The Smog

by John Creasey

  “Who, sir? Oh—the woman who was in the hospital last night. No sir, I have only the outside report. I can find out, sir.”

  “You get off,” Palfrey said. “And thanks. And make sure you sleep.”

  “No need at all to fear I won’t, sir!”

  “Good,” said Palfrey, and thought: “Oh to be young and carefree!”

  He got up as soon as the door closed on the other, and then called the hospital. He recognised Marak at once; didn’t the man ever rest? He hesitated before he spoke, almost afraid of what he would hear. Then: “This is Dr. Palfrey,” he stated simply.

  “Good morning, sir,” Marak said with a much lighter note in his voice. “I have good news of Mrs. Drummond. She has responded to the shock therapy extremely well, her pulse and respiration are nearly normal. She should recover completely.”

  “Wonderful!” said Palfrey fervently. “Wonderful.”

  He was in his bath a few minutes later wondering where the Conquistador aircraft was, and how well David Costain knew Marion Kemble. He needed reports on Costain soon – and he could hardly wait for news of the aircraft’s landing.

  Part II

  The Source

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Landing

  David Costain felt the touch of Marion’s hand on his, and became absolutely and compellingly aware of her. He had felt drawn to her from the first few moments of meeting; then, he was so absorbed in what Palfrey had been saying, and of the disaster, he had lost the acuteness of that attraction. But after they had last seen Palfrey he had been alone with her for a few moments in his room at the Winchester Hotel.

  And he had become overpoweringly alive to her presence, her nearness.

  She had come in with a message from Storr; and he had not answered, had simply stared at her.

  “David,” she had said, softly, “did you hear me?”

  Not trusting his voice, he nodded.

  “Then would you like to come?”

  “In one way—very much.”

  “And in other ways, no.”

  “Marion—” he had begun, and then stopped, tongue-tied.

  “David—what is it?”

  A shaft of sunlight struck across her hair, burnishing it to a rich colour. The colour of her eyes he could see was a deep blue. It was the first time he had been able to study her closely, and she faced and returned this scrutiny with disconcerting directness. He was so aware of the delicate arching of her brows and nose, the short upper lip with the clearly marked groove, the full lips, the square chin. She had a full neck, too, not slender like Griselda’s. There was sturdiness and strength in her, and he was acutely conscious of the swell of her bosom beneath the pale brown jumper which stretched – but not tightly – over her chest.

  He did not know how long they stood like that, but the spell was broken by Philip, calling out in a petulant voice: “Are we going to eat, or aren’t we?”

  Marion had stirred.

  “I must go and tell Stephen what you decide to do,” she said. “Do you want to come with us to Bournemouth? Will you work with us?”

  At the back of his mind there had been a hazy recollection of Palfrey’s instructions: and how exactly this was what Palfrey would have wanted.

  “Marion,” he had muttered, “I could so easily—make a fool of myself.”

  “I don’t understand, David.”

  “Over you,” he had explained.

  She could have responded with lightness and evasion. Instead, she answered him seriously.

  “You’ve lived alone for so long.”

  “Too long. But—”

  “So have I,” she had told him smiling faintly. “Come with us, David.”

  A dozen thoughts had crowded his mind, about the fact that he had given an undertaking to Palfrey, that he would not really be honest with her or with Storr. Of the morning, only yesterday, when he had seen her at the window. Of the rumours – that both she and Griselda were Storr’s mistresses. There was such confusion in his mind.

  “Are we going down to dinner or not?” Philip had cried out, angrily.

  And David Costain had said: “Yes, I’ll come with you, if—” he could hardly believe, thinking back, that he had actually put his thoughts, his feelings, into words “—if you understand that you set my blood on fire.”

  And for a moment, an answering fire seemed to flare in her eyes.

  Now, unbelievably, they were sitting together in an aircraft flying somewhere over North America. There was no moon, and the stars were very bright, for only one or two pale lights were on in the cabin. Now, Storr was somewhere behind with a friend whom he had introduced at New York airport as Mrs. Constance Mann, a tall and very attractive woman. Except for the droning of the jet engines and an occasional snore from Harrison, there was no sound.

  And Marion was so close to him, sleeping.

  Two or three recollections flitted through his mind: of Storr at the hotel, saying that he had decided to fly to America and not settle in Bournemouth – would he, Costain, care to come?

  “But why me, Professor?”

  “I think you will be an asset.”

  “I don’t understand,” Costain had protested.

  “Must you understand everything? We shall fly tonight, all arrangements have been made. Will you come?”

  He had nothing, absolutely nothing, to leave behind; no man could be more free. Helplessly, he had asked again the one question for which he could see no answer.

  “But why me, Professor?”

  “If you must have a reason, I have a sense of a common bond. We were both closely associated with the Sane disaster.”

  There must be another reason, of course, a strong and compelling one, but Storr was certainly not going to divulge it. Costain had to accept unquestioningly – and if he needed a reason, there was Marion.

  “I still don’t understand, but I would like to come.”

  “I am very glad,” Storr had said. “You won’t regret it, I promise you.”

  By his side, there had seemed to be almost a reflection, not of himself but of Palfrey. This was what Palfrey would have wanted, he could almost see the faint smile of approval on his face.

  At Kennedy Airport the party had been separated; the men sent to one of the conveyor belt platforms, Griselda and Marion to another. Costain could recall looking across at them, Marion sturdy and firmly set, Griselda taller, more slender and, in an aquiline way, quite beautiful.

  A coloured Customs Officer was on the other side of the belt on which his one case stood.

  “Is this all the baggage you have, sir?”

  “Everything, yes. I came away in a hurry.”

  “So it seems, sir.” The man had smiled, obviously amused, then bent forward and rummaged through the case. “Don’t show any surprise,” he had said, and Costain had in fact stiffened. “I work for Dr. Palfrey.”

  “Good God!” Costain had felt as if he were knifed.

  “Yes, sir. I am going to put two telephone numbers inside your case—learn them off by heart, and call either if you want to talk to Palfrey or send a message.”

  It was as unbelievable as the rest, yet strangely reassuring.

  “I will.”

  “Have you any knowledge of your destination?” The slip of paper was safely slipped inside a folded shirt.

  “The mountain states,” Costain had said.

  “Hasn’t Storr been more specific?”

  “Not yet.”

  “It is vital to know your destination as early as possible.”

  “I will send word as soon as I know.”

  “Good. That’s all, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Costain had said. “Tell Palfrey I am as puzzled as he must be.”

  “Sure will,
sir. In that packet is an American Express Credit Card—sign it so that you will be able to get money so that you can be independent of Storr if you have to escape.”

  “Very well.”

  “Be careful, sir.”

  “As careful as I can,” Costain had promised. “Just as careful as I can.”

  At the end of the platform, Arthur Harrison and Philip had been waiting, Philip in an invalid chair, glowering.

  “They kept you a hell of a time. Trying to smuggle pot in or something?”

  “They certainly intended to make sure,” Costain answered good humouredly. “Too little luggage seems to alert their attention even more than too much.”

  Philip dismissed the subject with a grunt as Marion approached. She held a newspaper in her hand, and by her manner and the way she walked it was easy to see that she was badly shaken. Only a few feet away, she lowered the paper, and without a word, held it so that all three could read. It was the New York Times with an enormous headline:

  WYOMING CITY WIPED OUT BY SMOG.

  By Costain’s side was the newspaper, with the whole hideous story, backed up by the added horror of graphic photography. Even now, Costain could hardly believe that what had happened at Sane had been repeated here in one of the mountain states to which they were flying. He could recall the shock on the faces of young Philip and Harrison, knew that in their way they were as shaken as Marion had been.

  But they had said little.

  Storr had hardly spoken, and Griselda had made no comment at all. Costain had fought with himself. He had to talk, at least to ask some questions; if he simply accepted this as a coincidence they would have known him a rogue or a fool. So he had asked Storr to talk to him in private, away from the others.

  “Of course, David, but we haven’t long.” Storr had drawn him aside.

  “Professor, are we heading for Wyoming?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “You know what happened to the city of Mountview?”

  “Yes,” Storr had answered, “that is why we are flying there.”

  “You mean you knew it was happening before we left England?”

  “I was told that it might happen.”

  “So—you are involved with this—mass murder,” Costain had said in a voice so tense he hardly recognised it as his own.

  “In a way, yes,” Storr had admitted, tonelessly.

  “Will you now tell me why you asked me to come with you?”

  Storr looked at him levelly. “You are an agriculturalist with an engineering background. You are also the one man available with such a background who had the personal experience of being present directly after the Sane disaster. I believe you might be helpful if there were another outbreak, and I had secret information which told me where it might come.”

  “Did you warn the authorities?”

  Storr had hesitated, and then said with quiet emphasis: “The authorities seldom take any notice of such warnings, David. You should know that.” He glanced away and Costain was aware of a movement out of the corner of his eye. Constance Mann, moving towards them. “David,” Storr had confirmed, “you are under no compulsion to come with us, but I hope you will.” Then the woman had come close and he had turned and smiled at her. “Constance, my dear, I don’t think you have met David Costain, a friend of Marion’s.”

  No one could have failed to be impressed by the striking good looks of this woman, or her affection for Stephen Storr.

  Costain had had only a few minutes in which to decide what to do.

  Even at this minute, he could not be absolutely sure why he continued with them, whether because of Marion, or whether because of Palfrey and the belief that the further he went with Storr’s entourage the more he would learn.

  Now, it was dark and, the engine noises apart, quiet in the cabin. Comforted by the knowledge that Marion was lying closely and warmly beside him, he dozed off, quickly awaking to the touch of someone shaking him lightly by the shoulder.

  “Good morning, sir,” a girl was saying. “Good morning, sir.”

  He felt Marion stir.

  “Oh. David” she exclaimed.

  “Good morning, madam. We shall be landing in twenty minutes. Would you like some coffee now?”

  Marion was clutching his hand, as if unbelievingly.

  “Please,” said Costain. “For two.”

  “Do you take sugar and cream?”

  “Just a little cream.”

  “I understand, sir. Miss Kemble?”

  “Black, without sugar,” Marion said. She turned to smile at Costain as the girl went off. “Did you sleep?”

  “A little.”

  “I didn’t expect to sleep at all,” Marion admitted. She looked at the others, stirring to wakefulness, and then out at the starlit night. “Of course we’ve crossed two time zones. Or is it three? It’s early morning there, anyway.” The stewardess brought the coffee, and David drank it eagerly and was glad of another cup.

  Two minutes later, he was unconscious, absolutely dead to the world: and Marion sat on the edge of her seat and looked at him for a few moments, a strange expression in her eyes. Then she pushed past him to the gangway, touching his cheek gently with the tips of her fingers as she passed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Chalet

  When he came round, it was broad daylight, and he was in a small room alone. His head was clear but his mouth was dry and he felt a sharp awareness of hunger. He did not get up immediately but lay on his back, looking at a ceiling made of timbers, a rich red brown in colour, fastened with wooden cleats in place of nails.

  It was very still and silent.

  There were two windows, one of them with curtains drawn. Another, higher up in the wall, let in shafts of sunlight. The walls were of rough-hewn wood, the same tone as the ceiling. So was the door, which, without lock or key, had a bar and slot fastening. The furniture was rough-hewn, too, with decorative panels depicting Indians in feathered headdress. On one wall was a long picture in soft colours of a meeting between white men and Indians; obviously a peaceful meeting with none of the usual emphasis on violence, resentment, suspicion or hatred.

  He pushed back the loosely woven blanket, and got out of bed. He saw that he was wearing a white singlet and underpants, but nothing else. So someone had undressed him.

  Now, he admitted what he had known from the moment of waking, that he had been drugged on board the aircraft, and brought off so that he could have no idea where he was, could not report to Palfrey. And this could only mean that he was under some kind of suspicion.

  Marion must have known.

  He walked across to the window where the curtains were drawn; the other was too high for him to look out. On the far side of the cupboard was a chair he hadn’t noticed before; his suit was folded over this – with shirt, socks and shoes close by. A cursory search revealed his case, placed neatly in the cupboard. He opened the case and saw the book which the customs officer had put in. Anxiously he slipped a hand beneath a couple of shirts; then sighed with relief. The American Express Credit Card was still there, and the telephone numbers were roughly pencilled in the back of the book, as if they were some code number for the bookshop purposes. He studied the numbers:

  201 : 457 : 8010

  101 : 754 : 1080

  He repeated them over and over but did not attempt to erase them; it would be a long time before he knew them off by heart.

  At least, no one had taken the book away.

  He crossed to the window, and attempted to pull back the curtains. The rings were too tight on the poles for easy running, but suddenly they gave way and he could see.

  The sight before his eyes made him gasp with astonishment. He gazed, wide-eyed, in fascination. He had never seen such awesome beauty, such grandeur. There, against sharp-peaked mo
untains which seemed to curve great segments out of the deep blue sky, was a lake of blue as dazzling as the sky; and about the shores of the lake were rocks, and small trees growing close to the water’s edge, reflected in the water. There were clearings, like meadows, in the mountainsides; there were dark fir trees, in massed array with pale green trees of a different kind laced between them.

  And atop each of the mountains there was snow, lying like silver beneath the sun.

  Costain stood there, marvelling, slowly taking stock.

  This house, or chalet, was perhaps a thousand feet above the lake, and a glance on either side showed that it must also be set in the slopes of a mountain. There was a patch of pale green trees just below the window, and winding paths, of stone, leading towards a clearing where there were white-painted chairs and tables, a big garden umbrella, a hammock and some stools. The path led on, out of sight, presumably to a landing stage against which two canoes and a dinghy were moored; he could only see the end of the jetty, could not see the land from which it jutted.

  He could see, built out into the lake, a small swimming pool.

  At last, he turned away, and went to the door. He held his breath, not sure what he would find.

  The room or hall beyond was empty, the three doors leading from it closed.

  He called: “Anyone home?”

  There was no answer.

  He opened the nearest door, and found a bathroom, with shower, tub and water closet, piles of towels, packets of soap, paper cups and boxes of tissues. Against one wall was a little boiling plate, a glass or plastic jug, some packets of tea, coffee, powdered milk and plastic spoons. On the wall was a small plaque, saying: “Fill jug to line clearly marked and place on ring. Boiling water in minutes.” He ran hot water, and followed the instructions; he felt that he could face anything when he had had some tea; he had never known his mouth so dry.

  Was that from the drug?

  He opened the other doors, to find one more bedroom with a bathroom leading off, and a big living room with a patio beyond a glass wall. It had a different view of the lake and the mountains but was just as breathtaking. He stood out against a wooden rail. This patio appeared to be built on stilts which rose straight from the mountain side, and from the rail there was a sheer drop down to half-hidden rocks and stunted trees; a fall from here would mean almost instant death. There was a clearing, down which a body could fall straight into the waters of the lake.