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The Mesmerizing Mist Affair

Page 10

by Robert Hart Davis


  Krause was sure that Conrad would make every effort to save Slate's life. The doctor was even more sure. He knew, with dreadful certainty, that he was a dead man the moment the man on the operating table drew his last breath. Conrad had served too long under the Nazi terrorist to doubt that Krause would carry out his death-threat.

  The acrid taste of fear boiled up in Conrad's throat. He mentally cursed his stupidity. How could he have made such a miscalculation? He must be getting senile. Krause had sensed immediately that the story of Slate's "accidental" fall into the snake-pit was a fabrication. Conrad shuddered. He had seen his superior officer severe a lying subordinate's jugular vein with one vicious swipe of a knife.

  He gestured for his assistants to remove the cups that had been drawing the venom from Slate's veins and reached for the alarmingly limp wrist. His face blanched. The pulse was barely perceptible.

  Conrad's hands trembled violently as he measured the antidote into the syringe. The virulent glare of the watching terrorist was tempered with grudging admiration as years of training and iron self-discipline took over. The fluttering hands steadied magically when the doctor was ready for action. The needle entered the vein with speed and precision.

  Time seemed to stand still as all eyes focused on the corpse-like form. Dr. Conrad's gaze shifted from patient to clock and back again like the eyes of a spectator at a tennis match. After what seemed an interminable length of time, he reached again for Mark Slate's wrist. His sigh of relief was audible to all.

  Krause's rigid features did not relax until the man on the operating table was breathing deeply and regularly and the deathlike pallor had become healthy flesh tones. The Nazi general's gaze was sardonic as the doctor felt his way on quaking legs to a nearby chair. He waited until Conrad had emptied the brandy from a glass at his side.

  "Come with me, doctor. What I say to you must not be overheard."

  Conrad preceded Krause through the door. Fritz Waller followed in their wake. The terrorist motioned for Conrad to be seated at the desk as they closed the door to the doctor's office. Waller stood stolidly at attention, while the two men faced each other across the desk. Krause studied the fear-glazed eyes a moment before speaking.

  "You are a lucky man, doctor. A lot luckier than the man whose life you just saved. He signed his death-warrant the moment he crossed that barbed-wire fence. It does not matter in the least whether he is an U.N.C.L.E. agent or the absent-minded bird-sketcher he says he is. We cannot allow him to leave this plateau alive, after what he has seen here today."

  He shook his head. "It was not the deed but your timing that almost earned you a premature shroud. I thought you were a man of intelligence. No one should know better than you that our disciples are treading a hair-line between robot-like submissiveness to our orders and outright insanity. You saw what happened to the monks we used as guinea-pigs in Tibet.

  "Why do you think we allowed Mrs. Pine to fire two servants and hire a new butler and a pretty maid? Only because it is of vital importance that she and her associates remain calm and contented until they are no longer needed. A first-class butler and personal maid are important to Mrs. Pine. If anything were to happen to either of them, she would become emotionally disturbed. If she kicked over the traces, it would bowl the rest of the disciples over like ninepins.

  Krause rose to his feet. "In less than twenty-four hours we will place each of these women before a radio-telephone set and tell them exactly what instructions to give their personnel. Their voices must sound firm and authoritative when they give the orders that will set each of the country's transportation complexes in motion for our take-over.

  "You idiot! If you had succeeded in killing Slate, all of our preparations could have gone up in smoke. Can you imagine what would happen, if top-echelon transportation personnel were contacted by a horde of babbling lunatics?"

  Krause paused at the door. "When Slate regains consciousness he must not see me here. To him I am. Krishna, a Hindu who paints badly as a hobby. You will see that he is escorted safely to the mansion, after you have tendered your abject apologies. We must keep him happy right up to the moment that he is thrown back into the snake-pit."

  The grin that split the beautifully altered features sent shivers down Dr. Conrad's spine.

  "It might be a good idea for you to bear in mind that even you are expendable. We have all of your data, and the men you have trained are capable of taking over your duties at a moment's notice. Think of that the next time you are tempted to disobey my orders. It might not be a bad idea for you also to remember how Slate looked wearing a kimona of writhing reptiles."

  Back in his own quarters, Mark Slate waited until the guards who had accompanied him from the forbidden area had closed the door and he had locked it, before withdrawing the fountain-pen transmitter from his pocket. He had felt the vibration of the signaling device from the time he regained partial consciousness in the operating room.

  Waiting until he was safely behind the door of a clothes closet, he elevated the antenna. "Mark here. What's up, April? It must be something urgent for you to shake the others and sail back to our blind spot."

  A masculine voice answered. "You ought to know that I would shake the others any time, to talk to you."

  Slate gasped. "Randy How the devil did you get in the act? Until now, we've been cut off from head-quarters by the plateau's scrambling ray."

  "You still are. I'm down here on the ice with several of my subordinates." A loud smacking noise came through, followed by a fervent "Ouch! Can't you take a joke?"

  Illya Kuryakin's voice took over. "Hi, Mark. Mr. Waverly yanked me off another assignment long enough to assist the enfant terrible of the U.N.C.L.E. organization. I'm supposed to linger in this bleak, God-forsaken area long enough to break in baby, then shove off to greener pastures. Between teaching him the rudiments of ice-sailing and keeping his ego down every hour, I've been a busy man."

  Make Slate chuckled. "Are you going to leave the child unattended when you shove off?"

  "Nope. We've got a boatload of muscle-men with us. They'll take turns wiping the little-one's nose and giving him his milk. There'll be someone here around the clock. When top-executive Randolph Kovac is off duty, Jim Schwartz will handle the milk. You remember Jim. We worked with him on that East Germany deal."

  "Of course. Give Jim my regards. Listen, Illya, I want to make a full report, but I'm not exactly at my best right now. As soon as I take a hot shower, another shot of snake antidote and a half-hour's nap, I'll give you a buzz."

  "What's with the snake talk? Are you serious?"

  "Never more serious in my life. An hour ago, I was lying in a pit with something like a hundred poisonous reptiles taking turns at sinking their fangs into me. It's a long story. Tell you all about it, when my head clears."

  "Before you sign off," Illya Kuryakin said, "let met brief you on our operations in the village. Sometime between eight and ten o'clock tonight, a gang of fake TV men will toss April Dancer, your little Indian girlfriend Gandura, and young Bob Walton into a sound truck and whisk them away. Bob will be rushed to Boston's Leahy Clinic for treatment. Miss Dancer and Gandura will be left in an abandoned house.

  "I doubt very much that you will have to explain the situation to April when she shows up with Gandura and without Mr. Walton. If I know that chick, she will have figured out the pitch long before she gets back to the Pine plateau."

  "You mean you haven't tipped off the poor girl? What a dirty trick! Serve you right if she blasts some of your men right out of their socks, when they try to put the snatch on her."

  "Don't worry. We all know about April's reflexes. Two of our muscle-men will grab her arms and yank that lethal handbag away from her before she knows what's happened. Mr. Waverly hated to do it this way, but he felt that it might prove beyond April's histrionic ability to put on a convincing performance for Gandura's benefit.

  "After all, the best way to convince THRUSH that it was a job pulled by local kidnape
rs is to slug, dope and manhandle an U.N.C.L.E. agent or two in the process."

  "You'd better be kidding," Slate said. "Slug, dope, manhandle? Poor April! I'd better tip off the cook to prepare something hot and soothing, instead of the cold, midnight snack she's planning to whip up. Glad you told me. I'll put some water-resistant padding under the shoulders of my service jacket for her to cry on. I'd better sign off now, before I fall on my face. Back in a half-hour or so."

  Mark Slate was toweling himself vigorously when he heard the sound of a knock. Slipping into his bathrobe, he opened the door. Krishna, alias Krause, smiled back at him.

  "May I come in?"

  "Of course," Slate said.

  The man with the Indian features and bleak Teutonic eyes sank into a chair. Slate's face was deadpan as he seated himself on the divan.

  "Can I offer you a cigarette, a drink, or something?"

  "Not a thing, thank you. I hope you will pardon the intrusion, but I wanted to see if you were all right. I had a rather mysterious call a short time ago from Dr. Conrad. The good doctor wanted to know if I had promised to go for a walk with you. I told Fritz that I very definitely had promised and Fritz relayed the information over the phone.

  "Apparently Dr. Conrad wasn't satisfied. He asked that I come over to his office. Seems his men picked you up on the wrong side of the fence."

  The man in the chair looked at Slate curiously. The latter smiled and remained silent. Krause broke the silence.

  "I couldn't leave the work I was doing for some time. When I finally arrived, Dr. Conrad informed me that he had apologized to you for his mistake and sent a couple of his men to escort you back to the house."

  Slate continued to smile blandly. "That's about the way it happened," he said. "Dr. Conrad did apologize, and handsomely too, I might add. Charming man! Continental manners and a very gracious personality." He rose to his feet. "Sure I can't get you something? I have some of Mrs. Pine's best scotch tucked away in the closet."

  Krause shook his head.

  Slate continued to stand.

  "Was there something else you wanted to say? I hate to seem rude, but I am exhausted. You have no idea how strenuous my hobby can be, at times. Perhaps you will honor me with another visit when. I'm less tired?"

  Mark Slate was still smiling as he closed the door. Krause stood for a moment in the hallway. His eyes were puzzled as he walked away.

  "I wonder what's going on behind that bland British exterior," he thought. "I expected him to give me a fang by fang description of his ordeal. I still don't know whether he is a spy or a muddled man. The confounded British have a way of keeping their own counsel, so his reluctance to give me the details of his experience doesn't prove a thing, one way or the other."

  SEVENTEEN

  SPRAY FOR A HUMAN SPY

  April Dancer looked at her watch as she eased herself into a chair. Twelve-thirty. Instead of fatigue, she felt a bubbling energy coursing through her veins. It was always that way with her. Intrigue, danger, the opportunity to use her powers of deduction. They stimulated her, as strong drugs affect an addict.

  The girl from U.N.C.L.E. smiled as she thought of Gandura's face, when the two girls parted for the night. The little Indian looked as though she had been drawn through a wringer. She had stifled a half-dozen yawns while trying to thank April again for her help. When she finally walked away, it was with the step of a sleepwalker.

  After a quick shower, April slipped into skin-tight stretch-pants and lifted a warm sweater from a hook in her closet. Laying the sweater on a table, she sat on the edge of a chair and adjusted her fountain-pen set for short distance transmission.

  Slate's sleepy voice came through. "Randy, will you please stop playing Junior G-Man? Didn't I tell you that I don't want an hourly report? Drink your warm milk and go to sleep. Your buzzer will alert you if anyone calls."

  April smiled. So the ebullient Mr. Kovac was one of their contacts on the ice. The young apprentice was learning the facts of the espionage trade, the chilly way.

  "Have patience with our U.N.C.L.E. starling, Mark. You probably were an even worse pest when you first tried your wings."

  "Oh! April. Good to hear your voice. You sound very spry for someone who has been slugged, snatched and hidden away in an abandoned house. I have a feeling I don't have to tell you what the score is in our little kidnapping game."

  "No. I got the pitch. It was patently an U.N.C.L.E. operation. It was a little rugged, but the boys weren't too rough. I have no bruises to show for the encounter. Have you heard where Bob Walton was taken?"

  "He's safe, sound and under sedation at the Leahy Clinic, in Boston. Randy reported about an hour ago, that the doctors there are sure he will be mentally fit after a few treatments. "

  "That is good news. What did you learn on your bird-sketching expedition?"

  "The most important thing I learned, from a purely personal standpoint, mind you, is that our laboratory has perfected a really miraculous anti-venom serum. Lucky I tucked one of our standard antidote needles in my sock, before I left the house. Thought I might accidentally step on a snake while I was prowling through the forest."

  His laugh was not mirthful. "It was really funny, in a gruesome way. Three doctors were working over me, like mad, trying to save my life, and there I was, in better shape than they were. You know that yoga trick we've been taught. The one where we slow down the pulse to a whisper and drain the blood away from our head. I hate to boast, but I pulled it off to perfection."

  April drew in a sharp breath. "What are you ranting about? Snakes? Anti-venom serum? Three doctors trying to save your life? Are you sure you're awake?"

  The sound of a yawn came through. "Just barely," Slate said. "Look, dear girl, why don't you tell me what's on your mind, so I can go back to sleep? I'll give you the details of my hair-raising experiences in the morning."

  April snorted indignantly. "You'll give me the story right now, or I'll tell Randy to contact you every five minutes, instead of every hour."

  "Wait a minute until I get a cigarette and a cushion. If I can't go back to sleep, I can, at least, make myself comfortable."

  The girl from U.N.C.L.E. thought of Mr. Waverly's querulous appraisal of the Slate penchant for comfort under any and all circumstances. She smiled at the memory of that dry voice. "Mr. Slate, you are the most horizontal young man I have ever encountered. I honestly think you would find a way to lie down if you were tied to a tree limb by your thumbs."

  The sound of a contented sigh told her that Mark was in his favorite position. "I'll try to make it brief, my persistent friend. THRUSH guards caught me on the wrong side of the fence, knocked me out, tried to make me talk, and, when I kept mum, they tossed me into a snake-pit."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Never more so. I found the place where they manufacture the mist. The snake-pit is in the same building. I have an idea THRUSH technicians are using the venom on some sort of medical experiment. Anyhow, after they untied me, I pulled the anti-venom needle out of my sock, while I was pretending to rub my arms and legs to restore the circulation.

  "Good thing they tried to frighten me into talking, when they threatened me with the snake-pit. It gave me time to plunge the needle and slip the empty back into my shoe. Incidentally, I've sent in a report to headquarters. THRUSH will start operation 'takeover' within twenty-four hours."

  The voice ceased and the sound of snores came through.

  "Mark! That's not funny! Stop clowning. We've got to act quickly. Listen. We've got to locate and steal a supply of their mesmerizing mist before it's too late. It's our only hope of stopping them. I don't know just how we can use it, but we'll figure out something."

  Slate's voice showed that he was fully awake. "But how? The building where it's stored is guarded like Fort Knox. We haven't got a ghost of a chance of getting near it, much less lifting any of the mist tanks. The entire area is magnetized. That's how they caught me. And, even if we could get through, there must be a
hundred people in that building."

  "I have a hunch they keep a supply of it in this very house," April said. "We know they have at least one tank of the stuff behind the walls of the music room. It was obvious they were spraying the mist past the people on the dais into the area where the disciples were sitting. That puts the source back of the dais, within a space ordinarily used for air-ducts. I'm going to get in back of that wall tonight. We wouldn't have a prayer in the daytime."

  "Makes sense," Slate agreed. "Have you figured out a way to get into the music room? The whole wing is crawling with guards, day and night. I've tried snooping in that area several times. Not only that. The music room door has a lock that would defy Houdini. I tried that, too. We can't use our acetylene kits. They'd notice the hole in the door."

  "I've got it all figured out," April said. "They keep at least one window of the music room open day and night. I noticed it. I suppose they have to leave it open to get rid of the smell and effect of the mist."

  Slate sounded dubious. "That’s four stories from the ground. And, I mean four high-ceilinged stories. Ah! I'm beginning to catch up with you. We can go up the same way you came down from the roof, after you cut the dumb-waiter rope."

  "Not we, Mark. I. Those clod-hoppers of yours would never fit into the grooves between the stones on that outside wall. I've tennis shoes made to order for the job. You will be a lot more useful as a lookout at the bottom of that confounded wall.

  "Incidentally, bring your spool of lightweight steel hemp along, so I can lower the tanks or whatever to you. I lost my steel twine, along with the other equipment I had in my pocketbook when U.N.C.L.E. snatched me."

  "Right. You'll also need a chisel and a few other midget tools. I'll bring my kit. You can carry it in your knapsack. I've got an extra dart gun. You may need it. If you wake up somebody while you're prying off the duct grill, a well-placed paralyzing-dart is the surest way to put him back to sleep. How soon will you be ready to roll? And, where will we meet? I'd suggest the butler's pantry. If anyone finds us there, we can pretend we're getting a midnight snack."

 

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