The Smog (3 page)

 

As Palfrey stepped into the room, Costain turned from the window. He liked what he saw. The thin face with the high cheekbones, the weather-bronzed skin which made grey eyes seem very bright, the steady gaze, the hooked nose and bow-shaped lips.

Costain's faint frown became more one of puzzlement than of annoyance under the scrutiny.

“Mr. Costain,” Palfrey said, “I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. It was unavoidable, I'm afraid, but that made it no easier for you.” He put out his hand. “My name is Palfrey.”

As they gripped, Costain breathed as if in echo; “Palfrey.”

“Yes.”

“Of
—
Z5?”

“Yes,” Palfrey said, smiling. “I was once told that Z5 was the best known secret service in the world!”

 

Palfrey was quite serious when he said that the organisation he led was the ‘best-known secret service in the world'. That was because in a number of acute world crises, where great nations had been held to ransom by megalomaniacs who held temporary but overwhelming power, Z5 had prevented disaster, and so had justified itself in the eyes not only of governments but of peoples. The task of Z5, and so Palfrey's task, was to seek out evil men who in this age of nuclear power and chemical warfare research could hold a world to ransom.

The headquarters of Z5 was in London; there were other major offices in Moscow and in Washington. Its agents numbered tens of thousands, mostly men and women working for some other cause, or for industry and commerce; or in the professions. These agents had one common loyalty: to Z5. Here in England Palfrey's first loyalty was to his organisation, and through it the world. Only after these were served could his beloved England call on his services.

Time and time again he risked his life in the cause of world security. So did many of his full-time agents; for that matter, many who served through their work and their vocations.

Some of these things were known to many; no one but Palfrey knew them all.

 

After Palfrey's mild jest, about Z5 being the best known secret service, there was a pause and a very slight but quite unmistakable change in his manner. “I'm sure you don't need telling how seriously today's disaster is being taken,” he said to Costain.

“No,” replied Costain. “I certainly don't.”

“Nor why there were obvious reasons for wondering why a man who seldom leaves the countryside for London should choose this particular day,” went on Palfrey.

“You mean—” Costain broke off. “Oh, I see. I could have gone knowing it would happen. I didn't, of course.”

“Will you tell me why you did go today? It will be in confidence, of course.”

“Dr. Palfrey,” said Costain with a faint note of exasperation, “I did not go for an assignation with Mrs. Drummond, and at any other time I would resent the slur on her reputation. But I suppose there isn't much point in resentment, as things are. You know, I can still hardly believe in the disaster which has taken place.” He broke off again, his expression one of extreme shock and horror. Palfrey was vividly aware of what Devine had meant, as Costain's eyes half-closed as if some pain made it difficult to open them. He went on: “I am—desperately sorry for Mrs. Drummond and I wish I could help her. The pity of it is that I don't think I can, any more than friends—or strangers for that matter—could help me, ten years ago.” He had his eyes open wide now and looked at Palfrey with almost forbidding straightness. “Perhaps the best thing is to let you read a press cutting I have had in my pocket for ten years but a day.”

He took out his wallet and from the back section took out a plastic protected cutting. It was not a big one, and was from the
Daily Telegraph.
It read:

 

Mother and three children buried in same grave.

 

The article explained the simple facts of what had happened and it carried a picture of a dark-haired woman, and narrow cut pictures of three children.

Palfrey read swiftly, then handed the cutting back.

“Did you go to the cemetery today?” he asked.

“Yes. As I have on every anniversary for the past ten years. The strange thing is that I told Mrs. Drummond about it, on the journey. I've never told anyone before. And I told her I didn't expect to go again. Less than half an hour afterwards she was brutally confronted with the fact that in all but detail, the same thing had happened to her.”

Costain turned to the window, and silence fell. It was a welcome relief when there was a tap at the door and coffee and sandwiches, beer and cheese were brought in by an elderly messenger.

“When we've had a snack, I'd like you to come out to the village—or as near as we can safely get,” Palfrey said at last. “You know the countryside well, and we won't need a guide.” He proffered the sandwiches in a matter-of-fact way. “It will be a relief not to be followed by a police car and therefore by the Press. You can guess what a Roman holiday they're making of this, can't you? Television and movie teams have been down and may still be at the village. That's one reason we whisked Mrs. Drummond away.” He began to eat, opened two bottles of beer, and after one sandwich, tried the cheese. “Um-um. Very good. Try some.”

Costain found himself eating.

Half an hour later they left the police station by a side entrance, and as Palfrey was about to start the engine of a small, unmarked car, Devine came hurrying, with a letter in his hand.

“This has just arrived, sir.”

“Ah. Thanks. I'll read it later.” Palfrey slipped the letter into his inside breast pocket, and started the engine. “I'd like to go high enough for us to look down on the village,” he said. “There's hardly been a breath of air all day.”

“Then take the Romsey road,” Costain said. “Sane is on the fringe of the New Forest.”

“So I gather.”

Costain pointed out three turnings, and suddenly Palfrey pulled into the side of the road, and said: “It would be much wiser for you to drive. Get us there more quickly.” He got out, Costain manoeuvred himself into the driving seat, and started off, glad to have something to do. Since he had met Palfrey, his whole attitude had changed. Without minimising what had happened, Palfrey somehow took out the sting. “I'll look through that letter,” he added, drawing it out of its envelope. One sideways glance told Costain that it was a two-paged, typewritten document. At last, when they were well in the country, he folded and put the letter away.

“How far now?” he asked.

“About seven miles.”

“Remarkably isolated, isn't it?”

“Yes,” said Costain. “It took some finding.”

“You mean, a place to bury yourself in.”

“Bury is the word,” agreed Costain wryly.

“My dear chap! You will never get anywhere while you are as sensitive as that,” Palfrey remonstrated mildly. “Why is the village so isolated, do you know?”

“It was in one family's hands, a family named Sane. The Manor House and every cottage and house, every farm and every barn was owned by them.” Costain answered.

“Ah, yes. Some of the industrial barons liked to buy their seclusion.”

“How did you know the original Lord Sane was an industrial baron?” asked Costain, and then almost laughed. “Damn silly question—Z5 finds out everything it doesn't know.”

“It tries,” agreed Palfrey. “It has to. Sane was one of the first millionaires of the industrial revolution—coal, railways, bricks, ships, he had a finger in most pies and pulled money out of each.”

“He made a thoroughly good job of everything he did,” Costain retorted. “Did you know that every building in Sane is an architectural gem? The Manor House—” he broke off, then added in a strangled voice: “What will happen to it now? What
can
happen to it? Was—was anything damaged, do you know?”

“The first reports say no,” answered Palfrey. “They sent a platoon of men from Fulton, all trained to operate under exceptional conditions. Masked, of course, and wearing protective clothing. They found only the bodies.”

Costain flinched, and almost lost control of the wheel.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“And they brought back samples of the toxic air,” Palfrey went on. “It's been tested a dozen ways and proved to be concentrated carbon monoxide, with sulphur dioxide. There's another word for it, you know.” He paused but Costain said nothing. “Smog,” Palfrey stated, with great precision.

“Smog. The same as—” Costain boggled.

“The same as the exhaust from cars,” Palfrey finished for him. “Yes.” After a long pause he went on: “Know anything about smog?”

“I know as much about it as any ship's engineer would,” Costain said. “I've been on steam and diesel driven ships. But I've never studied smog, as such.”

“Interesting,” Palfrey said. “You've background knowledge, anyhow.” After a pause he changed the subject. “How far are we away from the viewpoint?”

“Not much more than half a mile,” Costain answered. They were already on high ground, and he glanced over the surrounding countryside – wooded on the right, hilly farmland to the west. The evening had the same almost miraculous clarity as the morning. Now, approaching a sweeping curve in the road which would bring them to the viewpoint, he felt a wave of nausea, hating the thought of going on. He was just aware of Palfrey looking at him, and clenched his teeth.

“I'll pull in to the right,” he said.

“Wherever you think.”

“The village is two miles away, westward. Just look to the right.”

“Very well.”

Costain touched the brakes gently to slow down for the familiar curve. Even the electric milk float took this with ease. The land seemed to fall away on the right, they could see over a vast area of hilly, wooded land and patches of open heathland.

In between these was a valley.

Over the valley there was something which Costain had never seen before: a yellowish grey pall of smoke. Instead of the houses in the village, the inn, the post office-cum-shop, the narrow streets, the gay flowered gardens, the small, trim lawns and clipped hedges, the fruit trees soon to bear, the soft fruit already yielding, there was the yellow blanket, thick, impenetrable to the naked eye.

And beyond the yellow pall, almost as if it were floating on the fog itself, stood Sane Manor. Everything about it was still. No people and no animals moved, and there was no wind to stir the trees. It was almost as much a part of the desolation as that thick, unmoving blanket which covered so many dead.

Costain sat staring, hardly aware that he had stopped and put the car automatically into neutral. But he hadn't turned off the engine. Palfrey leaned across and did it for him.

Costain moistened his lips.

“And—they're all there?”

“Two were taken out.”

“But—but why leave the others?”

“They are all dead,” Palfrey stated.

“But—” Costain began, only to break off. He was grey-white, and there was hardly any colour in his lips. “Have you any idea what—” he gulped, and simply could not go on.

“No. It almost certainly has nothing to do with Fulton.”

“But surely—” Costain stopped.

“Either an accident,” Palfrey said. “Or deliberate.”

“I can't understand—either.”

“If an accident, there was an escape of the gas from substantial quantities stored nearby,” Palfrey said in that matter-of-fact way. Costain was beginning to expect. “If deliberate, one must presume it was a kind of experiment.”

“It—it's unthinkable,” Costain muttered.

“It's even more unthinkable that we shouldn't soon find out the reason,” Palfrey retorted. “How well did you know the villagers?”

“In one way, very well. That is, I saw most of them every day. Yet—” again Costain broke off, the shock seemed to have affected him so that he was unable to finish a sentence coherently. “I can't imagine anyone who could be responsible.”

“Among the villagers?” Palfrey asked.

“That's what I mean.”

“It's remarkable that the Manor is absolutely untouched,” remarked Palfrey, almost too casually.

“I was just thinking about that. Wasn't Storr or anyone of them hurt?”

“No. But they raised the alarm,” Palfrey said.

“Oh.”

“They're in Winchester, now,” Palfrey volunteered. “They moved of their own choice because of the danger that the smog level would rise. A few wisps of smog certainly reached the house, but hardly enough to notice—not half as much as you would find in any big city street where there's been a lot of traffic, and running engines during traffic hold-ups. Do you know Professor Storr?”

“I've met him, as the milkman,” Costain muttered.

“The others?”

“Only to say good morning or good evening. I—” Costain had a sudden recollection of those moments when he had watched Marion Kemble at the window. “I—would have liked to have known them better, but even if I'd been willing I doubt if they would have been.”

“Kept themselves to themselves, did they?”

“Very much so,” Costain confirmed. “Palfrey—” again he broke off.

“Yes?”

“Are you implying that they might know something about what happened?”

“I don't think I was implying it, but it would be an odd man who didn't wonder,” Palfrey replied drily. “Costain, stop looking down there and look at me, will you?”

Slowly, as if the yellow pall exerted a mesmeric effect on him, Costain obeyed. He sensed his own pallor, and his lips and mouth were dry. It was as if he could see the filthy stuff rising, gradually creeping up the sides of the valley; covering and smothering all living creatures; as if he could see the men and women and children gasping, clutching at their throats, could see them collapsing. These were things he saw reflected in Palfrey's clear eyes, until the visions vanished and he saw only Palfrey. There was nothing at all to suggest weakness or vagueness in Palfrey now.