'I think it was our man. Gully Foyle. You saw that tattooed face.'
'And the burning clothes! Christ Almighty!'
'Looked like a witch at the stake.'
'But if that burning man was Foyle, who in hell were we wasting our time on?'
'I don't know. Does the Commando Brigade have an Intelligence service they haven't bothered to mention to us?'
'Why the Commandos, Yeo?'
'You saw the way Goody-Twoshoes accelerated, didn't you? He destroyed every record we made.'
'I still can't believe my eyes: 'Oh, you can believe what you didn't see, all right. That was top secret Commando technique. They take their men apart and rewire and regear them. I'll have to check with Mars H.Q. and find out whether Commando Brigade's running a parallel investigation.'
'Does the army tell the navy?'
'They'll tell Intelligence,' Y'ang-Yeovil said angrily. 'This case is critical enough without jurisdictional hassles. And another thing: there was no need to manhandle that girl in the maneuver. It was undisciplined and unnecessary.'
Y'ang Yeovil paused, for once unaware of the significant glances passing around him. 'I must find out who she is,' he added dreamily.
'If she's been regeared too, it'll be real interesting, Yeo,' a bland voice, markedly devoid of implication, said. 'Boy Meets Commando.'
Y'ang-Yeovil flushed 'All right,' he blurted. 'I'm transparent.
'Just repetitious, Yeo. All your romances start the same way. "There's no need to manhandle that girl . . ." And then Dolly Quaker, Jean Webster, Gwynn Roget, Marion -'
'No names, please!' a shocked voice interrupted. 'Does Romeo tell Juliet?'
'You're all going on latrine assignment tomorrow,' Y'ang Yeovil said. 'I'm damned if I'll stand for this salacious insubordination. No, not tomorrow; but as soon as this case is closed.'
His hawk-face darkened. 'My God, what a mess! Will you ever forget Foyle standing there like a burning brand? But where is he? What's he up to? What's it all mean?'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Presteign of Presteign's Mansion in Central Park was ablaze for the New Year. Charming antique electric bulbs with zigzag filaments and pointed tips shed yellow light. The jaunte-proof maze had been removed and the great door was open for the special occasion. The interior of the house was protected from the gaze of the crowd outside by a jeweled screen just inside the door.
The sightseers buzzed and exclaimed as the famous and near-famous of clan and sept arrived by car, by coach, by litter, by every form of luxurious transportation. Presteign of Presteign himself stood before the door, iron-grey, handsome, smiling his basilisk smile, and welcomed society to his open house. Hardly had a celebrity stepped through the door and disappeared behind the screen when another, even more famous, came clattering up in a vehicle even more fabulous.
The Colas arrived in a bandwagon. The Esso family (six sons, three daughters) was magnificent in a glass-topped Greyhound Bus. But Greyhound arrived (in an Edison Electric Runabout) hard on their heels and there was much laughter and chaffing at the door. But when Edison of Westinghouse dismounted from his Esso-fuelled gasoline buggy, completing the circle, the laughter on the steps turned into a roar.
Just as the crowd of guests turned to enter Presteign's home, a distant commotion attracted their attention. It was a rumble, a fierce chatter of pneumatic punches, and an outrageous metallic bellowing. It approached rapidly. The outer fringe of sightseers opened a broad lane. A heavy truck rumbled down the lane. Six men were tumbling baulks of timber out of the back of the truck. Following them came a crew of twenty arranging the baulks neatly in rows.
Presteign and his guests watched with amazement. A giant machine, bellowing and pounding, approached, crawling over the ties. Behind it were deposited parallel rails of welded steel. Crews with sledges and pneumatic punches spiked the rails to the timber ties. The track was laid to Presteign's door in a sweeping arc and then curved away. The bellowing engine and crews disappeared into the darkness.
'Good God!' Presteign was distinctly heard to say. Guests poured out of the house to watch.
A shrill whistle sounded in the distance. Down the track came a man on a white horse, carrying a large red flag. Behind him panted a steam locomotive drawing a single observation car. The train stopped before Presteign's door. A conductor swung down from the car followed by a Pullman porter. The porter arranged steps. A lady and gentleman in evening clothes descended.
'Shan't be long,' the gentleman told the conductor. 'Come back for me in an hour.'
'Good God!' Presteign exclaimed again.
The train puffed off. The couple mounted the steps.
'Good evening, Presteign,' the gentleman said. 'Terribly sorry about that horse messing up your grounds, but the old New York franchise still insists on the red flag in front of trains.'
'Fourmyle!' the guests shouted.
'Fourmyle of Ceres!' the sightseers cheered. Presteign's party was now an assured success.
Inside the vast velvet and plush reception hall, Presteign examined Fourmyle curiously. Foyle endured the keen iron-grey gaze with equanimity, meanwhile nodding and smiling to the enthusiastic admirers he had acquired from Canberra to New York.
'Control,' he thought. 'Blood, bowels and brain. He grilled me in his office for one hour after that crazy attempt I made on Vorga. Will he recognize me? Your face is familiar, Presteign,' Fourmyle said. 'Have we met before?'
'I have not had the honor of meeting a Fourmyle until tonight,' Presteign answered ambiguously. Foyle had trained himself to read men, but Presteign's hard, handsome face was inscrutable. Standing face to face, the one detached and compelled, the other reserved and indomitable, they looked like a pair of brazen statues at white heat on the verge of molten.
'I'm told that you boast of being an upstart, Fourmyle'
'Yes. I've patterned myself after the first Presteign'
'Indeed?'
'You will remember that he boasted of starting the family fortune in the plasma black market during the Third World War.'
'It was the second war, Fourmyle. But the hypocrites of our clan never acknowledge him. The name was Payne then.'
'I hadn't known.'
'And what was your unhappy name before you changed it to Fourmyle?'
'It was Presteign.'
'Indeed?' The basilisk smile acknowledged the hit. 'You claim a relationship with our clan?'
'I will claim it in time.'
'Of what degree?'
'Let's say . . . a blood relationship'
'How interesting. I detect a certain fascination for blood in you, Fourmyle'
'No doubt a family weakness, Presteign'
'You're pleased to be cynical,' Presteign said, not without cynicism, 'but you speak the truth. We have always had a fatal weakness for blood and money. It is our vice. I admit it.'
'And I share it.'
'A passion for blood and money?'
'Indeed I do. Most passionately.'
'Without mercy, without forgiveness, without hypocrisy?'
'Without mercy, without forgiveness, without hypocrisy.'
'Fourmyle, you are a young man after my own heart. If you do not claim a relationship with our clan I shall be forced to adopt you.'
'You're too late, Presteign. I've already adopted you.'
Presteign took Foyle's arm. 'You must be presented to my daughter, Lady Olivia. Will you allow me?'
They crossed the reception hall. Triumph surged within Foyle: He doesn't know. He'll never know. Then doubt came: But I'll never know if he does know. He's crucible steel. He could teach me a thing or two about control.
Acquaintances hailed Fourmyle.
'Wonderful deception you worked in Shanghai.'
'Marvelous carnival in Rome, wasn't it? Did you hear about the burning man who appeared on the Spanish Stairs?'
'We looked for you in London.'
'What a heavenly entrance that was,' Harry Sherwin-Williams called. 'Outdid us all, by G
od. Made us look like a pack of damned pikers.'
'You forget yourself, Harry,' Presteign said coldly. 'You know I permit no profanity in my home.'
'Sorry, Presteign. Where's the circus now, Fourmyle?'
'I don't know,' Foyle said. 'Just a moment.'
A crowd gathered, grinning in anticipation of the latest Fourmyle folly. He took out a platinum watch and snapped open the case. The face of a valet appeared on the dial.
'Ahhh . . . whatever your name is . . . Where are we staying just now?'
The answer was tiny and tinny. 'You gave orders to make New York your permanent residence, Fourmyle.'
'Oh? Did I? And?'
'We bought St Patrick's Cathedral, Fourmyle.'
'And where is that?'
'Old St Patrick's, Fourmyle. On Fifth Avenue and what was formerly Both Street. We've pitched the camp inside.'
'Thank you.'
Fourmyle closed the platinum Hunter. 'My address is Old St Patrick's, New York: There's one thing to be said for the outlawed religions . . . At least they built churches big enough to house a circus.'
Olivia Presteign was seated on a dais, surrounded by admirers. She was a Snow-Maiden, an Ice Princess with coral eyes and coral lips, imperious, unattainable, beautiful. Foyle looked at her once and lowered his eyes in confusion before her blind gaze that could only see electromagnetic waves and infra-red light. His heart began to beat faster.
'Don't be a fool!' he thought desperately. 'Control yourself. This can be dangerous. .
He was introduced; was addressed in a husky, silvery voice; was given a cool, slim hand; but the hand seemed to explode in his with an electric shock. It was almost a start of mutual recognition.
'Of what? She's a symbol. The Dream Princess . . . The Unattainable . . . Control!'
He was fighting so hard that he scarcely realized he had been dismissed, graciously and indifferently. He could not believe it. He stood, gaping like a lout.
'What? Are you still here, Fourmyle?'
'I couldn't believe I'd been dismissed, Lady Olivia.'
'Hardly that, but I'm afraid you are in the way of my friends.'
'I'm not used to being dismissed. (No. No. All wrong.) At least by someone I'd like to count as a fiend.'
'Don't be tedious, Fourmyle. Do step down.'
'How have I offended you?'
'Offended me? Now you're being ridiculous.'
'Lady Olivia . . . (Christ! Can't I say anything right? Where's Robin?) Can we start again, please?'
'If you're trying to be gauche, Fourmyle, you're succeeding admirably.'
'Your hand again, please. Thank you. I'm Fourmyle of Ceres.'
'All right.' She laughed. 'I'll concede you're a clown. Now do step down. I'm sure you can find someone to amuse.'
'What's happened this time?'
'Really, sir, are you trying to make me angry?'
'No. (Yes, I am. Trying to touch you somehow . . . cut through the ice.) The first time our handclasp was . . . violent. Now it's nothing. What happened?'
'Fourmyle,' Olivia said wearily, 'I'll concede that you're amusing, original, witty, fascinating . . . anything, if you will only go away.'
He stumbled off the dais. 'Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. No. She's the dream just as I dreamed her. The icy pinnacle to be stormed and taken. To lay siege... invade... ravish . . . force to her knees ....'
He came face to face with Saul Dagenham.
He stood paralyzed, coercing blood and bowels.
'Ali, Fourmyle,' Presteign said. 'This is Saul Dagenham. He can only give us thirty minutes and he insists on spending one of them with you.'
Does he know? Did he send for Dagenham to make sure? Attack. Toujours audace.
'What happened to your face, Dagenham?' Fourmyle asked with detached curiosity.
The death's-head smiled. 'And I thought I was famous. Radiation poisoning. I'm hot. Time was when they said "Hotter than a pistol". Now they say "Hotter than Dagenham": The deadly eyes raked Foyle. 'What's behind that circus of yours?'
'A passion for notoriety.'
'I'm an old hand at camouflage myself. I recognize the signs. What's your larceny?'
'Does Dillinger tell Capone?'
Foyle smiled back, beginning to relax, restraining his triumph, 'I've outfaced them both. You look happier, Dagenham.'
Instantly he realized the slip.
Dagenham picked it up in a flash. 'Happier than when? Where did we meet before?'
'Not happier than when; happier than me.'
Foyle turned to Presteign. 'I've fallen desperately in love with Lady Olivia! ' Saul, your half hour's up.'
Dagenham and Presteign, on either side of Foyle, turned. A tall woman approached, stately in an emerald evening gown, her red hair gleaming. It was Jisbella McQueen. Their glances met. Before the shock could seethe into his face, Foyle turned, ran six steps to the first door he saw, opened it and darted through.
The door slammed behind him. He was in a short, blind corridor. There was a click, a pause, and then a canned voice spoke courteously: 'You have invaded a private portion of this residence. Please retire.'
Foyle gasped and struggled with himself.
'You have invaded a private portion of this residence. Please retire.' 'I never knew . . . Thought she was killed out there . . . She recognized me. .
'You have invaded a private portion of this residence. Please retire.'
'I'm finished . . . She'll never forgive me . . . Must be telling Dagenham and Presteign now.'
The door from the Reception Hall opened, and for a moment Foyle thought he saw his flaming image. Then he realized he was looking at Jisbella's flaming hair. She made no move, just stood and smiled at him in furious triumph. He straightened.
'By God, I won't go down whining.'
Without haste, Foyle sauntered out of the corridor, took Jisbella's arm and led her back to the reception hall. He never bothered to look around for Dagenham or Presteign. They would present themselves, with force and arms, in due time. He smiled at Jisbella; she smiled back, still in triumph.
'Thanks for running away, Gully. I never dreamed it could be so satisfying.'
'Running away? My dear Jiz!'
'Well?'
'I can't tell you how lovely you're looking tonight. We've come a long way from Gouffre Martel, haven't we?' Foyle motioned to the ballroom. 'Dance?'
Her eyes widened in surprise at his composure. She permitted him to escort her to the ballroom and take her in his firms.
'By the way, Jiz, how did you manage to keep out of Gouffre Martel?'
'Dagenham arranged it. So you dance now, Gully?'
'I dance, speak four languages miserably, study science and philosophy, write pitiful poetry, blow myself up with idiotic experiments, fence like a fool, box like a buffoon . . . In short, I'm the notorious Fourmyle of Ceres'
'No longer Gully Foyle.'
'Only to you, dear, and whoever you've told.'
'Just Dagenham. Are you sorry I blew it?'
'You couldn't help yourself any more than I could.'
'No, I couldn't. Your name just popped out of me. What would you have paid to keep my mouth shut?'
'Don't be a fool, Jiz. This accident's going to earn you about Cr 17,980,000.'
'What d'you mean?'
'I told you I'd give you whatever was left over after I finished Vorga.'
'You've finished Vorga?' she said in surprise.
'No, dear, you've finished me. But I'll keep my promise.'
She laughed. 'Generous Gully Foyle. Be real generous. Gully. Make a run for it. Entertain me a little.'
'Squealing like a rat? I don't know how, Jiz. I'm trained for hunting; nothing else.'
'And I killed the tiger. Give me one satisfaction, Gully. Say you were close to Vorga. I ruined you when you were half step from the finish. Yes?'
'I wish I could, Jiz, but I can't. I'm nowhere. I was trying to pick up another lead here tonight.'
'Poor Gully. Maybe I can he
lp you out of this jam. I can say . . . oh . . . that I made a mistake . . . or a joke . . . that you really aren't Gully Foyle. I know how to confuse Saul. I can do it, Gully . . . if you still love me.'
He looked down at her and shook his head. 'It's never been love between us, Jiz. You know that. I'm too one-track to be anything but a hunter.'
'Too one-track to be anything but a fool!'
'What did you mean, Jiz. . . "Dagenham arranged to keep you out of Gouffre Martel". . : 'You know how to confuse Saul Dagenham"? What have you got to do with him?'
'I work for him. I'm one of his couriers.'
'You mean he's blackmailing you? Threatening to send you back if you don't. .
'No. We hit it off the minute we met. He started off capturing me; I ended up capturing him.'
'How do you mean?'
'Can't you guess?'
He started at her. Her eyes were veiled, but he understood. 'Jiz! With him?'
'Yes.'
'But how? He 'There are precautions. It's . . . I don't want to talk about it, Gully.'
'Sorry. He's a long time returning.'
'Returning?'
'Dagenham. With his army.'
'Oh. Yes of course.' Jisbella laughed again, then spoke in a low, furious tone. 'You don't know what a tightrope you've been walking, Gully. If you'd begged or bribed or tried to romance me . . . By God, I'd have ruined you. I'd have told the world who you were . . . Screamed it from the housetops'
'What are you talking about?'
'Saul isn't returning. He doesn't know. You can go to hell on your own.'
'I don't believe you.'
'D'you think it would take him this long to get you? Saul Dagenham?'
'But why didn't you tell him? After the way I ran out on you . . . .'
'Because I don't want him going to hell with you. I'm not talking about Vorga. I mean something else, PyrE. That's why they hunted you. That's what they're after. Twenty pounds of PyrE.'
'What's that?'
'When you got the safe open was there a small box in it? Made of I.L.I. . . Inter Lead Isomer?'
'Yes.'
'What was inside the I.L.I. box?'
'Twenty slugs that looked like compressed iodine crystals.'
'What did you do with the slugs?'
'Sent two out for analysis. No one could find out what they are. I'm trying to run an analysis on a third in my lab . . . when I'm not clowning for the public.'
The Stars My Destination Page 15
