The Power Cube Affair - Phillifent John T. - Страница 12
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"In a way, it was a handicap to him in U.N.C.L.E. You see , we get our orders, instructions that say so and so is a menace, get rid of him. Or here's a group that has to be smashed, go and do it. And we do as we're told. Most of the time, anyway!" he added, as Kuryakin cleared his throat thoughtfully. "Johnny obeyed orders too, but he never liked it. On the other hand, just let him get the conviction that so and so really was a rat, and you wouldn't stop him with a concrete wall!"
"You obviously admire him," she said.
"I hadn't met him before," Kuryakin offered, "so I can speak from first hand experience this time only. But Green shot him in the chest with both barrels of a shotgun, from no more than two feet. That was about eleven-thirty. We got there just before eight o'clock the next morning and he was still conscious. He hung on simply because he knew we were coming and wanted to be sure we knew all about it. Not because of the shot, but because of Mary."
"What's more," Solo endorsed, "I'll gamble they're having a time of it just keeping him in bed while we're chasing his game. He's that sort of person. You'll see."
"And you think I'm like that?"
"Well," Solo drawled, "let's just say you're not the type that gives up easily. Let's talk about you, eh?"
"Oh no!" she was prompt and firm. "No you don't. As I told you last night, I'm willing to put the goods in the window. They are good goods, and I know it. I welcome inspection, any time."
"But the purchase price comes high."
"That's right. You'll be surprised just how high. In other words I don't mind you looking. I like it. As they say in the shops, what you don't see in the window please ask for. We'll be happy to exhibit our wares. But I keep my soul to myself."
"And I was just about to ask," Kuryakin murmured, "what's a nice girl like you doing in a bloodthirsty racket like this?"
"No comment," she said flatly. "But I can tell you what we're going to do when we get to Folkestone. It is, as I said, a routine chore. Every so often we get inside tips. Charles does, I mean. And this is one, to say that a consignment of filth is coming in on the boat we'll be meeting, from France. Dirty stuff, the addictives. That's what Mary was watching out for. I have a detailed description of the people carrying the load. My job will be to pass it on to the customs men and observe while they collect. The rest will go through regular channels and won't concern us, so we'll have plenty of time to go visiting."
She took the wheel again for the delicate business of threading a way through the seaside town's busy streets, rolled to a halt in a parking area alongside the customs shed, and asked the two men to wait a moment while she made herself known to the authorities.
"Can't make her out," Solo confessed, scratching his head in the sunshine. "I've run into some fancy lines in my time, but hers has me beat. In any case, a dame with her assets doesn't need a come on line, doesn't need to do this kind of job at all."
"Hmm?" Kuryakin was only half-listening; his attention was caught by a magnificent black Rolls that was parked not far from them. "Why is she involved? Ask yourself, Napoleon, with her looks and talents and money—kicks must be pretty hard to come by."
"Talent?"
"She dances like a professional, as you know. She is a highly competent nurse. She drives extremely well. She is very handy with those pop guns of hers. And she puts up a firstclass impersonation of being one of the idle rich. I would call those talents. There is much more to Miss Perrell than meets the eye."
"You had me worried for a moment there, Illya. You do notice the 'meets the eye' parts, then?"
"Strategic arrangement of adipose tissue can create quite an effective diversion, and she knows it. There she is now!"
Miss Perrell came to stand in the doorway where she had disappeared and waved them to join her. She led them away and into another door, the customs shed.
"They say," Kuryakin murmured, as they took up a position to one side and away from the check point, "that customs men develop an instinct, which is just another way of saying they are good guessers. But you have a detailed description of the smugglers, Miss Perrell?"
"That's right. Want to match your intuition against the facts?"
"All right," Solo agreed readily. "See if we can spot 'em." He bent his gaze on the thin straggle of people now coming up the ramp into the shed. Which? That stout and harassed man with the small boy? The elderly dragon with her subdued companion? This newly rich couple with two doll-like little girls? Or that brisk and black suited businessman with his briefcase? Surely not that sloppy young couple so badly in need of discipline about their actions, faces and grooming? Which?
Then came a group to delight his eye. First a small, bustling, pattering woman, as lively as a hummingbird and almost as gaudy. She was twenty years older than beauty but could have been attractive if someone had persuaded her out of the shrieking green of her shapeless dress and a staring orange hair rinse. Piling poor taste on criminal error, she wore a string of enormous red stones about her neck. Genuine rubies that size, he mused, would be worth quite a packet. Striding at her heels came an obvious chauffeur. In his wake came a neutral martyr of a woman all in black, a "companion," with all the grace and dignity her mistress lacked, and devoting immense care to a double armful of smaller boxes. Next in the line was a truly exquisite male, groomed to perfection, his black hair gleaming, a pencil slim moustache arched over a straining mouth as he struggled with large suitcases.
Then, dawdling along at the end of the line, came the mother's daughter, a girl of no more than twenty, the likeness to the gaudy dame unmistakable but enhanced by the full blush of insolent youth. For all her boredom, the only adjective appropriate for her was "luscious." Solo stared, felt warm all over, and stared more, absorbing her from red gold mane to tiny toes. The in between of her was draped in a dress as brief as Miss Perrell's but paper white and pin pleated from neck to hem. He drew a deep and careful breath and reflected that he was looking at an unexploded bomb. Illya could say what he liked, but that was no camouflage. That was the real thing. The idea started another one. He whispered an aside to Miss Perrell.
"You were talking about dazzle to distract the eye," he reminded her. "On that basis, there are your smugglers."
"You couldn't be more wrong if you tried," she retorted, then put up a hand to pat her hair and make a covert gesture of pointing. Solo frowned as he saw the officials brisk up, dismiss the musical comedy group with a wave and then close in on two people he would never have given a second look. That red faced beery man and the skinny drab women with the lines of age and the mouth of a nagging drudge—were smugglers? Miss Perrell made a move, and they followed her outside into the sunshine.
"Fancy picking on Maggie!" she chuckled.
"Maggie?"
"Margaret, Lady Herriott, Countess of Danby, and entourage. Brinkley, her chauffeur. Maid companion Augustine. Secretary—and thinly disguised gigolo—Monty Hagen. Daughter Evadne. Like to meet them? It will be an education for you." She marched them across to where the eccentric group had gathered around the shiny black Rolls and greeted them as old friends.
"Hello, Maggie. Vad. You look disgustingly healthy and brown, the pair of you. Meet a couple of friends of mine. This is Napoleon, and this one's Illya."
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