The Touch of Death Read Free Page B

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.
    â€œWhat the hell do you think you’re doing?”
    The voice was American.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œYour bedroom.”
    â€œListen, this is my—”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWho is she?” the American asked sharply.
    â€œI’ve never seen her before.”
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œYou’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