The Corfu Affair - Phillifent John T. - Страница 16

The bathroom! He had not bothered to inspect it, because he had tangled with French plumbing before, and it was hardly conducive to comfort. But he did know that there was only the one door. That click—another came as he was thinking—meant someone was in there who had no business to be there. An enemy.

He put away his communicator and drew his pistol, all in the one movement, then waited, eyes riveted on the door.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SITTING quite still and silent, never taking his eyes from the door, Kuryakin nevertheless flogged his agile mind to consider the implications. How, for one thing, had the intruder managed to get in. And then, why? Had he been spotted at St. Denis, or was this possibly just a common burglar? The difference could be crucial. The bathroom, most probably, had a skylight. That would provide ingress for a burglar. And if that was all, then the mere sight of the gun would be sufficient.

But if it wasn't as simple as that, if, for instance, this was a Thrush manifestation, the outlook was totally different. He saw the bathroom knob turn, slowly. Not as a burglar would do it, at all. If Thrush was on the other side, the next move was predictable. Ease the door off the catch. Jerk it suddenly open. Drop and attack from the floor level possibly. Kuryakin kept absolutely still, ready to move rapidly when required.

The knob came to a standstill. The door eased open just a crack. Then, exactly as he had expected, it crashed all the way open from a kick. And nothing. The man out there was flattened alongside the doorjamb, tense and ready, probably hoping for a startled shot. So he knew this was no common burglar, but a highly trained operator.

There came a sudden blur of speed as a man sprang––pounced and landed all square with gun aimed. Kuryakin checked his trigger finger just in the nick of time.

"Napoleon!" he sighed. "That's no way to—" and only razor sharp instinct impelled him to forget the words he had in mind, to jerk himself to one side in frantic haste. He catapulted from the bed to the floor as the gun in Solo's hand bucked and roared, shattering the silence of the room.

He hit the carpet, rolled, got to a knee then hurled himself crazily under the bed to avoid another crashing shot. This time, as he went headlong, he was fractionally slow and the white-fire agony of impact shocked his leg. It needed that anguish to wipe out the last traces of doubt from his mind. If there were mysteries here, one thing was plain. Solo was intent on murder, and nothing less.

Kuryakin reversed his tracks, squirming like an eel, bobbed up by the side of the bed and snapped off a shot as Solo swung round. Part of his attention noted the acute difference in sound between his gun and the shots from Solo, even as he saw that his own snap shot had been a lucky one. It had struck Solo's gun and jarred it out of his grip. Now it fell, clattered on the wood floor beyond the carpet and skidded away into a far corner. It left the way for Kuryakin to stalk round the bed angrily.

"Hold it right there!" he ordered, limping painfully, but with the gun steady in his hand. "Just one minute. What—?"

He never got to finish his question. Solo snapped out of his momentary stillness into a vicious kick and back fall. The kick smashed Kuryakin's grip, sent his weapon flying. The back fall dropped Solo only just long enough for him to strike the floor, roll, and dive for his own gun. The Russian swayed back, wincing at the weight on his injured leg, then launched himself headlong on top of Solo. All his weight came down hard, and he grasped at once for a bone-breaking arm lock, but his efficiency was impaired by a sense of unreality. It was hard to believe, to accept, that this snarling hard-eyed fury who now snaked out of the arm lock and flung a vicious groin kick at him was really Napoleon Solo. And, more to the immediate point, if this was Solo, he knew all the tricks and how to use them.

For some frantic seconds they rolled and snarled over each other like a pair of animals too evenly matched to have any advantage over each other. Then one squirming roll brought Solo's head up against the leg of the brass-bound bedstead, and Kuryakin seized the head by the ears and pounded hard. Solo wrenched strongly, kicked out, his shoe striking Kuryakin where the bullet had plunged into his leg, wincing the Russian into momentary agony and the chance to break free. He was away at once, diving into the corner after his gun. Again Kuryakin plunged after him, got a grip on one wrist and hung on desperately. He knew he was failing. This was a killing pace, and he was losing blood. Grunting with effort, his gaze began to fog up, magnifying the dusk of the room. He felt Solo rear up powerfully, and all he could do was to hang on for very life.

Then Solo gave a tremendous wrench, tore his wrist free, and the effort sent Kuryakin reeling backwards, to catch the back of his knees on the bed. Too late to stop himself falling, he went with it, flung himself all the way over in a backward roll, over the bed and to the floor on the far side. He landed heavily, gasped for breath, fought his way erect, and as his head cleared the bed level, he saw a blur of movement. He threw himself desperately aside. There was one more shattering roar from Solo's gun. The room filled with a great light, just for a moment, and then there was nothing at all but deep black darkness.

"Monsieur! Monsieur!" A cracked and quavering voice demanded his attention. He screwed his eyes open to peer up at the strained old face of a woman. She was in black, with lace edges to her apron. He remembered her dimly. The concierge. "You are alive, monsieur?"

"I think so," he mumbled, and accepted the loan of her arm to sit upright. His head thumped like a brass bell filled with mud. The old woman stared fearfully at him as he put delicate fingers to his head. There was a tender place at his temple and his finger tips came away red.

"The doctor has been summoned," she told him. "He will be here soon. It was an assassin?"

"Something like that. You didn't see him, I suppose?"

"Me? Praise be to Heaven I did not. I was on the stair. I heard a shot, then another, and another. I remained still, and screamed. And I waited for some time, then screamed again. What would you? It is not good, to be shot. Then Jules came, with questions, and we waited a while more. All was silent. We opened the door and found you, like this."

Heavily deliberate steps crackled across the floor and an old man with a white moustache came to stand and stare down at him.

"He escaped, monsieur. Through the bathroom skylight and up. That was formidable! The window has not been opened since I can remember. Ah, the doctor comes now. Do you wish that I summon the police?"

Kuryakin had been thinking as hard as his aching head would permit. He declined this last offer.

"It would not achieve anything, would it? The man is away, and with no traces or description, what can we do? I also wish to leave very soon. I would rather not be delayed with many questions. You understand?"

He reached for his wallet to facilitate their understanding, and his fingers brushed a folded piece of paper that he had not noticed before. He put it aside, passed crackling bank notes to the staff, then seated himself on the edge of the bed to make the doctor's inspection easier.

"You were fortunate, monsieur," the medical man informed him, after the blood had been sponged away and the bleeding halted. "This much to one side—" he held a finger and thumb very close, "—and you would never have needed a doctor again." Kuryakin thought that over carefully. It must have seemed to his assailant that he had been shot dead. And possibly it would be a good idea to let him go on thinking that. At the leg wound the doctor looked grave, and shook his head.