by John Creasey
The little cavalcade moved off.
When Baretta stopped, opposite Green Park underground station, a post office van drew up, not far behind. Its driver got out, and opened the back doors.
A furry streak leapt past him; a second, a third, a fourth.
Two men and a girl, almost level with the van, gaped as the four cat-like creatures leapt past the van towards Baretta. He heard a scream and a honking on the horn of the T.R.3. He swung round, hands up to protect his face, but four of the creatures leapt at him at once, and as he felt their impact, others raced from the post office van. The motor-cyclist jumped off his machine and ran forward – and four of the creatures hurtled at him. He went crashing down. As the other two men jumped up from the T.R.3, four more of the rabbit men sprang at them.
By now, a medley of people were rushing to help, women were screaming, men shouting, a woman cried “Police, police!” Huge red buses groaned to a stop, tyres screeched, cars and taxis slithered or jolted to a standstill, a cyclist fell so heavily that he lay stunned.
And more of the creatures came.
They snarled as they leapt at hands and bodies, eyes and faces, until in front of the horrified gaze of hundreds of people, human beings were torn to shreds, mangled, ripped, left unrecognisable. Two policemen, truncheons drawn, rushed up to try to save Baretta, but each was attacked savagely, each felt talons sink into his throat, each fell, dying. A small boy, terrified, turned and ran, slipped – and was suddenly buried by the seething fury of the creatures who looked like cats.
Now, police whistles were screeching, men from buses, cars and taxis recognised the danger, mobile police and the more responsible civilians began to draw the crowd away. One man arranged for a barrier of cars across Piccadilly in one direction, three buses were turned round in the other, to keep the crowd back. Traffic from Hyde Park Corner and from the Mall and St. James’s, was held up in a jam thick and solid and unmoving. Emergency calls were made for more police, and for firemen, and others went out for troops.
Near the Mini-Cooper, the T.R.3. and the motor-cycle, were the remains of four of Palfrey’s men.
Others, watching, hurried to report to Palfrey.
The Czechoslovakian ambassador to the Court of Queen Elizabeth who had been briefed by Palfrey and was having dinner at a penthouse overlooking Green Park, and very near the scene, heard the commotion and looked out. He saw the crowds gathered near the park railings pressing close, deckchairs and park seats neglected. Then he saw what looked like cats leaping over the railings and among the crowd, the sudden, awful panic. Women and girls in light summer dresses went down beneath a terrible onslaught, throats and faces crimsoned with blood. Two children ran, screaming. The whole park close to the railings was a seething mass of panic-stricken people, running, stumbling, crawling away from the ferocious creatures with the soft, cat-like fur.
The ambassador’s colour drained away, and he turned for a telephone.
Newspaper reporters saw what happened and besieged the kiosks and the telephones of shops and offices. Two tourists with eight millimetre cine cameras stood fast, keeping their finger on the trigger, shooting the dreadful scenes.
And on a corner of Dover Street, Betty Fordham stood, unmoving, showing no expression.
Among the crowds in the traffic jams were no less than five ambassadors, and of those five none now could doubt what Palfrey had said.
The news of disaster reached Palfrey within ten minutes of it starting. He was out of his office and going towards the lift when Joyce ran after him, pleading “Don’t go, Sap, don’t take chances.” He ignored her. There was danger, always danger, and one could protect oneself too much. Other agents joined him as he hurried towards the shambles, and when he saw the extent of it he was appalled.
He saw Mrs Fordham – and thought of her as Beth.
Somehow, it seemed natural that she should be there; not until afterwards did he wonder at the coincidence. She was very pale. As they walked together towards the scene, he noticed for the first time how tall she was; almost as tall as he. For a moment their hands touched.
“Wait here,” Palfrey said.
He pushed his way through the crowd towards the spot where the Mini-Cooper stood, splashed with Baretta’s blood. None of the animals was in sight now, except one which had been run over by a bus. Palfrey made himself walk forward, and go through Baretta’s pockets, clenching his teeth, fighting back nausea. There was nothing there. He found the tape near the kerb, out of its box, damaged beyond repair, and he knew it would serve no useful purpose. More. He knew that it had been taken out of that packet by one of the creatures, who seemed to have human intelligence, knowing exactly what it wanted and how to get it. He turned back to the pavement and to Betty, whose eyes were level with his above the heads of the crowd. She did not look away. A superintendent of police, who knew him, came up and asked: “Anything we can do for you, Dr. Palfrey?”
“No thanks.”
“Can we get the traffic moving yet?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Have to wash the road down,” the Superintendent said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s worse than a battlefield.”
Palfrey muttered: “Yes.” It was worse, because so many women and children, boys and girls, had been dreadfully injured, or had died. Worse, because everyone had been so defenceless. Worse, because there had been no warning, and because the savage fury of the killer creatures had been released so swiftly. And in a way, worse because if he had broadcast word of the danger, some of these people might have been prepared – and protected.
At heart, he did not believe this. The world must know now, but at least a little time had been given to governments, to prepare their people, and there was less danger of panic. He could not understand why the attack had been made – possibly to get the tape, possibly – and this he feared most – the creatures, once angered, could not control their savagery. It was as if they had a natural bloodlust.
He put this out of his mind, and reached Betty, thinking: “Why is she here?”
He forced a smile.
“I can’t stop,” he said.
He went on, with men surrounding him and carrying the tiny tape, the useless tape. He knew that the next thing he must do was see Clemente Taza, but even as the realisation passed through his mind he wondered whether the ambassador was still in England.
He had to find out soon. But first he had to send further warnings out, had to make quite sure that no one underestimated the danger, even though he himself could not yet assess it fully. Back at the office he did all that he had to, and before leaving for the Lozanian Embassy, called in an agent named Armitage. Armitage was a very able agent, almost devoid of imagination, with complete command of several languages, and remarkable resource in emergency. The essence of Armitage’s quality was his single-mindedness, and his freedom from emotion. Palfrey had never known him influenced in any way by a woman no matter how beautiful, nor how helpless, and he had never known him influenced by any human situation. He did not believe there was anyone in the world more detached; nor did he believe that anything or anyone could ever corrupt that man, or his coldly intellectual conviction that the world must one day be governed by a World Force. He was a normal enough man in social attitudes, and only those who knew him well realised there was passion behind his intellectual detachment. No one knew why he was known as Tig.
“Tig,” Palfrey said. “I want you personally to check on a Mrs. Betty Fordham very closely. Find out what we’ve already discovered about her, and then have her watched and followed wherever she goes.”
“Right,” said Armitage.
“Let me hear from you two or three times each day.”
“Right.”
“Thanks,” said Palfrey.
In a strange way, he felt a sense almost of betrayal, but that was nons
ense. He would have anyone watched if there were the slightest grounds for suspicion. It was illogical to feel that Betty, or Beth, Fordham should be treated otherwise.
When he reached Piccadilly again, firemen were sluicing down the road with their hoses at half-pressure, but no traffic was yet moving. Large reinforcements of police had been brought up, and were controlling the crowd. There was no possible doubt that this story, with pictures, would reach the early evening papers and television, and it had come too swiftly for him to influence the manner of it. As he stepped into a car with armour-plated sides and bullet-proof windows, he wondered whether he should have telephoned the Prime Minister. Sometimes it was difficult even for him to realise that he owed allegiance to the world first, and to his own country second. There was a radio in the car and he could call Number 10 from here, but he decided not to.
Soon, he was being admitted to the front hall of the Lozanian Embassy, in a quiet, pleasant street in London which seemed far removed from horror. He had been told that Clemente Taza had not left the Embassy, but would hardly have been surprised had he been told that his Excellency was out.
Instead, within two minutes the second secretary was saying: “His Excellency will see you, sir.”
The ambassador was in the front room on the first floor. On a closer inspection, Palfrey saw that the amazing good looks and regularity of features that had so startled him held a curious lifelessness. That was particularly odd in a Latin, Palfrey reflected. The handclasp, however, was firm, the greeting most disarming, especially as it was accompanied by a charming smile.
“I owe you an apology, Dr. Palfrey. I was quite wrong to doubt what you told us this morning. Please sit down.”
“So you’ve heard what happened in Piccadilly and Green Park.” Palfrey said.
“I have, and may I say that I am greatly shocked.”
“Do you know why it happened, your Excellency?”
“No, I do not.”
“Then I will tell you. It happened because one of my agents brought a tape recording of a conversation you had with your first secretary, away from here. It was being brought to me. Those creatures I warned you about destroyed it, incidentally causing the death of at least thirty people and grave injury to many more.”
Taza said, very quietly, “You cannot expect me to believe that.”
“I know it to be true, sir. The man who smuggled the tape out of the Embassy is alive. He is prepared to swear to everything he knows. We can establish beyond any doubt that the trouble started here. It will save us a great deal of time and a lot of unpleasantness if you will accept the situation and tell me all you can.”
“And if I refuse to accept the situation?” demanded Taza.
“I would be extremely sorry,” Palfrey said, “but I would use my influence to have all your diplomatic privileges withdrawn. And I would use all the resources of Z5 to make you tell the truth. I do not believe you would be able to resist the pressure which would be brought to bear.” As the other’s colour faded and his lips tightened in anger, Palfrey went on. “And at the same time I would inform all governments that I could prove Lozania’s association with the emergency, so that very great pressure indeed would be exerted on your government. I don’t think it could be resisted.”
“This is blackmail,” Taza said hoarsely.
“I hope you understand this, your Excellency,” said Palfrey in a hard, unemotional voice. “There is nothing in this world I will not do to make you talk. It is not simply that some of my friends have been torn to pieces, alive, by these demoniac creatures. I have reason to believe they could cause terrible sickness to mankind, as well as ultimate starvation. Neither you nor anyone else who helps to conceal the creatures will get any mercy at all from me or from those who work for me.”
Chapter Eleven
The Ambassador’s Request
Taza did not respond, did not look away from Palfrey. It was difficult to define or understand the expression in his fine, bold eyes. Hatred? Palfrey did not think so. Rage? It was anger, but controlled. Fear? In a way, perhaps that was it. Two spots of colour now burned on his cheeks, as the silence dragged on and on.
At last, he drew a deep breath and said: “You make yourself very clear, Dr. Palfrey. However, you understand that I have instructions, and I must obey them.”
“I understand,” Palfrey said, quietly, “but it will take longer to learn the truth, and the danger will be greater because of it. Have you really calculated the danger?”
Taza said in the same tense voice: “At best, I can consult my government.”
“By telephone?”
“Yes.”
“What will you do? Ask their permission to tell us the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Will you telephone at once?”
“If you will leave me here,” Taza said, “I will speak to His Highness the President as soon as the call comes through.”
Would he? wondered Palfrey. Or was he simply playing for time. When Palfrey had left this room, would he go out of another door and flee the country? Would he even kill himself? These risks were obvious, but so were the advantages. Whatever course he took, Taza would virtually make an admission for the world to see. As a fugitive or a suicide, he would be admitting his country’s complicity, and so ensure a swift and searching enquiry. It was practically certain that he would in fact talk to his government. Palfrey was on the point of saying he would wait, when a telephone bell rang. Taza, glad of release from tension, picked up the instrument.
“Yes? … Yes, he is here … One moment.” He held the receiver close to his chest. “It is an urgent call for you, Dr. Palfrey.”
Palfrey smiled very faintly.
“Let me take that, while you make your call.”
Taza handed him the telephone, gave a stiff little bow, and went out. Palfrey watched the door swing to, and wondered whether anyone was listening outside it, whether there were microphones concealed in this room, perhaps in the telephone itself. At last, he said: “This is Palfrey.”
“Sap, Professor Copuscenti and Dr. Walsh are here and want to see you urgently.” It was Joyce. “The Professor is very agitated – in fact he’s frightened. How soon can you be here?”
Swift as light, Palfrey thought: “Copuscenti is frightened.” The Professor was one of the world’s leading specialists in the field of the effect of atomic radiation on the human body, on blood cells, on hereditary influences. Palfrey, who understood so much more than the man in the street, could never follow the complexities of Copuscenti’s mind, of his research, or of the subject. He did know that no one else in the world had a greater grasp of that subject, that his voice had long been raised, sometimes strident and alone, sometimes as the leader of a frightened chorus prophesying the effect of atomic radiation on the future of the human species.
Now this great physicist had seen the body of one of the little creatures and was frightened.
“Sap,” Joyce said. “Are you there?”
“I’ll be back within the hour,” Palfrey said. “Is—anything else in?”
“The newspapers and television are going mad,” Joyce told him. “The Prime Minister has been trying to get you for the past half hour and wants you to call him at once. And …” Joyce hesitated, as if even her dispassionate mind was almost overcome by the horror and the magnitude of this situation. “And,” she repeated, “more and more reports are coming in from overseas, about serious food losses. In Cambodia, they are down to a month’s supply of rice, in Ireland supplies of flour and potatoes are already dangerously low. God knows how long this had been going on.”
Palfrey thought: Taza might.
“Hold the fort,” he said. “I won’t be long.”
“You mustn’t be,” Joyce said. Her voice was nearly despairing.
Palfrey rang off, a picture of Copus
centi in his mind. The physicist was a short man with a big head, a leonine head; a popular image of a prophet spoiled by his stubby legs; but for his fine torso and broad shoulders he would have been a dwarf. Palfrey shivered. He seemed to see Copuscenti’s fine eyes, to hear his dry impersonal voice with its ironic undertones. “All I am being asked to do, Dr. Palfrey, is to preside over the destruction of mankind so as to make it painless for the individual.” Dr. Walsh, whom Palfrey had met only once, was the Professor’s colleague and an expert on toxicology and immunology.
Was there a clue in his presence?
The door opened, startling Palfrey. He swung round, to see Taza coming in; it was difficult to imagine a man who looked more different from Copuscenti.
“Dr. Palfrey, I have a most important request to make,” he said without preamble.
The mental image of Professor Copuscenti faded.
“Yes?”
“Will you fly to Lozania to discuss this matter with President Mortini? I have spoken to him, and the request is from him. You will of course be guaranteed safe conduct. You will have nothing to fear.”
Nothing to fear, echoed Palfrey bitterly.
He said: “Will President Mortini be able to help in this emergency?”
“He will acquaint you with certain facts.”
“Will he understand that I will have to have others with me?”
“That will of course be for you to decide.”
Palfrey played with his hair, twisting strands round and round. It would take ten hours to fly to Lozania, and a special plane could be made ready in two hours or less – a military jet was always at his disposal. He could take two or three people with him. If Baretta were alive – he gritted his teeth. He would need an interpreter, and someone with a basic understanding of the problem. He thought: Copuscenti knows Portuguese.
