The Mad Scientist Affair - Philifrent John T - Страница 26

“Keep your eye on our hosts out there while I talk to Mr. Waverly. Maybe he’ll have some ideas.” She nodded, settled her elbows on the bench and loosed off a warning shot at the brickwork by that corner. He squatted down on the floor by her feet and pulled out his transceiver, getting Waverly’s attention almost immediately. “We’re in the plant laboratory, sir, but I’m afraid the birds have flown—if they were ever here, that is.”

“I see. And we’ve no idea where to look next. A man like O’Rourke might have a thousand hideouts in this country alone, and time is vital.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Illya!” Sarah cried excitedly. “I’ve just thought—Uncle Mike’s yacht!”

“Eh?” He looked up at her, instantly alert. “A yacht?”

“Well, that’s what he calls it, but it’s a thirty-foot cabin cruiser, actually. The Princess, that’s her name.”

“Where does he keep it moored, as a rule?”

“It’s always in the same place. Regan’s Beach. That’s a small bit of private pierage just below Thomond Bridge.”

“That’s in Limerick?”

“That’s right!”

Kuryakin attended to his instrument again. “Did you get that, sir? About the boat. It’s the obvious answer.”

“Yes. If only we’d known earlier. Never mind; we’ve no time for recriminations. You and Mr. Solo get along to Thomond Bridge as fast as you can. I’ll meet you there.”

“Which is all very well,” Kuryakin murmured, as he pocketed his instrument again, “but there are people outside who don’t want us to leave just yet. Keep your eye on the opposition, dear. I’m going to have a word with Napoleon.”

He reached the outer doors, went down cautiously on his chest and drew one of them open to peer out. He saw Solo suddenly bob up from the back of the truck with a rifle, snap off a shot over the cab and then drop again. Hard on the heels of that shot came the crashing retort of a shotgun and the thin wail of flying lead bouncing off the truck.

“Napoleon!” he called. “There’s nobody home. They’ve gone off in a boat, and we have to get out of here.”

“I’ll vote for that,” Solo shouted back, “but how do you convince the shotgunners over there? There’s two of them, and they have a system. One reloads while the other one fires. I don’t know where the third character is, but I’m expecting him any time. Do we have any gas grenades? The breeze is in our favor right now.”

“Sorry, I’m all out, but you give me an idea. Keep ’em ducking!”

Kuryakin slid away from the door and went back to the laboratory on the run. Sarah squinted back over her shoulder as he entered, then brought her head back just in time to see a flicker of movement from the other corner of the building opposite. Swinging the rifle, she snapped off a shot and another large man plunged forward into sight, dropping his weapon and losing all further interest in the proceedings. She felt suddenly weak. She had actually shot a man! Then she rallied, twisted her head around again in curiosity.

“What are you going to do now, Illya?” she demanded, seeing him take a couple of reagent-bottles from a rack and approach the window where she crouched.

“Elementary chemistry,” he said, pulling out the two stoppers and bringing them close to each other. Where the invisible vapors met, she saw thick white fumes form instantly.

“Ammonia and hydrochloric acid!”

“Right! Now, give me room to swing.” He hefted a bottle, tapping the stopper firmly into place, swung and threw the bottle through the window and onto the footpath where it led past the next building. It struck and shattered very satisfactorily and he repeated the drill with the second, but this one hit and bounced, perversely, without breaking. Scowling, he reached for his pistol, and then ducked as a shower of buckshot stammered about the window. Up again, he took careful aim, fired, and the bottle shattered. As if by magic, a great boiling cloud of white smoke materialized just beyond the far bottle and drifted down to the corner.

“That should do it!” he said crisply. “Come on, let’s get out of here while it lasts.”

Seconds later, with Solo still on guard in the rear, the little truck roared around and away and back through the ruined gate, heading for Limerick. There was a thin sprinkling of traffic on the road by now, so they slowed at the first handy moment to let Solo climb back into the cab, to preserve the appearances, and went on as fast as was wise in the circumstances.

Kuryakin relinquished the wheel to Solo and drew out his communicator again, his expression much more serious than usual. Valuable time had been wasted, and if the mad Irishman had in fact taken to the water it might be difficult to follow him effectively. He spoke to Waverly, brought him up to date on events, then listened, and nodded a time or two, made some comments of his own. He didn’t seem happy.

“What’s the weather report, Illya?.” Solo asked, once the conference was complete.

“Princess is away. There should be something ready for us by the time we reach the docks. Mr. Waverly’s fixing that now.”

“Do you suppose he’s going to dump his stuff in the sea?”

“Not here, not yet. The idea seems to be to strike at Britain and France. And that will suit Thrush fine, of course.”

Solo nodded. It made sense, and from what he remembered of the prevailing sea currents, O’Rourke didn’t have too far to go. Once around the southwest tip of the country he would be in the right drift. And that was no more than a hundred and fifty miles. Not far, for a fast cabin-cruiser.

“Is there any way of stopping the damned stuff, Illya?”

“One way, yes. It’s mentioned in the notes. If the ferment is caught in its first stages, and smothered with an oily film, it inhibits the whole progress of the reaction.”

“High temperature breaks down the molecular reaction, too,” she added, and Solo snorted.

“Now all we need is some way to bring the whole Irish Sea to a slow boil. That should be simple!”

“I was only trying to help!” she snapped

FIVE

“Talk About Burning Your Boats After You!”

WAVERLY WAVED them to a screeching halt a few yards short of Thomond Bridge approach. His craggy face was grim. He spoke briefly and to the point.

“I’ve secured a converted Naval motor-launch for you. It’s fast, but stripped down completely and devoid of cover. It’s fueled, and with reserve, but you’d better minimize your equipment, to save weight. You may have a long run. I’ll describe Princess for you—”

“No need!” Sarah interrupted. “I’m going along with them, and I know that boat like I know my own name!”

“Indeed!” The old man gave her a quick and searching look, then made a brief smile. “Very well, my dear; you should be worth your weight, at that. Off you go then; you’ve no time to lose!”

They had already planned, roughly, what equipment they would need, and it took only seconds to modify that and grab the bare essentials. Sarah scampered on ahead, down the cobbled ramp, leaving the men to follow with a rifle each, spare rounds, and the long-range communicator, which Kuryakin hung around his neck. The powerful engines were already rumbling softly as they cast off and dropped into the stem-sheets.

The launch had indeed been stripped down since its Service days. All that remained of the cabin-cockpit superstructure was a three-piece perspex windscreen that served to break the breeze for whoever stood at the wheel—as Sarah stood now, with the throttle by her right hand and her feet planted on a narrow bridge that ran from one side to the other over the open well where the powerful engine roared. There was a narrow catwalk all around, with a few stout stanchions and a rope rail to cling to, and nothing else. As she thrust the throttle hard over the launch sat down in the water, lifted her bows to shake off the spray and began to shudder strongly.