Текст книги "The Corfu Affair"

Автор книги: John T. Phillifent

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 8 страниц)

On the other side of the door Katherine Winter inhaled a deep and unsteady breath, her head whirling. Out of the confusion, one thing stood firm. No matter what that nice C.I.A. man had told her, she was determined to find out more. And this very night, too. There was something very queer going on here, and she was not going to sit by any longer and pretend not to notice. She was going to snoop, so there! And then, all at once, she remembered her professional duties. The dinner! Aghast, she fled for the kitchen on stockinged feet.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THAT dinner was a knife-edged and nerve-wracking business. Solo had to call on all his resources, to remember just how he had been before with Louise, and to play his part right, yet not to say too such, because Katherine the innocent was present. Quite unnecessarily, he was formally introduced to the other guests at the table. He could have named them offhand, from his memory of the files at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters.

One, a large blond beast of a man, was Willy Bulow, big boss of all Thrush activities in Scandinavia. He could have won a part in any Viking movie. Another was Felix Brassant, a rat-faced elder who had most of the seamier side of Marseilles in his pocket. It was quite a gathering.

While he was playing his part, Solo was haunted by an inner vision, of Thrush satraps all over the world spreading and growing under the influence of men like these—the word passing round that Countess Louise had slaves for sale. Perfect slaves. Tailor-made androids like Adam there, who waited on them at table as impassively as a Greek God come to life. And the hard-eyed men would come, like these, the way others had before them. And they would depart again, each with his precious slave. And each with a thing in his skull, not realizing that when the moment came, Louise would push the button and they would all be slaves. Her slaves!

He was glad when the meal came to an end, when Katherine rose and excused herself on the time-worn old plea that she had to be up and about in the morning early. She departed. The rest of them congregated in that spine-chilling room where Louise had arrayed her samples, the row of cabinets, each containing an inanimate but perfect human being, just waiting the call to stir into life and obey. Solo felt his nerves wind up as tight as piano wire. From here on he had several things to do, and they had to be done just right, in the right order, and not one could be missed.

For a start, he stood obsequiously by the door to hold it open while the others stalked in. Then, exactly as he had gambled, Louise waved him away from the door, shut it herself and turned the key in the lock. The movement of that key shattered a tiny capsule of corrosive fluid he had inserted while standing there. Within a minute or two that lock would be useless junk, no more than an ornament. Where her secrets were concerned, Louise had an understandable passion for locked doors and no interruptions. Solo knew that. He also knew what was about to happen, if he could work it, and he had no intention of being locked in that room in that event, not if he could avoid it.

Her next move was to wave them all to be seated while she left them for a moment.

"Only into the next room," she explained, with a glittering smile. "I must prepare for the operation, you see. Also to get my instruments—and my cash-box. Napoleon, darling, you will stand by this door, and see that none interrupts."

It was all said lightly and with a smile, but there was no doubt in any mind present that Louise had not the slightest intention of trusting any one of them, except, possibly Solo himself. She wouldn't, Solo mused, go even that far, if she hadn't been convinced that he was under her control. So, by the time she came back through that door, and locked it, it also was useless as a precaution.

In any case, the Thrush four were in no mood to notice small details. Louise had prepared herself for a spectacular, as always. She had stripped herself of all clothing, and wore only a small white apron with pockets. Under each arm she carried a small steel box. She stood a moment to meet their wide-eyed stares with a haughty lift of her chin.

"Are you all so naive?" she demanded witheringly. "When one has a perfect body, there is nothing to be ashamed of. I am proud of mine. I do not care who sees it. Were you so well-designed, you too would be proud to show. Remember this. Perhaps, afterwards, you will come to me and let me do something to correct your defects!"

Then she marched to the head of the table.

Solo stood back, grinning to himself. She had the whip hand all the way, now, and she didn't even try to be gracious. She planked the boxes down, put her hands on them and eyed the audience coldly.

"This will be done as I say, so attend carefully. I have here the sets of matched modules. You will pay me for them now. When you pay, in turn I will present you with a pair. Then you will select the slave you wish from my collection. Then I will insert one module into the slave's brain, you will keep the other. When that is complete, then I will perform the insertion operation on each of you in turn. That way there will be no mix-ups, no confusion. Have you any questions?"

Solo had used this moment to edge gently away towards the window, which was heavily draped. Bulow grumbled an objection.

"I do not like this idea, that I am to be helpless while you do a something to my head, You so obviously do not trust us, madame. Why then should I trust you?"

"That is a perfectly fair question," she said patiently. "Always it is asked, and always I make the same reply. See—" and she spread her arms widely in deliberate exhibitionism, "—I am unarmed and helpless. You are four. I operate on you one at a time. If I do something wrong to one, the others will kill me, isn't that so? So simple!"

"That's all very well," Scortia agreed. "But what about the choice? Suppose we are not satisfied with any one of these?"

"You jest, signor," she retorted. "There are twelve, all perfect, all colors, from fairest blonde to darkest brunette, and one redhead. What more do you want?"

Solo waited, tensely. He had seen this pantomime before. The Thrush men were inventing reasons to avoid the cranial operation, that's all there was to it. And Louise, in her way, was a skilful psychologist. She knew.

"You think it is not worth it, perhaps? Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, here and now?" None of them wanted to admit that, so she pressed her point. "Very well, then. You will pay me. And then we shall see."

Bulow made it first. "All right!" he growled, and produced a thick wad of engravings of President Cleveland. "You want to count it?"

"Of course!" she said sharply, and proceeded to do just that. This was the moment Solo had waited for. There is some unholy fascination about the sight of a large wad of banknotes being counted. All eyes were on the flying fingers of Countess Louise, none on him. He drew the drapes very quietly, eased open the window just beyond, took something from his pocket and dropped it, then closed the window again. Now he took the drapes and deliberately made a noise with them. Louise brought her head round instantly.

"What are you doing, Napoleon?"

"Warm in here," he said. "Thought I'd like a breath of air."

"Certainly not. Shut the curtains at once. If you are warm then remove some clothing. Look at me, I'm quite comfortable!"

"That's the understatement of the year," he grinned, but jerked the curtains close in time to shut out the blue glare that was beginning to show outside. "You may be comfortable, but it is just that which is making me warm. You don't realize—"

"Silly!" She dazzled him with a smile. "Of course I realize. You come here and stand by me while I finish counting this money. Come!"

Shrugging, he sauntered over to stand beside her. She looked up at him, still with that dazzling smile.

"Napoleon," she said, very sweetly, "I love you. You are my man and I want to be kind to you. But you must realize that I am in charge, here!" And without any warning at all she swept her free hand round and across his face with a slap like a pistol shot. It was almost as effective as a punch.

"There!" she cooed. "Now remember!" And she returned to her counting as if nothing had happened.

High on a rocky outcrop away to the south of the palace Illya Kuryakin saw the flare and went into immediate action. Daylight survey was now about to pay off. By his side was a sturdy line thrower. He braced it now, aimed carefully by the flare, and pulled the catch. The harpoon-like rod thumped and leaped away into the gloom, trailing a fine line after it. Dropping between two crenellations on the palace roof, on impact it grew a fan of vanes that effectively jammed it as he hauled taut. Leaning on it, he made his end fast around a rock spur.

A moment later he had mounted a tiny trolley on the bridging cable. He settled into the dangling leather straps, tried his weight, then pushed off, to go silently gliding and bobbing away into the gloom, heading for the pink and white palace facade. By the time the white wall was close the blue flare was almost directly beneath him. As he checked his flight and started lowering down, the flare sputtered out altogether. He got his feet on a balcony wall, balanced a moment, then jumped down. The stink of gunpowder was very strong. He secured the trailing ends of the hoist, drew his pistol from its waterproof holster, and advanced to the dark window on bare feet.

Katherine Winter believed far more firmly in the value of beauty sleep than ever she did in her titled employer's surgical tricks. Any other night but this she would have long ago drunk her regular nightcap of cocoa and cream, and would have been asleep within minutes. This night she hadn't even made her brew. Instead of the shortie nightdress that she preferred, as being much more comfortable than pyjamas, she had chosen to climb into her all-in-one jersey-knit cat suit, which she kept for doing her early morning exercises. Had there been anyone present to ask her, she would have said she was ready for anything that might happen.

But she was soon half regretting her impulse to snoop, as her enthusiasm waned. Wriggling her feet into sneakers she eyed the flashlight on the table and wished there was some honorable way in which she could just forget the whole thing and go to bed.

But she couldn't altogether dismiss the conviction that there was something queer going on. The C.I.A. gentleman had told her not to get herself involved, but she couldn't lean on that, not after all the talk about U.N.C.L.E. and her discovery that all these people were on the other side.

Even the Countess, she thought, standing up and seizing the flashlight. And that nice Mr. Summers, now Mr. Solo. He had changed, somehow. She opened her door and tiptoed out into the dark, frowning to herself over that minor mystery. He had been nice, at first. Then she had got at him, and he had changed in some queer way, and become not nice at all. And now, somehow, he was nice again. It was so confusing! She hesitated a moment in the gloom, then set her teeth and went tiptoeing away. She knew exactly where Madame's private rooms were, and that's where it would be, if there was anything weird going on.

The palace, with all its nooks and passages and shadows, seemed strange and different by night. And so quiet! No matter how hard she tried to breathe quietly, her breathing seemed loud, and she was sure her heart could be heard hammering yards away. She came to the foot of a flight of stairs which led where she wanted to go.

Gulping a shaky breath she started up. At the top she was in a dim-lit passage full of shapes and shadows. She knew quite well the shapes were only some more of the nudes Madame was so fond of, but they seemed to leer at her and grin in the gloom. She came to the door, and put her ear to it nervously—and almost died, there and then, as she heard the most hideous scream she had ever heard in all her life. It ripped the silence to shreds, turned her blood to ice water. Then came a quick snapping shot. Then the scream sounded again, followed by a boiling string of vituperation in fluid French. Katherine tottered away from the door, pressed herself to the wall and tried to melt right into

Illya Kuryakin heard the first scream as he was putting his hand to the catch of the window. He froze dead still. He heard the shot. On the second scream he twisted the catch, flung the window open and went through on the run, low and fast. There, backing away from the table and spitting curses, was a naked black-haired Venus clutching a wine bottle in her hand. Her curses were aimed at Solo, who had his back to the far door and was on his toes, gun in hand, alert for anything. The crashing open of the window triggered off the whole spring-tight situation, Four grey-faced men around the table jerked into sudden violence. The woman hurled the bottle. Solo flung himself aside to dodge it.

That move got him out of the way of a bullet. Kow Li Chang swung and leveled a heavy bore pistol at Kuryakin, who snapped a shot back at the same time. The heavy bore boomed like a cannon in the room, Kuryakin felt the breath of that bullet by his cheek, saw the Chinese lean over and sprawl, to slip from his chair. Then he went down and over in a furious roll as a shot from Scortia tore the air where he had just been. That bullet dug white splinters out of the parquet floor. Still at the table, Felix Brassant drew a careful bead on Solo, then coughed and sagged forward as Solo's shot got home first. Bulow, up and away on his feet, plunged for the door, snapping off a shot as he went. Scortia waved his gun anxiously, seeking Kuryakin, who came out from under the far end of the table and snapped a fast shot that rocked Scortia back and must have struck a nerve, for the Italian went down with his trigger finger crooked, and the gun in his hand bellowing shot after shot until the clip was spent. Solo whirled and took off after Bulow.

Outside, Katherine molded her soft curves to the wall and prayed for sanity. The screams, shots, the uproar, all conspired to paralyze her mind, her heartbeat, her breathing. She dwindled into the shadow of a statue as the door was flung open, spilling yellow light. Out came the big blond man from Scandinavia. She saw him run for the top of the stairs. He had a gun! Mr. Summers-Solo came rushing out of the door now, and he had a gun too. The blond man heard him, spun round and. fired. Solo ducked back frantically and the heavy-caliber bullet ploughed into the doorframe. Solo bobbed out again, fast and in a low crouch. Skidding to one knee, he aimed and fired. Bulow stiffened, half-turned, the gun in his hand roared once more.

The bullet struck the statue where Katherine cowered, making an oddly liquid "plop". The statue rocked and fell. So did Bulow, backwards, in a sack-like tumble down the stairs.

Silence rushed in, seeming to echo and reverberate after the clamor. Solo climbed to his feet, dusted off his knees, and sighed, then headed back into the room. Kuryakin saw him come in, through the blood-haze in his eyes. In a moment of carelessness, two steel-like hands had closed on his wind-pipe from behind, and he couldn't hold out much longer.

Squandering all his remaining energy, he heaved up, swung his arms forward, then slammed them back, elbows first, into solid flesh. The grunt of response was welcome. So was the momentary relaxation of that stranglehold.

Tearing free, gasping for breath, he spun round, raised his hand and brought it down like a hammer, with the pistol butt it would do most good, on Adam's bowed head. The Greek statue-man went down heavily, then started doggedly to get back up again. Kuryakin, laboring for breath, took careful aim and slammed down another hammer blow. To his astonishment, it needed a third to put the man out for keeps.

"One of the Countess's own make, I think you said, Napoleon?" he puffed. "She certainly designs them rugged. For a while there I thought he was going to tear my head off!"

"You all right now, Illya?"

"All down one side, yes." Kuryakin worked hard to catch up on his breathing while he cast a calculating look around the scene of carnage. In a moment he said, "Maybe I'm wrong, Napoleon, but I can only count up to five!"

"And all this time I thought you were a smart Russian!"

"All right, how many do you make it?"

"Eh?" Solo, suddenly alerted, ran his eye over the bodies and made a quick count. "Bulow down the stairs. Scortia. Brassant. The Yellow Peril and the android. My God, where's the lady herself, Louise?"

"Perhaps she just crawled right back into the woodwork?"

"And that isn't nearly as funny as you think, old man. If she has, we are going to have one sweet job trying to winkle her out. This crazy palace is stiff with secret passages."

"I suppose she's not actually here, among the asserted bodies?"

"Those, you mean?" Solo indicated the sprawled and lifeless 'samples' that were scattered at all angles in the background. "Won't take a moment to check. Give me a hand and we'll stack them back in their caskets." As they labored at their grisly task, he explained what had happened.

"She started in to activate all this lot against me, you know. That was a near thing. I didn't know she had all of them already primed with her own modules. Of course, the ones I brought were fake, as you know. When the Thrushes had paid up, all nice and willing, and made their choices, I thought it was time to make my play, so I broke loose, went over to the door, drew on them, and started in telling them some home truths. Naturally, she grabbed for her bangle-charms and tried to turn me off. And it didn't work. That's what made her scream, the first time. Then, like a flash, she hit a master switch of some kind, and all these lovely ladies came promptly out of coma and started for me."

"They look—and feel—real enough," Kuryakin murmured, as they stood the last one peacefully upright in her velvet-lined box.

"They are real, so far as the physique is concerned. But just bodies. No minds. Even Adam, there, hasn't a lot of wit. Just enough to do a few routine chores. As you saw, he didn't even have enough sense to lie down when he was clobbered. That was what threw me. I couldn't have shot them down!" Solo straightened up, dusting his hands and recalling that queasy moment. "It was sheer luck that I thought of snapping a shot at that control box of hers. And that, of course, stopped them cold. They just fell over. That's what made her scream again. She's over the edge, Illya. Jumped the tracks!"

"Not," Kuryakin said quietly. "to the extent of forgetting to take the money with her. At least, I don't see it anywhere."

"That's a point!" Solo scanned the room rapidly. "It was in a box, and that's gone too. A million bucks!"

"A nice round figure. Napoleon, you did say there is no other way of getting out of the palace, except from the front?"

"Right. That's why you had to fly in."

"Very well. She has the cash. She won't leave without it, and you can't stuff a million dollars down the front of your dress the way you do in the movies!"

"Especially the dress you don't have on. You are a smart Russian, after all. You step out on to the balcony and flash the yacht. I'll mosey down to the hall and put all the lights on, courtyard and everything. We're going to need help with the bodies in any case, but so long as we make sure she can't hop it, we can take our own time ferreting her out. This place will have to be gone over inch by inch in any case."

CHAPTER TWELVE

KATHERINE WINTER heard this extraordinary dialogue as if in some hideous nightmare. The stricken statue had fallen sideways, pinning her to the wall. Its nude weight felt rubber somehow, not a bit the way she expected a statue to feel. Not marble. It felt alarmingly like a real body. A dead body. She kept quite still, not at all sure whether she would ever be able to move again. Rolling her eyes, she saw Solo hurry out of the door and go trotting busily downstairs. Her bemused brain finally delivered back to her the idea that the other man would be out on the balcony, flashing some kind of signal to that yacht they had mentioned. If she was ever going to get away, this was the moment. She concentrated, sent messages to her arms and legs, took a deep breath, then collapsed again as she heard a rustle and click from the darkness close by.

So near to her left hand that she could have reached out and touched it, the solid-seeming wall slid back to reveal a dark chasm, and then a face peered out. Just one breath earlier, Katherine would have sworn piously that life could hold nothing more terrifying than what had just happened in the past few minutes, but when she saw that face emerge and catch the light, all previous starts and shocks paled into trivia. She stared. She wanted to scream but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and her throat dried into sand. If she had not already been leaning against the wall, she would have folded up on the floor.

It was Madame, the Countess Louise. And yet not. The flawless lovely features were the same, but those lovely lips were drawn back over gleaming teeth in a smile so evil and sinister that Katherine's blood ran like ice. And the eyes glittered with a light that had nothing of sanity in it at all. Deep in its throat the beautiful evil vision laughed, and it was an insane chuckle that Katherine was to remember all the days of her life, a cackle of complete insanity. The rolling, peering eyes swept the gloom, lingered for a terrifying moment on the shadows where Katherine trembled, then moved on. The head emerged further, followed by the classically perfect body, the dim light spilling over the naked curves. For some odd reason, the very perfection of that figure made the whole business seem even more horrible to the petrified watcher. She saw Louise pad away like a pale cat in the gloom, and she knew there was more evil yet to come.

She sagged back against the wall and tried to put her scrambled ideas into some sort of order. Solo, for instance, now seemed to be on the good side again, and she found a moment to be glad of that. But what had the bad ones been up to? What had Solo meant by making the bodies come alive? Surely—and chills chased themselves up and down her spine as the thought shaped itself in her mind—surely he didn't mean these statues? Could they really be made alive?

Katherine shivered, and peered with wide eyes as large men came tramping up the stairs and went back down again carrying bodies. Then she saw a slim fair-haired man in brief blue swimming trunks come out of the door. He had a leather harness that held a gun and a torch. One of the other men spoke to him.

"Is it all right if we dump these in the hall downstairs, Illya? Doc Harvey wants to take a look at them before we haul them out to the yacht."

"She came ashore with you?"

"Downstairs right now, waiting."

"Women! I told her to stay put until everything was clear. We have enough trouble on our hands as it is. I'll go down and talk to her. We have to remember that the Countess is still loose, and dangerous."

The little knot of men moved to the top of the stairs. The one named Illya paused to look down and call out.

"Napoleon, what about the cook-housekeeper? We haven't seen anything of her, and she must have heard the racket."

"Kate? I don't know about her, Illya. She went off to bed right after dinner. She has her own room over in the West Tower. It's possible she never heard a thing. Louise reckoned to keep her nighttime cocoa laced with sleepy-bye powder. But you can't believe that. She may be one of the zombies, for all I know. Either way, she won't bother us any."

"Maybe not, but she could be in danger. What if Louise grabs her as some kind of hostage...?"

The voices dwindled as the men went away down and round a corner, leaving Katherine on her own. She was in a new quandary. She heaved the leaning statue away from her, then herself away from the wall, and stood on very shaky legs, trying to decide what to do next. Where to go?—with that crazy woman roaming about, and all those tough looking men with guns! And bodies!

From somewhere came a last flicker of curiosity, sparking her to steal as far as that door and peer inside. It was quiet now, but the smell of gunsmoke was strong. She dared herself to go in, and to gape at the silent array of lovely, lifeless bodies. These were not statues. She knew that at once, by some instinct. They were real creatures, and very beautiful. She went on further, into the small room next door. It told her very little. It was full of stuff that looked like radio sets and signaling equipment. And it went nowhere. She wandered back into the main room, wondering why U.N.C.L.E. should be so interested in all this. What had Madame done?

Then, in instant terror, she heard footsteps and voices and people returning. She had to hide. But where?

Napoleon Solo scowled, rubbed his jaw ruefully and tried to smother mounting irritation as he and Kuryakin escorted Susan Harvey up the last flight of stairs to where the carnage had taken place. For once in a way he was inclined to share his colleague's disapproval of interfering and unreasonable women.

"Look," he said, with long-suffering patience, "I know you have a professional interest here. I appreciate that. You've seen the tanks where she used to grow the bodies. You've seen the layout. Now, you say, you want to see the finished article. All right. But please remember that we, too, have a professional stake in this. Remember, Susan, that you are not a field agent, and that we are. Remember that that woman is still loose, and that she is dangerous. Incidentally, her cook-housekeeper companion is loose too, and may be just as dangerous as she is. This is no place for you. Now why don't you take yourself quietly off, back to the yacht, let us get things cleared up here—and you can examine the androids all you want—"

"Right now!" she insisted, stubbornly. She had thrown on a towel wrap over her bikini, and she plunged her hands into the pockets of it now. "I want to see the androids as they are. I want to see the control mechanism. If possible, I'd like to activate one—"

"You're out of luck," Kuryakin told her bluntly. "I took care of that. I'll show you. The switchgear is in here, for the heavy stuff. That little control box is only a relay. I can follow it fairly easily from the diagram we had. Look, I closed this breaker, and these switches, and blew a heavy charge through the whole range."

"What did that achieve, Illya?" Solo inquired.

"This is designed to be tuned in on any or all of the modules. I set it to cover the lot, and then blew them. That means there are no longer any android slaves working for Thrush."

"Hey!" Solo was struck with sudden inspiration. "That could also mean that all the Thrushes who have bought androids have also—stopped working. Couldn't it?"

"It could. And I am not about to lose any sleep over that, either. So there it is, Dr. Harvey. There's nothing left to see."

"Was it necessary to ruin the whole thing?" she demanded angrily

"I think so." He met her blue-eyed stare with equally blue-eyed determination. "I think this is one secret that is just as well forgotten!"

All at once she shrugged and turned away, to go back to the table and sit. "I suppose you're right, Illya. They are beautiful." She looked at the mute line of motionless figures.

"But they would pose some really terrible problems. Would they really be people, with rights and privileges, and emotions, and all the rest of it—or just property?"

"It's a tough question, all right." Solo sank wearily into the seat by her side. "I doubt if we are qualified to answer it."

"That's why I took it on myself to destroy the stuff." Kuryakin came to settle in the seat on the other side. "Slavery always is a problem, and this one—" His words cut off as a hideous cackle came from somewhere near, and by reflex he started to move. But the chrome-steel bands which clicked out of the chair were faster. With quiet strength they looped and clicked, one round his chest, one round each ankle, one round his left wrist. The right wrist, complete with pistol, was free.

He squirmed round frantically as far as he could, trying to get a line on that insane voice, a glance showing him that both Solo and Susan were totally trapped. His quest was vain.

As he wrenched himself round an empty bottle came down with crushing force on his wrist, to send the gun flying. The bottle rose and fell again, this time on his head. By the time the bells had stopped ringing in his skull, Louise had moved out and round, facing them across the table.

Kuryakin shook his head just once more, tried his bonds, and then settled for a bleak stare. So this was the famous Countess Louise! Never before had such stunning loveliness been regarded with such scant appreciation. She was totally nude, and even in her mania there was an inherent pride, a panache about the way she held herself, as if she knew that she was without flaw and good to look at.

"An animal!" Kuryakin muttered. "Madame, you do well to discard all clothing. Primitive animals have no need of it."

Something of his chill contempt seemed to strike through the fog of mania in her mind. She stiffened, glared at him, then bared her teeth in an evil leer at Solo.

"You don't think so, dear Napoleon. Do you? You loved me once!"

"Under compulsion," Solo retorted, his voice thick with revulsion. "You had a knife in my brain. It's not there now."

The lovely face contorted, swung aside to Susan. "You! Interfering busybody! Conceited, too. I have been listening. You think you are a good-looking woman, don't you? Look at me, and despair. Look at my lovely creatures and think again. And you, Mr. Kuryakin. Oh yes, I know you. I know all the U.N.C.L.E. agents by sight. Your precious organization is going to be short of three valued members when this night's work is done!"