The Power Cube Affair - Phillifent John T. (версия книг .txt) 📗

"That's it, then," she said, decisively. "You can't go home, and you would be asking for trouble to try any hotel. So I'm taking you home with me."

"You're in charge, Miss Perrell," Kuryakin said softly.

"Now you're really getting smart, Illya. Truce? Napoleon?"

"Fair enough. But something needs to be done about the leak from Barnett's office."

"I'll mention it to Charles. He'll fix it."

"What about you. Aren't you in danger now?"

"Hardly. Roger doesn't even know about me. Charles is the only one with that kind of information."

"Top man. And you're right next to him. You must be pretty good!"

"I can stand any number of compliments like that," she laughed. "No false modesty about me, at all. And you two know what it's all about too, don't you? Twelve little rockers with toys, and you really smeared them. I don't think I've seen anything quite as fast as that before. Very nice!"

"Thank you," Solo murmured, and sat back. By his side, Kuryakin seemed uneasy. He leaned forward after a moment or two.

"You saw it all happen. Sat there and watched it, didn't you?"

"That's right!" There was suppressed mischief in her voice. "I did. I enjoyed the whole thing." They were clear of the city traffic now. She eased down, pulled in to the roadside, got out and came to the rear door. "Make room," she ordered, "so I can sit between you. Explanations are called for."

They made room and she slid in, settling on the cushions between them.

"I sat there and watched, didn't I?" she repeated. "I didn't do anything. And that worries you, doesn't it?"

"There wasn't a lot you could do," Solo shrugged. "We didn't need any help. Forget it."

"Stiff necked pair, aren't you? Look, we're in this together." As they started to protest she put up her hand. "All right, I know I'm only a female. Overblown trollop, to you. But I am also, as Charles told you, a hawk. I have weapons." She extended one long and very shapely leg, made a fast sweeping motion with her right hand, and all at once there was a tiny pistol shaped thing in her fist. Then she opened her palm and let the thing show.

"For you," she said to Solo. "And here's its little brother." She repeated the motion, left handed this time. "For you, Illya. And don't let the plastic-toy appearance fool you."

"That's all right." Solo eyed the weapon in her palm as an old and tried friend in need. It did, in fact, resemble a toy, simply because there was no need here for pressure resistance and rifled barrel. The bullets themselves did all the work, were miniature rocket missiles that needed only impact to start them on their lethal way. "We've seen 'em before," he said. "Very useful, and deadly. Thanks for the demonstration. I'm more interested in where you pack them, though."

"I can't blame you for that." She extended her legs happily for inspection. "As I said, no false modesty about me. If you care to strain a tasteful adjective or two over the limbs, I shan't mind a bit."

They were well worth scrutiny, Solo thought, but his attention returned to the functionally neat harness from which she had extracted the pistols with such practiced ease. At the top of her thigh, where the broad muscle begins to taper inward, leaving a slight hollow below the oncoming hip bulge, a slim buckled band of leather held a flat arrangement of spring clips on a firm leather base. As he looked, she palmed the gun, slapped it into place and restored her skirt hem to semipropriety, all in one movement.

"Neat!" he said with genuine appreciation. "You've practiced that a few times, obviously. But why there?"

"Where else?" she demanded instantly. "A handbag is the first place anybody would go for, so that's out. And skirt hems are getting so elevated these days that nobody would believe there could be anything underneath there except me." She left her skirt where it was, deliberately.

Just as deliberately, Kuryakin juggled the little weapon in his palm, slapped it neatly into its spring clip holder and drew down the hem on his side as far as it would go.

"What d'you do for light entertainment?" he demanded gently. "Throw rocks through the bars at the tigers?"

She gave him a sweetly savage smile. "Do you see any bars here, Illya? And you don't look so tigerish to me!"

"I'm on vacation," he said cryptically. "Can we drive on now?"

She scrambled out, resumed her driving seat, and within ten more minutes they had whipped their way through a slumbering suburb and come to rest in the gravel forecourt of a house standing in its own grounds some distance from the main road. Solo exchanged meaningful glances with his colleague as they followed their leader into the bright lights of a dignified hallway and came face to face with a tall, lean man dressed as a possible butler, but with all the look of a retired sergeant major about him.

"Evening, Curtis," she said blithely. "Would you bring the medical kit up to my room in a moment, please? And some hot water. Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin will be staying, so see if you can conjure up some pajamas, won't you?" She led the way to a handsome staircase and Solo murmured, discreetly:

"Some trollop you picked, Illya."

"A lady tiger, and with a chip on each shoulder. We'll be lucky to get out of this alive!"

The bedroom was obviously hers, but its riotous colors were tame by comparison with the one next door, which she pointed out to them as the place they would sleep.

"Sorry about the decor," she said with a grimace, "but it's part of the image I try to maintain, on the rare times I do entertain guests. For now, both of you, off top gear and sit there, on the side of the bed."

She had assumed all the confident authority of a hospital matron, and the two men obeyed without a murmur. Off came her cape, and, for good measure, off came the negligible upper half of her mesh dress.

"That saves all the nonsense about rolling up sleeves and so forth. I like freedom of action. Besides, it will take your minds off the stings, won't it? Now then!" She came close, just as Curtis appeared with a steaming bowl and a box of medical supplies. The grin left her face as she surveyed the damage. Curtis followed her look, and there was a chill glint in his gray eyes as he asked:

"Just how did you come by that, sir?"

"This? A kid with a bicycle chain."

"I hope you accounted for the murdering young devil, sir?"

"You could say that. I tried to bounce him off a brick wall, but he didn't bounce very well. Just fell down and lay there."

The leathery face twitched. Long arms reached for the shirt and coat Solo had discarded. "I'll see what I can do for the jacket, miss, but I'm afraid the shirt's had it. And you, sir. Let me look." He inspected the three inch gashes in Kuryakin's right arm and clicked his tongue.

"No need to ask about that one. You were very lucky, sir. Do you think we need a doctor, miss?"

"For a scratch like this?" protested Illya.

"That's no scratch," snorted Nan Ferrell. "Nor is that crack you've got, Napoleon. You're damned lucky you didn't crack your collarbone. But we won't call a doctor, because they ask awkward questions and have to make reports and things. Righto, Curtis, see what you can do with the repairs to the clobber, while I patch up the bodies. And the brandy, I think, in about half an hour."