and broad and strong.

  The fingers drew nearer the furry head.

  They touched . . .

  Light flashed, and lit up the hall; showed the few people sitting there in sharp, clear silhouettes. It blinded them; and when the light faded and they could see, the cat wasn’t there and the man lay dead. Not writhing, not unconscious, not in pain – just still and dead.

  Then the feet of other men were shown, approaching cautiously; and the men drew round the body in a circle, faces were shown, with all the horror reflected on them. Footsteps, heavy breathing, opening doors, a man running, calling:

  “Be careful, don’t touch—mind that cat!”

  “Cat!” one of the men near the body called.

  “Cat!”

  They scrambled away, for safety – but there was no safety. The cat leapt and touched one, just brushed against him; and there was a flash and he fell.

  The screen and the hall seemed to be lit up by a series of flashes.

  Banister was rigid in his seat; felt as if he would never be able to move again. It was like lightning striking, vicious, merciless, caring not whom it struck down.

  It faded.

  There lay five dead men – and Bruton, alive, staring at them with his lips parted, as if the horror had paralysed him. He looked from face to face. He stared along the street towards the distant hills, the hedges, the square stone chimneys – and towards the cat, which turned round the corner. He began to run—

  He fell.

  Banister could not tell what struck him, but he saw a car draw up, and men hurry into the house; and come out, very soon, holding a man between them, an elderly man who struggled in their grasp and looked frightened and indignant; and then simply shocked at sight of the dead men. He was hustled into the car; its engine sounded loud as it moved off.

  There was a different noise, inside the hall; a kind of moaning. It affected Banister more than anything had yet. He looked about him, but could not see where it came from, yet it came again.

  Rita clenched his hand tightly, her fingers dug into his.

  The film went on – showing long shots of the cat, that was all. It walked along the street, and the suspense was agonising. A cyclist passed, a boy, whistling; he stopped: “Hi, puss!”

  The cat stalked on. An old woman came slowly along the street, and looked at it, smiling, fond, so sweet and kind. She held out her hand. The cat stopped and looked at her.

  “Pretty pussy – come here, pretty pussy.”

  Banister heard that groaning again; as if there were someone in this hall terrified and in great pain; or anguish. Yet even that could not distract his attention now. He watched the cat, which watched the old woman who tried to attract it; and then it stalked past her.

  She disappeared.

  A child came running out of a house; its footsteps pattering. A woman’s voice sounded: “Betty, don’t go into the road!”

  The woman appeared, alarm on her face – the look of fear that a mother would have for a child in danger. But the child stopped.

  “Puthy,” she lisped. “Puthy.”

  “Oh, thank goodness,” the mother exclaimed. The car passed, at a fast speed. “Betty, you mustn’t run into the road, I shall be very cross with you if you do, Betty!”

  “Puthy . . . puthy.” The child had fair ringlets and big eyes.

  “I don’t like you playing with strange cats, either, but just pat him, then, and—”

  The groaning stopped; and there came a scream which cut through Banister, made him turn and st
are towards the little group of people sitting near. It was a man, screaming. He was trying to get up, but others were pulling him down.

  The film went on.

  “Puthy—” the child lisped.

  A tiny hand drew near and then touched the black fur; and a blinding flash lit up the hall.

  The man here screamed again.

  The hall went dark.

  Then the mother appeared on the screen, staring incredulously, too shocked to show horror. Her face was set in lines of astonishment, of disbelief, until gradually dread crept upon her, and she rushed forward, went on her knees to gather up her child.

  Flash!

  “I cannot stand it, I cannot see any more!”

  The man in the hall screamed and jumped up again and tried to get out of his seat. He was pushed down. The scuffling sounds ceased; there was silence – while on the screen the black cat walked along the wide street and then along the pavement and into a busy thoroughfare. The cat walked along among the people, touching none – but every time a leg or hand drew near it, Banister felt the horror – and the man screamed again.

  A dog appeared.

  Cat and dog stared at each other, the dog’s back bristling, the cat arching its back. The cat turned blindly, cannoned into a man in the queue—

  The flash came—

  From that moment a storm seemed to burst upon the town; flash after flash came as the victims and the cat fell upon each other, and as they touched, spread death. Still racing, the cat turned into a cinema and disappeared.

  Soon two or three terrified people rushed out – only to stop and stare at the scene of desolation, at dying people; and to see the flashes.

  Then a man’s voice sounded above a car engine: “Don’t touch anyone, don’t touch, don’t touch!”

  It was Bruton.

  “If you touch them you’ll die, don’t touch—”

  Chapter 16

  The screen went dark and the sound faded, but there was no real silence; only a kind of muttering, almost a gibberish. Then a light went on, its glow spreading and brightening, and gradually Banister felt that he was drawn away from the horror of what he had seen. He didn’t move.

  The others stood up. He recognised Klim – and a moment later, Anak. Everything he had thought about Anak on the screen was justified. There was a strange perfection of feature, a kind of aggressive handsomeness which went far beyond that: he seemed the personification of power, as if he knew quite well that no one in the world could compete with him.

  Banister thought, even then: “A self-made god.”

  Two men half-lifted, half-dragged a third from his seat. The third man was elderly, grey-haired, dressed in dark clothes, an ordinary lounge suit. His eyes were closed; he had fainted. His face would have been unknown to Banister an hour before.

  It was the man who had been taken away from the house in the Cotswolds; the prisoner whose capture had led to the horror that they had just seen.

  Rita was pulling at Banister’s arm. He got up. The old man was taken out. The others waited near the door. Banister felt the gaze of the man named Anak on him; the gaze of the Leader. The eyes were dark, and yet they glowed. There was no expression—

  Ah!

  That was the thing that was wrong about him, and in a lesser degree, it was wrong with Klim. They talked and behaved naturally, but they did not look natural. Their faces might have been carved out of some kind of stone; and every time they spoke or opened and closed their eyes or turned their heads, it was as if it were being done by a puppet-master who held invisible cords.

  But these men were real.

  “Anak,” Klim said, “this is Banister.”

  “So I imagined,” Anak said.

  His voice was accentless and without expression; like his face. It was deep and not unpleasant. There was an edge of sarcasm in it, almost as if he were saying to Klim: “Whom else do you think I would expect to find here?” He looked Banister up and down, not insolently but in a way which would have been insolent in any other man.

  “Did you learn the lesson, Banister?” he asked.

  Banister didn’t answer.

  Anak frowned; that was little more than a movement of his thick, black eyebrows

  “Did you learn the lesson?”

  Rita touched Banister’s arm; as if by accident. Actually, she was pleading with him to answer; she was desperately anxious, or pretended to be, that he should not displease the Leader.

  He said: “If you mean did I see the power of the fatalis – yes.”

  “That is what I meant,” Anak said. “I understand that you have shown no grasp or understanding of scientific matters. Does that mean you only pretended to be a scientist?”

  What purpose was there in lying now?

  “Yes,” Banister said.

  “How is it you are immune from fatalis?”

  “It’s a natural immunity.” Banister felt his heart thumping. “I discovered it when I picked up the—” he hesitated, then decided to tell the truth—”the real Monk-Gilbert.”

  “I think that is true. Our tests showed none of the blood and body content we would expect to find if you had been treated with an immunising agent.” Anak turned to Klim. “You see, Monk-Gilbert was killed.” To Banister, he said almost casually: “Why did you go about with a false Monk-Gilbert?”

  “We hoped to find a source of fatalis.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes – in New Zealand.”

  Anak looked at him intently. Banister felt his heart thumping fiercer because of fear that he would not be believed.

  Then Anak said abruptly: “We will go and talk to Morris-Jones.”

  The scientist lay slumped back in a chair; he breathed through his open mouth with a faint whistling sound. He had a long, lean face with thick lips and a long chin. Near-white stubble bristled on his chin and cheeks. He wore a stiff collar, two or three sizes too large for him, and a black tie.

  He looked very tired.

  His hands looked old and somehow helpless as they drooped from the arms of his chair.

  “I don’t think Morris-Jones will give us more trouble,” Anak said. “He has been very difficult. It is important that we should know what he has found out.”

  “Of course,” said Klim.

  “Perhaps Banister can help us,” Anak said. He turned to Banister, as Rita held a glass towards him. He took it, but didn’t drink. “Thank you, Rita. Banister, did you know that Morris-Jones was working on an insulating drug, to be injected into the bloodstream, to protect humans against the effect of what you so aptly call fatalis?”

  “I knew someone was working on it, I didn’t know who,” Banister said.

  “Do you know how far they’d got?”

  “Not. far.”

  “Can never be quite sure with Palfrey,” Anak said musingly. “He is sometimes more clever than we think – he gets results, doesn’t he? Anyhow, Morris-Jones will tell us just how far he succeeded. I can’t believe, I won’t believe, that it is beyond the experimental stage, even if Palfrey has found an insulating agent.”

  His gaze fell on Banister again, hot with suspicion.

  “Are you naturally immune? Or did Palfrey find a way—”

  “Listen,” Banister said, “I touched Monk-Gilbert, carried him over my shoulder, before I’d ever heard of Palfrey. Palfrey wanted to use me because I was immune. Nothing else made me valuable to him.”

  To his surprise, Anak was smiling faintly. “That agrees with what we know of you,” he said mildly. “Now I believe that the laboratory at Morris-Jones’s home was destroyed, but Palfrey might well have had someone else working with him, keeping in touch by telephone, perhaps, or radio – so that whatever results Morris-Jones obtained won’t be lost. We must find that out.”

 
; He sipped his drink.

  “Whisky-and-soda, Neil?” Rita said.

  “I—thanks,” Banister took a glass.

  “Well, Banister,” Anak said, as if he were changing the subject, and it wasn’t really important, after all. “Now you see how fatalis can be used.” He didn’t smile. “Imagine the effect at a large cinema or in a crowded street in London or New York, Chicago – anywhere you like.”

  Banister said: “I don’t think I want to.”

  “Squeamish?”

  “You can call it that.”

  “I really can’t understand you people,” Anak said. He sounded almost impatient, and at the same time, mildly amused. “You seem to think that human life, with its span of seventy years, really matters. Compared with the past and the future and the purpose of life, it is negligible. A few people living in a little country town die. If you read that two or three hundred people died on the roads in England in any month of the year it wouldn’t shock you. You’d still drive at seventy or eighty miles an hour if you got the chance, wouldn’t you?”

  Banister said slowly: “Yes, I suppose so.”

  It was the first moment that he felt that he might be able to fool Anak; the first moment of real hope. He experienced a sense of freedom such as he had not known since he had first met Palfrey.

  Anak and Klim were looking at him very closely.

  “Yes,” Banister went on, more firmly. “I see what you mean.”

  He sipped the whisky.

  “I should damned well think you do,” Anak said warmly. “All this glutinous pretence at horror and sorrow sickens me. Those people were lucky, can’t you see that? Listen to me.” He went across to Banister, and stood in front of him; too close for comfort. “If we’d been able to take pictures inside those walls, what should we have seen? Old men and old women coughing their hearts up – dying by degrees but clinging to life as if it mattered. Young children, suffering, dying – from poliomyelitis, perhaps, or meningitis, or a dozen other diseases that medical science down there hasn’t yet cured. If you can see the world as a world instead of as a number of loosely co-ordinated nations, you’d see much farther. The plague, smallpox, yellow fever, yaws, all the diseases that are almost forgotten in Europe and the United States, are still common in the Middle East, India, China, in all the underdeveloped countries. At this very moment tens of thousands of children are dying an agonising death, and hundreds of thousands more are being born into a world which will give them pain and misery, hunger, starvation, sickness, despair. Do you realise that? Or are you another of these weak-bellied lunatics like Palfrey who fight all the time to preserve the status quo, because they do all right?”