The Plague of Silence

by John Creasey

  “Sir.” Master and servant?

  “I told her the same story and it’s as true as I’m standing here.”

  “You almost make me believe it,” the big man said, but he didn’t act as if he was even slightly nervous, just smiled broadly at the girl. “Let me see this dangerous bite.”

  She went forward, with her arm outstretched.

  At luncheon, her uniform had hidden her figure, and Matt hadn’t been thinking about figures when he had seen her coming towards him on the bicycle; but he couldn’t fail to see her more clearly now. The thrust of her high young breasts against the flowered green dress, the way she moved, the rounded beauty of her arm, the pallor of her face and the sunlit auburn of her hair, made her a picture to dream about.

  She should soon begin to feel the effect of the poison.

  There was one odd thing: she hadn’t started to scratch it yet.

  And there was no “dust,” remember.

  The tall man held the girl’s hand for a moment, quite impersonally, then let her arm fall. There was a dry twist at his lips as he turned to Matt, and said very slowly and deliberately:

  “It looks an ordinary gnat bite to me. You’d better drive on, before I change my mind and knock the nonsense out of you. In this country it’s quite safe for a girl to travel alone.”

  “It won’t be safe for her or for you,” Matt said. “But when you begin to feel the pain, don’t blame me.”

  “Don’t talk like a lunatic.” The other’s eyes hardened. “Drive on.”

  “Listen to me,” Matt said desperately. “I’ve arranged for the whole area to be cordoned off. Everyone in Conne village is in a state of collapse, and soon—”

  A mosquito hummed close, and he struck at it.

  “Oh, get into your car and take your lunatic ideas back home with you,” the big man said roughly. He gripped Matt’s elbow and pushed him towards the car. “If I have any more of this, I’ll lose my patience.”

  Matt said: “I’ve never known anyone ask for it more.” He stiffened his arm, and the big man seemed to lose his temper, clenching his fist to strike. The girl cried out a name: it sounded like “Mr. Lawson!”

  The man said: “Get in and drive off.”

  Matt twisted his arm round and gripped his wrist, then leaned his weight against him. He felt him give way, and twisted. The big man staggered backwards, and the girl cried out again. The man came up against a sapling, and would have fallen but for its support; he looked flabbergasted.

  Matt didn’t speak as he got into the car and closed the door; but he wound down the window, and called out as he started the engine:

  “I hope you get another chance. Get under cover, and make it fast. I’m still prepared to drive you.”

  The man was glaring at him angrily, and the girl looked as if she didn’t know what to do.

  Matt drove off.

  How long would it be before the poison took effect?

  He tried to remember how long it had been with Yvonne. It was hard to believe that it had happened on this very day. That they had lunched together and the Irish girl had served them, and then they had driven off, knowing nothing of the horror that lurked in the air.

  How long would it be before the girl Kathleen began to feel the paralysis?

  And would the man be affected too?

  How could he prevent it?

  Chapter Twelve

  THE SQUAD

  The narrow road seemed to go on unendingly, and the forest did not change on either side; for mile after mile it looked the same, here dark and shadowy, there bright as the sun forced its way through the small clearings, here thick with undergrowth, there quite clear, with beech and birch, slender and spreading on either side. Matt felt the wind cold on his forehead for a few minutes, but didn’t close the window. He had given way completely to his fears, and one couldn’t live on fear.

  That crazy fool of a man.

  Well, who could blame him, and who could blame anyone? Only when you had seen victims of the bites could you know the real depths of the horror.

  When was he going to reach the decontamination squad?

  Had Palfrey really been able to arrange one? Was Palfrey as good as his reputation, or was he a lot of hot air? He had reached Lauriston swiftly enough, and must have flown from London.

  Matt saw a little sign on the side of the road, and as he drew nearer, read: Danger: Road Up. He relaxed and almost burst out laughing, it seemed so silly; the ordinary everyday things. Danger; Road Up. Danger—Mosquito Bites. Danger—Mad American in Chrysler. Danger—Dust.

  He turned the corner and jammed on his brakes, although there was nothing very near. Some fifty yards away a car was drawn up across the road. Near this were several policemen in uniform, all looking a little peculiar. There were two men in plain clothes too, and a motor-cyclist. Other men were taking something off an open truck which was pulled off the road. Matt saw that these were trestles, and realized that they were making a road block. As he drew nearer, at a crawling pace, he saw a large picnic area with No Litter signs. Then he saw why the policemen looked odd: muslin hung round their helmets and over their faces. They wore gloves too.

  Everyone in sight had the same kind of protection.

  Matt thought: “Well, Palfrey can work miracles.”

  He followed a policeman’s directions, turned on to the parking field, and stopped. A small green van stood with its rear doors open, and some cylinders, brushes and sprays were inside. A man was taking out a spray which was connected to a long, snaky, plastic pipe about the size of a hosepipe.

  Matt opened the door.

  “Stay in your car for a moment, please,” said the man with the spray. “Close the windows, please.”

  Matt obeyed.

  The man wore rubber gloves, and the muslin, hanging from a steel helmet, protected his face. He pressed a button on the spray and a pale grey vapour spread out, covering the windows and the windscreen, for a minute or more Matt could not see out. Then the other began to rub down the windows and the cellulose with a large sponge; and he squeezed the sponge off’ into a pail, as if to make sure that dirty moisture was gone. Then he stood back, pointing to the door. Matt opened it and stepped out. In spite of the brightness of the sun it seemed much cooler outside than it had in; he had not realized how hot he was. He stood quite still, looking about; and although he did not fully realize it, he was watching for mosquitoes and their satellite clouds.

  “Can’t be absolutely sure, sir, but we think it’s quite clear round here,” the man said. He looked pale and tired behind the muslin. “We’ve arranged for aircraft to spray the area for a two-mile radius of Forest Hotel, so it should be all right for a while.” He turned to his van and picked up a steel helmet with a muslin drape, and a pair of loose-fitting rubber gloves. “Better be safe than sorry, though. Will you put these on?”

  Matt said: “Thanks.” He had driven at least eight miles since leaving the girl and the man in the forest—six or more beyond the sprayed area. He did not know this man, but his own identity seemed to be taken for granted. “Is there any news from Conne village?”

  “Nothing fresh, sir.”

  “Anything being done about people inside the infected area?”

  “Oh yes sir. Special patrols are out, everyone on the telephone is being contacted and told to close all windows and keep indoors. Everything possible’s being done, you needn’t worry about that.”

  “Thanks.” That was something; but there was the girl Kathleen, with the bite on her arm and the fear and anger in her eyes, her fair auburn hair and her beauty. “Any instructions for me? My name is—”

  “Mr. Stone, sir, I know. We’ve been on the look-out for you. You’re asked to report to Forest Hotel at once. The doctor will be there.”

  The doctor?

  Palfrey.


  Matt felt an easing of depression as he hurried eagerly back to his car. It was as if seeing and talking to Palfrey would ease the almost intolerable burden.

  He heard aircraft, and saw one old biplane and a helicopter; spraying. Was this a miracle?

  Was there any special reason why Palfrey should have taken him so seriously?

  The hotel looked almost medieval, approached from this road, with two turrets and part of a castellated wall with arrow slits for windows, A sunken garden showed that there had once been a moat here. Yvonne had told him that the hotel had been built on the site of an old ruin, but he had not realized that the ruin had been reconstructed. The sun was shining on the building, the lawns surrounding it looked fresh and newly-watered, the flower beds reminded him of those at the little cottage not far away; and also reminded him of Larry Hill and the other man in that small car. He drove on a circular drive to the front of the hotel. Somehow it seemed wrong when he saw three gardeners working, including a youth who couldn’t be long past school age.

  Nothing here suggested crisis.

  On one side of the hotel at the front was a verandah with gay umbrellas and awnings, and beneath these sat half a dozen hotel guests, with a young maid bustling about among them. It was farcical. A mile or two away people were dying, some might already be dead, a whole village had been smitten, yet here it could be so placid.

  He parked the car next to a silver grey Rolls-Bentley and hurried up the steps leading to the verandah and the main hall. The sun was hot on the back of his head, he was sticky with sweat, he wanted a shower, above all he needed someone to talk to. Closer to the guests, he saw their look of tension: it was evident in the maid’s manner too. Matt strode into the hall, which was cool and shadowy, and a youthful-looking man was standing at the foot of the big, dark oak staircase; one whom he hadn’t seen before.

  “You’re Matt Stone,” this man said.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m a Sapper! The great man’s in a main front bedroom on the first floor. Room 7. Turn right at the head of the stairs and then turn left.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said.

  He hurried up; he couldn’t get to Palfrey too soon. No one else was about when he reached the door of Room 7, tapped sharply, then tried the handle. The door was locked, and that shouldn’t have surprised him. He heard a movement inside the room, and the door was opened by a small, knuckly-looking man with a close-cropped head. This man stood aside.

  “Come in.”

  “Thanks.” Matt squeezed through the doorway opening and noticed that the door was closed very quickly behind him; almost as if there was fear, after all, that the mosquitoes would get in here. Then he saw Palfrey sitting at a table in a bay window which overlooked the front steps, the main drive and the forest; the lovely view that he had seen with Yvonne. She had been so cold and distant at the time that he had disliked her acutely, but now he felt choky whenever he thought of her.

  Palfrey had masses of papers in front of him and two telephones by his side, but as Matt drew up he glanced round, said: “Half a tick,” and scribbled on a slip of paper, then called: “Sarak, take this down, will you?” and handed the slip of paper to the knuckly man. Then he pushed his chair back and turned to Matt.

  “Been hell, hasn’t it?” he said, in his quiet voice. “I want to hear all about it, in detail, but if there’s anything specially on your mind, let me know now.” He bent down and took a whisky bottle from a cabinet at his side, and a glass; and a small bowl of ice. “On the rocks?”

  Matt said heavily: “Sure, on the rocks.” He watched the lumps of ice go in, heard them chink against the glass, saw the straw-coloured Scotch whisky fall over them in a miniature cascade. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m beginning to understand why they made you the boss.” He had never wanted a drink so much. “Ah! Any news of Yvonne Brown?”

  “Only that she’s in good hands.”

  “Larry Hill?”

  “I’ve just heard that he’s been picked up, and that he and the man with him are on their way to Lauriston Hospital, where a special wing has been set aside for these cases. Specialists are coming down from London.”

  “Have the Carters been identified for certain?”

  “Not yet, but I think they will be.”

  “I saw that happen.” Matt said slowly, and sipped his drink. “I saw two men fling fire bombs at them, and the car burst into smoke and flames. Did you know that Peters had caught—”

  “Oh yes,” said Palfrey, and he offered cigarettes and then a lighter. “The two men have talked—I saw them as soon as I reached Lauriston. They are both known criminals with a record of violence, They say that they were paid five hundred pounds to attack the Carters and set the car on fire, and were paid in advance. They had the money with them. How much is anyone’s guess, but they won’t say more.

  “Do they—”

  “Know anything about the mosquitoes? They say they don’t,” said Palfrey. “They’re among the very few people to get out of the infected region without being affected.” His gaze was very direct as he said that, and he put a hand to a few strands of hair at his forehead.

  Matt said thickly: “Know how many casualties?”

  “No, but certainly hundreds,” Palfrey was almost pedantic. “Most are probably from Conne itself. We haven’t had reports from all the outlying hamlets, the woodmen’s cottages and the isolated houses, but they keep coming in. The total number of estimated casualties is over five hundred. None of the people who’ve been telephoned within the area has replied, and the assumption is that they can’t.”

  Matt said: “Give me another drink.”

  “Of course,” said Palfrey, “and if I were you I’d take a shower after that. Your luggage has gone up, and you can take time off.” He was calm and detached; too calm. He poured out. “Just to keep you right in the picture, once we suspected gas or bacteria, we called on the county and military air civil defence forces. As soon as we knew that mosquitoes appeared to be carrying the plague, with these satellite insects, we arranged for the whole area to be sprayed from the air, decontamination posts set everywhere, and everything possible was done. With luck, the outbreak’s been confined.”

  Matt pushed his glass away.

  “I could do with that shower right now. Will it be all right if I tell you my story afterward?”

  “During the shower,” Palfrey said. “Sarak can take over here.” He broke off when a telephone bell rang, and lifted the receiver very quickly: as if afraid that it would bring bad news. “Palfrey,” he said, and added abruptly: “Yes, Stefan?”

  Stefan Andromovitch, from London.

  “Yes,” Palfrey said again.

  He did not make a note and did not look away from the far wall; all he did was to set his lips as he listened; and that brought Matt almost to screaming point, because it was so obvious that this was news of grave importance. Bad news?

  Palfrey didn’t speak for at least half a minute; then he said:

  “So the time between the first symptoms and death is down to two hours in some cases … Yes … Yes, I’d heard that our man in Buenos Aires was dead, that’s a clean sweep of them all,” He glanced swiftly at Matt, as if to make sure that he understood the significance of that. “I think we’d better advise the strongest civil defence precautions in each area, treating the mosquito satellite cloud as bacteriological in nature … What?”

  He seemed to go very tense. Then he relaxed. “Hm,” he said, as if disappointed. “Well, we must have Mitchison ready to pounce. Right, Stefan … Yes, he’s here and seems all right … Yes.”

  He rang off.

  Matt was standing and staring tensely, and Palfrey was looking up, a few strands of hair making an absurd little curl at his forehead, his shoulders rounded, the look of weakness upon him.

  “You heard most of
that, I fancy,” he said, “It was a week or more before Jane Hill died. Now death has followed within two hours of the symptoms.” He paused. “Not in every case so far, thank God. It’s possible that there will be an outbreak of the plague wherever Rondivallo has been. What I want to know above everything else is why our chaps were killed. I thought Korven was on the point of a discovery, but there was no indication that the others were. There’s a report from Budapest that our man there had a unfamiliar growth, fungoid in nature, on his larynx before he died, but there’s not been time for an autopsy. The report is being checked in other victims as far as it can be,” Palfrey paused, and then added abruptly: “There isn’t any clue about Rondivallo’s present hiding-place. No use asking you if you found any.”

  “I didn’t,” Matt said abrupdy. “I haven’t even proved that he was in the district.”

  “He was here, at this hotel, until three months ago.” Palfrey stood up, almost an uncoiling process. “Come and have that shower, and let me hear exactly what happened from the time you first arrived.” He glanced at the knuckly man, who had been back for several minutes. “Take over, Sarak, will you?”

  “At once, yes,” the man said. He nearly made it “vonce” and “ess,” and obviously English wasn’t his native language; middle European, Matt thought. He went across to the bathroom, which was large, luxurious, and tiled green. Two bathrobes hung behind the door, with several thick towels. Matt stripped, stepped into the bath and switched on the shower cautiously; every little everyday action was a help. The water hissed. He began to talk, and Palfrey sat on a stool in the doorway, asking a question now and then.

  Matt switched off the water.

  “Want a towel?”Palfrey tossed one. “This waitress you saw later in the Forest. You say she looked very like Maureen O’Shea, Rondivallo’s girl friend.”

  “By description, she might have been the same girl,” said Matt. “When I compared her with the photograph of Maureen O’Shea, I could see that she wasn’t. I’d say she was a sister.”