[Magazine 1968-012] - The Million Monsters Affair - Davis Robert Hart (серия книг .txt) 📗

As he moved cautiously, keeping close to a thick hedge of oleanders, he drew his U.N.C.L.E. Special, shoving the cartridge carrier over to the paralyzing pellets.

He told himself grimly, “She is alone in that car. No woman would sit out here in the dark alone without a very good reason.”

He came close enough to see the car. He stopped, watching closely. While the screening bushes cut his own view, he was certain that from the car’s position the girl could get a clear view of the Mallon studio below.

He moved closer, more certain than ever now that the girl was the missing Marsha Mallon.

Cautiously Napoleon pushed his way closer. He held the gun ready to fire. Marsha had shown during the Sunset Strip riots that she intended to play a lone hand. Much as he regretted the necessity of knocking her unconscious with the pellets, Solo knew it was the only way he could control her.

After that a dose of the super-powerful U.N.C.L.E. truth serum would provide answers for some of the missing pieces of the Million Monsters jigsaw puzzle.

He still was not close enough to tell for sure if she was the dead producer’s daughter. He crouched nearly double and quickly crossed an open area. Here he stopped, cautiously waiting to see if she had seen the movement.

She kept staring down the hill. In the dark Solo could not make out what she had in her hand, but from the shape he suspected that it was an infrared scope for picking out objects in the dark.

As Solo moved in closer, the girl suddenly dropped the scope. She slid out of the car. He saw her crouch almost double and disappear into the darkness.

Napoleon Solo stopped, wondering uneasily what had frightened her. He waited a full minute and then started forward. He took a couple of steps and halted again when he heard a soft snap. He turned, his U.N.C.L.E. special switched from pellets back to bullets.

Before he could fire he glimpsed a flash of light in the darkness. Then something sharp slammed into his leg.

A rapidly spreading numbness shot up from the wound. He tried to shoot, but the gun dropped from his paralyzed hand. He crumpled. In the last few seconds of lucidity left to him, he realized what had happened. THRUSH had been moving in on Marsha Mallon and he had walked straight into their trap.

His last conscious recollection was of two men standing over him. Then he heard the soft twang the THRUSH gun gives when it fires its own brand of paralyzing pellets.

Then a man’s voice said in great excitement: “I think I got her! We’ve got Marsha Mallon too! Both of them!”

THREE

FOLLOWING THE blast in the Paris apartment Illya Kuryakin spent two hours at police headquarters. A dragnet was put out for the woman who answered Kuryakin’s call to the International Film Exchange. However, the inspector on the case told Illya that he doubted they would find her.

“There is not a single clue,” he said hopelessly.

“There is her voice,” Illya said. “I’d recognize it. It sounded like honeyed wine.”

“There are thousands of women who speak so in Paris, monsieur!” the inspector said. “It would be pleasant to go about the city asking each lovely lady one encounters to speak a few words. But I doubt that this is practical.”

“I suppose not,” Illya said. “But we face an increasingly desperate situation.”

“Unfortunately,” the inspector said, “we forwarded a report of your claim about THRUSH activity spurring these riots to the commissioners. They considered it fantastic.”

“We have definite proof, Inspector,” Illya said. “This is the forerunner of an attempt to destroy world civil governments.”

The inspector shrugged. “I know the reputation of U.N.C.L.E.,” he said. “But we are convinced that our local disturbances are purely spontaneous. In America perhaps your teenagers need stimulus to riot. In Paris it has become a way of life.”

“Then I can expect no help from you,” Illya said.

“We are vitally concerned with these three murders, that of the film exchange man, the U.N.C.L.E. informant, and our own Inspector Gabin. If any information of value to you comes from the investigations, we will of course cooperate with U.N.C.L.E. fully.”

When Illya reported his conversation back to Waverly, the U.N.C.L.E. chief said, “I can understand the French police’s skepticism, Mr. Kuryakin. It is fantastic. Unfortunately it happens to be true. Also, I must warn you to be doubly careful. I understand that THRUSH has given this professional assassin, LeBlanc, a contract. I do not know that this highly efficient criminal is aiming at you. But it is a distinct possibility.”

“My only lead is this woman’s voice,” Illya said. “It is a thin trail.”

“But keep after it, Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly said. “We can afford to overlook no possibility. We are in trouble everywhere. You know how thin our Hollywood lead is. Miss Dancer is having the same trouble in London. I -

“One moment, please. A report is coming in. Perhaps -”

Illya waited impatiently for a full minute. Then Waverly’s voice came back through the pen communicator.

“Mr. Kuryakin!” Waverly said, obviously struggling to keep his voice calm. “You must return to Hollywood immediately! Mr. Solo has disappeared. His rented car was found on a hill overlooking the Mallon studios. There were definite signs of a struggle. In addition, police found another car registered to Marsha Mallon. It appears that both have been taken by THRUSH.”

“I’ll take the next plane,” Illya said.

“Do so,” Waverly said. “While you may turn up important leads in Paris, I am convinced that the heart of this terrible matter is located in Hollywood. It is here where the subliminal evil influences are placed in the movie soundtracks. We cannot afford to let up our pressure there. We are spread so thin that we have no one else to cover for Solo in Hollywood.”

Immediately after notifying Inspector Moreau of the French police that he was returning to the States, Illya took a cab to the airport. The magic U.N.C.L.E. name got him a place on a plane scheduled to leave in a half hour.

While waiting he caught sight of an extraordinarily lovely girl. Her lovely figure and chic traveling suit were the epitome of French flair and style. She was standing by the plate glass window looking out into the night.

When Kuryakin stopped to look at her, it was the natural reaction of a young man for a lovely girl. But his second look was the natural reaction of a cold-blooded man who keeps alive in a dangerous profession by carefully noting every small detail.

It seemed to him that she could see little outside in the dark, but that her position made the glass a natural mirror in which she could observe what went on behind her.

And there was no one behind her but himself. Thoughtfully Illya went on. He stopped for a second at a magazine kiosk to have an excuse for looking her way again. She had shifted so that she could still observe him in the reflected glass.

For a second Illya debated his next move. His first impulse was to go over and make some excuse for speaking to her. He was certain that he would recognized the honey-wine voice he heard on the phone if he could hear the girl speak again.

On second thought he decided this too abrupt an approach. Obviously this girl in the air terminal had a more than passing interest in him. If she were the woman he sought, it would be better to have additional information before he accosted her.

He went over to the airline service counter and found the smiling young lady who had previously checked him in.

“The lady across the lobby -” he said.

“You can do better than that, Mr. Kuryakin,” she said, and her smile left no doubt of whom she meant he could do better with.

Regretfully he put aside the idea.

“No doubt about it,” he said. “But there is the matter of a plane leaving in a few minutes. You aren’t going on it, are you?”