The Touch of Death Read Free

can’t tell you. I’m just here to look after you. You’re hurting.”
    He let her go.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œOh,” 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.
    â€œIs Mr. Banister in, my dear?”
    The “my dear” sounded quite impersonal.
    â€œWell, he is,” the girl said, “but I’m not sure whether he ought to see anyone.”
    â€œOh, 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.
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Chapter 2
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    â€œMy 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.
    â€œI don’t know what all this is about,” Banister said. “But I’m not going to play.”
    â€œ Play , Neil?”
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œWhat did you think?”
    â€œForget it.”
    â€œBut Neil—”
    â€œNurse,” 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.
    â€œI’ll get you a glass of warm milk,” the girl said. “I won’t be a