But the Countess Krak, that insidious female fiend, was not through with poor Kutzbrain.
I understood now why she had lingered.
She had a little package in her hand. It was a one-time disposable dart gun. She stepped forward. She aimed. The piteous spinning figure of Kutzbrain came in the sight.
She fired!
Kutzbrain was still running in a circle.
Suddenly the pitch of his screams changed.
Leaping up and down, he tore off his jacket.
Still screaming, he suddenly began to run on a course that would take him squarely into a mob of children who had stopped to stare at the pandemonium.
Kutzbrain was tearing off his shirt.
Kutzbrain, still screaming, was tearing off his pants.
“They’re after me!” he shrieked, and got rid of his undershirt and shorts!
Then he began to run in earnest.
Krak, that Devil, had shot him with a dart that causes people to get warm and itch so violently that they shed their clothes.
What terrible revenge!
The children, like the tail of a speeding comet, were racing after Kutzbrain shouting, “A streaker! A streaker!” It was a dreadful din. The whole neighborhood was turning out to join the chase.
The Countess Krak tidied up her shopping bag. She fluffed her hair.
Sedately, she strolled off in the direction of the subway. She was thinking, no doubt—the sadistic female monster—that this was a day’s work well done. She even bought a Milky Way at the subway stand and munched on it quite happily as she rode triumphantly home.
My state was not one that could be described as victorious.
I couldn’t get out of the closet.
I had to call on the radio and beg Raht to phone Miss Pinch and plead with her to move the furniture away so I could open the door.
It was not that Raht had had a sneering tone in his voice on the radio, it was not that Candy and Miss Pinch laughed at me for getting myself locked in the closet “like a naughty boy,” it was not that the redecorators had not finished after all and the place was still a screaming mess, and it was not the fleas. It was the smug manner in which the Countess Krak had been eating that Milky Way!
Fury can sometimes open the door as often as it closes it. And fury opened it now.
INSPIRATION!
Miss Simmons was a doctor of psychology as well as education. Her father was a psychologist. She would know very well what hypnotism was!
I would tell her she had been hypnotized and blow the whole implant!
And then we would see who had the last laugh!
PART FORTY-TWO
Chapter 8
What with one thing and then the other and then the first thing again, it took me the better part of the night to write the letter. Written so the calligraphy could not be traced, it said:
Dear Miss Simmons,
I herewith return your glasses so you will know I am a friend.
I have to inform you that a dastardly deed has been perpetrated upon you.
You were hypnotized and lied to by the foulest fiend who ever existed between Hells and Heavens. You were told a pack of lies while in hypnotic trance. DON’T BELIEVE THEM!
The things you were told were utter hogwash and you should cast them utterly from your mind. You have been absolutely right all along about him.
Just realize that your future and that of this planet depend utterly upon your exposing that (bleepard) for what he is.
Don’t let the firm hue of resolution be sickled o’er by the pale cast of hypnotism. ACT. ACT. ACT!
Your true friend,
X
Shortly after sunup, I woke Raht with the radio. I made an appointment to meet him at the Slime-Tripe Building at 8:30 AM.
When the time came I was there, standing on the wavy terrazzo paving. Raht arrived. (Bleep) him, he had let his mustache grow and it bristled on both sides despite orders. But I had no time to upbraid him. Besides, we might be being watched.
I gave him the letter. “On your life, make sure that this is personally delivered to Miss Simmons at 352 Bogg Street, Apartment 21, Morningside Heights. As soon as you have done that, meet me at the west side of that building just to the south of us, at the tables in Gruffaw-Spill Park.”
“Why not just meet you at Miss Pinch’s apartment?” said this insolent ruffian.
“You stay away from there. And if you breathe a word of where I am to anyone, I’ll shoot you in hot blood, gallons of it.”
“I believe you would,” he said. But despite the insolence, trained as he was, he sped away.
I went to the Gruffaw-Spill Building. Down on the concourse it has the only walk-under waterfall in New York. You walk straight through it. I was using it because it covered the trail.
Inside was a refreshment stand and tables. It is very nice. I had some coffee and a hot dog, feeling pretty cheerful about things, really. The waterfall was splashing away, and since this was Saturday, there was hardly anyone around. Quite peaceful. No riffraff.
Two hours later, it did not seem so restful. I was drinking too much coffee.
Five hours from the time I had sent Raht off, it wasn’t peaceful at all. I was getting worried. I blamed myself. I should have taken the message there personally: I had been deterred by the positive conviction she would recognize my voice after our first interview. Or some of her students might drop in and take a swing at me.
I was nervous now, so that my hands were shaking and the man at the refreshment stand was eyeing me, no doubt trying to make up his mind to call the police, Raht showed up.
He was nervous and furtive, white of face and shaky of hand. He looked apprehensive. I knew he was hiding something.
In answer to my furious demand as to what had detained him, he said, evasively, “Oh, she wasn’t up. Her cleaning service was, and some people putting a new glass pane in the window were, though. How come the place got so wrecked? Do apartments you have anything to do with always get wrecked, Officer Gris?”
I kept my voice down. The man at the counter had his eye on me. “Did you or did you not deliver the message?”
“I didn’t want to leave it with the cleaners,” he said nervously. “They didn’t seem reliable. You learn not to trust people in our line of business. And with a threat of buckets of blood . . .”
“Gallons,” I corrected him sharply.
“. . . I wouldn’t hand it over to the glass company. So I waited for her to get up. And she did about half an hour later.”
“Wait a minute. That was over four and a half hours ago! What in the name of Hells detained you?”
“Gently, gently,” he said anxiously. He leaned forward. “Those two little girls over there and the proprietor are watching. You’re talking Voltarian.”
“Raht, I have a gun in my pocket. It is pointed straight at your stomach under this table, Raht. If you don’t tell me what happened, Raht, I am going to pull the trigger, Raht.”
That got to him. “I bet you would,” he said. “And cops would instantly be all over the place.” He gave me a glaring look. But he got down to business. “So she got up. She was wearing a housecoat that was pretty wrinkled and she didn’t seem to be bothering to keep it closed. She sure is built. Breasts nice and firm. Brown pubic hair. Nice legs . . .”
I made a threatening gesture with my hand in my pocket.
He got on very hurriedly. “She looked at the cleaning-service people and said, ‘It must be Saturday.’ Then she looked at the glaziers that were fixing the window and said, ‘That’s nice of the owner. It’s been drafty. . . .’”
“The letter, Raht,” I snarled.
“. . . and then she saw me standing there and she said, ‘Oh, an early morning caller. How nice.’ And I said, ‘No, ma’am. I am acting as a courier, even though that isn’t my proper job designation. But I’ve been improperly sent so here I am.’ I gave her the glasses. She put them down on a walnut sideboard about three inches from the edge.
I gave her the letter. She opened it with a hairpin. She read it.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “She can’t see anything at all without her glasses. You may have given it to the wrong woman. Describe her.”
He did. Brown hair, hazel eyes, wart on the back of her left hand. It was Miss Simmons. “And then?” I said.
“And then all Hells broke loose,” said Raht. “And that’s why I’ve been delaying telling you because you’re liable to get excited and shoot somebody. Promise me you won’t shoot. You might hit those two little girls over there.”
Excitedly, I said, “Go on! Go on! I won’t shoot you! This is good news, you idiot!”
“Well, she read the letter and she stood there, going white and red. And then she read it again. And she kind of began to yelp. Officer Gris, why would you write a letter that would upset the poor woman so? I don’t like acting as a courier. And especially NOT of your letters! I thought she was going to have a stroke. Why would you want to upset her so? She seems a nice girl. But upset people seem to be good news to you.”
I was glowing with eagerness. “Go on! Go on! Exactly what did she do or say?”
“She screamed, ‘I knew it! I knew it! The moment I woke up, I knew it but I wouldn’t admit it to myself!’ And she rushed into the bedroom and I heard her getting dressed and she came back into the living room. I hoped she would write something really nasty back so I said, ‘Is there any answer?’ And she said, ‘Wait right there until I return and I’ll give you one. This is a matter for the police!’ And she went tearing out of the apartment.”
I was ecstatic. She knew what Krak looked like. She could put it together on an identokit. Better, Grafferty, the three policemen and Kutzbrain could identify the woman. They even had her fingerprints on their guns. They knew it connected to Wister and when they questioned him they would probably run right into the Countess Krak. Perfect!
Raht was still talking. “Finally, I tailed her but lost her in a downtown express, so I came back to Bogg Street. I found a place where I could keep the apartment under surveillance without being noticed and I waited. On the one hand, I thought maybe if she came back with the police, I could give them your address, but on the other hand, if this got rough, it could compromise Voltarian presence on the planet. I decided I should find out more. If she came back with police, I could disappear. But if there were no police with her, maybe I could find out more information—which is, after all, my proper job, no matter how many times certain people seek to drive me off it, doing incorrect functions.”
“Get on with it,” I ordered him.
“She was gone for hours and when she came back she was alone so I walked with her. She was smug beyond belief. She seemed all happy and cheerful, but smug. These Earth women are that way. They’re happiest when they’ve got something on somebody, and that’s the way she looked.”
“Beautiful,” I said.
“Yes, I would say she did look more beautiful. But smug. We got clear up to her apartment and went in and then she did the weirdest thing. She kissed me on the cheek and she said, ‘Tell your friend, thank you, thank you, thank you! It is totally true. His or her letter has practically saved my life.’ So I got out of there real fast. Women don’t kiss you without some covert reason and I think she was just trying to keep you from taking flight until the police could come. So I recommend, knowing you, that you sort of lie low.”
“No, no, you idiot. She wasn’t covering anything up. She was being absolutely honest. I did save her life.”
I was so enthralled, I didn’t even notice when he left.
I could hardly wait for Sunday. Wow, was this going to go in the most unexpected direction Krak could ever imagine! (Bleep) her! Her and all her fancy, stupid tricks!
PART FORTY-TWO
Chapter 9
It was late morning of the day that would long live in my memory as Simmons’ Sunday.
Crouched in the closet again, this time with the door plainly marked “Occupied,” I eagerly watched events begin to unfold.
Heller, at his office desk, had been working on some calculations for quantities and volumes of spores. He now stood up and went to the window. Lower Manhattan spread out before his gaze under the mantle of sun-illuminated smog.
The Countess Krak was lying in the middle of the room on the rug going over museum programs, the cat dragging them off a pile for her.
“What’s the matter, dear?” she said to Heller. “You seem rather agitated.”
“Me? Agitated? Well, yes, but that’s a pretty strong word. Bang-Bang phoned about an hour ago and said the Nature Appreciation class location had been changed to Van Cortlandt Park today. It was to have been the Bronx Zoo. I was wondering why.”
“That’s that Miss Simmons, isn’t it, dear?”
“I wish you’d forget about this Miss Simmons thing. She hates me like poison. My only interest in her is that she could cost me my diploma and nobody will listen to me when I make my proposals.”
“I shouldn’t be counting on proposing to Miss Simmons, dear.”
“Please, can’t we call a truce on . . .”
“Dear, what is the weather like?”
“A warm spring day,” said Heller. “If it weren’t for the smog, it would be beautiful. In a lot of ways, you know, this is a very nice planet.”
“Well, that’s probably why they changed the class location,” said the Countess Krak. “Who’d want to be penned up in some stuffy zoo? Are you driving, dear?”
“Well, yes. That’s a good idea,” said Heller. “I put the new carburetor on the Porsche and I haven’t had a chance to give it a good spin.”
“You do that,” said the Countess Krak. “I have some exhibits I want to see, so if you don’t mind, dear, I’ll just run along.”
She was up like a shot. She had her blue suede topcoat, purse, shopping bag and hat right by the door. She gathered them up in one scoop and was gone.
Heller glanced out of the window again. Then he got into a white silk trench coat, found some papers and a notebook and put them in his pocket. He glanced down at his feet. He was wearing ankle-high walking boots and not his spikes. It gave me a nice feeling: if the police were waiting for him up there, he had no cleats to battle with. He was getting satisfactorily careless.
The Countess Krak had plummeted down in an elevator. She came out of the building on 34th Street, walked swiftly up the block and sped into a new, multistory, spiral-roadway garage. The attendant waved at her; she got into an elevator and shot upwards.
She was fishing in her purse. She stepped out into the ranks of cars. She spotted the blue Porsche. She opened the door, entered, closed and relocked it from within, and then, as only a trained magician’s assistant can do, curled herself up in the big luggage compartment behind the front seat and dropped the luggage canvas over her.
It made me nervous. I had forgotten to fill the strip well in her viewer and had no way to check back on what she had packed in that shopping bag. I had not counted on her presence at the next class. Maybe Bang-Bang, (bleep) him, had gotten her a demountable sniper rifle. These stupid men around her didn’t seem to realize what they were dealing with—a killer! The Countess Krak would have made top Mafia hit men look like kids shooting marbles. I knew her for what she was—a dangerous fiend with a thirst for blood unequaled by even Dracula of Earth fame.
Heller came trotting along shortly. He must have noted that the springs seemed a bit lower, for he gave the car a cursory exterior and motor check, probably for bombs. Then he gave an “Oh, well,” and started the car up, possibly believing all the monkeying he was doing with it had changed its balance or weight.
He sent it spinning down the ramp and shot it out onto the street. It was Sunday and New York, doubtlessly recovering from a Saturday night hangover, had about as much traffic on the streets as a cemetery.
He was shifting up and down through the gears like a rally driver. The purring Porsche was shortly onto the West Side Elevated Highway and in no
time at all was on the Henry Hudson Parkway. The river was blue and sparkling in the spring sun. The George Washington Bridge flicked by.
It worried me. He was driving by the tachometer, not the speedometer, and while he could have outdistanced a cop with that Porsche like the squad car was standing still, I yet was afraid he would get arrested for speeding and his appointment with destiny would be interrupted. But there just plain wasn’t any traffic. Those leaving for the country were gone and they had not yet begun to create the traffic jams of return. For once I was glad the police were asleep where Heller was concerned. Nothing must interfere with the coming catastrophe.
He had the stereo going and a song came over:
Fatal Woman,
Cherchez la femme.
Fatal Woman,
So drenched in sin.
Fatal Woman,
The Devil’s twin.
Fatal Woman,
You done me in.
And that’s why I shall die.
I smiled so broadly, I almost tore my lip. It went double for Heller: the one riding just behind him and the one waiting in that park ahead with scissors across his fate line, all ready to snip.
I almost felt sorry for the poor (bleepard). There he was, driving along so gay in his hopped-up Porsche, enjoying the early spring day, little suspecting the bomb that had been planted by the woman hidden behind him—and neither of them aware at all of the fuse sizzling up ahead, lit by me.
It’s bad enough to face one woman. But he was absolutely surrounded with the treacherous species.
He continued on the highway into Van Cortlandt Park and shortly took a branch to the right. He was now driving through a vast expanse of golf course. He found a turnoff and a parking lot. He stopped, got out and locked his car. He went swinging off past some golfers and onto a woods trail.
The Countess Krak waited. Then she rose up and looked around. All was clear. She got out and locked the car. Then, with the aid of a side mirror, she adjusted her black beret and put on a set of very dark glasses, for all the world as though they would disguise her, and set off after Heller, shopping bag on her arm.
Mission Earth Volume 5: Fortune of Fear Page 31
