The Power Cube Affair - Phillifent John T. - Страница 27
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"I know that voice," Solo breathed. "It's Rambo, the puncher. I'd love to meet him. He can't shoot both of us at once—"
"Hey, Sampson! Delilah!" the chesty voice came again, imperatively. "What in tarnation happened to those dogs?" Solo tensed, all ready to make a sideways leap; then he dismissed the wild notion as he heard sounds away to one side, and Rambo's voice again.
"Hey, Hoppy, you see anything of the dogs?"
"Hang on a minute, mate!" a new voice demanded, in a nasal Australian whine. "I think I found one. Yeah, I got one. Dead as mutton!"
"You sure, Hoppy?"
"Course I'm sure. And here's the other one, same way. These fellows must have clobbered them well and truly. I call that downright unfriendly!"
Solo squinted into the light, shifting his feet cautiously, trying to get a line on this other enemy, when all at once he heard a sharp thump, and spun as Illya staggered forward and began to fall. Then a bright light exploded inside his skull and he fell forward into darkness.
Realizing that he was awake, Solo kept quite still and waited for his head to go away. He opened an eye cautiously, wondering how all the rust had crept into it. The other was just as bad. He focused on a glow, a pool of light on something glossy, and decided that he was in a chair, that he was tied up, his head hanging forward and looking at a tabletop. With care he elevated his sight angle a little at a time. The light stretched, leading him to a pair of hands. Hands in motion, strong and clever hands, picking up and putting down small black things that caught momentary glitter from the light. Trying to fit them together. And there was a thin, threadlike whistle. Explanations began to come. Solo made the effort, raised his head to look.
"Ah!" Henry Beeman said gently. "You are with us again, Mr. Solo? Mr. Kuryakin's head is a little harder than yours. He has been conscious for some time, but shamming."
"Waiting!" Kuryakin contradicted. "I'm in no hurry."
"Nor me, indeed. We have all night for it."
"For what?" Solo found his voice. "You expect us to talk, to tell you things?"
"Hardly. Louise told me all I need to know before she passed out. You're a pair of halfway competent blackguards, I'll say that, but you did make a few errors, you know."
"What have you done to her?"
"Gently, Mr. Kuryakin, you'll only hurt yourself if you struggle. I used a drug. It has various names. Thiopentone sodium is the official one, I believe. You'd know it as Pentothal. The truth drug? It's not, of course, but it does make people talk. It is also lethal in an overdose, as is almost any barbiturate. She'll die soon, just as you will. When I'm ready. In the meantime, shall we talk?"
"It won't do you any good!" Solo growled. "No deals!"
"Certainly not!" Beeman smiled genially. "That sort of thing happens only in books. But I enjoy a good talk, you know. For instance, when my faithful Rambo informed me he had caught two intruders, and their descriptions with those of the two men my Mr. Green was planning to remove with the aid of Miss Thompson—and Miss Thompson was there dancing with me—you know, it was very easy to add up."
"It wouldn't be the first time somebody has tried to get rid of us."
"That doesn't surprise me either, Mr. Solo. You seem professionals. You know, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that you serve U.N.C.L.E., or Thrush, or some other similar organization."
"And you don't care which?"
"Not in the least. I have this, you see!" and he held up a palmful of the small black chips of crystal.
"Those aren't the Gorchak stones!"
"They aren't, indeed, Mr. Kuryakin. Shrewd of you."
"Common sense, Beeman. No man could handle those the way you do and stay sane."
"Quite so. No, these are duplicates. Exact copies of each piece but in inert plastic. Gorchak was a genius, you know. These pieces fit to form a perfect cube, and each one is different. There is only one right way. I wonder if you can imagine just how many wrong ways there are?"
"Factorial twenty seven," Kuryakin said promptly. "An enormous number, so big it would take several lifetimes to run through."
Beeman's hand clenched suddenly on the black pieces. "Nevertheless"—his orotund voice hardened—"I shall solve it, with these, first. Because I have the Gorchak stones, you see. Never mind, that can't concern you."
Solo shifted cautiously, trying his bonds and the effort made him sweat. His hands were tied at his back, and his arms were aching numbly.
"Bodies are a nuisance," Beeman said, and Solo wanted to agree. "It is a hobby of mine to imagine various problems ahead of time and work out solutions in readiness. This is one for which I have several solutions, and I am about to— ah!" He broke off as a ringing noise sounded. Diving one hand into a drawer he produced a telephone.
"Wendig? Good, found you at last. Of course it's late. You've had to leave a party? My dear man, you wouldn't believe it if I told you the entertainment I have had to abandon this night. Listen, now. The last time I passed the Moorside Estate I think you were on the fifteenth floor? On the second block, yes. Wendig, did it ever strike you that the human body, laid flat, is less than eighteen inches thick? And those floors you are putting in are that thickness, aren't they?" He listened, smiling, to the chatter from the other end.
"Quite right. And so permanent, don't you agree? Good. How soon can you be at the site? Very well. Two of my men will deliver three––er—packages to you at that time and remain to assist. I think you will agree that we don't want too many eyes involved? Good!" He waited, touched a button at the base of the instrument, then put it to his ear again.
"Hopwell? Get the small van and bring it around to the rear, and send Rambo to me. I have a job for you both." He put the instrument back in the drawer and leaned back comfortably.
"You see, gentlemen, the virtues of planning? Wendig is the construction foreman of a firm that I own. I am building several blocks of very fine dwellings on the Moorside Estate, very cheaply too. You are about to become part of them, permanently. Ah, Rambo."
"Something you want doing, Chief?"
"Yes. You know the Moorside Estate?"
"Yah. Buildings about twenty miles off, back up the road."
"Right. Now, you and Hopwell will take these two and the girl, put each one in a sack, tied and roped, inside and out. In the small van, and deliver them to that site. You will meet a man there. You will help him lay a floor of concrete."
"Do we kill them first?"
Solo held his breath while Beeman deliberated carefully, his eyes half-closed. "I am not a sadist, you know. Can't afford to be. Emotional values are dangerous in planning. But I will admit there is something very appealing in the thought of you two lying there helpless while the concrete settles and sets around you. And I owe myself that much, for the two dogs. They were valuable dogs. Pets. No, Rambo, don't kill them. Just wrap them up well and deliver them as instructed."
A heavy hand descended on Solo's shoulder, shifted its grip to the scruff of his neck. He saw Illya's head come to meet his own, and again there was that flashing light. And darkness. He was vaguely aware of being half-carried, half-dragged into a small room ablaze with light. There was a smell compounded of stale beer, frying, hot metal, and tea. He dropped to his knees as Rambo released him. He struggled to stay conscious, squinted painfully up at a tall, lean man in dark trousers and a gaudy sports jacket, a man who grinned evilly down at him and went right on slapping his palm with a flexible leather thing that sounded solid.
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