Man From U.N.C.L.E. 05 - The Mad Scientist Affair

by John T. Philifrent

  “But you have put your process on the market for bids!”

  “So I have, at a price that will be out of sight for anything less than one of the major manufacturing houses. And d’ye think they’re going to rush to buy? Think again. They won’t buy until they have some direct idea what the stuff is good for, and they can’t know that until they make some to try—and they can’t do that without the process method. Which I have. So, if they give it any thought at all, they’ll shrug it off and forget it. Who’s interested in some chance discovery in a brewery, anyway?” O’Rourke chuckled. “But it will serve to stop nosy people sniffing round me heels, so it will.”

  Trilli frowned. He didn’t like this one bit. The old man was beyond doubt insane. But he had no room for argument now. “Very well,” he declared. “Now you will tell me, and show me, just what it is so wonderful about this new molecule that you think you can dictate to Thrush.”

  The old man shed his jocularity all at once, and there was an edge to his voice as he said, “I can hold the world to ransom, Dr. Trilli, not just Thrush, with what I’ve discovered. The whole world! And I will, if I have to! It would be a bit easier and quicker with Thrush on my side, but if I must, I will do it alone-and you can take that back to your superiors, with the compliments of King Michael of Clare in Eire!”

  “It’s the truth, every word,” Bridget said. “As for giving away secrets in New York, you three must have left a trail a mile wide for that man to be snooping on us, by Conway.” She turned to her uncle. “A silly little man was skulking on the hillside watching us. We chased him into Kevin’s Hole. Right in. He’ll be no more trouble at all.”

  “It is all very well!” Trilli objected angrily. “This is fine big talk. But nothing yet about what this precious chemical of yours can do. I must have evidence, proof, not just words. As you say, I am a chemist, a scientist. What I see with my own eyes, that I believe. Not talk!”

  A soft footfall in the doorway brought all their heads around. Another large man stood there in an attitude of respect.

  “Begging your pardon, your majesty, but there’s an airport car belting up the road, with Miss Sarah in it and a man with her. An American, by the look.”

  “Hah!” O’Rourke struck the table with an exasperated palm. “Isn’t it always the same? The one curse of my life is what many another man would call a blessing that I have two of the prettiest girls in the whole country living here with me, forever attracting young men like bees at a honey-pot! But”—and a devilish gleam came into his sharp eyes—”perhaps this time I can turn a nuisance into good use. Perhaps this young man can be made to serve a good purpose. Donovan, make them welcome and take care of the baggage. Bridget me darling, down to the cellar with you and bring back a can of the special, with an opener, and a glass.”

  She made a brilliant smile and hurried away. O’Rourke turned to Trilli, and his smile was full of glee. “You said you wanted evidence, some proof of what my synthetic can do to a man, didn’t you? Well now, just be still, let me do the talking, and you shall see for yourself.”

  By the time the car reached the forecourt of the castle, Napoleon Solo was properly impressed by the pile. It wasn’t quite as big as he had imagined from the picture, but it looked respectably old and solid.

  As he paid off the car, Sarah chattered, “I’m sure I don’t know what Uncle Mike will say about me bringing you home with me like this. He’s not much of a hand for company. He prefers to meet people professionally by appointment at the brewery, and not at all at home, not unless it’s something extra special. In a way, I’m breaking all the rules, just for you. But after everything you’ve told me about those wicked people trying to steal his discovery and everything, I’m sure it is the best thing for you to tell him all about it yourself and see what he says about it.” She paused for a rare breath and resumed, “I know he wouldn’t believe a word of it if I just told him myself. I’m not sure that I believe it myself, even if that poor man was shot and everything, at the dancing last night, poor Professor Amazov—”

  Solo sighed inwardly and let the flood ripple over him. If she had a flaw, he thought, it was this regrettable tendency to chatter steadily on at great length. That, plus an equally unfortunate inability to believe anything he told her, particularly about Thrush. He hadn’t tried very hard to convince her about the two Thrush agents on the plane because he’d had his own designs on them, and they had called for innocence, on the surface. A long time ago he had learned certain bits of useful information from a master locksmith on how to make ordinary locking devices behave in most un-ordinary ways. That information, long unused but never forgotten, had proven most useful at the end of their uneventful flight. He had not known for sure whether those two agents had intended anything malicious towards him; he had just taken that for granted, and acted accordingly.

  Seat-belts are curious anomalies. You fasten them for a brief while on takeoff and then they remain utterly unused until landing is imminent, when you are required to fasten them again, only for a brief while, until the plane is safely down. In between times, they just hang there. He had waited for the right moment, when those two particular seats had been deserted, and then he had applied just a little expert know-how—and everyone else had filed calmly from the plane while those two unhappy men had still been vainly trying to undo the catches on their belts. And so he and Sarah had passed uneventfully out of the airport and into the first available taxi. Neat, and effective, but it had all helped her unbelief.

  She led him into the great hall. A burly and impassive servant took care of their luggage, walked it away. She gave him a moment to look around, then conducted him on into the receiving room, where he went three steps and then slowed as he saw the welcoming committee. Steeling himself to be calm, he put on a stiff smile and nodded as Sarah introduced him.

  “Uncle Mike, this is Napoleon Solo. We met at the convention. He’s very interested in your process. He’s been telling me all—” Her chatter faltered as the electric atmosphere of the room came across to her. Trilli and his men were rigid, explosively ready at the first sound of the name. Solo felt wound-up like a watch-spring. He hadn’t counted on walking flat-footed right into the middle of this gang. One false move now and the bomb would go off. The only relaxed ones in the room were O’Rourke himself, and his black-haired bright-eyed niece. She produced a sizzling smile. O’Rourke made a lordly gesture. If he sensed the tension, he gave no sign of it.

  “Be welcome to my little kingdom, Mr. Napoleon Solo. Sure and that’s the fine brave name you have. An emperor—and a king. We’re well met!”

  “You’re very kind. I ought to apologize for this intrusion.”

  “Not at all. Sarah speaks for you, that’s enough. In a moment I’ll ask you to take a seat and be at home, for sure and you’ve traveled a long way and must be weary. But first, a small ceremony. On the table before you, you’ll see a can of O’Brien’s Beautiful Beer, the finest brew there is, known affectionately all over the world as 3-B. Am I speaking the truth, sir?”

  Solo grinned. “I won’t argue with that. I’ve heard it very well spoken of.”

  “A gentlemanly reply. Well now, seeing that this castle, which is my home, and all the sweet luxuries in life that I’m fortunate to own, all come directly from the sale of that beverage before you, I make it a custom to ask every guest of mine on his first visit to drink a ceremonial glass of it. Will you do that for me, now?”

  Solo heard him, stared at the innocent can, and held back a frown. He missed Sarah’s quick bewilderment at this brand new “ceremony,” as well as Bridget’s hasty finger-on-lip gesture and wink to say it was only a small jest.

  “I wouldn’t want to break an old custom,” he smiled, and picked up the can. It bore the familiar 3-B label. It was cold, little beads of condensation forming on the sides.

  “We saw you coming up the road and laid it on special,” the old man explained as Solo applied the opener and poured beer into the glass. Solo raised the
glass, sniffed without seeming to do so. It seemed all right. He sipped, tasted, swallowed, and it was very good indeed. Just right.

  “Your very good health,” he said, nodding. “This goes down well on a hot day like this.” It had a sharp clean flavor, with just the right touch of tangy bitterness. He sensed the tension receding a little. Trilli and his uglies were relaxing now, settling into their seats.

  O’Rourke spoke again: “You’ve not met my other niece, Bridget, have you?”

  Solo bowed gravely. This was a different loveliness from Sarah’s, an exotic flame-like quality, her dark tresses framing an exquisitely heart-shaped face. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” he declared, and meant every word.

  “Dr. Trill, Mr. Foden, Mr. Schichi—my house-guests. And now we’re all acquainted, won’t you be seated and make yourself at home, Mr. Solo. Will you see after the tea, Bridget, and hurry it along?” Solo watched her move away. Sheer poetry. And there had been a glint in her eye. Had it not been for the three uglies, he would have regarded this as a very promising situation. He cast an eye over the oil-paint ancestors and wondered, wryly, if this eccentric old man really believed he was royal. And what, oh what, was Trilli and that thick-skulled pair doing here? It wasn’t like Thrush to come boldly out into the open in this way.

  “So you’re interested in my process, then?” O’Rourke asked. “You’re a chemist?”

  “Well, no. Not exactly. I only know what Miss Sarah has told me.” He gave her a smile, and lingered a moment to appreciate the picture she made as she smiled back. Again he toyed with the pleasant problem as to which was the lovelier, she or Bridget. “So far as I can understand, you’ve made something of a breakthrough, a new technique and a new synthetic with some rare and unusual properties. Right?”

  “That’s a way of putting it. But if you’re not a chemist, just what is your interest?”

  “That would depend on the properties, wouldn’t it?”

  “That’s very true. And wasn’t I just this moment beginning to discuss that very thing with Dr. Trilli here?” He turned to address Trilli now. “You’ll have heard, I’m sure, of a series of nerve gases the Allies were developing in the last war. There was one, I recall, which destroyed a man’s nerve. Made him a coward. Remember? I see you do. A dreadful thing, to be sure, and what a weapon to use against an enemy! But did it ever strike you that the direct reverse would be just as terrible?”

  “What does this mean, reverse?” Trilli mumbled.

  “That’s one of the effects of the stuff I’m talking about. It takes about five minutes to act. It takes away a man’s caution, his sensible judgment. It inflates his confidence to an enormous degree, gives him a head full of daring and courage, a complete lack of fear of any kind. Would you call yourself a brave man, Mr. Solo?”

  Solo shrugged, put his head on one side modestly and smiled. “I don’t know. I suppose I’m as brave as most.”

  Inwardly he seethed with contempt. The doddering old fool King Mike, hah! And rabbity little four-eyes there, with his hired muscle-men. “I don’t scare easily, anyway,” he offered.

  “I’m sure you don’t.” O’Rourke nodded gently and turned to Trilli again. “You see, courage without caution is nothing more than foolhardly recklessness, and it can be deadly dangerous. I’m sure Mr. Solo is a brave man. I’m sure if this room were suddenly full of guns, all pointed at him and all threatening sudden death, he wouldn’t turn a hair. Would you, Mr. Solo?”

  “If you’re trying to scare me, you’re wasting your time!” Solo laughed, making it an open sneer now. He watched Trilli draw a pistol, a vicious little snub-nosed automatic. Then Foden waved one, and then Schichi. And he laughed again, calmly relaxed in his seat. “Fumbling amateurs,” he scorned. There was a sibilant rustle as the oil-paintings rolled back and he stared around at the massed array of pointing shotguns. Still he smiled. “Kid stuff! I can’t blame you too much, seeing that you don’t know who I am, but if you think this row of popguns is going to scare anybody you’re all wrong! I could take all of you, right now, and not even work up a sweat.”

  Faintly, at the back of his mind, the small voice of sanity screamed a warning—but he was in no mood to heed it. He felt good—ten feet tall at least. Odds like this were what brought out the real fire in a man. He turned a confident smile on Sarah, who was straining forward with horror on her face.

  “Don’t you worry, honey,” he assured her. “I’ve walked out of tougher spots than this before breakfast. Just let one of them start something, that’s all.” He surveyed the grim faces mockingly. “Just try me, that’s all. Dr. O’Rourke, you don’t seem to be aware of it, but you are entertaining three very lousy characters. Scum, that’s what. Thrush agents, in other words. They’d cut your throat and rob you blind, like that!” He snapped his fingers. “Only they won’t, not while I’m here.”

  “Uncle!” Sarah turned to O’Rourke in shrill fear. “What have you done to him?”

  “‘Uncle!” Solo echoed, laughing. “That’s it. The man from U.N.C.L.E. That’s me. Have no fear!” He saw O’Rourke’s face undergo a subtle alteration, a quiet hardening. Sarah half-rose, and a chill voice came from behind.

  “Sit still and keep quiet!” It was Bridget, and there was menace in her tone. “You too, Mr. Napoleon Solo. Just sit very still!” And he felt the cold muzzle of a weapon pressed against the side of his head. “The rest of you can put away your armament now—I’ll take care of this. Carry on talking, Uncle Mike.”

  But Trilli wanted to put in an objection. “This is very interesting, but is still only talk. He sounds foolishly arrogant, true. But is this all? What about actions, other symptoms? Is he drunk? Does it show? Can it be detected?”

  “All taken care of, Dr. Trilli. There are no symptoms other than a slow-down of reaction times. He is cold sober, by any test—on one glass of beer, what else would you expect. And there isn’t a chemist in the world would find anything suspicious, either in the beer or his blood-stream…not unless he knew exactly what to look for, and possibly not even then.”

  Solo heard him, but his attention was on the vanishing guns, on weighing the odds. O’Rourke smiled at him. “You’re in the enemy camp, Mr. Solo. You must realize that by now. But it won’t worry you, of course!” Solo’s mind was as clear as crystal. He gathered himself, snapped a wink at Sarah, and exploded into furious action. One hand snaked up and back to snatch the gun from Bridget, the other dived into his coat to whip out his own. Sheer expert speed gave him the advantage—only, for some weird reason, it did not quite work out like that.

  His arms seemed to be plowing through syrup, and while he was fighting the sluggishness, Bridget leaned over, twisted his own gun from his grasp, and thumped him savagely alongside the temple with the butt of the one she held. Stars flashed painfully in his skull.

  “As you see,” O’Rourke pointed out with clinical calm, “his reaction times are depressed in inverse ratio to the enhancement of his confidence.”

  Solo shook his head, furiously angry at this setback, regretting the loss of his gun, but unshaken in his determination. What was a gun, anyway? In the old days in Korea there hadn’t been one man in the whole outfit with the nerve to take him on at unarmed combat. He lurched to his feet, ducking away from Bridget, who stood back to let him go.

  “All right, now!” he snarled. The game is over, folks—”

  “Napoleon!” Sarah wailed, half-rising again to put out a hand to him as he backed up against the wall. “What’s come over you?”

  Her uncle snarled at her in sudden sharp anger: “Keep quiet, woman! Can you not see this is a scientific experiment? Mr. Foden, perhaps you would be kind enough to give us a little bit more proof?”

  “A pleasure!” Foden grinned, showing his teeth, and rose to move around the table. Watching him come, Solo fell into a tense crouch. He ached with rage and the eagerness to blow off some of it. This thick-headed Nazi type would serve that purpose admirably.

  Solo smiled thinly.
“I can lick any Thrush in the house,” he said mockingly.

  Foden came close, hunched his shoulders to toss a punch—and again there was that deadly sluggishness getting in the way as Solo put up an arm to ward it. The punch got through, smashed him back against the all. He struggled in futility, and another roundhouse wallop rocked him, making bells clang in his head. It was like a bad dream, only the solidity of those flailing fists was painfully real and he could do nothing to stop them. Through a darkening haze he saw Foden reach out carelessly, setting him up with a left, murdering with the right to follow—and it hurt, and he couldn’t seem to get his arms to cooperate fast enough. His legs softened, only the hard wall at his back serving to hold him up. Out of the awful nightmare he heard O’Rourke’s old voice in sharp command:

  “That’ll do for now, me bucko! Leave him be. We might have use for him later, maybe.” The punches stopped coming. Solo leaned gratefully on the wall and tried to shake the booming throb of agony out of his head.

  “This man is an U.N.C.L.E. agent,” Trilli said. “I have heard much of him. He is dangerous. We should destroy him at once.”

  “I’ve heard of U.N.C.L.E. too, Dr. Trilli. Ye have no need to tell me what to do. Let me remind you, I am still the king of this castle, and I am no more afraid of U.N.C.L.E. than I am of Thrush. He doesn’t look so dangerous at this moment, you will allow? And I’ve a dungeon downstairs that will hold our Mr. Solo until I want him again. Will you lend a hand there, Mr, Foden, and bring him along this way—?”

  “Uncle Mike!” That was Sarah, frantic now. “You can’t do this. These men are criminals and murderers! I won’t let you do this!”