The Corfu Affair - Phillifent John T. (серии книг читать бесплатно .txt) 📗

He was glad when the meal came to an end, when Katherine rose and excused herself on the time-worn old plea that she had to be up and about in the morning early. She departed. The rest of them congregated in that spine-chilling room where Louise had arrayed her samples, the row of cabinets, each containing an inanimate but perfect human being, just waiting the call to stir into life and obey. Solo felt his nerves wind up as tight as piano wire. From here on he had several things to do, and they had to be done just right, in the right order, and not one could be missed.

For a start, he stood obsequiously by the door to hold it open while the others stalked in. Then, exactly as he had gambled, Louise waved him away from the door, shut it herself and turned the key in the lock. The movement of that key shattered a tiny capsule of corrosive fluid he had inserted while standing there. Within a minute or two that lock would be useless junk, no more than an ornament. Where her secrets were concerned, Louise had an understandable passion for locked doors and no interruptions. Solo knew that. He also knew what was about to happen, if he could work it, and he had no intention of being locked in that room in that event, not if he could avoid it.

Her next move was to wave them all to be seated while she left them for a moment.

"Only into the next room," she explained, with a glittering smile. "I must prepare for the operation, you see. Also to get my instruments—and my cash-box. Napoleon, darling, you will stand by this door, and see that none interrupts."

It was all said lightly and with a smile, but there was no doubt in any mind present that Louise had not the slightest intention of trusting any one of them, except, possibly Solo himself. She wouldn't, Solo mused, go even that far, if she hadn't been convinced that he was under her control. So, by the time she came back through that door, and locked it, it also was useless as a precaution.

In any case, the Thrush four were in no mood to notice small details. Louise had prepared herself for a spectacular, as always. She had stripped herself of all clothing, and wore only a small white apron with pockets. Under each arm she carried a small steel box. She stood a moment to meet their wide-eyed stares with a haughty lift of her chin.

"Are you all so naive?" she demanded witheringly. "When one has a perfect body, there is nothing to be ashamed of. I am proud of mine. I do not care who sees it. Were you so well-designed, you too would be proud to show. Remember this. Perhaps, afterwards, you will come to me and let me do something to correct your defects!"

Then she marched to the head of the table.

Solo stood back, grinning to himself. She had the whip hand all the way, now, and she didn't even try to be gracious. She planked the boxes down, put her hands on them and eyed the audience coldly.

"This will be done as I say, so attend carefully. I have here the sets of matched modules. You will pay me for them now. When you pay, in turn I will present you with a pair. Then you will select the slave you wish from my collection. Then I will insert one module into the slave's brain, you will keep the other. When that is complete, then I will perform the insertion operation on each of you in turn. That way there will be no mix-ups, no confusion. Have you any questions?"

Solo had used this moment to edge gently away towards the window, which was heavily draped. Bulow grumbled an objection.

"I do not like this idea, that I am to be helpless while you do a something to my head, You so obviously do not trust us, madame. Why then should I trust you?"

"That is a perfectly fair question," she said patiently. "Always it is asked, and always I make the same reply. See—" and she spread her arms widely in deliberate exhibitionism, "—I am unarmed and helpless. You are four. I operate on you one at a time. If I do something wrong to one, the others will kill me, isn't that so? So simple!"

"That's all very well," Scortia agreed. "But what about the choice? Suppose we are not satisfied with any one of these?"

"You jest, signor," she retorted. "There are twelve, all perfect, all colors, from fairest blonde to darkest brunette, and one redhead. What more do you want?"

Solo waited, tensely. He had seen this pantomime before. The Thrush men were inventing reasons to avoid the cranial operation, that's all there was to it. And Louise, in her way, was a skilful psychologist. She knew.

"You think it is not worth it, perhaps? Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, here and now?" None of them wanted to admit that, so she pressed her point. "Very well, then. You will pay me. And then we shall see."

Bulow made it first. "All right!" he growled, and produced a thick wad of engravings of President Cleveland. "You want to count it?"

"Of course!" she said sharply, and proceeded to do just that. This was the moment Solo had waited for. There is some unholy fascination about the sight of a large wad of banknotes being counted. All eyes were on the flying fingers of Countess Louise, none on him. He drew the drapes very quietly, eased open the window just beyond, took something from his pocket and dropped it, then closed the window again. Now he took the drapes and deliberately made a noise with them. Louise brought her head round instantly.

"What are you doing, Napoleon?"

"Warm in here," he said. "Thought I'd like a breath of air."

"Certainly not. Shut the curtains at once. If you are warm then remove some clothing. Look at me, I'm quite comfortable!"

"That's the understatement of the year," he grinned, but jerked the curtains close in time to shut out the blue glare that was beginning to show outside. "You may be comfortable, but it is just that which is making me warm. You don't realize—"

"Silly!" She dazzled him with a smile. "Of course I realize. You come here and stand by me while I finish counting this money. Come!"

Shrugging, he sauntered over to stand beside her. She looked up at him, still with that dazzling smile.

"Napoleon," she said, very sweetly, "I love you. You are my man and I want to be kind to you. But you must realize that I am in charge, here!" And without any warning at all she swept her free hand round and across his face with a slap like a pistol shot. It was almost as effective as a punch.

"There!" she cooed. "Now remember!" And she returned to her counting as if nothing had happened.

High on a rocky outcrop away to the south of the palace Illya Kuryakin saw the flare and went into immediate action. Daylight survey was now about to pay off. By his side was a sturdy line thrower. He braced it now, aimed carefully by the flare, and pulled the catch. The harpoon-like rod thumped and leaped away into the gloom, trailing a fine line after it. Dropping between two crenellations on the palace roof, on impact it grew a fan of vanes that effectively jammed it as he hauled taut. Leaning on it, he made his end fast around a rock spur.

A moment later he had mounted a tiny trolley on the bridging cable. He settled into the dangling leather straps, tried his weight, then pushed off, to go silently gliding and bobbing away into the gloom, heading for the pink and white palace facade. By the time the white wall was close the blue flare was almost directly beneath him. As he checked his flight and started lowering down, the flare sputtered out altogether. He got his feet on a balcony wall, balanced a moment, then jumped down. The stink of gunpowder was very strong. He secured the trailing ends of the hoist, drew his pistol from its waterproof holster, and advanced to the dark window on bare feet.