by Simon Latter
Faintly, Mark heard the buzzer sound and guessed it to be in the room below. He clicked off the switch. The buzzing stopped. Footsteps sounded near the door. Mark stepped to one side of it as it opened wide. One man—large, craggy-faced—rushed in, gun leveled. Mark poised on the balls of his feet, measured distance, swung down with the gun butt. The man sprawled forward, pole-axed.
Two more men, unable to halt in time, stumbled over his legs. They were not carrying guns, but each had the build of a bullock. Mark grabbed clothes, swung mightily. Their skulls made a hollow-sounding crack—not very loud.
One spun away and crashed over the senseless first man. The other staggered back; dazed but shaping to an attack. Mark hit him hard. The man shook his head. Mark said:
"Pray, brother, pray!" as he poised to connect again. The man's fist drew back—then suddenly his head lolled, his eyeballs rolled upward. He pitched face down across his companion.
"That's better," said Mark softly. "The next one would have killed you."
He saw a large roll of scotch tape on top of a filing cabinet and used it to make certain all three would remain where they were by taping wrists to ankles. He used their own ties and handkerchiefs to gag them.
He searched the ground floor rooms. All were luxuriously furnished, but empty. He tiptoed down to the basement. One room had bunk beds, lockers and a washbasin. The next more elaborately furnished. A quick search told him this was Ginger Coke's room, but he found no documents, letters or photographs. Which was strange, although he had no time to sort out the puzzle. An old R.A.F. uniform in the closet bore Ginger's name and number.
Mark went on down the passage, trod softly into the kitchen. A stout, middle-aged woman was dozing in a wicker chair beside a cooking range. She woke up, glancing at him.
"Oh, gawd! Are you another of 'em?"
"That's right, Ma."
"Well, you don't come in here, see? This is private. Your room's back there." She jerked a thumb.
"They're all out," he said truthfully.
"Out or in, I couldn't care less. What his Lordship will say to this carry-on I'm sure I don't know."
"His Lordship lives here?"
"Does it look like it? Nah! He's rented it—to a right funny lot, if you ask me. But they got money, and that's what counts these days."
"Dr. Karadin and his daughter?"
She sat up, glaring at him.
"Who are you to be asking questions?"
Mark grinned. "Just a new boy. I had lunch with Miss Karadin. She'll be upstairs, I suppose?"
"I wouldn't know—I never go up there. Come five o'clock and off I goes. Two meals a day, that's all I cook. Wanna cuppa tea?"
"No, thanks."
She smirked. "Ah—you want her, I s'pose! Well, she'll be more than willing, I daresay." She winked. "I would meself at her age. Off you go then—second floor. Shut the door after you."
He shut the door, found a key in the old-fashioned rim-lock and gently locked it. The cook didn't appear to be curious and he'd observed a street exit on the far side of the kitchen. He reached the hall. A telephone was ringing in the study. It stopped when he was halfway across the room as someone lifted an extension. Mark eased the handset off the contacts, and heard Suzanne's voice speaking in French.
"... as much time as I could. You must have made a quick trip. I do not like it here alone, Papa. And my Ginger has changed. Can I not come to you at Moorfell? He is so hard, so gone from me since he knew Mark Slate was in London. He tells me he will see me sometime. I have done what you told me and I thought Ginger"—she pronounced it Gingaire—"and I would have fun together."
"Suzanne—listen!" Dr. Karadin's voice was sharp. "Already I have had to silence one talkative woman—do not try my patience with your aimless chatter."
"Silenced! Oh, Papa—no, you have not killed that Dancer Woman? Oh, Papa!"
"Stop it, Suzanne—stop yowling. Of course I have not killed her. I do not like violence—you know that. But some things have to be done. Now, others in the organization will deal with her as Ginger and the London guard will deal with Mark Slate, and I can get on with the work that will make our fortune. Think of that, my little Suzanne. Think of having all the money you need to travel and live in luxury with beautiful clothes and cars... and your pick of the men. Think of all these things and do not worry because you are a little while alone. It is a big, big thing we are engaged in—so be good for Papa, eh? And not do silly things to upset me."
"No, Papa. But I would not be any trouble if you let me come to Dartmoor. I could drive my little new car. I would like that."
Karadin sighed gently. "Yes, yes, very well. Perhaps it is better that you should be here. Ginger will be too busy to spend much time with you. But do not hurry here for I also am very busy. Start tomorrow and stay overnight at any hotel you fancy. You can find your way?"
"I know the way from Exeter to the beginning of Dartmoor—but all those little roads confuse me."
"In the desk drawer in my study you will find a small map. It covers the area around Princeton and Dartmoor Prison so that anyone looking at it will think it is a map only of that. All you have to do is follow a dotted line leading north-east from a side road. The map key says... 'bridle path, unfit for motors, dangerous in fog, beware bogs'. The track itself, as you will see, is two miles from the main road. The side road sign says 'To Shale Farm only'. There is a tor—a high rock outcropping—a few hundred yards from where you turn. It is a good landmark for you."
"Is the track dangerous, Papa?"
"Not if you keep to it and do not wander off on to the moor. Where is Ginger now?"
"I heard him ring the alarm for the guards. I expect they've taken Slate down to the basement."
"Good. You keep out of it—understand? As soon as the cook leaves, Ginger will send for the transport to take Slate away. You did very well, Suzanne—very well indeed. We have taken two very dangerous people out of circulation. It was disturbing that they should be in London, and at that particular place, at such a vital time. But we gave them no opportunity to report to their organization. Now, I must go. Be good, my little one. We will meet soon."
Mark Slate carefully slid open the drawer while Suzanne was saying her long-winded goodbyes, found the map, checked it, then stowed it in his pocket. He was already on the second floor by the time she had replaced the receiver, and the faint tinkle as she dropped the handset guided him to her room.
He halted at the open door, momentarily surprised by the startling decor and furnishings. Most rooms in these old Nash houses were spacious with high ceilings. Here, false ceiling, curved, painted brilliant sky-blue with coils of white cloud, suffused with golden light from hidden lamps, gave greater depth and breadth to the room.
Bright red and blue sail cloths were angled across the high windows, fore-standing against the superbly simulated sea scene painted on three of the walls. The door side of the room was a stone jetty. Rope bollards with padded tops faced a small, low stall with a backdrop painting of a life-like water side bistro. A capstan stood in front of a dressing table, set against the background of a ship's chandler's store, the table being the counter, To the left were sliding doors of a floor-to-ceiling wardrobe, the doors painted to appear like loaded shelves of the store.
The centre of the floor was one step below the "jetty"—a sand-colored, nylon-tufted carpet spread to meet the seascape walls. Resting on the carpet was a miniature yacht—white, sleek and beautiful—with one brilliant tangerine sail suspended from its mast. Aft of the mast, white and blue lounging chairs, deck lockers, tables were spaced below a slender guardrail. Fishing nets were draped from the "jetty" to this rail.
He couldn't see the stern half clearly because the sail was so fixed that it could be swung to partition or blank off each end. But under its boom he saw the lower portion of a bed, part of a cabin washbasin and bedside cabinets. He trod softly over the "jetty" as he heard the telephone being pushed over a hard surface.
Then the
sail swung around to disclose the bed and top half of the furniture. It also disclosed Suzanne, stretching arms wide, yawning. Against the background of sails and sea she looked like—well, what she was. There was no time for Mark to indulge in fanciful allusions to water nymphs or mermaids. He had to cover the distance in two massive leaps to clamp his hand over her mouth.
He almost laughed because surprise, then fright, had frozen her body to the arms-stretched stance she had taken. Only her mouth and eyes moved. Both grew wider and wider. Mark grabbed her before the mouth was open wide enough to release the screaming bellow which, from such a chest development, might well have aroused the interest of the neighbors.
"I'll be very brisk and business-like," said Mark, holding her squirming body. "If you give me trouble, I shall make you unconscious very quickly. I don't want to do that, but I most certainly can—and will. Trouble from you means screaming or trying to run away. I'll give you an example." He pressed his finger into one side of her neck. Her body began to droop in his arms. "You see? Your head started to buzz and the life seemed to go out of you. If you give me trouble, I'll cripple you—understand?"
She nodded, fiercely jerking her head against his restraining hand, which he now removed from her mouth.
"Please," she whispered. "Please don't hurt me—please!"
A negligee lay across the foot of the bed. He flung it at her. "Put it on."
She recovered now. "Ginger? What has happened to my Ginger?"
"He's sleeping downstairs."
"You have hurt him! I will kill you!" She sprang at him, hands clawing for his eyes.
He gripped her wrists. "Trouble—don't give it—remember? No, he's not dead. But I'll go down and finish him off if you don't behave." His gay manner changed swiftly, menacing power flowing out of him. She cowered back. Her gaze flicked to a row of switches.
"Don't try it," said Mark. "The guards are sleeping too. So is the cook."
A gleam of admiration lighted her eyes.
"You have done that to all of them? You are a very strong man." Then she shrugged and pouted—a little girl coy again. "But I am no use to you." She came close, sliding her hands up his chest. "I think perhaps you are stronger than my Gingaire."
He grinned. "I'm bloody sure I'm stronger than your Gingaire." He looked into her eyes. "If I were your Papa I'd paddle your rear end. Why don't you grow up, Suzanne? Get yourself married and have half a dozen kids." He paused. "Aw! What the hell!" He thrust her away. "So who told you to play up to me?"
"You know who."
"Gingaire, of course."
"Of course."
"To get me here?" He nodded. "Of course. Silly question, but I don't like loose ends. Why, Suzanne?"
She shrugged again. "Ask Ginger."
He flared at her. "If I have to ask Ginger, he'll die. Don't you understand that? or do you think this is just a pretty game?"
She shook her head. "No, not a game. It frightens me. Last night, a telephone call told them you and that woman had arrived. This morning you were followed. I saw you in Carnaby Street."
"Where were you?"
She giggled. "I was one of the models. Then I changed and went to the Tower with Ginger." She fluttered her eyelids. "I did it very good—yes?"
He sighed. "You did it bloody terrible—yes. We knew exactly who you were. All we didn't know was why, so we helped you to tell us. Now we know—and Ginger is sleeping and you are not going any place."
Anger and fear filled her eyes, then a crafty look appeared in them. "She is not going any place either—your April Dancer." She spat childishly. "Oh so clever, so grand. You torture me, but I do not tell you where she is. Ah! You see—that is not so good for you now, is it? You hurt my Ginger. We hurt your April Dancer. Now who is so clever?"
"You have a point there, darling. You're a very clever girl. I think you're much more experienced than I believed."
She was suddenly gay. "See? Not so blerdy terrible after all, eh? I tell you something, Mister Big Strong Man. This is the first time I help Papa. Because it is a big time and he must have only people he can trust to help him."
Mark nodded sadly. "I'm not very clever."
"Pooh!" she scoffed. "There is no one as clever as Papa—no one." She came close, moving her breasts against his arm, her wiggling finger digging under his chin—little dog teasing. "I tell you something else—soon the whole world will know how clever my Papa is!" She stepped back, snapped her finger under his nose. "Now we go wake up my Ginger. I tell him you do not hurt me, then he will not hurt you." She drew the negligee closer around her nakedness. "I think he will like to wake up and see me like this, eh?"
Mark stepped around her. "Better like this," he said quietly, and in a few deft actions had flung the nylon fishing net over her, picked her up and rolled her in it. A coiled rope hung picturesquely from the "jetty". He fastened her in a net cocoon.
Gasping and struggling, her eyes glared at him through the mesh.
"You're just a little fish, darling," he said. "A little tiddler. You don't know enough to tell me the time."
She began to scream. Mark was prepared for it. He had already picked up a cake of soap shaped like a baby dolphin, and this he thrust through the mesh into her mouth.
"Have yourself a bubble bath!" He hoisted her over his shoulder, moved to the landing, found the bathroom, dumped her in the bath and left her frothing at the mouth.
He searched the house, swiftly, expertly. It seemed that Karadin and his daughter had furnished their own quarters with no expense spared, because the remaining rooms were tastefully but not luxuriously fitted. He found a group photo graph in one room: "Lord Larnous and family at their Bahamas home." The caption from a glossy magazine was stuck on the frame base. Mark winked at the big, frozen-faced woman standing next to his Lordship. "I can't imagine you in that yacht bed, duckie. But at the rent this place is paying—you should worry!"
The downstairs study was like a lush sleeping barrack room. Two men were semi-conscious, one was moaning. Ginger Coke was still out cold. Mark shoveled them on one side, after emptying their pockets. They all carried THRUSH identity discs. He pocketed these and went to the files. A special U.N.C.L.E. device soon had the locks freed.
The files were crammed with photostat maps of shopping centers in towns all over the British Isles. The notes below each map made it clear that these were sites of branches of a nation-wide group of fashion shops. Bus stops, supermarkets, banks and post offices also were marked in relation to the site of each shop. Figures gave peak density hours, halfday closing and, where applicable, the town's market day. Mark extracted several photostats as samples, went up to the yacht room, contacted London Headquarters, gave and received information crisply and clearly.
He sat quietly for exactly five minutes before he dialed the phone.
Jeff's voice said: "Key one speaking. Mark? Answer."
"U to Key one. London H.Q. cleared. This is priority. You agree?"
"Key one agreed." Jeff chuckled. "Things happen when you're around, old boy. They tell me in France the choppers are away."
"I so heard. What can you offer me?"
"A twin-engined Alster cabin job. No good for moor landing. Only a chopper's safe for that. Use Plymouth or Exeter. Our strips. Car from there. Snag arises. Jaguar available Plymouth. Aston Martin Exeter. You takes yer choice, mate."
"Exeter."
"Will do. Have Ministry Pool car standing by here. Velly pretty driver. Knows all short cuts to Hendon."
"You're wizzo, chum. Who said the Limeys were slow?"
"You did, if I recall aright. No matter. We survive. Make for York Gate entrance to Regent's Park. Driver will have envelope of money. Her name is Daphne. Lay off. Her and me have an understanding. And sign for that ruddy money! Wreck the car and the plane if you so desire, but leave not one chit unsigned, else all is chaos. The S.B. are sending a meat wagon to pick up your bods in fifteen minutes, so get clear—fast."
"I go," said Mark.
"Bless you, Jeff. See you!"
He raced down the stairs, opened the front door, surveyed the street, then closing the door gently sauntered nonchalantly away in the direction of York Gate.
Count Kazan drove down to the valley, skirting the town to reach the small heliport. A helicopter, rotors idling, stood waiting. He checked in at the office to obtain formal clearance and sign for the machine which was always hired to a company he used for the purpose.
"Alphonse is very quick today," said Kazan.
"It is not Alphonse," said the office manager. "He's sick, but the new man, Gaston, is very efficient."
"So it seems." Kazan left the office, suspicions aroused. Any change made him suspicious, but he sauntered towards the machine as if he had no thought of anything but the pleasant time ahead, a rich man indulging himself. He climbed into the chopper. The pilot, helmeted and goggled, nodded to him.
"Thank you, Gaston. I will take her now."
"My orders are to stay."
"And my orders are for you to go," Kazan snapped, then whirled as he sensed danger.
A man was launching himself from the shadow behind the seats, cosh raised. Kazan flung himself to one side. His tiny sleep gun spat once. The dart hit the man in the neck. Kazan parried the down-slashing arm, thrusting the man away from him with such force that he plummeted through the open hatchway. In that same moment, searing pain lashed the back of his bead. Count Kazan pitched forward, dazed.
The helicopter then lifted swiftly, sending him headlong against the strutting, thus completing his collapse.
He came out of the blackness slowly. The rush of cold air through the open hatch helped to revive him quickly, but Kazan was too old a hand to show he was awake. The pilot had to turn at an awkward angle before he could see Kazan, and this gave him plenty of warning; so Kazan took his time, inhaling deeply and letting the throbbing ache pass away. He glimpsed the terrain through the opening and was surprised to recognize the beaches and hills of Monte Carlo. He must have been unconscious for a long time.
