20 - The Corfu Affair (15 page)

KATHERINE WINTER heard this extraordinary dialogue as if in some hideous nightmare. The stricken statue had fallen sideways, pinning her to the wall. Its nude weight felt rubber somehow, not a bit the way she expected a statue to feel. Not marble. It felt alarmingly like a real body. A dead body. She kept quite still, not at all sure whether she would ever be able to move again. Rolling her eyes, she saw Solo hurry out of the door and go trotting busily downstairs. Her bemused brain finally delivered back to her the idea that the other man would be out on the balcony, flashing some kind of signal to that yacht they had mentioned. If she was ever going to get away, this was the moment. She concentrated, sent messages to her arms and legs, took a deep breath, then collapsed again as she heard a rustle and click from the darkness close by.

So near to her left hand that she could have reached out and touched it, the solid-seeming wall slid back to reveal a dark chasm, and then a face peered out. Just one breath earlier, Katherine would have sworn piously that life could hold nothing more terrifying than what had just happened in the past few minutes, but when she saw that face emerge and catch the light, all previous starts and shocks paled into trivia. She stared. She wanted to scream but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and her throat dried into sand. If she had not already been leaning against the wall, she would have folded up on the floor.

It was Madame, the Countess Louise. And yet not. The flawless lovely features were the same, but those lovely lips were drawn back over gleaming teeth in a smile so evil and sinister that Katherine's blood ran like ice. And the eyes glittered with a light that had nothing of sanity in it at all. Deep in its throat the beautiful evil vision laughed, and it was an insane chuckle that Katherine was to remember all the days of her life, a cackle of complete insanity. The rolling, peering eyes swept the gloom, lingered for a terrifying moment on the shadows where Katherine trembled, then moved on. The head emerged further, followed by the classically perfect body, the dim light spilling over the naked curves. For some odd reason, the very perfection of that figure made the whole business seem even more horrible to the petrified watcher. She saw Louise pad away like a pale cat in the gloom, and she knew there was more evil yet to come.

She sagged back against the wall and tried to put her scrambled ideas into some sort of order. Solo, for instance, now seemed to be on the good side again, and she found a moment to be glad of that. But what had the bad ones been up to? What had Solo meant by making the bodies come alive? Surely—and chills chased themselves up and down her spine as the thought shaped itself in her mind—surely he didn't mean these statues? Could they really be made alive?

Katherine shivered, and peered with wide eyes as large men came tramping up the stairs and went back down again carrying bodies. Then she saw a slim fair-haired man in brief blue swimming trunks come out of the door. He had a leather harness that held a gun and a torch. One of the other men spoke to him.

"Is it all right if we dump these in the hall downstairs, Illya? Doc Harvey wants to take a look at them before we haul them out to the yacht."

"She came ashore with you?"

"Downstairs right now, waiting."

"Women! I told her to stay put until everything was clear. We have enough trouble on our hands as it is. I'll go down and talk to her. We have to remember that the Countess is still loose, and dangerous."

The little knot of men moved to the top of the stairs. The one named Illya paused to look down and call out.

"Napoleon, what about the cook-housekeeper? We haven't seen anything of her, and she must have heard the racket."

"Kate? I don't know about her, Illya. She went off to bed right after dinner. She has her own room over in the West Tower. It's possible she never heard a thing. Louise reckoned to keep her nighttime cocoa laced with sleepy-bye powder. But you can't believe that. She may be one of the zombies, for all I know. Either way, she won't bother us any."

"Maybe not, but she could be in danger. What if Louise grabs her as some kind of hostage...?"

The voices dwindled as the men went away down and round a corner, leaving Katherine on her own. She was in a new quandary. She heaved the leaning statue away from her, then herself away from the wall, and stood on very shaky legs, trying to decide what to do next. Where to go?—with that crazy woman roaming about, and all those tough looking men with guns! And bodies!

From somewhere came a last flicker of curiosity, sparking her to steal as far as that door and peer inside. It was quiet now, but the smell of gunsmoke was strong. She dared herself to go in, and to gape at the silent array of lovely, lifeless bodies. These were not statues. She knew that at once, by some instinct. They were real creatures, and very beautiful. She went on further, into the small room next door. It told her very little. It was full of stuff that looked like radio sets and signaling equipment. And it went nowhere. She wandered back into the main room, wondering why U.N.C.L.E. should be so interested in all this. What had Madame done?

Then, in instant terror, she heard footsteps and voices and people returning. She had to hide. But where?

Napoleon Solo scowled, rubbed his jaw ruefully and tried to smother mounting irritation as he and Kuryakin escorted Susan Harvey up the last flight of stairs to where the carnage had taken place. For once in a way he was inclined to share his colleague's disapproval of interfering and unreasonable women.

"Look," he said, with long-suffering patience, "I know you have a professional interest here. I appreciate that. You've seen the tanks where she used to grow the bodies. You've seen the layout. Now, you say, you want to see the finished article. All right. But please remember that we, too, have a professional stake in this. Remember, Susan, that you are not a field agent, and that we are. Remember that that woman is still loose, and that she is dangerous. Incidentally, her cook-housekeeper companion is loose too, and may be just as dangerous as she is. This is no place for you. Now why don't you take yourself quietly off, back to the yacht, let us get things cleared up here—and you can examine the androids all you want—"

"Right now!" she insisted, stubbornly. She had thrown on a towel wrap over her bikini, and she plunged her hands into the pockets of it now. "I want to see the androids as they are. I want to see the control mechanism. If possible, I'd like to activate one—"

"You're out of luck," Kuryakin told her bluntly. "I took care of that. I'll show you. The switchgear is in here, for the heavy stuff. That little control box is only a relay. I can follow it fairly easily from the diagram we had. Look, I closed this breaker, and these switches, and blew a heavy charge through the whole range."

"What did that achieve, Illya?" Solo inquired.

"This is designed to be tuned in on any or all of the modules. I set it to cover the lot, and then blew them. That means there are no longer any android slaves working for Thrush."

"Hey!" Solo was struck with sudden inspiration. "That could also mean that all the Thrushes who have bought androids have also—stopped working. Couldn't it?"

"It could. And I am not about to lose any sleep over that, either. So there it is, Dr. Harvey. There's nothing left to see."

"Was it necessary to ruin the whole thing?" she demanded angrily

"I think so." He met her blue-eyed stare with equally blue-eyed determination. "I think this is one secret that is just as well forgotten!"

All at once she shrugged and turned away, to go back to the table and sit. "I suppose you're right, Illya. They are beautiful." She looked at the mute line of motionless figures.

"But they would pose some really terrible problems. Would they really be people, with rights and privileges, and emotions, and all the rest of it—or just property?"

"It's a tough question, all right." Solo sank wearily into the seat by her side. "I doubt if we are qualified to answer it."

"That's why I took it on myself to destroy the stuff." Kuryakin came to settle in the seat on the other side. "Slavery always is a problem, and this one—" His words cut off as a hideous cackle came from somewhere near, and by reflex he started to move. But the chrome-steel bands which clicked out of the chair were faster. With quiet strength they looped and clicked, one round his chest, one round each ankle, one round his left wrist. The right wrist, complete with pistol, was free.

He squirmed round frantically as far as he could, trying to get a line on that insane voice, a glance showing him that both Solo and Susan were totally trapped. His quest was vain.

As he wrenched himself round an empty bottle came down with crushing force on his wrist, to send the gun flying. The bottle rose and fell again, this time on his head. By the time the bells had stopped ringing in his skull, Louise had moved out and round, facing them across the table.

Kuryakin shook his head just once more, tried his bonds, and then settled for a bleak stare. So this was the famous Countess Louise! Never before had such stunning loveliness been regarded with such scant appreciation. She was totally nude, and even in her mania there was an inherent pride, a panache about the way she held herself, as if she knew that she was without flaw and good to look at.

"An animal!" Kuryakin muttered. "Madame, you do well to discard all clothing. Primitive animals have no need of it."

Something of his chill contempt seemed to strike through the fog of mania in her mind. She stiffened, glared at him, then bared her teeth in an evil leer at Solo.

"You don't think so, dear Napoleon. Do you? You loved me once!"

"Under compulsion," Solo retorted, his voice thick with revulsion. "You had a knife in my brain. It's not there now."

The lovely face contorted, swung aside to Susan. "You! Interfering busybody! Conceited, too. I have been listening. You think you are a good-looking woman, don't you? Look at me, and despair. Look at my lovely creatures and think again. And you, Mr. Kuryakin. Oh yes, I know you. I know all the U.N.C.L.E. agents by sight. Your precious organization is going to be short of three valued members when this night's work is done!"

"You'll never get away with it, Louise," Solo snapped at her. "You know there are more where we came from, that you'll be hunted—"

"Get away?" she screamed. "I do not intend to get away. Mr. Kuryakin there has called me an animal. Perhaps I am. When all I have worked for has been destroyed, do you think I care to live? Does an animal go on living when its nest has been fouled? You have come here, into my beautiful home. You have destroyed my beautiful creations, my beautiful people. Now I shall destroy you. I shall watch you die. This is something I have long been ready for, just as I planned those trap-chairs long ago, in case of trouble."

"What are we to die of, madame?" Kuryakin needled her. "Old age?"

She cackled shrilly and backed away to stand between the two center caskets and draw aside a priceless old shawl that hung there. "Old age? I do not think so, Mr. Kuryakin. When I pull this switch, the whole of the ground floor will burst into flame." She put her hand on the red lever, and for one moment they all had the impression that she was coldly sane.

"This palace is full of treasures, things beyond price. I never intended to leave them for anyone else to pick over. I shall take them—and you—with me. So!" And she swung the lever over powerfully.

The three prisoners tensed, expecting some kind of explosion, but nothing came. They stared at the demented woman. She stared back at them, grinning. Then it came, faint but unmistakeable. The smell of smoke, and fire.

"She's done it!" Solo gasped. "She's fired the place!"

"Quite right, darling Napoleon. Planted incendiary charges. The whole ground floor, and the cellars, are all ablaze by now. Pretty flames. I must see them!" She ran to the door and opened it, went out to stare down the stair well. Kuryakin heaved desperately at his bonds, trying to make some good use of his free hand.

"You'll never do it, Illya," Solo told him grimly. "They're rugged. And remotely controlled. Louise is the crafty one, all right." He made a stiff grin for Susan, was about to frame an apology, when his eye caught the sudden stir of movement and he stared. They all stared as one of the "lifeless" nude figures suddenly stirred, moved, and sprang lithely down from a casket. Solo was the first to comprehend.

"Kate! You smart girl, you're a lifesaver. Now, quick, find the switch for these damned shackles and get us loose before she comes back."

"Where?" she quavered, staring helplessly about. "Where do I look?"

"Back of us, somewhere," Kuryakin advised. "Try the wall. She came from that direction... Too late, here she comes! Grab my gun, quickly!"

Katherine halted, dithered in confusion, then shrieked as Louise ran back into the room. One fast glance from those keen eyes was enough to take in the situation. Snarling, the Countess plunged forward. Katherine, driven into frantic action, leaped for the gun, missed it, sent it skittering away into a corner. She dived after it. Louise screeched and dived after her. The pair of them went down in a furious tangle of arms and legs on the floor, where the three prisoners could see nothing of what was happening. They could only hope and pray, as they listened to the swelling roar of the flames.

The stench of burning was very strong now. They could hear the snap and crackle of vigorous flames as priceless tapestries and rare antiques caught fire and roared into destruction. Over the roar came the squeals and gasps of the two struggling contestants for the pistol. All at once came the whip crack of a shot. A groan. Then a terrifying silence. And then a long slim arm came up over the table, bore down, and Katherine stood up, shakily, with the pistol in her hand. She stared down. With her other hand she brushed away the tangle of blonde hair from her face. She was chalk white.

"I shot her!" she gasped. Then, more loudly: "I shot her. She's dead!" She seemed to stare at the gun in her hand as if puzzled as to how it had come there. Then she shrieked and threw it violently away.