The Moby Dick Affair Page 3

  Mr. Waverly took out his pipe and began fiddling with it. "Yes, he did, didn't he? For a moment there, I thought I might be mad. I can make no sense of it at all. Yet I'm sure it's very sensible in the grimmest sort of way. And we don't know. We just don't know."

  In the act of ticking his pipe stem angrily against the electronic console, Mr. Waverly glanced at Solo. "Mr. Solo! Kindly get your mind off shopgirls!" He sounded tired.

  "I'm not thinking about shopgirls, sir. I'm thinking that's an unusual looking nozzle at the top of that oxygen tank."

  The hospital attendant heard Solo's remark. He stepped to one side, effectively blocking Solo's view of the other two attendants, who had wheeled the tank in on a rubber-tired hand cart. They were now shifting the tank gingerly onto the floor. Things, Solo felt, were happening too fast.

  The tank handlers had the cylinder nearly off the cart. The first attendant was still blocking it from view. Solo walked quickly around the end of the bed. He caught a glimpse of the tank's top.

  Instead of the conventional solid cap on the cylinder's tip this one seemed to be perforated metal. Perforated in a dozen or more spots—Solo had been warned by less conspicuous things in the past. His hand whipped underneath his jacket.

  His fingers closed around his pistol-butt. "I think we've gotten a delivery of the wrong kind of gas—Illya!" He called it out sharply and dragged his pistol free.

  The two attendants handling the cart gave it a jerk. The cylinder tipped. The first attendant jumped to catch it. He pressed the cylinder's wall. A small panel sprang open. The man reached in, twisted a lever. Pinkish colored gas that smelled of cinnamon began to spray from the nozzle-holes in the cap.

  All this took barely seconds. At the same time the cart handlers whipped the cart around, gave it a shove at Solo and let go.

  The heavy metal caught him in the shins, knocking him off balance. Solo had to wrench and twist hard to keep from falling against the bed. Other men in green jumpers and masks clogged the doorway. The three regular physicians stumbled over themselves in confusion.

  "A THRUSH infiltration team, Mr. Waverly," Illya barked. "Get down!"

  One of the attendants by the tank had drawn a gun. Twisting and still off balance, Napoleon Solo got a shot away. It made a flat, popping sound. The man jerked up on his heels and fell forward, his face passing through the cloud of pinkish gas beginning to envelop that side of the room.

  As soon as the man got a substantial whiff of the stuff, his cheeks began to blacken. He slammed down on the floor, dead.

  The trio of regular doctors had crouched down behind the bed. Three more green-jumpered killers were in the room, making a total of five Thrushmen on the scene. Every one had a pistol out.

  Illya Kuryakin rolled prone under the bed, and fired at a pair of legs against the far wall. Another Thrushman went down.

  Mr. Waverly had sought cover behind a heavy metal bureau. The pinkish gas was spreading rapidly. Solo was already a trifle dizzy. He dodged back away from it. The cinnamon tang was tantalizingly, seductively pleasant. Another of the THRUSH killers craned around the end of the bed. Aiming, he accidentally inhaled a draught of the pink cloud.

  The man's eyes bulged. His tongue shot out as though it were on a spring.

  His cheeks darkened and he sprawled and died.

  Napoleon Solo was aware of his vulnerability in trying to crouch and fire in the open. His only advantage was the dimness of the room. A THRUSH man by the door shot at him. The bullet bit a hole in the metal bed post near Solo's head. On one knee Solo squeezed his trigger. Hit, the THRUSH agent went spilling backwards into the hall, knocking over his companion.

  As the second man struggled to fight his way out from underneath the corpse, Illya darted over to the door. He shot the floundering man three times.

  In the corridor alarm bells bonged. Footsteps slapped. A nurse shrieked suddenly. It was a nightmare fight, the pistols popping with a ghastly softness. Solo peered up over the end of the bed, through the tenting. Something glittered on the other side—glittered and came flashing and slashing down at the thin polyethylene guarding Shelley's life.

  Solo flung himself forward on his belly. He skidded past the end of the bed, rolled on his right side and fired to his left all in one swift moment.

  He missed.

  The first attendant, mask fallen off to reveal a florid Middle European face, had the knife. He meant to slash the tent so that the pinkish gas could creep in. The gas was settling. Solo only had a foot or two of air space in which to breathe as he got off his second shot.

  The attendant's skin was blackening from the neck upward. But he was frantically determined to score with the blade. Solo's shot spun him halfway around.

  Still the man's knife arm refused to go limp. The shining tip of the weapon flirted toward the polyethylene, driven by a spasm of the dying man's will. Through the pinkish gas Solo aimed at the bridge of the man's nose and pulled the trigger.

  The knife tip was less than an inch from the plastic shroud as the bullet drove up into the THRUSH assassin's skull and drove him back against the wall.

  Two of the doctors had stumbled to their feet. Mr. Waverly was shouting, "Get Shelley out of here at once!"

  "It's too risky to lift him," one of the doctors exclaimed.

  "Clear the hall out there!" Solo yelled, gesturing. He had a football-shaped pellet in his hand. He flung it at the corridor wall, ducked.

  There was a shattering rap of sound, a burst of fire and more smoke, this time whitish. But half the corridor wall had dissolved in to a mess of lath and plaster. There was now an opening large enough to roll Dr. Shelley's entire bed through.

  With Illya and Mr. Waverly and Solo and the doctors all working at it, they got the bed out and rolling along the corridor to the elevator. By that time virtually half the hospital staff had arrived.

  Solo shook his head to clear it. Then he and Illya began issuing rapid orders.

  Because the pinkish gas traveled slowly, they were able to evacuate the entire floor successfully. Patients were wheeled or helped into the huge elevators. Then the fire doors at either end were sealed.

  Dr. Artemus Shelley was still alive and apparently had been done no further injury, according to the doctors who checked him over on the next floor below.

  The U.N.C.L.E. chemical counteraction squad summoned by Mr. Waverly slipped up the fire stairs like so many glass-faced, asbestos-suited ghosts, to damp the cylinder of lethal gas.

  FOUR

  THE NAME of the club was The Rocker Shop, though there were no patrons present who could classify as rockers by virtue of leather apparel, hostile sneers, or tire chains at the ready.

  An executive at London HO had recommended it as an excellent place for a mixed grille and a few ales, if you could stand the floor show. This consisted of an unending sequence of music hall turns. The acts appeared on a tiny stage.

  A brittle flow of Establishment talk clipped back and forth in the air over the tiny tables. The only illumination in the smoky hole came from a few weak bar lights, from the baby spots aimed at the stage, and from electric candles inside tinny holders on each table. Napoleon Solo forgot to applaud as a juggler gave way to a howling, electrified teenage musical group.

  A sign at the side of the stage announced the group as The Costermongers. None of the well-groomed, upper-class guests paid much attention. Solo downed some more ale, then pushed aside the remains of his mixed grille. He eyed the crowd.

  "Solo in Soho. With you instead of that shopgirl. What a come down."

  Illya rolled up his napkin. "Hold your temper, Napoleon. Our uncle from New York sent us out to think after we got our bellies comfortably full, not to entertain ourselves. Do you feel the same way I do?"

  "How's that?" Solo asked as The Costermongers howled and twanged away ferociously.

  "Not in the least eager to conduct strategy talks, for the simple reason that I am completely out of ideas about our next move."

  "You'r
e not the only one. About the only thing we can do is visit Shelley's lab in Golder's Green to night. According to the doctors, Shelley isn't going to be able to stand the shock of another revival for at least twenty-four hours. I have the unpleasant feeling that while we spin our wheels, THRUSH is gaining ground."

  Illya stared rather apathetically into his water glass. "Sad but true. Well—as long as we're on expense account, perhaps I'll break my habit and indulge myself." He rose. "Excuse me, Napoleon. I'm going to try to locate a one dollar cigar. While I'm gone, try to think about Project Ahab. Come up with some thing original."

  "Go get yourself a Beatle cut," said his friend with some distemper.

  "But I already have one."

  Illya vanished into the gloom. Solo called for another ale. The Costermongers finished their act, smiling and bowing like marionettes. Still no one seemed interested.

  Solo perked up as a rather svelte young lady in a gold evening gown came onstage. A new placard by the side of the stage read, Cleo St. Cloud, Mistress of Mentalism. Solo toyed with the notion of asking her to read a few dozen THRUSH brains as a clue to what was in works in the way of a plot. He watched her twenty-minute turn with some interest.

  Miss St. Cloud had liltingly upturned greenish eyes and a smooth delivery. She began by selecting several reluctant volunteers from the audience. She subjected them to a hypnotism susceptibility test, had them lace their fingers together with arms extended in front of the head. After appropriate syrup voiced mumbo jumbo with Miss St. Cloud, the writhing subjects seemed unable to pull their fingers apart.

  Two of the victims were chosen for further hilarity. The girl held the audience's attention better than the other performers had. By the time she had finished, one of the volunteers had completely disarranged his suit, scratching imaginary insects and the other, a typical Colonel Blimp figure, had drawn mild titters from the audience—this was an enthusiastic response for Britishers, Napoleon Solo decided—as he attempted to wiggle in and out of an invisible girdle.

  All through the hypnotist's act, Solo found himself staring at the girl's hair. Silken-yellow it was, with the lacquered metal look of a heavy dose of spray. Something about the whole performance bothered him, nudging the back of his conscious mind.

  At the turn's end, Miss St. Cloud snapped her fingers. She kissed each volunteer on the forehead as he awakened, and thanked them both for letting her hypnotize them. Then she walked smartly off stage. The next turn was Clyde and Jasper. Jasper turned out to be a dachshund who jumped through hoops and rang bells with his paw to add simple sums.

  Only then did he realize what was wrong.

  Coming into The Rocker Shop from the drizzling fog, he and Illya Kuryakin had paused under the naked bulbs of the club front. They'd glanced briefly at the poster announcing the various turns. A female hypnotist was given prominent billing. Solo couldn't remember the posted name, but her photo, a black and white theatrical glossy mounted, registered now.

  The girl vaudevillian whose face was displayed on the street was a brunette. She was rather pretty but pudgy-cheeked. She in no way resembled the blonde.

  Napoleon Solo stood up abruptly. He gave his head one sharp shake to clear it of the fumes of the good English ale. He'd watched Cleo St. Cloud's whole act under the assumption that Illya had taken a stool at the bar, not wanting to disturb the silence which prevailed while the girl was on stage. With a crawling sensation on his scalp, Solo wondered whether he'd made a wrong assumption.

  He turned quickly. Two RAE officers sat at the bar. There was no one else.

  Illya Kuryakin wasn't in sight anywhere.

  Apprehension began to gnaw Solo's gut. He barely remembered to put a few pound notes on the tablecloth. Then he started for the bar. The man on duty, a beefy fellow with a huge red moustaches, was cooperative enough:

  "Funny thin chap, wasn't 'e? 'Air down in his eyes, right? I figured maybe 'e was a replacement for one of the Costermongers. They're always 'avin bloody fights over 'oo gets 'ow much of the take. One or the other of 'em quits every week or so. Yes, your friend was 'ere, right enough. Just about the time Miss St. Cloud came on stage. Didn't look 'erself tonight. New wig, I guess. I'm nearsighted, y'know. The missus is always nagging me to get eyeglasses—"

  "I appreciate all that," Solo said. "Your missus must be a sterling woman."

  "You wouldn't be givin' me some of your American 'ighbrow lip, would you, mate?"

  "I am not. I just want to know when you saw my friend last."

  "Told yer! Right around the time Miss St. Cloud come on."

  "What happened to him? Where did he go?"

  "If yer want to be blunt about it, 'a went to the water closet to wash 'is 'ands."

  The barkeep jerked a well- fleshed thumb. Napoleon Solo charged toward the dim little stair way leading down.

  In the small lower-level corridor, harshly lighted, the paint peeling from its orange walls, Solo stopped.

  "Illya?" He said it softly. Some thing moved at the corner of his vision. He jerked around, hand going under his smartly tailored jacket for the butt of his ever-ready pistol.

  But what had caught his attention was only his own reflection in the large mirror-glass front of a cheap American-style vending machine which sold combs, packets of tissues, headache and upset stomach remedies and similar items. Solo stared at his image in the mirror, which covered half the front of the chrome-knobbed machine. Mr. Waverly had sent them out to dine and think while he attended to paper work. Now Solo had blown the whole bit for fair.

  "You bloody fool," he said to the mirror. "To coin a phrase."

  Pulling out his pistol, he edged carefully through the door labeled Gentlemen's. Nothing.

  He edged back into the hall and walked to its end, where there was another door. This he pulled open, dodging back.

  Light spilled out ahead of him. Dampness tugged at his cuffs. He advanced cautiously up a short flight of concrete stairs which ended at the cobbles of an alley above. He sniffed the night air with its mixture of fish and petrol aromas. No one was in the alley.

  On the Street taxicabs and private cars were passing, wet bonnets reflecting bizarre patterns of the multicolored Soho neons. Illya was gone.

  Illya was gone and Solo was sure THRUSH had him.

  Then, with an abruptness that made him jump there was a low, insistent beep from his inner left breast pocket. He whipped out his communicator, flicked a knob on the surface of the flat black box. The signal intensified.

  Solo was switched onto the channel used for homing devices. Somewhere, somehow, Illya had managed to activate one.

  In five minutes Solo had switched channels briefly, made an emergency call, summoned one of the U.N.C.L.E. vehicles at his disposal, a dilapidated-looking, high-powered taxicab, and was ripping through the London Streets. The man at the wheel drove at highly illegal speeds. Solo sat tensely be side him, the homing signal chattering loudly from where the receiver lay on the leather seat beside him.

  What worried him was knowing that a homing signal going full force did not necessarily indicate that the person who'd turned it on was still live.

  FIVE

  STEPPING FROM the Gentlemen's into the seedy orange-painted hall, Illya Kuryakin's attention was caught by two things.

  One was a spattering of applause. It indicated that the musically impoverished group known as The Costermongers had departed the stage. The other was his frankly jaunty appearance, visible in a mirror on the front of a garish vending machine.

  Ordinarily Illya didn't indulge in cigars. But the large, executive- type Corona-Corona Special Deluxe clenched between his teeth at a jaunty angle lent him, he felt, a debonair appearance which be rather fancied. He stepped closer to the mirror to pull up the knot in his rep tie a bit more neatly.

  The mirror opened outward from the vending machine and smashed him across the face.

  Illya reeled back. He was more outraged than hurt. Grinning at him from inside the vending machine was a pock-fac
ed man with a pistol.

  "Be so kind as to stand in that place, Mr. Kuryakin. The others will be along momentarily."

  Illya had no desire to wait and make their acquaintance. As the lower half of the vending machine began to open also, like the bottom of a Dutch door, Illya lashed out with a savage kick. The kick smashed the door, and the gunman, back inside the vending machine. The gunman cursed, flailed. He extended his pistol hand out of the machine for a better aim at the U.N.C.L.E. agent. Illya slammed the upper door hard.

  The man squealed.

  "Sing, my little THRUSH," IIlya said with cheerful nastiness as the man's fingers flew open and the pistol dropped.

  "Kuryakin!"

  The command spun him around. Two more well-dressed men in bowlers and overcoats with velvet lapels had entered from the alley. Both carried guns. The spokesman rushed forward. There was a groan and a creak of metal from inside the vending machine. The ugly-faced Thrushmen both glanced in that direction. Illya used the interval to dive his hand under his coat for his pistol.

  He might have made it if the secret agent in the vending machine, apparently unconscious from having his gun hand nearly snapped off, hadn't slumped forward. The man's dead weight pushed both of the machine doors outward fast. Illya got another very un-funny bash in the nose. By the time he'd wrestled his pistol out of its shoulder rig the two assailants were on him.

  They chopped the back of his neck with gun butts. Illya dropped to his knees, fighting the pain. He started to yell. One of the THRUSH uglies yanked his head back by the hair. The other jammed an unsavory-tasting leather glove between his jaws.

  Then they flicked his face brutally a couple of more times with their pistol muzzles. They kept him from falling by dragging him under the arms.

  Everything revolved in Illya's field of vision. Everything had the same quality of fuzziness he'd encountered after his first youthful bout with a flask of vodka.

  "Quietly, quietly," snarled one of the THRUSH kidnappers as they dragged Illya through the door and up into the alley. His knees bumped painfully over the cobbles. Strength was returning. He mentally vetoed fighting any further for the moment. It might be more profitable to discover where he was being taken and, more importantly, to whom.