[The Girl From UNCLE 01] - The Global Globules Affair - Latter Simon - Страница 9

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"In the desk drawer in my study you will find a small map. It covers the area around Princeton and Dartmoor Prison so that anyone looking at it will think it is a map only of that. All you have to do is follow a dotted line leading north-east from a side road. The map key says... 'bridle path, unfit for motors, dangerous in fog, beware bogs'. The track itself, as you will see, is two miles from the main road. The side road sign says 'To Shale Farm only'. There is a tor—a high rock outcropping—a few hundred yards from where you turn. It is a good landmark for you."

"Is the track dangerous, Papa?"

"Not if you keep to it and do not wander off on to the moor. Where is Ginger now?"

"I heard him ring the alarm for the guards. I expect they've taken Slate down to the basement."

"Good. You keep out of it—understand? As soon as the cook leaves, Ginger will send for the transport to take Slate away. You did very well, Suzanne—very well indeed. We have taken two very dangerous people out of circulation. It was disturbing that they should be in London, and at that particular place, at such a vital time. But we gave them no opportunity to report to their organization. Now, I must go. Be good, my little one. We will meet soon."

Mark Slate carefully slid open the drawer while Suzanne was saying her long-winded goodbyes, found the map, checked it, then stowed it in his pocket. He was already on the second floor by the time she had replaced the receiver, and the faint tinkle as she dropped the handset guided him to her room.

He halted at the open door, momentarily surprised by the startling decor and furnishings. Most rooms in these old Nash houses were spacious with high ceilings. Here, false ceiling, curved, painted brilliant sky-blue with coils of white cloud, suffused with golden light from hidden lamps, gave greater depth and breadth to the room.

Bright red and blue sail cloths were angled across the high windows, fore-standing against the superbly simulated sea scene painted on three of the walls. The door side of the room was a stone jetty. Rope bollards with padded tops faced a small, low stall with a backdrop painting of a life-like water side bistro. A capstan stood in front of a dressing table, set against the background of a ship's chandler's store, the table being the counter, To the left were sliding doors of a floor-to-ceiling wardrobe, the doors painted to appear like loaded shelves of the store.

The centre of the floor was one step below the "jetty"—a sand-colored, nylon-tufted carpet spread to meet the seascape walls. Resting on the carpet was a miniature yacht—white, sleek and beautiful—with one brilliant tangerine sail suspended from its mast. Aft of the mast, white and blue lounging chairs, deck lockers, tables were spaced below a slender guardrail. Fishing nets were draped from the "jetty" to this rail.

He couldn't see the stern half clearly because the sail was so fixed that it could be swung to partition or blank off each end. But under its boom he saw the lower portion of a bed, part of a cabin washbasin and bedside cabinets. He trod softly over the "jetty" as he heard the telephone being pushed over a hard surface.

Then the sail swung around to disclose the bed and top half of the furniture. It also disclosed Suzanne, stretching arms wide, yawning. Against the background of sails and sea she looked like—well, what she was. There was no time for Mark to indulge in fanciful allusions to water nymphs or mermaids. He had to cover the distance in two massive leaps to clamp his hand over her mouth.

He almost laughed because surprise, then fright, had frozen her body to the arms-stretched stance she had taken. Only her mouth and eyes moved. Both grew wider and wider. Mark grabbed her before the mouth was open wide enough to release the screaming bellow which, from such a chest development, might well have aroused the interest of the neighbors.

"I'll be very brisk and business-like," said Mark, holding her squirming body. "If you give me trouble, I shall make you unconscious very quickly. I don't want to do that, but I most certainly can—and will. Trouble from you means screaming or trying to run away. I'll give you an example." He pressed his finger into one side of her neck. Her body began to droop in his arms. "You see? Your head started to buzz and the life seemed to go out of you. If you give me trouble, I'll cripple you—understand?"

She nodded, fiercely jerking her head against his restraining hand, which he now removed from her mouth.

"Please," she whispered. "Please don't hurt me—please!"

A negligee lay across the foot of the bed. He flung it at her. "Put it on."

She recovered now. "Ginger? What has happened to my Ginger?"

"He's sleeping downstairs."

"You have hurt him! I will kill you!" She sprang at him, hands clawing for his eyes.

He gripped her wrists. "Trouble—don't give it—remember? No, he's not dead. But I'll go down and finish him off if you don't behave." His gay manner changed swiftly, menacing power flowing out of him. She cowered back. Her gaze flicked to a row of switches.

"Don't try it," said Mark. "The guards are sleeping too. So is the cook."

A gleam of admiration lighted her eyes.

"You have done that to all of them? You are a very strong man." Then she shrugged and pouted—a little girl coy again. "But I am no use to you." She came close, sliding her hands up his chest. "I think perhaps you are stronger than my Gingaire."

He grinned. "I'm bloody sure I'm stronger than your Gingaire." He looked into her eyes. "If I were your Papa I'd paddle your rear end. Why don't you grow up, Suzanne? Get yourself married and have half a dozen kids." He paused. "Aw! What the hell!" He thrust her away. "So who told you to play up to me?"

"You know who."

"Gingaire, of course."

"Of course."

"To get me here?" He nodded. "Of course. Silly question, but I don't like loose ends. Why, Suzanne?"

She shrugged again. "Ask Ginger."

He flared at her. "If I have to ask Ginger, he'll die. Don't you understand that? or do you think this is just a pretty game?"

She shook her head. "No, not a game. It frightens me. Last night, a telephone call told them you and that woman had arrived. This morning you were followed. I saw you in Carnaby Street."

"Where were you?"

She giggled. "I was one of the models. Then I changed and went to the Tower with Ginger." She fluttered her eyelids. "I did it very good—yes?"

He sighed. "You did it bloody terrible—yes. We knew exactly who you were. All we didn't know was why, so we helped you to tell us. Now we know—and Ginger is sleeping and you are not going any place."

Anger and fear filled her eyes, then a crafty look appeared in them. "She is not going any place either—your April Dancer." She spat childishly. "Oh so clever, so grand. You torture me, but I do not tell you where she is. Ah! You see—that is not so good for you now, is it? You hurt my Ginger. We hurt your April Dancer. Now who is so clever?"

"You have a point there, darling. You're a very clever girl. I think you're much more experienced than I believed."

She was suddenly gay. "See? Not so blerdy terrible after all, eh? I tell you something, Mister Big Strong Man. This is the first time I help Papa. Because it is a big time and he must have only people he can trust to help him."

Mark nodded sadly. "I'm not very clever."

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