The Touch of Death

by John Creasey

  He sniffed the bouquet again, casually.

  His calm voice, the almost gentle way in which he spoke, made the words more vivid and the picture clearer.

  Banister nodded and waited.

  “You might have been involved,” Palfrey went on. “It was possible that you were working with them, knew that we were close behind, and picked Monk-Gilbert up and came along, pretending to do a rescue act in order to insinuate yourself into our good graces. He was, after all, coming to Wickham Mews. We don’t know why. We thought it might be to see you.”

  “It wasn’t,” Banister said.

  “We know that, now. The man posing as Monk-Gilbert came to see you – and obviously you didn’t recognise him. We showed you photographs of other people involved, and were satisfied that you didn’t know them. We had to make absolutely sure of that – and also absolutely sure that you weren’t involved with the murderers. At the same time, it was necessary for us to test your nerve, to take it to breaking point. We did that by a mixture of terrorism, threat, suspense and general wear-and-tear on the system; we made sure you couldn’t rest, and studied your reactions. We started all that, then walked out – to see what you would do. The police took over. They gave a good account of you. Everyone has. Especially Pam. You’ve been middling tight when with her, but never talked of this. You did everything anyone could do to find out what was behind it, but didn’t crack. I say this with diffidence,” Palfrey went on with a deprecating smile. “But you have what it takes. Your nerves are very good. You have been watched day and night, and—”

  “Don’t I know it!”

  “You haven’t always known it. You got annoyed when you found out, but didn’t do anything silly. You must have felt like drinking yourself under the table when Harris turned you down, after a word with Gillick. You didn’t. There isn’t much about you that we don’t know.” Palfrey took a fold of paper from his pocket and handed it to Banister. “You can look at that later. We know you’ve travelled a great deal and where you’ve been. We think you’ve all the qualifications that a job with us would require.”

  He paused again, and lifted his glass. It wasn’t affectation. He wanted to judge Banister’s reaction to that.

  “Except possibly one,” Banister said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Willingness to serve. Perhaps I don’t like being fooled so much.”

  “That’s up to you,” Palfrey said easily. “You don’t know enough to matter at the moment, if you don’t want the job you can say so. Still, your war record and one or two other things suggest that it won’t frighten you. You’ve no ties – no girlfriend or parents. Pam Smith gives you full marks for being the perfect gentleman, by the way, she said that she hardly realised that anyone like you still existed!”

  Banister didn’t speak.

  “Pam works with us without knowing much about us,” Palfrey went on. “See it as three concentric circles. Pam and a few hundred others are in the outer ring. You and perhaps fifty others are on the middle ring – or can be – and we three with a few more are in the centre ring. As for what we are and what we do—” He smiled, still faintly, and began to toy with a few strands of the fair hair. “That’s always the difficult thing to explain. One might almost say a kind of international M.I.5.”

  He paused and smiled.

  He spoke so mildly, deprecatingly, as if apologising for what he was saying. He didn’t really surprise Banister. The actual meeting, the definite assertion that these were Secret Service men, had a curious effect on him. It was a kind of paradox – a surprise which in some queer way he had expected. As he looked into the heavy-lidded eyes of the man named Palfrey, he realised that everything had pointed to the Secret Service.

  “On a real world basis,” Palfrey emphasised.

  He said that so that Banister accepted it; he believed they were Secret Service men working on a world basis.

  “Until he blotted his copy-book, Stefan here was the Moscow representative,” Palfrey went on.

  Banister felt a greater stirring of excitement as he looked into the face and the calm eyes of the giant.

  “Moscow still has a representative with us,” Palfrey said, “and most nations – not all, but most, and that includes all the big ones – have representatives. Headquarters are here in London, but we have agents all over the place.”

  Banister felt that this was really some kind of examination or test; much as his first interview with the Russian and the American had been. He had another curious feeling; Palfrey’s eyes were not so mild as they seemed. They had a penetrating quality.

  A light glowed in his eyes . . .

  It faded, and the impression died; he became ordinary again as he went on in an apologetic voice: “Don’t get anything wrong, Banister. We aren’t attached to UNO or to any Government or any group of Governments, We belong to no bloc. Once we joined one side or another, our usefulness would be finished. We aren’t employed by Governments or groups of Governments, but most make us a yearly grant to help meet our expenses. If we come across some murky business – plots between countries, for instance, that kind of thing – we get out of it as fast as we can. If Russia sends a dozen men to find out what it can about the American hydrogen-bomb plant, or the Americans slip a few of its nationals into the industrial area beyond the Urals, it’s not our affair. We’ve a different job – a kind of world police force.” He leaned back in his chair. “Sounds shockingly melodramatic, put like that, doesn’t it?”

  “I see what you mean,” Banister said.

  The words came out awkwardly; he felt as if he hadn’t used his voice for a long time. In fact, he had said practically nothing since he had come into the room. Palfrey, the others, the whole set-up, had a hypnotic effect; as if he had been warned to keep silent, and knew that it would be folly to say much.

  It was unreal; and at the same time, it seemed much more real than his daily life.

  “You see,” Palfrey was saying, cuddling the big glass as if it were precious, and raising it so that the bouquet drifted gently up to him, “there are bad men about all the time. As if you didn’t know! Governments are not the only people who want to make trouble. The day of armaments rings making wars may be over, but there are things to remember. Power – power through might – is no longer the prerogative of the nation with the biggest population. One man or group of men might discover or develop a weapon as potentially destructive as the atom bomb, even the hydrogen bomb. That’s not nonsense, you know.” He looked as if it were most important for Banister to understand that, and glanced at the American. “Is it, Corny?”

  “It is not.” The American spoke with quiet emphasis.

  “Stefan—” Palfrey began.

  The Russian smiled, and said: “There was once a woman who found a way of warping the minds of children – and thought that she might dominate the world by making youths her slaves.”[1]

  As he spoke, it was as definite as if a judge were pronouncing sentence; as if there could not be the slightest doubt about the truth of the statement.

  “You see?” Palfrey’s voice was boring into Banister’s consciousness again. “Let me give you an easy example to follow. Bacteria can be used very simply. Imagine, for instance, a chemist who can produce the cholera germ, or smallpox, any germ you like – perhaps one of an unknown disease against which there is no known protection; and imagine him having a few agents to take these round the world. It could almost be done through the post! People can’t see germs, after all. They wouldn’t make a mark on the whitest piece of cream-laid note-paper. That’s an extreme example; the point I’m making is that it wouldn’t be difficult to cause a hell of a lot of trouble for the world. A few men, a few fanatics – thwarted Hitlers, perverted patriots, incipient dictators – could cause a great deal of damage. It’s our job to dig ‘em out, find out what they’re up to. Do you see what I
mean?”

  Banister’s mouth was dry. “Yes.”

  “I felt sure you would,” Palfrey said. “Of course, we have to take a few risks – but don’t we all? It’s hardly on a level with the risks that some of the supersonic pilots take. Risk is relative, anyhow. The importance of life is relative, too—or don’t you think so?”

  Banister forced himself to speak. “I’d go a long way to save mine, but given—”

  He boggled at the word which was on the tip of his tongue.

  “I know what you mean,” Palfrey said amiably. “Given the proper cause, you’d throw it away. We think you could do a job for us. You’d be risking your life. In fact, from the time you began, from the time the other people discovered what you were doing, you’d be in the front line. If they decided to kill you, the assassination might come at any time and in any way. Of course, you might get away with it. We’d help where we could. But the risk would remain.”

  Palfrey stopped, and this time sipped his brandy. Bruton picked up a small glass of cognac, and drank. The Russian simply stretched out his long legs.

  “What do you want me to do?” Banister asked.

  They had expected his response, yet they were obviously pleased. Neither Palfrey nor Andromovitch the Russian would ever be demonstrative, but Bruton couldn’t sit still any longer. He jumped up, slapped Banister across the shoulders, and then began to move about the room. Palfrey and the Russian ignored him.

  “Monk-Gilbert went from country to country examining and testing uranium ore from different mines. He needed to study the earth strata near the mines, because he was always searching for an ore of superior quality to most of that now used. Certain grades are more economical, as they have a much greater yield than others. On his last trip, he visited one uranium field in Africa, one in New Zealand, one in Australia, two in Canada and one in Arizona. Six in all.”

  Banister nodded.

  “In one of these,” Palfrey said, “he found something completely new. Or we think he did. He found an ore which, when refined, causes instantaneous death. It is really rather horrible.” Rather horrible! “You might shake hands with a man – an insulated person – who has a smear of this substance on his finger. You would die – just like that.”

  Palfrey snapped his fingers.

  Banister clenched his teeth.

  “In short, he found a substance which has certain radioactive qualities not previously known, in which death is contagious in the way of ordinary illnesses. It is passed on from one to another. One touches the substance, there is a flash, and one dies. It has an effect rather like that of a high-voltage current of electricity. A bright flash comes at the moment of physical contact, although there is no burning; death appears to be from shock. The only outward or visible sign is a small red mark at the point of contact. Monk-Gilbert had one on his hand. A man might be sitting in the corner of a railway carriage, apparently asleep – and actually be dead. A man might be walking along the street, stumble, fall – and be dead. We know the effect of the stuff. We know that a dead man is ‘live’ in the sense that anyone once touching him, is killed instantaneously.”

  He paused. Banister caught his breath at the significance of that statement, but didn’t interrupt.

  “We know a little about the substance itself, but we don’t know who is using it.”

  Bruton stopped immediately behind Banister’s chair.

  “But it’s being used,” he said abruptly. “It’s killing a lot of people, and some of them matter.”

  Banister said: “Who?”

  “There have been a number of scientists, not all of them outstanding; a number of Secret Service men; one or two business men. Several of our fellows, too.” Palfrey paused, and then repeated: “Professor Monk-Gilbert died this way.”

  “But I saw him just after he died,” Banister said very slowly. He knew what this meant, if Palfrey were right. “I saw the wound, the blood—”

  “That was done immediately after death,” Palfrey told him, “in an effort to hide the fact that this substance – we call it fatalis – had been used. The frightening thing about fatalis,” Palfrey continued in the same matter-of-fact voice, “is that we’ve found no defence against it, and no way of telling who might pass it on. We do know that certain agents – like the two men who attacked you – are insulated and can touch an infected body with impunity. But we’ve only met one man who was insulated and not a member of the organisation which we’re hunting. At least, we’re taking a chance that he’s naturally insulated. He certainly touched an infected body “

  Banister didn’t speak. He was quite sure that Palfrey meant him. He, Neil Banister, had touched an infected body, and lived. No wonder he had been suspected and put through such stringent tests!

  He felt shivery.

  “We’ll deal with that in a minute,” Palfrey went on. “There are brighter sides. There doesn’t appear to be much of this stuff available, as far as we know. The people who are using it have to be very sparing. We aren’t sure, but certainly it hasn’t been used very widely yet. Monk-Gilbert himself told no one what he had actually found, but hinted at it, and experimented. We know that he infected – if that’s the right word – a single mouse, and turned it loose among twenty others. Ten minutes later, all the mice were dead. He left a note of that, before he died. But he didn’t say which of the uranium fields has yielded the fatalis – this by-product of the uranium ore. We have to find out where he discovered it, and also whether the same stuff exists anywhere else. The individuals using it may have a secret mine or may be using ore from mines being worked by Governments in various places. The obvious people to look for it are scientists, all the nuclear-fission johnnies, everyone who is as advanced as Monk-Gilbert was.” Palfrey shrugged, almost a Gallic gesture. “But we can’t afford to have our leading scientists killed at a touch, can we?”

  Banister stood up, took out his cigarettes, lit one, and slipped case and lighter back into his pocket. He moved back from the table. He felt stiff and cold, although it was warm in here.

  “Well, what do you want me to do? I’ll do what I can.”

  “We want you to go to the places which Monk-Gilbert visited, after you’ve learned some rudimentary facts about uranium, the way it’s mined and refined.” Palfrey was more brisk; back in an ordinary, logical world of affairs. “You know that his stooge, a real scientist, is going around. You’ll team up with him.” He smiled, and his eyes looked sleepy again. “We’ll build you up as a great physicist, too! You see, whoever attacked Monk-Gilbert thinks that the assassins failed, that Monk-Gilbert’s still alive. They know what Monk-Gilbert discovered and can’t understand why he hasn’t told us. They may think he is probably hoping to make a deal, and so use it to his personal advantage,” Palfrey went on. “At least, that’s the most likely construction that they’ll put on the fact that although he’s running around, they – whoever they are and wherever they are – are quite safe.

  “We’ve made as sure as anyone can that they don’t know we as an organisation were interested in Monk-Gilbert,” Palfrey added quietly. “We watched him very carefully and closely, but he slipped away from us – and went to his death. We had known that he was in danger, because two attempts had been made on his life before. When those failed, fatalis was used. What we don’t know for certain is why Monk-Gilbert was going to your flat – or to a neighbour’s.”

  “Don’t ask me,” Banister said. “The other flat was empty, anyhow—”

  Palfrey said: “Yes. We’ve decided you’re in the clear, and are ready to use you. If we’re wrong—” He broke off, with a shrug. “Forget it. Much of what I’ve been able to tell you is the result of piecing together fragments of evidence, but much of the puzzle is incomplete. You’ll have to take it from us that we’ve given you a reasonably accurate picture of the situation. Because you’re insulated, you might be the answer we wa
nt – our means of getting at whoever is behind all the attacks, at whoever is manufacturing fatalis.”

  Banister stubbed out his cigarette. He was affected by the calm face of the Russian, and sensed the impatience of the American.

  “We’d like to find a lot of others who are insulated against it, and also like to find out what does the insulating,” Palfrey said dryly, “but we can’t experiment very easily. Rubber gloves don’t help – Monk-Gilbert was sure about that. Certain forms of synthetic rubber and certain thin metals appear to insulate the human body against the fatalis, but from our side the whole thing is in its infancy. But someone has it, has used it, and is producing more. We are satisfied that it isn’t any one of the nations in the United Nations Organisation. It might be anyone – one person with a few helpers, a group of fanatics of any race, colour or religion. The one hope of finding who it is lies in finding where fatalis is produced – or where it exists in the uranium ore.”

  “That’s if Monk-Gilbert actually found it at the place where these other people get it,” Bruton broke in.

  “We can hope,” Palfrey remarked dryly. “Well, Banister, what do you feel about it?”

  Banister said slowly: “I can think of a thousand other things I’d rather do. But I’ll try. I take it that I’m to go round with the fake Monk-Gilbert as if I’m working with him – and that will make me a fake expert.” He forced a grin; it wasn’t easy. “And these people will be trying to kill us. You hope to catch our assailants. They have to attack before you can tell who they are. We’re the bait – and I’m the live bait. I may be attacked again, and if I’m still immune, then my assailant will be so surprised that I ought to get him. Something like that.”