The Assassination Affair - Holly J Hunter - Страница 3
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"Perhaps the element of surprise, Mr. Solo." Waverly was frowning in thought, envisioning the scene Solo had described. "They didn't try for Mr. Kuryakin, you say?"
"Not one bullet came my way," Illya admitted.
"Odd. And what conclusions have you drawn from it?"
"None," Solo said. "An attack like that seems too crude for Thrush. Out in the open – daylight - we should have been able to bring them down easily. Thrush wouldn't be so careless."
"Personal enemies, Mr. Solo?" Waverly's stare rested on Solo curiously.
Solo's face broke into the grin Waverly expected. "Hardly. I haven't dated any gangsters' molls lately."
"Whatever initiated it, it's most interesting. I would suggest that you be particularly careful for a time." He cleared his throat, symbolic of clearing the decks. "For the moment, you two can return to your desk work. I may want you in a day or two, but I'm sending someone else to investigate Randolph's death in Chicago."
Solo stood up, glad for the respite. All he could see now was a hot bath, a change of clothes - especially socks - and the best method to use to talk Rachel out of the dancing date and into a quiet dinner at home.
CONTENTS
Chapter
1: "There is a Coffin Waiting for You"
2: "A Spy in the Ointment"
3: "Go Practice Your Karate"
4: "I'd Hate to Die for a Parking Space"
5: "Never Insult a Neanderthal"
6: "Most Accidents Occur at Home"
7: "A Do-it-Yourself Murder Scene"
8: "Shotguns, You Know"
9: "I Prefer the Yellow-Bellied Thrush"
10: "A Plague of Locusts, Maybe"
11: "Illya Draws the Short Straw"
12: "Chicken Feathers!"
13: "Kiss the Maiden All Forlorn"
14: "If Solo Comes, Can Kuryakin Be Far Behind?"
Chapter l
"There is a Coffin Waiting for You"
THE ROOM was lit softly with one lamp, muting the bright, masculine colors and easing the lines of the contemporary furnishings into a pure bachelor's den. Napoleon Solo sat on the big, soft sofa in a dreamy state. He approved of the room. Over the years, he had carefully collected everything that was in it with an eye to its elegance, comfort, and effect. Women liked it because it definitely bespoke a man and held a hint of sensuality that warned them to run for cover or stay at their own risk.
Two doors opened from the room - leading to the bedroom and kitchen - and at the back were French doors giving out onto a little terrace, well above the traffic lanes below, separated from the neighbors' terraces by low stone walls and planters filled with evergreens. Solo changed addresses often, for security reasons, and of all his apartments this was the first one with a terrace. He'd had to argue with Mr. Waverly to get it.
The coffee table in front of the sofa was laden with the remains of a simple dinner for two, and nestled beside it was a champagne cooler. Solo leaned against the cushions, glass in hand, his senses bound in the Bossa Nova that came from his stereo, and even more bound in the fragrance and form of the woman who cuddled beside him.
Rachel was tall, but never coltish. She followed his preference right down the line - full figured, heavy lashed and languid eyed. She was a redhead with hair that caught the light and reflected gold.
Solo lifted his feet onto the coffee table and wiggled his toes contentedly. He had his shoes off, letting his feet recover from the afternoon of walking.
Rachel stirred beside him, and then she had to say it. He had been waiting for it all through dinner and was glad she finally did.
"I'm not protesting a single thing about the evening, mind you, Napoleon. It was nice."
"And will be nicer," he said.
"But, is it really the latest thing to entertain a lady in your stocking feet?"
"Rachel, tonight it is, believe me. I'm sorry about the dancing I promised you, but -"
"Your feet hurt," she finished the sentence for him. She sat forward. "Would you rather I left so you can soak them?"
"That's not what I had in mind at all," Solo protested, his eyes playing over her.
She rose from the sofa and walked a few steps away. "Well, I'm not going to massage them for you, Napoleon."
"It might not be a bad idea - but, no." Solo leaned forward, grunting, and slipped his shoes on. She was going to build this thing into a pique if he didn't halt it now, and it would spoil the entire plan of the evening. He stood up, flexing his stiff body, and went to her. He touched her shoulders gently and turned her to face him. "You look nothing like a masseuse," he murmured. "You don't have the muscles."
She smiled up at him and slipped into his arms. "At least there's nothing wrong with your after-dinner charm. I thought you were going to fall asleep and leave me to my own devices."
Her mouth was waiting, expecting a kiss, and he followed through with a little one. She giggled gratifyingly, and he circled her with a strong arm and led her back toward the sofa. "This was a catered, sit-down dinner, love, so let's get on with it and not break the mood. Your redheaded temper is too much for a man to handle."
"And you're too much for anybody." She came along willingly.
A slight breeze stirred the curtains that were pulled back from the open terrace doors, and then they stirred again, moved by something that wasn't a breeze. A muffled ker-plow broke into the Bossa Nova and a whine passed Solo's head by a margin of inches.
Bullet! He grabbed Rachel and pushed her down between the sofa and the coffee table, spilling the contents off the table as he made room for his own body, which he used as a shield to protect her from anything else that might come flying through the air. He held onto her hard so she would keep still and sense the danger. She trembled under his hands, but made no sound.
His right hand knifed inside his coat, slapping for his gun, and came up empty. A quick vision of the gun resting in his bureau drawer flashed to mind as he cursed under his breath. But he had tucked the gun away for good reason. Rachel. It was never wise to prod a girl with a lump of steel when you were trying for an intimate evening.
He strained to hear, wishing the damned record would come to its end and give him a chance. Was that a footstep? He couldn't remain a sitting target any longer, so he pushed down on Rachel hard to tell her to stay safe, patted her, and raised his head to peer around the edge of the sofa.
He and Rachel weren't alone anymore. There were two men in the room, standing near the terrace doors, swiveling to find targets for the guns they held in their hands. One man was tall, thin, with a tight mouth and twitching eyelids. Nervous type, Solo mentally catalogued him. The other was of medium height and strongly built. Fighter, Solo thought.
They came into the room looking stupidly about for something to shoot. Solo tightened his leg muscles, crouched for leverage, and hurled himself up and over the sofa in one leap, hitting into them both at once since they were foolish enough to stay close together. The impact of his weight made the smaller man lose his gun, and as it thumped to the carpet, the tall man streaked for the open door.
The man went down under him and Solo took the first measure of his body. It was hard and steely, with no flab. The man's hand slithered for the fallen gun and Solo dropped harder on top of him, then pushed against his chest for leverage to stand. But his assailant grasped his right arm, made a churning maneuver and hammer-locked his right leg, struggling as though to pick Solo bodily from the floor and fling him over his shoulder.
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