The Touch of Death

The Touch Of Death

 

First published in 1954

© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1954-2014

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

 

The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

 

This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

 

Typeset by House of Stratus.

 

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

 

 

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

 

www.houseofstratus.com

 

 

 

John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as
Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron
.

Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:

 

Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

 

Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the
One Party Alliance
which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

He also founded the
British Crime Writers' Association
, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing.
The Mystery Writers of America
bestowed upon him the
Edgar Award
for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate
Grand Master Award
. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.

 

 

It was three weeks since he had seen Rita, and Banister – one “n” – was afraid, deep in his heart, that they would never be able to patch things up. That hurt. Yet sitting at the bar with a whisky-and-soda, or lounging back in his armchair with a whisky-and-soda, or saying “just a splash” at the club, he knew that he couldn't blame Rita. It wasn't exactly his fault either. Marriages had crashed on incompatibility often enough; he ought to be glad that they had gone no farther than an engagement.

He wasn't glad; he was miserable.

Rita wanted a life of her own, of course. She was always dashing off here or there by air – New York, Paris, Rome; it was difficult to keep track of her. That had begun the trouble; that, and the fact that she was so vague about her work – secretary to a Mr. Menzies, whom Banister had never seen.

Of course he, Neil Banister, had been unreasonable, issuing a kind of ultimatum: “Marry and settle down, or . . .” Rita had rejected it; very gently. He felt that it had hurt her; and feared that it had robbed him of his last chance. So he was miserable.

Yet at thirty-five, he had much to be content about, if not actively happy. On the evening of the twenty-second day after he had last seen Rita – he had started a new calendar from that epochal incident – he sat alone in the large chair in the living-room of his comfortable Mayfair flat, and decided to count his blessings. He did this simply because of the possibility that it would cheer him up. Nothing else would. Whisky was failing, and it was dawning on him that he was drinking too much. Work failed, too; but then, he wasn't very interested in his work. He much preferred to drive or tinker with cars than to sell them, but sell them he did, for his living.

True, a legacy from his father gave him a small private income which enabled him to live very comfortably, way above the level that a car salesman even in the heart of London could normally hope for. That, he decided, was Blessing Number 1.

Number 2? Health. Toughness. Physical strength, which he was wasting on golf and tennis.

Number 3? A satisfactory past. If he cared to pull out a drawer in the desk which was just within reach, he could gaze upon the D.S.O. and bar, and the M.C. and bar, and their pretty ribbons. At one time he had almost begun to believe that he was a most remarkable young man.

Number 4 – also in the past? He had travelled a great deal, largely because chances had come his way. His first post-war job had been with a firm then pushing its exports, and Banister had made several hurried trips round in those days when one had only to open a sample case to cause a fight. Jobs which took one abroad had become few and far between – unless one was ready to stay abroad, a thing Banister had no desire to do.

“
Damn
Rita!” he said explosively.

He jumped up. By chance, he caught sight of himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece above a built-in electric fire. The face itself wasn't bad at all, with a full, friendly mouth and a slightly snub nose, good grey eyes, quite a chin, rather curly brown hair.

Turning, he knocked against a table, and the whisky bottle began to rock. He grabbed but didn't touch it. He watched with a severe expression as it settled down, beginning noisily, and ending silent and still. It was three parts empty.

“You must look after yourself for the rest of the evening,” he said firmly. “I'm going to the pictures. I might have a nightcap when I get back.
Au revoir
.”

That was a conquest over the bottle. It had a momentary exhilarating effect.

He went out into the chill of a February night. It was quiet here, too. Mayfair was divided, roughly speaking, into graceful and quiet squares, graceful and quiet streets, ugly and quiet cul-de-sacs once stable-yards, now garages with flats above where the not-so-rich lived, and villages. There were villages in Mayfair, and no one except natives realised it. Five minutes' walk from his flat at Wickham Mews, for instance, there was a little colony of shops, barber, baker, greengrocer, doctor's surgery, a gunsmith's, a cobbler, a newsagent and tobacconist – a little bit of everything. On the right night and in the right mood, this could be almost sinister. In fact, it was a kind of imitation Soho.

It was much darker than usual in Wickham Mews, because the light which always burned on the wall of a building at the corner was out. There were no stars. The nearest lamp was a hundred yards away – and the nearest houses were as far. This was a backwater of garages and storerooms, deserted by night, busy by day. A soft, whistling wind came round the corner, and made Banister shiver. The wind seemed to carry a peculiar touch of eeriness, which he put down to his mood. He threw it off, turned the corner, kicked against the body, and pitched forward.

He did not know that it was a body, only that he kicked against something soft, without expecting it, and it tripped him up. Instinctively, he turned his left shoulder towards the pavement; the fall jarred him, and hurt. He stayed where he was long enough to recover from the worst of the shock.

He could see a shape on the pavement.

He took out his lighter, knelt down, and flicked it. The flame seemed bright as it shone on dark clothes and a grey head. Well, most of the head was grey, but there was a red patch, a very bright red patch which shone and looked sticky, on one side.

Banister felt sick.

He shifted his position. The light was beginning to fade, but not before he found the pulse of the grey-haired man – or the place where the pulse should have been.
Was
there a beat? He couldn't be sure.

He heard a rustle of movement from nearby. It was soft, slow, furtive. It was the kind of movement one might hear, tense and expectant, in a Jap-invested jungle. It had the same effect on Banister, sent a tingling feeling up and down his spine. He turned. There was not even a faint glow of light to show a silhouette.

He straightened up, and switched the lighter from one hand to the other; now his left hand was free. A long way off, he heard the sound of a car engine. There were other sounds, also far off, of traffic – but only the furtive sounds here.

Yes, there was more than one man approaching. Now he was aware of something creeping towards him from the other direction. His eyes told him nothing, but he could rely on his ears. He stood over the man whose grey hair had been hideously reddened with blood from an ugly wound, while an unseen man approached from the right and another from the left; he had the wall behind him.

He said: “Do we want a fight?”

No one answered, but he knew that both of them stopped. He could shout, but not be sure that anyone would hear him. A shout would betray his taut nerves, too. He had to face this out alone.

He heard the rustle, it seemed that the man from his right was jumping. He shot out his foot; the man kicked against it, and Banister heard the retching sound, a mingling of pain and wind.

A hand brushed his face, both cold and clammy; then the man drew back.

There was a pause, then another swift, deadly rush. Banister struck again, and landed on a face. Next moment he heard a different sound, as of metal hitting the ground.

A knife?

Banister spun round as an assailant came at him, but hadn't time to thrust out his foot. He swerved to one side. He felt a sharp pain at his forearm, the kind of pain that came from a cut. That made him viciously angry. He hooked the other man's legs from under him, and heard him crash down. He didn't hear a second knife fall, so that man might still have one – but he might be hurt, too.

They hadn't finished what they wanted to do with the old man, or they wouldn't have been lurking there. He had interrupted them. Alone, he would probably reach safety, but could he leave the man – who might not be dead?

He heard one of the men getting to his feet.

The beam of a torch shot out, snaked against the wall, and then fell on the grey hair and the glistening red – and on the face. Banister saw every feature, every line of the old face in a swift, vivid glimpse. Then the light went out, on a word which Banister heard but did not understand.

He was by the old man's side.

He bent down, and lifted him; after the first tug, it was easy, the old man was very light. He couldn't help what harm he might do to the broken head. He straightened up with the old man in his arms and ran towards the nearest street. The corner of it was fifty yards away; once at the corner he would have light – and help would be near. He gasped for breath, and there were noises in his ears, but there were other sounds, too – the footsteps of running men behind him.

The corner was only ten yards away.

A glow of light came faintly from the street beyond.

The men were gaining on him.

He felt another sharp, swift pain, then a thud against his right shoulder. The blow was so heavy that it almost sent him off his balance again. He recovered, and went on, gasping, almost breathless. The pain in his shoulder was worse; a weight seemed to be hanging there. Was a knife sticking in him?

Both
men probably had knives . . .

The corner and the blessed light were only three yards away.

As Banister neared it, he saw a shadow. It was enormous, thrown by someone or something standing at the corner. Banister reached it. The shadow took on substance. In that frightening moment, it seemed to Banister that he was almost running into the largest man he had ever seen in his life – a giant so huge that he was grotesque.

He heard the giant exclaim in language that wasn't English. Then the man swerved out of Banister's way, and at the same time shouted: “Be careful! Careful, he's carrying Monk—G.”

The warning was in English;
warning.

Light shone out and struck at Banister's eyes, and dazzled him. He heard sounds in front of and behind him. He had a strange impression – of being surrounded by men who were afraid of him.

He grunted; groaned; and fell. The old man pitched forward out of his grasp. Banister saw a flash – so bright, so vivid, that even as his senses reeled, it frightened him.

He heard a cry – of pain, of fear; an awful cry.

Then he lost consciousness.

 

When Banister came round, it was daylight. At first he knew that there was something wrong with him, but wasn't sure what it was. His shoulder and arm were stiff, and his head ached a little, but that was all. He was in his own bed. This was his room. Lying in the corner, as he was, he could see the grey slate of the corner of the roof of the house opposite, a piece of the guttering and a couple of sparrows having a sparring match on the guttering.

Who had brought him here?

The police?

He might have expected them to take him to a hospital or a nursing home. He could hardly expect the police to bring him to his own flat, to take his keys from his pocket, force their way in, dress his wounds and lay him in his own bed. It had an eerie touch, like the quiet darkness of the night before.

He heard a sound; a sharp, faint tapping. It puzzled him for a moment, being so very light. Then he realised what it was; someone typing.

He had no typewriter.

He pushed the bedclothes back. He had to move gingerly, because his shoulder hurt rather badly, but his head didn't swim. The room was comfortably warm. He sat on the side of the bed, listening. Whoever it was typed at furious speed.

He stood up, put on a dressing-gown awkwardly, and walked slowly towards the door.

One or two things had been moved. The small armchair was in front of the window, for instance, instead of in a corner. His wooden tea-trolley now held bandages and dressings, scissors, odds and ends of first-aid as well as a thermometer and a phial of tablets –
and
a hypodermic syringe.

He reached the door, and the typing stopped.

This room opened into a narrow passage. Next to it was the bathroom, opposite the kitchenette; at the far end the front door and the door of the living-room, which was large and comfortably furnished. That was the room where he had been when he had decided to stop drinking to drown his sorrows.

This was the first time since coming round that he had thought of Rita, and it didn't hurt.

The typing started up again. Whoever it was must be sitting at his desk, with the door open, or the sound wouldn't travel so clearly. He turned the handle, opened the door and stepped into the passage. Yes, the door was open, and the furious typing had a kind of breathless haste.

He reached the door of the living-room.

His desk was in the far corner. The girl who sat there was facing this door, so that she could see when it opened – if she took the trouble to look up. She had a round face, very fair skin, yellow hair and an air of tremendous concentration – if her life depended on it, she couldn't have typed any faster. The machine clanged and rattled.

Banister stood and watched, glad to lean against the door.

It would have been difficult, if not impossible, to think of a greater contrast between her and Rita. Rita was small, dark and with a rather narrow face, beautiful features which were almost aquiline. This girl's features were on the broad side, she wasn't exactly beautiful, she was—

She looked up.

Her large eyes were bright blue. She checked the speed of typing for a moment, but went on until she had finished the page. Then she snatched it out of the machine, and stood up.

“Good-morning, Mr. Banister,” she said briskly. “You ought not to be up. Please sit down a moment.”

She moved towards him and took his arm. She was rather tall for a woman, and he was two inches over six feet. Calmly, she helped him towards and into his own armchair. Then she went back to the desk.

Banister said: “If you start typing again, I'll scream.”

She didn't smile; that was, she didn't smile with her lips, which were very full but not very red. She hadn't any lipstick on, and he didn't think that she had any rouge on, either. The gleam in her eyes might have been meant for a smile.