The Scorpia Menace (8 page)

The blond man fell silent.

"I was only expressing my opinion," he said after a moment or two.

"An opinion unasked for and usually faulty," said Otto ponderously. "No, this calls for more thought."

"Am I allowed to know the message?" Cringle asked.

"I don't see why not," said Otto benevolently. "But it's difficult to see what other interpretation could be made."

He picked up the sheet and studied it again.

"The essence is in the final paragraph," he added.

"Stop her gently. Arouse no suspicion."

Cringle grimaced in disbelief.

"How can we stop her gently?" he asked in his turn.

"And without suspicion. It doesn't make sense."

"Nevertheless, Cringle, those are the instructions," said Otto Koch softly. "And who are we to question the orders of Center?"

"I didn't mean that, chief," said Cringle hastily.

Otto smiled briefly. It seemed to make his face look like that of a benevolent priest.

"I'm sure you didn't, Cringle," he said. "But you have a point. It is a rather delicate situation. And it must be handled properly. Otherwise, there might be dire consequences."

He hooded his eyes again in the way that filled Cringle with alarm.

"For you in the first instance," he warned. "And myself in the second," he added softly, turning back to study the signal sheet.

"So we must make doubly sure there are no slip-ups. What are your ideas on how to handle the situation delicately."

Cringle shifted uneasily in his chair.

"I haven't had much time to think about it," he said.

"Think about it now," said Koch patiently. "You have about thirty seconds."

"But that's unfair, Chief!" Cringle burst out involuntarily-

Otto smiled again. Cringle shuddered at his expression.

"It's an unfair world, Cringle," Otto said.

He settled himself back, his hands comfortably clasped over his stomach.

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

Diana Palmer ran lightly down the stairs as Uncle David came through the drawing-room door. He had his pipe in the corner of his mouth and he was carrying a copy of the
Westchester Gazette
in his right hand. Diana knew that he was on his way to her mother's sewing room to join her for an hour, a custom they invariably followed at this time of the day.

David Palmer pretended astonishment as he looked up at the hurried figure of his niece. She glanced at her wrist watch as she reached the bottom of the stairs and saw that it was already a quarter to seven. Her uncle read her thoughts.

"Would you like me to drive you over, Diana?"

"No thanks, Uncle Dave," the girl replied. "I'll walk. I'll make it easily if I don't waste time."

"Ah, well," said David Palmer with a smile. "It's all very fine for Olympic athletes! You'll prefer the car at my age."

"We'll see, Grandpappy!" said Diana mischievously, as she swung out of the house. She crossed the boulevard and walked on the other side this evening. It was more shadowy there and the dimmer lighting was soothing after the brilliant glare of the house. There were few people about at this hour. People were either preparing for dinner or on their way home from business, and it was too early for theater or movie traffic. It was just a few minutes after the hour when Diana arrived at the college.

Miss Welch greeted her like an old friend, and they spent a few minutes before the session discussing the TV show.

"I've had letters from several people and sixteen phone calls," said Miss Welch excitedly, with just the faintest suspicion of a flush on her face. "I feel like a celebrity!"

"I'm glad you enjoyed it, Miss Welch," said Diana. "I thought the broadcast was well-handled, and it certainly was an interesting experience."

"Will we be asked to do another, if you come up with any more information during your research?" questioned Miss Welch, patting a stray hair on her forehead into place. She looked ten years younger, Diana thought. "I don't see
why not, if
I
've got fresh material," said Diana. "I'm looking forward to it. The producer said he would call me next week."

"Great!" said Miss Welch, suddenly aware that the other members of the class were watching Diana and herself closely.

"I beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen," she called. "I didn't realize the time. We'll begin immediately."

Diana went to her desk and got out her notebooks and reference works. The session passed slowly tonight; the references were sparse. She seemed to have reached a stodgy period in the late nineteenth century, and when the bell rang at the end she realized that she had not gleaned a single new fact about that elusive and tantalizing band, the Scorpia. I

She glanced up, acknowledging the good-nights of her colleagues, and then became aware that Miss Welch was back at her elbow.

"How did it go tonight, Diana?" she asked.

Diana shrugged. "Slowly and rather dully," she said. "I think it's about time I got started on the term paper. It looks as though I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel."

"Well," said Miss Welch, smiling, "you've had more publicity than a Nobel prize-winner."

"I didn't mean that," Diana explained. "I've become really interested in the Scorpia now, and just when I seemed on the verge of a breakthrough, the information dried up."

"It happens to all historians, amateur and professional," said Miss Welch, following Diana to the door. "The main thing is not to get discouraged. It's usually when one's on the point of giving up that something unusual happens."

"That's true," agreed Diana, switching off the library light as the two women closed the door behind them.

"The only trouble here is that I don't know how much more material there is," Diana went on as they walked to the main entrance hall of the University. "It's getting pretty sparse and I have a horrible suspicion I'm coming to the end of all the known records."

"Don't give up, Diana," said Miss Welch brightly as they picked their way down the main steps.

"Remember, all the material we sent for from the County Archives should be here soon."

"I'd forgotten that," said Diana, as the two women paused on the boulevard before parting to go their separate ways.

"Anyway, don't take it too seriously," Miss Welch added. "It's all good fun, and the University has never had so much publicity before! And our enrollment for next term has increased measurably."

"As long as it's done some good," said Diana laughing.

The two women said good-night, and Diana watched as she saw Miss Welch's sprightly form dart across the road and onto the opposite sidewalk. Her hand fluttered goodbye, and then she disappeared into a side street as Diana turned toward home. She was busily mulling over the thoughts in her mind, so that she hardly noticed where she walked. It was true that the Scorpia—and the shadowy figure of Kit Walker—had been occupying a great deal of her mind lately.

Her face softened as she thought of Kit again, and she instinctively slowed her pace.

She was on a dark section of the sidewalk, where heavily-blossomed trees sagged down toward the cement path. A sudden squealing of brakes cut through her reverie. She glanced up to see the gleaming bulk of a Cadillac blocking out the light from the opposite sidewalk.

A hard-faced man with blond hair and a scar on the side of his face rolled down the window. His eyes glittered dully in the gloom.

"Miss Palmer," he said in a harsh, dead voice. "I'd like a word with you."

8

EARLY WARNING

Cringle's face momentarily softened as he absorbed the details of Diana Palmer's appearance. He slid farther over on the seat so that he could clearly see this celebrated woman athlete.

Diana drew closer to the Cadillac.

"I'm Diana Palmer," she said. "What is it?"

Cringle lit a cigarette. The flaring match momentarily made a cavernous mask of his face. His scar stood out liv- idly. Diana suddenly shivered.

"You've been writing a paper. . ." Cringle began, killing the motor of the car.

"Yes, that's right," said Diana. She laughed. "I suppose you caught the TV, show."

"Right," said Cringle, nodding. "But you didn't let me finish, lady." He cleared his throat. "You've chosen a certain subject," he went on.

Diana's face clouded.

"Oh, you're from a newspaper," she said. "I don't usually give interviews on the sidewalk. And it is rather late."

"I'm not a reporter," said Cringle. "Just listen carefully. You're researching Scorpia."

His eyes, hard and glittering, bored into Diana's.

"Forget Scorpia! Get it?"

Diana felt confused.

"I'm afraid I don't," she said. "What do you mean?"

"What I said, lady," Cringle continued in his dead voice.

"But why should research on an ancient pirate band like the Scorpia interest you?" said Diana, looking round the deserted street.

Cringle's face went white.

"From now on, don't even mention that name, lady," he said.

He slid his forefinger across his throat. The gesture was so sinister that Diana instinctively started back from the car door.

"Forget it," Cringle hissed blackly.

He turned on the Cadillac's motor and idled it.

"This is the first and last warning, Diana Palmer."

He gunned the car off down the street. It turned the corner with tires shrieking, and disappeared. The whole thing had happened so quickly that Diana had no time even to read the license plate. Then she realized that the blond man had switched the lights of the automobile off so that she wouldn't have been able to read the license number anyway. It was only when he was turning the corner, too far away for her to read them, that he switched on the lights.

Diana stood irresolute for a moment. There was a determined look on her face. Had Cringle seen it, he would not have felt so confident as he turned the big car back in the direction of Otto Koch's hideaway.

Diana turned on her heel. Her eyes were shining. She tucked her books tightly under her arm and set off at an athletic trot toward home.

Chief Mulcade's florid face looked a little bewildered. He sat behind his scratched mahogany desk and listened with a tired expression as his subordinate went on talking on the phone.

"All right," he said eventually. "I suppose I'd better see them."

. He put the receiver down and straightened the pile of papers on the blotter in front of him. A heavily-built man of fifty-five, with close-cropped, dark hair, he had been Westchester's Chief of Police for ten years, and he was used to strange requests from residents of the wealthier sections of town. But this sounded strange even for Westchester.

His faded blue eyes looked tired above his heavy black mustache as he rose from the desk to greet the tall, lithe, dark girl who entered, followed by the young-looking, blond man.

"Miss Diana Palmer?" said the Chief cordially, coming
60

forward to shake the girl's hand. "And this is your uncle; I already know Mr. David Palmer."

"Correct," said David Palmer with a worried smile. He took the pipe out of his mouth and pumped Mulcade's hand.

"What can I do for you?" said the Chief warily. "I thought the Desk Sergeant said something about pirates."

"So he did," broke in Diana excitedly. "That's why we wanted to see you."

Mulcade looked incredulous, but he did a good job of trying to hide it.