Текст книги "The Vampire Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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Section IV: "The Vampire Has Been Dead Many Times...."

Chapter 13: "I Smell A Rat—A Rat with Feathers."

The first white flakes of snow began to filter down through the clouds shortly before they arrived in the village at three-thirty in the morning. They left the car in its usual berth behind the City Hall, but Illya insisted the wolf be brought back to the inn with them. So he and Napoleon slung it between them and managed to manhandle the unwieldy corpse the couple hundred yards along the dirt street, on which the mud was already lightly frozen.

Hammering on the door of the darkened inn eventually aroused a dim light in the back, and Gheorghe appeared—round, night-capped, and blinking at them over a candle flame. He scarcely shrank back from the body of the wolf, and said, "You have had luck in the hunt, I see. Will you wish him dressed?"

"No," said Illya. "I will take care of him myself, personally, in the morning. Are Hilda and Zoltan back yet?"

"Da, domnule. They arrived on foot shortly after midnight. We have been most worried about you. In fact, I would expect the Vlad Zoltan to be waiting up for you."

He was, almost. There was a low light burning beside the bed where Hilda lay sleeping peacefully, and Zoltan sat in a chair across the room, facing the window, with a hunting rifle across his knees and his head on his chest. But he jerked upright as Napoleon and Illya entered the room.

He sprang to his feet and set down the gun, then embraced them with expressions of great relief. "My dear friends! What happened to you? And did you bring the car back? We could not find it. We were so afraid you had been lost forever in the tunnels under the castle, and all for my own foolishness in not directing you correctly."

Then his eye fell on the wolf and his jaw dropped. He looked at it, and then at them. "You are not hurt?"

"No," said Illya. "One finally got close enough for a clear shot. The fact that I had cut a cross on my bullet may or may not have helped."

"Oh!" said Zoltan, remembering something. "Most important! When we were lost in the tunnels, we found our way out by a passage I had not known, by following some other chalk marks."

"Blue or white?" asked Napoleon.

"Yellow," said Zoltan, "and recently made. But they came to what appeared to be a blank wall, until I saw a lever mounted at the side of the passage. It revolved a false rock, and we found ourselves at the back of the cave."

Napoleon's eyebrows shot up in sudden speculation. Zoltan hurried on: "Hilda recognized the cave as the one which Illya had said you saw my ancestor in. And she was sure you would be most interested to know this. It suddenly appears possible that we have all been the victims of a monstrous hoax."

"Yes," said Illya, prodding the dead wolf with his toe. "I will know more in the morning. But remember, at least one person was the victim of a very real murder, whatever the method and motivation.

"As for now, I think we can all go to bed. Be sure the windows are locked and bolted, but I no longer think the crucifixes and wolfsbane will be either necessary or effective. And now we return to our room. Tomorrow will be a busy, busy day, and the hour is very late."

Napoleon followed his cue, and dragging the wolf behind them by its hind legs they went out and pulled the door closed behind them.

* * *

When Napoleon woke up that afternoon, Illya was gone. So was the body of the wolf, which had spent the night on the couch. He looked around the room, stretched, yawned, then got up and dressed.

Downstairs he found Hilda sitting in the dining room with an upset Gheorghe and several servants. She jumped up when she saw Napoleon and ran over to him.

"Oh, Napoleon, I thought you were going to sleep all day! Zoltan's in the kitchen with Illya, and they said no one else was to come in except you when you got up if you ever did."

Gheorghe was right behind her. "Domn Solo, they have taken over my kitchen, and I have other guests to feed. They took that accursed wolf in with them, and all I have heard for an hour has been soft voices. I asked them through the door what it is they are doing in my kitchen, and the Vlad Drakula says not to worry, it is very important, and they will clean it up when they are through." He looked up at Napoleon anxiously. "When you go in, ask them please to be careful with my kitchen."

Napoleon looked at the kitchen door with a growing interest. He patted Gheorghe on the shoulder and said, "I certainly will. In fact, if I can, I'll be back out in a few minutes to set your mind at ease."

He tapped at the door and called Illya's name, but it was Zoltan who slipped back the latch and let him in.

Illya was standing over the large table near the window, rows of butcher knives, paring knives, tongs and other implements beside him and an incredible mess in front of him. He wore a chef's apron to protect his clothes, and his sleeves were rolled up above his biceps. His arms were bloody up to the elbows. He looked up as Napoleon hesitantly approached the table.

"Welcome to my operating room," he said. "I've been performing a little post-mortem on our victim of last night."

Napoleon looked at the gory mess on the table and felt just a little ill. Illya noticed and smiled. "Sorry about the mess, Napoleon. But remember, you look even worse than that inside."

"It should stay inside where it belongs. All right, Doctor Crippen, what knowledge have you added to the field of medical science today?"

"Medical science has not benefited from this investigation, but criminology may have been advanced to some extent." He waved his hand over a number of what were to Napoleon undistinguishable lumps of meat, and picked one up.

"Notice the leg muscles," he said seriously. He prodded the meat with a short skewer, and separated some of the fibers. "See that?"

Napoleon saw only raw meat with a few streaks and lumps of yellow in it, and said so.

"Exactly. The yellow is fat. Fat? In a wild wolf? And especially in the leg muscles?" Illya shook his head, put down the leg, and picked up something else. "The stomach," he said. "Most interesting." With bare fingers he pulled apart an incision and pointed to a horrid-looking mass. "Remains of the last meal."

Napoleon felt even more ill, and made an inarticulate comment to that effect. "Yeuchh," he said.

"Look," Illya insisted. "Cereal grains. A wolf with cereal grains in its stomach?"

Napoleon turned away and stared determinedly out the window at a bare tree. "It's been a hard winter."

"Don't faint yet, Napoleon," said Illya. "You haven't seen my prize exhibit."

He took a deep breath and looked around again. The Russian was holding a thing that Napoleon finally recognized, though it was covered with blood and somewhat cut up. It was white and convoluted, and filled Illya's hand as he held it out.

"It's the brain," said Napoleon.

"That's right, Napoleon, it's the brain," said Illya, too pleased to contain his enthusiasm. "But this is not a nerve." And his free hand held up something about a foot long, limp and shiny. It was a copper wire.

Napoleon looked at it closely, forgetting his queasiness in a suddenly awakened fascination. The wire ran to the surface of the brain and ended there in a small patch of off-white plastic which he hadn't noticed before. Slowly he looked up at Illya, his mouth open slightly.

Illya nodded. "The plastic is apparently some kind of solid-state radio receiver." He lifted it from the brain as he spoke, revealing two short wires descending from it. "These two leads were implanted in the brain. I'm afraid my knowledge of vulpine anatomy stops there, but if the wolf's brain is analogous to a human brain, they were planted in the pleasure center and the pain center respectively. Do you remember that report we had some months ago on experimentation with pleasure-pain stimulus?"

He replaced the brain on the table and eased himself onto a convenient stool as Napoleon nodded slowly, awareness growing within him.

"Some scientist had a collie with a radio-controlled pleasure-pain stimulator, and he could train it to do all sorts of things with no more cue than a touch of the transmitter button. And there was a diagram of how it could be planted in the human brain...."

"That's exactly correct, Napoleon. There wasn't a diagram of how it was implanted in the collie—if there had been, I could be one hundred percent sure, instead of ninety-five percent. But this is close enough. That wolf was kept in a cage or pen, or somewhere where he couldn't get as much exercise as he should have—and he got a few fat deposits in his legs, because he was there a while. And while he was there they fed him on commercial—probably canned—dog food. Poor beast. Most dog food has cereal added as filler and for some of the vitamins. But a wolf in the wild would starve before eating grain.

"And finally, he had this device implanted in his skull. The operation is not an easy one at all, and I should like to meet the surgeon who performed it successfully on at least thirty wolves."

Napoleon considered all the implications of the situation, and went over them very slowly. "Somebody kept these wolves penned, fed them, and made very efficient hunting machines out of them." He looked up. "I smell a rat, Illya—a rat with feathers."

Illya nodded. "Remote-controlled wolves, a false back to the cave, a flying vampire—yes. And I think we will know in a very short time the secrets behind their other little tricks."

Zoltan spoke for the first time. "Do you know who is responsible for these monstrous things?"

"Let's say we are fairly certain. The wolf has no brand on his flank, and there is no maker's mark on the receiver here, but to the trained eye it speaks as loudly as an unsigned Chagall to a student of modern art."

"What bothers me," said Napoleon slowly, "is why they didn't kill us. That first night in the forest—or last night, if they weren't ready then. And, most especially, why was the Count driven off by Hanevitch's crucifix trick when your bullets didn't affect him?"

Illya's eyes narrowed. "Yes. Why? I think we may have an interview with Colonel Hanevitch before we go home again. I wonder if he knows more about this than he has seen fit to tell...."

* * *

The interview with Hanevitch was postponed in favor of more immediate problems. Even with Napoleon and Hilda helping, the kitchen took a while to clean up. And by the time they had finished, Illya was more cautious.

"On the other hand," he said, "a move at Hanevitch now could tip off the enemy. Better, I think, we should strike directly at their nest."

"By going in through that false-front cave and following the yellow chalk marks back to their source?" asked Napoleon.

"Exactly. Zoltan, did you see any way the rock could be opened from inside the cave?"

"We were in no hurry—I experimented with the operation of the secret entrance for some minutes and solved all its secrets."

"Are you game to come with us on a full-scale invasion tonight?"

"On the condition that we stay close enough together that we do not get separated again."

"I'm coming too," said Hilda. "If this is what I think it is, you'll need everybody who can handle a gun."

Zoltan frowned. "I do not think you should. This is not a proper business for a young lady to be involved with."

"But I am involved! Who is more involved than I am? I found Carl's body; I was almost killed by that vampire—except that he wasn't really, I suppose, but I thought he was at the time. No one has more right than I to be in on the final attack. What about you?" she finished aggressively.

Zoltan drew himself up. "They are using my castle and my name," he said. "Your life may have been in danger, but my family honor means more to me than my life."

Napoleon looked at Illya. "I feel kind of left out," he said. "I'm just doing it because it's a job. Maybe we should stay here and let them go."

Hilda said, "But you were chased by those wolves, and they almost killed you."

Napoleon shrugged. "People try to kill me on just about every assignment I get. You get used to it after a while."

"I don't know whether I ever could."

Zoltan frowned slightly. "You shouldn't have to," he said. "The first time I saw you and knew what you were involved with, I asked myself 'What is a nice girl like her doing in a job like this?'"

"I just knew more about this area and the people than anyone else in the Bucharest office. I was working as a code clerk there two weeks ago, and just about everyone else there grew up in the cities. But I was raised in Orjud, not forty miles from here, over the mountains, and I knew all the legends and the ways of life of these people. So they gave me a provisional promotion to the rank of Technician, and sent me here with Domn Endros. And that's all." She looked at Napoleon and Illya. "I'm sorry if you thought I had some training as an agent or something like that, but I'm really not."

"You'll be getting some training tonight if you come with us," Napoleon said. "Can you use a gun with any degree of effectiveness?"

"Oh, yes."

"Have you ever used one on a person?"

"N—no...."

"Then now is no time to start. The first few times are very difficult. You will stand in the background and hold a gun. You can look as though you were capable of killing someone, and that'll be all that's necessary. How about you, Zoltan?"

"I am capable, my friend. I have done many things when they have become necessary. I would as soon withhold the details." He glanced at Hilda.

"Good," said Illya. "We don't need them. You two will both have weapons." He looked at his watch. "We will leave the village by car at sunset. Dress warmly—it will probably snow again tonight."

* * *

Night had filled the woods again when the four shadowy figures slipped into the shallow cave. One finger-filtered flashlight scanned the wall, stopping at a hand-sized indentation in the rock near the back.

Zoltan reached up, then paused and whispered, "Once we are in the tunnels, make no sound. It can carry strangely." The other three nodded, and he threw his weight on the handhold.

In complete silence the back wall of the cave revolved and he slipped into the opening, catching the door halfway open and holding it while the others came through.

When they were past, he released it. The wall slid soundlessly back into its place, and the cave was empty once again.

Chapter 14: "Only When I Am In Costume."

Down the tunnel they crept, Zoltan in the lead. Without hesitation he guided them through the labyrinth for several minutes, turning at intersections where yellow blazes indicated the trail. Their path rose slightly, but without the irregularities Napoleon and Illya had found the night before. At one intersection, Zoltan paused and pointed. "Here," he whispered, "is where we entered the tunnel last night."

They continued, now in totally strange territory. After a good quarter of an hour, Napoleon gradually became aware of noises somewhere ahead—uncertain and indefinite so far, but definitely not natural.

As they continued walking, the sounds became clearer. Some of them were voices, and some were mechanical. They had an odd reverberant quality, carried as they were along the tunnels and corridors for indefinite distances, distorted, echoed and amplified by the baffles of rock they traveled among. But they were closer, and still approaching.

At last Zoltan stopped, and extinguished his light for a moment. As their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness they became aware that they could still distinguish the shadows of those ahead of them, and tell where the corridor walls were. The very faintest of blue glows showed ahead. Zoltan grouped the other three in a close huddle, and address them in the faintest of whispers.

"There's something not far ahead. I think it is a large cave with many people working in it. We will go ahead—Hilda, you wait behind us where you can see what happens."

"Wait a minute," said Napoleon. "I think it's very noble to try to keep Hilda out of this, but if something happens I want my life to depend on the best-qualified person around, rather than the least. Illya?"

"I quite agree. Do you stay, or shall I?"

"I think you should."

"All right. How long do you expect to be gone?"

"Not long. It sounds like there's a fair-sized group out there. I don't intend to tackle more than half a dozen. If it turns out there are more, we can just sneak right out again and radio for reinforcements."

Illya nodded, and Zoltan asked, "Everything arranged?"

"Right," said Napoleon. "We just go far enough to get a good look at what's going on, and then get out again."

Zoltan snapped his light off, and let Napoleon lead the way.

Around the bend to the left, the light grew brighter—and around a bend to the right it continued to increase. Now the texture of the rock surrounding them could be distinguished, and the four figures were all clearly visible to each other. Napoleon stopped short of the next bend and gestured to the others to wait while he went on.

Slowly and cautiously he cocked an eye around the corner of the tunnel, squinting against the brightness of the alien-looking fluorescent lights that hung from the ceiling of the large cavern which opened before his gaze.

The walls were of rough natural stone, but the floor had been smoothed artificially. There were no more than half a dozen men in plain sight, all working around the end of a wide conveyor belt that ran out of the cavern to the right. They seemed to be occupied with loading large crates, unlabeled but of sturdy construction, onto this belt, which carried them away to an unknown destination. Along the walls were stacks and stacks of apparently empty crates of identical design.

The conveyor was being loaded from a diminishing pile of boxes which seemed quite heavy—each took two men to lift it onto the belt. Napoleon could not see any indication of what the weight was, but his first guesses were heavy machinery, or ammunition.

He watched in silence a few more minutes while the last of the boxes rolled off into the darkness, and then was moderately startled when the six men climbed onto the belt and rode off after their burdens. About a minute later the conveyor belt rumbled gently to a stop and he became aware that it had not really been silent after all—there had been the low vibration of the driving motors.

Then he turned and crept back to where the others waited. "There's a cave just around the corner," he whispered, when they had gathered close around him. "There were some men working in it, but they're gone now. I'm going out to have a quick look around. Come as far as the entrance and keep an eye on me."

They followed like shadows, and stopped at the mouth of the tunnel. Once again Napoleon looked out carefully, and when he saw no one he stepped out into the light.

Now he could see that the conveyor belt ran through a hole in the wall next to a flight of steps leading up out of sight, and that it started up parallel to them just within the hole. The surface of the belt was ridged into sections which apparently folded flat on the bottom but served to lift the load on the ascent. There was another belt, level, which ran into the room and ended a few yards away on his right, where he couldn't have seen it before.

He started towards it, hoping to find an explanation of all this activity in the cave next door. Just then the scrape of a shoe on rock warned him of someone's approach.

He knew he was too far from the tunnel to get back there safely. In a moment he had jumped forward into the darkness of the next room along the conveyor belt. He hugged the wall and listened to the cautiously approaching footsteps.

They stopped some yards away, and there were several seconds of silence. At last a voice said in English, "Come out, Mr. Solo, wherever you are."

Napoleon's stomach froze as he looked quickly around for an escape route. He eased his weight onto his other foot and started to move along the wall with infinite caution.

The voice spoke again. "Mr. Solo, your friends have been taken, but not harmed. We have neither need nor desire to harm any of you. I would much prefer that you come out peacefully, because otherwise I shall have to come in after you and I have no wish to be shot at."

Napoleon thought this was reasonable, and leveled his automatic at the entrance.

After a short wait, the voice continued, with a note of regret, "You're being coy, Mr. Solo. We could leave you in there until hunger brought you out, but we have a schedule to keep. Perhaps this will change your mind. Miss Eclary..."

There was a stifled scream which brought Napoleon a step towards the entrance before he stopped himself.

"I do regret the need for melodramatic methods, Mr. Solo. Please understand you can cause us no more than a temporary inconvenience, and under the circumstances we can afford to be most forgiving. Our work here is nearly done, and when we are through we will be far beyond your reach. You will merely be held prisoners for a few days and then released."

Napoleon strained his eyes against the darkness, but the light from the next cave revealed nothing more than stacks of something around the walls near the conveyor belt. He looked around his own position, and started nervously when he saw what looked like a human body. After a moment he realized it was something made out of metal. Were they constructing robots?

Then the voice came back again, and this time it seemed closer to the mouth of the cavern. It held a distinct note of patient regret. "All right, Mr. Solo—as you wish. We will come in and bring you out."

Napoleon was peering through the gloom at the glow of light from the other room, watching for the first sign of a silhouetted target, when there was a soft chuff from around the corner. And then there was a burst of incredible blinding actinic light which seared into his eyeballs even as he threw up his arm to protect his face.

In total blindness, he heard running footsteps and felt his gun wrested away from him before he could move. Then there were two strong arms on either side of him, pinioning his arms and hustling him along. As his sun-blaze-flecked vision began to clear, he heard the same voice again, beside him.

"Sorry; I suppose that was unsporting. But as I said, I don't like being shot at. And this way you were in no danger either."

Behind the purple ball that still floated in his sight, Napoleon could make out a man standing a few feet from him. The man was tall, thin-faced and cheerful. He had a familiar look about him which Napoleon couldn't quite place. Then his mind supplied a funereal pallor, a black cloak, fangs and a fiendish expression....

"Count Stobolzny!"

The man shrugged. "On occasion. I am modestly pleased that you found my performance convincing."

Napoleon scowled and looked around. Zoltan and Hilda were there, each held firmly by uniformed guards in the gray uniforms he had expected—but Illya was not in sight. Had he gotten away after all? If he had, he might be listening.

Zoltan had apparently given up struggling, but his face still showed anger. "You have masqueraded as my ancestor," he spat, "and brought disgrace on my family name. You are nothing more than a common criminal."

The target of this abuse arched one eyebrow. "On the contrary, my dear Count," he said. "I am quite a bit more than a common criminal—in fact, if I may say so, I am rather an uncommon one." He shifted his gaze to Napoleon. "Can it be possible that you have not told them who we are? You must have suspected."

Napoleon thought back. "No," he said finally. "I don't believe I did. Tell them, that is. If I hadn't been certain it was you, I wouldn't have come."

"You really should have given us more warning," said the false Count with mild reproof. "If we had known you were coming, we'd have wired a bomb."

Napoleon turned, as well as the firm grip of his guards allowed, and nodded at his friends as he introduced them. "Hilda Eclary, U.N.C.L.E. Technician from the Bucharest office. Zoltan Dracula-Stobolzny, the real Count of that title, whose ancestor you have been doing impressions of. And this is our host," he concluded, addressing the other two, "who also does a less successful imitation of a gentleman, as you see. Do you also do Jimmy Cagney?"

Their host permitted himself a slight smile. "I adopted the role of the Voivode Tsepesh because of an accidental physical resemblance and a well-developed sense of humor. My real name is unimportant—you may call me Peter."

"This," said Napoleon to his two fellow prisoners, "is Peter Unimportant, who in real life is apparently something fairly important in an organization known as Thrush."

"Thrush?" Hilda's face paled, but Zoltan looked puzzled.

"An international criminal conspiracy," said Napoleon by way of explanation.

"My, Mr. Solo, you are melodramatic," said Peter. "We prefer to think of ourselves as a highly independent organization of consulting technicians."

"Well, could you tell us exactly what you're consulting about right now? I seem to remember it's accepted practice to explain everything to the prisoners before you kill them."

Peter shook his head sadly. "Really, Mr. Solo. I said before that we don't need to kill you—you will simply be held prisoners and released when our work here is through. And we need have no secrets from our guests." He smiled. "Besides, releasing you afterwards will be so much more humiliating."

He raised an arm and touched a large switch-box. Immediately the next cave came ablaze with light.

"Here, my friends, you see the remains of a once-proud treasure trove which would have dazzled your eyes and staggered your imagination." He waved his arm, and they looked.

Now Napoleon could see what had been stacked around the walls of the cave. There were heaps of gold—literally heaps, almost as high as a man and twenty feet across at the base. The gold was formed into ornaments, some jewel-studded, some plain. Religious forms seemed to predominate; statues and crucifixes were most common. One life-sized figure of Christ seemed cast in solid gold.

When he was able to tear his eyes away from the sight, he looked around. There were more statues along the walls, some only of painted wood, some of stone. There were great gem-encrusted books a man would stagger under the weight of, and suits of ancient armor, one of which Napoleon had mistaken for a person in the darkness. There were no suits of full armor—only breast-plates, intricately inlaid and chased, some leg-pieces, shields, short-swords. None of the horde seemed to date from a time more recent than the late Roman period.

At last he looked back at Peter, who nodded. "Impressive, isn't it? When Attila the Hun sacked Europe in the tenth century, his base of operations was here in Rumania. He stripped the churches and palaces of more than half the continent, and carried his loot into what was then considered the far east. Twelve years ago some ancient manuscripts came to the attention of our research department in Paris—manuscripts which referred to Attila's Golden Horde in terms which implied it was his treasure store rather than his army which was referred to.

"Subsequent to that discovery, this area was subjected to an exhaustive search. Other moldering documents were discovered, and analyzed for clues. At last, six months ago, our years of effort were crowned with success. We believe this to be the main store of Attila's treasure, so hidden as to defy the treasure-seekers of the world for a thousand years. And it now comes to swell the treasury of Thrush, who will put the wealth it represents to uses Attila could not have dreamed of."

"A fitting inheritor," said Napoleon coldly. "He'd be proud of you."

The intended insult seemed to pass Peter completely, as he merely nodded complacent acceptance of the statement.

"But you are no better than thieves," said Zoltan. "This treasure is not yours. It belongs to—"

"To whom?" asked Peter sharply. "Half the nations these were stolen from no longer exist. The treasure was on your land, it is true, but your family inhabited it for over five hundred years and never suspected its existence. We, on the other hand, have spent years of labor and hundreds of thousands of dollars in a scientific search for the treasure—not to mention the cost to our front organization which bought this castle. We have worked for the treasure, and now we have it."

"But think of the archeological and historical value," said Hilda suddenly. "This should belong to the world."

Peter smiled slowly, and suddenly he looked like the vampire he had pretended to be. "My dear girl—when we take over the world, it will."

There was no answer for that. Napoleon decided to change the subject. "As long as we are in the midst of explanations, what are you doing with all your loot right now?"

"We are packing it carefully and shipping it out by air to another location—and this is something I'm afraid I cannot reveal to you. But it is carried by our Thrush helicopter, which uses the courtyard of the castle for a landing area. During the day the helicopter is stored away under cover with our Thrush trucks and other vehicles, in an upper level of these caves which we have expanded to suit our purposes."

"Thrush-helicopters and Thrush-trucks? And I suppose you call this your Thrush-cave?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact it has been referred to that way."

Napoleon leaned forward towards Peter, lifted the flap of his coat, and looked intently at his waistband. The guards had their hands on their weapons, but Peter merely glanced down. "What are you doing, Mr. Solo?"

"Looking for your utility belt."

The Thrush scarcely batted an eye. "Oh," he said. "I only wear that when I'm in my bat costume."

And he turned and started towards the stairs, motioning the guards to follow him. Napoleon was seized again and hustled off, followed by a passive Zoltan and a complaining Hilda.

As they started, Napoleon scowled after him. "Five thousand Thrush agents in Europe," he muttered aloud, "and we had to be captured by a wiseacre."