The Touch of Death (8 page)

“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.

 

 

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 came.

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.”

 

 

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.

“Neil, leave it to us.
Neil!
”

Banister was at the door. The dog was looking towards a dozen people all pressed against the wall, the men trying to shield the women. Terror had petrified their faces; there was no movement, just the glare of horror in eyes which a few minutes before had been soft and misty and contented. If the dog leapt at them, one or two would die; perhaps all of them. If it ran amok—

“
Neil, leave it to us!
” Palfrey cried.

“
Neil!
” Rita screamed.

Banister ran into the room, and snapped: “Pip, come here!” The dog recognised the name, and turned. “Pip, sit down,” Banister ordered, and wondered with despairing hope whether it had been trained to obedience. “Sit—”

It leapt at him.

One woman screamed.

It flew at his throat. He thrust out his hands to grab its neck. He felt a sharp shock, but it was probably the wiry body smacked against his tensed arms. The dog wriggled and snapped at him, but he clutched it tightly with his free hand, shifted the other and got a grip on its neck.

He squeezed.

He knew that Rita was behind him, and heard Palfrey, just outside. He hardly noticed them. He kept up the pressure. He knew that everyone there was staring, but he heard no sound except the wheezy yelping of the killer dog; the only movement was its writhing body. Legs seemed to leap up and down convulsively, and it kept yapping at him, but the yapping grew fainter and the movements less vigorous.

Everyone seemed frozen into immobility.

The dog stopped moving. Banister held it for a few seconds, then put it carefully down on the dance-floor. It didn't move for he had broken its neck.

A woman gasped, and fell sideways; a man jerked out of his trance to catch her. Then others moved, and men and women began to talk in a high-pitched, frightened voice, and the men as shrill as the women.

The dog lay with its broken neck, and four people lay near it.

Suddenly, Palfrey was beside Banister.

“Now you've gone this far you'd better finish the job.” There was a hostile note in his voice, different from anything that Banister had heard before. “Pick it up and come with me.”

It was an order, and Banister picked the dog up.

“Take her away, I'll see her later.” Palfrey spoke to some of his men, and two ranged alongside Rita. She was obviously terrified of touching the dog, so it would retain its death-dealing horror for some time. How long?

The men took Rita out of the room.

Palfrey walked on one side of Banister, and another of Palfrey's men, Mike, on the other. More men appeared at the French windows, as if to make sure that no one could follow them.

Palfrey said: “We'll go round to the front and take my car, Mike.”

Banister did exactly what he was told. He climbed into the back of the car, with the dog on his lap. They started off. Except for the bright clarity of the stars and the yellow light at the windows, there was darkness; the lake and the beauty about it was hidden. The car's headlights shot out, suddenly, and lit up the trees at the side of the road and another house, not far away.

Banister looked at the back of Palfrey's head.

On his lap was the dead dog – which had killed four, and could have killed many more. He could lift it and press it against Palfrey's neck, and Palfrey would die; Mike would die, too. Even Rita had been terrified of contact with the body. It gave him a strange feeling of power, of supremacy, yet there was horror, too. It made him feel as if he were beyond death; immortal.

For the killer dog lay helplessly on his knees.

They stopped.

Palfrey told him when to get out; Palfrey produced a torch, and opened the boot of the car.

“Put it in there, and we'll stand a guard over it,” he said. “We'll check with mice or insects to see how long it holds the stuff. Then we'll bury it.”

His voice was clipped, harsh and hostile. Why
hostile?

Banister put the dog inside, and the lid slammed; Mike locked it. Mike and two other men who had driven behind the first car stood guard. Palfrey moved away, expecting Banister to follow him.

Banister followed.

They went into a house near the lake; and when they were in a small, book-lined room, with pleasant furnishings and subdued lights from huge parchment shades, Palfrey turned to look at him. Palfrey's eyes had that penetrating glow, but with a difference, there was rage in him. It showed in his voice and his look, in his words.

“You blundering fool, what are you trying to do? Ruin every chance we've got? Do you want more villages to be wiped out, more helpless victims slaughtered?”

Banister could only stare . . .

“Because that's what you seem to want,” Palfrey went on savagely. “To save a few people whose lives don't count, you took a chance of killing yourself. You've never touched an infected dog, you don't know whether it could kill you – you just took a blind chance. What do you use for a mind? Why do you think we've done all we have to save you? Why do you think we've worked and planned and schemed and had men
die
to give you a chance of finding out the truth? So that you can show what a hero you are, so that you—”

“Shut up,” Banister rasped.

“It's time you realised how much depends on you. You puff yourself up with the satisfaction of saving a few people who don't matter – make yourself a hero, and—”

Banister clenched his right hand, and raised it. He saw Palfrey's face very close to him. He wanted to smash his fist into Palfrey's face. He gritted his teeth until his jaws hurt. Then he saw fishes rising to the surface of a pool, their colours fading; and as they died, saw the faces of men, women and children taking the place of the silly vacant faces of fish.

He saw what Palfrey meant, and he knew that Palfrey was right.

He dropped his hand.

“All
right,”
he said emptily, drearily. “I
shouldn't have done it. But it didn't do any harm, and now we know that the dog's no more dangerous than a man.”

Palfrey took out a cigarette, thrust it between his lips and rolled it from one side to the other, without lighting it. He was very pale. His lips were drawn when they weren't moving the cigarette. His eyes had a peculiar, glassy brightness.

“I say I'm sorry!” Banister burst out. “What more do you want? What in hell can I do to make up for it?”

Palfrey raised his right hand in a quick, compelling little gesture.

“Nothing more, Neil. I'm sorry. First Monk-Gilbert and then me.” Palfrey's lips curved a little, but Banister sensed something of his inner conflict; and of his weariness. “Mutual apologies, offered and accepted. If you see me losing my head like that again, kick me in the pants.” He grinned. “To mix a metaphor. Or have I?” He lit the cigarette. “Have a drink.”

He turned to a cabinet, took out whisky and glasses.

“Not too much,” he said, as he poured out, “or I shall get rolling drunk, and that wouldn't do.” He mixed the whisky with plenty of soda, and sipped. “Health. Luck. Success.” He put the glass down. “I've held Rita Morrell.”

“So I gathered.”

“What did she say to you?”

“Not really a lot.” It was only an hour or so since Banister had danced with Rita, strolled out into the grounds with her; it seemed as if it had happened in a different age. “More or less as before. She wants me to go with her. More talk of conversion! There was one thing—”

He broke off.

“Yes?” Palfrey was much more himself.

“She seemed really—distressed—that the dog was let loose.”

“So it seemed,” Palfrey agreed. “I wonder why. Distressed because of the harm it might do to others, or distressed because it had got loose?” He drew hard at the cigarette. “I think we'll look round at the house, then tackle Rita. I had the place sealed off, no one's been allowed to go in or out. If the dog belonged there—” He broke off. “Stefan's making the preliminary inquiries, let's go and see if he's discovered anything.”

“Right.”

“Neil,” Palfrey said, “I think it was one of the lucky nights when you ran into Monk-Gilbert.”

 

Rita was sitting in a small cocktail lounge, smoking.

Palfrey said: “Well, I hope you're happy.”

She didn't answer, but looked at Banister as if appealing for help, for understanding. She looked shocked and shaken, but her beauty remained, a strange and calming loveliness. Banister associated her with death, and yet in her manner there was a kind of peace.

“Where did you keep the dog?” Palfrey asked.

“It was in my room tonight,” Rita said. “It had been brought to me earlier, because it was contaminated. We had been experimenting with it—”

“We?” Palfrey asked.

“There were others, but they've gone. We thought that the dog was immune – but there must have been a delayed action. I'd no idea this would happen.”

It was easy to believe her; as easy to think that she might be lying.

“How long have you and your friends had the dog?”

“For a few days.”

“Where did you get it from?”

“It was—sent to us. There were some manifestations of
fatalis
activity in the hills near here, and it was noticed in some fish. We've known there was
fatalis
activity in uranium ore here—and in other places. We wanted to find out more about it, whether the deposits were extensive.”

“Are they?”

“We don't know,” Rita said.

After a pause, Palfrey asked: “Who sent you the dog?”

She didn't answer.

Palfrey looked at her steadily, gave Banister the impression that he was going to try to force an answer; instead, he asked a different question in the same mild voice; but it was enforced mildness; Banister knew that Palfrey was holding himself on a tight leash.

“What were you going to do with the dog?”

“Let it go, once I was sure it was free of infection.”

“Then what were you going to do?”

“I don't know,” Rita said.

“Do you mean you were waiting for instructions?”

“Yes.”

Palfrey said softly: “Who would give you them?”

She didn't answer.

She didn't look at Banister now, only at Palfrey. Banister felt a strange remoteness, even from them. There was the beauty of Rita, and in Palfrey something he hadn't seen before; a steely strength. It was hard to believe that this was the man who had raged at him, who had hardly been able to get words out because of his temper.

Palfrey broke the silence.

“I don't know whether you quite understand what's happening, Rita.” His use of her Christian name made the whole scene more bizarre. “You seem to have some idea that you can justify what you're doing. I don't think you'll find many people who will agree with you on that. As far as I'm concerned, you're deadly to everything that I think matters. You killed Monk-Gilbert, you've killed others, you killed these boys and girls tonight. You've the power of death in you. It's got to be broken. When villages get wiped out like the one in Malpore, whenever you give us a clear indication of how deadly you and your friends can be, we just have to find out who is doing it, and we have to stop it. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Yes,” she said without expression.

“Good,” said Palfrey. “It will help you to understand this: we can't work on ordinary rules and regulations. You will have to talk. We hoped that you would lead us to someone or somewhere else – you know that, of course. It hasn't come off. Now we can't wait any longer. You will
have
to talk.”

He paused.

She shook her head; and there was a strange regality about her, a queenliness. Did Palfrey see and understand that? Or did she cast some spell over him so that he saw a beauty which others would not recognise?

“Nothing will make me talk,” she said.

Palfrey began to play with a few strands of hair.

“That's what you think now.” The quietness of his voice made it more impressive. “I don't want to torture you. I simply have to make you talk. Over the years I've learned a lot of different methods. Some work with men, and some with women. Rita, I
have
to be absolutely ruthless. I don't see you as a human being, as an attractive woman, I just see you as—” He paused, and Banister saw him draw in his breath, saw his eyelids droop for a moment. Then: “As an angel of death.”