The Stolen Spaceman Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  "Then he picked himself a coffin!" April snapped. "Inspector Malcolm was a grand guy. He has his revenge coming!"

  "Now don't start getting blood thirsty," Slate cautioned. "We---"

  "Don't worry!" she snapped. "I know we need him alive to---persuade him to tell his story under a shot of truth serum. And I let the law get my revenge for me! I only shoot when I'm shot at!"

  "Sorry!" Slate said. "We'll keep him bottled up here. Another police car should be along any second. That explosion was loud enough to alert Scotland Yard in London!"

  As if in answer to his remark, a police siren sounded in the distance. As it pulled up, Chinese heads started to peer out windows and around corners. A crowd began to gather behind the police car. Before, they had been too fearful to come out. Knowing the infinite curiosity of the Hong Kongese, April wondered uneasily if the people of the district knew something about the assassins. It was not like them to hold back until the police arrive. Yet it had happened twice tonight.

  "Does it strike you peculiar we had the place to ourselves until the police arrived?" she asked Slate.

  The Englishman nodded. "I suspect that the organization bold enough to challenge THRUSH is seated right in this area---and the people know it."

  When the police wagon pulled up, April went over to report to the sergeant in charge. Mark Slate stayed to keep the alley entrance sealed. April quickly identified herself and reported that Inspector Malcolm was dead and that they had the killer trapped in the blind alley.

  The police pulled the car around so that its light shown into the dark opening. The lights flashed off a brick wall at the back. There was no one hidden there. The alley was empty and clean. There was not even a garbage can large enough for a man to hide in.

  "It's impossible for him to have slipped past us," April said. "There must be a secret door in the wall somewhere."

  The sergeant of police looked at her. He had a strange expression on his face.

  "I don't think it is possible, Miss Dancer," he said. "But we will inspect the wall."

  He radioed for experts from the Harbor police. This hardy group had more than the ordinary experience in finding secret doors on fishing junks used for smuggling and in old pier warehouses used for the same purpose.

  They found nothing.

  "Where did he go?" Slate asked.

  "I'm sure he didn't get past us unless THRUSH has invented a cloak of invisibility."

  "Maybe these people from U.N.C.L.E. aren't as infallible as we hear," the sergeant said, somewhat maliciously.

  "Maybe," Slate agreed evenly, but April glared at the young policeman.

  "Maybe---" she began tartly.

  "Maybe we had just better let it lie," Slate said hastily. "Of all the things we need a new revolutionary war between the Yankee and the Redcoat is not it."

  "Oh, I'm sorry if I offended you, Miss Dancer," the young policeman said, endeavoring to look abashed. "There isn't time to beg your pardon properly here, but if you would have dinner with me after the---"

  "No!" April said quietly, her irritation aimed more at herself for letting the trapped killer escape than at the brash young man's approach. "Keep in character," she added. "Remember you are supposed to be a Sherlock Holmes, not an Errol Flynn!"

  "I think there's a little of each in all of us," he said smoothly. "Shall we say, in a couple of hours, Miss Dancer? It will take that long to tie up the loose end of this affair for the night. There will still be time for us to get dinner at Ching Low's.”

  To Mark Slate's genuine surprise, April's expression changed. She smiled brightly at the young man. "I'm sure only a very foolish woman would turn down an invitation from either Sherlock or Errol, and when they are both mixed up in one, she would be doubly foolish! In two hours, then."

  The arrival of a higher police echelon, brought out by the death of Inspector Malcolm, caused the young man to resume his own work. Mark Slate gave April a searching look. She had a reputation of being married to her job with U.N.C.L.E. Neither he nor Illya Kuryakin or Napoleon Solo had ever broken down her reserve. It was totally out of character for her to make a date with anyone on such small acquaintance.

  Even more strange was her going with a brash person like the sergeant. He was definitely not her type.

  Slate eyed her suspiciously... "What are you up to?"

  "All work and no play makes April a dull girl," she said evasively. "Why don't you and I---"

  "Why don't you and I be honest with each other?"

  “It's spring, you know. Or do you? There is romance in the air and the sergeant is quite a handsome young man."

  "Shall I come along as a chaperon?"

  "Did I chaperon you when you went out with that overstuffed blonde with nothing between her ears?"

  "What she lacked between her ears she made up for in other places," he said. "I knew Maizie from a long time back. You never saw this man before a few minutes ago. You don't even know his name. Stop treating this as a joke. If what I suspect is true, he may be a very dangerous man."

  "Danger, Mr. Slate, is my business!"

  "And mine. But---"

  She touched his arm gently. Her voice softened. "Don't worry, Mark. I know how to take care of myself."

  "I know," he said. "But I'd feel better if I could be there, but I must take a plane out of here tonight in order to keep my appointment with Mr. Waverly."

  "Don't worry," she said. "I'll be here when you get back."

  "I hope so," he said gloomily, and wondered if it was really his suspicions of the young officer or just a dislike of April going with him that caused his deep uneasiness.

  He walked over toward the new officer in charge. Chief Inspector Franklyn Toomey was grimly watching an ambulance crew place the body of Inspector Malcolm on a stretcher.

  "Rum business," he grunted to Mark Slate.

  Mark Slate said, "That sergeant over there. Rather young for such rank, isn't he? Most police sergeants are getting up in years."

  "Oh, him," Toomey said without enthusiasm. "He's not with the police force. He's an army sergeant detailed to us for training in detecting smuggling activity."

  "Oh!" Slate said, his eyes narrowing. "Is he stationed here in Hong Kong?"

  "No, he came over from England. We didn't want to be bothered, but there was some political pull," Toomey said. "Does his work well, but is a trifle brash for my taste."

  "And mine," Slate said.

  "He seems to be making headway with Miss Dancer," Toomey said with a slight smile. "I wonder why---"

  They were interrupted by a patrolman who brought in two Chinese who were in the neighborhood when the bomb went off. While Toomey questioned them closely, Mark Slate went over to April Dancer.

  "I've got to get out to the airport if I'm going to make my plane," he said. "Want to come along?"

  "Sorry," she said. "But I have a dinner date with Sergeant Ledford. Don't you remember?"

  "April, you know as well as I do that this phony policeman was the one who killed the Chinese who tossed that bomb at us."

  "I'm sure of it," April said lightly, "Shows he's a prudent young man. Subscribes to the 'dead men tell no tales' theory."

  "A practical philosophy," Slate said, "but hardly one condoned in our present society. And since he is a murderer, he is hardly the sort of dinner companion I would select for you."

  "You think I've forgotten how to take care of myself?"

  "No!" Slate said. "But I have! So I don't want you bumped off, as the American expression has it, while I'm gone. I need you to look out for me when I get back."

  "Stop worrying, Mark," April said, giving him a smile that had a considerable fondness in it. "I can take care of myself."

  “I know you can," he said. "But the danger in this thing is moving into something we know absolutely nothing about. We can't protect ourselves until we know what we are protecting ourselves from. This we will not know until I get Mr. Waverly's briefing. So for goodness sake, don't stir up a hornet's n
est trying to rush things."

  "I'm just going to get some information!" April said. "He could have slipped out of the alley when the police wagon arrived. A person not in police uniform could not have gotten into the street without us seeing him."

  "That's right. All he had to do was get a few steps away from the entrance and turn around. We'd think he was arriving."

  "Come on," April Dancer said. "You must make your plane. I'll go to the airport with you."

  Not knowing the taxi driver, they rode in silence to Kai Tak airport. When they got out, April said: "I Sergeant Ledford's voice on my pocket tape recorder. We can get a voice print from it."

  "I think his background is clean," Slate said. "THRUSH would not have recruited a police spy unless he could stand a thorough check. The Hong Kong police are not fools."

  "Maybe he isn't THRUSH," April Dancer said. "Could he be on the other side, the ones who stole the astronaut from space?"

  "Maybe," Slate said slowly. "But take it easy until I get back. Don't stir up trouble until we get the background on this thing."

  Slate sighed as they went into the airport terminal "I'm wasting my time," he said. "I---

  "Just a minute," April said hastily, raising her voice as if she wanted to be overheard. "There is something important I must tell you."

  She took from her purse a package of cigarettes which disguised an ultra-miniature tape recorder. She flipped the switch. Gibberish came out.

  "Quiet," she said in a low voice. "I'm running the tape of Sergeant Ledford's voice backward. It's just a cover-up for our voices. There's a woman looking at a magazine in that newsstand rack behind us. She opened her purse and flipped on a recording device. Then I saw her adjust a remote receiver in her ear and pull those bleached blonde curls of hers back over it."

  Mark Slate looked thoughtfully in the opposite direction and then after a moment's pause turned casually so that his eyes swept the girl April indicated.

  He stared. He could afford to. The girl's back was toward them, but it was definitely the kind of a back any man could---and would---stare at without arousing any suspicion of spying on her. Inspecting her was something any male would do naturally.

  "Pardon me while I give a wolf whistle!" Slate said.

  April Dancer pressed the side of her purse to cut off the recorder. "Now do you understand?" she said, so their eavesdropper could hear.

  "Fantastic!" Slate said. "In that case, I think we had best call the Hong Kong police and report this. Come on, there's a phone booth over this way."

  They turned, walking toward the newsstand in the airport terminal. As they neared the listening girl, April said, "Just a minute, Mark. I want to pick up a magazine."

  She turned beside the other girl, shifting her purse so that the end of the clip pressed against the eavesdropper's side.

  "There's a gun built into this purse!" April said in a soft voice that had steel underneath its gentle tones.

  The other girl stiffened slightly, but did not raise her eyes from the magazine.

  "Just turn quietly and walk along with us," April said. "And remember---if you try to run, my friend will probably be too much of a gentleman to shoot you. But also remember that I am not a gentleman!"

  It was obvious that the girl at the magazine stand was a professional. She did not panic or lose color. She turned quietly and walked away with April.

  Slate followed along behind. His sharp eyes swept the terminal lobby, seeking any accomplice who might try to help the girl.

  It was a tense moment. If there was an attempt to rescue their eavesdropper, a shootout here in the crowded international air terminal would be extremely dangerous.

  But despite the gravity, Mark Slate could not help comparing the two girls walking in front of him. From a strictly male point of view he found them measuring up pretty close to each other. The mod clothes set off physical charms that would brighten any observing male's eye. But to Slate's practiced eye there was a subtle something about April Dancer that transcended her physical charms and made her stand out above the other girl.

  Suddenly a loud speaker cut in with: "Plane seventy-three for the Philippines, Honolulu and San Francisco now loading on Ramp Four. Passengers will please report to Gate Four ..."

  "That's your plane, Mark," April Dancer said.

  “But I----" he began.

  "That's right," April said firmly, '''You cannot keep Mr. Waverly waiting."

  "What are you going to do?" Slate asked uneasily. He could not shake the feeling that this time the girl from U.N.C.L.E. was headed for trouble.

  "Whatever is necessary," April said.

  The loud speaker sounded the last call for boarders on the U.S. bound plane. Slate sighed. Reluctantly he said good-by.

  As the big jet winged its way toward the United States Slate was unable to shake the apprehension that gripped him. While waiting between planes in San Francisco, he tried to contact April in Hong Kong.

  He could not reach her. The desk clerk at the Peninsula Hotel told him that the girl from U.N.C.L.E. had just left to have dinner at Aberdeen fishing bay.

  Slate was unable to stifle his worry. It was a new sensation for him, he knew April Dancer was a trained and skilled agent---one of the best. When he arrived at Kennedy Airport he contacted U.N.C.L.E. headquarters immediately.

  "Mr. Waverly, I'm here at the airport. I'll be at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters shortly," he said when the pen-communicator circuit was complete.

  “But there's something most important, Mr. Slate, to take care of first," Alexander Waverly replied. "Call Hong Kong on Circuit Four immediately. Tell them precisely all that you know about April Dancer's movements just before you left her!"

  "What is it, sir?" Slate asked, his heart starting to beat rapidly.

  "Miss Dancer has disappeared!"

  "What---?"

  "This is probably one of the most serious matters that we have ever faced. Call Hong Kong! We must find April Dancer---not just for her sake and ours, but for the sake of every living soul on this earth! It is that terribly serious, Mr. Slate. Hurry!"

  THREE

  THE PURLOINING PUNCH

  After Mark Slate broke the connection with U.N.C.L.E. headquarters he adjusted the pen point in the fountain pen which disguised the ultraminiaturized trans-world communications set. This shifted the channel from that employed to contact U.N.C.L.E. headquarters to that used for field contact with the crime-fighting organization's Hong Kong bureau.

  He quickly filled in the Hong Kong chief with all he knew. "When I last saw April she had this girl a prisoner. I don't know the girl's name or affiliation."

  "From your description she is a THRUSH agent," Stephens, the U.N.C.L.E. resident agent in Hong Kong, said. "She is no lead. She has disappeared too. She was the subject of a murder attempt a couple of hours before you and April almost got it in that Kowloon alley."

  "I see," Slate said slowly. "Well, get a lead on an Army Criminal Investigation Department sergeant doing on-the-job training with the Hong Kong police. His name is---"

  "I know," Stephens said wearily.

  "His name is Ledford. There is pretty good evidence that he was really a spy planted in police headquarters. "

  "He's the lad," Slate replied quickly. "He was trying to set up a dinner date with April. I tried to warn her---"

  "Forget Ledford," Stephens said. "He's dead!"

  "What's going on?" Slate asked, genuine alarm in his voice.

  "A flash just came in that two men have been fished out of Hong Kong Bay. Both were murdered, and their fingerprints show both are suspected THRUSH agents. It looks like it's open season on THRUSH and U.N.C.L.E. people out here now."

  Mark Slate whistled slowly. "Somebody has a whale of a lot of guts to take on the two of us!"

  "It sounds like the surest way to suicide to me," Stephens said. "The stakes must be tremendous in this thing. Any idea what it is?"

  "No idea," Slate replied. "Mr. Waverly says a lot of human lives are a
t stake. The whole mess seems to revolve around an astronaut and what he might have found out in space. I'm just guessing, but I'd say the danger is cosmic."

  "I've got a sinking feeling about this whole mess," Stephens said. "I think we're up against our toughest case in a long time."

  "Waverly thinks it's the toughest we've ever faced."

  "He should know," Stephens said. "I need some help on this thing. Are you coming back?"

  "I suppose so, as soon as Mr. Waverly clues me in," Mark Slate said. "In the meantime, I know you'll do all you can to find April. I'm really worried about her."

  "I'll do everything I can," Stephens said. "Well, I'll be seeing you."

  "Good luck," Slate said. "And stay alive yourse---"

  The last word was smothered in a roaring blast that almost shattered Mark Slate's eardrum. The Hong Kong connection went suddenly dead.

  Slate, his face grim, turned the pen's point to switch his channel back to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

  "Mr. Waverly," he said. "Mark Slate here. I--"

  "One moment, please, Mr. Slate," Alexander Waverly said.

  Despite the anxiety of the moment the U.N.C.L.E. chief sounded calm. Only the slight deepening of his British accent betrayed the inner turmoil he hid so well.

  A few seconds ticked off. Slate leaned back against the door of the telephone booth which he was using to disguise his use of the pen-communicator. Outside an irritated woman banged on the glass and asked if he was going to talk all night.

  Then Alexander Waverly's voice came back on the air. "There has been an explosion in our Hong Kong office," the U.N.C.L.E. chief said. "I am unable to raise Mr. Stephens. I am trying to contact the Hong Kong police by regular telephone. I fear---"

  "Yes, sir?" Slate asked when his chief hesitated.

  "I fear that our adversary is removing all possible obstacles to his vicious plot, Mr. Slate."

  "April?" Slate asked anxiously. "We can only hope and pray, Mr. Slate. I take comfort in one thing: Miss Dancer is a most resourceful young lady."

  "I'm coming right over to head-quarters, sir."

  "Yes Mr. Slate," Waverly said. Slate took a taxi to Manhattan, dropping off in the lower Fifties. He paused for a moment, looking around for sign of any possible pursuit. Behind him, in the Forties, the United Nations Building blinked its lights against the night sky.