The Touch of Death (9 page)

That hurt her.

It hurt Banister, too, because it was so apt.

An angel of death . . .

“If you should scream, I shouldn't hear,” Palfrey said. “I should hear only the piteous cries of innocent people. If you should look as if you couldn't stand another twist of the screw, another brand of burning – I shouldn't see you, I should see the shocked faces of people whose loved ones have been killed – or a dead village – or a flash of bright flame with death as its carrier. Do you understand what I mean?”

Banister found himself, clenching his fists, grating his teeth so that his jaws ached. Palfrey's words came so quietly, so emphatically. He meant everything; he had to mean everything. If Rita would not talk, he would have to do what he threatened.

“Nothing will make me talk,” she said.

After a long silence, Palfrey said: “I shall give you an hour to change your mind.”

 

Dr. Scott seemed unaware of what was happening, when questioned, but soon facts were discovered. Men had been working in the great forests beyond Rotorua – men who had disappeared, doubtless Rita's colleagues. Everything seemed to come out, then.
Fatalis
activity was found in a small stream rising from the hills in the forest. So much news came in that the hour Palfrey had promised Rita was stretched to two; nearly three.

Then Palfrey finished studying the reports.

The guests were allowed to go home. An official statement, that the dog had been “charged with static electricity”, was issued to the Press.

Palfrey went back to see Rita. This time Andromovitch was with him.

“Rita,” Palfrey said in his mildest voice, “who sent that dog to you, and who was going to give you instructions about it?”

She didn't answer.

“Neil,” Palfrey said, “leave this to Stefan and me, will you?”

Banister went out.

 

 

There was a light at the window of the little cocktail lounge.

Banister stood in the garden, overlooking the lake, with the room's light behind him. A pretty, fair-haired security girl was by his side. She had followed him out into the garden, and seemed to be interested only in the lake and the reflection of the stars and the dark shadows that lay upon it and upon the earth.

From a house not far away there came the sound of radio music, light and lively; a sacrilege.

From the room with the lighted window, there came a scream. It broke a silence which had lasted for five minutes; or ten minutes; or fifteen. Banister didn't know. As he stood staring into the star-littered darkness, he could see Rita's face and the gloss of her dark hair, the lambent glow of her lovely eyes. He could see her lips moving; he could feel the touch of her lips.

She screamed again.

He stiffened; he felt the touch of the girl's hand on his arm, without realising what it was.

The radio music, some silly, lilting nonsense tune, went on and on. The stars made the shape of Rita's face, her body, her beauty.

The radio music stopped.

There was silence.

Banister waited for another scream, was sure that it would come, tried not to see the hideous picture of Rita's face, distorted in pain, tried not to guess what Palfrey and Andromovitch were doing; tried not to curse them.

She screamed!

He swung round.

The girl said sharply: “No.” She held his arm, and he pulled himself free. “Neil, don't!” She moved swiftly, and in a moment she was in front of him, with her arms round him, and the softness of her breasts pressed against him. “Don't go, don't let him down.”

Let “him” down!

“Get out of my way,” Banister said viciously, and tried to prise her away from him. His voice rose when he failed. “Get out of my way, or—”

“Neil, don't let Sap down now, don't help her, this might be the first crack. It might break open after this.” How desperately she pleaded. “Think of what she's done, just
think,
Neil – and think of what
might
happen. One dog in a crowd of shoppers, in a cinema, in—”

Rita screamed.

Banister didn't move, but no longer strained against the girl. His mind told him that she was right, but logic hardly mattered, emotions whirled him round and round in an angry vortex—

A car turned into the street, its headlights very bright. They seemed to flash. That tore Banister's thoughts away from the vortex, put dread into him again. He heard the girl's intake of breath.

“Was that—?”

“I don't know.”

They watched the headlights swaying up and down. Against the glow they could see the silhouettes of Palfrey's men. The tyres crunched on the gravel road, and the engine purred. The car slowed down. There was no other flash; perhaps the one they had seen had been at the moment when the headlights had been switched on.

The car stopped.

A man got out of the driving-seat, while Palfrey's men closed in on him. He showed dark against the headlights, which were still on, but Banister couldn't see his face. His footsteps sounded, but Palfrey's men walked on grass.

Quite suddenly, Rita screamed again and again.

Banister felt the blood rushing to his head, felt that he hated Palfrey. He wrenched himself free of the other girl, who was looking at the newcomer.

The man stopped.

Palfrey's men were just in front of him now, and Banister expected them to speak – but thought less of them and the newcomer than of Rita; and Palfrey and Andromovitch and the screaming.

The stranger said: “Tell Palfrey that if he doesn't stop that at once, I shall strike death through the whole town.”

 

Banister banged at the door of the cocktail lounge. He could hear nothing inside. In the ballroom there were subdued lights and the four dead bodies, the guards and the stranger who had just arrived – and behind him the girl, her fluffy fair hair adding to her prettiness.

Banister banged again.

“Palfrey!”

“Who's that?”

“Banister. Listen, Palfrey if you go on—”

“Neil,” Palfrey said, as if he were nearer the door, “I'm sorry, but you've got to take it. You—”

“If Rita screams again,” the stranger said clearly, “I will destroy the whole town of Rotorua; if necessary, the whole of the North Island.”

Palfrey didn't answer.

The man added: “I'll wait for her in my car. Don't keep her prisoner, Palfrey, or I shall carry out my threat.”

He turned away.

One of Palfrey's men called out: “Sap, shall we hold him?”

Palfrey didn't answer. The man walked towards the door, as if the possibility that he might be taken prisoner didn't occur to him. He was nearly at the door when that of the cocktail lounge opened, and Palfrey stepped out.

Perspiration streaked his cheeks, gathered in beads on his forehead.

The stranger reached the door.

“Spare a minute,” Palfrey said.

The man turned round.

Carried away by the stresses of the past half-hour, Banister had not thought consciously about the man. Now he stood with the fluffy-haired girl by his side, watching Palfrey and the other. To say that the stranger was impressive was only partly true; he was much more. He wasn't above medium height: he had only average good looks, and yet – there was some quality about him which held everyone there. It was not simply in the steadiness of his grey eyes; it was as if he felt that his authority was supreme. Banister thought afterwards that perhaps the quality which impressed most was the courage born of his self-confidence.

“I think you heard me, Palfrey,” the stranger said.

“Oh, yes,” said Palfrey. “What brought you?”

“I knew that you were holding Rita, I was fairly sure what you would do.”

“I shall go on doing it.”

The stranger shrugged.

“You must please yourself about that,” he said. “If you do it, there probably won't be a hundred people alive in Rotorua in the morning. I can spread death in a dozen ways – through dogs and cats and birds and people. Imagine what would happen once it started. It might take a few days, but—”

He broke off, and shrugged his shoulders, then turned round abruptly and started for the garden. “I'll wait for Rita.”

“It's too easy,” Palfrey said in a grating voice. “Much too easy. I shouldn't go yet.”

The man said carelessly over his shoulder: “Please yourself about that, too. If you hold me, it will start very soon. I made the necessary arrangements. Palfrey, I
can
do it.”

He walked on.

No one else moved.

He went along the path towards the car, where the headlights still blazed. He got in, sat at the wheel, and looked straight ahead of him.

Andromovitch came out of the cocktail bar. Banister realised how much confidence the Russian passed on to others – how sure he was of himself. Banister found himself hanging on his words. They came slowly.

“I think we'd better let her go, Sap.”

“Yes,” said Palfrey, after a long pause. “Yes, I'm afraid you're right.”

He went into the cocktail bar. Banister moved towards the door, and the fluffy-haired girl, whom he had almost forgotten, took his arm. It was as if she were acting as a kind of watchdog, making sure that he did only what Palfrey wanted him to do; yet he didn't go into the room.

Palfrey and Rita came out.

There was no mark on Rita's face, no sign of hurt or injury – except in the look in her eyes, which were filled with pain. Banister felt worse than he had at any moment since this strange ordeal had started.

Palfrey took her to the hall, out through the door, along the drive to the car.

Two minutes later, it moved off.

The two cars which had followed the stranger and Rita Morrell were in collision with a third car coming towards them, three miles outside of Rotorua.

The stranger and Rita vanished.

Banister felt that Palfrey had known in his bones that this would happen – and wondered what hope he, Banister, would have of being followed if he were kidnapped – or if he went willingly to Rita.

His mind was in ferment.

 

The fluffy-haired girl was named Marion, which rather suited her; and she was as gay as she looked. That quality, which had shown through the strain and the tragedy of the night of the party, became more and more apparent. It was welcome, too. Banister felt that it kept him sane.

She was almost quaintly matter-of-fact.

She had gone back to his hotel after they had left the house. No one had talked much after hearing what had happened to the cars. Palfrey had seemed to withdraw within himself. Watching him and watching his men, Banister felt again the nature of the influence which he had over them. Anyone who had served Palfrey for any length of time seemed almost to worship him.

Marion did, for certain.

She was staying at the same hotel as Banister; he hadn't seen her before, and didn't ask how long she had been there. When they reached the hotel, the same night, he felt something of the balm of her presence. They sat talking aimlessly, for nearly two hours – drinking and smoking. At first Banister had felt wide-awake, but gradually he had become drowsy, talked for the sake of talking, hardly knew what he was saying.

When he woke, next morning, Marion was with him.

He lay looking at her. He ought to have been surprised at finding her there, but somehow he wasn't. He saw the laughter in her eyes, and remembered that he had felt that it was only just beneath the surface, the night before. She would not suffer long from the effects of horror, had a strength which she drew from something that he sensed, vaguely, to be a kind of faith.

“Did you dope my whisky?” he asked.

“No.” She kissed the tip of his nose. “It wasn't necessary.”

“Was I drunk?”

“Not very. Not really.”

He grimaced.

“Drink was enough.”

Her eyes mocked him.

“I think you knew what you were doing. I
hope
you did.” She kissed him again, in the same quick, light way. “But Sap was right. He's always right, I think.”

“Your hero, too?”

“Yes,” she said.

“How was he right, this time?”

“You didn't say a word that mattered. I can guess how you feel about Rita, anyone who saw you last night must know, but you didn't rave against Palfrey, you seemed to shut the job out of your mind. He said that you could do that.”

Banister said very slowly: “He might find himself wrong one of these days. I don't think I could have stood it any longer. That screaming—”

He broke off.

“I think I know how you felt,” she said. “You must be desperately in love with her.”

He didn't answer.

“Are you?” Marion meant to make him admit it.

“I—I don't know.” When she didn't comment, just looked at him waiting for him to go on, he said more quickly: “I've never felt like this before, even about Rita.”

He sat up, and slid out of bed. He wasn't wearing pyjamas. He sat on the side of the bed and pulled on his pants and slipped on a singlet.

“I'll ring for some tea,” Banister said, and pressed a bell. “So you know about my past history. What made you do—” he found himself smiling—”this, for me?”

She didn't answer.

“Palfrey?”

“No,” she said detachedly, “no, not really Palfrey. One senses the right thing to do. I've worked with Sap before, of course. I've seen some of the things he's done. He has a sixth sense – usually at picking the right men to help. The right people, men
or
women. He's sure that you're going to help to see this thing through, that you're the key to it. He knows how you feel about Rita, and in some queer way thinks that it's all part of the plan. He's a fatalist in some ways.”

“Fatalist,” Banister echoed. “I—”

There was a tap at the door. He put on a silk dressing- gown and opened it, thinking: “Palfrey's a fatalist!” and wondering why that seemed so funny; or so peculiar. He asked a middle-aged maid for tea for two, and didn't wonder why she looked startled.

He turned back to Marion.

She was sitting up, and pulling a wrap round her shoulders, looked demure, peaceful. She was more than pretty.

“Fatalist?” he asked.

“Yes. He's quite sure that when it really comes to a showdown, between right and wrong, or good and evil, evil always comes off second best. That's how Stefan Andromovitch put it one day, and I think he was right. Don't you?”

“It could be. But there are people who would regard you as a scarlet woman, who—”

Her laughter startled him.

“Well, let them,” she said. “Sap asked me to look after you, that's all. He didn't give me any precise instructions! He just didn't think it would have been a good idea for you to be on your own last night. I didn't, either. You probably don't believe it, but I will do anything, everything – kill, maim, wound, lie, cheat –
everything
– to find out the secret of this touch of death.”

She stopped.

Banister looked at her, a smile on his lips and with growing understanding of her and of Palfrey.

“Wouldn't you?” she asked. “Do all that, I mean.”

“I—suppose I would.”

“And if the way I can help is to get you to relax for a bit, unwind you as Corny Bruton would say, well—that's the way I can help! You're easy to look at, you know. I could think of worse assignments. In fact, I wish—”

The maid brought the tea.

It wasn't until later in the day that Banister remembered that “In fact, I wish—” and wondered what Marion had been going to say. Then he didn't wonder for very long.