The Stone-­Cold Dead in the Market Affair - Oram John (читать книги онлайн бесплатно регистрация .txt) 📗

"I think we can manage that, sir. What's her name?"

"Dolly."

"Ah! Dolly. All right, then, Dolly girl. Let's see if we can find you a few biscuits and a drop of milk."

When the door had closed behind him. Illya said to Solo, "Napoleon, my friend, we are wasting too much time. As the inspector said, breaking down Bambini may not be easy. I don't propose to wait."

"There's no need for both of us to stay around," Solo agreed. "I'll make your excuses to the Law. You've got your transmitter?"

"That," said Illya, offended, "is almost an indelicate question."

He flagged down a late-cruising cab in Bridge Street and rode to Leicester Square Underground station. The length of Newport Street was deserted and the sign over the Gloriana was dark. The double doors of the club were shut and locked.

He walked on, noting the dark form of a man standing motionless in a doorway across the street. Jevons was plainly taking no chances, even though Bambini had been arrested.

It was equally obvious that if Blodwen were in the club she could not have been taken in through the front doors. And it was a safe bet that the stakeout included coverage of the service entrance. There must be still a third way into the place.

Illya turned right into St. Martin's Lane and walked in the direction of the Coliseum Theater. He saw a block of small apartments in a small court. Light shone from the vestibule but no porter appeared to be on duty.

There was an iron fire escape against the far side of the building. Illya climbed it to the top floor, then stood on the guard rail and hauled himself on to the flat roof. Crouching low to avoid showing a silhouette against the night sky, he moved across the roof to the side nearest Newport Street. He made out, in the glow of the street lights, the chimneys of the building that housed the Gloriana. To get to them would mean a suicidal journey over rooftops of varying heights and slopes and dubious holding power. Illya offered a silent prayer and lowered himself over the parapet.

The climb took him fifteen minutes of sweat and fear. When he finally lay panting against the gray slates his fingers were bleeding and his ribs bruised and sore. He rested until his heart had ceased to pound, then infinitely carefully began to work his way toward a skylight.

He tried the frame gingerly. It gave under his fingers. Slowly he inched it open and shone his pencil flashlight into the black cavity. The light showed an empty attic. He balled his handkerchief and propped the frame half-open while he took off his shoes and hung them around his neck by the joined laces. Then he eased the skylight open and dropped silently into the room.

The landing outside was in darkness. He flashed the light again and saw stairs a few feet ahead. He listened a moment, then began the descent.

There were three doors opening off the landing below. He tried them, but the rooms were bare and tenantless. He went down a second flight of stairs to the first floor.

Illya breathed a sigh of thankfulness when the light showed that the landing was covered with heavy matting. He sat on the stairs and replace his shoes before going on.

Like the one above, the landing had three doors. A thread of yellow light showed under the middle of the three. Illya listened. No sound came from the room. He flattened himself against the wall, took a penny from his trouser pocket and dropped it. It made a plunking noise as it hit the matting and rolled away.

The door swung open and Dancer stepped out into the corridor. Illya's right hand, fingers stiff, chopped down expertly. As Dancer slumped Illya caught him and dragged him back into the room. He lowered him to the floor, and shut the door.

The room was evidently Dancer's living quarters. It held a divan bed with a green folkweave coverlet, two armchairs, a stereo and a bookcase that contained old magazines. A bottle of John Haig, a soda-water syphon and a half-filled tumbler stood on a table by one of the chairs.

Illya took off Dancer's belt, rolled him onto his face and strapped his hands behind his back. He pulled him across the floor, propped him in the chair by the table, took the syphon and squirted soda water over his head.

Dancer groaned. His eyes opened. He looked at Illya dazedly and struggled to free his hands.

Illya said, "If you try to shout I'll kill you. What have you done with the girl?"

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about. What girl?"

Illya took the P38 from its shoulder holster and cocked it. He said, "My friend, I am in no mood for games. In one second I am going to shoot you right in the belly. It will take you about five hours to die and every minute will be agony. Now talk!"

The P38 came into line.

Chapter Fifteen

Luigi was a gutter rat singularly lacking in the traditional Italian courtesy. As he prodded Blodwen back to the cellar at gunpoint he described with relish and in infinite detail what she could expect at the hands of Emile. It was with genuine relief that she heard the iron door clang behind him.

The darkness in the cellar was absolute. It was like being already dead, Blodwen thought. She took the Mauser from the skeleton holster strapped to the inside of her thigh, slipped out the magazine and assured herself that the shells were still there. Anna had a peculiar sense of humor. She might have found the gun, unloaded it and replaced it.

Blodwen slid the seven rounds back, rammed the magazine home and worked the jacket to slide the first shell into the chamber. With the gun in her hand she searched methodically along the wall to the rear of the cellar. Somewhere there had to be a ventilator and a possible, however remote, route to safety.

Her left hand found the first of the packing cases. She tucked the Mauser into the waistband of her skirt and began the job of leveling the stacks.

The cases were heavy, and working in complete blackness made the task even more difficult and dangerous. A slip could mean a broken leg or arm.

But the chance of escape was there. She was banking on the hope that if a ventilator existed the touch of cold air on her face would guide her to it.

The silence was broken by a sudden crackling sound like static. Then Anna's voice, distorted by an amplifier, said, "You have five minutes left. Are you tired of being obstinate?"

Blodwen went cold. She hadn't realized how much time was slipping away.

Anna's voice came again: "Can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"You now have four and a half minutes. I am waiting for your answer."

"It's still the same," Blodwen said. "Go jump in your murky Chinese lake."

Though she knew the effort was wasted, she resumed her tugging at the crates. At least, she thought, their disorder would complicate the game of hide-and-seek Anna had threatened.

The crackling sound again. Almost immediately Anna said, "Ten seconds. This is the last time I shall speak to you."

"Nothing doing," Blodwen replied.

"You are a fool."

There was a click as the microphone went dead.

Blodwen gripped the Mauser and waited, straining her eyes in the blackness.

Metal grated on metal. A line of gray broadened, slowly became an oblong as the door swung open. Blodwen raised the pistol. Emile's black shambling figure was framed in the dim light. She fired.

Emile made an animal howl of pain, but he came on.

She pressed the trigger again. The Mauser jammed.

The door clanged home, leaving her imprisoned with the wounded cretin. She could hear him moaning and floundering in the blackness toward her. She backed away, jerking frantically at the gun's jacket to free the mechanism.