19 - The Power Cube Affair (10 page)

"Sorry," Solo murmured "Sudden attack of amnesia."

"Indeed!" Green flicked a glance around at his henchman. "Flanagan! No, Ponti, you're nearer. Make her scream, would you?"

"
Si
. A pleasure." The man addressed showed vivid white teeth in a grin.

"How dare you?" protested Miss Thompson. "Take your hands—" the words chopped off in a shriek that was as much outraged astonishment as pain. Solo stiffened, but Kuryakin's voice came, cold and chill.

"You won't gain anything like that. You intend to kill us all anyway, so why should we tell you anything?"

"Admirably put, Mr. Kuryakin, and impeccably logical. There's very little you can tell us, in any case, that we do not already know." His snake-like glance went to Miss Thompson again. "Come here. One silly move, gentlemen, and she dies first. Stand there, to one side."

She was an inch taller than he and stared at him in open dislike, clutching the diaphanous robe.

"You've ceased to be of any use to me, Louise. But you know far too much, and you talk too much. Your mouth will have to be stopped." There came the shock crack of his palm as he struck her across the face without any warning, sending her reeling backward. His glass cold eyes returned to the two men, the gun in his hand as steady as ever.

"Your disposal presents a pretty problem. I am an artistic man. I like things to be done with a flair. Design and attention to detail is the factor that marks the intelligent man from the moron. Strip them!"

Solo moved instinctively in rejection, and that pistol moved with him, its tunnel-like muzzle centered implacably on him. Over it Green's eyes were chill. Solo shrugged and permitted the rough hands of the seamen to wrench his clothing from him.

"That will do," Green decided, when both men were down to underpants. "Leave the clothes here. Later you will douse them with alcohol. For now, come, and pay close attention. You two, march!"

They marched, into the cool and hygienic kitchen, where white tiles and chrome made a background like an operating theater. They sat, still under orders, in two kitchen chairs, back to back. Donovan and Flanagan worked now while Ponti watched with grinning appreciation. They had found a plastic clothesline in a drawer. When they were done with it the two agents were roped and tied as securely as they had ever known in a lifetime of similar experiences. Green stood in the doorway, supervising.

"Now," he said, "pay attention. We are going to set the scene for the police to find, one they will be able to under stand. The story is this: that she telephoned them—which can be checked; that they were closeted together for some time; that they drank heavily and unwisely; they then quarreled violently, here, in that room, and in the bedroom— presumably over her. One or the other of them—it doesn't matter which—strangled her and left her on the bed…"

Miss Thompson gave a choked cry of utter unbelief and terror at this shocking statement. The two heard the sound of a blow, then a whimper.

"Keep her quiet. The rest is reasonably simple. Both men become enraged, struggle with each other, then collapse, utterly drunk. The police will find them there. Questions?"

"How we get them drunk?" Ponti demanded.

"Very simply. Whiskey. Please observe, there is a gas supply here. With the gas turned on and the door shut they will become unconscious. Later you will bring them out, untie them, pour drink over and into them, conceal the cord and flush the gas from the room. There is very little detectable difference between the stupefaction induced by gas, and intoxication. Anything else?"

"Green!" Solo kept his voice as level as possible. "You've got us, and we're in the habit of sticking out our necks, but do you have to drag her into this? Your dupe?"

"Dupe? Yes, I used her. But now she knows too much. Give me that bottle, Flanagan." Seconds later Solo felt the chill of fluid on his scalp and smelled the stink of whiskey as Green tipped the bottle over his head.

"That's a terrible waste of the hard stuff," Donovan objected.

"Don't be a fool, man, there's plenty more. Help yourself, after the job's done. See you do a good job of it, you've plenty of time. Break the place up. Play some loud music, just in case the neighbors get nosy. And just before you leave, dial 999 and then leave the receiver off the hook. Keep your gloves on at all times. Anything else?"

"About her," Ponti demanded. "Some fun first, eh?"

"Help yourself." Green said it in the same tone he had used about the drink. "It will make very little difference to the police." He emptied the rest of the bottle over Kuryakin's head, then handed it to Flanagan. "Not get it clear. Gas on and shut this door. Wreck the place thoroughly. It is now nine-forty-five. You have until eleven."

"We meet you at the usual place?"

"No. Take the car and ditch it. It's stolen in any case. Then disappear for a week. I'll be out of touch until then anyway. At the end of that time you will be able to reach me as usual. Ponti, turn on all those gas taps."

Solo strained his shoulders against the ropes as chill spirits ran down over his face and neck. He heard Green's steps tap away and then:

"Goodbye, Louise. You will not be going to the ball, after all. The chief will be disappointed when you do not arrive. If it were possible, I would warn him, but it doesn't matter all that much. He will be able to get someone else, I'm sure." The tapping steps came back to the door. "Goodbye, gentlemen. As I told you, when I arrange things, they do not fail." Then he shut the door after him, and the two men were in silence, broken only by the sibilant hiss of gas.

"This is a fine mess you've got me into," Kuryakin sighed. "You and your law abiding British!"

"Two Irishmen and an Italian?" Solo retorted, straining at the rope again. "Anyway, Illya, I know one thing. We don't have to worry how hard we hit those thugs."

"I don't suppose they are all that worried, either. If we don't do something fast, the only thing we're going to hit is the floor. The gas is thickening. Napoleon, do you ever think about Waterloo?"

"Not if I can help it. A pity we didn't ask Miss Perrell how to conjure up knives out of thin air; we could use one right now."

"Those sailors certainly know how to tie knots. And this plastic stuff doesn't give anyone a chance. Hear that?" The sounds of furniture being wrecked came from the next room. Solo got the pungency of coal gas up his nostrils on top of the whiskey, and a high-pitched whistle started in his ears. Sanity told him there was very little time to go and nothing to do. He launched into another desperate lunge against the ropes around his chest and heard a faint creak from the chair. The chair!

"That's it!" he said, his own voice sounding thin and far away. "The only weak spot, Illya. The chairs. We have to break them somehow."

Faintly through the whistling in his ears he heard martial music. It sounded familiar.

"Zampa!" Kuryakin muttered. "I never thought to hear it again. We can use it for rhythm, Napoleon. Rock forward and back—now!"

Solo hurled his body forward against the rope, then back, and the two linked chairs rocked with him as the two men see-sawed back and forth, back and forth, until the legs were lifting and crashing back to the floor with each rock. Within breathless seconds they heard encouraging creaks and groanings and vent at it harder than ever. By now Solo could barely see the brightness of the kitchen for the gray fumes that twisted his vision. Breath tore burningly at his throat. All at once he was sitting on the hard floor amid angular wreckage, then keeling over as his companion wriggled frantically to get some slack. Then, blearily, he was fumbling his arms and legs free, holding on to the gas burner, groping for the taps with fingers that felt like limp sausages. Kuryakin tottered to a window, got it open, and stood there sucking in great breaths of air. Solo scrambled over to stand by him and gasp.

"Close!" he panted. "Not a nice man, our Mr. Green."

"I can't say I care for his assistants, either. Mustn't let them get at Miss Thompson. You ready?"

Solo dragged in two more enormous breaths, shook his head testingly, and nodded. "Fit enough. Come on!"

Over at the door he put his forehead against it while he eased the catch free. There were vigorous noises coming through. He pulled the door just a fraction to make sure, nodded to Kuryakin, and hurled it all the way open, to go through with a rush. Just in time he saw the couch, up turned, right in his path. He leaped over it, landed catlike and whirled. Donovan stood over in one corner by the record player, a glass in one hand. At sight of Solo he froze, mouth open. Solo wasted no time but leaped on to the upside-down couch, sprang from it straight at Donovan, and the pair of them crashed into the record player.

With no time for finesse, Solo caught at the first thing at hand, a bottle, and slammed it down on Donovan's head. He scrambled to his feet, pressed a palm to the wall a moment as the room spun around him.

Over in the other corner he saw Kuryakin dance away from a swung chair and grab it, pull and drag Flanagan off-balance, then wallop him with a savage chop as the man went staggering by. Poised deliberately, he chopped again and Flanagan plunged face down to the floor. Feeling a certain amount of righteous satisfaction, Solo shoved away from the wall, then froze for a moment as a scream came through the half-open door of the bedroom and then cut off suddenly. Solo's momentary satisfaction was swallowed in a blind fury. He hit the bedroom door with his shoulder and went straight on through into dim light, onto a white sheepskin carpet, to see Ponti holding Miss Thompson down on the bed.

The crashing entry made the Italian let go instantly, heave up and spin, but Solo was already on him, throwing a piledriver punch with his right and grabbing with his left hand at the man's loosened coat. Unbalanced, Ponti tottered, sideways. Solo heaved to help him, dug in his heels and swung the Italian around like a weight on a chain, then let go and watched him arch away and slam in a heap in a corner. But Ponti was no novice in rough and tumble. He bounced up like a ball, square on his feet, and in his right hand a knife glittering. The snarl of his white teeth split his dark face. Solo, who could hear the shocked sobbing of the girl at his back, waved him on.

"Come on!" he invited. Ponti wanted nothing more. Tensing, he sprang like a cat, right arm forward. Solo turned a shoulder to meet him, slid around the blade, laid both hands savagely on that wrist and arm, lifted up and down viciously bringing up his knee. There was an audible crunch as Ponti's wrist broke and a strangled scream as the Italian tried to let go. But Solo was not in a letting go mood. Ducking, using his shoulder, he heaved and hoisted, and Ponti flew. His short flight terminated at the bedroom door, with him upside-down and his flailing heels driving clean through the panel. He hung there, limp. Breathing hard, Solo spun back to the bed again. Miss Thompson crouched there, cringing, the shreds of her filmy housecoat clinging to one shoulder and trailing over the white counterpane behind her. Her violet eyes were wide and senseless in the half light as he stared at her.

"Are you all right?" he demanded, and she shivered.

"No, don't!" she choked. "No, don't! No, don't! No, don't!" Solo extended a protective hand, and then came a resounding crash from the room he had just left. He turned, sprang for the door, and it was jammed. He heaved frantically at the handle, wrenched at it, and the entire door creaked away from its hinges and sagged under Ponti's inert weight. With no time to be delicate, Solo heaved madly, shoved it through and ran over it as it fell. He was in time to see Kuryakin fling himself backward over the fallen couch as Flanagan flailed wildly with a chair leg.

"Hould still, ye murtherin' devil!" he roared, as Kuryakin rolled into a corner and came up. The timing couldn't have been better. As Flanagan hoisted himself up and over the hurdle, Solo took him from behind and added a powerful boost. The Irishman shot forward, Kuryakin leaned to one side, took hold and heaved, and the double impetus sent Flanagan arrowing forward, to meet the solid wall over the fireplace head on.

"Thick head, that one!" Kuryakin panted. "Was just going back into the kitchen to get the rope, when he came alive all at once."

"He won't do that again!" Solo stated, looking down.

"What—?" Kuryakin started a question and forgot it as a bottle burst on the wall between them. They fell and parted by reflex, then peered cautiously, to see Donovan entrenched in the corner between the sideboard and the ruined record player. There was blood all over his face, and he had a bottle in either hand. As Solo raised his head above the protective barrier of the couch, one of the bottles flew for him and he ducked again, fast.

Hold it!" he whispered urgently to Kuryakin. "I'll try to winkle him out of there. You grab him. Here goes!" Seizing Ponti's limp form, he got a good hold, then hoisted the inert Italian and ran forward, using the limp figure as a shield. Donovan snarled and lashed out with one bottle, but Solo fended it off with his burden, felt the crushing impact, dropped his shield and grabbed as fast as he could, before his opponent could regain balance. Clinging ruthlessly, he hurled himself backward, fell, got his feet up and under, kicked, and Donovan sailed over and out of the corner. There came a fiendish crash and clatter and then silence. Picking himself up, Solo turned, to see Kuryakin standing and looking down at the body, its head rammed into the bars of the fireplace.

"How is the Italian?" he asked, kneeling to investigate Donovan. Solo crouched, made quick exploratory touches with his fingers, then stood again.

"He's taken his last voyage, Illya. How about those two?"

"Same ship. Frankly, Napoleon, bearing in mind what they were going to do to us, I can't say I feel any remorse. How's Miss Thompson?"

"She was in shock a moment ago. Let's go see."

She had moved. She was now sitting on the edge of the bed. As they went in her eyes, huge in the gloom, followed them fearfully. The rag that remained of her garment was now wrapped around her wrist. She put it to her mouth and mumbled, again, "No, don't! No, don't!"