The Mesmerizing Mist Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  She peered down into the music room and breathed another sigh of relief. There was no mistaking that blond thatch of hair and the broad sweep of shoulders. Bob Walton looked healthy and happy. Her eyes traveled over the seated disciples and shifted to the dais, where Gandura and a man she recognized as Mahommed, the mystic, were standing.

  Gandura was talking. Hurriedly fastening the acoustical device she always carried, to the glass dome, April inserted her tiny ear-phone. Gandura's voice came through, but it was partly obscured by a hissing sound. The girl on the roof heard a new note. Mahommed was chanting. The hissing sound continued to make the words indistinguishable.

  The puzzled watcher continued to peer into the room. Was it her imagination, or had the disciples suddenly become rigid and erect in their chairs? The hissing noise ceased. So did Mahommed's chanting.

  April heard the Hindu say, "Relax, Gandura. The mist has them completely submissive."

  The clang of metal startled April. The noise had come from the direction of the lift. She tore her gaze from the scene below and scanned the roof she had scaled, after leaving the dumb-waiter. There was nothing to be seen, but she heard a shuffling sound.

  April measured the slant of the tile and decided that her only chance was to lie down full length in the wide, deeply indented gutter, where she would be invisible from the ridge of the opposite roof. Unless the person who had just opened the metal door of the lift, decided to duplicate the slide she had taken down from the ridge, she might avoid detection.

  She eased herself into the gutter ---and controlled an impulse to raise her head as the sound of heavy breathing followed the scraping sound of shoes on a tile roof.

  Apparently the person on the ridge was satisfied with the brief inspection. There was the sound of scraping again and the thud of shoes coming to rest on the flat roof at the base of the tile. April heard the metal door clang again. Then silence.

  The girl from U.N.C.L.E. counted up to a hundred, slowly, before raising her head and scanning the ridge. It was empty. She gazed down into the music room and decided that it would be folly to linger any longer.

  April Dancer listened intently for a moment, then leaped across the aperture into the gutter on the other side. She went up the tile like a frightened squirrel and paused at the ridge for a quick look. The door was closed. No one was in sight. She slid down the tile to the flat roof.

  Despite the tiny dart-gun she extracted from the pocket of her sweater, it took will-power to slowly open the metal door. When she finally inserted her head, the dumb-waiter had disappeared. The ropes were motionless.

  She decided to make her move. Her only chance lay in speed. Grasping the ropes, she pulled vigorously until the top of the dumb-waiter came into view, then gently tugged with her left hand while holding the dart gun in her right.

  She relaxed as she saw that the lift was empty. April reached around the corner of the shed, groped for and found her shoes. She felt that the odds were with her. The absence of voices told her that only one person had followed her to the roof. If he were waiting for her at the bottom of the shaft, a quick shot and he could be stunned by a paralyzing dart from her tiny pistol.

  April was about to shrug out of her sweater and step into the lift when it suddenly sank out of sight. Her heart sank with it. This shifted the odds to the opposition.

  Swiftly extracting a tiny blade from her bodice, April severed the moving cord. A moment later, there was a resounding crash. A cloud of dust ascended slowly. The dust emanated from the shaft and onto the roof. The girl from U.N.C.L.E. closed the door and slipped over the parapet.

  As she descended swiftly, April thanked her stars for the U.N.C.L.E. training that had prompted her to make a thorough survey of the stone walls as an emergency exit, in case she was marooned on the roof. Tenuous vines and the grooves between the huge stones, furnished an adequate foothold for someone of her athletic ability.

  Putting the dumb-waiter out of commission insured a reasonably safe descent. She doubted that her pursuer would react quickly enough to anticipate her scrambling down a stone wall.

  Down in the kitchen, Mark Slate heard the muffled roar of the crashing dumb-waiter. Hustling down the stairs, he raced toward the bottom of the shaft, with his heart in his mouth. It was difficult to see clearly, because of the clouds of dust that billowed around him, but as he neared the shaft, he saw something protruding from the wreckage.

  "Thank God!" he said as he saw the hairy legs and size twelve sandals. It took only a cursory examination to assure Slate that the man under the lift was dead. He retraced his steps to the kitchen, seized a bottle of Mrs. Pine's best bonded whiskey, rushed back downstairs and broke the bottle over the wreckage. He then hustled out of the service door.

  April's pulse skipped a beat as she looked down from her perch on the wall and saw a figure waiting for her, below. It went back to normal quickly as she recognized Slate. A moment later she was being crushed in a bear-like embrace.

  "Quick. I left the service door open," Mark Slate panted. The two scurried around the corner of the building. A few moments later, April was drinking hot tea laced with brandy, and Mark was hovering solicitously over her chair.

  "The staff is relaxing," he explained, as April's eyes roamed around the kitchen questioningly. "I sent them to their quarters as soon as the warning gong rang. Here, get out of that woolen stuff. I'll hide it in the butler's pantry."

  April had downed her second cup and was in a gentle glow by, the time Mark returned. She suddenly thought of the man in the basement.

  "What about the character who followed me to the roof?" she asked. "I'm surprised he hasn't turned in an alarm by this time."

  Mark Slate grinned sardonically. "The villain who pursued this poor working girl will not turn in an alarm now, or ever." He told her of the crushed body in the shaft.

  April said, "I don't want to sound too much like a heartless ghoul, but that is good luck. Now, no one will ever know that a peeping Tomasina was on the roof. Poor guy! Anyone with reflexes as slow as his, has got no business sticking his head into a dumbwaiter shaft."

  The sound of the second gong interrupted them. April whispered, "Tell you all about my trip later on," as she made for the kitchen door. "The boss likes to have me waiting for her when she returns from her communion with the great spirit."

  Mrs. Pine was starting up the marble stairs as April reached the top. The girl from U.N.C.L.E. watched the woman as she ascended. She suddenly remembered the Hindu's remark.

  "So that's why the disciples seem to be in a daze after every conclave," she thought. "They're under anesthesia. The hissing noise. Now, I get it. That's what Mahommed meant when he said the mist had the disciples mesmerized. Darn the luck! If that snooper hadn't followed me up to the roof I might have found out what it was all about. "

  She shrugged as she reviewed her hectic experience. "The trip wasn't a total loss," she thought, as Mrs. Pine came into the room with measured tread and glazed eyes. "At least we can report to headquarters that THRUSH has a revolutionary form of anaesthetizing mist. Now, all we have to do is find out why they're using it on the disciples."

  TWELVE

  “WE’RE OFF TO SEE THE WIZARD

  Kurt von Krause, alias Krishna, motioned for his bodyguard to remain, after the men had cleared away the debris and removed the body from the dumbwaiter shaft

  "Hassan was one of our more stupid employees," he said. "He was fully capable of sticking his head into an elevator shaft, yanking a rope off its pulley and getting his head bashed in by the dislodged lift. Especially, if he was as drunk as the whiskey fumes around here indicate."

  He paused. "Nevertheless, for the sake of discipline, we should make sure that it was an accident and not murder. There are fragments of glass all over the place. He might have been killed in a drunken brawl. Do you know if there was bad blood between Hassan and any of the other guards?"

  Fritz Waller's grunt was eloquent. "There is bad blood between all of our me
n. I've had to break up a dozen fights since our arrival. I tried to tell you. We should allow them to bring their women here. That is the only thing that will keep them pacified."

  Krause shook his head. "You cannot force persons in a trance into accepting something that is against their inclinations. The disciples would kick over the traces and ruin our entire project if we turned this place into a harem. They do our bidding because they are firmly convinced they can do a better job governing the United States than their men can. They are delighted to help us take over the country. Take my word for it, my boy, they would not permit us to bring in Arab tarts."

  "I suppose you are right," Waller said. "To get back to our mystery, I don't think any of our Arabs are smart enough to crack a man's skull, wreck an unused dumbwaiter, then place the victim under the wreckage to make it look like an accident."

  He bent over and examined the remnants of the rope still attached to the shattered lift. Seizing the rope between powerful hands, he exerted his full strength in a savage tug.

  "Strong as iron. Take a look at this rope-end. Not even slightly frayed. That is a clean cut. This looks like the work of an enemy agent. The basement opening is too small for anyone to reach up and cut the rope. I've seen the dumb-waiter here. It occupied the entire space. One could only reach the inside shelves of the lift. The rope was cut from the top of the shaft. It had to be."

  Krause said, "Let us assume that an enemy agent has infiltrated this stronghold. Put yourself in his place. What would you destroy? A dumb-waiter? A dumb guard?"

  Waller grinned sheepishly, but his eyes were stubborn. "The guard may have caught him snooping."

  Krause's voice was soothing. "All right! I am convinced. Let us reconstruct the crime. The guard finds a stranger skulking around the basement. The stranger steps into the dumb-waiter, pulls it and himself to the top of the shaft, steps onto the roof and cuts the rope.

  "The dumb-waiter drops. The even dumber guard obligingly keeps his head in the shaft until the conveyance comes down and cracks his skull. Then, the stranger, now marooned on the roof in broad daylight, attaches a rocket to his behind and shoots into space."

  Waller burst into laughter. "I can never win an argument with you. Suppose you explain how the rope got cut. Our men had to break up the lift to get it off of the body, but the top is still intact, as you can see. There was no way for anyone to cut the rope from the basement."

  "The explanation probably is very prosaic. The guard, obviously drunk, hears a noise in the shaft. He pokes his flashlight and his head into the opening. He hears the noise again. A rat? The moan of the wind? The late Mr. Pine's ghost? He sees the swaying ropes. He yanks the nearest one. Nothing happens. The lift is stuck somewhere in the shaft.

  "He yanks harder. The yanking gets more violent. It dislodges the rope. The rope slips, due to all this frenzied yanking, and is cut by the pulley's sharp edges. The lift drops. Curtains for our drunken henchman! Let us write off the incident as a freak accident and forget about it."

  Krause linked arms with his smiling bodyguard. "Come. We have a lot of preparatory work to do before the Number One Man arrives in THRUSH’s streak of harnessed lightning. Now, if your enemy-agent had a miniature of our flying miracle in his back pocket, I might go along with your theory."

  Mark Slate removed the tiny amplifier from his ear, peeled the transmitter from the wall and sped up the stairs. The wine cellar was a good listening post. Only a few layers of plaster separated it from the rest of the basement.

  He was fussing around in the butler's pantry by the time Krause and his bodyguard arrived in the kitchen. The former waved a friendly greeting.

  "Let me know when you go sketching again," Krause called. "I'd like to go with you. I might even watch a bird or two, if you will allow me to watch you at the same time. I am determined to learn your technique with crayons."

  Mark Slate came into the kitchen. "Why don't you come with me tomorrow? It's my day off. Cook has promised to prepare a snack. I'll tell her to triple its size. You look like a man with a healthy appetite."

  "Confound the luck! I'm going to be tied up all day tomorrow." The German was obviously disappointed. "I don't suppose you could take Friday off instead?"

  Fritz Waller snickered. Slate winked at the tall, turbaned bodyguard as he addressed Krause. "Your friend's snicker has just answered your question. I don't think I need to add that Mrs. Pine is as flexible as pig-iron."

  Krause nodded agreement. "And just as dense. I'll figure out something. Good-by for now."

  Slate waited until he was sure the two men had left the house, before he slipped down to the wine cellar, again. Blocking the door with a case of champagne, he extracted his fountain pen, elevated its tiny aerial and adjusted the instrument for short-range transmission.

  April Dancer's voice came through. "Good timing. Her ladyship is taking a beauty nap. I'm in my room. Wait until I make sure no one is outside the door." Her voice resumed, after a brief pause. "I've tried to contact Tarzan. No luck. How about you?"

  "Ditto. We've got to reach Bob, somehow. It's frightening to think what they may be doing to him. We dragged him into this mess and it's up to us to get him out of it if at all possible."

  Slate sighed. "First things first.

  You can relax about the dumbwaiter incident. Our camouflage worked perfectly. I'm going bird-watching tomorrow. Our artistic terrorist and his shadow will be occupied all day, so that leaves only the small fry to get under-foot. What about you?"

  "I'm slipping and sliding to the village for the day. Any news for dear old Uncle Alex?"

  "The flying carpet is due here in the not-too-distant future. Wish I knew the exact time, but I don't. You already know that THRUSH has perfected a brain washing mist that has made puppets of the disciples. Obviously, they've gained control of the nation's transportation complex by keeping the old girls in a permanent state of submission. I've just learned that THRUSH has definite plans to take over the United States. It is very apparent that control of transportation, the mesmerizing mist and the mystery plane, play important roles in the take-over. I expect to pick up details, tomorrow."

  "Try not to pick up lead-poisoning at the same time," April said. "Don't forget that 'shoot-to-kill' warning. And, I need hardly add, don't forget your paralyzing pistol."

  "Right. One more thing, Keep trying to contact your pen-pal and I'll do the same. Over and out."

  April tucked the tiny transmitter into the top drawer of her bureau and walked to the window. From this vantage point she could see a portion of the garden, with the blue-green spruce of the forest in the background. She drew a quick breath. There was no mistaking that tall figure. It was Bob Walton. She peered closely at the tiny form beside him and recognized Gandura.

  The girl from U.N.C.L.E. looked at her watch. Mrs. Pine should be snoozing another hour. She was into her fur coat and out of the door before the couple disappeared around a corner of the building.

  April emerged from the door of the service entrance. She tried to form a plan of action. Rounding the corner where she had last glimpsed the pair, April paused to scan the surrounding terrain.

  "I may never get another chance," she thought, as she spotted Gandura and Bob Walton, strolling toward a tiny pavilion at the edge of the cliff. "Trouble, here I come!"

  Gandura was the first to see the approaching figure. She tried not to show her annoyance as she recognized Mrs. Pine's personal maid. She liked the girl, but felt that the fewer people young Walton was exposed to, at this touchy stage of THRUSH’s maneuvering, the better. The man at her side rose to his feet, as April entered the pavilion.

  "Please sit down, Mr. Walton, the intruder said.”I have no intention of barging in on you."

  Bob Walton smiled vaguely and sat down. April turned to the little Indian. "Forgive me for intruding, Gandura. I only wanted to ask if you were going to the village tomorrow. It's a case of misery loving company on that fiendish ice-sled."

  Gandura, her good humo
r restored, motioned to the bench beside the one she and Bob Walton were occupying.

  "Do sit down for a moment, April. Robert and I were watching the tiny ice-boats. I think the different colored sails are so picturesque. What a pity we can't make the trip to the village in one of these little beauties instead of Mrs. Pine's awful mechanical monster."

  "Then you're going tomorrow," April said. "I am glad."

  "No. I'm afraid I can't make it.

  I have too much to do here. I wonder if you would be kind enough to bring me a few things from the drugstore?"

  "My pleasure," April said. "How about you, Mr. Walton? Can I pick up anything for you?"

  "That won't be necessary," he said. "I'm going with you."

  Gandura's gasp sounded almost like a hiss. There was consternation in the gaze she shot toward the young man beside her. "But---but," she began, and halted. This could be disastrous. She must collect her thoughts.

  Walton's voice was plaintive. But what? You promised me I could go to the village."

  "Yes. Of course I did," Gandura said. "But I also said that we would have to wait until you stopped having those blinding headaches.”

  "I haven't had a headache for days," Walton said. "Please, Gandura! They're showing 'The Wizard of Oz’ at the village motion picture theatre. I saw it advertised in the paper."

  The tiny Indian cast an oblique glance toward April Dancer. The girl returned her look with an unconcerned smile. Gandura knew she had to make a quick decision. It would never do to arouse this young woman's suspicions. She smiled and gave Walton's hand a maternal pat.

  "You are right, Robert. I'll keep my promise. We will all go."

  Walton smiled. He seemed to lose interest in the conversation. Turning his back to the girls, he gazed down at the tiny sails below. Gandura caught April's eye. She placed a finger to her lips, glanced toward the broad back and tapped her forehead significantly.

  April nodded. Her eyes revealed understanding and sympathy. She turned to leave. "Au revoir, Mr. Walton," she said softly. "Tomorrow, we're off to see the Wizard."