THE DEADLY DRUG AFFAIR
By Robert Hart Davis
Hidden deep in the Ozarks was a village of living dead, as April Dancer and Mark Slate fly to keep a strange tryst with men who smile and obey your every wish---then die!
PROLOGUE
Caleb North was not a patient man, as everyone in Pig Wallow knew only too well.
So that when Sarah, his long-suffering wife, realized that she was a full hour late in getting supper, her face blanched. Caleb was not one to be kept waiting when victuals time came around.
Big Caleb was construction boss at the quarry. He had kept his job with his fists and his bellowing voice for many years-too many, some people said.
Sarah North was too good for him. Everyone in town knew that. She was patient and uncomplaining, even when her migraine was half killing her. An aspirin and a meek smile and she'd drag herself to her feet and get the day's work done somehow.
"Not that that big brute would appreciate it none," Ma Rooney, who ran the boarding house, would say indignantly. "Just let him give me any of his big talk. I'd fix him. Yes, sir."
No one quite knew how Ma proposed to do it, since no one else in town had been able to. But that was another matter.
On this night, Sarah was particularly tired. Her headache had been bad all morning and two aspirins had made her over-sleep, which was why the roast had not been put on early enough.
She sighed.
Caleb wouldn't like that. Not one bit.
And suddenly, out of her misery and worry, came a strange perverse stiffening of her moral fiber, so that when she heard his footsteps coming down the walk she was ready for him, her chin thrust out defiantly, for once in her life.
The very first thing he said, she told herself fiercely, she'd just fly at him.
Such was her inner turmoil, it so happened, that she beat him to the first word.
The minute the door opened she snapped, "Supper's late, Caleb. I couldn't help it, I tell you. Don't you say one single bad word. Do you hear me?"
He looked down at her. "Yes, Sarah," he said.
And lumbered back out to the kitchen to wash up.
If Sarah North had not been so excited, she would have noticed that for perhaps the first time in his adult life, big Caleb North had spoken in a low voice instead of a bellow.
But right now another terrible thing had happened, driving all else from her mind.
The confounded roast, which had been put in the oven too late, was now overdone. She'd turned the flame too high.
And Caleb had to have his meat real raw!
She came into the dining room. Caleb was sitting in his big chair, staring out across the swampland.
She said tartly, "The meat's burned, Caleb. Now you just put your hand over your mouth so the bad words don't come out. I've all I can bear, Caleb. Not one single word from you! You hear?"
That was at 6:35.
At 6:50 Sarah North, looking as though she had seen a ghost, came waveringly up the walk with Ma Rooney holding her arm, supporting her.
They pushed open the door. Sarah said dully, "I told him to put his hand over his mouth. I just couldn't stand a single word more of his nasty tongue." She swayed. "And now---"
Caleb North was sitting in his big chair, staring out into the night. His hand was over his mouth, so the bad words couldn't come out. Just as Sarah had ordered.
In truth, Caleb North wouldn't have been able to curse and carry on, even if he had wanted to.
Caleb North, in fact, was quite dead.
ONE
TRYST WITH DANGER
Del Floria’s Tailor Shop is on a quiet New York street in the shadow of the United Nations Building. The pleasant looking woman seated at a pants presser near the rear of the shop looked up in mild surprise at the breathless entry of a slim, dark-haired girl.
After a quick glance around to make sure the shop was empty, the girl scurried to the rear of the shop, dropping a breathless, "Hi," to the woman before the pressing machine as she passed. She entered a dressing cubicle at the very rear of the shop. After closing the door behind her, she waited, facing the rear wall of the cubicle.
In the outer room the pleasant looking woman touched a button on her machine which had nothing to do with its pants-pressing function.
A panel at the rear of the dressing cubicle slid aside and the girl stepped into an office lobby.
A male clerk behind a counter said, "They're waiting for you in Mr. Waverly's office, Miss Dancer.
Mr. Slate arrived fifteen minutes ago."
"Oh, my!" April Dancer said, she started to hurry by the counter into the corridor beyond, suddenly put on the brakes and turned back when the clerk said, "Whoa!"
A trifle sheepishly she held out her hand for the radioactive LD. triangle the clerk was extending to her.
"You wouldn't want to set off alarms all over the place, would you?" he admonished.
"Sorry," she murmured, pinning the badge to her bosom.
Pausing breathlessly before a door at the end of the hall, she knocked. A reserved, quiet voice told her to come in.
Alexander Waverly, director of the United Network Command of Law Enforcement's New York office, sat behind a huge oval desk containing several telephones and a panel with numerous switches. He was a tweedy, soft-spoken man past middle-age who gave the impression he would remain calm and unruffled in the midst of a hurricane.
Two other people were in the office with him.
Mark Slate, seated in one of two chairs before the desk, was a lean, muscular man in his early thirties with the eyes of a poet and the build of an athlete. As a matter of fact he was a bit of both. He could strum a guitar like a minstrel and was an excellent rock-and-roll singer. He was also an R.A.F. veteran and former member of the British Olympic ski team.
Slate, a transfer from U.N.C.L.E.'S London headquarters, wore a Carnaby Street suit, a rather vivid tie and a checked waistcoat. He resembled a young London man-about-town more than he did a secret agent.
The other person, standing alongside the desk with some papers in his hand, was Randy Kovac, a tall, coltish teenager. Randy, still in high school, was an experiment. U.N.C.L.E.'S first and only part-time on-the-job trainee, he was supposed to work in the Communications Section only four hours a week. The training so fascinated him, though, he could be found at headquarters, as often as not in areas which had nothing to do with communications, practically every minute he could spare from school or study.
Mr. Waverly said in his usual formal manner, "You are late, Miss Dancer."
There was no accusation in his tone. It was merely a statement of fact.
"Sorry, sir," she said. "I've no excuse. There is a sale at Macy's, and I simply got carried away. I didn't realize what time it was."
"Hmmph," Waverly said with a frown.
Mark Slate, who had risen from his chair, gave April a cheery smile, then said to Waverly, "That's an adequate excuse, sir. You know April can't resist a bargain."
Waverly's frown deepened; then he dismissed the matter with a gesture. "Sit down, Miss Dancer."
April sat and threw a smile at young Randy. The boy, who had a teen-age crush on the girl agent, blushed slightly as he smiled back. Slate reseated himself next to April.
Alexander Waverly made a steeple of his fingers, leaned back in his chair and said, "We'll get right down to business. Mr. Kovac, please read the dossiers."
Randy looked down at his papers, cleared his throat and read:
"Boris Rank, age forty, unmarried. Born Kaunas, Lithuania. Immigrated to the United States at age eighteen and worked his way through the Columbia University School of business. Still has a slight, nearly unnoticeable Lithuanian accent. Worked as a junior ex
ecutive for a New York baking company for a few years after college, then moved to St. Louis and started his own company. Is now president of the Rank Baking Company, the third largest manufacturer of baked goods in the Midwest. Hobbies: chess and girls."
"Girls?" April said.
"Mr. Rank fancies himself as a ladies' man," Waverly said. "He will be your target, Miss Dancer. Show her Mr. Rank's photo, please, Mr. Kovac."
Randy handed April a glossy eight-by-ten print of a dark-haired, exceedingly handsome man with regular features and a cleft chin. He bore a vague resemblance to Cary Grant.
"My," April said admiringly. "A pleasant assignment for a change."
She passed the photograph to Mark Slate, who studied it briefly and handed it back to Randy.
Waverly said, "You play chess, Miss Dancer?"
"Oh, yes. Rather well."
Randy shuffled his papers and read; "Dorcus Elias, age twenty-nine, unmarried. Miss Elias was born in Greece and immigrated here with her parents when she was four. She has a master of science in bio-chemistry from Washington University and presently is the head of the Rank Baking Company's research division. Hobbies: skiing and men."
"Men?" Mark Slate said. Waverly made a signal to Randy and the latter handed Slate another eight-by-ten glossy print.
Waverly said, "As you can see by her photograph, she is quite a beautiful woman. I am sure you will have no trouble eliciting her interest, Mr. Slate."
"Thanks for your confidence, sir," Slate said. "It sounds like a lovely assignment."
He studied the photograph and April craned to see it too. It was of a pale, lovely, dark-haired woman with beautifully chiseled features. He handed the picture back to Randy without comment.
"What's U.N.C.L.E.'s interest in these people?" April asked.
Waverly said, "We learned some time ago that Boris Rank has been in periodic contact with a certain THRUSH agent named Anton Radak. We also learned that Radak was introduced to him by his employee, Miss Elias. However, surveillance has never disclosed that either has ever, so far, engaged in any THRUSH activity. We were prepared to write it off as merely a coincidental social relationship when an odd development came to our attention. "
"What was that?" April asked. "Both Mr. Rank and Miss Elias have made reservations to attend the forthcoming national convention of psychiatrists at Axton, New York in the Catskill Mountains."
April and Slate both looked bewildered. April said, "Why would a bio-chemist and the president of a baking company want to attend a psychiatrist's convention?"
"Exactly what we wondered. It is most peculiar, in that neither has any background in the field of psychiatry, nor has ever before exhibited any interest in the subject, insofar as we can determine. It will be the jobs of you and Mr. Slate to discover just what they are up to."
"What's our cover?" Slate asked.
"You are Dr. Mark Slate, clinical psychoanalyst from Miami, Florida. Arrangements have been made for you to be the official delegate from Miami. You, Miss Dancer, hold a bachelor of science degree in biochemistry and are a lab technician for the Grunewald Pet Food Company of New York. Your B.S. is from Columbia. Incidentally, this will give you something in common with Mr. Rank."
"What's my excuse for being at the convention?" April asked.
"Ostensibly you will not be attending the convention," Waverly informed her. "You are merely vacationing at the same hotel. Axton is a summer resort."
April nodded. "When does this convention start?"
"Friday morning, but I wish you and Mr. Slate to check into the Hotel Axton by late Thursday afternoon, as delegates will start arriving by then. That gives you three days to brush up on biochemistry sufficiently to avoid being exposed as a fraud. And you, Mr. Slate, have the same length of time to learn the peculiar cant of psychiatry."
"Oh, great!" Slate said. "It only takes about twelve years of study to become a psychiatrist. I'm supposed to master it in three days."
"One hour from now you will begin a cram course conducted by our able psychiatric consultant, Dr. Marvin Brow," Waverly said patiently. "Your instruction will last twelve hours a day for the next three days. You will be taking a similar cram course in biochemistry, Miss Dancer."
Slate said dubiously, "It still seems rather short."
"You won't be required to treat any patients," Waverly told him. "You merely have to learn enough jargon to discuss with reasonable intelligence such things as ids, trauma and so forth."
"Oh, I suppose I can master that," Slate said. He took April's hand and gazed at her in a professional manner. "Just relax, young lady," he said in a soothing tone. "You don't have to be afraid of me, because I'm only here to help you. Now just when did you first begin to hate your father?"
April Dancer jerked her hand free. "If you were my psychiatrist I'd prefer to stay mad," she said with an attempt at primness which failed because she burst into laughter.
"Hurrumph," Mr. Waverly said.
"Let us get back to the business at hand."
TWO
ENEMY TERRITORY
Attached to the central pillar in the lobby of the Hotel Axton was a bulletin board of white letters on a black background. It read: NATIONAL CONVENTION OF PSYCHIATRISTS. REGISTRATION ROOM 102. Below this was a list of meetings and activities.
A tall, handsome, dark-haired man with muscular shoulders and a narrow Waist stood reading the sign. A touch of gray at the temples gave him a distinguished look, his face was the one April Dancer had seen in the photograph at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, but now that he wasn't posing for a photograph, there was a touch of ruthlessness in it which hadn't shown in the picture.
A convention badge on his coat lapel read: BORIS RANK. ST. LOUIS.
The man grew conscious of someone standing alongside of him and glanced sidewise to see a slim, lovely girl with dark hair falling to her shoulders. She was interestedly studying the bulletin board. He noted that she wore no convention badge.
"Workshop on psychedelic drugs," the girl read aloud. She glanced at the man next to her, noted his badge and said, "Oh, you're one of the doctors. Whatever are psychedelic drugs?"
"L.S.D., marijuana, that sort of thing," he said. "I am not a doctor, however." He had a slight, barely noticeable foreign accent which was rather pleasing.
She looked at his badge, then up into his face. "I see it doesn't say doctor. Whyever are you at the convention, then?"
He smiled. "I have an interest in some of the things which will be discussed. Actually I'm a baker."
"A baker?" the girl said in surprise.
"I don't actually bake, Miss. I am president of the Rank Baking Company of St. Louis."
"How coincidental," the girl said. "I work for a company that makes dog and cat food."
Boris Rank blinked, failing to see the connection, then smiled with amusement.
"That does give us something in common," he said with a touch of dryness. "Miss---" He let it trail off into a question.
"Dancer," she said. "April Dancer. I can see your name. Boris Rank." She pronounced the name as though savoring it and her expression suggested she liked its taste.
Boris Rank expanded visibly. "Since you are not wearing a badge, I take it you are not here for the convention."
"Oh, goodness no. I'm just on vacation." She added ruefully, "Not a very successful one so far, and it's almost over."
"Oh?" he said with raised eyebrows. "I thought the Catskills was supposed to be ideal vacation country."
"Oh, it is beautiful. But you know why single girls pick summer resorts for their vacations." She emitted a tinkling little laugh and answered her own question. "In the hope of meeting eligible men. So far all I've met are married men looking for a little side romance."
His expression became definitely interested. "Perhaps I could help make the rest of your vacation more successful."
April regarded him dubiously. "Isn't there a Mrs. Rank back in St. Louis?"
He shook his head. "There is an elderly M
rs. Rank in Lithuania, but she happens to be my mother. I am quite unattached."
"Well," April Dancer said with another tinkling little laugh. "Things are finally looking up."
In the bar just off the hotel lobby, Mark Slate took a stool next to a dark-haired, beautiful woman in her late twenties. The woman's pale complexion was of the texture and color of fine white porcelain and her features were as classically lovely as a cut cameo, but her beauty was slightly marred by an expression of brooding sullenness Slate had seen of her in Waverly's office.
She had a figure as lovely as her face, Slate noted with approval. Pinned to her breast was a badge lettered: DORCUS ELIAS. ST. LOUIS.
Slate ordered a drink, paid for it and which she hadn't worn in the picture took a sip, then glanced at the woman's convention badge. "Is that Dr. Dorcus Elias?" he asked.
She glanced at him, at first without interest, then her somewhat sullen expression softened when she looked into his smiling eyes. Her gaze dropped to his convention badge, which read: DR. MARK SLATE. MIAMI.
She said politely, "No, I'm not a doctor, Dr. Slate. I happen to be a bio-chemist for a baking company."
He cocked a quizzical eyebrow at her. "What on earth are you doing at a convention of psychiatrists?"
"I'm interested in certain psychiatric drugs. I only plan to attend a couple of meetings."
Slate grinned. "Are you people putting psychiatric drugs into cookies and cakes now in order to make your products habit forming?"
She let her lip corners lift in the barest suggestion of an answering smile. "That's an idea which might interest my boss. But actually my interest has nothing to do with my present job. I'm doing research for an eventual doctor of science degree. I only have a master's now."
"Hmm," Slate said. "Both brains and beauty. I suppose it's too much to hope for that it's Miss Elias instead of Mrs."
She was definitely smiling now. "It's Miss, though I prefer just Dorcus. Is there a Mrs. Slate?"
Slate shook his head. "Not even a potential Mrs. Slate. And I thought this convention would be dull. Could we pursue the subject of our mutual single blessedness over dinner? Incidentally, I prefer being called Mark to being called Doctor."
The Deadly Drug Affair Page 1
