19 - The Power Cube Affair (19 page)

"Got the gun," Kuryakin grunted, heaving his shoulder against the table edge. "He was holding it in his lap. You can let go, Napoleon. He won't bother us any more."

Solo relaxed his grip altogether now and stared dazedly at the bleak little face. The head lolled limply. The shock, the impact, and the surprise had been too much for Absalom Green. Walker scrambled up from the floor and flexed his shoulders, looked around.

"Hey! What the hell—!" be growled, and started forward. Kuryakin was ahead of him. Miss Perrell sat on cushions against the far wall of the cabin. She sat very still, her head up, her pose unnaturally stiff, but her eyes were alive and blazing.

"Careful, darling," she breathed. Kuryakin looked closer and caught his breath. A fine thread was looped under her chin and drawn up and away to the solid hinge of a port hole behind and over her head. "It's monofilament fishing line," she explained. "You'll have to cut it." Solo came, fumbling for his knife. With care they cut the tremendously strong line and released her head. "Now my hands," she said, and leaned forward. "Mr. Green knows all kinds of pleasant tricks."

Walker came to stare and clench his hamlike fists. "A pity you broke his neck, Mr. Solo," he said very softly. "That was too good for him!"

"You'll be all right?" Kuryakin demanded, and she smiled grimly.

"Give me a moment or two to get the circulation back and I'll be right with you."

"No need. You relax. This is our fight now." Solo whirled in time to see Walker grabbing a stranger, a small man in white drill, picking him up with one hand and cuffing him into silence with the other.

"Steward," he suggested.

"Probably sent along to fetch the owner. But Mr. Green can't come. We'll go instead. Illya, you can hold on here and look after Nan."

"Not likely!" she objected at once. "I'm coming!"

"All right!" Solo shrugged and led the way, moving fast but warily. They regained the upper deck and heard again that greasily self-satisfied voice speaking not very far away.

"—duties, of course. But there are certain limits. I presume you are required to produce some kind of warrant before conducting a search?"

"We have already explained, sir." First Lieutenant Willis was very patient. "We have no instructions to search, just to inspect the log and the articles of ownership, to be satisfied as to your identity. That's all."

"Not my identity, as it happens. I am merely a guest. But I have sent for the owner, and he should be here at any moment. If you gentlemen will step this way. I'm sure there's no reason why we can't do this in a civilized manner.

"Forward cabin, by the look," Walker muttered. "There!" A flood of golden light spilled out from an opened door, a rectangle through which two slim figures moved, and then a third, a huge one. Solo slid forward and halted by that door, as it remained half-open.

"In a moment Mr. Green will be here—"

"I'm afraid he won't." Solo shoved the door open and stood in view. "Mr. Green won't be able to make it. Sorry!"

Beeman whirled around. Just for one moment he lost that fine gleam of urbanity that covered him like a glaze. Hatred gleamed from his eyes. Then, just as swiftly, he had recovered.

"Solo!" The tone was chill dignity distilled. "Are you responsible for this? You fool!"

"Not so foolish as to believe you would honor a bargain."

Beeman's face rippled, indicating the whirlpool of thought beneath. "This man is raving." He turned to Willis. "I imagine he has spun you some fantastic story about a lady being held aboard this craft. She is here, of course!" He extended all the force of his personality now, radiating good fellowship. "I wouldn't be so silly as to deny that. But she is here as a guest. Lieutenant, we are men of the world. I ask you to understand how awkward this could be. She is at present with Mr. Green—"

"Nice try," Solo interrupted. "But no cigars, Beeman. Mr. Green has no say now. But Miss Perrell has. Let her in, Illya. She can still talk, Beeman, enough to tell what the real purpose is of her being here. And as an independent witness—Walker, show yourself to the man." Solo moved to one side to let Walker appear in the light, but he watched Beeman closely. The fat man was tense but far from beaten yet.

"Miss Perrell"—he ducked his head courteously—"and Mr. Walker. As witness to what? I wonder. Miss Perrell appears to be whole and unharmed. But what of Mr. Green? What have you two done to him?" That voice grew hard as Beeman snatched at a straw and turned it into a club. "We can't hear Mr. Green's story, can we? Because you savages have killed him. Murderers!" He revolved on Willis again. "Lieutenant, I insist you carry out your duty as a responsible person. I insist you carry out a search, now, for Mr. Green's body. And that you hold these two men responsible."

Willis looked disconcerted at this twist. He eyed Walker. The young sub-lieutenant shrugged uneasily.

"He's dead all right, Number One."

"That does it!" Willis became firm. "Cox'n, you'd better take a walk back there and check—"

"Hold it!" Solo spoke now, suddenly very tense. "Just a moment. I know this cabin. Illya?"

"That's right. I was just thinking the same thing. We've heard it."

"Yes. Hardwood floor. Table in the middle. Window." He went across to it, to verify that it went straight down to the sea, outside. "This is it, all right." He turned back to the occupants of the cabin. "Keep well away from that table, Beeman. Cox'n Armitage, I want you to do me a favor. Just a little one. I'd like you to get down and take a look at the underside of that table."

"What outrageous nonsense is this?" Beeman roared. "What do you expect to find, a bomb? Do I strike you as the suicide type?"

Solo ignored him, watched Armitage, who looked to Willis for a lead. Willis nodded resignedly and the chief petty officer went down on his knees to lean under and peer. And grunt.

"Blimey, there is something here, stuck up by the leg. A bomb?"

"It's not dangerous to any of us," Solo declared sternly. "Dangerous only to you, Beeman. It is a miniature tape recorder, planted there by the girl you called Marie. The girl you ordered beaten to death, right here in this cabin. And it recorded all that—I've heard it. You see, she took the tape when she left, when she hauled her broken body out of that window and drifted to the beach—"

Beeman exploded into action, moving incredibly faster than seemed possible for a man of his bulk. Nan Perrell went aside like a doll. Walker grunted and fell aside in the opposite direction. Kuryakin was hurled bodily aside as the fat man rampaged through the door and out into the dark. Solo tore after him, scrambling and hopping over the assorted bodies, charging out into the dark, peering about, just in time to see a gross form pose by the rail and then leap down into the sea. Without stopping to think, Solo ran like a hare for the rail, launched himself into a low dive, struck the water cleanly and plunged deep. Kicking, he arched over and shot back to the surface.

"A light!" he yelled. "Give us a light!"

Seconds later he heard Illya on the bullhorn. "Launch ahoy! Man overboard, port side!"

Then, very soon, a white beam split the darkness, and the launch snored capably through the water to pick them up, willing hands hoisted him inboard.

"Thanks," he gasped, "but it's not me you're looking for. There's another man down. I was right behind him, he can't have gone far."

He crouched in the bows, shivering and wet, while a sea man swung the searchlight on the wheelhouse roof and the launch quartered the sea patiently, but there was no sign. After half an hour Woods called him from the wheel."

"Dead or alive, Mr. Solo, he's a mile away by now. We'll never find him in this. She's starting to blow hard. Might as well give it a miss. Scrub around. You need a change of clothing anyway."

The launch put back to
Trojan
. So did the small boat that had carried the stop and check party. This time the gathering in the
Trojan
wardroom had a different feel about it. Hope made his own position clear.

"My orders were to render all assistance to you two. I think you'll agree matters have gone a bit beyond that now. I'm radioing a full report back, plus a message from Miss Perrell to her superiors. For now, I propose to put a skeleton crew aboard the yacht and escort her back to Harwich, where the higher ups can sort things out whichever way they think fit. That's for later. Right now I have a different kind of problem. You see, we're just a destroyer. We're not designed to accommodate guests. Or prisoners. Hanged if I know which you are, to be honest. So look here, if you can give me assurance that there'll be no more malarkey, I propose putting you back on that yacht. After all, she's got the space."

"Sounds like fun." Nan Perrell grinned her crooked grin. "A trip on a millionaire's yacht, plus a naval escort. It will be something to look back on while I'm in jail."

"You won't do any time in jail," Walker growled. "Not if I have anything to say about it. I saw that fishing line!"

"You'll get your chance to talk at the proper time, Walker. All right, then, let's get you lot back there and get moving, shall we?"

The three of them gathered in the cabin where it had all started, now silent and a little weary. Solo found a seat and sagged.

"It's all gone cockeyed," he complained, and she stared at him.

"Don't run yourself into the ground, Napoleon. You've done wonders, you and Illya. Green's gone. Beeman's gone. The customs people will take this craft apart and find—"

"They won't find a thing!" Kuryakin disagreed. "Oh, Beeman and Green were smuggling something, sure enough, but I doubt if it's here. If only we could have held Green, made him talk!"

"Sorry about that, Illya. I hit him too hard."

"Now look!" She came to stand between them indignantly. "What about me? You saved my life, remember?"

Solo looked up at her. "You're safe, yes, and we're glad of that. Very glad. You see, as soon as we saw Beeman's note it was obvious that we had blazed a trail back to you that even a blind man could have followed. So it was our fault that you fell in. And to be honest, we never expected to see you alive again. Knowing Beeman's form, we had to assume you written off."

"But you came just the same."

"Because he had given us a clue where to find him, that's all."

A tap at the door interrupted them, brought Walker with a companion, the small steward. Solo saw now that he was Chinese and very woebegone.

"Fu Manchu, here, is a good boy now," Walker chuckled. "Anything you want, just order. He's brought coffee."

The Chinese bobbed humbly. "Name Joe Lee, not Fu Manchu. You want supper, maybe?" He got no offers on that. Kuryakin asked:

"How about sleeping space?"

Lee blinked, recited as if from a map in his head. "This cabin, port forward, belong top guests. Four beds, two this side, two that. Clean and fresh all the time. Starboard forward used only for dinner and company, no sleeping, no sheets but can fix. Two little cabins midships. Two more aft, one for Missa Green. Which you want?"

"We hadn't better disturb Green and the evidence. If you can make up the two midships cabins for me and Illya—"

"That's enough!" Nan Perrell cut in again. "If I could sleep, which I doubt, I am not staying all alone in this cabin. Joe, you make up three of the four here. I'll help you."

Beneath their feet engines started to throb. Lee looked up from the sheet he was smoothing down and sighed. "Go now. Be in harbor soon. Then police come, plenty trouble."

"For everybody," Kuryakin agreed, and added something that made the little man turn his head abruptly and then scuttle for the door.

"Bring breakfast, one bell. Egg-bacon-coffee-grapefruit for everybody, is O.K.?" and then he was gone.

"What did you say to him, Illya?"

"Very wise old Chinese saying, not by Chairman Mao. A wise man stops when he has one hand full of trouble."

"In other words, don't bite off more than you can chew?"

"Something like that. It looks as if we have chewed up a lot more than we can bite off, this time."

"And we can't call out for help, either," Solo pointed out. "Not this time."

"You keep on writing me off," she said, unbuttoning her dress and draping it over the foot of the bunk. "I'm still here, thanks to you. And this, I think, is where you are going to see just what Charles can do, when he tries. We will be taken care of, don't you worry

"I hope you're right," Solo poured a cup for himself and sipped it. "Incidentally, how did you come to get suckered into Beeman's clutches."

"Confession." She sat, extended a leg and began unbuckling her gun straps. "I overlooked the number one rule about phone calls. I got one, at seven-thirty. I was expecting Charles. Instead it was Monty Hagen, from Danby Hall. Would I care to run over and explain about your queer behavior the night before? And—I blush to admit it—I fell for it."

"How do you mean, fell for it?" Kuryakin asked, crossing over and dropping to a knee beside her. "Here, let me help. Your fingers aren't straightened out yet."

"I should have rung back. Obviously. I could kick myself. Especially when I think about it. I mean, when in the world did any of the Danby household ever see daylight before eleven A.M.?"

"So it was a fake?"

"But of course!" She smiled gently, changed legs. "I should have known. Monty would be easy enough to mimic. Anyway, off I went, eyes full of stars about you two. And you may remember that dip in the road, just before the left hand curve away past the turnoff for Beeman's place?"

Kuryakin looked up from his unbuckling. "Don't tell me you went down there to take a look at the wreckage?"

"I'm not quite that crazy, Illya, dear. No, it was better than that. I went sailing down into that dip, into what looked like morning mist. Only it was tear gas. And the road was full of those metal spike things they use to ruin tires. I had a lively couple of minutes keeping myself on the road as all four wheels went flat. And then I was peering, bleary eyed, into the business end of several lethal looking guns. And that was it!"