The Corfu Affair - Phillifent John T. - Страница 26

Katherine Winter believed far more firmly in the value of beauty sleep than ever she did in her titled employer's surgical tricks. Any other night but this she would have long ago drunk her regular nightcap of cocoa and cream, and would have been asleep within minutes. This night she hadn't even made her brew. Instead of the shortie nightdress that she preferred, as being much more comfortable than pyjamas, she had chosen to climb into her all-in-one jersey-knit cat suit, which she kept for doing her early morning exercises. Had there been anyone present to ask her, she would have said she was ready for anything that might happen.

But she was soon half regretting her impulse to snoop, as her enthusiasm waned. Wriggling her feet into sneakers she eyed the flashlight on the table and wished there was some honorable way in which she could just forget the whole thing and go to bed.

But she couldn't altogether dismiss the conviction that there was something queer going on. The C.I.A. gentleman had told her not to get herself involved, but she couldn't lean on that, not after all the talk about U.N.C.L.E. and her discovery that all these people were on the other side.

Even the Countess, she thought, standing up and seizing the flashlight. And that nice Mr. Summers, now Mr. Solo. He had changed, somehow. She opened her door and tiptoed out into the dark, frowning to herself over that minor mystery. He had been nice, at first. Then she had got at him, and he had changed in some queer way, and become not nice at all. And now, somehow, he was nice again. It was so confusing! She hesitated a moment in the gloom, then set her teeth and went tiptoeing away. She knew exactly where Madame's private rooms were, and that's where it would be, if there was anything weird going on.

The palace, with all its nooks and passages and shadows, seemed strange and different by night. And so quiet! No matter how hard she tried to breathe quietly, her breathing seemed loud, and she was sure her heart could be heard hammering yards away. She came to the foot of a flight of stairs which led where she wanted to go.

Gulping a shaky breath she started up. At the top she was in a dim-lit passage full of shapes and shadows. She knew quite well the shapes were only some more of the nudes Madame was so fond of, but they seemed to leer at her and grin in the gloom. She came to the door, and put her ear to it nervously—and almost died, there and then, as she heard the most hideous scream she had ever heard in all her life. It ripped the silence to shreds, turned her blood to ice water. Then came a quick snapping shot. Then the scream sounded again, followed by a boiling string of vituperation in fluid French. Katherine tottered away from the door, pressed herself to the wall and tried to melt right into

Illya Kuryakin heard the first scream as he was putting his hand to the catch of the window. He froze dead still. He heard the shot. On the second scream he twisted the catch, flung the window open and went through on the run, low and fast. There, backing away from the table and spitting curses, was a naked black-haired Venus clutching a wine bottle in her hand. Her curses were aimed at Solo, who had his back to the far door and was on his toes, gun in hand, alert for anything. The crashing open of the window triggered off the whole spring-tight situation, Four grey-faced men around the table jerked into sudden violence. The woman hurled the bottle. Solo flung himself aside to dodge it.

That move got him out of the way of a bullet. Kow Li Chang swung and leveled a heavy bore pistol at Kuryakin, who snapped a shot back at the same time. The heavy bore boomed like a cannon in the room, Kuryakin felt the breath of that bullet by his cheek, saw the Chinese lean over and sprawl, to slip from his chair. Then he went down and over in a furious roll as a shot from Scortia tore the air where he had just been. That bullet dug white splinters out of the parquet floor. Still at the table, Felix Brassant drew a careful bead on Solo, then coughed and sagged forward as Solo's shot got home first. Bulow, up and away on his feet, plunged for the door, snapping off a shot as he went. Scortia waved his gun anxiously, seeking Kuryakin, who came out from under the far end of the table and snapped a fast shot that rocked Scortia back and must have struck a nerve, for the Italian went down with his trigger finger crooked, and the gun in his hand bellowing shot after shot until the clip was spent. Solo whirled and took off after Bulow.

Outside, Katherine molded her soft curves to the wall and prayed for sanity. The screams, shots, the uproar, all conspired to paralyze her mind, her heartbeat, her breathing. She dwindled into the shadow of a statue as the door was flung open, spilling yellow light. Out came the big blond man from Scandinavia. She saw him run for the top of the stairs. He had a gun! Mr. Summers-Solo came rushing out of the door now, and he had a gun too. The blond man heard him, spun round and. fired. Solo ducked back frantically and the heavy-caliber bullet ploughed into the doorframe. Solo bobbed out again, fast and in a low crouch. Skidding to one knee, he aimed and fired. Bulow stiffened, half-turned, the gun in his hand roared once more.

The bullet struck the statue where Katherine cowered, making an oddly liquid "plop". The statue rocked and fell. So did Bulow, backwards, in a sack-like tumble down the stairs.

Silence rushed in, seeming to echo and reverberate after the clamor. Solo climbed to his feet, dusted off his knees, and sighed, then headed back into the room. Kuryakin saw him come in, through the blood-haze in his eyes. In a moment of carelessness, two steel-like hands had closed on his wind-pipe from behind, and he couldn't hold out much longer.

Squandering all his remaining energy, he heaved up, swung his arms forward, then slammed them back, elbows first, into solid flesh. The grunt of response was welcome. So was the momentary relaxation of that stranglehold.

Tearing free, gasping for breath, he spun round, raised his hand and brought it down like a hammer, with the pistol butt it would do most good, on Adam's bowed head. The Greek statue-man went down heavily, then started doggedly to get back up again. Kuryakin, laboring for breath, took careful aim and slammed down another hammer blow. To his astonishment, it needed a third to put the man out for keeps.

"One of the Countess's own make, I think you said, Napoleon?" he puffed. "She certainly designs them rugged. For a while there I thought he was going to tear my head off!"

"You all right now, Illya?"

"All down one side, yes." Kuryakin worked hard to catch up on his breathing while he cast a calculating look around the scene of carnage. In a moment he said, "Maybe I'm wrong, Napoleon, but I can only count up to five!"

"And all this time I thought you were a smart Russian!"

"All right, how many do you make it?"

"Eh?" Solo, suddenly alerted, ran his eye over the bodies and made a quick count. "Bulow down the stairs. Scortia. Brassant. The Yellow Peril and the android. My God, where's the lady herself, Louise?"

"Perhaps she just crawled right back into the woodwork?"

"And that isn't nearly as funny as you think, old man. If she has, we are going to have one sweet job trying to winkle her out. This crazy palace is stiff with secret passages."

"I suppose she's not actually here, among the asserted bodies?"

"Those, you mean?" Solo indicated the sprawled and lifeless 'samples' that were scattered at all angles in the background. "Won't take a moment to check. Give me a hand and we'll stack them back in their caskets." As they labored at their grisly task, he explained what had happened.