"About a quarter after ten. You were out for some time."
Slate pretended to do some mental calculations. "I would say she's about over Macon, Georgia right now. She caught the six o'clock plane for Miami and changed there for a jet flight to New York."
"You lie poorly," Moreno said with a snort of disgust. "One of our agents saw the two of you catch a taxi together in front of the Hotel La Paz at nine."
"That wasn't April," Slate said quickly. "Had your agent ever seen Miss Dancer before?"
"No," Moreno admitted. "But he had descriptions of both of you."
"You'd better train him to memorize descriptions better," Slate said. "That chick was a redhead I picked up in the hotel bar. I dropped her at a tavern en route here and planned to meet her there when I finished my business."
Moreno examined him suspiciously. "What tavern?"
Slate shook his head. "I'm not getting her involved in this. She's just an innocent bystander."
"She won't be harmed. Give us her name and the name of the tavern, and we'll merely phone to verify that she's there."
"No sale," Slate said definitely. Moreno glanced across the table at the skull-faced man. "What do you think, Barth?"
The man's thick-lensed glasses glinted. "He's lying. It was the Dancer girl who got in the taxi with him."
Moreno gave a grim nod of agreement. Turning to Pedro Martinez, he said, "Check the whole area again, and do a better job this time. She has to be out there somewhere."
"Yes, sir," Pedro said.
Moreno said to the woman, "See what you can do, Consuela."
The female hypnotist moved to the foot of the table. Her face assumed the same intimate, seductive smile she employed on television.
"Let's become acquainted, Mr. Slate," she said in her husky voice. "My name is Consuela Cortez."
"I know."
"You may call me Consuela. May I call you Mark?"
"Please do. I hate formality."
"Would you like to get to know me real well, Mark?"
Her voice had lowered and had taken on a sing-song quality. Gazing into her eyes, Slate discovered that suddenly they were no longer predatory, but had become soft and sympathetic.
A faint drowsiness began to assail him.
All at once he realized he was being hypnotized. Squeezing shut his eyes, he began to whistle. The drowsiness instantly fled.
"What's he doing?" Moreno demanded.
Barth's voice said, "Whistling the Road to Mandalay. Are you making him do that, Consuela?"
"I'm not making him do anything," the woman said. "He isn't under."
Barth said, "Stop that infernal racket, sir!"
Slate stopped whistling and opened his eyes. Carefully he refrained from looking at Consuela, gazing up at Barth's thick glasses instead.
"I've been informed by a psychiatrist that I have a very strong mind," he said. "Consuelo is wasting her time trying to hypnotize me, because I won't submit."
Moreno and Barth both glanced at Consuela. The woman shrugged.
"It is virtually impossible to hypnotize a subject who resists," she said. "If I had caught him unaware, I could have done it. Now it is too late, because he knows."
"Bah!" Moreno said in disgust.
"Under hypnosis he could have told us where Miss Dancer is."
"How about torture?" Barth suggested.
Moreno gave his large head an impatient shake. "I have worked on U.N.C.L.E. agents before. Nothing makes them talk. They are pre-conditioned to die before disclosing a single U.N.C.L.E. secret."
"Then what do we do?"
"Dispose of him," Moreno said unemotionally. "He is of no further use to us. We will deal with Miss Dancer when we catch up with her."
"You can't kill him here?" Consuela objected. "How will you dispose of the body?"
"I have no intention of killing him here,'" Moreno said testily. "Please credit me with some sense. We will take him to my castle and take care of the body disposal problem by the same means that will kill him."
"How is that?" Consuela asked. "We will feed him to my pets." The woman shivered, but her expression failed to indicate squeamishness. It was one of pleased anticipation which belied the shiver.
"He will be easier to transport unconscious," Moreno said to Barth. "Put him out."
The skull-faced man removed a heavy ring from his finger, twisted the stone and a thin needle popped out. He pressed the needle into Slate's right forearm.
The faces surrounding Slate immediately began to blur. Within moments he was unconscious.
When a half hour had passed, without Mark Slate returning, April decided to investigate. Slipping through the gate, she made for the building into whose shadows he had disappeared.
When she reached the nearest side of the building, she decided that as a first move she would see if she could glimpse anything through the windows. They were all dark on this side, but she moved down the line attempting to see inside through them. She noted that all the windows were barred, and nothing greeted her gaze but darkness.
She rounded the front of the building, slipped past the door and peered around the corner on the other side. At the far end a dim glow of light showed from the last window.
Tiptoeing to the window, she peeked cautiously in. She was confronted by nothing but a white curtain no more than two feet in front of her. Then she realized she was looking into the recording studio where Consuelo Cortez had made the Upsa-Daisy commercial, and the curtain was the white backdrop before which the woman had stood.
The window was wide open from the bottom. The grill which had guarded it lay on the ground and the stumps of the iron bands which had held it in place stuck out from the window frame about an inch on each side.
Obviously this was Mark Slate's handiwork, and he was inside searching for the tapes. She was on the verge of announcing her presence to him with a low whistle when she heard the rumbling voice of Sancho Moreno.
"That will hold him," the voice said. "Now we can tend to Miss Dancer. Pedro, search the grounds."
"Yes, sir," the voice of the tour guide said.
April heard a door open and close. She glanced around for a place to hide. There were no trees or shrubbery in the entire area, nor anything else to hide behind except the other buildings. A game of hide-and-seek around the buildings was certain to end with her as the loser.
She heard the door at the end of the building open and close. She knew she had to get out of sight immediately.
She slipped the strap of her purse over her wrist to leave her hands free. The window sill came about even with her chest. Gripping it with both hands, she pulled herself upward, twisted in the air and landed in a seated position on the sill, back to the room.
Bringing her knees to her chest, she swiveled around and dropped her feet to the floor inside without sound. Rising, she moved to one side of the window behind the white curtain.
She was none too soon, for a moment later she heard Pedro's footsteps go past the window.
From the other side of the curtain she heard the low rumble of Sancho Moreno's voice and an occasional interjection by a voice she recognized as that of the skull-faced Barth.
Both men were speaking too low for her to make out the words, however.
The white curtain was of heavy velvet, far too thick for her shadow to be seen through it. She decided peeking around the edge would be dangerous, as she had no way of knowing if anyone in the room happened to be looking this way. She looked the curtain over carefully in an attempt to find a hole she could peek through, but there were none.
Removing the spring-steel hairpin from her hair, she thrust the pointed end of the cutting edge through the curtain at eye level and cut out a tiny circle no more than an eighth of an inch in diameter. Sticking the hairpin back in her hair, she put her eye to the hole.
Mark Slate, stripped to the waist, lay spread-eagled on a long table, his wrists and ankles tied to the corners. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be uncon
scious. His coat, vest, shirt, undershirt and tie were draped over the back of a chair near the record player. Lying on the seat of the chair was his U.N.C.L.E. gun.
The voluptuous Consuela Cortez stood just behind Slate, gazing down at him expressionlessly. Sancho Moreno and the cadaverous Bart conversed in the far corner.
Slate stirred and opened his eyes. Consuelo announced, "He's awake."
When Sancho Moreno began to question Slate, April felt pride at the way he parried the questions.
Pedro returned to report his unsuccessful search of the area, and was sent back to double-check.
When Consuela Cortez rounded the table to stand at Slate's feet and began to talk to him, April recognized at once that she was attempting hypnosis. She breathed a sigh of relief when Slate realized in time what was going on and foiled the attempt.
Then her relief turned to horror as the trio calmly discussed their plans to murder and dispose of Slate's body.
A few moments after Slate lapsed into unconsciousness from the drug injection given him by Barth, Pedro Martinez returned for the second time.
"She just isn't out there," he reported to Moreno. "I checked the doors and windows to every building and none have been broken into. There is nowhere else she could hide."
"Probably she has gone for reinforcements," Barth Suggested. "We had better get this man Slate out of here."
"Bring around the panel truck," Moreno ordered Pedro.
Barth said, "Are we going to go off and leave those tapes unguarded? If the girl from U.N.C.L.E. comes back with other agents, they will tear the place apart looking for them."
Sancho Moreno's beetling brows drew together thoughtfully. "You're right. Wait a minute, Pedro. Send Dingo in here before you go after the truck."
Pedro, en route to the door, paused, said, "Yes, sir," and continued on out.
A few moments later the gross, hairy man who ruled over the mentally-retarded jingle writers entered the room. Apparently the riding whip was a constant accessory, because he was carrying it with him.
He looked at Mark Slate curiously, but asked no questions. He merely said to Moreno, "You wanted me, boss?"
"I have a job for you, Dingo," Moreno said.
Going over to the bank of filing cabinets on the left side of the room, Moreno opened a drawer and removed three flat, round tins.
Handing them to the hairy Dingo, he said, "I want you to guard these with your life. Stick them under your mattress and don't leave your room until I return. Understand?"
"Sure, boss."
"You don't have a gun, do you?" Dingo flicked his whip. "This is all the weapon I need."
"It won't be much defense against a gun," Moreno growled. "Here, use this."
He went over to the chair where Mark Slate's clothing was piled and picked up the U.N.C.L.E. gun. Dingo slouched over to look at it.
"What kind of gun is that?" he asked puzzledly.
"A special one carried by U.N.C.L.E. agents. See this little lever on the side?"
The hairy man nodded.
"When it's in the up position, like now, it fires a dart which instantly renders the victim unconscious, but otherwise doesn't harm him. Depressed, it fires to kill. I want you to leave it the way it's set."
Dingo hiked his eyebrows.
"There's a girl from U.N.C.L.E. who may come nosing around," Moreno explained. "If she shows up in an attempt to get hold of those tapes, I want her taken alive. I want to question her."
Barth said, "I thought you said it was useless to question U.N.C.L.E. agents."
Moreno bared his strong teeth in a savage grin. "I have never worked on a female one. Maybe she would be more responsive.... “
Pedro returned and announced that he had backed the panel truck up to the building's entrance.
"Okay," Moreno said. "Untie our friend and we'll load him on the truck."
Pedro said, "Slate cut the bars out of the window into this room. It leaves a wide-open route for that girl to get in if she returns."
"There won't be anything in here for her to find," Moreno said, indicating the three tins Dingo was holding. "Dingo's going to sit on these until we get back. You had better close and latch the window, though."
Pedro headed for the white curtain concealing April.
SEVEN
THE HUNGRY ONES
April moved fast. Tiptoeing to the window, she seated herself on the sill, raised her feet and swiveled around. She dropped to the ground an instant before Pedro rounded the edge of the curtain.
There was no time even to scramble to one side of the window. She crouched on hands and knees right below it, pressed against the side of the building.
Above her she heard the window slide downward and the latch engage.
On hands and knees she crawled past the edge of the window, then rose to her feet. Moving to the rear of the building, she peeked around the corner and saw a gray panel truck backed up to the door.
Belatedly it occurred to her that she had no way to follow the truck when it pulled away. They should have rented a car instead of taking a taxi, she thought with despair.
Her only hope lay in finding a cruising taxi immediately, she realized. And that was probably a forlorn hope in this area at this time of night.
Only twenty feet away from this side of the building was the section of steel-mesh fence through which she had blasted a hole that afternoon. She saw that the hole had been covered temporarily merely by leaning a piece of plywood about four feet square against it.
Quickly she crossed to the hole, pulled the plywood aside and crawled through. She had barely pulled the plywood back in place when the building's door opened.
Crouching behind the plywood, she peered around the edge. Consuelo was holding the door open as Pedro and Moreno carried the unconscious form of Mark Slate through it. The cadaverous Barth opened the rear doors of the panel truck and Slate was loaded inside.
Pedro and Barth climbed in back with him. Moreno slammed the doors, then rounded the truck to slip under the wheel. Consuela went around the other way and climbed in front next to him.
The engine started and the truck's lights went on. The truck swung in a U-turn to drive along the building on April's side toward the main gate. As the headlights momentarily bathed the piece of plywood, April drew in her head and crouched low.
Then the lights swung forward and the truck presented its red taillights to April. Rising, she ran across the street and up to the same corner she and Slate had fled to that afternoon. Halfway there she saw the truck halt at the main gate, Moreno got out and opened it.
She had reached the corner by the time he had driven through, had halted again and had gotten out to close and lock the gate behind him.
The gate was only about fifty yards from the corner. The street was brightly lighted and if either Consuela or Moreno had glanced her way, they couldn't have failed to spot her. In her desperation she was unheeding of this danger.
The only thing on the corner which could offer even partial concealment was the concrete standard of a street lamp. She leaned against the side, opposite the truck, where it only partly concealed her, but at least made her less obvious. Frantically she glanced up and down the street in search of a cruising taxi.
There wasn't another vehicle or person in sight.
The truck started up again, turned left and picked up speed. April Dancer watched in frustration as the red taillights receded in the distance and finally disappeared.
There was still hope, she told herself. Sancho Moreno had mentioned that they were taking Slate to his castle. That could have been merely his way of referring to his house, but it could be that he actually lived in a castle. The Spanish conquistadors had built a number of castles in Central America, some of which had been reclaimed by rich Americans as homes. It was hardly likely that there would be more than one such castle near Vina Rosa, so it should be easy to locate.
She walked two blocks before she spotted the lights of a tavern. She was grat
ified to find a phone booth just inside the door. When she closed its door from inside, a fan went on above her.
There was no Sancho Moreno listed in the book. Probably the man had an unlisted number, she thought. She phoned for a taxi and the dispatcher told her one would be there in ten minutes.
She might as well report to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters while she was waiting, she decided. Taking out her pen-communicator, she raised the antenna, then lifted the phone from its hook and held it in the same hand, the phone concealing the pen, in case someone glanced into the booth and wondered what she was doing. She held the hook down with her other hand.
"Section Two, please," she said, After a moment Randy Kovac's voice said, "Hi, Miss Dancer."
"What are you doing there at this time of night?" April demanded.
"My homework. It's quieter here than at home."
"I'll bet," she said. "You just can't stay away from the place, can you? Is Mr. Waverly in?"
"He's talking to Mr. Solo on another channel. Hang on."
A few moments passed before Alexander Waverly's schoolmaster voice said, "Yes, Miss Dancer?"
"Mark has just been taken, sir. They're driving to some place Sancho Moreno referred to as his castle and intend to feed him to some kind of pets Moreno keeps. I have no idea what the pets are."
Waverly, as usual, remained unruffled. "I take it you don't know where this castle is ... “
"No, sir. I'm not even sure it's a castle. It may just be his way of referring to his house."
"Use your imagination, Miss Dancer. If it is a castle, there are hardly likely to be many in the area. Probably any native could tell you where it is. If it's just a house, he may be listed in the phone book."
"I thought of that, sir," April said a trifle resentfully. "I'm merely making a progress report while waiting for a taxi. Moreno isn't listed in the phone book, but a taxi driver may know where he lives. Even if he doesn't live in an actual castle, he's pretty prominent locally."
"I see. Then you plan some kind of rescue operation?"
"Of course."
"I wish you good luck. Aside from Mr. Slate's dire circumstances, how are things going?"
"I've learned where the three tapes are kept. As soon as I rescue Mark, we'll return and destroy them."
The Velvet Voice Affair Page 7
