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

"She sounds quite a girl," Solo chuckled. "That orgy might be fun after all." Before she could comment, he put a hand on her wrist. "Johnny's place is just around the next corner, left hand side."

As the car slowed to a stop, Solo got an idea. "Look," he suggested, "it's still a mess in there. You drop Illya and me here, while you go on to the hospital, see Guard and tell him how things are moving. By the time you get back we'll have the place tidy enough for visitors, maybe a meal if we can find the ingredients for it. You can find this place easily enough on the way back."

They watched the car glide away then went indoors to dried blood and silence, to find mops and buckets, to use hot water and muscle and clean the place up fit to be seen. And all the while a strange idea circulated in Solo's mind. Stones. Here the beach was full of them. Some on the window ledge. Red stones in a necklace. And the crystal jewels the greasy voiced man had spoken of, on that tape, were stones too. Solo felt certain of that. But why the "seventh stone"?

SIX

MISS PERRELL came back with a strange glow in her eye. "I saw him, talked to him," she told them. "The doctor was very kind and understanding, spoke to me privately after wards. Apparently Mr. Guard will be on his feet again in a week, would be up and about now if they would let him. He really is a fantastic man. So quiet and gentle, and yet you get the impression he would charge straight through a brick wall if it got in his way. He said he wished he had been there when you had your little mixup with the thugs,"

"That sounds like him," Solo grinned. "What do you fancy for lunch? There's a fair stock of supplies, and Illya is a fine short order cook."

She wasn't very interested in food. Instead, she made Solo show her exactly where and how they had found Guard and what they had done.

"It's hard to imagine," she said, "now that you've cleaned it all up. Stone floors don't leave traces. I shall have to get Charles to let me hear that tape for myself."

"I wouldn't," Solo advised. "It's not nice, nor necessary for what you'd learn from it. We've told you all the bits that matter."

"Will you stop trying to protect me?" She eyed the room, then looked out of the window. "Do you suppose we could find the actual place on the beach where she died?"

"We can try. Johnny described it fairly well."

"Please," she said, and Solo exchanged resigned glances with Kuryakin. They went out of the beach side door onto a small platform and then down a flight of wooden steps to the narrow concrete strip which ended just a yard beyond the house. She paused a moment to take in the scene, the headlands on either side, the sea, which was far out now.

"Your man certainly likes to be isolated," she said, as they started to walk. "I gathered he was that type, just talking to him. We are all isolated, of course, from each other, but very few of us dare to face that fact. And don't quote Donne at me!"

"No man is an Island—why not?"

"Donne was talking in terms of responsibility. We have to feel some kind of responsibility for each other, or civilization would perish. But we are in fact, each one of us, isolated from the other. Napoleon, do you think I am morbid, actually wanting to see the very spot where Mary died?"

"Let's just say I don't see how it will do any good."

"But it will. It will help to keep me aware of the hard facts of life. I have to keep reminding myself that this isn't just a game, that people do get killed, and that it could be my turn any time I get careless."

"It's a point," he agreed, then halted to raise an arm. "I think that must be it. A hollow in the pebbles where he crouched to watch, and there's the water line at high tide."

Solo had to admit, if only to himself, that there was an unreal sense about this business. Here, with a breeze gently tugging at her little girl dress, the bright sunshine striking highlights from her pale blonde hair, it was hard to imagine that Miss Perrell was standing, then crouching, at the very spot where one of her colleagues had coughed up blood and died an inglorious death. Still harder was it to believe that John Guard, involved purely by chance, had been immediately attacked and left for dead. That kind of thing didn't fit this beach, the quiet sunshine. Miss Perrell stood up, looked out to sea, then turned and came back to him.

"That will do it," she said. "Let's go back."

They went up the slope to the concrete wall, and she scrambled up, disdaining his help, then stood and looked down at him.

"Wait a bit," she said, and he waited. The breeze tweaked at her skirt, so that he saw for a moment the glitter of the buckle on her thigh strapped holsters. "I want some stones," she said, "About so big," and she indicated with a finger and thumb something the size of a tennis ball. "I think about ten or twelve. Pass them up."

He shrugged, gathered up stones for her until she was satisfied, then climbed up to join her, took some of them. They started walking back to the steps.

"Aren't you going to ask why?"

"You'll tell me when you're ready."

"That I will. You'll see."

They halted at the foot of the steps. She moved to the upward edge of the concrete and arranged the stones in a row, about six inches apart, right on the edge.

"Let's go and eat now," she suggested, and led the way lip the steps. Music met their ears as they went inside.

"What on earth—?"she tilted her head to listen to the cascade of interwoven sound. "I'm sure I know that, but not in that form."

"Bach," Kuryakin explained.

"But that's keyboard music. Heavens, I used to play this thing once. They are ringing it!"

"Haven't you ever heard the Swingle Singers?"

She hadn't and was most intrigued. All through the meal she and Kuryakin talked music, and Solo got the impression that she was rather put out by the depth and range of the Russian agent's knowledge.

She's obviously interested in music, he thought, but Illya's making her sound like a stumbling amateur, and she doesn't like it a bit. Guard had four Swingle albums in his record collection, and by the time they had been played Miss Perrell had had enough.

"Leave the washing up a moment," she said, pushing away from the table. They followed her out on to the little balcony. She indicated the stones; then with a smooth movement she drew one of her guns.

"Target practice," Kuryakin guessed. "You're not giving yourself much of a mark to shoot at, are you?"

"You two said you'd seen weapons like these before, but have you used them at all? Care to show me?" She offered one gun to Solo, who put up his hands in rejection.

"I'm no expert. I've handled one, yes."[1]

Miss Perrell sat on the top step, braced her forearm on a knee, took careful aim, and fired. There was a quiet pop and then the delayed whip crack sound far ahead of the muzzle. Down there a chip of concrete sprang away in dust by the side of the center stone, close enough to stir it.

On her second shot it leaped away into the sunshine with a howl. She opened her palm and handed the gun to Solo.

"Let's see you," she said. He took it, shrugged as he examined it.

"I said I'm no expert, and this thing isn't intended to be accurate. The slugs are miniature rockets, which throws the customary trajectory all cockeyed. For one thing, they take off slow but accelerate past the sound barrier within the first few feet. The real virtue of the thing is the hitting power. As you know, the impact value derives from half the mass times the square of the velocity, so there's quite a clout at the far end. Still, if you insist!"