Pulp Fiction | The Vanishing Act Affair (June 1966)

by Unknown

  Illya said, "But we know one more thing—I saw Thrush agents. Why Thrush? Why particularly did my mind tell me that it was Thrush who was attacking?"

  "Maybe we can get that answer back at the Cult headquarters," Solo said.

  Illya nodded, looked alertly at Solo. "The limping man, what happened?"

  Solo told the small Russian. "So he's probably dead, and that leaves us on a limb. We better get back and see what other leads we can pick up at the Cult."

  Illya was about to answer when he stopped, listened. There were low groans outside the truck. Illya motioned, and the two agents leaped down to the highway. The armored truck guards were stirring now. The sirens of the approaching police cars were much closer.

  "I think," Illya said, "I would much rather not have to explain this to the police."

  "A solid piece of thinking," Solo agreed with a grin.

  "I suggest we see what we can salvage at the Cult," Illya went on. "Mr. Waverly will not be pleased if we lose our contact."

  "You know, I had the same thought," Solo said. "Shall we depart, fast?"

  "I think we shall," Illya said.

  The sirens were less than a half mile away as the two agents turned and moved off into the night toward their car parked on the dirt road over the wooded hill.

  The guards were beginning to sit up, staring around them. From the factory, as the sirens came close, men were now running down toward the road and the awakening guards.

  Illya and Solo vanished soundlessly into the night.

  The headquarters of the Things To Come Brotherhood was in a shabby old mansion on the northern outskirts of Los Angeles. As the two agents drove on, the mansion showed no light. Inside the building nothing at all appeared to be moving.

  The two agents left their car parked in the shadows and approached the building on foot. There was no one on guard. Illya and Solo moved carefully among the trees and tall weeds of the neglected grounds.

  Their informant had alerted them, before they left New York for this mission, that the old mansion and its unkempt grounds had been left tot the Things To Come Brotherhood by an insane, but very wealthy, admirer of the Cult.

  Close to the tall, dark old frame building the two agents heard no sounds at all. Among the palms and bird-of-paradise plants they looked significantly at each other. Solo grinned somewhat weakly.

  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, my Russian buddy?" Solo said.

  "I have a certain suspicion that I am," Illya said drily. "I am afraid we have let them slip quietly through our fingers."

  "Mr. Waverly will not be pleased," Solo said.

  "That, Napoleon, is the understatement of the year," Illya said. "But I think we had better make sure."

  To make sure did not take long. After a careful circling of the house, and finding neither light nor sound, Illya tried the front door and found it open. The mansion, so recently the scene of a meeting of some fifty very odd and shaggy people, was now as bare and silent as some forgotten Egyptian tomb.

  "You take the left side. I'll take the right," Solo said.

  Ten minutes later the two agents met glumly in the front entrance hall again. The mansion was as bare as looted mummy's tomb.

  "They even moved out the red velvet they had draping the speakers lectern," Illya reported. "No chairs, no lectern, no velvet bunting."

  "Not even a burned cigarette butt," Solo said. "Our limping friend obviously survived the wreck. He hoodwinked me neatly, in that case."

  "And to reach here so much before us he must have been picked up by another car," Illya pointed out.

  Solo nodded. "Well, they've taken to the hills. It could take a year to dig them all out."

  "Perhaps they left some files?" Illya said.

  "All Russians are dreamers," Solo said.

  They looked. There was, as Solo had suspected, nothing. For a harmless cult of crippled and shaggy-haired lunatics, the Things To Come Brotherhood had moved with remarkable speed and efficiency. The mansion had been swiftly and completely stripped.

  The best the two U.N.C.L.E. agents could come up with was a single, empty match cover. The match cover had neither name nor address, just a drawing of a sardonic, devilish face with thick, white hair.

  It was Illya who sighed. "We had better report, Napoleon."

  "Do we have to?" Solo said.

  For answer, Illya brought out what appeared to be a small cigarette case. Opened, the case proved to be a tiny radio sender-receiver, with a miniature tape recorder neatly hidden behind a flat plate that held a row of cigarettes. Illya pressed his send button.

  "Code eleven, New York direct, Agent two," Illya said mechanically.

  Instantly the quiet, dry voice of Alexander Waverly, Section-I member (Policy and Operations) answered. The chief of the entire Western Hemisphere U.N.C.L.E. operation wasted no time with amenities.

  "Yes Mr.—uh—Illya Kuryakin? You have a report?"

  Illya reported. At the far end of the radio communication, in his small but bright New York office, Waverly listened in silence. When Illya had finished, the two agents stood in the mansion and waited for the explosion.

  "I see. Very enlightening," Waverly's voice said mildly. "Well, you hardly starred this time, but some of it is interesting. Is Mr. Solo there?"

  "Here, sir," Solo said.

  "Good. Well, I should say your usefulness out there is now minimal," Waverley said. "Return at once."

  "You don't want us to finish her?" Solo said, somewhat incredulous. It was not like his dour chief to let them off a hook so easily.

  "No," Waverly said. "We have a much better lead here. I think we've found the leader of our Cult."

  Illya and Solo looked at each other as they clicked-off. When Mr. Waverly missed an opportunity to point out their many shortcomings, something important had to be happening. They ran to their car and drove off toward the Los Angeles airport.

  They were so busy wondering what the better lead was, that for once their habitual alertness was relaxed. They failed to see the bent, shuffling, shaggy-headed figure that limped out of the bushes near the old mansion.

  They never saw the weird figure bend over a tiny pencil-like object and begin to talk rapidly.

  FOUR

  THE SECRET complex of U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters in New York is hidden behind a facade of old brownstones and a single large modern building on a quiet street not far from the river and the United Nations Buildings. There is no way of knowing that the quiet street hides a modern marvel of automated international police work.

  There is no way of knowing that the billboard atop the modern white stone building houses an antenna in constant communication with all parts of the world.

  There is no way of knowing that boats move beneath the street from U.N.C.L.E. to the river.

  There is no way of knowing that the innocent shop in the center of the block, Del Floria's Cleaning & Tailoring, is one of the four known entrances into the fortress-like complex of quick men, quick machines, and silent observation.

  But what man can hide, man can find.

  Someone knew.

  As the taxi pulled up in front of Del Floria's Tailoring Shop, and the two men got out, it happened.

  Two men, dressed the same as all the other young men walking along a midtown street, paid the taxi driver, then sauntered casually down the street, carrying their attache cases like everyone else.

  But someone knew who they were and why they were going into Del Floria's Tailoring Shop. Someone who did not want them to enter Del Floria's—not alive.

  The shots came close together. Three shots.

  The first shot knocked Illya Kuryakin to the sidewalk.

  The second shot went through the attache case of Napoleon Solo—because Solo, with the remarkable reflexes of his youth and his training, had moved the fraction of an inch when the first bullet struck his partner.

  The third shot hit the sidewalk at the precise spot where Solo had hit the dirt, but Solo was no longer at that sp
ot, having hit and rolled instantly.

  There were no more shots.

  Because there was nothing now to shoot at. Both Solo and the far-from-dead Illya were down behind the cover of brownstone steps, their Specials out, their eyes searching the buildings and the windows across the street. On the street itself cautious, if sophisticated, citizens of New York had abandoned both the street and the two agents. There was no screaming, just very fast hiding.

  The street was empty for a long minute before other people who had not been close enough to see or hear the shots began to walk forward where the two agents crouched, their eyes looking for their attacker.

  "You see anything?" Solo said.

  "No," Illya said.

  Neither man had looked at each other. Their eyes were too busy looking carefully at every building in front of them.

  "How is it?" Solo said.

  "Flesh wound, left shoulder," Illya said. "Whoever it is, he is not a good shot. Do you see anything?"

  "No," Solo said, still looking only at the windows and the buildings. "Can you get an idea from the wound?"

  There was a silence. Then Illya spoke. "Yes, I think I can. And I think I've got him. Look at the tall building a block to the north. Just to the left of the water tank."

  Illya was looking through his binoculars. Solo focused his glasses. The building was over five-hundred yards away. At the base of the water tower something glinted, moved. It was too far to be sure even through the glasses, but Illya voiced both their observations.

  "One man. Can't quite make him out, but he looks like he needs a haircut."

  "I agree," Solo said, "I—"

  The voice came from behind them. A dry, clipped voice that spoke in slow, matter-of-fact tones.

  "Mr.—uh—Solo, may I ask what you plan as your next move?"

  The two agents, crouched low behind the shelter of the brownstone steps, turned and looked up at the aristocratic bloodhound face of Alexander Waverly. The chief of U.N.C.L.E. New York, was sucking on an unlighted pipe, his bushy brows frowning with a mildly critical puzzlement.

  "Well—" Solo began.

  "The sharpshooter is much too far away for convenient attack," Waverly said in his unruffled voice. "I doubt if he will wait for us to reach him. And it is doubtful that he will attack again, now that he knows he is discovered. Therefore, I suggest we enter the building and get on with our business."

  Solo smiled weakly. "Yes, sir."

  Illya pursued the matter one more step. "Wouldn't it be a good idea, sir, to see, if perhaps we can catch him? He seems to be still there, and—"

  "Our security people are probably almost there by now, Mr. Kuryakin." Waverly said. "Is there anything else?"

  "No, sir," Illya said.

  "Then possibly we can get on with the more important aspects of the matter. My office, I think. There are two gentlemen who have been waiting for an hour to talk to you."

  The Section-I leader of U.N.C.L.E. led his two agents through Del Floria's into the maze of steel corridors, all perpetually monitored and observed by Section 4 (Communications and Security). They went down the windowless corridors, past the rows of doors without knobs or keyholes, to the last door at the end of the main corridor on the fourth floor.

  This was the office of Alexander Waverly. Inside, two men stood up as the chief led Solo and Illya in. They had been waiting. Also already waiting was the report from Security—the sniper had vanished unseen.

  "Sniper?" one of the strangers said.

  "Uh, yes," Waverly said. "I rather expect he has something to do with the affair in hand. Certainly not our old friend Thrush. Much too amateurish."

  "I don't think it was Thrush," Solo agreed.

  "Good," Waverly said drily. "Now may I have that match book you reported about?"

  Solo blinked. "The, er, match book?"

  "Yes, Mr. Solo. You did very little good out there, I agree, but that match book seems promising. Unless I am mistaken, the picture you described on it is a likeness of the man we have reason to want—Morlock The Great."

  FIVE

  IN WAVERLY'S office there was a long silence. Then, at the press of a button on his desk, Waverly flashed a picture on the screen on his wall. It was a full-face and shoulders photograph of a pale, sinister looking man with jet black eye-brows either cut or painted in a sardonic "V".

  Although the picture on the match book was a drawing, and the picture on the screen was a photograph, the long nose, satanic eyebrows and general countenance, and thick shock of white hair were unmistakably the same.

  "Who is he?" Solo asked.

  "Morlock The Great," one of the strangers said. "The world-famous magician. I've seen his act once; it's pretty good and downright creepy. He's a first-rate magician. But we've thought for a long time that he's considerably more than that."

  Waverly cleared his throat, his fingers searching in the pockets of his waistcoat for a match to light the pipe. As he searched, he talked.

  "Perhaps I had better introduce you gentlemen. Uh—Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin, these two gentlemen are from Interpol. Mr. Fellini is from the Italian branch, and Mr. Dawes from the London office. As you both know, it was Interpol who first asked us to look into the problem."

  Dawes, the taller of the two strangers in Waverly's office, nodded. "As far as we can find, chaps, there is no crime. Without a crime we have no jurisdiction. So—"

  The shorter Interpol man, Fellini, broke in. "No crime, no, not yet! But there is something very bad, very evil!"

  "Quite," Dawes agreed with his more volatile companion. "Something is jolly well up, but nothing we can come out and put a finger on. So we came to you chaps."

  Illya leaned forward across the circular conference table. "Perhaps you could summarize for us. All we really know is that there is something peculiar about this cult, the Things To Come Brotherhood."

  Dawes looked at Waverly. "You haven't told—"

  Waverly found his matches, lighted his pipe, puffed thoughtfully. "I find it useful sometimes not to tell our people all the details of a case until they have learned a certain amount by themselves. However, with what Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin found in California, I think we can now proceed."

  U.N.C.L.E.'s New York chief turned his placid eyes toward his two agents. "Briefly, gentlemen, there has been a series of rather odd happenings. I think you will recognize the picture. About six months ago an Italian coastal patrol ship opened fire one night. No reason was ever found for the action; there was absolutely nothing to fire at!

  "Guards at two American installations, one in Turkey and one in Venezuela, fought for an hour each to repel an attack, and later it was found that there had been no attack! No one to fire at, and yet they had been sure they were being attacked.

  "Then, only last week, soldiers at an English airbase shot down two civilians under the impression that their base was under heavy attack from Soviet forces. There were, again, no Soviet forces, no enemy action of any kind!"

  Illya and Solo looked at each other. It was Solo who turned to Waverly.

  "Almost exactly what we saw happen out in California," Solo said.

  Waverly puffed on his pipe. "Precisely. Also, in each case the soldiers and sailors involved blackened out for a period of an hour afterwards. In addition, there have been a series of robberies in which the guards claimed to have been attacked by hordes of bandits. In each of these cases, no evidence of enemy action was found, all the guards blacked out, much money was taken by the non-existent attackers!"

  "Exactly as we saw," Illya said, "except in our case no money was taken!"

  Waverly nodded. "That, I believe, tells us how the robberies were accomplished—one man caused the strange hallucinations, and when the guards blacked out, he helped himself to the loot. However, in your case, you were there and scared the man off."

  "And the hallucination got me," Illya said.

  "It would seem so. But you have confirmed the suspicions of Interpol—the Things To Come Brotherho
od is involved in all of this," Waverly said.

  Solo narrowed his keen eyes. "Confirmed the suspicions? Then Interpol had reason to think the Cult was involved before we went to California?"

  Dawes answered. "Yes, we did, but very stickily. We had an anonymous message, through secret but reliable channels. It came two weeks ago. All it said was that the Things To Come Brotherhood knew about shadows that attacked. Naturally, we put two and two together.

  "Of course, the message was anonymous and as such rather unreliable, to say the least. But we did feel it important enough to act on. Since there is still no provable actual crime, we decided to drop it in the laps of you chaps."

  Waverly took up the story. "I decided to send you two out to the only known chapter of the Cult in this country. The results seem to have warranted the effort, I should say. We now know that the Cult is involved in all this. What we don't know is why or how."

  Illya nodded. "And Morlock The Great?"

  "We have definite proof that he is connected to the Things To Come Brotherhood. He may actually be its leader," Fellini said. "The Cult is growing; we have proof. It is no longer as innocent a collection of fanatics as we had thought."

  "They're all crippled in some way, you know," Dawes said. "They always seemed a harmless collection of poor unfortunate people. That ridiculous long, shaggy hair they wear. But now we're not at all sure. Especially if Morlock is running the show, as we suspect."

  "Where is Morlock The Great?" Solo asked.

  "In London, I'm sorry to say," Dawes said. "Naturally, we're watching him, but we haven't a shred of evidence to go on."

  Waverly frowned at his pipe that had gone out. "Perhaps we will have. Our man in London is expected to report quite soon. With some luck, we can hope for more than we found in California."

  "Who is there?" Solo asked.

  "Mr.—uh—Morgan, I believe. A good man, despite his limp. He should give us something to go on."

  There was a silence as Waverly and his two best agents all looked toward the overseas communication receiver.

  * * *

  DEEP BENEATH the city of London, in a dank and dim cellar room, the small horde moaned and chanted around the blaze of the great open fire.