20 - The Corfu Affair (5 page)

After awhile, he started back for the hotel, walking slowly and struggling to shuffle his ideas into some kind of rational pattern, but he hadn't quite succeeded even by the time he had reached his hotel and was sitting on his bed. He had one thing in common with Katherine Winter. He wasn't quite sure what she was up to, but he was sure it wasn't all bad. And yet she was up to something. Whoever heard of a Frenchwoman with an American cook?

For the rest of his mental ingredients he had less assurance. He stirred them and shook his head at the suspicious flavor that came off. He had confirmed, definitely, that Countess Louise was highly dangerous, but not in the way he had been led to expect. With her looks and that built-in volcanic appeal she could have charmed birds off a tree, but that she was crooked, or evil, in the Thrush sense of the word, he found hard to believe. And yet, he reminded himself, there was Stanton. She had got him, somehow. Or had she? Perhaps her function had been no more than as bait for a trap? In which case he needed to think hard about the unexpected invitation to dinner. He was still thinking it over as he used his radio to get in touch with Waverly. Number One, Section One was not pleased to hear the account.

"You have disobeyed my cautions, Mr. Solo. I went to a deal of trouble to warn you that the woman was dangerous, yet you've walked right into her coils."

"Hardly that, sir. I'm reporting from my hotel room. I'm not 'caught' in any way. And look what I've got. The lady has taken a fancy to me, invited me into her 'home."

"Walk into my parlor!"

"That's possible, of course, but I can't see why. She doesn't know who I am. In any case, if it is a trap of some kind—well—vainly is the net spread in the sight of the bird. I'm not going into this with my eyes shut, after all!"

Waverly snorted irritably. "Mr. Solo, I am aware that your attitude towards a pretty woman is that of an angler towards trout in a stream, but one of these days you are going to hook a shark. And this could be the day. I'm aware that you're forewarned, and that you are resourceful, but you should bear in mind that thin ice is not dangerous except to those who insist upon skating on it. I strongly suggest you consider evading that invitation to dinner."

"I'll see what turns up, sir," Solo said, and put his instrument away with a wiry grin. It was indicative of Waverly's state of mind that he 'suggested' rather than 'ordered'. It was a difficult situation. Solo recalled the Countess and her dazzling smile, and felt a tiny chill. But somebody had to take a chance...and when would there be a better time?

CHAPTER FOUR

DR. SUSAN HARVEY, making a bid to deal with growing frustration, took up the glass cover of a petri dish and began, quite unnecessarily, to polish it with a tissue. Tilted at the correct angle, and with the dark gloss of the laboratory bench to back it, the glass made a good mirror. She studied her reflection carefully. Objectively, putting aside silly modesty, she knew she was attractive. Her pale blonde hair, cut short and shaped to her head, gleamed silkily. She had on the minimum of effective makeup, all she needed. She had a shape, too, although the laboratory smock didn't do much for it. Still, thought irritably, I'm not a hag! So why?

She shifted her gaze to stare offendedly at the sober-faced straw-haired young man who sat opposite her at the bench. Why? For all the effect she was having on him she might well have been just part of the equipment! Didn't he ever relax and become human? As if stirred by her thought, he chose that moment to look up from the volume he was studying, and met her gaze with eyes as blue as her own, staring at her impersonally. Instantly she felt foolish and confused, and as hot as if she had just been dropped into a warm bath. His words came blurrily over the roar of blood in her ears.

"Is this all the reference you have, Dr. Harvey, on electrical stimulation of the cortex?"

"That?" She struggled to order her wits. "Oh! Yes. I can get more if you really want to go into it. But that's hardly a field for biochemistry research, which is what you're supposed to be studying."

"Yes, I know." He sounded apologetic. "This book deals mostly with the immune reaction to artificial implants in the body. I suppose that's why you have it in your library here."

"Immunology
is
my special field," she reminded him, perhaps a shade more tartly than she intended, and he nodded.

"I know. I'm very grateful to you for taking the time to tutor me in the general background. There's such a lot of it nowadays. If I was going into it for real I would go for medical electronics, I think."

"You'd still have to cover the basic field of biochemistry before specializing. Everyone has to do that."

He seemed to become aware that she was not in the best of moods, and stirred uneasily. "Look, Dr. Harvey, I'm sorry to be taking up such a lot of your time. It must be tedious for you."

Self-control withered in her mind. She took a deep breath. "Now look!" she declared, laying her hands flat on the bench. "Kindly stop apologizing. Stop thinking you are wasting my time. Section One asked me to take you on a quick tour of biochemistry, and I am trying to do that. Glad to do it. And you are a good pupil, too. But…"

"But what?"

"But we have been at this now for almost three days and you are still calling me Dr. Harvey, for Heaven's sake! Your name's Illya and mine's Susan. Will it hurt if we are friends?"

His eyes were still cool and impersonal as he looked at her. "You've never dealt directly with a field agent before, have you, Doc—I mean—Susan?"

"No," she said, and then repeated it: "No."

"Just for the record," he smiled faintly, "I am human. And it can be a nuisance, sometimes. Like now. At the outside I have two more days to spare, a lot to learn, and no leeway for making mistakes."

"I appreciate that, of course. I would hate to have anything put me off
my
work. But I'm human too. One doesn't have to be so dedicated all the time, surely. It can't hurt to take just five minutes off for the social amenities?"

"Five seconds can be fatal, at the wrong time. In this job you're either dedicated, or dead. You have just one idea in mind, and no time for anything else. That can be difficult, too. Right now I have the feeling there's an idea trying to push into my mind and upset things."

"You've made your point!" she snapped. "There's no need to labor it."

"I didn't mean you. Something to do with this." He took up the book again, still open at the page he had been studying. "Something about the autoimmune reaction in the brain area and metal tolerance…"

"The brain chemistry differs. Its whole circulation is different. That's what we call the blood-brain barrier. Just as well. The body can be poisoned and the brain remain normal in many cases, and there are only a few chemicals which effect the brain directly…"

She was interrupted by the telephone. Taking it up she listened, then offered it to him. "For you. From the radio research room."

"Thank you." Kuryakin took it. "Mike?"

"Right. I think we have something, Illya. Those modules are silver-plated. Makes for better skin contact, I suppose, and they need body heat to operate. Anyway, that silver sheath causes a resonance field that we can detect. I can fix you a little monitor that will tell you whenever you're within—say—fifty feet of one of them in action. Handy?"

"Very much so. Nice work. Let me know when you have it going." Kuryakin put down the receiver and sat quite still, so much so that Susan Harvey frowned at him.

"Now what?"

"Probably nothing." He shivered and then smiled. "Just a word. Silver wires into the brain. Silver-plating on those modules. Forget it. Now, about the breakdown products of adrenalin..."

Napoleon Solo dressed himself slowly and with care, including about his person every weapon of offense and defense he could contrive without being too spectacular. Although he would never have admitted as much to Waverly or anyone else, he had a rooted dislike for entering a trap without due care, and was under no illusion at all as to how dangerous the Argyr Palace could be. His only card, that the Countess could have no idea of his real identity, was a slender one, but he had no intention of backing out and thus discarding his whole hand. In good time he wandered down to the bar for a quick bracer, but never got that far. As he crossed the bright-lit foyer a vision in blue satin appeared, making him halt and breathe deeply in appreciation.

"For me?" he enquired, going over to her. "I'm honored that the Countess should have sent you in person. But who's cooking dinner?"

"I have it in hand," she told him tartly. "If you're quick, we can get back before it's cooked to death. She won't allow anybody but herself, or me, to touch her shiny new Mercedes."

"I wouldn't expect her to come herself, naturally. All right."

"You have about five minutes to pack."

"Pack?"

"That's right, pack. You're to stay at the Palace. Well?" Her tone had edges now. "What are you waiting for? Don't you want to come and stay?"

The negative trembled on his tongue but he swallowed it simply because he couldn't think of a plausible reason to refuse. Five minutes later, with his bag tossed in the back and himself seated beside her as she drove, he still couldn't think of anything except the obvious question.

"Why this sudden effusion of hospitality on the part of the Countess? What did I do?"

"As if you didn't know!" she retorted. "You're the Casanova type. For those who like that kind of thing, that is."

"But not you," he said, grinning. "I think you flatter me just a bit. I can't see somebody like the Countess losing any sleep over me. I'd guess it's much more likely that she expects to have a bit of sport at my expense."

"And you don't mind?"

"Not a bit. I can take a joke. You could help if you can tell me whether she has arranged anything special for my—er—entertainment?"

He kept his tone light, but there was a serious purpose under his words and he listened carefully for her reaction. It was slow to come. A side glance showed him that she was scowling ahead at the road as if in thought.

"You know," she murmured, "you could be right. Just after lunch she told me there was to be company tonight. Four distinguished guests. Of course I asked if there was any special kind of dish she had in mind, and I mentioned you by name, saying that you were American and would be no trouble. Her guests, as a rule, are foreign, you see. But when I mentioned you, she laughed. 'Mr. Summers,' she said, 'is hardly a guest. I doubt if I could sell him anything. But we must feed him, of course. So you must count five, not four.' And then, later, when I asked if she wanted me to take the car and pick you up, she added the bit about packing your bag. You can make what you like out of that."

He made quite a lot of it and liked none of it, but knew that it was much too late to turn back now. As his mind raced to compute the possible permutations of peril he asked:

"Sell? What would she be trying to sell me?"

"Oh!" Miss Winter laughed cynically. "You'll see. I've heard her a few times, She has a thing about being beautiful. Thinks it's everyone's duty to be as attractive as possible. It can get quite embarrassing at times, the way she will pick out somebody's faults and analyze them, and then go on to explain how easy it would be to correct them. Surgery, of course."

"Not there and then, in the palace, surely?"

"I don't think so. I believe she could, though. She has some very elaborate equipment on the spot. I haven't seen it, mind you. But I do know she gets things, chemicals and stuff, and gadgetry. I'm always picking up packages for her, whenever I come into town for groceries."

"She keeps you pretty busy," he said, speaking automatically while he stared at the horrid fact that he was being transported straight into a Thrush gathering. 'Four distinguished guests' could hardly be anything else; and if any one of them recognized him, his fat was in for a burning time. "Cook, housekeeper, chauffeur, and you do your own grocery shopping. Doesn't she have any other staff?"

"Oh yes." Miss Winter's tone was definitely cool now. "She has a local man in from time to time to do the grounds and so on. And there's Adam, of course."

"Who's he?"

"You'll see." There was a chill silence for a while, then she said, reverting to her former theme: "Just don't laugh when she starts on about the body beautiful. She takes that kind of thing very seriously."

Despite the desperate situation, Solo had to grin. "I can't wait to see her sale's pitch. I'll bet it's something terrific, with the assets she has. She might even sell me on a nose retread."

Miss Winter sniffed. "I'd always thought French women were—well––subtle. You know? But she is downright crude at times. She doesn't hint at all. She comes right out with it."

"I had noticed."

"You know, she once said to me, 'Marie Antoinette achieved her fame because she was a beautiful woman and was not ashamed of it. She had a bigger bust than Jayne Mansfield. And mine is bigger still!' Imagine anyone bothering to point out a thing like that. As if it mattered!"

Solo grinned again, but without much mirth. The picture he saw for himself was bleak in the extreme. She halted the car for the gate, got out and inserted her long arm through the bars to operate the button, and then they drove in and up to the courtyard of the palace, under a low-pitched arch way that faced a short flight of marble steps up to the main door. As they climbed the steps yellow light spilled out into the dusk from the open doors. Once inside, a mosaic floor repeated his footsteps loudly. The distant walls on either side were painted and pillared, the pillars set at intervals of one yard. Between each pillar was a pedestal, and each pedestal was occupied by a white stone statue. Solo tried to take it all in with one comprehensive glance, but then he had to halt and look again. He lifted his brows.

"You'll get used to it," Miss Winter told him. "They shook me at first, but after a while you have to admit they are extremely good."