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

Автор книги: Michael Avallone

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 9 страниц)

A dry hollow laugh came from behind the mask.

"You are correct. I haven't come for games. Just information. And perhaps, conclusions. Don't waste my time or the little time you both have left. I want to know all that has happened at Uncle Headquarters. I seem to have misplaced Mr. Zorki and his dear brother. They didn't keep an appointment with me. I don't like that. Perhaps you can ease my mind for me."

"Maybe, but I wouldn't bet on it."

Mr. Riddle elevated the nose of the gun. The Frankenstein mask leered. The gun made a low, coughing sound. No more audible than a low sneeze in a movie house.

The gloved right hand hardly recoiled from the force of the shot.

Joanna Paula Jones tried to cry out. She couldn't. The china and the silverware never left her fingers as she slumped to her knees, mouth open as if she were trying to say something. She pitched forward on her face like a crumpled rag doll, contorted into a travesty of the bubbling energy that had dominated all her actions heretofore.

Mercifully, April could not see the small, round hole in the very middle of her forehead. The cold, cruel inhumanity of the murder might have sent her flying at Mr. Riddle, clawing and screaming hysterically. Now, she could only stare mutely at Joanna Paula Jones' huddled figure on the floor, praying it had only been a combination of flesh wound and utter fear that had caused the collapse.

"One down," Mr. Riddle said coldly. "Talk now, Miss Dancer."

Send One More Coffin

"Are you Egret, Mr. Riddle?"

"Why do you care about that?"

"Because it will clear up a lot of loose ends, you dirty bird." April held herself in check, hand tightening on the raised coffeepot which was beginning to get heavy.

The Frankenstein mask seemed to consider her suggestion. The concealing suit of man's clothes which gave Mr. Riddle the appearance of a very thin person stiffened slightly.

"Yes, I am Egret. I let Arnolda appear to be the head of an enterprise to free Zorki so that I wouldn't have to deal with her hirelings too closely. After all, my identity is important. But that is all ancient history." The gun rose higher, centering on April's heart. "Tell me now about Uncle."

"It's all over, Mr. Riddle. Or Dr. Egret. Zorki and his stooge were shot down over the East River. I suppose you arranged the helicopter routine. Well, it's just something for the junkyard, now. As is the Great Zorki's claim for life everlasting. I guess he didn't figure on what flames and smashing up his bones could do to his little formula. You can't breathe life back into wrecked merchandise, can you?"

"So. It is done, then." The Frankenstein mask twitched, for all its rubbery solidity. "Wilder is dead then, too. I'm sorry about that. Most convenient man to have in your Headquarters."

"I don't wonder." April readjusted her hold on the coffeepot. "The great Egret. If you're going to kill me, do me a favor."

"A favor? To you? You are a ridiculous woman. For all your bright eyes and ingenuity, I always thought so."

April shot a glance at Joanna Paula Jones. A chill ran over her. She didn't like the complete and utter lack of movement of the girl. For a moment, she was about to blurt her fear, but she bit her lips and stared back at the mockery sitting in the plushy chair of the living room in her own home.

"Don't you want to trade, Egret? I want to live too. I'm still young. Still interested in life, men. You hold life cheap. I know that. Well, I have news for you. I'll sing my head off if you'll give me that chance to live."

"You're stalling. Buying time. But I don't see why. Even if a miracle occurred for you now, it would do no good. One flick of the trigger and you're dead."

"Okay. So you won't deal. Shoot and be damned. Stop making me crawl. I won't crawl."

"I know you won't, Miss Dancer. I am not toying with you, I assure you. I am considering that you're either a fool for certain or you are in earnest. You could be valuable. If you sincerely meant your proposition."

"Try me." The coffeepot was getting heavier and heavier.

"Tell me," the Frankenstein face leered, "where Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin are as of this moment."

"Rangoon. We heard you people were thinking in terms of some kind of infernal ray. A death-machine that could throw a beam some thousands of miles away and melt stone and steel structures. Dr. Kim O Tang is in Rangoon. Solo and Kuryakin were sent there two weeks ago to see if they could protect him or destroy the machine."

"That information is correct," Mr. Riddle, or Dr. Egret, agreed. "One thing more. You will explain to me the entire setup of the Uncle operation in Europe. For that, I could spare your life."

"All right. I'd have to draw it up, though. It would take a lot of time—"

"We have all night, Miss Dancer." The silenced-gun leveled on her face.

"Okay. May I put this coffeepot down please? It's a ton, now."

"Set it on the table there. No tricks, I beg of you. One false gesture, even if I misinterpret it, and you are a dead woman. Remember that."

April nodded, too happy with her reprieve to do more than comply. In situations like these, time was the most important consideration in the whole wide world. Time in which things could happen, somebody could come, the doorbell could buzz, the phone could ring. The building could catch fire. Oh, yeah. Oh, maybe.

Mr. Riddle's gun followed her toward the coffee table, a few feet away. It was a large circular table, inlaid with a mosaic of tiles representing a clown's face. April had picked it up in Greenwich Village on one of her bargain-hunting shopping trips.

She set the coffeepot down. Her fingers were numbed from holding the hot thing aloft for so long. Riddle-Egret mumbled in the mask. "Sit down in that other chair, across from me. Slowly and with great care."

April sank into the plushy partner of the chair in which her captor sat. The nose of the gun still bored in on her. Mr. Riddle would have to be the world's worst shot to miss her at this range.

"You didn't kill her, did you?" She nodded toward the crumpled figure on the floor.

"Forget her. She's of no use to anyone, anymore."

"So she's dead. That poor kid—"

"We were talking about you cooperating. Not about the pitiful twists and turns of a spy's life. Now, as to pencil and paper. Where are they?"

"There's writing equipment in the drawer of the nightstand by the lounge. Shall I get it?"

"Stay where you are. I will. I'll kill you if you cross me, Miss Dancer."

"I've no doubt of that."

The Frankenstein head loomed out of the chair. The ill-fitting suit, concealing the woman's body, moved across the red carpet toward the stand that April had indicated. It was no more than a yard or two from Mr. Riddle's chair. Sober, walnut-hued drawers mounted on three curved legs. Atop was a small, shaded lamp composed of a bronzed Cupid shooting an arrow at lovers the world over. It was a favorite of April's.

Mr. Riddle stepped to the nightstand, gun trained on April, and clasped the metal handle, tugging outward. Which was the wrong way to open that drawer if one really wanted the writing equipment that was inside. The trick was to depress the handle first before pulling it out. But Mr. Riddle didn't know that. Mr. Riddle was an enemy, not a friend.

For instinct, the Frankenstein masked intruder was a marvel. He-she seemed to sense that something was wrong almost before it happened. April tensed in her chair, ready to spring, but waiting for the death shot from Mr. Riddle's gun.

There was a puff and an explosion. A thick cloud of gas instantly surrounded the Frankenstein head. Mr. Riddle fell back, and turned the gun toward April. But too late. The noxious, irritating vapor closed in like a well-directed swarm of bees. April now at last leapt from her seat, thanking the Gods and U.N.C.L.E. for the inventiveness and genius that provided such hidden weapons for the agent-at-home.

She chopped a karate blow at the Riddle neck, just where the mask ended in a rubbery spread. Her left hand sliced down on Mr. Riddle's gun wrist. The weapon went sliding across the carpet. Mr. Riddle grunted something, it sounded like a curse, and the long arms folded about April Dancer's middle, as Mr Riddle pulled away from the black cloud of smoke. Actually, the ridiculous child's mask had saved him, even if it had created the necessary diversion.

April could feel the rounded, woman's body beneath the ill-fitting clothes. There were fullsome curves to Egret-Riddle. But now was no time to count discoveries. The Frankenstein mask rammed into her face, trying to butt her profile to pieces. April twisted out of the way and Mr. Riddle fell down, kicking long legs. April sailed over like an acrobat, hurled across the lounge, coming down on the carpeted floor with enough force to break her back. But she had doubled herself properly. She came up on her feet, standing, breathing hard.

Now, a long knife appeared in Mr. Riddle's gloved hand. The awesome figure charged toward April, the knife flashing. April dodged and Riddle swept on by her. The dim lights of the room played over the weird combat. Joanna Paula Jones' huddled, silent corpse bore witness.

It was that age-old, ancient cliché, a duel to the death. But April had no weapon. No protection save her training, and her skill.

Mr. Riddle charged, knife tip forward and a yard of April's dress, at the right shoulder, tore apart with a ripping noise. Riddle chuckled behind the mask. "He" drew in again, more slowly this time, the knife making wide, slashing arcs.

April feinted with her right arm, as if to throw a punch, then heeled over, lashing out with her left leg in an approved maneuver of the Japanese kendo school of battle. It worked. The toe of her shoe caught Riddle's knife blade and sent it spinning. Exultantly, she closed in on the bogus man monster and threw a half nelson around the Frankenstein mask-head. She wrenched. Riddle swore again, pulling loose. The mask came away in the crook of April's arm. Mr. Riddle fell back toward the windows, the gloom of the drapes shadowing the head of the man-woman called Mr. Riddle. The man-woman who was really Dr. Egret.

April stood her ground. There were only the draped windows now. And the lounge. She was between Dr. Egret and the door. Both women stood, panting, waiting for the other to make a move.

"Come on, pretty face," April cried, hands ready. "Let's see that puss of yours. I want to remember it. You're not going anyplace this time, lady."

She saw the peach-fuzzed outline of Dr. Egret's head. The erect carriage of the beautiful, chiseled face, whose features she could barely discern.

"Your round, Miss Dancer," Dr. Egret breathed in a fierce, low whisper. "But again you underestimate me."

"Do I?"

"Yes. You will never take Egret prisoner."

"We'll see about that—" April, who had been edging forward, charged. The tall figure at the draped windows suddenly whirled, spread the crimson drapes and leaped to the sill. April cried out, arms reaching. The figure of Dr. Egret, was limned, like a window dummy against the glass. Beyond her, the darkened building across the street rose like a tower in the night sky.

April clawed out. But Dr. Egret launched herself through the panes of glass, arms raised to protect her face. She disappeared with a crash, falling safely to the sidewalk below. April stared out the window unbelievingly.

She swore at herself bitterly as she watched the tall, flying figure of Mr. Riddle—Dr. Egret take off down the street, under full sail. The shadows of the night followed the peach-fuzz head and the flopping man's suit of clothes. Now, windows were running up, lights going on. A man's voice yelled for quiet. April drew the crimson drapes and walked back into the living room, still holding onto the grotesque Frankenstein mask.

It was lousy to lose this way. Lousy to let a big one like Egret wriggle off the hook, fly the coop.

When she saw Joanna Paula Jones' body, she moaned.

And a second later, after checking the pulse in the limp wrist, she sat right down on the floor and cried.

A good, long woman's cry.

The kind she had not indulged in since the day the news had come about her father.

Dammit, she was being female. No doubt about that. But how else was she supposed to feel when a nice, harmless, sweet young thing was murdered in front of her very eyes and there wasn't one thing she had been able to do to prevent it.

Not for all her special training, special equipment and extra-special intelligence.

At that particular moment, she would have traded it all for Joanna Paula Jones' sitting up, opening her eyes and saying, "Hi, fooled you didn't I?"

But she didn't.

She never would.

The dead do not pop back like that.

Bye, Bye, Egret

The restaurant was a good one. Off on a side street in the Twenties. Dim lights, quiet waiters and a pleasant Musak arrangement that filtered soft, subdued melodies over the room. Mark Slate had found them a fine table somewhere in the rear. The cuisine was French and the veal cutlet had been exquisite, but April Dancer hadn't had much of an appetite.

"If you're not going to eat, April, then drink at least. How about another Gibson?"

"Make it a double."

"That's better."

Slate motioned to a hovering waiter, made a sign with his expressive fingers and then reached for his cigarettes. He extended his case to April. It was silver, quite flat and unusually heavy for its size and shape.

Mark Slate lit her cigarette for her with another silver lighter, also heavy. His smile was rueful.

"If I ever press the wrong latches on these things—" He laughed and then frowned. April was staring moodily into her empty glass.

"Old stick-in-the-mud," he protested. "It wasn't your fault. None of it."

"She was with me. I should have been smarter. More careful. I knew Riddle-Egret was still on the loose, didn't I?"

"Fortunes of war. You aren't responsible for maniacs like our Thrush friends. Nor can you be held accountable for mishaps and the normal amount of human error. I didn't see Waverly scolding you. In fact, he's quite pleased the way matters worked out. They didn't get Zorki, did they?"

"And we didn't get Egret," she said, bitterly.

"Know something, old girl? Next time, you want a nice quiet fun dinner, you go ring up someone else. I should have stayed home and plucked on my guitar."

Their fresh drinks arrived. The olive in April's martini made Mark Slate laugh. "Just not your day, is it? I ordered you a Gibson and you get an olive instead of an onion."

"Figures." She laughed too. "I'll drink it anyway."

"Good show."

They clinked glasses. The music filtered over them, wafting across the room. Yes, it was a nice restaurant, and after all was said and done, things hadn't gone that badly, had they?

She smiled at Mark Slate but suddenly, he wasn't smiling anymore. His keen green eyes had spotted someone approaching their table. His sigh was deep and expressive.

"It's not my day, either, looks like. Guess who just walked into this sunny little place?"

April frowned and turned in her chair, to stare.

Her eyes lit up with gladness.

The tall, clean-cut young man came abreast of their table and stared down at them, a pleasant smile eclipsing his roguish face.

"Well, well, well," Napoleon Solo said in that glib, unhurried way of his. "This is cozy, isn't it? Mind if I join you? Mr. Waverly sent me looking for you. And here I am."

April Dancer couldn't resist laughing out loud.

The dashing rascal hadn't changed one iota.