The Touch of Death by John Creasey

cloakroom. Nothing happened. He held his breath when he actually folded the flap back; and still nothing happened.
    He slid the contents out very carefully.
    It was a fold of newspaper, and when he unfolded it, he saw the now familiar headline: Mystery Plague in India . Surely she didn’t think it was necessary to tell him twice.
    Two white cards fell out.
    He picked them up, and read:
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    â€œDr. & Mrs. Montagu Scott will be happy if you can join them at a dinner-dance on Tuesday of this week at 7.30.”
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    Across one of the cards was scribbled: “ Do come, Neil. I’ll call for you at 7.15. ”
    The signature was Rita.
    Today was Tuesday.
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    This time, Rita had brought an American sedan.
    She drove well, and obviously knew her way about the town. She took several turnings before she drew up outside a large house, which was on a hill overlooking the lake. It was nearly dark, and the evening had a gentle beauty. The last rich gold of the sun touched the mirror-like surface of the lake, and seemed to beckon anyone who watched it.
    Rita had not hurried.
    One of Palfrey’s men pulled up behind the car; and another was at the corner.
    â€œI’m sorry it was such a short notice,” Rita said, as they walked towards the front door together. She wore a three-quarter-length evening-dress of black net against a red petticoat, and had a scarlet wrap. Her dark hair glowed. The softness of her beauty matched the enchantment of the evening. In a curious fashion Banister’s bitterness thawed. He could see her as she was, dispassionately.
    Dr. and Mrs. Montagu Scott were an elderly couple, rather charming, pleasant, vague.
    â€œMy aunt and uncle,” Rita introduced.
    It was all so normal.
    The house was larger than it looked from the outside, and a ballroom overlooked the lake itself. They caught the last golden glow of the sun on it, and the shimmering magic of the water. Soon they were among a crowd of youngish people, two or three pretty girls, two or three good-looking men; the rest of them were ordinary. Most had white dinner-jackets, one or two had purple. Drink flowed – cocktails, whisky, gin. A band played softly at one end of the room.
    â€œNeil,” Rita said, “you always dance as if you love dancing.”
    â€œIt can be amusing.”
    â€œDon’t you ever show enthusiasm these days?”
    â€œI don’t feel enthusiastic. Did you send me both cuttings about the Indian village?”
    â€œYes,” Rita said. “You have to know how serious it is.”
    He could have struck her.
    Rita danced as well as any woman he had ever known, and carried his mind back to the days when there had been their love; and no fear, no sense of horror. The lighting was subdued; for a waltz the floor wasn’t crowded.
    â€œHave you talked to Palfrey?” Rita asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWas I right?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAre you coming with me?”
    He felt the pressure of her hand tighten; she didn’t miss a step, but there was a slight hesitation in the smooth rhythm of their steps.
    â€œI don’t think so,” Banister said, because Palfrey had wanted him to stall.
    Rita’s voice seemed to cut into him.
    â€œWhy not? Are you still frightened?”
    â€œYes.” He looked into the brown beauty of her eyes. “It isn’t only the possibility of dying,” he said very quietly, “it’s the warped mentality behind it all – the thing that can make you, Rita Morrell, indifferent to the death and the terror of a whole village of people. You look sane. You’re very lovely. Yet this is a horror that makes your beauty as ugly as sin.”
    The music stopped.
    They moved slowly towards the side of the room, then Rita changed direction and they went to the open doors. Several other couples were walking about the sweeping lawn, just visible in the afterglow. Now stars dotted the heavens and promised brightness