Pulp Fiction | The Stone-Cold Dead in the Market Affair by John Oram

by Unknown

  Illya said, "The he's a she. Is there anywhere she could get a meal and bed down for a couple of hours?"

  "I think we can manage that, sir. What's her name?"

  "Dolly."

  "Ah! Dolly. All right, then, Dolly girl. Let's see if we can find you a few biscuits and a drop of milk."

  When the door had closed behind him. Illya said to Solo, "Napoleon, my friend, we are wasting too much time. As the inspector said, breaking down Bambini may not be easy. I don't propose to wait."

  "There's no need for both of us to stay around," Solo agreed. "I'll make your excuses to the Law. You've got your transmitter?"

  "That," said Illya, offended, "is almost an indelicate question."

  He flagged down a late-cruising cab in Bridge Street and rode to Leicester Square Underground station. The length of Newport Street was deserted and the sign over the Gloriana was dark. The double doors of the club were shut and locked.

  He walked on, noting the dark form of a man standing motionless in a doorway across the street. Jevons was plainly taking no chances, even though Bambini had been arrested.

  It was equally obvious that if Blodwen were in the club she could not have been taken in through the front doors. And it was a safe bet that the stakeout included coverage of the service entrance. There must be still a third way into the place.

  Illya turned right into St. Martin's Lane and walked in the direction of the Coliseum Theater. He saw a block of small apartments in a small court. Light shone from the vestibule but no porter appeared to be on duty.

  There was an iron fire escape against the far side of the building. Illya climbed it to the top floor, then stood on the guard rail and hauled himself on to the flat roof. Crouching low to avoid showing a silhouette against the night sky, he moved across the roof to the side nearest Newport Street. He made out, in the glow of the street lights, the chimneys of the building that housed the Gloriana. To get to them would mean a suicidal journey over rooftops of varying heights and slopes and dubious holding power. Illya offered a silent prayer and lowered himself over the parapet.

  The climb took him fifteen minutes of sweat and fear. When he finally lay panting against the gray slates his fingers were bleeding and his ribs bruised and sore. He rested until his heart had ceased to pound, then infinitely carefully began to work his way toward a skylight.

  He tried the frame gingerly. It gave under his fingers. Slowly he inched it open and shone his pencil flashlight into the black cavity. The light showed an empty attic. He balled his handkerchief and propped the frame half-open while he took off his shoes and hung them around his neck by the joined laces. Then he eased the skylight open and dropped silently into the room.

  The landing outside was in darkness. He flashed the light again and saw stairs a few feet ahead. He listened a moment, then began the descent.

  There were three doors opening off the landing below. He tried them, but the rooms were bare and tenantless. He went down a second flight of stairs to the first floor.

  Illya breathed a sigh of thankfulness when the light showed that the landing was covered with heavy matting. He sat on the stairs and replace his shoes before going on.

  Like the one above, the landing had three doors. A thread of yellow light showed under the middle of the three. Illya listened. No sound came from the room. He flattened himself against the wall, took a penny from his trouser pocket and dropped it. It made a plunking noise as it hit the matting and rolled away.

  The door swung open and Dancer stepped out into the corridor. Illya's right hand, fingers stiff, chopped down expertly. As Dancer slumped Illya caught him and dragged him back into the room. He lowered him to the floor, and shut the door.

  The room was evidently Dancer's living quarters. It held a divan bed with a green folkweave coverlet, two armchairs, a stereo and a bookcase that contained old magazines. A bottle of John Haig, a soda-water syphon and a half-filled tumbler stood on a table by one of the chairs.

  Illya took off Dancer's belt, rolled him onto his face and strapped his hands behind his back. He pulled him across the floor, propped him in the chair by the table, took the syphon and squirted soda water over his head.

  Dancer groaned. His eyes opened. He looked at Illya dazedly and struggled to free his hands.

  Illya said, "If you try to shout I'll kill you. What have you done with the girl?"

  "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. What girl?"

  Illya took the P38 from its shoulder holster and cocked it. He said, "My friend, I am in no mood for games. In one second I am going to shoot you right in the belly. It will take you about five hours to die and every minute will be agony. Now talk!"

  The P38 came into line.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Luigi was a gutter rat singularly lacking in the traditional Italian courtesy. As he prodded Blodwen back to the cellar at gunpoint he described with relish and in infinite detail what she could expect at the hands of Emile. It was with genuine relief that she heard the iron door clang behind him.

  The darkness in the cellar was absolute. It was like being already dead, Blodwen thought. She took the Mauser from the skeleton holster strapped to the inside of her thigh, slipped out the magazine and assured herself that the shells were still there. Anna had a peculiar sense of humor. She might have found the gun, unloaded it and replaced it.

  Blodwen slid the seven rounds back, rammed the magazine home and worked the jacket to slide the first shell into the chamber. With the gun in her hand she searched methodically along the wall to the rear of the cellar. Somewhere there had to be a ventilator and a possible, however remote, route to safety.

  Her left hand found the first of the packing cases. She tucked the Mauser into the waistband of her skirt and began the job of leveling the stacks.

  The cases were heavy, and working in complete blackness made the task even more difficult and dangerous. A slip could mean a broken leg or arm.

  But the chance of escape was there. She was banking on the hope that if a ventilator existed the touch of cold air on her face would guide her to it.

  The silence was broken by a sudden crackling sound like static. Then Anna's voice, distorted by an amplifier, said, "You have five minutes left. Are you tired of being obstinate?"

  Blodwen went cold. She hadn't realized how much time was slipping away.

  Anna's voice came again: "Can you hear me?"

  "Yes."

  "You now have four and a half minutes. I am waiting for your answer."

  "It's still the same," Blodwen said. "Go jump in your murky Chinese lake."

  Though she knew the effort was wasted, she resumed her tugging at the crates. At least, she thought, their disorder would complicate the game of hide-and-seek Anna had threatened.

  The crackling sound again. Almost immediately Anna said, "Ten seconds. This is the last time I shall speak to you."

  "Nothing doing," Blodwen replied.

  "You are a fool."

  There was a click as the microphone went dead.

  Blodwen gripped the Mauser and waited, straining her eyes in the blackness.

  Metal grated on metal. A line of gray broadened, slowly became an oblong as the door swung open. Blodwen raised the pistol. Emile's black shambling figure was framed in the dim light. She fired.

  Emile made an animal howl of pain, but he came on.

  She pressed the trigger again. The Mauser jammed.

  The door clanged home, leaving her imprisoned with the wounded cretin. She could hear him moaning and floundering in the blackness toward her. She backed away, jerking frantically at the gun's jacket to free the mechanism.

  She stumbled against a crate and almost fell. Pain seared her ankle. She bit her lip to prevent herself from crying out.

  Emile sensed her position. His great hand brushed her shoulder and she sidestepped barely in time to evade his grasp. She tried to run, but her injured foot gave under her and she sprawled full-length.

  Emile howled triumphan
tly and thudded onto his knees beside her, his hands clawing at her body. She beat at him vainly with the useless gun and could feel the strength leaving her arms. She no longer expected to escape. She was trying only to infuriate him to the point of killing her outright.

  Then, suddenly, inexplicably, it was over. The cretin's hands went limp and he fell forward across her shoulders. The rancid smell of his skin filled her mouth and nostrils. She could feel bile rising in her throat.

  A pencil beam shone into her eyes, making her close them and turn her head away. She heard Illya's voice say, "Hold on. You can faint when we are safely out of here."

  She lay limp while he pulled the weight of the creature from her. "Did you kill him?" she asked at last.

  "No. His skull is thick."

  "I'm glad. The poor devil isn't responsible."

  Illya raised her gently. "You must try to get on your feet," he said. "We are not out yet."

  "I'll make it," she promised. "Give me a minute to get my bearings. What's happened to Anna?"

  "I don't know. I've seen only the floor manager. He told me where to find you. After a little persuasion, of course."

  She stood up and tested her damaged ankle. The pain was bearable. She said, "I'm ready when you are, but I wish I had a gun that worked. Have you seen anything of a character called Luigi?"

  "No. Only the floor manager."

  "Well, watch out for him. He has a mean disposition."

  They went out of the cellar. Illya shut the door and pushed the bolt home. "That should keep our friend safe," he said.

  He led the way up the steps and through the door. The corridor was empty. Blodwen whispered, "Anna's office is along on the left."

  "We won't disturb her," Illya said. "We're going out through the kitchens." He pressed her arm. "This way."

  He help open a swing-door set in the wall at right angles to the one through which they had come. He followed her through and let it close softly behind them. He switched on the flashlight and the beam danced over well-scrubbed tables and gleaming white kitchen gear. Illya said, "Straight ahead."

  Blodwen had her hand on the latch of the street door when the lights went on and a slug thudded into the wood beside her.

  As she whirled and dropped to the floor, taking inadequate cover behind a bread bin, another shot sang past.

  Illya, unlimbering the P38 behind a storage cabinet, asked, "Who is the marksman with the silencer?"

  "That's Luigi," she said. "I told you he was no gentleman."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Solo had been waiting for more than an hour when the inspector returned to his office. He was smiling broadly.

  He said, "We've got him. And Anna Soo Lee, too. He's coughed the lot."

  Solo said, "Congratulations. Was it rugged?"

  "Oh, he was tough at first. You never saw a better performance. But when I showed him the medallion and the Commando dagger, and told him he was being saddled with the hit-and-run and two murders, he wilted. Incidentally, he denies all knowledge of the Berwick Street job and I'm inclined to believe him. But the rest was enough. He knew we had him to rights and decided he wasn't going to carry the can alone. He made a full statement."

  "He admits killing Price Hughes?"

  "Yes, but his story is that he was acting under orders. Orders from Anna Soo Lee.

  "He says the old man and Anna were mixed up in some kind of big deal — he doesn't know what — and Hughes suddenly got scared and wanted to get out. Anna paid Bambini to get rid of him."

  "Where was he killed?" Solo asked. "It couldn't have been in his own apartment. The place looked as if it hadn't been lived in for months."

  "They used a girl to lure him to one of the upper rooms in the Gloriana. After the murder, they kept the body in the refrigeration room behind the kitchens. Told the staff some cock-and-bull story about the wiring being out of order. Then, at the right moment, Bambini smuggled him out to the car and dumped him on Hampstead Heath."

  He put on his hat and overcoat. "We're ready to move in on Anna. The car's waiting downstairs. Do you want to see the end of it?"

  Solo said, "I'll be right with you."

  He brought out the little black transmitter and tuned the dials. "Illya?"

  The Russian's voice came back faintly. "What kept you? I thought you would never answer."

  "Where are you?"

  "In the Gloriana. I have Blodwen with me."

  Solo said quickly, "She's okay?"

  "At the moment, yes," Illya said. "But you'd better get here fast. Blodwen has mislaid her gun, and I have only three full clips left."

  "We're on our way."

  Solo told the inspector, "That's a real S.O.S. Illya doesn't like calling for help. He's in rough trouble."

  "He'll soon be out of it," Jevons said. "The Flying Squad will have got to Newport Street by now."

  Dawn was already bright in the sky when they reached the Gloriana. A policeman with the build of a heavyweight opened the car door and leaned in. He said, "We've got a harder nut here than we expected. The club doors are solid steel, painted to look like wood. It looks as if we'll have to cut our way in with oxyacetylene. That'll take a little time and there's some shooting going on inside."

  Jevons said, "Can't you get up to the windows?"

  "We've tried it. They've got steel shutters. The place is a fortress."

  Solo asked, "Would it upset protocol if an outsider tried something? There are two of our people in there, remember."

  The big policeman said skeptically, "Any suggestions welcome, chum. But I don't know what you think you're going to achieve."

  Solo got out of the car and crossed the street. He took from his hip pocket what looked like a cigarette case and lighter combined. He laid the case against the doors of the club and called, "Duck!" Then he depressed the thumb lever and threw himself flat, covering his head with his arms.

  The case exploded like a grenade. In the narrow street the crash was deafening. Chips of brick and paving flew like shrapnel, spattering noisily on the roofs and sides of the police cars. When the smoke cleared the big doors where sagging inward.

  "My Gawd!" the Flying Squad sergeant said. "What was it? A pocket atom bomb?"

  He led the charge into the club, with Solo close behind. They pounded together across the dance floor.

  A man came running from the back quarters, clutching a sub-machine gun. Before he could steady it at his hip, a devastating right swing from the policeman flattened him.

  Three shots sounded in rapid succession followed by a fourth. "That's Illya. It's his call signal."

  A Maltese with a knife foolishly tried to bar their way to the kitchen. The police sergeant picked him up bodily and threw him against the wall. His head hit the bricks with a sound like a ping-pong paddle hitting the ball. He went down without a murmur.

  Luigi came through the swinging door with his hands held high. He knew when to turn it in. Squad men collected him with the others.

  Solo went on into the kitchen. Illya and Blodwen were dusting themselves off. Illya said, "You timed it beautifully. Those were my last four shells."

  "You're welcome," Solo grinned.

  They walked along the corridor and met the inspector coming from the dance floor. He said, "We've cleared out the small fry. Now for the big catch."

  They found Anna Soo Lee sitting in her throne chair. Her hair was elaborately arranged and her makeup had been applied with meticulous care. She was wearing a tunic and trousers of rich white silk — the traditional color of Chinese mourning, Solo remembered — and there were white satin slippers on her small feet. Her golden hands gripped the arms of the chair, her face was expressionless.

  She said, "Do not stand on ceremony, please. I have been waiting for you. There are things which I must say before I go."

  The inspector began: "Anna Soo Lee, it is my---"

  She stopped him with a gesture which would have seem appropriate in a Ming empress.

  "Do not embarrass u
s both," she said coldly. "I know your stupid formula. It means less than nothing to me now. And it is to these other gentlemen that I wish to speak.

  "Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, you have beaten me. The mission with which I was entrusted has failed. But remember, before pride betrays you, that it was but one operation among many. Thrush is invincible. Thrush will destroy U.N.C.L.E. as you have destroyed me — and as I shall now destroy us all...."

  Her black eyes gleamed. Illya had been watching her hands. He saw the fingers tighten on the carved heads that decorated the uprights of the chair.

  He yelled, "Get out!" and thrust Blodwen toward the open door.

  Long jets of liquid fire streamed from the gaping mouths of the carved figures. Before the men could reach the safety of the corridor in Blodwen's wake, the room was a mass of flame.

  Illya said, "I'm going back. We can't leave her."

  "Don't be a fool," the inspector snapped. "You'll never make it."

  "I can try." He plunged forward, breaking free of their grasp, but couldn't cross the threshold. The heat was like a blast furnace.

  Through eyes half-blinded with smoke he made out a tiny figure sitting immobile on her glowing thrown.

  They pulled him away. The fire was spreading rapidly. There was nothing to do but get out while there was time.

  As they reached the sagging double doors and stumbled into Newport Street, the first fire bells were clanging the arrival of the pumps from Leicester Square.

  They stood by the police cars and watched the smoke billowing from the building.

  Illya said quietly, "She dreamed of ruling the world. She died, at least, like a queen."

  THE END

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  posted 4.8.2004, transcribed by Sheryl