20 - The Corfu Affair (6 page)

She was quite right. He cast his eye again over the array of nudes, and nodded. Seen all at once, they were overpowering, but when he devoted time to studying each one, he had to admit that the sculptor had created something very close to perfection. The idealized human form in either sex and in many different attitudes, could hardly be bettered as inspiration for someone so fanatically devoted to making people beautiful. And there she was herself, standing in the far doorway, awaiting him.

Solo strode boldly forward with a smile. For the occasion, she had put on a billowing froth of white stuff that began low on her bosom and drifted to the floor in delicate folds. As she moved towards him the garment swirled like white mist. She gave him her hand, with a dazzling smile.

"You are welcome, M. Summers. How do you like my figures? Do you think they have better ones in the Achilleion?"

"I doubt," he said, "that anyone can improve on perfection. Miss Winter tells me your work is to improve the appearance, but if this is the standard you're aiming at you must be pretty frustrated. Ordinary humans can't hope to look like that."

"Perhaps not. They are ideal. I had them specially made for me. I have others, as you shall see. But now you must come and meet my guests."

She led him through the door into a room that would have made him breathless by itself, but he had very little time to waste on it. One fast glance was all he could spare for the precious carpet on the floor, the magnificent tapes tries that clothed the walls, the carved and brocaded furnishings, and the glowingly painted ceiling. In the next breath he was staring at the company and realizing his worst fears.

"Senor Salvador Morales," she said. "M. Summers." And Solo met the dark eyes of the grey-haired and leonine old conquistador, watching for a glimmer of recognition.

But none came, to his relief, for Solo knew
him
well enough as the controlling brain behind Thrush-Madrid. He bowed, moved on, and confronted a thick-set, almost bald man with a bristle moustache and glass-cold grey eyes. The Countess told him, although he hardly needed telling, that this was "Herr Doktor Heinrich Klasser." Solo knew his nickname as 'Killer Klasser', and that he had his own unspeakable ways with experimental surgery, on subjects who were never asked to volunteer.

Next was a hulking, black-browed, black-haired bull of a man whom she introduced as Ricco Vassi, known to Solo as covering vast areas of Italy, his job being to superintend and expedite any operations commanded by his Thrush seniors. Fourth and last was a lean and patrician elder, who rested one gracious elbow on a carved mantelpiece and wore his dignity like a cloak. When his hostess called this man Dr. Andre Cabari, of Uruguay, Solo had to think hard for a moment. Then he had it. Social scientist, crowd manipulator, revolutionary, the man who made things happen in quiet but devastating ways, merely by talking carefully to the right people at the right time.

What a bunch! Solo carefully drew a deep breath and realized he was perspiring. He used his handkerchief.

"It's a warm night," he pointed out, and the Countess shook a finger at him in criticism.

"You are out of condition. You Americans! All the time you worry about plumbing, but you never seem to realize that there are other ways of keeping the body clean. You neglect the largest organ of the body."

Before he could protest, the sound of a brazen gong shivered on the air and a pair of massive double-doors swung back. She took his arm and led him into a dining room that would have put Hollywood's most lavish movie set to shame. The marble floor gleamed. A long refectory table stood in the middle of a priceless carpet. Tapestries and shawls glowed on the walls and a fountain chattered happily to itself within a recess that might once have been a stately fireplace but was now an indoor garden. Light from four glorious chandeliers reflected the gleaming polished wood of the table and the glittering glass and silver which were arranged on it.

But what caught Solo's eye and held it for a breathless second was yet another member of the gathering. This man stood erect like a footman just inside the door and at first glance would have passed for another of the statues, except that he was flesh-colored. It cost Solo a second look and a near-stumble to be sure, then the Countess laughed gently in his ear.

"That is Adam, who will wait on us. You still think ordinary humans cannot be perfect?"

He was still trying to think of a good reply as they settled in their seats. These were huge carved chairs that had obviously come from some cathedral, and he would have wondered at them and all the other magnificent pieces that filled the room, if there had not been so much on his mind that he could only dredge up folly.

"There's nothing wrong with my liver, Countess!" he protested, and it took her a moment or two to hark back to their previous gambit. Then she laughed again.

"Your liver? Oh no, M. Summers. I meant your skin. It is a doctor's joke, you see. The skin is the largest organ of the body. You did not know that? It is true. And it is much more important than you think. How much of your skin can breathe? Only your face and hands. That is bad. Look, my garment allows all my skin to breathe. You see?" She struck a pose that made her point strikingly obvious, then gestured to the living statue she had called Adam. The six-foot-three herculean figure was now in cat-like motion, bringing dishes and a salver. Solo looked. The man wore only a loin-cloth in stark white, and his face was absolutely expressionless. "You see my Adam, also, see how perfect he is?" She spoke quite loudly but the servile giant showed not a sign of having heard. The Countess swept the rest of the company with an arrogant eye and proceeded to elaborate.

"The skin is a remarkable thing, the foundation of all true health. For example, it is the only body tissue that is alive on one side and dead on the other. Think of that!" She stretched a forefinger to prod Adam's arm as he leaned over her with a plate. Then he curled the finger round to touch her own bosom. "A dead outer shell, in both cases. The living tissue is on the other side."

Solo began to sweat again. This woman was a nut about health and beauty, just as Miss Winter had warned him. He was so engrossed in trying to keep track of everything, listening, watching the other members of the feast, that he missed the first taste of his soup altogether. The second spoonful tickled his attention and the third insisted on it. He tasted, then turned to Miss Winter, who had taken the vacant seat by his left hand.

"You certainly are a cook. This never came out of a can!"

"Glad you like it." She smiled shyly. "It's really simple, though. Just green pea, but with added sour cream and wine." He savored the soup again, noting that the others also approved. Adam brought the next dish, and Miss Winter looked a little apprehensive. Solo employed knife and fork, bit, chewed and swallowed, then sighed. "What is it? Or them?"

"You approve?"

"I most definitely do. My stomach will think I'm dead at last and in Heaven. Why?"

"I call them beef-marrow dumplings. Chopped beef marrow bulked out with bread crumbs, spiced with wild thyme and grated lemon rind, bonded with egg and boiled in a strong meat stock. I made quite a lot, if you want more."

He did. So did the others, in various accents. Then came a salad that was crisper and tastier than he would have believed possible, and a layer-cake so delicious that he felt regret at not having room enough for a third helping. By the time Adam brought the wine and the coffee Solo was sure of two things. One, that he was full and happy; two, that Kate Winter was no crook. Cook, yes. Crook, no. Nobody with a criminal mind could possibly come so close to being divine!

Then Miss Winter bade everyone goodnight and departed, and the table atmosphere modulated suddenly and subtly. Countess Louise lost her beaming charm and seemed to be engrossed in some rapid chatter with the others, each in his own tongue and in argot, which Solo could follow only with a great deal of difficulty. German, French, Italian or Spanish, those he could manage, provided the speaker spoke slowly and was prepared to be patient with him. But he had no chance at all as these five people plunged into a quick-fire torrent of interchange in slang and cant phrases. In a while he took what he thought was the offered hint and created a yawn, stifling it with a palm. The Countess had her eyes on him in a flash.

"You are bored, M. Summers?"

"Call it tired. I've had a big day. And this air. And the food."

"I see." She eyed him, and there were fires in those eyes. "Would you prefer to retire to your room now?"

"If that's all right with you, yes."

"Very well. We have some business to discuss, but it will not take all night. Come..." She rose briskly and led him to the door, summoning the silent Adam with a crook of her finger. Outside, she halted and brought on her dazzling smile. "Business is so boring. Tomorrow will be another day, yes?" Before he could anticipate it, she surged close and put her long arms round his neck, drawing his head down. He would have been less than human if he had not responded in the most natural way. By the time she released him his head was reeling and his breath was coming fast.

"There!" she whispered. "
Dormez bien
. Perhaps the talk will be not too long. Maybe I shall see you again, soon?"

Then she was gone and Adam had his suitcase and was padding impassively on ahead towards a staircase. Solo followed, wondering whether he was on the polished floor or walking in mid-air.

CHAPTER FIVE

IT was quite a room. In any other circumstances Solo would have been impressed by it. Now he inspected it simply as a routine precaution, touching the wall hangings, trying door, then studying his bemused face in the triple mirrors of a magnificent dressing table by the window. He was not quite conceited enough to believe that Countess Louise was pulling out all the stops on him simply because of his male charm. There had to be a catch somewhere. Something was hatching inside that beautifully decorated skull of hers. But what? He was absolutely certain he was in for trouble, but just as certain that he didn't know what kind. At last he settled on the bed edge and reached for his communicator, feeling relief in being able to call on routine.

Waverly needed to know about the Thrush gathering, if nothing else. He drew out the extension antenna, thumbed the switch and was about to ask for Overseas Relay, when the words halted on his tongue. The instrument in his hand gave off a steady crackling whine of interference. He glared at it in unbelief, switched off then on again, jarred it with the heel of his hand, but still the smothering crackle persisted. Now the flesh really began to creep on the back of his neck. Either his talker had developed a defect, which was highly unlikely, to say the least, or somebody had rigged this area—this room—with a jammer! And that logical assumption carried with it so many other inferences that he was up off the bed and on his feet before he had added up all of them.

The communicator went away with a practiced move that drew his pistol on the return. He started for the door, then halted as there came a soft tapping. Crouching a little, he called, "Who is it?"

The door swung open and the Countess stood there a moment then came in, her eyes widening at sight of his weapon.

"Why?" she whispered. "You will not need that!"

"Stop right there. I don't trust you any closer than you are right now. Back up and turn round. You and I are taking a little walk."

"So unnecessary," she pouted, then turned obediently, but not to go out of the door again. Instead she caught it, pushed it shut, then set her back to it, facing him. "You have nothing to fear," she said, and smiled. "See, I am unarmed." And she did something rapidly to the rear of her dress, spread her arms wide, and the rustling white material fell to the floor.

She was definitely unarmed, unless one could count the volcanic beauty of her unclad curves. Solo froze for a moment that was his undoing. A large hand swung down and across from his right side, numbing his wrist, to send the pistol skidding across the floor. He ducked and sprang away from the movement, and found himself face to face with Adam.

Over that muscular shoulder he saw a gaping hole where the dressing-table had swung away from the wail. He caught a glimpse of the Countess as she swooped nakedly to snatch up his gun. Then he went cat-like forward to meet the impassive servant. Adam showed no more expression than a shop-window figure, but waited silently, arms down and out, ready.

Solo feinted a left, leaped and chopped down with all his strength and weight in a right-hand neck-breaker. Adam, with perfect anticipation, leaned and tensed his muscles—and the chop bounced, shocking Solo's arm right up to his elbow. Surging in the opposite direction, the statuesque servant swung a haymaking right-hander, low down, that contacted Solo's ribs and bombed him bodily backwards, smashing all the wind out of him. If there was science in this, it was none that Solo had ever met before.

With that kind of strength, who needed science?

Fighting off the instinct to curl up, wheezing for breath, he shambled forward again. It was no time for delicacy. He poised himself, then leaned and launched a kick where it would do maximum damage. But Adam had speed out of all reason in a man of his bulk. An arm like a beam swept down and across, smashed into Solo's shin as it came up, knocked it aside so that he spun and almost fell, cringing as his weight came on that leg. It felt broken. Then Adam moved in, taking the offensive. Again that bombing right hand to the body.

Solo reeled away, slammed into the wall, staggered forward and right into a left fist that came down like a hammer on the top of his head.

The room grew a big black hole and he fell into it head first. The Countess came to stand and stare down at the ruin.

"A valiant one. Clever, too. I can use one such." She turned to her servant, who was not even out of breath, and smiled, pointing down. "Bring him!" She moved away to gather up her discarded dress and looped it carelessly over one arm, then she preceded her servant through the secret door and into the passage there. Adam crouched, picked up Solo like a sack, hung him over one shoulder, and followed her, drawing the dressing-table flush to the wall as he went.