“Mr. Schichi, will you oblige me by keeping her quiet and bringing her along too. She’s a clever girl in her way, but was always a bit of a nuisance with her high and mighty notions. She’s served her purpose, I’m thinking. And we might be able to try other experiment with her, if you’re interested, Dr. Trilli? No? This way then, boys!”
Solo staggered helplessly in Foden’s harsh grip, his head spinning and his legs uncertain. He was dimly aware of walking, of a dark doorway and down-dropping spiral steps, the chill damp of stone walls, and noisy echoes.
“It was an extensive dungeon,” O’Rourke explained, “until I had most of it converted to a laboratory and workshop. I kept a couple of the old cells to serve as storerooms. In here, Mr. Foden, if you would be so kind. Ah, wait a moment now.” Solo lifted his head blearily, to see the old white-bearded face close to his. “I’m a man for doing things in style, Mr. Solo, although you might not think it. To all my distinguished guests, of whatever persuasion, I like to present my personal card. You just the same as the rest!” And he felt the old man stuff something into his breast pocket. It seemed the final touch of insanity. Then Foden sent him reeling with a powerful thrust, and he staggered helplessly against a cold stone wall. Sarah was shoved in after him.
And then a very heavy and solid door thudded shut, found an echo in Solo’s head, and there was silence. He leaned on the wall, pressed his brow against the cold stone, and tried to think. He heard Sarah sobbing helplessly. It was as if he were split right down the middle. Part of his mind told him he was in a desperate situation, that both of them were, but the other half still felt like a giant, a conquering hero, valiant and undeterred. There was a stranger in his skull, a crazy man full of instant schemes to break down the door and bust out, sweeping all the opposition grandly aside. Thinking sanely with that demon in charge was a heavy task. It must be the drug, he mused thickly. And the drug must have been in the beer can. But he had opened it himself! You couldn’t tamper with a thing like that, surely? He abandoned that problem for the moment, lifted his head from the cold stone and began sizing up the cell.
The available light was meager, and with a greenish tint. It came from a small window high up on the wall, a window with stout bars and not big enough to let a boy through even with the bars removed. It must be at ground level, up there, judging by the rank grass that half-covered it and produced the greenish hue. The idiot in his head urged him to leap up there, rip out the bars and force his way through. He made himself ignore the voice, but the devilish implications of the drug began to show themselves as he thought about it. The fine difference between confident courage and foolhardy recklessness is hard enough to judge in any case, and harder still to recognize in oneself. Given a drug to blur that line, the results could be terrifyingly lethal.
Who would suspect one pleasant can of 3-B as being the pathway to a swift death? Certainly not the bus driver quenching his thirst, or an airline pilot, a motorcyclist—or a window-cleaner, a construction worker on his scaffold, a welder, a blacksmith, an electrician—or a doctor performing a critical operation—a jay-walker—The list was virtually endless. Anyone and everyone needs the critical counterbalance of due care and caution. And one can of 3-B was enough to destroy it utterly!
Solo groaned and rubbed his head as he considered it. O’Brien’s Beautiful Beers was a massive concern. From that brewery out there millions of gallons of the stuff flowed in rivers to all parts of the English-speaking world. The old man hadn’t been exaggerating when he had claimed to be able to bring the world to its knees on his own.
Sarah’s sobbing broke through his gloomy thoughts. He turned to see her hunched against the door, slim and white in the gloom, looking more lovely and more vulnerable than ever in her shock and despair. He straightened up, feeling his mind gradually growing more clear, second by second.
“How much of this did you know?” he demanded, and she dropped her hands from her face to stare woefully at him.
“Nothing at all!” she wailed. “Napoleon, I told you, I don’t know about the drug’s effects. You’ve got to believe me. I only work on the production side, the process. Making the stuff. And not very much of that, even. We made only a trial batch or two, until we could find some market for it. And that’s all I know. That’s the truth, so help me.”
“Hmm! Tell me, just how much of 3-B does your uncle own, if any?”
“Oh, just about all of it, I think. He’s a cunning old man, you know, in his way. I’ve always known he was a bit eccentric. But now! Napoleon—he’s mad, isn’t he?”
Solo nodded slowly, still hearing the irrational ghost in his own mind raging in fury and frustration. “What was all that nonsense about giving me his card?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything at all, any more.” Her voice began to quaver now; she was like a child who had been slapped and was just realizing it.
Solo scowled to himself, and turned to peer about the narrow cell. Against the wall and just inside the door stood a cardboard carton. He stooped to check it. Cans of beer. It had been opened and a few were missing, but he could estimate the total number easily. Four by six—two dozen to a pack. A big and burning question came to mind.
“Surely the old fool isn’t going to scatter this stuff indiscriminately? What would be the point in that? Where would he gain?”
She brushed a hand across her eyes to wipe tears away, then moved away from the door and came to stand beside him and look down. “I don’t know—I can’t seem to think straight. The cans are a new idea, I know that.”
“What d’you mean, new?”
“Well, you’ve never seen 3-B in a can before, that I know. Because we have only just had the canning plant put in. It’s a new line. And, so far, it is only for overseas. England, to start with.”
“You’re sure about that?’
“Of course I am! No self-respecting God-fearing Irishman would ever drink beer out of a tin can! We had a market-survey done, to be sure of it. So the first trial consignment will be for England.”
“Will be? You mean it hasn’t gone yet? None?”
“Not so far as I know. Uncle said something about waiting for the right moment to hit the market. I don’t know what he had in mind. I would have said, myself, that this weather was the perfect time—”
“I think I know!” Solo interrupted harshly. “This is a mass demonstration, all ready and standing by to convince Thrush. First he had to get Trilli, or somebody like him, to show interest, to let him see what the stuff can do. The next step is to stage a full-scale demonstration. And this is it. A bulk shipment to England.” He straightened up. “How much would there be in a consignment?”
“Oh! I know that. Three lorry-loads, a thousand cartons to each.”
“Oh brother!” he muttered. “Six thousand dozen! Death by the truckload! I have got to stop that, somehow!”
“First we have to get out of here,” she said, suddenly practical.
“You have a point there,” he agreed. He moved to the door and examined it with practiced fingers and a keen eye. The faint light was going fast. The window was hopeless. And so, too, was the door—he had to admit it after a hard examination. Apparently the feudal Irish had not believed in locks, keyholes or any other kind of openings, for there wasn’t a break of any kind in the solid oak planking. Even the hinges were safely established on the outside, where he couldn’t get at them. He tried one futile savage thrust, enough to assure him that nothing short of a battering ram would shake that massive portal. He guessed it was secured on the outside by some form of bar-and-hasp arrangement.
He went back to the carton, took out a can, hefted it. It would make a serviceable club, or something to throw. At what? Cans of beer, full of dope to drive men mad. Six thousand dozen! Hopeless. He dropped it, went back to here she stood by the door.
“What are we going to do?’ she asked softly.
“We are going to count on the fact that your uncle is a man who believes in doi
ng a thing with style. That, therefore, he will remember and want to feed us. To do that, somebody has to come through that door. And that’s our only chance, so we have to make the most of it.”
“But—we’re not armed!”
“We have our brains," Solo said, and wondered briefly if this were just another brag caused by the fading drug in his bloodstream. Then he mentally shrugged—he felt normal enough now, and he didn’t have time to question each of his thoughts. Decisively, he said, “Let me have your stockings, will you?”
“What do you want them for?”
“Sarah, dear, I can’t help pointing out that you have a bad habit of talking too much. You’ll have to get over that. Now be quiet and listen while I explain. And listen carefully, because this has to be done just right!”
THREE
“Lovely Night For a Drive, Isn’t It?”
THE LITTLE PICKUP TRUCK stood just off the road, securely hidden by thick bushes blazing with wild red roses. Illya Kuryakin sat at the wheel and watched the purple sunset darken into dusk. The warm air was rich with smells and the quiet peace of eventide. Part of his mind appreciated the surrounding beauty, but most of his attention was on checking back over everything he had done, just to make sure. He had surveyed Cooraclare Castle from every possible vantage point. He had studied diagrams and sketches until he knew every wall and room in that stone fort by heart. Of one thing he was sure. The original builders had designed the place to be difficult to get into, and they had succeeded.. The only official way in was through the massive main gate into the forecourt, and he had no intentions whatever of trying that route. Careful questions and a bit of judicious gossip had taught him that the place was well-stocked with men, and crude but effective armament.
He watched the light fade, and reflected on his own chosen methods. He wore a lightweight and neat suit of tough black whipcord, its rather bulky outlines due to the varied assortment of equipment he had stowed away about his person. Over it all, now, he was going to fit something else. From a dashboard pocket he drew out a slim flat pack which unfolded into a two-piece affair of thin black stretch-plastic, tough and waterproof. When he had squirmed into this protective skin he began moving away from the truck, up the road, slipping a close-fitting black cap over his straw-blond hair. The sheer stuff hugged him tight, made sure there would be no projecting awkwardness to trap him. He was a slim black shadow as he crossed the road and came to a low stone bridge over a stream. He slid down the bankside like a cat, ducked under the stone arch, and touched the pencil-beam on his wrist. The spot of light searched and found the yawning black hole he had known would be there.
This was the main drain outlet from the castle, a generous four-foot pipe. He blessed O’Rourke’s scientific forethought in wanting a really serviceable drain. He had studied this pipe-system at great length in the drawings. Now he ducked and went crawling in, gauging his progress with great care, the fine beam searching ahead continuously. Odd and irregular gushes of water came along the bottom of the pipe to meet him. After half-an-hour of steady travel he came to the first of a series of smaller inlets, stumps of lead piping that dripped or poured. He went more cautiously now, comparing the scene with what he had in his memory. Ahead of him a pipe suddenly gushed vaporous hot water with a pleasant perfume to it. Somebody had just finished taking a bath. He stopped, let the flood go by, and drew out from his store a small contact-microphone and earpiece.
He lay still and listened. Then he stirred, moved on and listened again. Nothing but random clicks and bumps, so far. He moved on, shifting the microphone from one spot to another on the glaze of the pipe over his head. All at once he froze and kept very still as he heard footsteps. They were very near. He searched with the beam and saw another pipe, larger than the rest, which led straight down into the main. He knew exactly where he was now. He kept still, listening. He heard voices, quite plainly:
“—is the prototype plant only, of course. A bench model. The full-scale equipment is in the new wing of my laboratory, over at the brewery. I’ll be letting you take a look at that tomorrow.”
“So. Dr. O’Rourke, besides yourself, how many people know the full details of this process?”
“Not a one, Dr. Trilli, not a one! Various people know various bits and pieces, to be sure, but I’m the only one that knows the whole thing. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the wisdom of that, eh? Well now, if you’ve seen enough, I think it’s time we went and had supper—” The voices went away. Kuryakin nodded to himself. Right under the dungeon laboratory, just as he had calculated. He put away the microphone and earpiece and got out a slim tool with a diamond tip.
Spurts of dust and glittering specks of glaze hung in the air as he scored a deep line in the glaze of the pipe until he was through to the stone-grit below. Patiently and steadily he cut another line, then another, until he had made a cambered square. When he was satisfied, he put away the cutter, drew off his shoe, braced himself, and struck upwards a hard, precise blow. Then a quick traverse along the breaks with a slim chisel, and a curved section of pipe fell into his waiting hands. Dirt dribbled for a moment, then he set to work with the chisel again. He struck the close-matched edges of floor tiles, pried one up and away, then another, making a hole. Soon it was big enough to pass his shoulders. He went up through, touching the underside of a bench with his hand, grasping and hauling himself clear.
With no change whatever in his seriously intent expression, he sent the pencil-beam of light winking around the laboratory. It was well-appointed. A glance got him that much, enabled him to identify much of the equipment. Centrifuge, evaporator, distillation flasks, a balance, chromatograph column, an oscilloscope—and a row of cans of 3-B. He raised an eyebrow at those. Then the beam picked up something much more interesting. On the floor beside a tall filing cabinet stood a heavy old-fashioned steel safe. He went across and crouched to study it, then turned to scan the laboratory again. He tried a drawer or two in the cabinet. All free and open.
Everything out in the open—except this safe. This, therefore, would be where the valuable stuff was, if any. The secrets. He tapped the thing with a gloved hand and saw that it wouldn’t be too hard to break into it.
He groped into pockets, hauled out a close-rolled strip of putty-like plastic explosive, pinched off a length and stuffed it delicately into the small gaps by the hinges of the door. He worked swiftly and with total concentration. It had to be done just right. Slim wires and a detonator went into place. He glanced around and caught up a couple of small cushions from the laboratory seats, took a white dust-coat from its hook on the inside of the laboratory door, rolled the lot into a thick pad, patting and folding. He pressed the pad into place, set his back to it and crouched to hold it in place, leaning against it. He held a bared wire, touched it to a contact, and there came a dull thump, a muffled blow that pitched him forward to his knees. He scrambled up immediately and whirled around to slap at the smoldering cloth and put it out. Then he braced himself and lifted the heavy door clear, laying it aside.
The dancing light showed him a few casual papers, nothing important, a small clutch of bottles and boxes—and a flat, black-bound notebook. He grabbed that, crouched and let the light shine on the pages as he flipped them. Molecular diagrams. He read a few hurried words, flipped another page and saw a flow-diagram schematic of a process. This was it, he decided.
He was stuffing the book safely away when his alert ear caught the nearing tramp of footsteps. He killed his light instantly, drew out a pistol, and crept quickly to the laboratory door, listening intently. The steps came closer, were on stone and with echoes. He readied himself, easing back. There was an odd jinking clatter, as if someone carried a tray with plates and cups. The pistol leveled in his grip. The steps grew very loud, and went steadily on past the door. Frowning, he tried the handle and eased it open just a crack, then wider, and squinted out. The passage outside was stone-floored and garishly lit with a row of naked bulbs in the vaulted roof, bright enough to show
him Schichi with a tray.
He was setting it down now, grunting as he stooped, setting it just beside a massive wooden door. Then he stepped cautiously back, pulled out a gun and spoke loudly.
“You in there! I’m going to loosen the door. You wanna eat, you gotta come and get it!” Then he ducked forward, grabbed the massive beam that held the door fast, slid it noisily along, beat once with his fist, and ducked back again. “All right, now!” he called again.
“Come on out real slow!”
There came no sound, no move, no response at all. Kuryakin watched curiously as Schichi fidgeted and frowned and then ducked forward again, holding his gun ready, to seize the door and heave-and jump back. The heavy door creaked slowly open. Schichi raised his voice.
“Come on, now, cut the comedy! You want grub—Hey! What the hell!” His voice sharpened in sudden astonishment and he went charging in through the door. Kuryakin, moving like a cat, whipped along the passage to watch, heard him take three heavy steps, and then there was the grunt and thud of a vicious blow. Schichi went down flat on his face, and the man who had chopped him from ambush against the wall now made a frantic snatch and seized the gun from that limp hand as it fell. Kuryakin saw that. He also saw, over the crouching figures of the two combatants, into the cell and over to the far wall, where, from the thick bars of a tiny window, hung the hideously limp shape of a girl, her head twisted to one side, the silk stocking around her throat stretching up to those bars. Hanged by the neck! Kuryakin’s steely gaze dropped again to the man who was now straightening, gripping the gun, spinning.
“Hello, Napoleon,” he said mildly. “I’ve always thought you were a lady-killer, but this is a bit extreme, isn’t it?” Solo stared, then relaxed with a crooked grin. “It worked, though, didn’t it? And it’s not as bad as it looks, at that.” He spun around and went over to the wall. “It’s all right, honey, all over. Hold still a moment there, you can come down now.” The ”dead” girl shook her hair from her face, slid out of the belt that had held her under the armpits, released the twisted stockings from her throat and left them dangling from the windowbars. Solo took his belt and slung it around his waist. The girl looked at Schichi with a shudder, then her eyes fell on the new arrival and she caught her hand to her mouth. “Who—who’s that?” she quavered.
Man From U.N.C.L.E. 05 - The Mad Scientist Affair Page 6
