The Velvet Voice Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  THE VELVET VOICE AFFAIR

  By Robert Hart Davis

  Captured by THRUSH, Mark Slate waits for horrible, certain death, as April Dancer fights through ring of foes to take a last gamble which can save him---or destroy them both…

  ONE

  MAN IN THE SHADOWS

  It was noon of a Friday in New York City. The sidewalks of the street in the shadow of the United Nations Building were crowded with office workers hurrying to lunch. Expertly weaving in and out among them was a slim, exceedingly attractive girl in her early twenties with a delicately featured, mobile face framed by dark hair falling to her shoulders.

  Although her dress was chic and stylish, it was no more than the majority of the secretaries and stenographers hurrying by. Nevertheless she somehow managed to stand out among them, for passing males, who for the most part were paying no attention to the hordes of other women available to look at, invariably glanced at her as she went by.

  It couldn't have been just her beauty which attracted this male attention, because while she possessed considerable physical charm, there were other women on the street equally attractive. What made men notice her instantly was a mixture of vital aliveness and complete femininity.

  The girl turned into a modest shop whose window sign identified it as Del Floria's Tailor Shop. Near the rear of the shop a pleasant looking woman seated before a pressing machine glanced up and smiled.

  The girl smiled back, entered a dressing cubicle at the very rear of the room and pulled the door closed behind her.

  She waited, facing the rear wall of the cubicle. In the outer room the pleasant looking woman pushed a hidden button on, her pressing machine. A panel slid aside and the waiting girl stepped through it. The panel closed automatically behind her.

  In the spacious lobby behind the secret panel a clerk was on duty behind a counter. Giving her a smile of greeting, he said, "Welcome back, Miss Dancer," and handed her a small triangular badge.

  "Thank you," the girl said in a soft voice. "Mr. Waverly in?"

  "Yes. He's expecting you."

  The girl pinned the small badge to her bosom. It resembled a piece of white cardboard or plastic, but it was coated with a radio-active substance which prevented strategically placed photo-electric cells from activating secret switches when the girl's passage momentarily broke their circuits. Without it she could have gone no farther in the building, because she would have set off dozens of alarms.

  She went down a hallway to Alexander Waverly's office.

  The director of the New York office of the United Network Command of Law Enforcement---more familiarly known as U.N.C.L.E. sat behind a huge, oval desk containing a panel of buttons, a microphone and speaker and several telephones. By pressing the proper button on the panel he could instantly communicate with any room in the building, with any other U.N.C.L.E. headquarters around the globe, or with any U.N.C.L.E. agent anywhere who possessed a portable communicator. By means of a special viewing screen on one wall, he could even see many far-away places---sometimes even the interior of rooms thousands of miles away---wherever one of U.N.C.L.E.'s agents had planted a transistorized visual bug.

  Alexander Waverly was a tweedy, soft-spoken man past middle age with a schoolmaster manner which didn't quite hide the steel behind his apparent gentleness.

  Two other people were in the office with him.

  One was a handsome, dark-haired, muscular man with the suave appearance of a Madison Avenue junior executive. The other was a tall, coltish teen-ager.

  The boy spoke first. "Gee, it's good to have you back, Miss Dancer," he said.

  "Hi, Randy," she said: "It's good to be back."

  Randy Kovac, still in high school, was U.N.C.L.E.'s first and only on-the-job trainee. He was supposed to work only in the Communications Section and only on Thursday and Friday afternoons between four and six, but U.N.C.L.E. headquarters so fascinated him that he was underfoot in all six sections nearly every minute he could spare from school or study.

  The suave, handsome man said, "I'm glad to see you too, April, but for a less romantic reason."

  Mr. Waverly said, "Your fortunate return ahead of schedule saves Mr. Solo a trip to Lombodia, Miss Dancer. I was planning to dispatch him there to assist Mr. Slate. Now, of course, you will go in his place, since you are more used to working with Mr. Slate."

  April glanced at Napoleon Solo with a bare suggestion of a pout. "So you get the vacation I was expecting?"

  "Hardly," Solo said with a wry grin. "Mr. Waverly merely has another assignment for me. I'll just be flying to Nigeria to join Illya instead of to Lombodia to join Mark."

  He referred to Illya Kuryakin, the partner with whom he customarily worked on cases requiring more than one agent. The pair was generally regarded as U.N.C.L.E.'s crack team.

  "C'est Ie guerre," April said with a shrug. "If we'd wanted vacations, I suppose we should have tried some other line of work."

  "How were things in Geneva?" Solo asked.

  "A little grim at first, but they got better."

  "You did an excellent job in foiling the attempt to assassinate the director of the International Red Cross, Miss Dancer," Alexander Waverly said. "But your complete report can wait until I have briefed you on this next assignment. I want you to catch a six o'clock plane."

  April looked slightly startled.

  After a glance at the wall clock she said ruefully. "Yes, sir."

  "Do you know anything about Lombodia?"

  "Only that it's in Central America and isn't very big."

  "Less than one hundred thousand population," Waverly said. "With half the population concentrated in the capital city of Vina Rosa. The balance is spread among numerous small villages surrounded by jungle. The economy is based entirely on the production of bananas and rubber."

  April Dancer nodded.

  "I will furnish you a tourist guide containing more detailed information which you may read on the plane," Waverly said. "Meantime, here is the problem. Lombodia's production of rubber and bananas has unaccountably dropped nearly twenty-five percent in the past two months. Yet there has been no blight, drought or natural disaster to affect the crop, and the labor force has remained stable."

  "What has caused the drop then?" April inquired.

  "That is the puzzle. I dispatched Mr. Slate there two weeks ago. His first reports suggested he had noted a strange apathy among the natives. Nothing drug induced, he was quite sure. He reported that everyone he talked to---when he could get anyone to talk to him---seemed in full possession of his mental faculties. Yet the natives all seemed preoccupied with inner thoughts. Never before having been in Lombodia, he was unable to judge if general lethargy is a national characteristic or merely a recent phenomenon."

  "What do you mean, when he could get anyone to talk to him?" April asked. "Mark never had that kind of trouble."

  "Oh, he reported receiving a friendly enough reception. It seems to be a matter of having difficulty getting people's attention. As I said before, everyone seems so preoccupied by inner thoughts, he sometimes has to shake them by the shoulder to get a response. Yet, oddly, he reports that once he commands people's attention, they speak entirely rationally and seem to have nothing whatever worrying them. It is as though he momentarily awakens them from some dark spell when he demands attention; then they lapse back into it again as soon as he walks away."

  "He has no idea of the cause?" April asked.

  "Not at last report, which has been nearly a week ago now. Since then we have initiated all contact with him. And every time we contact him over his communicator, he has absolutely nothing to report."

  "Maybe this strange lethargy has gotten to him," April suggested.

 
Alexander Waverly shook his head. "No. He is always quite lucid, and nothing at all in his tone suggests he isn't fully alert mentally."

  Randy Kovac said, "Maybe because your calling him commands his attention, sir. How do you know the buzzing of his communicator hasn't been jolting him out of a spell, and he relapses back into it as soon as you cut the connection?"

  All three of the others looked at the teen-age on-the-job trainee, Napoleon Solo and April with surprised respect, Alexander Waverly merely thoughtfully.

  "That is a possibility which hadn't occurred to me," Waverly admitted. "On rare occasions it seems worthwhile to have you underfoot, Mr. Kovac. Incidentally, isn't your school lunch hour about over?"

  Allowing himself a modest smile at the mild compliment, Randy glanced at the wall clock. "I still have twenty minutes. I grabbed a hot dog on the way over here. I can make it back in ten."

  Mr. Waverly made a shooing gesture. "Go, go. I will not have the school authorities phoning me anymore, Mr. Kovac."

  "Yes, sir," Randy said reluctantly. He went out the door.

  "Hurrumph," Mr. Waverly said.

  "In view of Mr. Kovac's suggestion, I think I will change your instructions slightly, Miss Dancer. You are still to assist Mr. Slate in his investigation if he seems normal when you arrive. However, if he seems to be suffering from the same peculiar mental preoccupation as the natives, I want both of you out of Lombodia before whatever causes the condition has a chance to affect you also. Get Mr. Slate on a plane and bring him back here immediately. We will place him under psychiatric examination and attempt to solve the riddle by long-distance. "

  "Yes, sir," April said. "Where am I supposed to meet him?"

  "He is staying at San Cecilia, a small village in the heart of the banana country. He has a room at a place called Casa del Lupe, which I understand is the village's sole inn. I will contact him over his communicator and tell him to expect you sometime tomorrow."

  "Yes, sir," April said. "Will you ask him to arrange me a room at the inn too?"

  Waverly nodded. "Now you had better run home and do what un-packing and repacking you have to. You have only about five and a half hours until plane time. Your ticket will be at the reservation desk at La Guardia Airport."

  Napoleon Solo said, "I have to go do some packing too, April. Come on and I'll drive you home."

  TWO

  COILS OF DEATH

  Cambridge graduates tend to dress rather conservatively, but Mark Slate was an exception. Although as reserved and polite as most educated Englishmen, he liked a bit of dash in his clothes. He bought his suits on Carnaby Street and was given to bright waistcoats and gaudy ties.

  His old schoolmates wouldn't have recognized him as he walked from the door leading to the guest rooms of the Casa del Lupe into the inn's barroom. In place of his usual sartorial splendor he wore the typical Lombodia native garb of denims tucked into scuffed knee boots, loose, billowy-sleeved blouse and a black waist sash.

  He was a slim, lithe man with the build of an athlete and the sensitive face of a poet. He was a bit of both, being a former member of England's Olympic ski team and also an excellent rock-and-roll singer.

  He was relatively new to U.N.C.L.E.'s New York headquarters, having only recently been transferred from London headquarters, but he was an experienced member of the Network Command.

  Taking a seat at the bar, he gazed about preoccupiedly. There wasn't much to gaze at. Because it was siesta time, the place was nearly empty. Two old men wearing serapes and sombreros dozed at a table with a bottle of tequila between them. A slim, dark girl in her late twenties with flashing eyes and a vivacious expression was polishing glasses behind the bar. She wore a bright red skirt and a white peasant blouse which left rounded, creamy shoulders entirely bare and exposed the swell of a firm lush bosom. She was barefoot and had bright red toenails.

  The girl flashed white teeth in a smile of welcome as Slate took a bar stool. "Buenos dias, amante."

  Slate was staring dreamily at the tequila bottle between the two old men.

  The girl's smile became a frown. Reaching across the bar, she tapped his shoulder.

  Slate glanced at her, his expression cleared and he smiled. "Oh, hello, Lupe. Did you say something?"

  She told him with a pout, "I did not used to have such trouble getting your attention. At first you could hardly take your eyes from Lupe."

  "I still find the view stimulating," he assured her, running his gaze over her shapely figure with such open admiration that she blushed.

  "Miguel will slip a knife between your ribs if he ever sees you look at me like that," she said.

  "More likely if he hears you call me sweetheart," Slate said dryly.

  "What's happened to Miguel, incidentally? I haven't noticed him around for the last few nights."

  Lupe looked surprised. "He is here every night, as always. Like you and all the rest, he has only eyes for that thing since I made the mistake of allowing it to be put in." She gestured toward the television set on a corner shelf over the bar. "I should take it out. Even you pay so much attention to it, you haven't even noticed Miguel, let alone me. None of the men even see me since I got the thing, including Miguel."

  “It's the novelty, Lupe. It'll wear off. You've only had it for a couple of months, haven't you? And I don't suppose most of your customers ever saw TV before."

  "You have," she said. "In America everyone has TV. Yet you sit and stare at it every night just like the others."

  Slate gave his lean jaw a contemplative rub.

  "I guess I do," he admitted. "I don't know why, because most of the programs are reruns of things I've already seen. I guess I watch it because there isn't anything else to do here evenings."

  "I never look at it," Lupe said.

  "I can't stand the commercials. I close my ears every time one comes on. If the set had not been free, I would never have put it in."

  "It didn't cost you anything?" Slate asked.

  "The new TV station at Vina Rosa installed it free. They figure once the villagers get used to it, they will buy their own. I understand they have furnished free sets to many village taverns."

  "Hmm," Slate said. "Somebody's made a study of American merchandising techniques. Build a taste by handing out a few free samples, then sell the product at an inflated price as soon as the public is hooked."

  Lupe shrugged. "They say it is just for good will. You wish a drink?"

  Slate shook his head. "I just came in to admire the scenery." He examined her bare shoulders with the air of an art connoisseur.

  "You will succeed in making Miguel pull a knife on you yet," she said, making a face at him.

  "Not Miguel," he said with a grin. "He and I are amigos."

  "Then you better get that expression off your face," she warned. "Here he comes."

  Slate turned to glance at the entrance from the street. A tall, handsome man dressed like Slate except that he wore a sombrero came through the door, humming. Without a word of greeting to either Slate or Lupe he took a stool next to Slate and stared at the blank screen of the television set.

  "Why you not cutting bananas at this time of day, my love?" Lupe demanded.

  The man continued to hum to himself, unheeding. Lupe glanced at Mark Slate, who had returned his attention to the tequila bottle and was gazing at it vacantly.

  "Hey!" Lupe shouted.

  Slate and Miguel both jumped and stared at her. The two old men popped awake and looked her way.

  One of them lifted the bottle and poured tequila into both his comrade's and his own glass.

  The girl was standing with balled fists on her hips, glaring from Miguel to Slate, then back again.

  "You cannot even say hello?" she said to Miguel. "The silly glass screen is more interesting even when the set is off?"

  Miguel showed strong white teeth in a placating smile. "I was just trying to think of words to compliment your beauty, my one." He glanced at Slate. "Buenos dias, Senor Slate."

&n
bsp; "The same to you, Miguel. A drink for my friend, Lupe." He laid a bill on the bar.

  Lupe placed a bottle and a glass before Miguel "Why you not at work?" she asked.

  "It is siesta time."

  "You spend your siesta walking clear to town? Five whole miles?"

  "I could not rest, and I wished to feast my eyes on your loveliness."

  He poured tequila and raised his glass to Slate, who acknowledged the toast with a smiling nod. Mollified, Lupe dropped her balled fists from her hips and reached across the bar to give Miguel a pat on the cheek.

  "If your actions were as passionate as your words, you would be the ideal lover," she said. "You walk five miles to feast your eyes on me, yet when I am here to view each night, you do not even look. All you want to do any more is sit and watch that silly box."

  Having tossed off his drink, Miguel was gazing at the vacant screen again and humming to himself. Lupe glanced at Mark Slate and saw he was again pensively staring at the tequila bottle between the two old men, who were dozing again.

  With an impatient shrug Lupe went back to polishing glasses.

  When April’s plane landed at Vina Rosa, she discovered there was no public transportation to San Cecilia, despite the village being only twenty miles away. There was a car-rental service at the airport, however, and she rented a two-year-old Ford.

  The road to San Cecilia was paved and in good condition, but it was only one lane. When she met traffic coming from the other direction, it was necessary to pull off the road to let it pass. Since the road had been cut through dense jungle, this sometimes was a little scary. While trees had been cleared from both sides of the road for several yards, and spots where undergrowth had been scythed away indicated that some attempt was made to combat regrowth, the attempt wasn't nearly thorough enough. For most of the distance the undergrowth on both sides of the road was shoulder high, and it was necessary to force the car nearly off the road into this when she met another vehicle.

  Unfortunately the car she had rented was a convertible and she had the top down. Every time she had to pull off the road, she wondered if the dense underbrush concealed some beast, which might leap into the car at any instant.