The Power Cube Affair - Phillifent John T. - Страница 6
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Out of the casual mill of midday pedestrians, from archways and doorways, from behind corners and lamp posts, a dozen leather-jacketed long-haired youths seemed to materialize, to group, to close in on the unsuspecting two. And then, so fast and unexpected that it caught the two observers completely by surprise, the group exploded into a savage melee of fists and kicks, bashings and stampings, and then, as rapidly as it had gathered, the mob dispersed, and all that remained were two crushed and unconscious bodies on the pavement.
The whole thing had taken no more than fifteen seconds. Fifteen seconds more and there was mild uproar, a pressing crowd, policemen, and the urgent clang of an ambulance.
Solo stirred, shook himself, and looked at his companion.
"You notice anything odd about those two, Illya?"
"I did. To the casual glance, the uninformed eye, they might have been mistaken for us."
"Coincidence, you think?"
"Or a pair of big binoculars and some fast work on the telephone. The law abiding British?'
"She's such a pretty girl, too. I'm looking forward to Ferrier's!"
THREE
FERRIER'S WAS a little harder to find than they expected. The outside neon was faint, the doorway discreetly hidden away in a side alley, the unremarkable door yielding to a stairway that went down into red half light and mirrors. A massive doorman asked their names, then let them through a swinging mirror into muted bedlam compounded of shrill voices, jarring music and swirling rainbow lights. The head waiter, a thick necked Italian, would have fitted better into a decorous hotel background.
"The food is good," he told them, as he showed them to a table for four on the edge of the miniature dance floor. "For the rest—!" he gave a despairing shrug. Solo smiled;
"We'll take your advice," he said. "What do you recommend?"
With that pleasant chore attended to Kuryakin leaned back. "This place could hold any number of surprises. The pseudo-psychedelic lighting is as good as camouflage."
"Can't tell friend from foe. Not that we have any friends here. I still don't see why it had to be Miss Thompson, Illya. Why would anybody want to get rough with us?"
"Never mind why. Somebody did. Thing is, which side?"
"Come to that, which side are we on? Certainly not the Green and Co. crowd, but from what I've seen of the others I'd hate to run with them either, if Barnett is a fair sample."
"That's exactly what we're here to find out, Napoleon. Meanwhile, this is excellent chicken soup. We might as well enjoy it before the little man with the dark glasses and the beard comes to spoil it."
Solo chuckled. "Somehow," he said, "I don't think it's going to be a bit like that. My guess would be one of those pinstripe-pants city types with a rolled umbrella and a Bertie Wooster accent."
Although both men appeared casual, and relaxed enough to pay admiring attention to the colorful scene around them, they were razor alert for the least sign of odd activity. So it was that they both tensed as a minor drama began to unfold before them. The eye twisting light effects had been momentarily abandoned in favor of daylight tinted fluorescence from the high ceiling, and in this clear glow there came a tall and haughty blonde, creamy locks piled high on her head to give her added inches, a silver cape draping her to elbows and the rest only half obscured in openwork silver mesh to midthigh. The rest was long and shapely legs sculptured in glitter sheerness. She strode boldly across the tiny dance floor with the headwaiter trotting after her in passionate attempt to reason and argue.
"Don't be silly, Mario!" she chided, in a thickly husky affected tone. "It's my table. It always is. You can't put me off!"
"Miss Perrell, please!" Mario scuttled around, lifting his clasped hands in pleading. "I ask you a favor. Your table is reserved. Take another one. Look, I go on my knees to you!"
"Silly man! Don't you dare do that. What will people think?"
Miss Perrell stepped around him, apparently unaware that every eye in the place was fixed on her, pointed herself again toward the reserved-table, smiled, put slim fingers to the cord of her cape, swirled out of it and draped it over her left arm. There was an instant hush thick enough to feel, then a burst of noise like that which comes as the lights go up after a dramatic first act curtain. Solo cleared his throat.
"Like it or not," he said, "this table is reserved."
"Let her come, Napoleon. Nobody puts on a show like that by accident."
"You mean—?"
"Can't do any harm to find out."
Solo sat again, then rose politely as the blonde stranger reached the table and stood smiling down. Before either could speak the headwaiter came running, clutching his brow.
"What can I say, gentlemen? You saw? I tried!" He clapped palms to cheeks and cast his gaze aloft to some personal deity. Solo stood, seized the nearest chair, waited until the lady had draped her cape over its back, then settled her in.
"All the same," he said, as he regained his own seat, "this table is reserved. For us!"
"Pooh! Who cares about things like that? Bring soup, Mario. The chicken, please." She shared her bright blue gaze equally between the two men. "This is my favorite table. I always sit here." She conjured up a brilliant smile, waited a moment, then, "Nothing to say? Oh dear, you're embarrassed!"
It could have been true. The openwork silver mesh came up only as far as her ribcage, where it gathered itself into a pair of jutting platforms to support the generous hemisphere above. But there it ceased, leaving the rest of her to manage unhampered. There was quite a lot of her to see, but at this moment Solo's mind was otherwise occupied.
"Hardly embarrassed," he said. "But curious. My name is Solo. This is Mr. Kuryakin. You are-
"Nanette Perrell, and please, no funnies about my name. I've heard them all before. Now, what else shall we talk about?"
"We could discuss the unpleasant things that happen to ladies who interfere, or what happens to Barnett's girl friends," Kuryakin suggested quietly.
Solo saw the surprise come and go on her face, and he became very wary indeed. This girl was, in her way, every bit as breathtaking as the gorgeous Miss Thompson, yet as different as a tea rose from a tulip. He had judged one to be beautiful but empty. He was not about to make that mistake again. He looked closely, past the overdone makeup, the lacquered hair, the outthrust arrogance of her flesh, and he realized that this time they were facing a masquerade, a sham!
"You're quick," she said to Kuryakin. "And you," she swung her gaze at Solo, hesitated a moment, then added, "Don't stare like that!"
"Why not? When you put the wares in the window you expect people to stop and admire, don't you?"
"Admire? That steely glare?"
"Perhaps not. Appraisal, then. Is that the idea? Make the poor man so embarrassed he won't know where to look, and thus won't notice that you are a fraud?"
That got home. He saw the red tide burn her cheeks and spread fascinatingly downwards. She put her hands to her face all at once.
"Don't say anything," she muttered. "I haven't made a fool of myself like this in years."
A waiter came and went. In a while the scorching red tide receded and she achieved calm.
"Let's start over," Kuryakin suggested. "You were sent here to meet us, right?"
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