by John Creasey
“That’s what I call prescience,” said Campson. “What about my written report?”
“One for me, one for the Prime Minister. That will be enough.”
“Right,” said Campson. He finished his coffee, and stood up, looking down at Palfrey with some seriousness. “You need a rest, old chap. Don’t ask too much of yourself, even over this. Spread the load as much as you can.”
Palfrey nodded and Campson let himself out, without looking back. Palfrey did not stir from the chair, for a long time, and was still staring at the ceiling, when Joyce returned, carrying a sheaf of papers.
“Professor Copuscenti is on his way to Salisbury,” she announced.
“That’s good,” Palfrey mumbled.
“These reports have just come in,” Joyce went on. “There was a delay in the Telstar V system, or we would have had them before.” She handed Palfrey the sheaf, and waited as he looked through them.
They came from Buenos Aires, Toronto, Vancouver, Los Angeles, Johannesburg, Hanoi and Budapest. Each one gave details of heavy losses of grain and cereal stocks as well as sugar and chocolate unsuspected until the checking began. The losses were substantial enough in each case to cause local concern; in Hanoi, the losses were great enough to threaten the winter foods for the populations of large areas. With these added to the reports already in, there was enough to give cause for alarm throughout the world. One urgent problem would be to make sure that fear did not spread among the common people, and so produce the seeds of panic.
As the thought entered his head, those very fears began to stir in him, spreading throughout his body. The sense of responsibility bit into him, the duty that his knowledge and awareness of danger imposed on him alone. The common people were, in the main, ignorant of the fact that any radioactive substances should be handled with extreme care, the handlers wearing protective clothing from head to foot even when such material was kept behind thick glass and handled by remote control. If Campson was right, radioactive objects were running loose in many parts of the world. Whether he was right or not, some particularly hideous situation was upon them. ‘A certain form of leukaemia’ was frighteningly vague. Wastage of the blood cells, wastage of the body – yes, hideous was the word. But radioactivity?
The mist which had hidden the creatures had not been radioactive, or he would have been told.
Palfrey stirred, and thought. “I’ve touched the bodies. I walked about those ruins.”
He did not remind himself in so many words that he could be in deadly danger. So could Betty Fordham. He thought idly and irrelevantly that the name Betty was wrong for her. The thought passed, and awareness of the danger swept over him again.
At half past two, he took a couple of sleeping tablets. By three o’clock he was heavily asleep, and he did not stir until a little before eight o’clock next morning.
After the first moment of waking he recalled the intensity of fear, and half-longed for, half-hated the thought of, the report from Professor Copuscenti. It hadn’t come in, and he felt no ill-effects from yesterday’s activity; it was probably a false alarm. Apart from the danger of radioactivity there was plenty to worry about. He had a shave and a shower, tea and toast, and sent for Joyce. She looked rested and reassuringly normal; but then she always looked the same.
There were a dozen or so further reports of food losses, of rabbit men having been seen near Winchester, Basingstoke and Warminster, but none appeared to have attacked human beings. All of these places were within easy distance of Salisbury, and might be from the missing colony. There was a request from Mrs. Betty Fordham, she had spoken to those who had seen the rabbit men, and believed she could tell him something he would find very useful.
Joyce said helpfully: “Why don’t you see her at breakfast?”
“Where is she?”
“At Brown’s Hotel. I suggested she should wait there.”
“Good idea,” said Palfrey.
The sleeping tablets had not had the refreshing effect of natural sleep. His mood settled into one which made him heavy-headed as well as heavy-hearted. He needed time to think about the situation without having to make decisions – and yet he was almost afraid to think. He certainly needed at least an hour and a half with new reports before he went to the meeting of diplomats, where he would have to weigh every word. My God! What would the effect be if rumour spread that there was radioactivity in the creatures? Even if untrue, it would cause terror. And the truth, whatever it proved to be, might be as bad, or even worse. Panic welled up again and he fought it down. Panic – probably an emotion unknown to a person of the calm capability of Betty Fordham.
Palfrey was walking along Piccadilly on a pleasant, slightly hazy morning, surrounded by Londoners beginning their rush to work before he realised the truth, that in spite of his preoccupation with horror, he was looking forward to seeing the farmer’s widow.
He entered the Dover Street foyer of the hotel, and walked through to Albemarle Street, searching for her. Could there have been some mistake? He turned, and started back, then saw her looking at him from a deep armchair. She was half-smiling. He was struck unexpectedly by her handsome looks and calm wholesomeness. As he crossed to her, hand outstretched, she stood up and took it, holding it firmly for a moment.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said.
“I didn’t find it very difficult.”
Her smile deepened.
“You’re very gallant this morning.”
He laughed. “Am I?” In fact, he felt relaxed and at ease, and was aware of and puzzled by it. “We’ve a room upstairs where we can have breakfast and you can tell me what news you have.” The room was one always held ready for Z5 for interviews which needed to be near the headquarters, and breakfast would be sent up immediately. He led the way to the lift and then to the second floor. They seemed cut off from the bustle of activity below. He unlocked the door and stood aside for her, and she stepped in – and screamed.
Palfrey caught a glimpse of a streak of pale brownish-white fur, of tiny hands, of talons clawing at her throat. Betty Fordham reeled back, with the creature clinging to her neck. Palfrey clenched his fist and struck out, and it loosened its hold. But as it touched the ground it leapt again with uncontrollable fury, a wild cat. Palfrey saw the steel claws scratching at the cloth at Betty’s neck. He saw another thing; she had shaken off the terror of the shock and was beating at its head with cool deliberation.
Palfrey jumped forward.
He gripped the creature from behind, hoping to be able to pull it free but as he did so the body seemed to go into convulsions. He could feel the sinews hardening to steel as the little body fought and writhed. At least it could not attack Betty again. She leaned against the door, one hand at her throat, and Palfrey feared to see a gush of blood, but he could only think of the creature twisting and writhing in his hands, so convulsively.
He was uncertain how the struggle would end, weakening visibly, when Betty with one decisive movement thrust her arm forward and brought the side of her hand down sharply on the nape of the creature’s neck. It stiffened, and went momentarily still. Palfrey felt a flood of relief and of triumph, but almost at once the body re-vitalised, and wriggled free.
“Look out!” Palfrey cried.
But the catlike ‘man’ did not attack again. It hit the floor with a light thud, and then turned and streaked along the passage. A porter, turning the corner, kicked against it and fell headlong. The creature reached the head of the stairs and raced down. Almost at once a woman’s scream rang out. There was a crash of crockery and a thud of someone falling.
Palfrey did not see the creature rush out into the street but Jim Baretta, waiting for him, saw it clearly. Baretta ran after it, and was in time to see it streaking across Albemarle Street in front of a fast-moving taxi. There was a crunch of sound, another scream – and then blood gushed from the stri
cken creature, which lay with its mouth open wide, teeth showing, its body smashed.
Baretta rushed forward, taking off his coat, and flung it over the hideous sight. But the rumour began.
“It was a dwarf.”
“A child.”
“A rat.”
“A rabbit.”
“A cat.”
“A dog.”
“A child.”
“A dwarf …”
“Get it to the H.Q. we’ll have Campson look at it in the laboratory,” Palfrey said gruffly, as he reached Baretta in the street. A dozen motorists had stopped, a hundred people gaped, many of them beginning to find their tongues. “All right, Jim?”
“Yes. What happened?”
“It attacked Betty Fordham.”
“Is she hurt?”
Palfrey said: “I don’t know.” He turned on his heel, leaving Baretta to take charge, his heart dropping sickeningly at the thought of what might have happened to Betty Fordham. He had rushed after the creature and that had been the priority, but he wished it had been possible to help the woman – if she was not already beyond help. How could she have survived those two attacks; how could the flimsy material of her scarf have saved her flesh from those cruel talons? He knew that it could not have done.
No one in the hotel took any notice of him; only a porter appeared to have seen what happened, and he was busy with a taxi and a mountain of luggage. Palfrey went stoically up the stairs, and turned the passage expecting to see Betty crumpled up on the floor, dying, if not already dead.
She was by the open door of the room to which he had taken her, smiling faintly.
“Hallo,” she said.
“But—your neck.” He felt and sounded breathless.
“I was protected,” she told him, brushing aside the tatters of her scarf. Beneath was a wide silver necklet, a piece of costume jewellery heavily inlaid with semi-precious stones. “You did warn me.”
“Ah.” He drew his hand across his forehead, and it came away wet. “So I did.”
“You didn’t take your own advice,” Betty said.
“I should have.”
“Certainly you should.”
“I will in future.”
“Yes,” Betty said severely. “I hope someone will keep you up to that.” She turned into the room. “A waiter brought breakfast and left it on a hotplate. I don’t think the coffee’s too cold.”
Palfrey asked: “What happened to the man who fell over the thing?”
“He thought it was a cat.”
“And you let him go on thinking that?”
“It seemed the best thing to do,” Betty Fordham said practically.
The words of a song, old and once popular, passed through Palfrey’s mind. Cool, Calm and Collected. No one could have been cooler, calmer or more composed than this woman, who had not yet asked him what had happened downstairs. He sat down at one side of a table laid for breakfast, and motioned towards the coffee pot. She poured out two cups.
“Sugar?”
“No thanks.”
“It steadies the nerves.”
“Why would you need to know about that?” asked Palfrey. He sipped the hot coffee, and remembered doing so last night, when Joyce had poured out, and Campson had been so full of alarm, and fear had struck deep. Why did he feel calm now? “So you came prepared.”
“Yes,” she said simply.
“Weren’t you frightened?”
“Only for a moment. It wouldn’t stop me going along the passage expecting to see another rabbit man at the corner! It’s not a boast, and I don’t really feel brave; it’s simply that I don’t react to fear—or apprehension. I never have. I’ve always accepted a situation as it is. Just as I’ve accepted the fact of my husband’s death. That hurts, but it doesn’t stop me from living.”
“No, indeed,” said Palfrey. He felt composed enough to take the silver cover off a dish of eggs and bacon, and help first Betty, then himself. They sat at the table, and ate without speaking for a few minutes. No one disturbed them; nothing indicated the danger they had faced only a few minutes before.
Suddenly he said: “I couldn’t hold it. It was like trying to hold—a polecat.”
“I could tell,” said Betty, simply.
“Did you see its claws?”
“Only too well. Did you see that the fur was fastened to the skin at the top of the arms and the back of the legs? That’s one of the things I wanted to tell you; I’ve seen the other women who saw the creatures. They all remember the talons, and the fact that the fur seems to be stuck onto the skin. Is that important?”
“It could be very important,” Palfrey said.
“I hoped I might have an opportunity to impress you with my perspicacity. I didn’t expect to have a chance to demonstrate how calm I can be in a crisis!” She was almost laughing at herself. “I honestly don’t feel any sense of apprehension in advance, and even when I’m scared as I was just now it doesn’t last for long. The neck-band proves that I listen to advice, doesn’t it?” When Palfrey didn’t answer at once, she went on: “I could be very useful to you indeed, surely.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Palfrey. “And you could be very dangerous, too.”
“Dangerous?”
“Yes,” Palfrey answered soberly. “The creature attacked you, and proved one thing and gave clear indication of another – that there are two classes, or groups, of these things. Although some of them are certainly very primitive, others have a high intelligence – not only an inventive and technological intelligence, but a reasoning one, too. They followed you and tried to kill you. The obvious reason which springs to mind is that they were intelligent enough to know you could describe them, and they wanted you dead, so that you couldn’t.”
Betty Fordham said huskily: “I know what you mean. But now you have seen one, and that puts you in danger.”
“Too many have seen them for that to be dangerous much longer,” Palfrey reasoned. “They’re intelligent enough to realise that—”
“Or some of them are,” Betty interpolated.
Palfrey looked at her wryly.
“Or some of them,” he agreed. “And apparently they’re intelligent enough to appear as rabbits in the country, and cats in town. On the other hand, they’re stupid in some ways. Why kill Anderson, for instance – why not just let him walk by?”
Betty hazarded: “Perhaps he had seen and recognised them and the intelligent ones wanted to make sure he couldn’t describe them to anyone.”
Palfrey looked at her searchingly, but obviously with approval.
“I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for certain, but that’s the most convincing reason I’ve heard yet. Now let’s get back to the point. You could be dangerous to us because you can recognise them – and they can recognise you.”
“Aren’t we all going to be in danger until this menace is over?” Betty demanded. “And aren’t you going to need all the help you can get?”
Chapter Nine
A Meeting of Diplomats
Yes, Palfrey thought, he was going to need all the help he could get, and this woman might be able to help a great deal. Her steady nerve and quite remarkable composure at times of danger made her exactly the stuff of which Z5 agents were made. But he did not trust her yet. As the thought entered his head, he changed it; he could not trust her yet. Circumstances might arise in which he would have to, but until they did he would need to be very wary. Even if she passed the intensive screening which had already been put in hand, he might trust only after a period of trial. Yet the clarity of her blue eyes, the frankness of her manner, the wholesomeness which was so evident, made him want to trust her now. He recalled the French expression: “Good as bread”. It suited her perfectly.
Quietly, she aske
d : “You don’t trust me, do you?”
“Not in the way I would have to,” Palfrey said.
“You’ve simply forgotten how to trust,” she accused.
There was a great deal of truth in that.
“I dare not trust anyone easily,” Palfrey said. “Experience has taught me that practically no one is wholly trustworthy.”
“I didn’t think you would be cynical.”
“Is that being cynical?”
“You’ve virtually said that everyone has his price.”
“And everyone has,” Palfrey declared. “No, don’t resent that. Everyone has, but I don’t mean everyone can be bribed, that’s taking ‘price’ too literally. Everyone has a breaking point. And everyone has secret hopes and fears. Some people honestly believe it would be better to live in a Communist or a Fascist world than not to live at all. What about you?”
“I’d rather live,” Betty Fordham said.
“So the price you would pay might be to submit to Communist or Fascist pressure,” said Palfrey. “I can’t take that risk.”
“Are you seriously saying this horrible threat is Communist or Fascist inspired?” She looked sceptical, almost angry.
“I’m seriously saying that it might be. I don’t know enough yet, to do anything but keep an open mind. This could be some kind of natural phenomenon, without any human cause or control. Or it might be that these creatures are man-made. They might possibly be self-controlled, but conceivably activated by remote control. It’s even conceivable that one man has discovered the secret of producing them artificially, and that they’ve multiplied beyond anything he dreamed. Or one man, a group of men, even a nation, might be using them as a weapon against the rest of the world.” Palfrey paused, smiled diffidently, and spread his hands, in a self-deprecatory little gesture. “You see how confused I am.”
She was looking at him in a different way now, as if a new respect for him had been born in her.
“I see why you can’t trust me.”
“Why can’t I?”
