The Power Cube Affair - Phillifent John T. - Страница 32
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He went away humming gently to himself. She led them into the bedroom, made them climb in under the sheets while she busied herself with coffee cups, then sat herself on a low stool between the two beds while they sipped at hot coffee generously laced with brandy.
"All right," she declared, "now talk. I want to know it all. Who, for one thing, was that girl? I've seen her before, haven't I?"
"Louise Thompson," Solo explained. "The leak in Barnett's office. Your friend Charles had her moved, and her boss didn't care for that. So he laid a trap for us." He went on to tell, without frills, just what had happened in the villa, and she sat quite still, stern faced, until be was done.
"You see," Kuryakin took up the tale, "once we knew she was going to be at the Danby affair, we knew we had a chance to spot him. The big chief himself. Louise helped us."
"You let her. But you wouldn't let me. You went expecting to meet the big man and never said a word to me about it."
"You weren't exactly in the mood, were you?" Solo retorted. "I don't know exactly what you were thinking about when we left here so fast, but it wasn't anything to do with crooks."
She turned rosy pink but met his eyes bravely.
"You might not have believed us," Kuryakin added. "And we had was Louise's word and the memory of the voice we heard on the tape."
"I would have believed you!"
"Would you? An old friend of the family? Henry Beeman?"
The pink ebbed from her face. "Uncle Henry? Are you absolutely sure?"
"See what we mean?" Solo demanded. "Of course we're sure, now!" And he went on to tell her why. Again without frills or heroics, just the facts. "After we bombed him out with that truck we didn't stay to investigate more. I'm afraid we made a mess of the whole thing."
"Made a mess of them, you mean!" Her voice was savage. "Don't you worry, this will be reported and dealt with. You can relax. Here, you're to take one of these, each." She passed them tablets and watched while they swallowed, finished their coffee.
"And now"—she stood, moved to the bed end gap between them—"about me. You've made something of a mess of me, too, and it's high time I admitted it. No, let me finish this, just to clear my conscience." She put hands to her robe, stripped it off, stood defiantly before them, "With this I have broken men, made fools of them. Then you two came and showed me what a fool I am. I made a sort of vow, you know, that if and when I ever met a man who could beat me, he could have me. And it never occurred to me for one minute that he wouldn't want me. As I say, I'm a fool."
"No, hold it." Kuryakin struggled to sit up. "You've got that all wrong, Nan. You haven't lost anything. If you had beaten me or Napoleon, you wouldn't have won anything. That doesn't prove a thing. Take Rambo, for instance. He could have broken me and Napoleon in half, by himself!"
"Damn near did, too!" Solo grinned ruefully. "Thing is, if you have a job to do, you do it the best way you can. And when you need help, you call for it, if there is any. Like I did, when I called you. You're on our side."
She frowned at him as if seeking some hidden meaning.
"We're all equal," Kuryakin said, "only some get the chance to be more equal than others. That's Orwell, but Dumas put it different. All for one and one for all. Remember?"
"Man to man?" she whispered, and Solo grinned.
"While you're standing there like that it's hard to believe, but that is exactly what we do mean. Good companions!"
All at once the medicinal drug seemed to hit him. Through a warm haze he saw her smile—and surely those were tears in her eyes?—then come near to bend over him, to brush his cheek with her lips.
"I'm honored," she whispered. "Go to sleep now."
THIRTEEN
SOLO FELT gloriously, immensely comfortable, just like being in a soft, warm bed. He was in bed. Someone had left the light on. He stirred, and all his comfort disappeared in the creaking remembrance of stiff joints and sinews. He opened an eye, levered his arm into place, looked at the time. One-forty-five. He did a double take. One-forty-five? And the sun was shining? He sat up, winced, then looked across at Illya, who was still far away. He crawled out, found the pants and sweater of the previous night had been meticulously brushed and arranged by his bed. He shook Illya.
"Come on!" he reproached. "It's afternoon!"
They made it stiffly to the bathroom and then downstairs. Curtis came to attend them gravely.
"Why didn't somebody call us?"
"You needed the rest, sir. Miss Perrell gave instructions you were to be left sleeping. She went off early this morning, saying she would very likely be home for lunch. That could be whenever you're ready. And the hospital rang. Miss Thompson is conscious, quite well, but rather weak. They have questions to ask."
"I'll bet they have. This is where the awkward bit will start. We had better eat, Illya, and try thinking up a good story for the doctors."
"There was this for you, sir, also." Curtis produced a slim envelope. On it, in black angular script, were the words Solo and Kuryakin. "It was delivered by hand, just a few minutes ago.
Solo thumbed the flap open, drew out the once-folded sheet of heavy glazed paper. That same angular script stared at him, beginning without any preamble or greeting.
I have Miss Perrell. I would rather have you two. I am prepared to consider an exchange, on my terms, means, and conditions. I will look for your (discreet) advertisement in The Times to that effect on Friday next. Failing its appearance I will send you by mail, the fingers of her right hand to stimulate your decision.
It was signed H.B.
"Read that, Illya, and forget about lunch. When did Miss Perrell go out, Curtis?"
"There was a telephone call at seven-thirty. She left almost immediately afterwards. Is anything wrong, sir?"
"Plenty. The boy we tangled with last night has got her now. Where is the nearest phone?"
It was in the hall. He grabbed it, dialed the number she bad given him—it seemed a lifetime ago. The phone purred; then he heard the familiar voice. "Charles. What is it?"
"Solo here. They've got Nan Perrell."
"Who's they? And how?"
"Speaking from her home. She went out around seven-thirty this A.M. and a message was just delivered, by hand, addressed to me and Illya. I'll read it to you." Kuryakin came to put it in his hand. He read the stark words carefully. There was a moment's pause.
"Who the devil is H.B.?"
"She should have reported that. Greasy voice, on the tape. Henry Beeman. Family friend and lives not too far away."
"But he won't be there. Nor will she!"
"That's a safe bet."
"Advertisement in The Times by Friday. Doesn't give us long."
"Leave that to you. Too long for us." Solo bit the words off, felt a touch on his arm and Kuryakin coming close to whisper.
"No point in charging off at random, Solo," cautioned Charles.
"Not going to. I know where she is." Kuryakin had whispered it. "So far as he knows, we do not know he owns that yacht, so that is it. That's where she is. Agree?"
"I think that's valid."
"Right. Then we'll go and get him."
"Which is precisely what he wants you to do."
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