Pulp Fiction | The Invisibility Affair by Thomas Stratton

by Unknown

  Brattner frowned in thought for a moment. "There might be some areas in the north woods, but it would probably get shot full of holes every deer season, no matter how out of the way it was. And besides, Kerry said McNulty specifically mentioned the western part of the state."

  "Do you have any topographic maps of the area?" Napoleon asked. "Perhaps we could narrow the search down a little more."

  "Certainly; we keep a complete file of ordnance maps of the state and surrounding areas. Wait a minute and I'll get them." Brattner disappeared into one of the other rooms and returned a minute later with a file of maps and a book. "This is a guide to the state," he announced, waving the latter. "Gives you a general idea of each area." He handed the book to Kerry and began dealing the maps to the others.

  It took them an hour to put definite boundaries around the area. It included the complete driftless section and some counties bordering it on the north.

  "Anyplace else and they'd be spotted from the air rather easily," Napoleon summed up. "But a little camouflage over one of those gullies and they'd be safe from anything but an expert search. And if they've had twenty-five years to perfect their layout, it's going to be a major job to uncover it."

  Mr. Waverly was not happy when Napoleon finished his report. "Dear me, Mr. Solo, I had hoped that you would have settled the affair by now. Our agents in San Sebastian report increased Thrush activity there, and you and Mr. Kuryakin may be needed before long. However, the invisibility device is more important at present. I assume you will be going to southwestern Wisconsin to continue the search?"

  "Yes, sir. It's a large area, though, and I can't say definitely when we'll locate something."

  "Very well, Mr. Solo; do your best. We have one or two part-time agents in the area you may call on for help if necessary. If possible, however, obtain their help without alerting Thrush to their status. If it becomes absolutely necessary, I can send you some additional manpower, but there are really more world crises brewing than we can conveniently handle at once. I must urge you to finalize the affair yourselves if it is at all feasible."

  "Of course, Sir; we'll keep you informed. Solo out."

  "I wonder if he ever wrote government proposals?" Kerry mused.

  Illya grinned. "You should see his reports to the Budget Committee."

  Napoleon looked at his watch. "Six o'clock," he said, half to himself. "We could start driving now, but after last night I think we could all do with an extra share of sleep." He turned to Brattner. "Would it be all right if Illya and I spent the night at your apartment? And is there a nearby hotel you could put Miss Griffin in for the night? Thrush may be gone, but they might also be still watching her apartment. We'll leave for the country in the morning."

  "Is Kerry going with us?" Illya asked.

  "Of course I'm going with you! They still have Uncle Willard, and besides, what's to stop them from picking me up again the minute you leave?"

  "She's right," Napoleon said. "Until we get the OTSMID and Dr. Morthley both safely in our hands, Kerry will be a prime target for Thrush. To guard her properly here would take Don's entire force, and they could more profitably spend their time continuing the search for the Thrush warehouse. I doubt that Thrush was able to move everything today, but even if they did, checking with the warehouse proprietors might still provide a lead."

  Brattner and the local agents seemed relieved as they mad the arrangements to get Kerry installed in a hotel. "Perhaps you could even use Miss Griffin's car," Brattner suggested as they were leaving. "We'll be a little short after today."

  Kerry nodded yes excitedly, and Napoleon thanked her. "Every little bit helps when it comes to the budget, as Mr. Waverly is wont to say."

  * * *

  Morning dawned bright and clear. Napoleon and Illya met Kerry at the hotel, had a mediocre breakfast in the hotel dining room, and were on their way before seven. "The food wasn't too bad, "Illya was saying as he pulled out of the parking lot, "but I didn't like the way the spoon floated on top of the coffee."

  Two hours later, about the same time the food settled, they had covered the seventy-five miles to the state capitol of Madison and were debating which highway to take from there.

  "As you travel, ask us," Illya quoted as they approached a service station. "I doubt their tour guides include dirigible hangars, but we do need gas."

  While the attendant filled the tank, Napoleon reached over and turned on the radio. Some dial twirling produced a caterwauling teenager backed up by a thumping bass, and Napoleon leaned back with a satisfied smile. Illya looked mildly horrified and Kerry leaned more closely on his shoulder in sympathy.

  "If no one has a better suggestion," Illya said as they pulled out of the station, "I'll take U.S. 18. It heads right into the heart of the driftless area."

  Nobody objected. As they left the city, the "Top 47" program gave way to a news broadcast. The trio listened idly as the announcer gave the latest developments in the African crises, the Asiatic crises, and the European crises. He closed out the state and national news with the latest statehouse maneuvers to legalize the sale of colored margarine in Wisconsin, then introduced his own local imitation of a well known network newscaster's "For What It's Worth" Department.

  "Here's a switch for all you people who are tired of the same old reports of flying saucers. Yesterday afternoon two Richland Center men—they requested I not use their names—were returning from Madison on U.S. 14 when a truck disappeared from the highway in front of them."

  The announcer paused for effect, and lowered his voice confidentially. "Not only that, the men said a good-sized chunk of the highway disappeared, too. There was, one of them later reported to the state patrolman who helped pull them from the ditch, a 'big pit' that moved off down the road. A voluntary drunkometer test produced inconclusive results, according to the police report. So, if any of you Richland Center residents see any moving pits this morning give me a call here at the station—especially if they are being followed by moving pendulums." Chuckling heartily, the announcer gave way to a beer commercial.

  "Apparently we picked the wrong road," Illya commented.

  "Easily remedied," Napoleon said, running a finger along one of the maps. "We can cut across on another highway at Mount Horeb; it hits 14 near Black Earth."

  "If we're going to Richland Center," Kerry said, "I have a friend there who could help us. She's a school teacher—and a hiking nut. She writes nature books, and she's probably been over every square foot of the county."

  "A native guide would certainly be a help," said Napoleon, "but I'm not sure we should involve another woman. As you found out, Thrush plays rough."

  "Oh, Lee—her name is Lee MacGregor—Lee can take care of herself. She has a roomful of marksmanship trophies, and she knows all about those oriental things—you know, karate, judo, Kung-fu."

  "We'll see," Napoleon said and lapsed into silence.

  West of Black Earth on U.S. 14, Illya and Napoleon began to realize their work was cut out for them. There were still occasional stretches of rolling meadows and farmland, but more and more the highway cut a winding path among thickly wooded hills that rose sharply on either side. Occasional stretches of rolling hills that rose sharply steep hillsides. A dirigible could be tucked away within three hundred yards of the road and be safe form anything but an air search.

  Shortly before noon, they pulled into Richland Center. Kerry insisted on driving directly to her friend's house. Napoleon looked puzzled. "Won't she be in school?" he asked.

  "Oh, no. School is out for the summer. She should be home; she always takes a couple of weeks to unwind from teaching. And she's a very good cook."

  In a few minutes, they pulled up in front of a small cottage on the outskirts of the town. Napoleon expecting a veritable Amazon was pleasantly startled when Kerry's knock on the door was answered by a petite by shapely blond, dressed in paint-spattered slacks and a sweater. He noted approvingly the Lee MacGregor was one of those rare women who looked good
in slacks. Even the paint smudges only added a certain note of piquancy.

  She greeted Kerry effusively before she allowed herself to be introduced to the two agents. "Secret agents!" she exclaimed when Kerry had completed the introductions. She pumped their hands heartily and Illya and Napoleon noted to themselves that if her grip were any indication, she could indeed take care of herself.

  "Secret agents!" she repeated wonderingly as she led them into a small cluttered living room and swept piles of books and papers from a couch and two chairs. "And I always thought technical writers only met engineers and dull executives!" She looked admiringly at Napoleon and Illya, who were looking admiringly at Kerry and Lee. "What on earth are you doing driving all over Wisconsin with secret agents?"

  "You'll never believe it, but it's my Uncle Willard. He's been kidnapped by an international organization called Thrush. You see, he invented this device that makes things invisible, and..." Kerry talked non-stop for several minutes, explaining in detail everything that had happened since she had started to help with her uncle's proposal.

  When she concluded, leaving Lee at a loss for words, Napoleon got in a question hurriedly. "I don't suppose that in your hikes you've noticed anything that looks like a secret dirigible hangar...?"

  Lee appeared to be considering it for a moment, then blurted out, "Good heavens, no! Of course, I haven't been looking for dirigibles; but, then, they aren't the sort of thing one could easily overlook, are they?"

  "Not very well," Illya said. "They're rather large. This one is probably at least five hundred feet long."

  Lee thought for a moment. "There are a few placed where one could be hidden, I suppose. Are you sure it's in this county?"

  "No," Napoleon replied, "but we know they took the OTSMID on U.S. 14, and presumably the hangar is in a rugged area, which leaves us with Richland and the area west to the Mississippi."

  "Yes, that would seem to narrow it down that far, at least. But that's still a pretty large area to search."

  Napoleon smiled disarmingly. "We had thought that perhaps you could pinpoint any likely areas on these maps for us," he suggested, producing the ordnance maps he had brought from Milwaukee.

  Lee stood up excitedly. "Why don't I come along and show you? It would be a lot quicker than making you follow a map." At Napoleon's dubious look, she laughed. "Don't worry about me; I can take care of myself," she said and sprinted out of the room. A moment later, she returned carrying a Smith & Wesson K--38 target revolver and a box of ammunition. "I've never shot at a person, but I placed fourth in the women's state pistol championship two years ago!"

  Napoleon shrugged. "If you insist."

  "Give me a minute to get on some hiking boots and find some for Kerry. I'll be right back."

  As they prepared to leave a few minutes later, Illya remembered Kerry's remark about Lee's cooking. A polite comment produced another five-minute delay and a half dozen peanut butter sandwiches. "They're very well cooked," Illya observed to Kerry as they followed Lee and Napoleon out the door.

  * * *

  The afternoon was spent in a fruitless search of the northern reaches of Richland County and parts of adjoining Vernon. Hours of driving bumpy back roads and clambering into gullies and over rocks revealed nothing but more rocks, gullies, and roads. It was almost eight-thirty when they started back to Richland Center.

  "We'd better see about a place to stay tonight," Napoleon said as they pulled up in front of Lee's house, "before all the motels are full."

  "Kerry can stay with me," Lee volunteered, "and I'll fix supper for all of us."

  "Keep my car," Kerry said, "and come back here after you've checked in."

  The motel was typical of a small-town tourist area, which meant that the walls were thick enough to keep one from seeing the TV set in the next room but didn't interfere greatly with the audio. The rooms were clean, however, and the water hot. Half an hour later, a much refreshed pair of U.N.C.L.E. agents drove back to Lee MacGregor's house.

  Somehow, dinner hadn't gotten started over the two girls' conversation, so Napoleon insisted on taking them out for dinner. "After all, we've all had a hard day, and I'm sure nobody feels like cooking or washing dishes afterward. Besides, Illya and I are on an expense account; I think it will stand a pair of extra dinners."

  "Don't let Mr. Waverly hear you say that," Illya warned him.

  The girls acquiesced rapidly and Lee glanced at her watch. "It's after nine o'clock," she said, "so we don't really have much of a choice where to go. Aside from a couple of all-night hamburger stands, about the only place open is the 'Scotch Broth.' I really shouldn't be seen there, though."

  "Oh? Why not?"

  Lee lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Liquor! Teacher, unlike parents, must do nothing which might exert a Bad Influence on the children!" She shrugged. "Oh well, I can always make up for it by selling another book; nature books are very wholesome and respectable."

  * * *

  The "Scotch Broth" emphasized its name with relentlessly pseudo-Scots décor. A faint blue haze from a charcoal grill and countless cigars and cigarettes, coupled with discreetly dim lighting, made Napoleon feel at home. Sometime after their orders were taken, they received their cocktails—except for Lee, who explained that simply being there was enough strain on her reputation, without her actually taking a drink—and were quietly sipping when a rugged, outdoor type walked up to the table and clapped Lee on the back.

  "Lee," he said happily. "How are you? I've been hoping I'd run into a friendly face this evening."

  "Rollo!" Lee exclaimed, "Pull up a chair. You might be just the person we need." She turned to Illya and Napoleon. "This is our local celebrity, Robert Oshry Lavell. He writes articles on guns and hunting and everyone in town reads them and says how wonderful they are. Unlike my books, which molder on the library shelves. Rollo knows more about this county than anyone else, probably. He knows just everybody. I anyone knows where a dir—"

  She broke off suddenly as Napoleon kicked her ankle.

  "Mr. Lavell—Rollo, did you say?" Napoleon ignored Lee's startled look and looked at Lavell inquiringly.

  "R. O. L." Lavell replied. "My initials. Some people"—he glowered at Lee—"think acronyms are funny."

  Napoleon smiled uncertainly before he went on. "I'm Napoleon Solo and this is Illya Kuryakin. We're naturalists, on a field trip from New York."

  By the time they had shaken hands, Lee had recovered from the kick and introduced Kerry. She smiled and nodded across the table to Lavell. "Lee said you knew everybody in the county. Does that include those two men who were on the news this morning? The ones who saw U.S. 14 disappear in front of them?"

  Lavell looked taken aback. "U.S. 14 disappeared?"

  Kerry recounted what she remembered of the morning newscast. Lavell's eyes widened as she spoke, and he breathed what sounded like a sigh of relief when she concluded.

  "Maybe there is something going on around here," he muttered, half to himself. "Or, if I am cracking up, I apparently have company in my delusions."

  Napoleon displayed a sudden interest. "Delusions, Mr. Lavell? You saw a pit yourself?"

  Lavell looked around the table, debating with himself. "More or less," he admitted after a moment, then plunged on. "I was down towards Maplewood this afternoon, southwest of here. There's an old gravel pit down there, and I've fixed up a little private target range. I was trying out a new scope mount, one that fits a Bushnell telescope to a Navy Arms Co. percussion revolver."

  "Isn't that a little impractical?" Illya asked, ignoring Napoleon's disapproving frown at the interruption.

  "You don't think the gun fraternity is practical, do you? Haven't you ever seen a target match with forty-pound muzzle loading rifles? And hundreds of us, every year, pay good money for a modern replica of a revolver that was obsolete a hundred years ago. Like all true hobbyists, we're governed by novelty, not practicality. Anyway, I was down in the gravel pit, when I thought I heard something—a motor of som
e sort, but up in the air. I looked up and—I know this is crazy, but..."

  "Go on," Napoleon urged; "we're very interested."

  "Well, when I looked up, across the gravel pit, a section of one of the sides had disappeared. It looked like someone had taken a big knife and sliced a chunk right out. And I swear, the motor sound increased, and a faint voice said 'Look out, McNulty!' It was sort of muffled and far away, and a second later, something hit the ground and splattered, not twenty feet in front of me."

  "What was it?" encouraged Illya.

  "A sandbag!" Lavell said. "A sandbag out of a clear, blue sky!"

  "Could you show us where this happened?" Napoleon asked.

  "You believe me, then?!

  "In addition to being naturalists, we have a certain interest in the supernatural as well," Illya explained. "Charles Fort has documented thousands of seemingly impossible occurrences like this—blocks of ice falling from a clear sky, even live fish once. But this is a new one; Fort never mentioned sandbags in any of his books."

  Before Lavell could decide whether or not he was being put on, the food arrived. He ordered a double scotch for himself and when he had downed it, agreed to take the four of them to his target range the next morning.

  * * *

  The gravel pit looked like myriads of others, lumpy and abandoned. Lavell drove gingerly down a rutted road to its bottom. A homemade shooting bench stood on a small mound in the center of the overgrown pit; brush had been cleared away from one of the walls to make room for a target frame. Old tin cans and odds and ends of junk were scattered everywhere. The remnants of the sandbag still lay where it had fallen. Napoleon and Illya and the girls inspected it while Lavell wandered off to inspect his target frame. Except for the legend 50 KILOGRAMS, the bag was completely blank.

  Napoleon looked around thoughtfully. "You know," he said, "if I wanted to hide a dirigible, I think I'd pick one of the gullies that runs down to the river just south of here. The Wisconsin, isn't it? Not too close to the river itself, perhaps a mile or two north, where it couldn't be seen from the river. And if I were going to test it, I'd stick pretty close to home base on the initial flight, in case something went wrong."