Текст книги "The Mind-­Twisters Affair "

Автор книги: Thomas Stratton

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"I don't blame them," Napoleon said. "If I really believed that one of my acquaintances could call up demons, I'd try not to offend him, either. That's about the same impression I got from the newspapers. Most of the articles lent themselves very well to reading between the lines." At her questioning look, he recounted his research into local history.

"I'd forgotten that book," Flavia said, "although Father has two or three copies in the library. He was quite proud of it."

"Did Jabez, Senior, really duplicate the New England mansion?" he asked. "Or is that just another wild story?"

"It's reasonably close, I understand," Flavia replied. "Secret passages and all. Of course, I never saw the original. The New England branch of our family has gone modern and the old house was sold years ago."

"Secret passages?" Napoleon said, pricking his ears.

"Oh yes, the place is honeycombed with them. Weren't they mentioned in that book you read? I'm sure they were in some book. They've never been terribly secret in the sense that nobody knows they exist; they're just hard to locate, even if you know about them. The traditional method of making passages really secret is to kill off all the workmen who install them, and Grandfather never did anything like that, despite what you may read. In fact, one of the family stories is that he included them because he liked to get away from Grandmother now and then. Here, I'll show you."

She walked around the workbench and the blacksmith's forge next to it. Going up to what looked like a solid wall, she began poking at various points. After a minute's experimentation, she stepped back and a three foot section of the wall swung out into the room.

"Amazing," Napoleon said as he peered into the blackened opening. Where does it go?"

Flavia chuckled. "Where doesn't it go? You can reach almost any room in the house through these. A few were lost when father installed central heating and used them for hot air ducts, but there are still entrances in most of the bedrooms, the living room, and the study."

"How about the kitchen?" Napoleon inquired.

"None there. Grandfather said he had a hard enough a time keeping cooks, without providing secret exits for them. But the rest of the house is pretty well covered."

She stepped back from the opening and it slid smoothly closed. As they returned to the center of the room, she asked, unexpectedly. "I don't suppose you have any photos of Illya? I really would like to get him into metal. And besides," she smiled, "I have a feeling it would be terribly commercial."

Napoleon shook his head. "I'm afraid secret agents don't carry photos of one another in their wallets; risky, you know. But I'm sure Illya would send you one if you really want it."

"He has a face that would sell," Flavia said. "I'm sure my agent could get a few hundred for it, at least."

"It's a good hobby that makes money," Napoleon observed. "I didn't realize there was that much of a market for metal sculpture."

"That's why I need an agent; he has contacts with art dealers all over the country. Actually, of course, I don't make a lot of money; there are shipping charges to pay, for one thing." She swung her arm around to encompass a half dozen projects, none of which could have weighed less than a hundred pounds and most of which weighed more. "If I could make a living at it, I'd be in New York. I'll make it, one of these days."

Napoleon stifled a yawn and looked at his watch. "You seem to have the true artistic temperament as regards night-time work," he observed. "I'm going to have a busy day tomorrow with Illya gone. I think I'll turn in."

Flavia nodded understandingly. "I think I'll get started on a bust of Illya from memory, just in case I don't get a photo." She paused thoughtfully. "In fact, it may be better this way. You know how reality never lives up to memories."

Napoleon looked somewhat blank, and departed. Back in his room, he began examining the walls, tilting pictures, and moving the furniture. It took him only a short time to discover that either the bed was more massive than it looked or it was fastened to the floor. After that, it took somewhat longer to locate the two patterns in the scrollwork of the bedpost that concealed tiny switches. A minute later he was standing in an opening that had appeared in one wall when both switches were pressed simultaneously.

The passage was relatively wide and evidently cleaned often enough to keep dust and cobwebs from piling up. It led to a stairway that descended all the way to the basement. At the ground floor level, a passageway similar to the one on the second floor opened off the stairway. There were two connecting passages at the basement level.

Napoleon laboriously followed each passage in turn. At the end of an hour he had discovered absolutely nothing except for some hot air ducts and several miles of electrical wiring and water pipes. Having secret passages running though most of the house, he decided, could be very useful in such everyday matters as electricity and plumbing. And that, apparently, was all this entire rabbit warren of passages was used for. It seemed unimaginative for someone of Whateley's inclinations.

Napoleon was standing quietly in one of the passages, trying to think of a positive course of action, when a sudden noise just behind him jarred him from his reverie. Automatically he turned his flashlight toward the sound and whipped out his U.N.C.L.E. Special pistol. Slightly chagrined to find himself facing a blank wall, he put away the pistol and listened more closely. Obviously, someone was in the room beyond.

Cautiously, Napoleon examined the wall in front of him. The passageways had been designed to allow observation of the rooms. With characteristic conservatism, Whateley had used the old peephole in the picture trick in most rooms – although, Napoleon had to admit, it might have not been such an old trick when the house was built. There were none into this room, however, though there was the usual hidden door.

For several minutes there were no further sounds from the other side of the wall, but Napoleon waited. The only logical room from which to omit peepholes would be the one used exclusively by the master of the house. Coupled with Napoleon's vague idea of his position in the house, this made it seem likely that he was standing just outside Jabez Whateley's study; which in turn meant that the individual who had made the noise a few minutes earlier was probably Jabez Whateley himself.

There was a squeaking noise, like that of an unoiled swivel chair, then silence again. Napoleon had almost decided to give up his vigil and get some sleep when there was a faint buzzing sound. It was a sound he had heard often enough before: the signal tone of a Thrush communicator.

Section IV: "Likewise, Give The Victor A Cheer"

Chapter 12

"I Don't Care If They Flapped Their Wings And Flew"

NAPOLEON PRESSED HIS EAR tightly against the concealed door and tried to breathe quietly.

"Whateley here," a voice from the other end of the wall said. "Report."

The reply over the communicator was too low for Napoleon to bear, but it was evidently unsatisfactory. Whateley's voice came again, sharply.

"You aren't being paid to make excuses. You're being paid, and paid well, I might add, to produce results." Listening to the sepulchral overtones, Napoleon found himself beginning to sympathize with the Thrush underling. There was more muttering from the communicator, but Whateley cut it short.

"I don't care if they flapped their wings and flew away. You were told they were dangerous and inventive, and you were instructed to be prepared for anything. So far, all you've accomplished is to lose two cars and get one driver in jail for attempting to bribe an officer."

The muttering began to take on an indignant tone. Whateley broke in again. "It's nice to know you can do one thing right, at least. Transfer some of those men to – what?" There was some apologetic muttering, and Whateley let out a strangled noise. "On a simple job like that! Do you think I get replacements by magic? Get back to base and stay there; we don't have enough ears left to allow you to be roaming the highways in them. I'll have further orders later."

There was a click as the communicator cover was flipped shut, followed by another squeak of the chair and the sound of footsteps pacing about the room. Napoleon hastily retreated down the passage and up two steps. Whateley was apparently planning his next move; it would be inconvenient if the next move turned out to be opening the secret door of his study and coming face to face with Napoleon Solo. Before there were any such encounters, Napoleon wanted to find the source of the lavender drug. Keeping one ear open for the sound of Whateley's door, Napoleon took out his communicator and softly called Illya.

Illya's response was instant and acid. "Don't you ever go to bed?"

"I'm doing my share of the skulking." Napoleon repeated his discoveries, including the operation of the hidden doors in his room and Flavia's studio. "I'm going to do some further exploring. I'll keep in touch; if you haven't heard from me again by morning, you're on your own. But these passages must lead somewhere." Illya agreed to pass the information along to Waverly.

After concluding the conversation, Napoleon sat down on the steps to think. He was almost certain that these passageways were somehow connected with a Thrush stronghold. It would seem a remarkable waste of available facilities by Whateley if they were not. But where was the connection? He had been over every passage and had found nothing, not even a dirt smudge on a wall that might mark a concealed lever. Of course, any extension of the passageways into a Thrush base would be well hidden, since Flavia said that the existence of the passages he was in was not much of a secret. There was a chance that shadowing Whateley would lead him to something. Unfortunately, shadowing a man in his own house – particularly a house like this – was an extremely risky procedure.

Napoleon stared glumly at the wall in front of him. What else could he do? There had to be an extension of the passages somewhere, and apparently Jabez Whateley was the only one who knew where. In that case, there might be a clue to the secret in Whateley's study. Certainly it couldn't be anywhere else. In fact why couldn't the controls be in Whateley's study? The door controls had been modernized at some time, and all the secret doors he had found were operated by small electric motors controlled by hidden switches. A remote control in the study would make sense; any prowlers like himself could search the passageways to their heart's content without learning anything useful – as he had just done.

He got up from the step and moved quietly down the passage until he was once again outside Whateley's study. There was not a sound from the other side of the wall. He waited cautiously for several minutes until he was satisfied that Whateley had left the study, then operated the manual lever that controlled the secret door from the passageway side. He entered, ready with an explanation if Whateley should, against expectations, be inside. After all, Flavia had showed him an entrance to the passages; now that he was sure that this portion of them was innocuous, he doubted that Whateley would do anything drastic.

The precaution was needless; the study was empty. Napoleon discovered that he had entered the room from behind a section of bookcase which swung out. Another example of traditionalism, he noted. He care fully closed the door and swept the beam of his flashlight around the room. It contained a desk, chairs, the bookcases, what appeared to be the master control panel for Whateley's intercom system, and more of the morbid artwork. A well-worn but comfortable-looking couch stood in one corner.

Napoleon made for the desk, but before he could examine it he heard the sound of muffled footsteps. He started for the door, decided that the footsteps were probably coming from the hallway, and turned back to the room. As the footsteps grew louder, he climbed over the couch and dropped into the narrow space behind it. By now the footsteps were close, but he still couldn't be sure whether they came from the hallway or the secret passage.

There was a click and light spilled across the floor and fell on the couch. Napoleon realized with mounting excitement that it came from neither the hall nor the secret door that he had recently used, but from a different side of the room entirely. The footsteps entered the study. Peering around the end of the couch, Napoleon heard another click, and witnessed a section of wall swing shut. Closed, it appeared to be simply a section containing a large, built-in television screen.

Whoever had come through the wall didn't bother turn on lights in the study. He walked briskly to the desk, opened one of the drawers, and deposited an object inside. Then he left; Napoleon heard his retreating footsteps in the hall outside. They faded to silence.

Napoleon started breathing again and slowly pulled himself out from behind the couch. Deciding he might have very little time, he pulled out his flashlight and approached the desk. A quick search through the drawers revealed what he was after; a seemingly ordinary remote control unit for a TV set. He slid the desk drawers closed and walked over to the TV screen. Considering the haste with which Whateley had deposited the unit in the desk, Napoleon hoped be had not reset the controls.

He was right; the section of wall containing the TV screen swung out smoothly when he pressed the "on" button, and he just had time to drop the unit back in the desk drawer when he heard footsteps in the hall outside. A key rattled in the hallway door as Napoleon ran softly across the room and ducked through the opening. Once through, he reached back and tried to pull it shut. At first it jammed, and he began wondering if he should run and hope that Whateley would think he absent left the door open. But, as the hall door began to swing open, Napoleon's tugs achieved results and the section of wall closed silently. He rather doubted that it latched, for he didn't hear the distinctive click that had come when Whateley closed it, but it was just as well. With Whateley coming through the door, the click of the latch would have brought him into the passageway on the run.

Napoleon drew his U.N.C.L.E. Special and held it ready while he listened through the wall for sounds of Whateley's approach. The only sound, however, was that of the desk chair squeaking. After a minute of tense silence, Napoleon looked around. Unlike the other passages, this one was reasonably well lighted. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling, illuminating a stairway. Moving silently, Napoleon descended the stairs. At the basement level, the passage diverged, one branch going straight ahead, the other to his right. He started down the right-hand passage, keeping a careful watch for possible Thrushes. The passage grew dimmer as be left the illuminated junction, but it moved straight ahead until it abruptly ended in a blank wall. Napoleon put away his gun and was reaching for his flashlight when there was a clattering sound from the wall on his right.

He froze. The clattering and crashing continued. It sounded, he decided, like someone moving a pile of old lumber. He glanced at his watch. The Whateleys appeared to be a remarkably nocturnal clan. The clatter stopped, and he could hear someone moving around in the basement. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his flashlight; there was the clatter of something at his feet. Looking down, he saw the offending object; his com. It had apparently been snagged by the flashlight when he had pulled the latter out of his pocket.

He stood silently and there was an equal silence from the opposite side of the wall. Napoleon now saw a small door on the basement side of the passage, but there was no time to investigate it. Whoever was in the basement approached the wall. There was a faint scraping sound as though inquisitive hands were being moved over it. He picked up his communicator and moved away as quietly as he could.

As he reached the junction, he noticed that these passages were walled with different, newer material, unlike the passages in the house. There wasn't the musty odor of age that prevailed in the other passages, either. Presumably these had been added by the younger Jabez, probably with the help of Thrush. He wondered if Flavia knew about them or if she was as innocent as she appeared to be.

After a distance of about forty feet, the main passage changed into a hallway, with doors on each side. In the distance he could see an intersecting corridor. The second door off the hall was not only open, there was a light in the room. Cautiously, Napoleon approached the open door and listened. He could make out a hissing sound, but that was all. After a minute he risked a quick glance into the room.

A well-stocked chemical laboratory greeted his gaze. Cabinets filled with hundreds of bottled chemicals lined one wall, and racks of test tubes, flasks, ring stands, Bunsen burners and other lab equipment were in cabinets and on benches along the other two walls. On one of the benches, a half-full flask sat bubbling on a ring stand over the pointed blue flame of a Bunsen burner.

Napoleon quickly checked the hallway. No one was in sight. He stepped inside the lab and pulled out his communicator. In a whisper, he reported his find to Illya.

"Good work," Illya said. "I always told you that skillful skulking pays off. Do you think he's brewing another batch of the drug?"

"Probably, but I can't really tell. It's not lavender, but on the other hand, it isn't a powder, either. From what I overheard earlier, our destruction of the supply of drugs at the vending company has been reported. So the logical thing for him to do would be to brew up another batch as quickly as possible. If what happened to Armden when he was taken off the drug is typical, it would seem that dosage must be continuous."

Illya agreed. "What are your plans?"

"I'll try to ambush Whateley when he returns; he left all the lights on and the burner going, so presumably he's coming back. I don't have any equipment to get information out of him, so about all I can do is hang onto him – unless he decides to talk voluntarily. You relay this to Mr. Waverly and get over here with some truth serum. Once we have the formula and manufacturing process from Whateley, the lab boys can come up with an antidote."

"I'll notify Mr. Waverly right away," Illya said, "but it may be a little while before I can get to you. Lem took the only serviceable vehicle on the farm to Fort Wayne with the drug samples, and you have the U.N. C.L.E. car there."

"All right," Napoleon said. "Get here as soon as you can. I'll try to hold the fort until you arrive."

Napoleon had just closed the communicator and returned it to his pocket when the lights went out. He was left in darkness illuminated only by the blue flame of the Bunsen burner. He started to pull out his flash light but thought better of it. The lights had been put out deliberately; his flashlight would make a perfect target. Instead, he pulled out his gun and began cautiously feeling his way toward the doorway to the hail. He was almost there when Jabez Whateley's sepulchral voice came from somewhere in the blackness.

"I have infrared goggles and can see you perfectly, Mr. Solo. Kindly refrain from any motion whatsoever."

Chapter 13

"How Does 'Whateley For President' Strike You?"

NAPOLEON FROZE, the U.N.C.L.E. Special still in his hand. Whateley chuckled, the sound echoing hollowly in the underground room so that Napoleon was unable to tell where the Thrush leader was standing. The eerie voice came again.

"You're doing fine, Mr. Solo. Stand perfectly still while I pull your fangs."

An invisible hand removed his pistol and a second later delved into his pocket and removed his communicator and the other pen-sized devices he carried there, plus his flashlight.

"Now then, Mr. Solo, I'm sure you still have a few other lethal items about your person, so I warn you; don't even twitch unless I tell you to. It is expedient to keep you alive for the present, but not at all necessary. Now, clasp your hands behind your head. That's right, clasped tightly."

There was a click and the lights came back on. Whateley was standing a few feet from Napoleon, holding a rectangular device similar to the unit that opened the secret panel in his study in one hand and a Mossin-Nagant revolver in the other. He put down the remote-control light switch long enough to strip off the infrared goggles and lay them on a bench, then motioned with the revolver.

"Walk slowly ahead of me."

Following his captor's directions, Napoleon walked down the corridor past the other doors. At the intersecting corridor, he was directed to turn left; he shortly found himself in a gloomy passage with unfinished stone walls and a damp concrete floor. At a barred door, he halted and faced the wall while Whateley opened the door; then he was marched through and down a short flight of steps to a dungeon-like area, with sturdy cells flanking the walls and an open area in the center containing various instruments. Napoleon recognized a rack, a charcoal brazier with tongs, and an iron maiden. He failed to recognize other implements which looked equally unpleasant.

"As you see," Whateley remarked, "even in my information-gathering techniques, I am something of a traditionalist. However, you may consider yourself fortunate, Mr. Solo, for I do not require any information from you. Now then, over into that open cell on your left."

Napoleon complied, and extended his hands back through the bars as he was instructed. Whateley handcuffed his wrists together and stepped back to admire his handiwork.

"That should render you reasonably harmless, but just to make sure..." Whateley produced a roll of adhesive tape from somewhere and taped Napoleon's wrists together. "That should take care of any little tricks you might have left. I feel much more comfortable now."

Napoleon nodded at the revolver, which Whateley was transferring from his belt to a coat pocket. "Does the Russian armament have any significance, or is Thrush merely flaunting its international status?"

Whateley shook his head. "No, the head of a certain European satrapy was offered a bargain in military arms." He looked at the weapon distastefully. "Naturally, the stuff eventually got dumped on us. Whenever Thrush Central finds itself with material it doesn't know what to do with, we get it. Just because this is largely a rural satrapy, they think they can get away with anything. We were getting nothing but Volkswagens until I put my foot down. Of course, it's a nice little car, but it has certain drawbacks for our work. It's really amazing what they try to palm off on us; once they even tried to give us a second-hand dirigible. Can you imagine it?"

Napoleon nodded solemnly. "I know how it is. You wouldn't believe the sort of thing we at U.N.C.L.E. have to go through to get a simple expense account approved."

"Oh, yes I would," replied Whateley. "I have the same problems. I know the official position is that Thrush is a free-wheeling organization, throwing millions around in a quest for world domination, but you'd never know it by working in the Central Indiana Satrapy. I've sent Thrush Central four requisitions for cyanide in the past month, and do you think I've seen any of it? Not a gram!"

"You might try conjuring it up," Napoleon offered.

Whateley produced his sinister smile. "I suspect that you aren't entirely convinced by the insistence of Rita and Flavia that my demonology is merely a pose. It isn't, of course. What better place to hide a serious interest in demons and gods than under an opera cape and theatrical gestures? Nobody believes in that sort of thing any more, and so anything I may be seen doing is simply explained as another example of my melodramatic nature. In fact, my father and uncle were the last full time practitioners. There are easier ways of obtaining power than by invoking malign and capricious entities which would be as much inclined to kill me as to obey my orders. It's much simpler to invoke Thrush, red tape and all." He paused reflectively. "My cousins tried a different method. I understand they made an affiance with some Irishman and went into politics."

Whateley paused again.

"I thought you said the old gods were so powerful that mankind could not resist them," Napoleon said. "Thrush doesn't have that kind of power."

"It will, Mr. Solo; it will. However, there is the problem of communicating with the old gods and of striking a bargain with them. Their history does not show them to be particularly trustworthy and there are very few ways to force a god to obey one's will. In any event, one does not invoke them lightly. For general use, the standard, or garden variety of demon, is sufficient. Even they, however, are not particularly reliable."

"Does Flavia know about all this? She's a good actress if she does; she sounded as if she really believed that your demonology was a pose."

"Oh, she does, just as Miss Berman does. I cultivate that opinion, of course. However, Flavia is becoming something of a problem. When she was younger, we operated differently and she didn't question my being away from home a lot. We put in this underground base while she was away at school. I wasn't expecting her to return and set up shop in the basement; I expected her to find some nice young man and settle down somewhere. As it is, I hope her work starts selling well; I've offered to pay her expenses if she will live in New York, but she insists on being able to pay her own way. I'm considering priming the pump, so to speak; a few good purchases through a third party should do the job. If it doesn't, I'll have to, ah, consider other solutions.

Whateley took out his pocket watch. "I can't stay much longer; I must attend to other business, such as preparing a nice warm cell for your friend Mr. Kuryakin."

Napoleon looked surprised. "But Illya is in New York by now."

"Now, now, Mr. Solo, we know better than that, don't we? For one thing, Lem Thompson's farm has been under surveillance since yesterday. For another, I overheard your recent conversation with the dear boy. My intercom system," he gestured at an overhead speaker with a bony finger, "is also designed to pick up sounds from any room and broadcast them on a special frequency to my communicator. I can tune in to any room that I wish." He held up his Thrush communicator proudly.

"Handy gadget," Napoleon said. The longer he could keep Whateley talking, the more chance there was of discovering something that he could use to turn the tables on the Thrush. "But it seems a bit odd to have it set up here as well as the house, here in secret passages that no one but Thrush uses."

Whateley chuckled again. "Although I find Thrush an admirable organization, dealing with individuals devoid of principle does require some discretion. For example, I am the discoverer of the drug that you and Mr. Kuryakin are so interested in. I am also the only man in the world who knows how to make it. Anyone with a good laboratory could analyze its composition, of course, but they might be a little surprised if they tried to duplicate it." He smiled. "Like so many modern drugs, the secret is in the manufacturing process and I doubt that anyone could duplicate mine. I doubt that many people would even believe mine. But, as I started to say, this gives me a much securer niche in the organization than most Thrush satrapy heads possess."

"An astute maneuver," Napoleon said admiringly. "I assume you also invented the rather complicated system of administering the drug and the subliminal conditioning?"

Whateley leaned back against the iron maiden and smiled, looking as if he would be happy to lecture Napoleon for the rest of the night.

"Actually," he said, "the administration and conditioning were determined by the action of the drug. As you have no doubt guessed, its entire effect is to make people susceptible to suggestion, but both the dosage and the conditioning must be gradual for the best results. Drugging the drinks in Falco's vending machines was an ideal method of administration: half a dozen times a day, five days a week. In the early stages there is a tendency for the subject to regress over weekends; in the long run this is unimportant, but it enabled you to talk Armden into going with you. If you had arrived in the middle of the week, you would never have convinced him. As I was saying, it is the subconscious of the subject that we must work on. Direct orders are not feasible, while subliminal conditioning works wonders."

Napoleon looked puzzled. "But Illya and Dr. Armden obeyed direct orders when they were drugged the other day."

"Ah, but they had been given a massive dose. Such a dose does enable the subject to respond to direct orders; unfortunately he doesn't respond to anything else. His willpower is temporarily destroyed. We want to obtain scientists with their initiative and creativity intact. Also, conflicting orders given to anyone with a massive dose of the drug produce hysteria and collapse, as you observed in Dr. Armden's reactions last Monday. I would have preferred not to give him that dose, but you forced our hand."

"But wouldn't normal brainwashing techniques accomplish the same thing?" Napoleon asked. "You have all sorts to choose from, from the Chinese to Madison Avenue."

"I'm afraid not. Efficient brainwashing requires that the subject be under the complete control of the operator for long periods of time. Not at all suitable for our purposes."

"Is this just a test run, then?" Napoleon hazarded.

"Yes, our first field application. Previously, we tested one of our own agents, not having any U.N.C.L.E. agents to practice on. Also, your men are so frequently conditioned against drugs. Terry was expendable, so we turned him into an U.N.C.L.E. admirer. Worked very well; in fact a little too well. We hadn't counted on his escape; I had a few bad moments when I realized he was on the threshold of U.N.C.LE. headquarters with traces of the drug still in his bloodstream. Fortunately, we got him back."