The Plague of Silence Read online

  All local authorities throughout Great Britain are putting in hand special emergency arrangements to meet the possibility that the swarms might invade their district. All Civil Defence workers are instructed to report for duty at once, although it must be emphasized that there is no question of enemy action”

  Palfrey’s face was like stone.

  “Isn’t there?” Matt asked, and he felt choked. “Sap, is that the truth? Is there no question of enemy action?”

  Palfrey said: “I don’t know.”

  Matt had a strange feeling that Palfrey wanted to add: “Do you?”

  Kathleen O’Shea went hurrying along the passage to the service stairs, looking behind her as if she was frightened of her own shadow; or frightened that a door might open and someone pounce on her. She reached the foot of the stairs and stood for a moment looking along the wide passages to the pantry where she prepared the afternoon teas, and where she knew that Larsen or his wife might be, or one of the other maids.

  She went into the pantry.

  No one else was there.

  She stood against the sink for a minute or more, staring blankly ahead, and anyone who saw her must have known that she was terrified.

  She went into the kitchen.

  Here, five of the staff were preparing vegetables and pastry and meats for the evening meal, including the head chef, a short man wearing a tall chef’s hat and completely enshrouded in white. No one appeared to take any notice of her, except one of the new kitchen hands, who had been taken on only that day; he kept glancing at her. There was obvious tension in everyone: an edginess which she couldn’t fail to see.

  She felt better now that she was with the others, and could watch the tea pantry and see if the call system, which glowed instead of buzzed, went on. It wasn’t likely now, for few people would want tea so late. The cocktail bar would be busy and the wine waiters serving drinks in the lounges.

  Then Larsen came in.

  He was still white and his eyes had a glassy look. He saw her and stared intently; she wished she had been in the pantry, anywhere but here. He came towards her, and she did not notice that the new kitchen hand was watching them, and paying no attention at all to his work.

  Close to her, Larsen asked in a low-pitched voice:

  “Did you tell the American anything?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t say a word, I swear I didn’t, but he knew more than I thought anyone knew. I didn’t utter a word out of place, sir, I did just what you always told me to do.”

  Larsen said: “If you say a word, your sister won’t have a chance to live. Do you understand that?”

  “Sure and I do, sir.”.

  Larsen said: “Isn’t it time you went off duty?”

  “Well, sir, I suppose it is, I’d forgotten the time.”

  “It’s half past six.”

  “Then I should have been off duty half an hour ago,” she said. “What am I thinking of? I’ll be going to my room!” She pushed past him, towards the doorway which led to the staff quarters, while everyone except the new kitchen hand was fussily busy, tins were clattering, gas was hissing.

  Larsen followed Kathleen.

  Scared eyes watched him go.

  Palfrey was told of this on the telephone, for the hotel switchboard was now operated by a Z5 member.

  “She’ll be all right,” Palfrey said. “He won’t be able to go into her room without being seen. How is she?”

  “Frightened out of her wits, I’d say.”

  Palfrey said, tight-lipped: “Rather like me. Thanks.” He rang off, and looked down at the desk which was littered with notes, some in his own hand, some in Sarak’s, all bearing the same tidings: of fresh outbreaks. Sitting here, with the evening light over the forest and no hint of the disaster in sight, it was hard to believe that it was really happening, that this wasn’t a nightmare of facts and figures and dark menace.

  A telephone bell rang, and he lifted the receiver.

  “Hallo. Stefan?”

  “Sap, an emergency meeting of the cabinet is being held tonight and you are asked to be at hand. A meeting of the International Red Cross is to be held in Geneva tomorrow morning, to organize relief work, and of the General Assembly of the United Nations tomorrow at noon.”

  Palfrey said: “Well, at least they’re taking it seriously.”

  “Have you traced anything?” the Russian asked.

  “We’ve men out in the forest and combing the countryside,” Palfrey answered slowly, “but except for one or two people in the hotel no one whom we know saw Rondivallo down here can talk. That’s the worst of it. They can’t say a word. There’s nothing from Mitchison yet. I’m giving Matt Stone plenty of rope, but will have to work on him if we don’t get a move soon.” His hand was at his forehead. “Stefan—”

  “Every minute I am being harassed for reports,” Stefan said. “Moscow telephoned twenty minutes ago, for the third time.”

  “Is there an outbreak there?” Palfrey’s voice rose.

  “There are two—one in the Ukraine, another near the Latvian border,” Stefan’s calmness seemed likely to crack. “There is a call on the way from Pekin also. Sap, no one has any kind of clue at all, the only hope is to find Rondivallo. For humanity’s sake, can’t you—”

  “I’ll tackle Larsen,” Palfrey said abruptly.

  “All right, Sap,” Stefan said.

  Palfrey turned away from the desk and went towards the door. The silent Sarak moved across to open it for him, and inclined his head, as servant to master. Palfrey went out. An agent was standing in sight, and raised his hand in salute. Palfrey passed with a nod, staring straight in front of him, and went down the wide staircase into the great hall. Two couples were sitting and drinking cocktails and eating potato crisps and nuts. Outside on the verandah was a young party, noisy with a false gaiety: and silence fell abruptly when another bulletin came over the sir.

  They had not been affected, except by the prevailing fear.

  Palfrey turned towards the offices, past the reception desk, to a room marked Private. Opposite it stood another of the Z5 members, and Palfrey said:

  “Is Larsen in here?”

  “Been there for twenty minutes.”

  “By himself?”

  “His wife’s in there with him.”

  “Thanks,” said Palfrey. He tapped at the door, and told himself that it was crazy, he should just turn the handle and go in. He hadn’t adjusted himself to the desperate urgency, to the speed with which the situation had altered. And he was haunted by the possibility that Matt Stone was not reliable, might even be one of these people. He must be given a chance to betray himself. If he was tackled by straight questions and answers, he would deny everything. How could he be made to talk soon?

  Palfrey turned the handle and pushed.

  The door was locked and there was no reply.

  He pushed again, and the middle-aged English Z5 agent came across.

  “Any luck?”

  “Sure they haven’t been out?”

  “Positive. They went in, drinks were taken in ten minutes afterwards, and that’s that.”

  “Jameson at the window?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go and check with him, will you?” Palfrey took a bunch of keys out of his pocket, including a master key which would open this door. He inserted it and twisted, felt the lock give, but could not open the door: so it was bolted. He put his shoulder against it, but it would take a giant to break down the heavy, solid oak. The quickest way would be to get in through the window. He moved after the other man, and saw him in a small paved courtyard, where standard roses were rich in reds and yellows and pinks. He was standing at the window and staring in.

  Palfrey reached him.

  Inside, Larsen lay in a peculiar position on a sofa, an
d his wife, a plump, pretty woman, sat back in an easy chair, her head lolling forward. Both were very still. Palfrey bent his elbow and cracked it against the window, and the other men helped to knock out the big splinters of glass.

  Palfrey said: “Find Kathleen O’Shea,” and then climbed into the room, which was high-ceilinged and pleasant, with a thick Persian-type carpet, and a small writing bureau in one corner, near the sofa. Whisky, gin, a syphon of soda, some glasses and other bottles stood there.

  Neither of the Larsens moved.

  Were they paralysed?

  Palfrey reached them, and a moment later he knew that this wasn’t the paralysis of the plague; they were both dead of poison.

  “Find the waiter who brought their drinks,’’ Palfrey said urgently.

  “It was a girl,” the English agent said.

  “Recognise her again?”

  “I should do.”

  “Go and try,” Palfrey said urgently.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE ONE VOICE

  Palfrey moved swiftly and reached the hall where the receptionist smiled tautly and where the over-loud laughter of the four on the verandah came clearly. He went towards the domestic quarters. There was fear in him, lest the one voice which might be raised was silent too.

  He passed a maid carrying some pillow cases.

  He passed the chef, who looked as if he had just changed into a fresh white smock and a fresh white hat.

  He reached the staff living quarters, and saw Jameson coming out of one of the rooms and another Z5 man standing just outside.

  Palfrey said: “Is she—” and then stopped.

  “She’s okay,” Jameson said. “She just seems struck dumb, that’s all.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, I don’t mean—” Jameson said, and then Palfrey pushed past him and stepped into a small room, with two beds, a dressing-table, a corner wardrobe and two easy chairs. In one of these Kathleen O’Shea sat limply, her eyes open, her lips a little slack. She was alive, for she turned her eyes to look at Palfrey, although she gave no sign that she had recognised him. He felt the sweat at his forehead go cold and clammy, for he could not be sure; and these symptoms might mean that the girl had been poisoned too.

  He stood in front of her: “Kathleen, listen to me. Have you had anything to eat or drink in the last hour or so?”

  She shook her head.

  “Sure? Nothing?”

  She managed to say: “Nothing.”

  “Are you feeling ill?”

  She shook her head again, then pressed her hands against her forehead and said:

  “No, I’ll be all right, be sure I will.”

  “What frightened you like this?”

  She drew back. “I’m not frightened!”

  “Kathleen, it is vitally important that you should tell me. What frightened you?” “Nothing,” she cried “Nothing! I’m not frightened, I’m just tired, I’m not frightened.”

  “Did Larsen frighten you?”

  She almost screamed: “No!”

  “You needn’t worry about him any more,” Palfrey told her very quietly. “He’s dead, Kathleen. There’s no need at all to be frightened of Mr. Larsen or his wife. Just tell me what happened.”

  “Nothing happened,” she sobbed, and seemed worse now that she knew Larsen was dead; it had the opposite effect to that which Palfrey had hoped. “Go away from me! I’m tired,

  I want to rest, go away from me!”

  In London, Stefan Andromovitch was saying to the Minister for Home Affairs:

  “We are doing everything we can. The moment there is news, we shall tell you.”

  The Minister said: “If we can’t stop it soon, by the morning there will be panic everywhere. We already know of seven outbreaks. Get Palfrey on the telephone at once. He must question Matthew Stone.”

  “Yes, I know,” Palfrey said into the telephone. “It couldn’t be any worse, sir. I’m getting reports from everywhere overseas, but so far there’s been only one common factor, the paralysis following the mosquito bites, which seem accompanied by an infection of the larynx caused by breathing in the satellite dust.”

  “Palfrey, please don’t tell me what I already know. Have you questioned Stone?”

  “I shall shortly. When the Prime Minister’s secretary said he was a bad risk, did it imply he’s involved in this business?”

  “I only know what Domminy told us,” said the Minister. “He reported to the Cabinet that Washington warned him. He was on special duty, as Minister of Food and Agricultural Supplies. He asked Washington for details which aren’t yet forthcoming. But we can’t wait, you must tackle Stone.”

  “I need something with which to break him down,” Palfrey said.

  “Use any methods,” the Minister urged.

  It was like talking to a frightened child, and Palfrey could understand the reason for it. Crisis due to causes which men could understand might give rise to isolated panic; when the danger struck out of the blue and was absolutely inexplicable, when people could not safely walk in the street or open their windows without breathing in death, then panic could overwhelm a nation.

  Palfrey switched on the radio, for another bulletin was due. Most of it was repetition, and he switched off as the telephone rang.

  “Mr. Mitchison is on the line,” a man said.

  Ah!

  “Put him through.”

  “Hallo, Palfrey,” the specialist said in a tired voice which did not suggest he was in any way hopeful. “Haven’t much for you. There’s very slight radio-activity in the sputum, and also in the satellite dust, which appears to be a cluster of bacteria, several millions in one little cloud, of course. That’s as far as we’ve got. I’ve told London, but no radio-active tests on the mosquitoes themselves or ponds where they breed have been positive.”

  “Any sign at all of a neutralising agent?” asked Palfrey.

  “Not really. Miss Brown isn’t too badly affected at the moment, and certainly isn’t at death’s door. We’re analysing blood, sputum and other specimens to see if we can get a lead.”

  “Well, you can’t do more,” Palfrey said.

  The long-distance telephone was buzzing, so he said goodbye, rang off, and picked up the other instrument.

  There seemed no time to breathe.

  “You again, Stefan?”

  “Yes, Sap,” said Andromovitch. “You must be told the worst news yet. A London theatre audience panicked when mosquitoes and the dust filled the theatre this evening.”

  Palfrey said: “So they’ve reached London,” in a flat voice. “We’ll have to forbid gathering in meeting-places of any kind.”

  “That is being done. There is another development, too. People are beginning to leave the country in any vessel they can find. Aeroplanes are being chartered privately, liners are being besieged. There are some ugly situations at the docks. At one port the police had to call on the military to restore order.” Andromovitch was quiet voiced, almost relaxed, as if he had overcome the attack of nerves. “There is one good sign.”

  Palfrey asked abruptly: “Medical treatment?”

  “Yes. Some cases have responded quickly to curare distillation injections, given subcutaneously.” Stefan said. “One or two felt no effect after breathing in the dust. Your research establishments are working on it now, and supplies are being prepared, but it can never be enough for mass treatment.”

  Palfrey said: “Send me a supply, urgently,” and put down the receiver and turned towards the door. It was nearly dark outside, but at last there was a glimmer of light in his mind. On the littered desk was a tray with a half-finished meal; nothing had stopped the staff from serving the food. There was no panic here, but a kind of unreal normalcy. How long would it last? This was an oasis of peace now, an oasis
of security; but tight-lipped, nervous people were gathered round a radio as he went through the lounge towards the domestic quarters.

  Matt Stone was outside Kathleen O’Shea’s room.

  “Matt,” Palfrey said, as if everything was normal in his attitude to Matt,” you’ve half an hour to make her tell you all that she knows. If she won’t, we’ll have to use harsh tactics. And don’t tell me that you hate the idea.”

  “She stares at me as if she’s really struck dumb,” Matt said, “but I’ll try again.”

  He tapped at the door, but there was no response. He opened it and stepped inside—and as he did so, he struck at something which flew into his face. Palfrey saw it: gnat or mosquito, or even fly, it made his heart turn over, and he stepped forward.

  “She all right?”

  “She’s all right,” Matt said. “Don’t crowd us.”

  “Matt,” Palfrey said, “I want you to take her up to your room. Get her out of these surroundings. They may be part of the trouble. Carry her, if needs be.”

  He saw Man’s head move up, abruptly, and then saw the American turned to stare at him. That appraisal seemed to last for a long time.

  There was a microphone in Matt’s room. If he said a word to the girl which implied that he was involved, it would be the weapon Palfrey needed.

  Matt saw the expression in Palfrey’s eyes, and sensed the nearness of absolute disaster. Hours had aged Palfrey as he had never seen a man age, and that showed more in his eyes than anywhere else. Matt saw more: Palfrey wanted him to take the girl upstairs because he didn’t fully trust him. In that upstairs room there was the microphone link, and everything said could be overheard.

  Well, why not?

  Matt said: “Sure, I’ll fix it,” and turned to Kathleen.

  She sat in the armchair where Palfrey had seen her, and had not moved since Matt had come in, twenty minutes ago. He had cajoled, pleaded, ordered her to talk, but she had said nothing that had mattered, although she had not lost her voice, for she had uttered odd words and had shown no signs of the paralysis. He could not tell whether she had heard Palfrey’s instructions or not; certainly she made no attempt to get up.