The Touch of Death

by John Creasey

  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.”
r />   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.

  He felt less tense as the day wore on, although he heard nothing from Rita or from the man who had delivered that ultimatum. Palfrey seemed more himself.

  There was a conference of agents at Palfrey’s hotel, but little came of it. The uranium source and the fatalis activity region were taken over, scientists were already on their way from England. The dog had been killer for an hour after it had been put in the car; so they learned something from it.

  There would be an inquest, of course, and the real cause of death would have to be disguised. There would be difficulties with the local police, the coroner and the local authorities, but everything would be smoothed out.

  But they hadn’t really made progress. They knew more of the horror of the thing; and now Banister knew that because of his immunity he was wanted by Rita’s friends. He knew how much depended on him; and at times the burden was intolerable.

  After the third day Palfrey called Banister and asked him to go and see him. Banister had been about to take Marion to a film.

  “All right,” he said promptly. “Now?”

  “Please.”

  “I’ll be right over.” Banister rang off, and looked at Marion, whose hair wasn’t so fluffy because it had just been set, and who looked a delight. “You’ll have to go by yourself,” he said, “the oracle wants me.”

  “I’ll stay here and read,” Marion said, “you may not be long.” She stood up, and moved towards him. “Neil,” she went on, slowly, “don’t ever make the mistake of scoffing at Sap. Don’t ever do that. Above everything else, you must have faith in him.”

  “I think I see what you mean,” Banister said.

  But had he that faith?

  Palfrey looked as if he had also had a rest. His eyes were clearer, his cheeks hadn’t that almost frightening pallor; there was no tension in him. He was alone, sitting at a desk in his bedroom, smoking, with a typewriter in front of him and dozens of sheets of paper littering the desk.

  “Come in, Neil – sorry if I spoiled the evening.” He shook the papers into position and laid them in a neat pile by the side of the typewriter. “I think I know where they are.”

  Banister broke the quiet of his own tension.

  “You only think?”

  “I can’t be absolutely sure, yet. I’d like to use you to act as bait again. I don’t know why, but I’ve a strong feeling that they really want to win you over to their side. I think they’ll try to kidnap you. I’d like you to move around a bit on your own. Stage a quarrel with Marion, then with me, and then rush off by yourself. We’d follow, although you wouldn’t be able to detect us, and nor would Rita or her friends.”

  He stopped.

  Banister drew his hand over his forehead. He felt a sudden quickening of his heart, and knew why – at the possibility that he would see Rita again. He had tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter; but it mattered much more than he could ever say.

  “Prepared to do it?” Palfrey asked.

  Banister said slowly: “I’ll do it, yes. I don’t know that “

  He paused, then began to move about the room. “Sap, I’m in love with Rita. I can’t say what will happen if I ever see her again. If they should decide to kidnap me and take me to this place alive, then—I may not want to come back.”

  “I’ll take the risk,” Palfrey said. “Will you act as bait?”

  “Yes,” Banister said again.

  Not until he’d gone did he realise that he had called Palfrey “Sap”.

  The swoop came a week later, when he was in Auckland, walking beneath the shade of the trees in the road outside the University. He had almost forgotten danger. He had almost given up hope that he would be able to do anything useful. Most pictures had faded, except that of Rita – and of the dead Indian village.

  That was more on his mind than anything else.

  He saw two men coming towards him without giving them a second thought. It wasn’t until they stopped that alarm flashed through him.

  They were like the stranger who had visited them in Rotorua – not unlike in feature, each was taller, but their complexion was the same; they were hardy, weather-beaten, sun-tanned. Healthy.

  They ranged themselves on either side of Banister.

  “Don’t shout, don’t attract attention, or I’ll stick a knife in your ribs,” one man said in a quiet voice. “Walk towards that green Chrysler there.”

  “Why, hallo, Banister,” said the other man, as two couples drew near. “Fancy meeting you.”

  They got into the green Chrysler.

  No one seemed to be watching as one man drove off and the other sat in the back, with Banister.

  BOOK TWO

  THE STRONGHOLD

  Chapter 12

  Banister heard a sound
, a low-pitched, droning sound which seemed to come from a long way off. He didn’t move. He did not seem to be moving, either. Wherever he was, it was very still – yet he had an odd sensation, of motion.

  He opened his eyes.

  He saw nothing, because it was dark – and then he realised that a hood of some kind had been put over his head. He tried to raise his hands, to get it off, but his arms were fastened to his side. They didn’t hurt, but he couldn’t move.

  He tried to turn his head, but could not.

  The droning sound went on and on, until there was movement, a sudden fall, a change in the monotony of the droning before the smooth stillness again. Then he knew that he was in an aircraft.

  Someone came near him. He heard the rustling sounds of movement, felt someone brush against his shoulder, and touch the hood over his head, but that was all. Then two men spoke, but he could hear only the sound of their voices, not what they said. That didn’t seem to matter. He was glad to sit and relax, although it occurred to him that there should be no reason to rest, he hadn’t exactly exerted himself.

  He remembered the two men with the glowing complexions and the keen eyes, the green Chrysler, and the start of a journey down the hill towards Queen Street. The sharp prick in his arm had taken him by surprise – it wasn’t until he had seen the man by his side smiling that he had realised that he had been jabbed through his sleeve with a hypodermic needle.

  It had been his one moment of panic, when he had been tempted to try to open a window, to shout, to attract attention from the people in the busy street.

  He had conquered that.

  Then he had fallen asleep; it might have been an hour or a day or a week ago.

  He began to wish that they would take the thing off his head; or that they would talk so that he could understand what they were saying. The droning, the men’s voices, the occasional sway or fall of the aircraft created a monotony of its own peculiar kind.

  Then he felt movement near him again. A moment later, the hood was lifted.

  “Oh, he’s awake,” a man said in surprise.