The Mad Scientist Affair - Philifrent John T - Страница 4
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He was still pondering that as he went to pick her up for the dance, but he forgot it as soon as he saw her. This time her dress was two shades darker than her eyes, and it revealed the interesting fact that she was roses-and-cream complexion all over. Almost all over, anyway. He stared in appreciation, and she went pink and timid.
“Is it all right?” she whispered. “I bought it on purpose, as soon as I got here. I would never have the nerve to wear anything as bold as this back home. Nor the opportunity either.”
“Ireland’s loss is my gain,” he said, “and it is very much all right.” He extended his arm gallantly to lead her to the elevator. “I had no idea biochemistry was such an interesting subject.”
She nodded gently as if confirming something to herself, and it wasn’t until they were actually on the dance floor that he remembered he was supposed to be a biochemist. In chagrin at his slip he searched urgently for some safe topic of conversation while they danced.
“I had expected a crowd,” he said. “The attendance figure was given as two hundred but there can’t be a quarter of that here.”
“All sorts of reasons for that. These are professional people, with not much time to spare, and not very good at frivolity anyway. A lot of them will be on their way home by this time. Just what are you, Mr. Solo?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I checked up on you in the professional register, and you’re not there at all.”
“That does it, then—I’m unmasked. I’m a spy, snooping around to find out all your professional secrets.”
She laughed, and he thought it a delightful sound. “You’d be wasting your time with me, then,” she said. “I’ve no secrets to hide at all. Uncle is the one with all the secrets.”
“Uncle?” Solo echoed, startled, then caught himself and grinned. “Oh, you mean your Uncle Michael?”
“Who else? If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be here. He’s the genius with all the secrets. I’m just a voice. And not even that, this afternoon.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, whirling her across the floor. “The voice is fine now.” She moved delightfully, and as he held her close there was just the suspicion of perfume about her. Just right. If only he didn’t have to concentrate on other, less agreeable, things.
“Suppose I were a scientist, a biochemist,” he murmured, “and suppose you’ve just read your learned paper. I’m in the audience. I want to ask a hot question. What might it be?”
She frowned prettily as they revolved in time to the music. “That’s a terrible question. It might be anything. Actually, my paper is only a description of two new and unusual molecules, with a general idea of the way to make them and some hints as to what their properties might be. If you wanted to know more about those, I couldn’t tell you. My uncle does that part, him and Bridget. I’m in the molecular engineering bit—the way to make them. And I’d not be free to tell too much about that, either, you see, because it’s the details of the process of manufacture that is the real secret. That’s what we’re trying to sell. And I don’t know it all anyway, only bits.”
Solo, trying to fit this into what he knew of the situation, caught sight of an elderly man, stout and red-faced, who was obviously struggling to attract his attention from the edge of the floor. His—or Sarah’s?
“I think,” he murmured, “that you have a fan. Someone trying to catch your eye. Over there, see?”
“I recognize him, from pictures,” she said. “That will be Professor Amazov. He’s one of the very few here who would really be in a position to understand and appreciate Uncle’s discoveries.”
“One of the few? But aren’t they all biochemists?”
She chuckled, the delicious sound tickling all his nerves at once. “You are the darling innocent, aren’t you now? Trying to pass yourself off as a real scientist. As anyone could tell you, biochemistry is a hodgepodge of specializations of all kinds—chemistry at one end, biology at the other, and all sorts in between: cytologists, serologists, immunologists, chemical engineers, specialists in X-rays and crystallography, virology, genetics, photosynthesis, energy-transfer systems—”
“Point taken,” he interrupted. “Perhaps you’d better talk to the real expert while I just listen and take notes?”
“I’d much rather just go on dancing with you,” she declared with such obvious sincerity that he was shaken for a moment. Such transparent honesty was rare in his experience. Regretfully he steered her in the general direction of a corner table. Then he tensed suddenly, as his roving gaze caught and held the cold stare of one of the Thrush men he had seen earlier. Revolving on, he saw the other, and a chill grew along his spine. So they weren’t through yet! And they had him spotted, too. He made a fast decision, spun her to a chair and sat her down. He saw Amazov puffing and thrusting through the thin crowd, almost at hand.
“I must go,” he said to Sarah. “Just for a moment. Very urgent. I’ll be right back.” He turned to bow to the professor, who dismissed him with a snort and spun on Miss O’Rourke abruptly.
“Young woman, I’ve been wanting to speak to you ever since I saw that ridiculous nonsense you’ve issued as a paper. It was utter rubbish—”
Solo slipped away smoothly, carrying with him a vivid memory of Sarah’s beautiful bewilderment. Quick steps got him through a door into quiet. He took out his pencil-speaker hastily, asked for the channel, and got Waverly’s reply.
“Anything on that paper yet? I’m in over my head here.”
“I was about to call you, Mr. Solo. The laboratory reports that the paper is some kind of joke or hoax—they say it’s meaningless, particularly the molecular diagrams.”
Solo pulled down his eyebrows in a frown. “There’s a Professor Amazov busy telling my fair lady that very same thing right now. Do you detect a smell, sir?”
“I do. I suspect Miss O’Rourke managed to lose her speaking voice at a very convenient moment.”
“A fraud, you mean? Why would she do that? There are only a few here who would know any different. No, wait—” Solo caught his breath. “You mean she’s trying to sell a phoney to Thrush? And they silenced her to stop her advertising it too much? Because if that’s the case then Amazov is in the process of tearing it up, and she’s in bad trouble.”
He shut off, hesitated a moment in a struggle between two alternatives. Believing the hard menace to be past, he had left his gun in his room. He itched to go and get it, fast. But it was even more urgent that he get back to her before Amazov spilled all the bad beans. He made his decision, whirled and headed back for the dance-floor. The music had struck a momentary pause as he entered and headed for the corner. He could see the professor, red-faced and dogmatic, laying down a stricture with hard gestures, and Sarah staring angrily back at him.
And then, from behind him and just to the right, he heard the very familiar I sound of a silenced pistol. He saw Amazov stiffen, straighten up, and then slump limply face down on the table. Sarah backed off and screamed, a big, full-throated, full-bodied scream that killed the hubbub in the room absolutely dead.
Solo hurried. For ten seconds he was the only person moving in the room. Reaching the table, he put out a hand to steady her and she clung to him like a child. He glanced at the ring of white faces, then at the slumped body.
“Get the police,” he said, crisp and cold. “And a doctor!”
The last was first. This room was full of doctors, of various kinds. Solo had time to learn that scientists are just as hysterically nervous as lay people when confronted with something outside their own field. He held Sarah tight, and insisted nobody touch anything until the law arrived. Nobody was to move, nobody to leave. Standard routine, because there was nothing else to do at this moment. And in the waiting he cudgeled his brain to fit this last item into an already confused picture. Why shoot Amazov? It didn’t make any kind of sense at all!
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