The Satan Bug. Alistair MacLean

do you know?” I demanded.

      “How do I——” He stared down at the floor and looked up to meet my eyes. “We had an accident a fortnight ago. A technician.”

      “An accident,” I repeated, then nodded. “You would know the smell.”

      “But what the devil——” Hardanger began.

      “A dead man,” I explained. “Killed by botulinus. At the top of the room. It’s Dr. Baxter.”

      No one spoke. They looked at me, then at each other, then followed me silently up the lab to where Baxter lay.

      Hardanger stared down at the dead man. “So this is Baxter.” His voice held no expression at all. “You are quite sure? Remember he checked out of here about half-past six last night.”

      “Maybe Dr. Baxter owned a pair of wire-cutters,” I suggested. “It’s Baxter all right. Someone coshed him and stood at the lab door and flung a botulinus container against this wall closing the lab door behind him immediately afterwards.”

      “The fiend,” Cliveden said hoarsely. “The unspeakable fiend.”

      “Or fiends,” I agreed. I moved across to Dr. Gregori who had sat down on a high stool. He had his elbows on a bench his face was sunk in his hands. The straining finger tips made pale splotches against the swarthy cheeks and his hands were shaking. I touched him on the shoulder and said, “I’m sorry, Dr. Gregori. As you said, I know you’re neither soldier nor policeman. You shouldn’t have to meet with those things. But you must help us.”

      “Yes of course,” he said dully. He looked up at me and the dark eyes were smudged and with tears in them. “He was—he was more than just a colleague. How can I help, Mr. Cavell?”

      “The virus cupboard. Check it please.”

      “Of course, of course. The virus cupboard. What on earth could I have been thinking of?” He stared down at Baxter in fascinated horror and it was quite obvious what he was thinking of. “At once, at once.”

      He crossed to a wooden cupboard with a glazed front and tried to open it. A couple of determined tugs and then he shook his head.

      “It’s locked. The door’s locked.”

      “Well.” I was impatient. “You have the key, haven’t you?”

      “The only key. Nobody could have got in without this key. Not without force. It—it hasn’t been touched.”

      “Don’t be so damned silly. What do you think Baxter died of—influenza? Open that cupboard.”

      He turned the key with unsteady fingers. No one was looking at Baxter now—we’d eyes only for Dr. Gregori. He opened both doors, reached up and brought down a small rectangular box. He opened the lid and stared inside. After a moment his shoulders sagged and he seemed different altogether, curiously deflated, head bowed very low.

      “They’re gone,” he whispered. “All of them. All nine of them have been taken. Six of them were botulinus—he must have used one on Baxter!”

      “And the others,” I said harshly to the bowed back. “The other three?”

      “The Satan Bug,” he said fearfully. “The Satan Bug. It’s gone.”