The Touch of Death (6 page)

“Sleeping,” said Banister.

“Must be a strain, using your minds the way you scientists do,” said the Security man.

“At times.”

“I'll bet. Staying in Australia long?”

“I'm not sure.”

That was always the answer. One could trust no one.

“Wonderful country,” the Security man said. “Why, there can't be a better-planned city than Adelaide anywhere.”

He lit a cigarette, happily.

“It's fine,” Banister said mechanically. “I'm going for a stroll.”

“Don't go too far.”

“Coming?”

“Mick will look after you,” the Security man said. “I'll stay and look after the old gent.”

Banister moved off, lighting a cigarette. The second Security man joined him, and they strolled down the drive towards the road. Across the road, they could look down upon Adelaide, with its myriad of lights and the beauty that night laid upon it.

They were looking when they heard the roar, from behind them. With it came a blinding flash, and next moment blast carried them off their feet. Banister felt himself thrown between the trees and towards the steeply sloping hillside – as fire leapt up, behind him.

 

 

Banister struck a tree, which broke his fall. He was hardly conscious of what he was doing, but lay still. He saw flames and the sky about them seemed ablaze. Particles of smouldering, burning wreckage had fallen among the trees, already a dozen little fires were leaping up about the grass.

He staggered to his feet, and moved towards the sound. The Security man lay on his back, unconscious, with his right leg twisted beneath him. Banister lifted him, awkwardly; he was heavy, bulky. There was all the light Banister needed, for the wooden house was a mass of wild, surging flames. Fires were getting a hold among the trees, too.

A different white light showed – headlights, some distance off. They might be those of a car driven by someone who lived near here or was passing through, but – trust no one. He left the Security man by the side of the road, and backed among the trees. One, with a misshapen trunk, gave him shelter – but there wasn't much shelter anywhere.

The light spread a lurid glow.

There was a crackling sound as the fire spread through the grass; he saw it leaping up trees, festooning the branches. He felt the increasing warmth as it came nearer.

The headlights drew nearer, too, swaying up and down. Then another car appeared, and another.

The first drew up, Banister saw a man and a woman in it. The man jumped out and hurried towards the figure huddled up in the road. Banister heard him call: “You drive on and telephone the police, Mary!”

They probably lived nearby, there was nothing to fear – yet there was always something to fear. From this moment on, it would be worse, Banister would be the only target. He might be safe from the casual touching hand, from
fatalis
itself, but he could never be sure that a bullet wouldn't come out of the blue and kill him. He could not cross a road and be sure that he would reach the other side without being crushed to death. Now, he could not go to sleep and feel sure that he would wake – if “they” could blow up this house, they could blow up others.

There was no safety.

The food he ate, the drink he swallowed, perhaps the very air he breathed, might be contaminated.

The heat drove him out of the trees.

He went forward.

He recognised the giant Russian, Andromovitch, among the people.

 

Banister did not speak to the Russian then, but made sure that the giant saw him in the lurid light of the fire. Then he began to help clear a stretch of woodland of undergrowth. He sensed the fear, of a big forest fire, which drove the men and women to a fury of activity. Police and fire-fighters arrived, and worked to confine the outbreak until the sweat poured off them. No one gave a thought to saving the house; there had never been a chance of getting Monk-Gilbert out alive.

The fire gradually subsided. The crackling about the grass, the flames which leapt up to the lower branches of the eucalyptus, all lost their venom. Banister walked alongside the giant Russian to one of the line of cars pulled up some distance along the road. Banister sat very still as Andromovitch drove off. Police waved them on.

Monk-Gilbert had been drunk with fear, and collapsed. Banister had put him to bed, and might as well have buried him alive.

“You are very quiet,” Andromovitch said. He had a slight accent, but the most noticeable thing about his voice was that he uttered each word so carefully, his articulation was perfect.

“Where's Palfrey?” Banister asked harshly. “I want to see Palfrey.”

“We're going there now.”

“So he's in Australia?”

“Wherever you are,” Andromovitch said, “there is Palfrey – and either Bruton or I. You are never so much alone as you feel.”

 

Palfrey hadn't changed.

He wore a well-pressed brown-linen suit, his eyes looked mild and sleepy, his chin weak. They were in a house in a suburb of Adelaide, not far from the sea – to reach it, they had driven along a sea road, with the pale sands and the darker sea on their left, the stars reflecting on the water. They passed hundreds of small houses, most of them with the windows dark; but here and there one was lighted.

Palfrey was in a front room.

His hand-grip was very firm, curiously reassuring. He offered drinks, cigarettes and an armchair. Banister sat back.

“I was hoping that we could fake his death before it actually happened,” Palfrey said. “He couldn't have lasted much longer, Neil. Feel all right yourself?”

“Up to a point. Show me a ten per cent chance of getting results, and—”

“You've got some results,” Palfrey said.

Banister became tense. He sat without blinking, without speaking.

“The driver of the car in which the girl escaped at Quebec,” Palfrey said. “He was caught last week. We had some luck – he was recognised by a Quebec policeman, we were told, and held him and worked on him.”

“Well?” Banister's voice was cracked.

“We know that the girl went from South Africa to Quebec. He knew her as Dora Smith.”

“Smith!”

Palfrey smiled faintly.

“Of course, that wasn't her name, but it's
a
name. The driver had a handkerchief which she'd dropped in the car. It had a monogram DS on it – so it might be Dora S plus. We've got the description you gave us, and we've checked that with the description of the Security men in Quebec and this policeman and the man who drove Dora about. Now we're trying to find her,” Palfrey said. “I can tell you one thing for certain.”

“What?”

Banister felt the rising of fresh excitement; felt that it could choke him.

“She's been seen at Rotorua. There's been a uranium find near there lately and some phenomena which made it worth our investigating. That's one of the reasons why you're going there.”

Banister said: “I know that if we don't take some chances we'll never catch anyone. If we could get hold of this girl—”

He stood up. “All right, you've given me the ten per cent chance I asked for.” His voice was very hard and jerky. “What else is happening? With
fatalis
, I mean?”

Palfrey didn't answer, but went to a desk, opened it and took out a slim book, with black-leather binding. He handed it to Banister. Inside were Press cuttings – all reporting the sudden death from “heart attack” or other, more mysterious causes, of men and women in a dozen countries. Most of them were scientists. One of the world's renowned soil-erosion experts was among them. The discoverers of a drug which had shown remarkable results in the treatment of arthritis had gone, too.

“Why?” he asked helplessly. “People like that, I mean.”

“Your question and our question,” Palfrey said. “That's a spare book. There might be a clue as to why it's happening. You can be quite sure that the list is accurate. We haven't included anyone unless there is evidence of the flash just before their death. Now, about New Zealand,” he went on casually, “we've reason to believe that your Rita is there.”

The news was like a physical blow. It hurt, badly, and with the hurt Banister realised that Rita wasn't out of his system; that she still mattered.

Palfrey must have known, for he went on gently: “She's staying with a Dr. and Mrs. Scott – her uncle and aunt. She's made no attempt to hide herself. I don't know what it means – but I want you to see her.”

Banister looked at the lake as the car sped downhill towards Rotorua. The lake seemed to be laughing in the morning sun. It was hot, but without the all-enveloping blanket heat of Australia. The grass had a lush greenness, and the small folds of the hill were emerald, too. Here and there a tall tree fern grew higher than the rest of the bushes and shrubs.

He was alone in the car.

He had travelled with Monk-Gilbert by his side for so long that this solitude felt unnatural.

They turned a corner, and the lake vanished from sight. Soon, Banister smelt a different odour.

“What's the smell?” he asked.

“Oh, the
sulphur
,”
The driver turned his head. “That's from the springs and the geysers, gets very strong sometimes.

The wind's this way today, too. Won't be long before you can see the steam.”

“Steam?”

“Comes out of the earth, just like central heating,” explained the driver. “You'll see.”

Soon, they were approaching Rotorua, and the smell of sulphur grew stronger. Now and again Banister caught a glimpse of a small cloud rising out of the earth; once they stopped, and the driver pointed.

Steam was rising from the ground and also from a yellowish pool of mud. Banister watched, fascinated. The mud was bubbling. He could hear the little plop-plop-plop – like a saucepan of simmering soup.

“You wait a minute,” the driver said.

He drove on, and then swung the car round. They had been climbing; now they looked down upon the town itself. A valley looked as if it were alive with smoke – it was possible to imagine shells bursting among the green of the gorse, the grass and the shrubs.

“If you're going to stay a few days you'll have to go through the village – Whaka,” the driver said. “That's the native place, the
pah
. The geyser's there, too. You want to get hold of—”

A car came from behind them, at speed; even the driver sensed that there was something unusual. That sixth sense stabbed at Banister. He ducked, and covered his head with his arms. He expected an explosion or a rattle of shooting, but all he heard was a squeal of brakes.

“Crazy fool,” growled the driver.

Banister opened his eyes and looked out. A car was almost alongside, nearly touching. Another car, coming towards them, just had room to pass; the driver glowered at the driver of the car next to Banister's. That driver was sitting erect, wore a peaked cap, took not the slightest notice as the passing motorist yelled:

“They ought to take your licence away!”

Banister heard, yet didn't understand. He could not see anything clearly – except the girls. There were two in the car next to him. One was the girl of Quebec who had killed a man by touch.

The other looked at him, and he believed that she was trying, to harden her expression but could not.

It was Rita;
his
Rita.

Their driver moved off.

Rita looked round at Banister, but didn't lift her hand. She still smiled.

Then another car passed, and Palfrey was sitting by the side of the driver.

Banister heard the sudden squeal of brakes, the roar, then the rending noise of the crash. His own driver drew in a sharp breath, and they raced on.

Banister could only see Palfrey's face in his mind's eye. Rita's faded.

 

 

The girl's car was almost out of sight. Palfrey's was on its side, and the driver was scrambling out of one door, Palfrey out of another. The car had been thrown over a thin wire fence, and steam curled upwards from cracks in the ground beyond. Not ten yards away there was a little pool of mud, which popped and spluttered like a boiling cauldron.

Banister hurried to Palfrey, who picked himself up smiling and gave a little chuckle.

“She has a sense of humour, after all!”

“What was funny?” asked Banister.

“She tossed a smoke bomb out of her window,” Palfrey said, as his driver came up. “It scared the lights out of me.”

“Out of
me
, too,” growled the driver. “I thought we were going to be blown into little pieces. Now perhaps you'll listen when I tell you that you shouldn't play around in these jobs yourself, Sap. You're crazy to. You go back to London.” The driver, a middle-aged man with a noticeable New Zealand accent, was red-faced with anger. “If they kill you we'll really be in trouble. If a few of us are bumped off, it won't make much difference.”

“Agree with him, Neil?” Palfrey asked mildly.

“I don't know you well enough,” Banister said.

“Thus speaks an honest man!” Palfrey looked along the road, where another car was slowing down. “You can give me a lift back. Mike, you wait until I get in touch with you again, will you?”

“Oh, it's like talking to a brick wall,” growled Mike.

Palfrey and Banister went to Banister's car. The chauffeur was standing by the door and talking to other motorists who had just arrived. More were coming along.

“The police will soon be here,” Palfrey said. “Let's get off, and leave them to Mike.” He lit a cigarette as he settled back in the car, and they moved towards the town itself. “How are you feeling, Neil?”

“I'm all right.”

“Did you see her?”

“Yes.”

“Dora Smith was with her. They're both staying with the Scotts.”

The sharp edge of Banister's shock was blunted, now; Rita had been suspect, now she was known to work with – “them”. Now he would have to fight her; it might be a life for a life, death for death.

“What else have you found out about her?” he asked gruffly.

“Rita Morrell is the daughter of a Rhodesian tobacco farmer who left him three years ago, and has officially been studying in London, but as far as I can find out, hasn't done much actual studying. She has travelled widely as secretary to a man named Menzies, who seems to have disappeared. She is known to have used at least three names and three false passports, but her real name is Rita Morrell.”

“Oh,” said Banister. He looked at the steam rising so strangely from the green land, but hardly noticed it.

“I wish I knew why she was here,” Palfrey said.

“You said that she'd been here before.”

“I thought I knew why, too – that she was going to try another attack on you. You're the chief target left.”

After a pause, Banister said: “Are you sure she threw a smoke bomb?”

“Oh, yes. Not at all lethal! It looks as if she is going to try new scare tactics. I think we'll have to wait and see what they're going to be. Of course—” Palfrey wound down his window and tossed his cigarette stub out, then closed the window again—”we could pick her up, but she's taking an obvious risk, quite deliberately. I think we'd better try to find out why.”

“It suits me,” Banister said heavily.

“Well, be careful.”

“Look here!” Banister turned sharply to face the other; his voice was brusque, his manner one almost of resentment, “What are you driving at? Where have I let you down?”

“My dear chap – you're magnificent! But Rita's clever. She is also beautiful. She knows how you felt about her. This is simply a warning.”

“What are you expecting – that she's going to try to seduce me, or something like that?”

“Something like that,” said Palfrey. “Now . . .”

 

One report which came from Rotorua was about fish – trout – which appeared to die when they came into contact with other fish. Several reports had been received in London, Palfrey told Banister.

Banister went out, with a Security driver, from the small hotel near the Blue Baths in the heart of the little town. He was used to Security men, was getting used to the smell of the sulphur and the steam that was always in the air. He was also getting used to the dark faces of the Maoris in the streets, but he couldn't get his mind free of Rita and Palfrey's warning.

He was driven out of town, towards Taupo, then off the road where a sign read: “Trout Pools”.

The private road was narrow. It was broad daylight, and warm but not overpowering. The colouring of the trees was beautiful. At the end of the road they came to a small log hut, where two or three men stood about.

Palfrey was there.

They walked very quietly, until they came to a pool of crystal-clear water which reflected the perfect blue of the sky, and reflected the tops of trees – reflected their faces, too, as they looked down into it. Thirty or forty fully grown rainbow trout swam about lazily. The picture was so different from anything Banister had seen before that he felt tension easing. He watched the trout swimming in their endless circles.

Palfrey brought him back to the present, with a stab.

“They're going to introduce the killer fish soon.”

“Killer?
”

Palfrey's look said: “You know what I mean.”

Another man came carrying a large galvanised bucket. He had a long untidy moustache and looked miserable; melancholy. He stood watching the trout for a moment, then shrugged and tipped the bucket up and poured its contents into the pool.

The fish already there began to thrash the water and turn and dart and swerve, as if anxious to get away from some unknown threat. One fish joined them, sliding with the stream of water out of the bucket. The man with the moustache stood looking down; other men appeared. Banister heard the whirl of a cine camera, but didn't glance round. The pool was a reflection of the sky and the sun's brightness, and the spotted fish gave it beauty as they twisted and turned, gliding more slowly now as their alarm subsided.

There was a flash.

It wasn't bright or blinding, nothing like the flashes which Banister had seen before – but a moment later, one of the fish floated to the surface.

Banister felt his hands clenching unseen steel.

There was another flash; another fish rose.

“It's murder, that's what it is, plain murder!” growled the man who had brought the bucket with the killer fish. “It oughtn't to be allowed. I won't do it again, I—”

He turned and flung himself along the path leading away from the pool; they could hear the thud of his footsteps.

The camera went on whirring.

Fish after fish floated to the surface.

Ten minutes later, the surface of the pool was covered with the dead fish, their mouths and eyes open. The sun shone down upon them, and the water of the pool was as clear as it had been – rippling as one, the killer, fish swam round and round, looking for fresh victims.

“All those had been treated with what we hoped would be a form of insulation,” Palfrey said. “It didn't work.”

Banister made himself speak: “Who handles the killer fish?”

“Anyone – with a net and bucket. There's no contact. The people who own the pools, which are spawning grounds of course, discovered what was happening. There were several killer fish. They were isolated, and they had no effect on one another, but killed any other fish with whom they came in contact. Mike – my driver – knew what we were looking for, and heard of this. That's one reason why we concentrated. We found Rita, and evidence of insulated fish – insulated or immune. But there's nothing to suggest any peculiar qualities in the uranium ore anywhere near Rotorua. We're wondering if it's a different form of phenomenon – there are sting rays and electric fish which can kill. But trout—”

He began to twist a few strands of hair round his forefinger.

“Has anything else been found?”

“Not a thing.” Palfrey patted the strands of hair down into a little kiss-curl. He turned away from the pool, and the other men went ahead. “Except that Rita has been here several times. Could be experimental? If so, why experiment with fish at this stage? They know what the stuff can do.”

He seemed to be talking to himself more than to Banister.

 

Banister went back alone to the hotel, in time for lunch. He didn't feel like lunch, but made himself eat. Then he walked from his hotel towards a place which most people seemed to call Whaka. It was the local Maori village, parts of it centuries old.

He was alone.

He was followed by Palfrey's Security men, but none was near. For all he knew, a woman might be following him, too. He was never altogether sure of the precautions which Palfrey took – at times it almost seemed as if Palfrey didn't really trust him.

Was that surprising?

He reached the entrance to the village.

Beyond the high archway, he could see the red-painted fences, the carved figures on the posts, the little houses and, everywhere, the rising steam. He strolled along. He knew that he could hire a guide, but preferred to be on his own for a while.

The water flowing beneath a bridge was cold, yet steam rose from the edges. Two or three Maori children passed him, running, happy. A woman plodded by, carrying a pile of washing. The grotesque faces of the carved heads seemed to glare at him. All were painted a brilliant red, startling in the sun.

Some way ahead, a party was going round with a woman guide. Banister followed them. Soon he was walking over waste land – hard under-foot, but on either side were pools of boiling water, everywhere steam rose from cracks in the earth.

He saw a child run from the group which was being conducted, and a woman grab its arm.

“You must be
very
careful,” the Maori guide said in a clear voice. “Nothing could save the baby if he were to fall in there.”

Banister felt his nerves grow tense.

He could turn back and walk away; or he could go in the wake of the crowd, not with it; crowds were dangerous.

The ground was uneven. To the right and left the stream forced its way through the cracks. Here and there mud pools and pools of water bubbled and boiled. The group had moved away, picking its ways carefully over little holes in the ground, twisting and turning so as to step where there was no fear of the ground giving way.

He saw them standing and watching, waiting – then a spout of boiling water shot forty or fifty feet into the air.

A woman said in his ear: “Remarkable, isn't it?”

It was Rita.

 

Banister didn't start or turn round, but schooled himself to show no reaction; that was part of the training. He was looking at the geyser. Spray from it was blown back towards him, and felt like warm rain upon his face.

“Yes,” he said.

“It's a dangerous spot.”

“Deadly.”

“I'm surprised that you risked coming here.”

“A man has to see a little life.” Banister turned to face her, taking out cigarettes. “After all, I may never come to New Zealand again. It would be a pity not to see what I can, ‘wouldn't it?”

Yes, it was Rita.

She was quite natural, and she had never looked more lovely. She had a soft, restful beauty. Her dark hair was glossy, and her clear brown eyes smiled so easily. She had beautiful lips. He knew all about them; all about her. She could drive him to distraction. He knew what it was to crush those lips with his; to feel her soft, seductive beauty; to have, to hold—

“Neil,” she said. “I love you.”

He didn't speak.

“And you're still in love with me.”

He still didn't speak.

“You should leave Palfrey and come with me,” Rita said. “He isn't the only one on the side of the angels.”

Instead of taking a cigarette, she took his hand.

She did that quite deliberately. It did not so much frighten as stupefy him. The thing which surprised him afterwards was that her hand seemed icy cold. Then he felt a moment of panic. If she had the power . . .

Nothing happened.

There was a spot of burning where she had touched him, but it was not really painful. He didn't move his hand. She took a cigarette, and he flicked his lighter and watched her draw the smoke in. She looked at him through the first film of smoke that she allowed to drift from her lips. It seemed to cover her eyes, too, give them a great but misty beauty.

“So you are really proof against it,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And it isn't because of anything you've found?”

“Isn't it?”

“If it were, everyone working on the case would be protected,” she said reasonably. “No one else is.”

Banister made no comment.

“You're only the second person ever found,” she said. “Only two – in five years. Do you know of any others?”

Unexpectedly, it was easy to smile at that trick question.

“You'd like to know,” Banister said.

“It doesn't really matter.” After a pause, she went on: “Are you going to stay and look round, or go back?”

He was sure by then that he wanted to be with her; she still had the familiar physical attraction, the once precious appeal. He didn't want her to go.

“I'll see what there is to see,” he answered.

“Let me act as guide.”

“Don't put your foot through a hole in the earth,” he said, “or on the spots where we might fall in, will you? I'm told that if you once fall into a boiling pool, you don't come out again.”

“In some, you disappear,” she said calmly. “The bones come back – later.”