by John Creasey
Palfrey thought of the body he had seen.
“You don’t think it’s straightforward murder, sir, do you?”
Surely that was a fool question.
“By rabbits?” Palfrey asked.
Cooper was a lean man, only a little above average height, with a leathery face deeply tanned, clear eyes, a long nose with a high bridge and pinched-in nostrils.
“Mrs. Fordham saw the man attacked. She was very frightened, sir.”
“Ah. Hallucination, you think?”
“It’s possible.”
“No doubt it is,” Palfrey said. “Cooper.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We might be involved in a very peculiar business indeed. A great number of people might see the same hallucinations, and if they do, rumour will spread quickly. I would rather it didn’t for the time being. I don’t mind the mystery of a murder, but I don’t think it would be wise to say too much about rabbits. Is Mrs. Fordham likely to let her tongue run away with her?”
“I don’t know her well enough to say, sir, but generally speaking she’s very level-headed.”
“How is she now?”
“Just getting over the shock, sir, and talking to Jacob Gosling, the innkeeper. I’m afraid there’s no way of stopping wild talk about rabbits though. Several people heard her story.”
“Pity,” Palfrey said. “Great pity.”
He approached the front of the Goose Inn, heavy hearted. Cooper would know the situation, and it had to be faced. A rumour that a man had been attacked and killed by two rabbits would now spread, but of course no one would believe it – they would assume that some creatures other than rabbits had been involved. Wildcats? Foxes? What he needed was a story which would satisfy the local people and the newspapers, but he doubted if that was possible. Man kills rabbit, no news story. Rabbit kills man, and the story would be flashed around the globe. Until he knew much more, he did not want this spread about. Were the creatures rabbits? Were all of them deadly? Until he knew, until he found it impossible to avoid, he did not want terror to spread.
The ambulance pulled up.
“Which is Mrs. Fordham ?” asked Palfrey.
“The heavy woman with the green jumper,” said Cooper.
‘Heavy’ was not a good description. Plump, perhaps, but there was a comeliness about her; a wholesomeness.
“Introduce me, please,” Palfrey said.
The thing which most surprised him about Mrs. Fordham was the brightness of her eyes. Here was an intelligent woman, and he did not for one moment believe that she had imagined what she had seen. He had to take a chance on her goodwill.
“Mrs. Fordham,” he said, “I am an Intelligence officer, and I’m intensely interested in your story. Will you say as little as possible about it until we’ve been able to talk?”
There was a hint of apprehension in the clear blue eyes.
“Perhaps I’ve already said too much.”
“Let’s hope not,” Palfrey said. “It’s a very serious matter indeed.”
Her apprehension faded into a kind of wary appraisal, as if she could not quite make this man out; he had a very good impression of her composure.
“Have you talked to the newspapers, yet?” he asked.
“No one’s been here from the Press, as far as I know,” answered Mrs. Fordham.
“Good. I want to go along to the spot where you saw these rabbits,” Palfrey said. “If you’ll come with me, we can talk on the way. Will you?”
“I’ve been trying to get someone to take me there, or allow me to go,” she said. “My husband will wonder what’s happened to me.” Again, Palfrey had a mental picture of the man lying near the big oak tree.
“Then let’s go,” he said.
“So you don’t write me off as subject to hysteria,” Mrs. Fordham remarked.
“I do not.”
Mrs. Fordham gave a little shiver.
“Will you want to use my car? That’s the old Hillman.”
“May we?”
“I’ll go and wait in it,” she said. “I don’t mind admitting I don’t feel too good.” She nodded and went off, and he felt sure she was concealing her anxiety for her husband.
The body of Neil Anderson was lifted from the ground and carried to the ambulance. Palfrey climbed inside, pulled back the covering blanket, and studied the face of his friend. He saw the incisions on the neck that had pierced the carotid artery. It might well prove that Neil had bled to death. He would soon know.
“Take him to the morgue in Salisbury,” he ordered. “Mr. Gampson is on his way from London to do the autopsy.”
“Very good, sir.”
Palfrey left the ambulance, fully aware that everyone was watching him. Probably Cooper and the other policeman, a taller, younger man, were disappointed, for his reputation was greater than his apparent vagueness and indecision seemed to warrant. In a way, it was so. There was so much to do, in so short a time, and he alone was aware of the growing danger. One false, or ill-considered, move and the situation would be out of hand. His fear was that some vital thing would be overlooked.
Baretta was standing with the two policemen when Palfrey joined them.
“Two or three things,” he said, much more briskly than before. “I’m going to the scene of the attack with Mrs. Fordham, I’d like two men within a very short distance, covering us. Sergeant, don’t forget we want to play the rabbit story down. Your way’s the best – let it out that you think Mrs. Fordham was overwrought. We’ll have an Army detail here soon. Send it to the field by the big oak tree. Have the field surrounded, and the men at the ready. Keep in touch with our helicopters for news of the smoke – we think we saw a smokescreen, and we want to find out what movement it was intended to conceal.” He turned to Cooper, with a smile. “It all sounds crazy, and that’s what it may prove to be, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
His cliché fell on fruitful ground.
“You can rely on us, sir.”
“I’m sure I can,” Palfrey said.
“There’s just one thing, sir.” Cooper was earnest.
“What’s that?”
“Is there anything we can say which might explain what’s on, and what all the mystery is about?” asked Cooper.
He was most astute, the kind of man Z5 could put to good use. Palfrey knew that he should have thought of this already, it should have been obvious to him, although not obvious to Cooper, who waited as if for an oracle to speak. The other people, staring, hardly seemed to move as the ambulance slid by to the noise of approaching lorries, bringing the first contingent of troops.
“Yes,” Palfrey said suddenly. “Good thought – thanks. Say we’re worried about a new breed of rat, which has done a lot of damage to food supplies, and might carry disease. Say it’s been known in other countries and we want to make sure it doesn’t spread here.”
Cooper gave an appreciative smile.
“That will scare them off, sir!”
“I hope so. Jim – you deal with the military side.” Baretta nodded, and Palfrey turned to Mrs. Fordham, who was sitting solidly at the wheel of her station wagon. Palfrey got in beside her, and twisted round to see the brownish message on the window written in blood. As she drove off Mrs. Fordham said abruptly: “Do you think I’m callous?”
“Farming folk are used to blood and life and death.”
“Thank you, Dr. Palfrey,” she said, her voice carefully held in control.
“Tell me exactly what happened, please.”
She told him in surprisingly vivid detail, and Palfrey could almost see the lane and Anderson walking so warily. He was aware that Mrs. Fordham was keeping a sharp look-out; and so indeed was he, fully alive to the fact that the next yard of hedge, the next hillock, the next crop of nettles or wi
ld parsley, could hide a watching rabbit. Every nerve was strung to breaking-point, although he tried to tell himself that such excess was ridiculous.
They turned a bend in the lane and found the oak tree straight ahead of them sturdy and strong, offering a kind of sanctuary, one side gilded by the sun, the other in deepest shadow.
Mrs. Fordham caught her breath. Palfrey glanced at her, and saw that her whole expression had changed. She had seen something which appalled her. She was staring along the lane near the gate, and he looked in the same direction. He saw the man, lying on his stomach, arms crumpled beneath him. He was a big man, wearing blue jeans which had faded almost to white, and a yellow shirt. He had reddish hair, very curly. This was the man he had seen from the helicopter, of course; whom he had kept on remembering. He had had no idea Mrs. Fordham’s car would pass so close.
Now, the woman by Palfrey’s side slowed down, stopped, and applied the hand brake with controlled deliberation. She said with the unnatural precision of the greatly shocked: “That’s my husband. They attacked him, too. Oh God, what has come upon us?”
She began to open the door and climb out. Palfrey, too, slid out on his side, watching not only the woman but the hedgerows, even the low branches of the tree.
He looked for ‘rabbits’.
And he put his hand, protectively, to his neck.
Chapter Five
The Exodus
All the time, Palfrey’s mind was working, probing, acutely alive to the fact that there must be other aspects he had missed. He was deeply troubled by the significance of the cloud of smoke or vapour. Confident that it would be watched, and that whenever he needed to make a closer examination he could do so, he had come here with this woman, but he had warned no one of possible danger from the ‘smokescreen’; that had been a mistake. He glanced behind, to see Police Sergeant Cooper’s colleague, and a man he did not know, together in the police car. He beckoned. The men were so intent on the body near the gateway, that they did not notice him. He gave a hissing sound between his lips; the woman took no notice but the men looked up.
The policeman came hurrying.
“Yes, sir?”
“Have you a radio?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Flash a message to your headquarters asking them – telling them – to be extremely cautious until we know the truth about the smokescreen. It could be poisonous.”
“Right, sir.” Unperturbed by that ominous suggestion, the policeman cast a troubled glance at Betty Fordham. She had reached the body, and stood looking down at it. Palfrey waved the men away and stepped to her side. She did not appear to notice him.
Palfrey saw the stain of blood in the earth, from the wound in the dead man’s neck. He was sure of death in his own mind, but bent down and felt for the left wrist. The woman made no comment, and did not stir.
Palfrey drew back from the lifeless hand.
“Dave,” Betty Fordham whispered. “Oh, Dave.”
Palfrey took her arm, but she stood, as immovable as a rock.
“Dave,” she repeated.
“Mrs. Fordham,” Palfrey said, “we need your help more than ever.”
“Help,” she echoed without looking up.
“Very great help,” said Palfrey. “You may have seen something which no one else in the world has seen. It’s more than ever necessary for you to talk only to me, for the time being.”
She didn’t speak.
“Have you any children?”
Huskily, she said: “No, no children.”
So, children could not comfort her, and there would be no companionship. He watched her, his mind still seeking and probing. One simple thing dropped into place. Two men had probably bled to death, as a result of wounds in the throat; so throats must be protected before any close examination of the field was made, and a warning must be flashed back. But this was not the factor that teased him, hovering on the edge of his conscious mind.
He heard a car engine, and looked up to see an army jeep with half-a-dozen men in it, approaching. A fresh-faced young lieutenant appeared to be in charge. He sprang down, glanced at the body, avoided looking at Betty Fordham and said: “What can we do, sir?”
“The vulnerable place is the throat,” Palfrey said. “Everyone engaged in this affair needs throat protection – thick plastic, metal, something pliable and easy to put on and off.”
“I’ll report that, sir. Anything else?”
“Yes. What have you got to protect my throat now?”
The innocent-seeming brown eyes shadowed.
“Let me think a moment, please.”
A tough, taut-looking corporal, approaching, said: “Sir.”
“Yes, Corporal?”
“Would two army gaiters, clipped together, do the trick?”
“Would they?” the lieutenant asked Palfrey.
“Damned good idea. I’d like your men to protect themselves, by that means, and then spread out and cross this field. It should be cordoned off as soon as possible.”
“Men are moving into position, sir.”
That was comforting; the speed and efficiency of the army when prompt action was needed was always reassuring.
“Good.” Palfrey turned to the policeman and his companion. “Will you take Mrs. Fordham to the Goose Inn?” he asked. “I’ll come back to see her there as soon as I can.”
“Very good,” the policeman said uneasily, not sure how to deal with the woman who had been so suddenly and cruelly bereaved.
Men were busy, clipping together the wide khaki canvas gaiters that were to protect their necks. In the distance, more vehicles were in sight and soldiers were being detailed to surround the field. Palfrey was anxious to find out what had happened, but reluctant to leave the woman unsupported. There would be real danger that after the death of her husband had really struck home, she would be so bitterly hurt that she might say whatever came into her head; and who could blame her?
“Mrs. Fordham,” the policeman said nervously.
She stared steadily down at her husband.
“Mrs. Fordham,” Palfrey’s voice was sharply authoritative.
She looked round at him.
“I want to come with you,” she said simply.
The obvious thing was to say she could not; and yet she would be better with something to do than on her own, thinking, grieving. And she would recognise a ‘rabbit’ if one appeared. With only a moment’s hesitation, Palfrey said: “That’ll be a great help. Thanks.” He stretched out for one of the gaiter collars, gave it to her, and went on: “Put that round your neck. How do we secure it?” he asked the corporal.
“Easy enough to adjust the buckles and straps, sir.”
He was a resourceful chap, the kind of lean, leathery type who had probably seen years of service and some action.
“Good,” Palfrey nodded to the policeman as the man drew nearer to the car. They waited until the gaiters had been adjusted, and Betty Fordham had made hers more comfortable. Then at Palfrey’s side, she walked through the gateway, with the lieutenant, the corporal and his men behind him – at Palfrey’s order.
The policeman and his companion lifted the body of Dave Fordham, and carried it to the police car. They should mark the spot where the body had lain, of course, the usual routine of investigation was essential; but the police would see to that. Palfrey walked alongside Betty Fordham across the field, taking the path already trodden by her husband. The only sound was the buzz of insects, droning in the heat, and the gentle swish of the barley as they passed. They could see nothing beyond it until they came in sight of the combine-harvester.
“It’s fallen into a hole,” Betty said in a strained voice.
“Yes.” Palfrey was thinking of those ‘babies’ he had noticed from the helicopter. He scanned the land where
the barley had been cut, and then saw the spot where the subsidence began. Almost at once, he saw the bodies, laid out so neatly. They were not of babies, but of midget men. As he drew near, he saw how beautifully formed each one was; and he saw, also, that each face was hairless. He did not know why that made such an impression on him, but it did. Palfrey looked at Betty Fordham, but she gave no sign of response. One of the soldiers exclaimed ‘My Gawd!’ No one else spoke, but all stood still, surveying the scene of destruction.
From here, they could see the ‘city’.
Palfrey would never know what kind of impression that made on the others, only what effect it had on him. He was appalled. It was a primitive city, in miniature, the earth walls, the rooms, the separate terraces of houses like those in American Indian pueblos, the communal rooms, the communal kitchens. He judged it large enough to house not dozens but hundreds, possibly thousands, of these tiny creatures. There were beaten tracks, or roads, and ‘streets’; there were tiny wheeled carts, motionless now. There were what looked like Greek or Roman amphitheatres, roughly shaped.
“My Gawd!” breathed the soldier, again: “It’s like a huge native village.”
Palfrey thought. “And they’ve gone, leaving their dead behind.” The word which came to his mind was exodus. The creatures had suffered a major disaster, these tiny semi-human things who had lived here, possibly protected by the fur-clad ‘rabbit men’. He needed no more telling what the smokescreen had meant; they had marched off under its cover. Somewhere not far away, a few miles at most, this colony of midget ‘men’ were still on the march.
At least, they couldn’t get far, he thought.
But where would they go? Where were they heading? What would they do? Would they burrow again and try to build a new city? He could only guess, but even guessing was slow, his mind numbed by this wonder which was also horror.
As his mind cleared, he thought: I’ve put everything I can think of in hand. The colony would not escape of course, and that recollection reassured him at least in one way. Now he could consider the problem objectively.