The Touch of Death (2 page)

“I won't for a little while.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Typing reports.”

“For whom?”

“My boss.”

“Who is he?”

“He'll be here soon,” she said, “or he'll send someone who can talk to you. I'm afraid that I can't tell you very much. I'm only here because I happen to be a nurse as well as a typist, and we needed someone to look after you.”

“Thoughtful of you,” Banister said. “What time did you get here?”

“At three o'clock on the morning of February sixteenth,” she said, and the gleam showed in her eyes again. “It's the seventeenth now.”

She stood up again, and picked up a box of cigarettes, brought them to him. “Would you like to smoke? Can I get you anything?”

He took a cigarette, and she lit it for him – striking the match in the rather awkward way that non-smokers have.

“Of course, you
must
be hungry. I'll get—”

She broke off, jumped up and passed him on the way to the door. He had the odd feeling that he was doing the wrong thing, but couldn't stop himself. He shot out his left hand, and gripped her wrist. The jar against his shoulder was more severe than he had bargained for; but he held on.

The girl stopped, and looked down at him. Her eyes were enormous, but not at all frightened.

“What's all this about?” he demanded roughly.

“Honestly,” she said, “I can't tell you. I'm just here to look after you. You're hurting.”

He let her go.

“You ought to go back to bed,” she said.

He knew that she was right, but his mood of sweet reason had changed, it wouldn't take much to make him furious. Would anger do any good? He was sure that it wouldn't.

He had finished the cigarette and was smoking another when the girl came back, with a tray, scrambled eggs, toast and butter. She put these on a convenient table by his side. Then she went back to the chair at the desk, but didn't touch the typewriter. Instead, she pushed it aside and began to read what she had been typing; now and again she made a correction in pencil. She didn't frown; there was no expression on her face at all, she looked placid – bland? He decided that placid was the right word.

The front-door bell rang. She put her pencil down and jumped up. He should have realised it before, but he hadn't – she had quite a figure, and her green woollen dress clung to it.

“I expect this will be the boss,” she said.

Banister watched her go into the passage, and his heart began to thump. The “boss” must be quite someone.

He heard the girl open the door.

“Oh,” she said. “Hallo.”

There was a moment's pause before an old man spoke; or at least, a man with a rather quavering, gentle voice which Banister associated with age.

“Is Mr. Banister in, my dear?”

The “my dear” sounded quite impersonal.

“Well, he is,” the girl said, “but I'm not sure whether he ought to see anyone.”

“Oh, he'll see
me
,” came the quavering voice, yet Banister didn't recognise it, felt sure that he had never heard it before. He turned his head so that he could see the doorway, as the girl said slowly: “Well, all right. Will you come this way?” She appeared at the doorway, first; then the man arrived. Banister stared at him as if he could not believe his eyes. It was the man whom he had kicked and fallen over, the man with the sticky red wound at the side of his grey head.

This man had the same face, but no bandage, no sticking-plaster, no sign of a wound.

He came in, with his right hand outstretched in greeting.

 

 

“My dear Neil,” greeted the old man, “how good to see you again! I
am
sorry that you had that nasty accident, but I'm told that you're on the mend. Excellent, excellent!”

He spoke rather slowly, and his hand stayed close to Banister, who didn't touch it. The man was sixty or more, with a pink complexion, yet a hardy look. He wasn't bad looking, although he had never been a Greek god. His silvery grey hair was wiry, with a tendency to curl; his grey eyes were very clear.

He lowered his hand.

“I don't know what all this is about,” Banister said. “But I'm not going to play.”

“
Play
, Neil?”

“That's right – play. The game, your way, I mean.” Banister groped for the box of cigarettes, lit another, and drew in the smoke before letting it trickle through his nostrils. “I don't know you from Adam. I thought—”

He broke off.

“What
did
you think?”

“Forget it.”

“But Neil—”

“Nurse,” said Banister to the girl, “I'm going back to bed.”

He started to get up.

He couldn't put any weight on his left shoulder, and there wasn't much strength in his legs. The girl hurried forward and helped him, capably, while the old man looked on. He didn't seem abashed – just interested. He was very erect for a man of his age.

Banister glowered.

The girl helped him back into the bedroom, pushed back the clothes, smoothed the pillows, and then helped him into bed.

“I'll get you a glass of warm milk,” the girl said. “I won't be a minute.”

“Who's that man?”

She didn't answer, but disappeared.

Banister heard no other sound; no voices; no opening or closing doors. The old man might have left the flat, or might still be in the living-room. Banister was quite sure that it was the man he had “rescued”; at least, the same
face
. That had shown so vividly in that light, but – where was the wound? It had been a real one, the glistening red had been fresh blood. He could remember the unpleasant feel of it between his fingers. So it wasn't the same man, it was just the same face.

The girl came back, with a glass of warm milk.

“I don't know that I want it,” Banister growled.

“You do, really,” she said, as if talking to a fractious child. “And the boss shouldn't be long, now. Drink this up and rest for a little while. Then—”

He drank it.

Ten minutes later, he knew that it had been drugged, knew that he was falling asleep and that there was nothing he could do to keep himself awake.

 

It was dark.

Banister woke, and realised that it was night-time. He could see a faint glow, at the window, and the light of stars beyond. He was lying in exactly the same place, but something was different.

His shoulder and arm still felt stiff, but his head didn't ache as it had during the day. His head and his thoughts were quite clear – or they would have been, but for the difference at the window.

There were bars across it; two upright, three horizontal.

He got out of bed, and it was like repeating something that he had done before. He half-expected to hear the typewriter, but didn't. His legs were rather better than he had expected, but he swayed for several seconds, and didn't move away until he felt steady. Then he approached the window, opened it, and touched the bars. They were of iron or steel, and cold to the touch. They were set in cement, which looked hard, although it was new. The glass was beyond the bars.

He went to the door and switched on the light.

The suspicion which had crossed his mind, that this wasn't his room at all, faded at once. This was his bedroom at Flat 3, Wickham Mews, Mayfair, London, W.1.

He went back to the door, and tried to open it, but it was locked.

He actually clenched his left fist, ready to bang wildly on the door; but he didn't. He backed away. Anger surged again, and this time he couldn't keep it back. He grabbed a long-handled brush and smashed at the window through the bars.

Nothing happened – except that he hurt his wrist. The glass was toughened, not ordinary window-glass. He grabbed an ash-tray, raised it to hurl at the door – but let it fall.

It was as if something were dragging him back from impetuous action, as if a voice were whispering: “
Take it easy, take it easy, losing your temper won't help
.”

He was being
frightened
; it was a deliberate campaign to wear at his nerves.

He went to the door, pulled up a chair, and sat down. Then he tapped with the ash-tray. He would have liked to thump, but didn't; he just tapped slowly and steadily.

Nothing happened.

After five minutes Banister stopped because his left arm was aching. Then he grinned, tautly, got up and pulled the rocking-chair into position. He touched it with his right foot, and one of the posts at the back tapped against the door. He had only to give the chair an occasional push, and the tapping would go on.

After ten minutes it was beginning to get on his own nerves, but he didn't stop.

After fifteen, he heard footsteps outside; then the sound of metal on metal; then the turning of the door-handle. He sat facing the door as it opened. Light was on in the passage, but he didn't see whoever opened the door, at first. Then he realised that it was being pushed open by someone who was holding a long stick.

He remembered opening doors in that way, with a nerve-racked caution, when he had been fighting hand-to-hand and house-to-house in Normandy.

A man appeared.

He was short, lean, hard-faced. He had dark hair and a rather sallow skin, and very dark-blue eyes. Something about him, perhaps the cut of his clothes, suggested that he was an American. He looked up at Banister, scowling.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

The voice
was
American.

“I don't like being locked in,” Banister said, quite calmly, “and I don't like my window being barred. Also, I want the bathroom, and I want some food.”

He got up.

The American glowered at him, but didn't prevent him from going out.

In the bathroom Banister looked at his reflection – and was startled, although he shouldn't have been. The growth of brown stubble gave him a wild look; there were one or two grey streaks, that was all. His eyes looked tired, and the pupils were pinpoints.

In the passage, the American said: “You can eat, go and get it.”

“Where?”

“Your bedroom.”

“Listen, this is my—”

“I said go and get it,” the American said.

He didn't sound at all friendly. He looked hostile. He was a fit man, and Banister wasn't.

Banister went back to the room, and the key was turned in the lock. By the side of his bed were two ham sandwiches and another glass of milk. It was better than nothing. He enjoyed the sandwiches, but hesitated before drinking the milk. He decided that even if it were doped, it wouldn't really do him any harm. He drank it.

This time, he didn't go to sleep.

He was still awake when dawn came slowly, and the stars gradually dimmed. There were no sounds in the flat, but traffic was starting up in garages nearby.

He heard the front-door bell ring twice, heard footsteps and men's voices, but no one came to his room. He knew that he wouldn't be able to last out for long – he would start throwing things unless he discovered what was happening.

Then the door opened carelessly; was just flung back. The American came in. A big man was with him – and “big” wasn't the right word. His size was so great that Banister's resentment was stifled. He could only stare. This man was a giant; huge of face, feature, body, hands. Banister had never seen a larger man – and then realised that he'd seen the very man before on the night of the nightmare.

The giant was quite expressionless.

He moved to a corner and sat down, dwarfing the chair.

The American slammed the door, then took an envelope from his pocket. It contained several photographs. Banister couldn't see them clearly because they were upside down.

The American handed him one, without a word.

He didn't speak.

Banister looked at the face of a man he didn't know; a small, thin face with huge eyes. He suspected that it was an Indian or a half-breed. He didn't say a word, but felt the probing gaze of the American and the giant.

He was shown five more pictures, all of them of men, all of them unknown to him. He handed each back.

The next picture was of a girl.

He stared at her, because in a way she was like Rita. She had Rita's cast of face, although there was no great likeness. She had big eyes, too, and she was a beauty – a real beauty; even in the black-and-white photograph that showed clearly. In the flesh, she must be superb.

“Who is she?” the American asked sharply.

“I've never seen her before.”

“That's a lie.”

Anger flared up, but Banister fought it down.

He said: “In a drawer in my desk you'll find some photographs of a girl rather like this one. That's my—was my fiancée. I've never seen this girl.”

The American thrust another picture at him.

“You've seen
him
,” he said, brutally.

It was the old man – and yet it wasn't the old man. This time, it was a profile, and one side of the grey head showed an ugly wound; blood which had trickled down to the collar and the corner of the mouth. The eyes were partly open, the lips slack. This was the face he had seen in the torch-light; and that was a real wound.

“Yes, I—”

The American thrust out a hand, gripped his pyjama jacket, and snapped: “You killed him.”

“Don't be a fool!”

“You killed him. Why?” The grip was very tight, the dark-blue eyes were glittering, the accusation burned in them and in the man's manner, as well as in his words. “Come on, let's have the truth, Banister. You killed him.
Why?
”

“He was dead when I saw him, I—”

“You
killed
him.”

“You're crazy!”

“I tell you—”

“Mr. Banister,” said the giant gently, “it won't help to deny it, we know that you killed him.”

Banister turned his head to look at the man. The voice was low-pitched, the English excellent but with an unmistakable accent which Banister couldn't place. He was still expressionless, yet his voice had a note of finality.

“I found him . . .”

“Stop stalling,” the American growled. “You killed him. Why? Who paid you?”

“We know you did it,” murmured the giant. That was the man and the voice to fear. “Just tell us why. It will be much better for you.”

“I didn't kill him.”

But a new element frightened Banister; he couldn't guess what made them accuse him, couldn't guess what they wanted – unless it was a confession.

The small man was an American.

The giant wasn't English.

Who were they? What was all this?

The door opened, and the girl came in. She looked rather sweet, with her braided yellow hair and her milky complexion and very blue eyes; somehow, she didn't look English, although he remembered that her accent had been flawless.

She closed the door.

“Mr. Banister,” she said with anguish in her voice, “I don't want you to be hurt. You killed the Professor, and we know that. Don't
force
them to hurt you. Why did you kill him?”

Banister said slowly: “I was going to see a film. I went out. The lamp at the corner was out. I couldn't see anything. I turned the corner, and fell over a body. It was the old man's. Then I was attacked by two men with knives. You should know that I've knife wounds. I picked up the old man, and ran—”

“Lies!” snapped the American. “You killed him. Stefan, we'd better get busy.”

“No!” the girl exclaimed. “No, don't, I hate—”

“You don't have to stay,” the American said, and the words made a sneer. “Just go out for a nice long walk, honey, and when you come back—”

She moved forward, gripped Banister's left hand, and squeezed it. She bent down, peered into his face. Her eyes were enormous; china blue.

“Don't make them,” she begged, “don't!”

“I—” began the giant.

A sharp crack made all of them look round at him. He was standing up, and the chair he had been sitting on was in his hands. One of the legs was broken. It was an oak chair, made in the days when wood wasn't at a premium, and it had snapped in two. The giant didn't smile, just shifted his grip to another leg. He hardly seemed to exert any pressure – and it cracked with a report as loud as a pistol shot.

He dropped the chair and the pieces.

“Let us give him an hour to change his mind,” he said, and went out of the room.

The American hesitated, then followed. The girl stayed behind, but didn't look happy. She drew near Banister again, and squeezed his hand tightly.

“Tell them the truth,” she begged, “don't let them hurt you. I've seen—”

She caught her breath, and turned abruptly, then went out. The door slammed. A moment later, Banister heard the key turn in the lock.