Famine by John Creasey

is she?”
    â€œAt Brown’s Hotel. I suggested she should wait there.”
    â€œGood idea,” said Palfrey.
    The sleeping tablets had not had the refreshing effect of natural sleep. His mood settled into one which made him heavy-headed as well as heavy-hearted. He needed time to think about the situation without having to make decisions – and yet he was almost afraid to think. He certainly needed at least an hour and a half with new reports before he went to the meeting of diplomats, where he would have to weigh every word. My God! What would the effect be if rumour spread that there was radioactivity in the creatures? Even if untrue, it would cause terror. And the truth, whatever it proved to be, might be as bad, or even worse. Panic welled up again and he fought it down. Panic – probably an emotion unknown to a person of the calm capability of Betty Fordham.
    Palfrey was walking along Piccadilly on a pleasant, slightly hazy morning, surrounded by Londoners beginning their rush to work before he realised the truth, that in spite of his preoccupation with horror, he was looking forward to seeing the farmer’s widow.
    He entered the Dover Street foyer of the hotel, and walked through to Albemarle Street, searching for her. Could there have been some mistake? He turned, and started back, then saw her looking at him from a deep armchair. She was half-smiling. He was struck unexpectedly by her handsome looks and calm wholesomeness. As he crossed to her, hand outstretched, she stood up and took it, holding it firmly for a moment.
    â€œThank you for agreeing to see me,” she said.
    â€œI didn’t find it very difficult.”
    Her smile deepened.
    â€œYou’re very gallant this morning.”
    He laughed. “Am I?” In fact, he felt relaxed and at ease, and was aware of and puzzled by it. “We’ve a room upstairs where we can have breakfast and you can tell me what news you have.” The room was one always held ready for Z5 for interviews which needed to be near the headquarters, and breakfast would be sent up immediately. He led the way to the lift and then to the second floor. They seemed cut off from the bustle of activity below. He unlocked the door and stood aside for her, and she stepped in – and screamed.
    Palfrey caught a glimpse of a streak of pale brownish-white fur, of tiny hands, of talons clawing at her throat. Betty Fordham reeled back, with the creature clinging to her neck. Palfrey clenched his fist and struck out, and it loosened its hold. But as it touched the ground it leapt again with uncontrollable fury, a wild cat. Palfrey saw the steel claws scratching at the cloth at Betty’s neck. He saw another thing; she had shaken off the terror of the shock and was beating at its head with cool deliberation.
    Palfrey jumped forward.
    He gripped the creature from behind, hoping to be able to pull it free but as he did so the body seemed to go into convulsions. He could feel the sinews hardening to steel as the little body fought and writhed. At least it could not attack Betty again. She leaned against the door, one hand at her throat, and Palfrey feared to see a gush of blood, but he could only think of the creature twisting and writhing in his hands, so convulsively.
    He was uncertain how the struggle would end, weakening visibly, when Betty with one decisive movement thrust her arm forward and brought the side of her hand down sharply on the nape of the creature’s neck. It stiffened, and went momentarily still. Palfrey felt a flood of relief and of triumph, but almost at once the body re-vitalised, and wriggled free.
    â€œLook out!” Palfrey cried.
    But the catlike ‘man’ did not attack again. It hit the floor with a light thud, and then turned and streaked along the passage. A porter, turning the corner, kicked against it and fell headlong. The creature reached the head of the stairs and raced down. Almost at