The Touch of Death Read Free Page A

minute.”
    â€œWho’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.
    â€œI don’t know that I want it,” Banister growled.
    â€œYou 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.
    Â 
    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