[The Girl From UNCLE 04] - The Cornish Pixie Affair - Leslie Peter (электронная книга .txt) 📗

Now, perhaps, with luck, she might be able to do something about escaping, for the crocodile handbag — although Wright had accurately catalogued its contents — was not entirely what it seemed. Many of the things inside had been endowed at the U.N.C.L.E. laboratories with a double purpose.

But first, should she call Mark?

She felt the reassuring shape of the Communicator in its secret pocket beneath the lining of the bag. No... time was too short. She must get out of here herself and call him afterwards, for if she did summon him to the rescue, he might well be too late to help her by the time he could get there from the town. She drew the bag towards her and rummaged inside.

The cigarette lighter she produced was very slightly larger than standard. It would also cut through various metals if properly handled, being a miniature blowtorch of considerable power...

As she picked up the tiny knob with her nails and began pumping the shaft to which it was attached in order to raise the pressure, she pondered on her best course of action. Obviously she would be unable to use the flame to cut through the wristlet or anklet, so it was a matter of attacking either the chain shackling her to the wall or the padlock securing wrist and ankle...judging by the thickness of the iron, there would not be enough in the reservoir to attempt both.

She reached into the handbag again and drew out what looked like an ordinary hairpin. The light was fast fading, but she would have to do what she could... Twisting the special wire into a convoluted shape, she inserted it into the keyhole of the padlock and attempted a turn. It would not move.

She withdrew it and made a minute adjustment to one end. This time, it began to turn and then apparently fouled on some thing inside. For the second time she took it away and effected an alteration. It turned further but still would not go the whole way. On the third attempt, the wire she was manipulating bent slackly at a corner and then parted, so she had to begin all over again. But with the new piece, she was lucky first time: there was a firm click and the padlock tongue sprang open.

With a gasp of relief, April turned to the lighter again. Now that she had two hands, the task would be that much simpler — especially as she no longer had that agonisingly cramped posture imposed on her. It was, however, going to be no easy job: in the first place, she would be unable to look directly at the fierce flame, so that accuracy would be a hit-and-miss matter. There were specially tinted glasses for use with the blowtorch lighter, but she did not have them with her. Secondly, the combustible by-products of the oxy-acetylene flame made a pungent and instantly recognisable smell... and she had no idea how far away she was from the main part of the house where Wright and his henchmen had no doubt gathered with the mysterious Colonel Forsett — whoever he was.

Thirdly, the flame — even a tiny one like this — was noisy. And lastly, she had no idea if it would last long enough to cut through the chain.

Feverishly, she took the links between her two hands. It must be cut as near to her foot as possible, for with a clanking length of chain fixed to her ankle, she would be a sitting target. On the other hand, since she could not for long look at what she was doing, there was a very real risk that she would sear through her boot and injure her leg. Eventually she decided on the third link out from the anklet and thumbed the mechanism of the lighter.

A thin tongue of flame shot ten inches into the air with a muted roar. Setting the torch on the floor, she twisted a couple of tiny handkerchiefs around the two links between the area of operations and her boot to insulate them from each other and try to minimise the heat transference. Then, picking up the lighter, she directed the flame at the third link.

In an instant, it seemed to her, the cellar became an inferno of odours and noise. The hiss of the pressurised flame and the rattle of the chain on the stone flags warred for attention in her over-sensitive mind with the acrid, throat-catching tang of the gas, the flat, sour smell of heating metal, and the stench of charred handkerchief and varnished leather.

Averting her eyes from the fierce incandescence which lay at the centre of the shower of sparks, she held the torch grimly in place. The centre of the link was cherry red when she turned off the flame and paused to listen.

In the sudden silence, the assorted smells of the operation seemed stronger than ever. Far away, a motor car engine started, revved up, and then died away into silence. Otherwise there was no sound. Colonel Forsett and his wife, she imagined with an inward smile, had either just arrived or just left. Or perhaps Wright's wife had returned. Or Wright himself had gone. In any case, it was perhaps a good thing, for whichever of those alternatives was true, it was likely that its result would be momentarily to focus attention away from her.

Pumping at the handle, she returned to her task.

Several times, the intense heat transmitted by the links forced her to snatch her foot away; once the agony of looking too closely at the flame caused her to waste a half minute of flame on the stone floor. But finally there was an appreciable opening in the curved iron of the link.

And then the flame dwindled, guttered, and died out.

Desperately, April pumped and pumped; furiously she clicked at the mechanism — but there was no response. The little tank was exhausted.

The girl was almost crying with exasperation. So very near, and yet...She set her teeth and waited for the hot metal to cool. Once it was brittle again, there was a faint chance that she could utilise the gap she had made to force the link apart. Planting her shackled foot at the full stretch of the chain away from the wall, she placed the other at the height of the ring, flexed her knee and began to push.

There was a tiny metallic chink! and she was suddenly pitching over backwards, to land with a jar against the opposite wall. But she was free!

Panting, she leaned against the cold granite and listened. No sound interrupted the laboured breathing exuding from her own lungs. Picking up her handbag, she dropped the lighter inside, twisted the opened padlock out of her wrist iron, and walked across to the window. There was a light metallic tapping from the two links of chain still attached to her anklet, but it was not too bad.

The window opened on an ordinary latch. She swung it outwards, hauled herself up, and climbed into a narrow area.

It was quite dark now, and the wind was moaning softly among the tops of the tall trees which sheltered the house. In the flagged yard above the area, now that she could see all of it, a Humber shooting brake stood outside the barn whose roof she had been looking at from inside her cell. Beyond, light streamed from an open doorway leading into an immense garage, winking from the sophisticated curves delineating the body of a D.S.21 Citroen. The main part of the house bulked against the sky behind her — and she imagined from the suffused radiance outlining the roof that the lighted windows were all on the far side.

For a moment, she toyed with the idea of trying to steal one of the cars — then prudence overrode imagination: Wright had spoken of special devices to stop people trying to escape, and they would be on to her as soon as she pressed the starter. No, the stealthy exit to the cliffs, followed by a run down to Porthallow and a return in force with Mark — that was what was needed now.

In the instant that the thought was formed — and before she had had time to look around and take notice of the lay of the land — a man in chauffeur's uniform walked out of the garage and saw her. His exclamation of surprise was echoed by an angry shout of alarm from the cellar from which she had just escaped.