Текст книги "[The Girl From UNCLE 01] - The Birds of a Feather Affair"

Автор книги: Michael Avallone

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Good old THRUSH. Ready to strangle, beat or kill you at the drop of a snake. The secret organization with roots buried all over the world, just waiting to make their move for world domination.

"You don't believe what I told you," Arnolda Van Atta said coldly, when they had locked Slate's door and April nudged her toward the stairs.

"No," April admitted. "But I'm open to logic of any kind. And I have been known to change my mind. Lady's privilege and all that sort of thing." She didn't comment on the small, irritating mystery that the redhead had no purse of any kind about her person.

"You're a fool," the redhead hissed. "Even if you did save my life."

"Yes. But I'm not a perfect one. After you, Miss Van Atta."

The redhead moved ahead. Tall, vibrant and athletic. Her figure was enviable. April shook her head, watching the sensuous twitch of buttocks beneath the beige skirt. The legs were superb, too. Miss Van Atta was a body built for bed.

As they started down the poorly carpeted stairs, April's sixth sense was working overtime. Not a solitary soul had come running to investigate the explosion of her handbag. That couldn't be right. Something was wrong with such an abnormal amount of things-going-on-as-usual in an apartment house. She couldn't even hear a child squalling or a TV set blasting.

She had her answer before she and Arnolda Van Atta reached the ground-floor level.

There was suddenly a rush of bodies, figures, men, crowding the front door which had been flung open. She stopped on the staircase, pulling Arnolda Van Atta to a full halt by tugging on the cashmere sweater. The redhead blurted "Oh!" and froze a step below her.

Three men stood on the threshold staring up the stairs at them with an intensity that was unmistakable. They looked so curious that April involuntarily raised an eyebrow.

They had fanned out, in a cordon, to block the door. Their faces were grave, solemn, almost animal-like in fixity of purpose. And menace.

A turbaned Hindu stood there. Bearded and imposingly tall like a Sikh warrior, he wore civilian clothes like a uniform.

The second man was a Chinaman in mandarin robes, with both hands out of sight, tucked into long, voluminous purple sleeves.

The third wore the traditional beret, slacks and Basque shirt of the French apache.

Outlandishly emblazoned across each chest front was a gaudy sash of some kind, blatantly advertising ROMEO'S LEAGUE OF NATIONS EXHIBIT.

Talk about the United Nations. This THRUSH threat came in three different languages. April poked the handbag around Arnolda Van Atta's trembling shoulder and waited.

"Stay where you are," the bearded Sikh boomed up the stairwell. "We have come for you too, Miss Dancer."

Death in Three Languages

Arnolda Van Atta whimpered like a nervous schoolgirl. April moved quickly. Before either of the three characters in the doorway had produced a weapon, she had whipped the redhead back, encircling the slender waist with her left arm. Her right hand snaked over the cashmered shoulder, shoving the automatic handbag front and center for all to see.

"Will the real Thrush agent please stand up?" she called down the staircase. "I've got a secret weapon."

The Sikh scowled fiercely at his companions and then leveled his gaze upward. White teeth flashed in his swarthy face.

"What is your friend Slate's life worth to you?" he bellowed in his more than passable English.

"Loads," April said, keeping the redhead from twisting out of her grasp. "But he knows the rules. No bargains with the competition."

The fantastic trio had approached the foot of the stairway. They now stood a mere seven steps from April and Arnolda Van Atta. The apache, a tawny, lion-faced man with an Errol Flynn moustache was poised as though to spring. The Chinaman, a bland and inscrutable cliché, smiled almost happily. The Hindu laughed harshly, his spade beard wagging.

"You will not shoot in cold blood. You are too scrupulous. As are all soft-hearted, weak Americans."

"Don't count on that," April leveled coldly. "Our soft hearts disappear when dealing with rats. Now, all of you, over against the wall. Quick, now. I must remind myself to report this apartment house to the police department. No sense of civic duty and pride. Not one head poking out of a doorway to see what's going on."

"The building is surrounded," the Sikh said simply.

"Sure. And so was Custer. But he took quite a few Indians with him. You want to try for a last stand? Back, I said."

She edged Arnolda Van Atta down the stairs ahead of her, flourishing the handbag gun. The outlandish trio moved to the side wall, raising their hands slowly. Even the Chinaman had unsleeved himself. Arnolda Van Atta stumbled once, falling back against April. She could feel the hard metal band of a wristwatch or bracelet of some kind scrape the soft skin of her left hand.

The redhead cried out. In fear, in apology. April growled and followed her down the stairs.

And suddenly, swiftly, the lights of the hallway began to flicker and coalesce in alarming waves of shadows. April swore under her breath. It was too late now but she realized what had happened. Grimly, she flung Arnolda Van Atta violently from her tight hold. The redhead sprawled headlong to the floor of the hallway, white legs flashing. April sagged against the wall, raising the automatic handbag. Even as her numbed fingers tried to do something about blasting away at the Sikh, the apache and the Chinaman, she knew with a sinking sense of doom that she wouldn't be able to—

Their faces and figures wavered before her, tilted alarmingly and then blackness rolled in. It was in this negative state of mind that her eyes closed and she toppled on the stairs, unconscious. The black tam on her head rolled down the steps.

"Quickly," the Sikh barked. "There is little time left." The apache and the Chinaman galvanized. They clambered up to April like agile monkeys, straightened out her limp figure. The Chinaman hurriedly produced a roll of poster-size paper from beneath the folds of his purple robes. Arnolda Van Atta rose stiffly from the floor, evened out her skirt and sweater and red hair with quiet, almost majestic satisfaction. A hard, cruel light shone in her green eyes.

"I thought I'd never get the chance to needle Miss Uncle," she remarked tersely. "She never let me get close enough."

The Sikh glared at her. "How is that? You could have hidden a dozen places in that apartment."

Arnolda Van Atta's eyes glinted with fury. "Small matter of a snake nobody mentioned to me, my friend. This woman saved my life."

"Snake?" The Sikh was too busy with the manner in which the Chinaman and the apache were preparing April Dancer for the street. "Speak plainly."

"No time now," the redhead snapped. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"Wah, Missy Sahib," the Sikh boomed, no courtesy evident in his tone despite the title of honor. "Hurry, you two!"

So it was that five minutes later, passersby on East Twelfth Street were treated to one of the odd sights of the day. People stopped to stare, gawk and wonder, shake their heads and move on about their business. It was the sort of thing one could expect in these sickening times of national crisis and world unrest. What with young men burning their draft cards, civil rights mobs picketing City Hall, anything could happen in New York, and very usually did. What could this be but one more way to state an opinion—or advertise a theatrical enterprise.

Still, it was a lulu, all right.

A Chinaman and a French apache character carrying the body of a very American woman. As though she were a corpse. Her body was as stiff as a board. Ahead of them, stalked a majestic Hindu, turban, beard and all. At his side walked a strikingly beautiful redhead. Tall and proud. The body of the American woman was tented with one of those sandwich-board posters so that the same message could be read from either side of the street:

WAKE UP, AMERICA!

OUR BOYS ARE DYING IN VIETNAM

SO ARE CIVILIANS!

WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?

The curious quintette, boldly proclaiming the presence in town of ROMEO'S LEAGUE OF NATIONS EXHIBIT, but not saying exactly when or where, turned down a side street and approached a large blue panel truck which was parked in front of a store that sold typewriters. The flat sides of the truck also advertised the fact that ROMEO'S LEAGUE OF NATIONS EXHIBIT was an enterprise on wheels.

Within seconds, just scant strokes of time away from the advance of one very inquisitive cop on the beat, the group had entered the truck and driven off. The redhead and the Hindu were seen to sit in the cab of the vehicle while the Chinaman and the apache entered the rear with the woman who was playing the role of the corpse.

The driver of the truck was an enormous Negro with visored chauffeur's cap and tremendous brown hands that dwarfed the steering wheel.

"You took your time, snake charmer," he rumbled crisply to the Hindu. "We may get a lecture about this delay."

"Drive," the Sikh commanded coldly. "We have succeeded and no one will quarrel with that. Not even Riddle."

Arnolda Van Atta flung him a sideways glance. "Riddle? When did he get in?" Her lovely, classical face became a mask of surprise.

The Sikh laughed hollowly, pleased that he had piqued her interest.

"Riddle is the answer to everything."

Romeo's blue panel truck merged with the flow of traffic on the East River Drive and headed North. The water lay like unbroken glass in the pale sunlight.

The driver hummed a Dixieland tune as he played with the wheel.

On the hard wooden floorboards of the van, April Dancer lay inert. The powerful drug which Arnolda Van Atta had injected into her hand via the platinum wrist watch, kept her drugged and unconscious. Her lithe figure was as supine as a felled tree.

The apache had relieved her of her handbag, personal effects, and even her bra (without having had to undress her). The bra had proven to be of black silk with a curious flexibility. The apache was certain that it was as innocuous as the other secret weapon. There was no telling until certain tests could be made.

The Chinaman was industriously examining a hand grenade—an American make, U.S. Army M-1. He handled the grilled, egg-shaped object deftly as his slanted eyes regarded the shapely beauty at his feet. A flicker of male interest shone in his expression. The apache leered at him, and pushed an expressive thumb ceilingward. Both men smiled at each other and continued with their own private business, and thoughts. On both sides of the panel truck, a veritable arsenal of weapons stood on view. More grenades, Thompson submachine guns, land mines and an amazing amount of drums and ammunition bandoliers. The blue panel truck was a veritable armory on wheels.

In the cab, the Negro driver still rumbled his disapproval aloud to the Hindu leader of the operation.

"Riddle, huh? Then you'd better make your story twice as good, Swami boy. Riddle doesn't like to be kept waiting on everyone to make his next move. You know what a fanatic he is on Chess. Knight to Queen Three and all that jazz."

"My name is Bora Singh," the Sikh said caustically. "You will do well to remember that. I do not care for nicknames."

"Sure, sure," the driver chuckled, winking at Arnolda Van Atta. "Bora Singh. That and fifteen cents will make you head of THRUSH some day."

Arnolda Van Atta folded her arms and stared straight ahead. She said nothing. Her green eyes were far away and remote. Bora Singh lapsed into a hostile silence. The driver hummed his Dixieland tune again.

The blue panel truck whipped on toward the Bronx.

Mr. Waverly controlled his nearly feverish impatience and studied the teletype streamer once again. The yellow ribbon of communications felt like a hot potato in his lean fingers, and was more indigestible for a man in his position to swallow. Section IV, Intelligence And Communications, had rushed the message to his office as soon as it had come in.

It was decidedly unpleasant reading matter:

IF YOU WISH MARK SLATE BACK ALIVE, WE AGREE TO EXCHANGE HIM FOR ZORKI. A FAIR TRADE IS NO BARGAIN. CONTACT GRAND CENTRAL STATION, LOCKER 705, FOR FURTHER DETAILS. NO LATER THAN MIDNIGHT TODAY.

MISS EGRET

There it was. No doubts about it. A plain black and white swap. Agent for agent. A valuable agent like Mr. Slate for the Great Zorki. The information about Slate had come over the teletype thanks to a suit of brown clothes being left by the pressing iron in Del Floria's tailor shop downstairs. So THRUSH knew about that too.

And Miss Egret was involved again. The mysterious Miss Egret. Sometimes, Dr. Egret, many times, a mysterious, faceless woman who could assume a wealth of disguises. The range of her operations and triumphs for THRUSH was simply incredible.

Egret. The most dangerous bird in the wide spectrum of the THRUSH aviary of espionage.

Mr. Waverly frowned at the tiny watch on his wrist.

April Dancer had not put in an appearance yet. The events of the morning and early afternoon had left the usually implacable head of U.N.C.L.E. in a highly charged state. For once, he had found no comfort in fondling his world collection of pipes. It made one almost take up the foul tobacco habit again.

Oh, U.N.C.L.E., Where Art Thou?

"Wake up, April," a familiar voice said. "You look a sight."

Somebody was speaking in a low, unhurried voice. It was a gentle sound, for all the wryness and sarcasm in the words. Like the soft wash of sea water against a friendly shoreline. Yet, there was a penetrating quality to the voice. A dispassionate strength as subtle as cold steel. This, as well as the familiarity of the voice, made April Dancer open her eyes.

"Good morning, Mark," she said cheerily, long before she was even able to assess her condition, position and senses. "For a time there, I thought you'd gone back to the British."

The room swam into focus. The mocking, intelligent features of Mark Slate bobbed into view like an apple in a dunking game. She saw now the lank sandy hair, the sensitive eyes and the mobile mouth. Slate's handsomely rugged face blurred for an instant, then filled out. A photo developing in a dark room. April blinked, shaking herself. Beyond Slate's face, she made out the outlines of a wall where it met the ceiling. She struggled for a second, separating what had happened from what was happening. She had a vague memory of a nasty redheaded woman with an assortment of United Nations villains. A Hindu, a Chinaman and an apache. The stairway. The needle injection from whatever Arnolda Van Atta was wearing around one wrist. Clever. She groaned and sat up. Wasn't too bad. Must have been a drug like Sodium Pentathol. She had no after effects, save a great lethargy.

"Heaven or Hell?" she asked; they were in a blank, four-walled cubicle devoid of all furnishings. Behind Mark Slate stood the framed square of a doorway.

Slate smiled and she saw for the first time that he was wearing nothing but a T-shirt and boxer shorts. The shorts were firehouse red—typical Mark Slate flamboyance. "All good agents decidedly to to Heaven, April. Since we are not dead, this inevitably is purgatory. What happened to you?"

April stared down at herself. They had reduced her to her unmentionables. Black silken panties and the matching bra. But something had been done to the bra. She could feel the difference. It had been de-activated; the tensile fabric which could be reformed into a fine line of spun steel that could have supported a grand piano had been removed.

"The dorm at Radcliffe was never like this," she sighed. "Disgraceful the way they treat the opposition these days." She smiled at Mark, glad at least that he was still alive. "You, first." She had no compunctions about Slate seeing her garbed in her underthings. The big brother demeanor of the wry Briton was still all too plain.

Slate shrugged. "Simple. There was a knock on my door. A redhead entered, jabbed me with a hypodermic needle and here I am."

"I met the witch. She jabbed me too. Do you know Arnolda Van Atta? Nice name for a witch, isn't it?"

"Is that milady's name?" Slate's expression was bleak. "We hardly had time to make introductions. I did so want to make her a cuppa."

"Why did you let her in?"

"She had a most persuasive calling card, beside her red hair, green eyes and that smashing figure of hers. A .45 caliber automatic."

April stood up, flexing her muscles. Apart from the slight chill and demoralizing state of dress, she felt no ill effects from the drug. "I see. Wonder what she did with the .45? I didn't see that on her. Mr. Waverly sent me looking for you when you didn't show up at Headquarters." It was useless to go into details about snakes and the UN brigade. "Any idea where we are?"

"Yes. The sunny Bronx. One of my jailers, a talkative Negro, was injudicious enough to mention Southern Boulevard. From what little I know of this delightful borough, that is a main artery of the Bronx."

"Check. Runs North and South." April looked around the room. It wasn't large at all. No windows, no furniture, plaster walls, a boarded floor and the door. The floorboards were ancient. "Well, they took our clothes, including shoes, which leaves me feeling kind of helpless."

"Not quite," Slate whispered, his eyes rolling to indicate the room might be bugged. "I was able to trigger the homing device in my shoe before they undressed me. You see, I was conscious when they entered me in the nudist colony. We came in a blue panel truck."

"That's fine," April said aloud. "Have you any ideas what this is all about?"

"Certainly. We do have Zorki, don't we?"

"The Great Alek Zorki," April agreed. "Their most valuable man in New York. You think a trade is planned?"

"A fair trade, April. Though I must confess I don't know how fair it is. Two of us for him. But wouldn't that strike you as the only jolly conclusion for us not being dead yet?"

"Our friends from Thrush, then?"

"I would make book on it, to steal a very abominable Yankee phrase."

April laughed. "You ought to put on a few pounds, Mark. You look undernourished. Get some of those lady friends of yours to cook some good meals for you." She walked to the wall, running her hands across the plaster. It felt thick and substantial. "This could be an apartment house building. The flooring is the sort that is featured in most of those cheap tenements they crowd the poor into. I wonder—"

Mark Slate, who was really as lithe and supple as an Olympic athlete, looking ready for a javelin throw, eyed her questioningly. April shook her head. "Guess we just have to sit and wait until out jailers decide to powwow with us."

"I would say they are powwowing with Mr. Waverly as of this moment."

April sighed. "Hate to put the old man on the spot like this. You know how he disdains to put his emotions on the line."

"Perish the thought," Slate said grimly. "He'll make no deals with Thrush."

She knew Mark Slate was right. Mr. Waverly, apart from his great respect and fondness for them both, would think twice before making a deal with THRUSH. Especially when the prize was a big fish like Zorki. Zorki was the key to the entire New York organizational setup of THRUSH. Waverly was more than likely to stall and see what could be done about the magnetic homing device in the heel of Slate's shoe. Every U.N.C.L.E. agent was equipped to let Headquarters keep tabs on their whereabouts. A steady electronic blip would register on the large map screen in the Organization Room and all of Security would be alerted. But had their jailers destroyed their clothes? If that had been done, there was no chance left of the troops coming to the rescue. Also, if—

"Lady and Gentleman, your attention please!"

Instantly, they both started, their bodies responding reflexively to the abrupt sound of a man's voice that seemed to emanate from the four walls. Yet, there was no box, no amplifier, no vent or opening through which a voice could be piped.

"This is Mr. Riddle speaking. We have not met nor will we ever. I feel it incumbent upon myself to explain your presence here, and the utter helplessness of your status. I will give you five seconds to adjust your senses to the sound of my voice before continuing with what I have to say."

April stared at Slate. The voice coming from nowhere was friendly and impartial, almost like the bland, emotionless voices one heard at airports announcing flight arrivals and departures.

"All of your clothing and personal possessions have been examined. Therefore, do not hope that any of your devices and gadgets will serve as lifesavers. Alas for you, we have burned your clothing and dismantled all your arsenal weapons. The homing devices and electronic transmitters will gain you nothing, as they have been destroyed. The explosive compounds and jellies which you managed to carry about your person are no more. Most ingenious, I would say, were it not for the fact that it merely duplicates our own inventiveness. Further, I will add, there will be no one coming to see you or talk to you, lest you manage some miraculous escape. You will remain as you are until U.N.C.L.E. agrees to our offer. As you may have guessed, we are arranging an exchange of agents. It should come as no surprise to you that the release of Alek Zorki is our main objective. Since you both had a hand in his apprehension, it is somehow fitting that you should also be the instrument that affects his return to our ranks. Therefore, rest easy, try nothing foolhardy and do stay away from the door of your cell. It is electrically charged and sufficiently high-voltage to render you very dead in less time than it would take to turn the doorknob. I really do hope you will both be sensible and remain patient. If I were you, Mr. Slate, and I were left alone with a woman of Miss Dancer's obvious charms, I should certainly know what to do so that time did not hang heavy on my hands. Au revoir, Mr. Slate and you, Miss Dancer. May we never meet again."

The room was suddenly silent once more. The flat, bland voice had vanished as quickly as it had come.

"Isn't he sweet?" April said, low.

Mark Slate, eyes thoughtful, nodded. "Very friendly type."

April sat down on the floor and looked at the toes of both her feet. Mark Slate did likewise. Without a word to each other, they began to inspect the nails of each of the toes on their feet.

They worked quickly and fluidly, hardly looking at one another. If Mr. Riddle could have seen them, he would have imagined they were quite mad.

"Mark," April murmured, working the thumbnail of her right hand against the big toe of the corresponding foot. "I know how to solve a riddle."

"Roger," Slate chuckled. "But how did your Benjamin Franklin discover electricity, really?"

"Easy. You go fly a kite."

Security had given them the last desperate measure of self-protection. Underneath their bantering conversation, to allay the suspicions of any of the enemy who might be listening—they were both scraping enough polish off their nails to produce five ounces of X-757. This extremely volatile explosive chemical, manufactured by the research laboratory of U.N.C.L.E., was a harmless substance until wadded into a compact ball. Once ignited, it could fuse a steel door into molten metal.

Mark Slate, however, now asked the vital question:

"Can we match that?"

"We," April Dancer said firmly, a humorous light in her warm brown eyes, "shall try."

Bora Singh, his spade beard wagging fiercely, stared across the battered metal desk, at the man sitting there impassively, with hands pyramided together. At Bora Singh's left, Arnolda Van Atta, her flaming tresses gleaming brilliantly in the lights of the room, sat quietly. She seemed to be studying the long, slender fingers of her own hands. Bora Singh was a tower of rage. His turban bobbed as his tall, warrior's body quivered with indignation.

"Are we children that we play games with one another?" Bora Singh was bellowing. "Why must you wear that ridiculous mask? Don't you trust me?"

The man behind the desk, his face hidden by a Frankenstein monster mask, such as are sold in novelty shops all over America, shrugged. The shrug did not match the fixed frozen leer of the rubber monster face.

"Calm down," the man said. It was the same voice which had mysteriously filled the bare prison room that housed April Dancer and Mark Slate. "Control yourself, Singh. Thrush has its own methods. My face is not to be made known to you."

"Riddle," Singh sneered, his dark face contorting as if he wanted to spit across the desk. "Very well, then. But why the delay about Zorki? We have the U.N.C.L.E. agents. Why must you procrastinate?"

The Frankenstein face said nothing.

Arnolda Van Atta shifted in her chair, looking up. Her classic face, so proper for the cover of Vogue or Redbook, became ugly.

"Simmer down, you turbaned hothead. Whose brilliant notion was it to plant that snake in Slate's apartment?"

Bora Singh looked at her. A wicked smile split his beard and moustache, framing large white teeth.

"A diversion. Why not? You will admit it would have kept the Dancer woman very occupied until we returned?"

Arnolda Van Atta's green eyes went cold. "Yes, and it very nearly killed me."

"Who asked you to interfere?" Singh snarled. "Is this woman's work? You should have left the room as soon as you rendered the other one unconscious. Why did you loiter?"

"That," the redhead said, "is none of your affair, Bora Singh." She lowered her eyes and reached into a large, corduroy clutch bag now visible on her lap, as though wanting a cigarette.

Mr. Riddle coughed through the mask. The sound was incongruous, coming from behind the Frankenstein face.

"Bora Singh, you should really not get too excited about these things. Nor must you concern yourself with the movements of the rest of our agents. Surely, you realize that Thrush has many heads, hands, arms and legs. You are but the East Indian representative in this enterprise."

Bora Singh glowered at the rebuke.

"Riddle, I must protest. Since we have all been allotted this Zorki mission, I cannot see why we do not have a mutual share of interest. Was it not myself who arranged this Romeo's League Of Nations Exhibit as a cover for the kidnapping? How else could we have gotten away so easily with two prisoners in broad daylight?"

"Yes, yes," Mr. Riddle said almost abstractedly. "An ingenious piece of work. But now comes the finer, more subtle business of arranging the trade with Uncle Headquarters. I prefer that you stay out of that part of it."

The Sikh wagged his awesome head, eyes blazing.

"And I say I will not! You and the woman here are glory-seekers! You think to load yourself down with honors to curry favor with Central Headquarters. Therefore, I protest. You understand me?"

"Yes," Mr. Riddle said mildly. "I understand."

"Good. And you—" Bora Singh whirled to glare down at Arnolda Van Atta. "What is your decision, Missy Sahib?"

Arnolda Van Atta smiled up at him.

"A simple one, snake charmer. You want a medal and you're going to get a bullet."

Bora Singh blinked. "What's that, woman? You dare to threaten me—"

Mr. Riddle laughed. "Yes, I think that's best, Arnolda."

"Fine," she said lightly, and took her hand out of the large clutch bag. A mammoth .45 Colt automatic, Army issue, seemed to train itself at Bora Singh. For a second, the Sikh stood his ground, then he blurted in fear and tried to run, breaking for the door behind him. He had not gotten further than three feet away before there was a muffled, yet somehow thunderous burst of sound.

There was no nicety about the murder.

The heavy bullet caught Bora Singh in the back of the neck just below where the white border of the turban met his shoulders. He flew against the doorway, propelled by the impact. His hands pawed briefly at the panel before he fell heavily. He was very dead by the time he hit the floor.

Arnolda Van Atta replaced the .45 in her clutch bag. She looked at Mr. Riddle, eyebrows arched.

The Frankenstein mask nodded.

"I rather thought that would be necessary, Arnolda."

"It was," she agreed. "Very. Tell the truck driver to get rid of his body in the usual way."

Mr. Riddle made a steeple of his fingers again.

"Charleston will like that. He didn't care for our dear departed Bora Singh."

"That makes two of us." Arnolda Van Atta regarded her fingernails again.

The Frankenstein face regarded the crumpled mass that Bora Singh's body made on the floor. The mask wobbled as he shook his head.

"It is always amazing to me to see the amount of trouble a man can get into when he doesn't use his mouth judiciously."

"Yes," the redhead said. "It is something worth remembering, Mr. Riddle."

The man behind the mask seemed to shudder visibly. His voice now sounded almost tentative. "Perhaps I should check on Mr. Waverly. He has the communiqué. We should—"

"Get Charleston first and have him move the Hindu out of here," Arnolda Van Atta said quietly, still not looking at him.

"Of course, Arnolda."

She stretched suddenly, raising her long arms, yawning attractively so that her bosom was sharply defined in the cashmere sweater. Her smile was mocking.

"Our friends from Uncle must be very restless with their clothes off. I wonder if they are making love."

"It is a good idea," Mr. Riddle agreed, reaching for an enamel buzzer set in the surface of the metal desk. "One that a beautiful woman such as yourself would think of."

She made no comment to the compliment and studied the right forefinger of her hand. She had broken the bright red fingernail.

Mr. Riddle spoke quickly into the tiny transmitter affixed to the buttonhole of his left lapel.

Within a matter of minutes, the Negro truck driver pushed into the room. His eyes widened when he saw the corpse, then a wider smile eclipsed his cocoa-colored face. An irreverent light twinkled in his eyes.

"Charleston," Mr. Riddle purred. "Put Bora Singh away. Acid treatment, since we don't want to use the furnaces."

"Stepped out of line, huh?" Charleston chuckled. "Knew he would. Too big for his turban. Just like I said. Who popped him?"