Текст книги "The Corfu Affair"

Автор книги: John T. Phillifent

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"How about staff? Does she use any local people?"

"Not at all. It is believed that her workpeople come by sea, and go the same way, when she goes away, out of the season, but we never see any of them. She is very private. There is one…"

"Yes?"

"A young lady, very beautiful, with blue eyes and yellow hair, very agreeable. Often she comes, here, to get food from the market. She is—what do you say?—cook? I have seen her, not spoken. Others say she is friendly but very keen with money, makes a good bargain. Some say she is in charge, is manager-housekeeper and companion. She does not talk much."

Solo kept the voluble waitress a little longer but there was no more to be had from her. In a while he detached himself and strolled away, heading out of the town. According to his map and information the Palace was no more than five or six miles away, and he fancied the walk. The exercise gave him time to review the possibilities.

The young blue-eyed blonde cook-housekeeper sounded like his best bet for a contact. Without consciously working it out he had decided that his best play was a frontal attack: he would barge in like the brash tourist he was pretending to be, and trust to his wide-eyed stare to get him through. He was so preoccupied that he completely missed the spread beauty of the scene. Great oaks, walnuts and acacia gave him their shade. In the hedges on either side bloomed hyacinth and honeysuckle, bee-orchis and buttercup. He saw nothing. He was engrossed in other things.

His mind was so busy that his eyes almost missed the sudden and small side road that went precipitously down to his left. This had to lead him close to the Argyr, by his calculations. Five minutes of following it got him within sight of the sea. He halted between high rocky banks and considered his position, then he tackled the rugged wall on his right, scrambling and struggling his way up through the clutching thorns of wild roses, moving through bright splashes of color from wild anemone. Twenty perspiring minutes later he had his reward. He saw the Palace, recognizing it at once from the picture he had seen at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

It lay back and away to his right, huddling against the mountain, framed in a fold of rock and backed with the dark green of olive groves. Seen this close it was more Disney-like than ever. The white stone was bright enough to have been freshly laundered and the woodwork of window-frames and shutters was the unlikely pink of candy floss. A powder puff palace for a cosmetic surgeon. Resting here on the rock spur he could see something else, too. The main road went by up there. The little side road he had just quitted went straight on down to the sea, to a derelict landing stage. And this rock spur went straight on down, too, right into the water. So how the devil did you get into the palace grounds?

He clambered higher and over the spur until he could see down the far side, and the riddle was solved. The palace had an extensive forecourt, with an ornamental garden and a drive that led down to a small plage, a place of tiles and seats and a limpid pool. But the private road led on, swung to the left and seemed to plunge headlong into the rock wall. So there had to be a gate, a way through and out into the road. That much was obvious, and he would have come to the gate had he gone on about ten minutes longer down the road. The implications were disturbing. This place was a fort! Only one way in, if you discounted the sea. And that meant there was also only one way out. A good agent, no matter how valiant, likes to know the way out if he has to run.

Solo looked again at the palace, and sighed. Hitching round his "camera" he rested it on a rock and ran out the telescopic lens. If this was Thrush it looked less like it than any place he had ever seen. It was like the concretization of somebody's fairy tale whim. Still, it had to be studied and he proceeded to do that. His acquaintance with architectural styles was meager but he knew enough to guess that this edifice was not of any particular style or period but the work of many hands and various whims. Getting a pinpoint focus he began raking the front, floor by floor. Spires, battlements, and then balconies—and not a sign of life anywhere. The light was against him, so that he couldn't have seen into any of the rooms had he wanted to. But all at once he caught a brief flash of movement and trained his lens back to one of the upper balconies.

There! Something moved, sharpened under his gentle fingers into a slim arm, a hand that moved and clutched something white and fluttering. A sheet, or a towel. In the next moment someone stood up and stretched in a luxurious yawn. He fingered the zoom wheel and the picture ballooned rapidly. A woman, turning now to look down and kick something away clear. She turned again and set her hands on the balcony edge.

Solo held his breath. He was no voyeur by choice, but this was a picture to be filed in memory for the sake of it. This was Countess Louise herself as few men could have seen her. Off-guard, unaware of observation and totally unclad, she was like some ancient Greek goddess come alive. Midnight-blue hair caught the sun and shone in a halo round her face. The same sun caressed the magnificent swells and curves of her shape, a shape that any model would have traded her soul to own.

A cynical voice at the back of Solo's mind told him that this woman was a cosmetic surgeon, that the curves were probably artifice, but the part of him that looked through his eyes denied it. This was artless perfection, and innocence. Caution tried to remind him that she was deadly dangerous, but caution was wasting its time. His hand slipped and he swore as he gently nursed the lenses back into line. He saw that she had moved a step or two, to stand by a curious dark object on the balcony wall. Just in time he realized what it was and ducked, turning away and sliding his camera around so that it was out of her sight. A telescope! He should have guessed she would have such a thing. Feeling her eyes on him he swung his head and went through the motions of staring at the scenery. In a while he risked a look in that direction again, and she had vanished out of sight.

He sat and pondered, hard. In the course of a highly exciting life he had learned the virtue of knowing when to run, but he had never learned to like doing it; nor did he now. This place was dangerous. That woman was dangerous. She had just caught him snooping. So his best bet was to depart from there, speedily. But he argued with himself.

"So I run!" he muttered. "Then what? On an island this size, where is there to go?" Having spiked that argument he went on to justify himself. He was playing the part of an irreverent and hard-necked tourist, wasn't he? All right, then, so he was snooping. What could be more natural? Why not carry it through? After all, nobody had taken a shot at him—not yet!

He sat still and surveyed the domain he had come to see. His gaze traveled down the front of the building, to the forecourt and grounds, along the path to the plage, and then on to the seafront itself. This was almost directly below him. Here someone had built two pier arms of stone faced with marble out into the sea so that they almost enclosed an area of about an acre of the lazuli-blue water, making it a natural pool. Or a harbor? There was a stone stairway rising out of the water that would be ideal for disembarking from a small boat. Then his eyes found something else.

One of the walls had been built onto the rock spur where he sat; close to that wall, floating but tethered, was an airbed. On the airbed was stretched a slim shape. Another woman. He didn't need his telescope this time to confirm that he was regarding a delectable picture as different from the first as it was possible to get. Blonde—so it had to be the cook-housekeeper.

He secured the camera into its disguised form and set away to scramble down the side of the rock until he could stand on the wall and walk along it. The nearer he got the more he was convinced that he had never in all his life seen a cook who looked like this one. The two scraps of pastel-blue fabric that stood between her and Eve would hardly have made him a handkerchief. The areas thus revealed were golden brown, with all the exuberant loveliness of youth. 'No more than twenty-five,' he estimated. 'Which is kind of young to be a chef; but she could come and cook for me, any time!'

By the time he stopped walking he could have reached out and touched her. But he didn't. Instead, he used a moment to get back his breath and dignity, then, putting on his best nasal tones, he said:

"Hi, there!

She snapped awake so suddenly that the airbed teetered dangerously and it looked as if her bikini was going to get wet. Her eyes were blue, and widely indignant as she glared at him.

"Who are you? How did you get here? What do you want?"

"Whoa, now!" he grinned. "One at a time. Matter of fact, I was looking for a castle. I thought I'd found it, but now I'm not so sure."

She stared again, breathing hard. "A castle? What do you mean, you were looking for a castle? Have you lost one?" As he listened, he guessed that she would have a nice voice in more favorable circumstances. By the sound, she came from somewhere very close to the Mason-Dixon line. He poured on the wide-eyed charm.

"That's neat. Have I lost one, hah! Do I look like I would lose a castle, always supposing I had one to lose?"

"You look as if you could lose just about anything, including your way. I don't see any road stretching away in back of you. Is it your habit to stroll casually over mountains and into private property?"

"Private?" he queried, and she extended her long arm to point. He looked and saw what he had guessed, a pair of heavy iron gates barring a tunnel cut through the rock.

"Private!" she repeated, and he shrugged.

"I didn't see those. I could see the road going straight on down to the sea, and no castle. I knew it had to be hereabouts someplace. But I don't get it. There isn't a thing in the guidebook about the Achilleion being privately owned. Since when?"

CHAPTER THREE

Now her blue gaze grew so sharp that he could have used it for shaving. "You," she said, "are either a stupid fool or a terrible liar. Which is it, Mister...?"

"Summers. Nathan Summers. You don't leave me a great deal of choice there, Miss...?"

"My name is Winter. Katherine Winter."

He grinned. This was an unexpected bonus and he grasped it quickly. "That's one for the book, isn't it? Summers—Winter! What d'you know! And what a chilly name for a pretty—er—warm-looking kind of person. Doesn't suit you at all."

She thawed a little, but not much. "You still haven't answered my question, Mr. Summers. Let me put you into the picture just a little. In the first place, this is not a castle. The only castle I know of, in this region, is in town. This is a palace. There is a difference. In the second place, this is not the Achilleion. Frankly, I do not see how anybody could possibly make such a mistake as that, especially someone with a guidebook. And in the third and most important place, this is private property, and it says so, clearly, on the other side of those gates. Now, Mr. Summers?"

"Three strikes and out," he admitted cheerfully. "You certainly make me sound like a Grade A cluck. But look at it from where I am. In the book it says the Achilleion is about seven or eight miles south of town. So I walk. It's a nice day and I like walking. But after a while I begin to wonder. I know you don't expect to see signposts stuck up in the middle of the road saying 'This way to the Achilleion', nor would you look for a palace—or a castle—right there beside the road. But there has to be some signs of life! And I had walked just a bit more than I bargained for. So I suspected it was tucked away someplace. Then I saw a side-road. So I wandered a little. And I was right. It certainly is tidily tucked away! But now you tell me this isn't the Achilleion at all! Now what kind of a deal is it when somebody owns a palace, private?"

"This is the Argyr Palace," she told him, very firmly. "It is the private residence of the Countess de St. Denis."

"Oh, sure!" he nodded in heavy irony. "You're a beautiful Princess and she's the wicked stepmother, and I'm a knight in shining armor, only it's all enchanted and doesn't show until I kiss you and break the spell. Where have I heard that story before? And you're not doing it right, you know. You're supposed to be shut up in a tower, on bread and water. Come off it, sister. The Countess de San-whatsit—that's French. I don't want to be thought bright, but I do know that much. And this is Greece. What are you trying to hand me, hey?" He turned to look at the candy floss palace and then came back to her again. "Or are you trying to cover up? What is it, a laughing academy for the better class dim domes?"

"A what?" she demanded, completely baffled.

"You know, the kind of place you put rich Uncle George in when he starts thinking he's a turkey and laying eggs all over the place. You know, a rest-home?"

"Mr. Summers!" She was scandalized. "Do I look like a wardress in a lunatic asylum?"

"No. Nor even an inmate," he told her enthusiastically. "I don't know you well enough to tell you just how you look, to me. But what you do not look like, one hundred per cent for sure, is French aristocracy. Nor do you sound like it. For that matter, you're no Corfiote, either. You are as American as I am. Your turn!"

"I have never tried to suggest that I am anything but American—not that it is any of your business. I work here. I manage the domestic side of her ladyship's affairs. If you must know, I'm a cook-housekeeper. And I have no intention whatever of losing my job through indiscretions with you. May I remind you, for the last time, this is private property. I think I had better escort you to the gate and out." She reached for the mooring rope, hauled the airbed in close, and accepted his helping hand to step up and out onto the wall. This close, she smelled like some new kind of perfume. Solo allowed his expression to dissolve into chagrin.

"I do believe you're not kidding. Are you? This is for real, the Countess and everything?"

"Of course!" She stepped past him and began to lead the way, very decoratively, to the path.

"Look," he pleaded, following her, "I didn't do any harm. All right, so I'm a fool, but maybe I could meet the Countess and explain..."

"I hardly think so. Madame sees very few guests, and those only by special arrangements. Her desire for privacy is quite genuine."

"Squashed again. Miss Winter, I have to apologize to somebody, just to prove that I have nice manners. How about you? You can't cook-housekeep all the time. When's your night out?" They came to the tiled stretch, and she stopped to gather a pair of rope-soled slippers, then, as she came erect again, she sighed.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Summers. I had hoped to avoid this, but I'm afraid you really are in trouble this time!"

Following the direction of her gaze, he saw a curious little vehicle coming rapidly towards them from the Palace, along the grey-black roadway. It was silent, rubber-tired, with a double-seat in front and a locker-box behind, looking some thing like a golf cart. One glance sufficed for the vehicle. The occupant deserved more, and got it from him. Solo studied her openly as the cart purred right up to them and stopped. The beauty that had warmed his eyes at a distance lost nothing at all by being seen close at hand. If anything, it was enhanced, and, for once in his long and adventurous career, Solo found himself face to face with a woman who defied all his attempts at analysis.

He could, and did, catalogue the details. Her hair was so black as to be blue where the sun caught it, and her eyes were so dark as to be almost the same color. Her complexion was the hue of fine honey. Her shape, a combination of bountiful curves and willowy slenderness, stopped just a breath short of exaggeration, and should have seemed outrageous, but didn't. And that was where the magic started. He had seen all these bits and pieces before, on other women, and they were in no way unique, nor was her wisp-of-white bikini a new experience to him. But there was something in the way all these things went together that made this woman considerably more than just the sum total of all the parts.

There was a glow, he thought, that wasn't just on the surface but came from some power source deep down inside her. And, though she stood quite still once she had dismounted from the cart, he had the sensation of seething motion, in the same way that a spinning flywheel only looks as if it is standing still. Insanely, he felt sure that if he touched her he would feel a shock! Then, becoming aware that he was staring at her, he drew a trembling breath and manufactured a smile. The lady looked right through him then turned her head.

"Kate, who is this man and what is he doing here?"

Her voice matched her looks and set the seal on the whole of her. It was a full round contralto, like a cello-string bowed by a master hand. Solo suppressed a shiver, remembering the warning, 'This woman is dangerous!'

"I'm sorry, Madame, I really don't know. He says he was looking for the Achilleion, and was under the impression that he had found it."

The dark eyes swiveled back to Solo, and now they really had fires in them. Scorn infused her lovely face.

"The Achilleion? Bah!" Emphasis agitated her curves alarmingly. "You must be a simpleton, monsieur, or a fool, to mistake my palace for that dreary museum of relics. Kindly regard it!" She flung a hand, a slim arm, to point. "Does it look like an ancient Greek monument?"

Solo struggled for composure. This was the contact he had hoped for but never really expected to make so soon or so easily, and now, just when he needed all his wits, they were tangled.

"Your palace?" he queried unsteadily.

Miss Winter came to his rescue. "Mr. Nathan Summers, you are speaking to the Countess Anne-Marie Louise de St. Denis!"

Solo had no need to pretend his distress. He could feel the sweat standing out on his face. Hoping that his dazed expression would pass for typical title-worshipping humility, he mumbled:

"Gosh! A Countess! A real live French Countess!"

The vision smiled suddenly, and it was as if someone had put a match to a torch—and cast light into a dark place. It was a vivid and beautiful smile. He struggled to make words.

"You'll have to excuse me, your ladyship. Gosh, I'm honored, real honored!" He offered his hand. It was ignored utterly. He looked at it and let it fall again. The Countess laughed, and all at once his mind was full of parallels. Just like this Poppaea might have laughed at the first announcement of Christians-to-the-lions week. Or Helen of Troy at the big launching. Or Salome... Solo brought his imagination back from the images and tried to be calm.

"You are surprised, Mr. Summers?" she challenged. "First you cannot tell the difference between an old castle and my own beautiful palace, and now you are confused because I am a Countess and I look just like any other woman. Are you always so deranged as this?" It was open mockery, and just what was needed to snap his wits into their more normal efficiency. His smile came easier now.

"It's just not my day, I reckon. But honest, how could I know it was the wrong place until I'd seen it? Soon as I did, I suspected it was wrong. As I told Miss Winter here, it's not a bit the way I heard."

"It is perhaps not so good?"

"Ah now, I didn't say that. How can I tell? I haven't seen the other place yet. I'll say this: if it's better than this it sure must be someplace!"

"Mine is better," she told him flatly. "You understand such things?"

"I'm no expert, but I do have an eye for beauty, of any kind. And I hate to contradict anyone, but you don't look just like any other woman."

"You think I am beautiful, yes?" She threw out the challenge openly, but he grinned and took it, appreciating that she was trying to keep him in the wrong. The candid type. He could be candid, too.

"Put it this way," he said, frankly. "I don't know all that many titled ladies, not to be familiar with, but I reckon you'd beat them all. In a way, it's a crime..."

"What is a crime?" she demanded quickly, as he paused. "Oh, nothing. Just the way you're hid out, here. On a remote little island, and tucked away in this palace, and, so Miss Winter says, you have very few guests. That's all wrong. What I mean, if I hadn't stumbled on this place by accident I would never have seen you. And just think what I would have missed!"

It was a critical moment. Had he piled it on a bit too thick? This woman was no fool. Had she seen through him? After a pause, her smile gave him the answer. He could have used it for any welding job.

"So gauche," she said. "But so sweet, too. I like you. And yes, sometimes I have guests. You will come to dinner this evening."

"Ah, now!" He put up a protesting hand. "I wasn't fishing..."

"Zut! Say no more. It arranges itself, and it pleases me. A Frenchman would have used twice as many words and meant less. You will come. I will send the car for you. Where?"

"I'm at the Palace," he told her, then laughed. "I mean the Palace Hotel, of course. You're very kind. Formal?"

"Quoi?" She was momentarily baffled, then nodded. "You mean, shall you dress up in a stiff shirt? But now you look comfortable. Why change? I shall be the one to dress up. You shall see!" She wheeled away from him with out a further word, moved to the back of her vehicle and lifted a lid to pull out a bundle of fleecy white towels which she dropped on the tiles. Turning back to him she put out her hand.

"Now I shall swim a little before dejeuner. And I shall look forward to this evening. Au 'voir, M. Summers."

It seemed only natural to take her hand and raise it to his lips, so he did that. She seemed pleased.

"Alors, Kate!" she said. "You will take the cart and give M. Summers a ride up the hill as far as the main road, yes? It is not right he should walk so far on such a hot day!"

It wasn't all the heat of the day, he thought wryly. Solo realized he was perspiring freely as he settled beside Miss Winter in the double front seat of the cart. Employing his handkerchief, he said:

"She is quite a girl. Was that me, or is she always like that?"

"She's impulsive, but I never knew her to invite a perfect stranger to visit, like that. Just what is your game, Mr. Summers?"

"Whoa now!" he sighed. "Don't let's start that again. I already told you…"

"You've tried to tell me that you are just a casual tourist looking for the Achilleion and that you found the Argyr Palace by accident."

"And?"

"I don't believe you. For just one thing, you're carrying a camera, but you didn't attempt to take any pictures!"

"So what do you think I am?" Solo offered her the chance to talk, wondering what was in her mind. In his own was the strange awareness that this girl was every bit as lovely as the Countess and yet totally different in her presence. She exuded a pleasantly warm glow, whereas the other one tended to make a man boil. Odd stuff, chemistry!

"I think you're a fortune hunter," she said, quite positively. "Her ladyship is extremely wealthy, very beautiful, and a widow."

"And what are you?" he wondered aloud. "Part-time guard dog?"

"That's uncalled for!" she snapped. "But, if you must know, I'm safeguarding my own interests. I have a very good position here, and I intend to keep it. So, I ask you again, just what are you after, mister?"

The trundling cart came now to the large steel gates. Miss Winter got down to operate a push-button that sent them sighing wide open, then she rejoined him and the cart purred out into the road, making a left-hand turn uphill.

"Seriously," he murmured, "I've done a lot of things in my time, but marrying a woman for her money has never been on the cards for me. You said she was a widow?"

"Four times!" she said, with just a tinge of malice.

"There you are! I'm not about to become the fifth, at anything. But, and I wouldn't kid you, I am curious. You say she has money. How? Did she marry it?"

"Not all of it, no. She owns the St. Denis laboratories, in Paris. And she is a world famous cosmetic surgeon!"

"Hah!" he said, pretending surprise and enlightenment. "That's where I've heard the name before. Cosmetic surgeon? So that's where she gets the Cleopatra shape from."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Miss Winter retorted sharply. "That shape is her own. At least…"

"The whole point about cosmetic surgery," he pointed out, "is that you can't tell the difference. For all I know, you may be one of her best customers, or a sample product."

"How would you like to get off and walk?" she invited icily, and he stifled a grin at the fury in her voice.

"No offence intended, honest. Only making the point that if it is expertly done you can't tell the difference. All the same, though, I don't see how she could do surgery on herself, so I take it all back. Anyway, you're just the cook-housekeeper, nothing else, eh?"

"Absolutely nothing else. I have no connection with her business and I mind my own. I would advise you to do the same, Mr. Summers."

"Call me Nathan," he invited. "I have the feeling you don't trust me, Kate. I wish there was something I could do to convince you that I'm on the level."

She halted the cart with the main road just in front of them and turned to him, a curious expression on her face. Then she got down and waited for him to follow, so that she could point.

"You can't go wrong from here. It's that way. Mr. Summers... Nathan, there's something I can do, if you'll promise me you won't get any wrong impressions. It's the only way I know for telling a good man from a bad one. May I?"

"Go ahead." He eyed her warily. All at once she surged close and threw her long arms around his neck, capturing his mouth with hers. By the time she released him they were both breathing considerably faster.

"Did I pass the test?" he demanded, and she sighed.

"I think so. I'm not absolutely sure, but whatever you are up to, it can't be all that bad!" With that she spun round and climbed back into the cart, sending it purring away back down the little road, leaving him standing with a frown.

After awhile, he started back for the hotel, walking slowly and struggling to shuffle his ideas into some kind of rational pattern, but he hadn't quite succeeded even by the time he had reached his hotel and was sitting on his bed. He had one thing in common with Katherine Winter. He wasn't quite sure what she was up to, but he was sure it wasn't all bad. And yet she was up to something. Whoever heard of a Frenchwoman with an American cook?

For the rest of his mental ingredients he had less assurance. He stirred them and shook his head at the suspicious flavor that came off. He had confirmed, definitely, that Countess Louise was highly dangerous, but not in the way he had been led to expect. With her looks and that built-in volcanic appeal she could have charmed birds off a tree, but that she was crooked, or evil, in the Thrush sense of the word, he found hard to believe. And yet, he reminded himself, there was Stanton. She had got him, somehow. Or had she? Perhaps her function had been no more than as bait for a trap? In which case he needed to think hard about the unexpected invitation to dinner. He was still thinking it over as he used his radio to get in touch with Waverly. Number One, Section One was not pleased to hear the account.

"You have disobeyed my cautions, Mr. Solo. I went to a deal of trouble to warn you that the woman was dangerous, yet you've walked right into her coils."

"Hardly that, sir. I'm reporting from my hotel room. I'm not 'caught' in any way. And look what I've got. The lady has taken a fancy to me, invited me into her 'home."

"Walk into my parlor!"

"That's possible, of course, but I can't see why. She doesn't know who I am. In any case, if it is a trap of some kind—well—vainly is the net spread in the sight of the bird. I'm not going into this with my eyes shut, after all!"

Waverly snorted irritably. "Mr. Solo, I am aware that your attitude towards a pretty woman is that of an angler towards trout in a stream, but one of these days you are going to hook a shark. And this could be the day. I'm aware that you're forewarned, and that you are resourceful, but you should bear in mind that thin ice is not dangerous except to those who insist upon skating on it. I strongly suggest you consider evading that invitation to dinner."

"I'll see what turns up, sir," Solo said, and put his instrument away with a wiry grin. It was indicative of Waverly's state of mind that he 'suggested' rather than 'ordered'. It was a difficult situation. Solo recalled the Countess and her dazzling smile, and felt a tiny chill. But somebody had to take a chance...and when would there be a better time?

CHAPTER FOUR

DR. SUSAN HARVEY, making a bid to deal with growing frustration, took up the glass cover of a petri dish and began, quite unnecessarily, to polish it with a tissue. Tilted at the correct angle, and with the dark gloss of the laboratory bench to back it, the glass made a good mirror. She studied her reflection carefully. Objectively, putting aside silly modesty, she knew she was attractive. Her pale blonde hair, cut short and shaped to her head, gleamed silkily. She had on the minimum of effective makeup, all she needed. She had a shape, too, although the laboratory smock didn't do much for it. Still, thought irritably, I'm not a hag! So why?

She shifted her gaze to stare offendedly at the sober-faced straw-haired young man who sat opposite her at the bench. Why? For all the effect she was having on him she might well have been just part of the equipment! Didn't he ever relax and become human? As if stirred by her thought, he chose that moment to look up from the volume he was studying, and met her gaze with eyes as blue as her own, staring at her impersonally. Instantly she felt foolish and confused, and as hot as if she had just been dropped into a warm bath. His words came blurrily over the roar of blood in her ears.