The Touch of Death (5 page)

He paused. Banister caught his breath at the significance of that statement, but didn't interrupt.

“We know a little about the substance itself, but we don't know who is using it.”

Bruton stopped immediately behind Banister's chair.

“But it's being used,” he said abruptly. “It's killing a lot of people, and some of them matter.”

Banister said: “Who?”

“There have been a number of scientists, not all of them outstanding; a number of Secret Service men; one or two business men. Several of our fellows, too.” Palfrey paused, and then repeated: “Professor Monk-Gilbert died this way.”

“But I saw him just after he died,” Banister said very slowly. He knew what this meant, if Palfrey were right. “I saw the wound, the blood—”

“That was done immediately after death,” Palfrey told him, “in an effort to hide the fact that this substance – we call it
fatalis
– had been used. The frightening thing about
fatalis
,”
Palfrey continued in the same matter-of-fact voice, “is that we've found no defence against it, and no way of telling who might pass it on. We do know that certain agents – like the two men who attacked you – are insulated and can touch an infected body with impunity. But we've only met
one
man who was insulated
and
not a member of the organisation which we're hunting. At least, we're taking a chance that he's naturally insulated. He certainly touched an infected body “

Banister didn't speak. He was quite sure that Palfrey meant him. He, Neil Banister, had touched an infected body, and lived. No wonder he had been suspected and put through such stringent tests!

He felt shivery.

“We'll deal with that in a minute,” Palfrey went on. “There are brighter sides. There doesn't appear to be much of this stuff available, as far as we know. The people who are using it have to be very sparing. We aren't sure, but certainly it hasn't been used very widely yet. Monk-Gilbert himself told no one what he had actually found, but hinted at it, and experimented. We know that he infected – if that's the right word – a single mouse, and turned it loose among twenty others. Ten minutes later, all the mice were dead. He left a note of that, before he died. But he didn't say which of the uranium fields has yielded the
fatalis
– this by-product of the uranium ore. We have to find out where he discovered it, and also whether the same stuff exists anywhere else. The individuals using it may have a secret mine or may be using ore from mines being worked by Governments in various places. The obvious people to look for it are scientists, all the nuclear-fission johnnies, everyone who is as advanced as Monk-Gilbert was.” Palfrey shrugged, almost a Gallic gesture. “But we can't afford to have our leading scientists killed at a touch, can we?”

Banister stood up, took out his cigarettes, lit one, and slipped case and lighter back into his pocket. He moved back from the table. He felt stiff and cold, although it was warm in here.

“Well, what do you want me to do? I'll do what I can.”

“We want you to go to the places which Monk-Gilbert visited, after you've learned some rudimentary facts about uranium, the way it's mined and refined.” Palfrey was more brisk; back in an ordinary, logical world of affairs. “You know that his stooge, a real scientist, is going around. You'll team up with him.” He smiled, and his eyes looked sleepy again. “We'll build you up as a great physicist, too! You see, whoever attacked Monk-Gilbert thinks that the assassins failed, that Monk-Gilbert's still alive. They know what Monk-Gilbert discovered and can't understand why he hasn't told us. They may think he is probably hoping to make a deal, and so use it to his personal advantage,” Palfrey went on. “At least, that's the most likely construction that they'll put on the fact that although he's running around, they – whoever they are and wherever they are – are quite safe.

“We've made as sure as anyone can that they don't know we as an organisation were interested in Monk-Gilbert,” Palfrey added quietly. “We watched him very carefully and closely, but he slipped away from us – and went to his death. We had known that he was in danger, because two attempts had been made on his life before. When those failed,
fatalis
was used. What we don't know for certain is why Monk-Gilbert was going to your flat – or to a neighbour's.”

“Don't ask me,” Banister said. “The other flat was empty, anyhow—”

Palfrey said: “Yes. We've decided you're in the clear, and are ready to use you. If we're wrong—” He broke off, with a shrug. “Forget it. Much of what I've been able to tell you is the result of piecing together fragments of evidence, but much of the puzzle is incomplete. You'll have to take it from us that we've given you a reasonably accurate picture of the situation. Because you're insulated, you might be
the
answer we want – our means of getting at whoever is behind all the attacks, at whoever is manufacturing
fatalis
.”

Banister stubbed out his cigarette. He was affected by the calm face of the Russian, and sensed the impatience of the American.

“We'd like to find a lot of others who are insulated against it, and also like to find out what does the insulating,” Palfrey said dryly, “but we can't experiment very easily. Rubber gloves don't help – Monk-Gilbert was sure about that. Certain forms of synthetic rubber and certain thin metals appear to insulate the human body against
the
fatalis,
but from our side the whole thing is in its infancy. But someone has it, has used it, and is producing more. We are satisfied that it isn't any one of the nations in the United Nations Organisation. It might be anyone – one person with a few helpers, a group of fanatics of any race, colour or religion. The one hope of finding who it is lies in finding where
fatalis
is produced – or where it exists in the uranium ore.”

“That's if Monk-Gilbert actually found it at the place where these other people get it,” Bruton broke in.

“We can hope,” Palfrey remarked dryly. “Well, Banister, what do you feel about it?”

Banister said slowly: “I can think of a thousand other things I'd rather do. But I'll try. I take it that I'm to go round with the fake Monk-Gilbert as if I'm working with him – and that will make me a fake expert.” He forced a grin; it wasn't easy. “And these people will be trying to kill us. You hope to catch our assailants. They have to attack before you can tell who they are. We're the bait – and I'm the live bait. I may be attacked again, and if I'm still immune, then my assailant will be so surprised that I ought to get him. Something like that.”

There was a long silence.

“You don't miss much,” Palfrey said, at last. “Yes, that's it. We feel sure that believing they've failed, they'll try on ‘Monk-Gilbert' again. We'll give you all the protection we can, but can't guarantee a thing. We can't even make sure that you're still insulated.”

“Is Monk-Gilbert's stooge coming with me to the different mines?” asked Banister abruptly.

“Yes. And at first he'll be the main target,” Palfrey said. “Have you the slightest idea why Monk-Gilbert was near your flat?”

“No.”

“We think he might have gone hoping to see his niece.” Palfrey was very soft-voiced. “You know her.”

Banister had a feeling that a bomb was about to burst . . .

“Monk-Gilbert was Rita Morrell's uncle,” Palfrey said.

 

 

Banister went through a series of medical examinations, blood-tests, allergy reactions, but no guide to his immunity could be found. At the same time, he began a short period of intense training.

The technical side was only touched upon lightly; he did not need to know much. In any case, his mind wouldn't take the facts and figures in. Nuclear energy, radioactivity, splitting atoms, generating heat which could vaporise steel – he believed in them all, but couldn't grasp the mechanics of them all.

He also learned how to walk along a street and find out whether he was followed; how to tell if a car were following him; how to judge whether he was being watched from a window which seemed blank and empty. He learned judo; learned to turn on a sixpence, shoot on the draw, throw a knife, use a cosh – all of these things, until he was expert.

He learned how to regard Rita as a possible enemy. She was still out of England, but Palfrey did not know where.

Above all, he learned to
lie
.

He learned what one had to do to make a lie sound like the truth. He learned not to lie until he had seen in advance all the implications, all the things he would have to say afterwards to make the lie seem as honest as the day. He didn't like this, either, but knew that it had to be done.

Over a three months' period, he learned to think of the man who had come to his flat and called him Neil, as the real Monk- Gilbert. He talked of him as Monk-Gilbert, to him as Monk- Gilbert,
thought
of him as Monk-Gilbert. He had his photograph taken a dozen times with the fake scientist. He himself became “Dr.” Banister; all his credentials were faked. He almost came to believe in himself as a specialist with at least the qualifications of the dead Monk-Gilbert.

The most difficult thing was to see the real Monk-Gilbert as Rita's uncle.

Now and again he saw Bruton or Palfrey; he didn't see the Russian again. No one talked to him about any other activity of Palfrey's group, which was known as Z.5. He had to concentrate on this activity to the exclusion of everything else. He was told now and again of another indication that
fatalis
had been used.

Three months after starting his training, he saw Palfrey again in a house in Mayfair. Palfrey looked exactly the same, except that this time it was the middle afternoon, and he held a cup of tea instead of a brandy glass.

“It's on from now, Neil.” His voice was casual and calm, nothing suggested that he was conscious of the nightmare horror of the possibility of sudden death striking at anyone, anywhere, any time. “You and Monk-Gilbert leave for Canada tomorrow. You'll fly, of course. You're going to inspect the Quebec and the Saskatchewan uranium fields. A car will call for you at six in the morning, and you'll meet Monk-Gilbert at the airfield. Bruton and Andromovitch are out of the country, but they ask me to say
au revoir, bon voyage,
all the usual things.”

He put out his hand. His grip was cool and very firm.

“God be with you,” he said.

“Thanks,” grunted Banister, and turned away.

 

Odd thing, that; one didn't associate Palfrey, Z.5, Secret Service, violence, lying, duplicity, forms of treachery and all that kind of thing with an earnest, obviously a sincere: “God be with you.” In an odd way, it said much more than that. Palfrey had a way of saying a great deal by implications and by innuendo – he could even convey a lot by a smile. “God be with you,” had stated that Palfrey believed in God, that he didn't regard himself as an all-powerful genius sitting in the centre of the world-wide web of Z.5.

In the cold morning light he met Monk-Gilbert at the airfield next day. They took off at seven-thirty. Twelve hours later they were at Idlewild Airport, on Long Island. They transferred to a smaller aircraft and were in Quebec within twenty hours of leaving London.

“We're going to see one or two of the leading scientists here,” Monk-Gilbert said, “and probably leave for the uranium fields in the morning. No reason why we shouldn't relax a bit.” For a man of sixty, he kept extraordinarily fit. “I've never been here before, let's do a bit of sight-seeing.”

“All right,” Banister said.

They strolled through the steep, narrow streets, past small houses with colourful roofs, small windows, French architecture. They heard more French than English spoken in both streets and shops. It was cold, but dry and clear. Two Security men walked behind them, casually, and a woman was also watching; it was like being surrounded by an unseen barrier.

They passed the Château Frontenac in its dark grandeur, strolled across to the wooden platform of the embankment overlooking the St. Lawrence and watched the evening sun glistening on the calm surface of the water.

Then Banister
felt
danger. . . .

 

It came from a girl.

She was an attractive creature, tall, dark-haired; not unlike Rita. She walked casually, as if in no hurry. She was alone. As Banister and Monk-Gilbert drew nearer, she turned towards the railings overlooking the river, and leaned against them.

Banister felt as if a sixth sense were warning him. There were several other strangers about, but the girl seemed to matter most.

“Move round her,” he said to Monk-Gilbert, who looked sideways, startled. “Give her a wide berth.”

“Why?”

“I don't like—” began Banister.

She darted forward. Her hand was bare, and outstretched. Banister stepped swiftly between her and Monk-Gilbert, and their hands touched. Hers was smooth and cold.

In that moment, he stood at the door of death – and fear chilled him, heart, mind and body.

But he lived.

 

Once fear had gone, he had time to look into the girl's dark eyes – and saw stupefaction in them. She had expected him to collapse, was astounded that he hadn'He snatched at her hand, she saw her danger, twisted round, pulled herself free, and ran down the slope towards a car which was parked in the road. Two of the Security men approached her, bewildered passers-by stood watching.

She tried to dodge the Security men, and nearly succeeded before one of them grabbed her hand.

There was a vivid flash, far brighter than a magnesium flare, a choking cry – and the man who had touched the girl reeled away from her and fell. The other man recoiled as the girl ran wildly down the wooden slope. A car was waiting for her, the rear door open. Banister could have raced after her, but as he moved, he saw the gun in the hand of the driver of the car.

He spun round.

“Get down!” he cried, pushing Monk-Gilbert savagely. “Get—”

 

There were three shots. Bullets flashed above Banister's head and over Monk-Gilbert. Then the car engine roared, the door slammed on the girl, and the car roared off, with police already moving towards it. One leapt into the road, arms spread, shouting at the driver to stop. The car didn't even swerve, and the policeman leapt towards the side, struck the kerb and went flying.

The car screeched round a corner.

On the boards of the promenade a man lay dead. Another man was moving towards him.

“Don't touch him!” Banister called urgently. “Don't touch him.”

“Why—”

“We mustn't touch him for at least an hour,” Banister cried. “Can you get the promenade cleared, a cordon of police thrown round?”

The Security man looked sick.

“What—what is it?”

“Can you get the promenade cleared?” Banister roared.

“Sure,” the Security man said huskily. “I'll fix it.”

He took another look at the man who had been walking by his side only a few minutes before, then set to work.

 

Nothing else happened in Canada. Nothing was discovered at the uranium fields.

 

Ten days later Banister and Monk-Gilbert landed at an airfield in Arizona, near a canyon where experimental work was being carried out on uranium. A car was at the airport to meet them.

There were few cars on the road. They climbed a slight hill, travelling at seventy, breasted it – and saw the car coming towards them.

“
No!
” gasped Banister.

It was worse because there wasn't a thing he could do. He heard Monk-Gilbert's sharp intake of breath, and the gasp from the driver. The other car was just in front of them, leaping forward. Their driver swung his wheel, the head-on crash didn't come.

Banister felt the wheels skidding, heard them screaming, was flung to one side. Then he felt the crash as the back of the car struck the one that was heading for them. The screaming tyres sounded like furies in torment; the earth, the sky, the road, seemed to shiver and shake and crash into one another – the car lurched, swayed towards one side, steadied, then struck a rock and turned turtle.

Banister was thrown heavily on to Monk-Gilbert.

The driver gave a funny little rasping sound, and didn't speak. He was dead.

 

“Neil,” Monk-Gilbert said, hoarsely.

“Yes?”

“I can't stand much more of it.”

“There probably won't be much more,” Banister said.

“It'll never stop,” Monk-Gilbert muttered. “And we don't get anywhere. If we were getting results I wouldn't mind. I can't stand much more of it – just waiting to be shot at and knowing that if the tenth attack fails the eleventh will probably succeed.”

“We've only had five.”

“
Only
five,” Monk-Gilbert barked.

There was a brittle note in his voice, and he looked much older than he had six months ago.

They were in Australia, in a small house in the hills outside Adelaide. They had finished their work at uranium fields in the northern part of South Australia, had watched all the experimental work, found nothing which remotely resembled
fatalis
. New Zealand had only a small, experimental uranium field, but there was some report of peculiar incidents at Rotorua. Palfrey had cabled, in code, and asked them to go there.

“I tell you I can't keep it up much longer,” Monk-Gilbert said. His voice was husky and he coughed as he lit a cigarette. His eyes were veiny, largely because he was drinking too much whisky. His hand wasn't steady even when he picked up a glass. “I'll have to throw my hand in. I'll never stop cursing the day that Palfrey discovered that I looked like Monk-Gilbert.”

“Take it easy,” Banister reasoned, “it will probably end before long, and—”

“Don't talk like a congenital idiot! It'll
never
end.” Monk-Gilbert jumped up and began to pace the room. “Haven't you the sense to see that? It'll never end—until they've killed us. And we don't know a thing more than when we started. We haven't caught anyone. That girl in Quebec—the driver in Arizona—the man in Samoa,
Samoa
of all places!—on the airfield at Sydney, then up near Darwin—” He stopped, swung round and snatched up the whisky bottle. ‘'I tell you I can't stand it.”

He strode across and stood towering over Banister, who sat in a large armchair, smoking a cigarette. Banister didn't feel good, either. He was too hot. Even in the right weather life was a strain which he felt more every day; now Monk-Gilbert was making the situation ten times worse. He had shown signs of cracking at Samoa. They had put in there because of engine trouble with the aircraft they had flown in to Australia – and been attacked by night.

Banister forced himself to smile as he wiped his wet forehead.

“Have a drink, and sit down.”

Monk-Gilbert sneered: “I thought you'd start warning me
off
the liquor. God, what do you use for blood? You're not human, you're—” He broke off, to cough, and the spluttering bout lasted for a long time. When it was over he wheezed noisily, and he was almost maudlin. “You're lucky,” he said brokenly. “They can't just touch your hand and kill you, but they can mine. You're protected, but I—”

“They've only tried
fatalis
once, in Quebec,” Banister said, “and I'm just as vulnerable to other methods of killing. You've got to see this through.”

“Oh,
have
I?” Monk-Gilbert screamed at him. “To hell with that, to hell with you, to hell with Palfrey, to hell with the real Monk-Gilbert, to hell with—”

He swung the bottle at Banister's head.

Banister thrust his arm aside, and clipped him under the chin. As Monk-Gilbert backed away, arms waving, mouth agape, Banister took the bottle away. He felt desperately sorry for the man, who wouldn't last much longer. There were too many bouts like this.

Twenty minutes later Monk-Gilbert was in bed, sleeping – snoring.

Banister went back to the main room. Outside were the woods and the hills and the quiet, above them the stars and the promise of a hot day tomorrow – and tomorrow there was to be the flight to Rotorua. Monk-Gilbert ought not to go.

Banister had told Palfrey what was happening, and Palfrey had acknowledged the reports but made no suggestions.

It was one thing to talk to the scientist about keeping steady, about getting results; another to believe that results would come. They desperately needed prisoners who could lead them to the makers of
fatalis
. They were sticking their necks out so that they would be attacked and their assailants caught, but nothing had come off. The man in Samoa had been captured – and had died in prison, from poisoning.

He and Monk-Gilbert were too much on their own.

Security men were outside now, but they needed someone like Palfrey, Bruton, Andromovitch – someone with whom they could talk about
fatalis.
Banister himself was feeling the strain; Monk-Gilbert worsened it, that was all.

Banister went to the door, and stepped outside.

A Security man was near.

“He's quieter now, isn't he?”