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

"Good speech! Can we go home now, Napoleon?"

"That's a very good idea, Illya. Go home. Got a little car here somewhere. Lovely little car. Goes like a bomb!" That struck him as exceedingly witty, and he was still chuckling over it as they fought their way up the hillside, collected Louise's lifeless body, and sought out their own car from its hiding place among the bushes. They stretched her out in the back seat and scrambled into the front. Solo found the keys, pressed the starter, and the engine came to life. He straightened, fumbled with pedals and gear lever, pawed the panel until the lights came on, then aimed for the road, and they were off.

"Got to get Louise to a doctor," he declared. "She's sick. Everybody's sick. Need help." There was no response. Kuryakin leaned back and lolled with his eyes closed, wearing a smile of bliss. Solo snorted, put his attention on the road again. The headlights seemed bent, and the road twisted crazily from one side to the other as he tried to follow it.

"All crooked," he sighed. "All of it. That's the trouble with everything. All twisted up." Again he had a flash of that knife edge clarity, his mind retreating from the crazy world of corkscrew roads, and sinuous headlight beams. Going home. But, he argued, where home? Which way? Need help. But who? Mustn't tell U.N.C.L.E. He was certain of that. So who? A name knocked at the door of his mind. He let it in. Nan. Nan Perrell. Lovely girl. He fastened onto that thought, worked at it until it was clear, then peered, through the rainbow windshield again. Somehow he had left the road and was on a switchback. But there was a familiar corner. And there, just ahead, was a call box shining in the dark. Sanity struck through the delirium. He leaned his head against the cold glass of the screen, and the chill was wonderful. He sat up, eased over to the side of the road and stopped, stared at the call box. Call for help. He scrambled out, fumbled at the door, stumbled inside. Six- pence. He groped, got one out and ready. Then he dug down through the muddled layers of memory until he found the number she had told him. He lifted the receiver and dialed. There came a double-buzz, and again, then a click and a rapid chittering. He aimed the sixpence for the slot as he heard a male voice state:

"Miss Perrell's residence. Who is calling, please?"

"Solo here," he mumbled, as the chittering stopped. "Speak to Miss Perrell, please."

"One moment," the voice requested, and then came a shrill, acid edged voice.

"Mr. Solo! Do you know it's four-fifteen! In the morning!"

"Ah, Nan! Bit of trouble. Need help."

"And you are stoned, by the sound of it. How dare you, getting me out of bed at this hour! I suppose you think it's funny––"

"Not funny, no. Apologize for bothering you. Need help—"

"My God!" Her tone switched abruptly. "You're hurt. Where are you? Stay put and I'll come and get you."

"No need. Not far away. Just 'round the corner. Be there—five minutes. Sorry––couldn't think of anybody else."

He hung up, noting amazedly that the call box had now righted itself. He walked back to the car holding his head well back. The road had changed its tactics now, had be come fluid, squirming and twisting as if to dodge out from under his wheels, but he held on to it grimly until he saw a familiar gate post, and swerved to graze past it. Without quite believing it, he cut the engine and rolled to a stop close by her Princess. He leaned on the door, got it open and reeled out just as a flood of light came from the entrance, and there she was all in blue satin and running to catch him. He fended her off feebly.

"In the back," he mumbled. "Girl. Louise Thompson. Overdose of pentothal, to make her talk. Needs a doctor."

"All right, take it as read. Curtis, take that car, just as it is, to the hospital. I'll ring and warn them you're coming, they'll know what to do. Come on, you. And you," as Kuryakin came walking out of the dark with his eyes only half- open. "Lean on me."

It seemed to Solo that he drifted, his feet barely touched the ground. They reached the glaring light of the hallway, and she caught her breath.

"God in heaven, where have you two been? Strikes me you're the ones who need to go to the hospital."

"No need to make a fuss," Kuryakin mumbled. "Just a little scrap."

"With what, a bulldozer? Come on, the first thing you both need is a hot bath." She swept them forward and up the stairs.

"Smell nice," Solo murmured.

"I hope you mean me, because I'm damned if you do." She dragged them into the bathroom, set water gushing, lowered the two men to the floor. "Be getting undressed while I phone." She was back before Solo had struggled out of his sweater. She took hold of Kuryakin, who had gone peacefully to sleep on the tiled floor. "Anyone would think you two had crawled through every gutter for ten miles around. Maybe you have." She undressed the passive Russian expertly, diagnosing as she went. "Bang on the head. Lump like an egg and split scalp. Shoulder bruises, look like iron bar marks. Rope burns. Teeth marks! You have had a time, haven't you?" She hoisted efficiently and dropped Kuryakin into the water. He came to life with a yell and clutched the side. She turned on Solo.

"You next!"

"I can manage on my own!"

"You can? By trying to get your head out through an armhole? Don't be so blasted pigheaded. You called for help, didn't you? All right, then, let me help!" She came at him, took charge, pulled and heaved and finally got him into the bath along with his companion. "You've been tied up, too, and bashed and chewed by wild beasts. What did you do, tangle with a circus or something?"

She went away and came back with an armful of big white towels, tossed them to the floor, twirled out of her blue satin and caught up one towel to wrap round her waist like an apron. She found bottles and laced the water with their contents, creating an odor of pine and disinfectant. She got a cake of pink soap, a wash cloth, a portable shower head which she attached to the taps, and she started to scrub and drench them until they were clean.

By the time she was finished scrubbing, dousing them with antiseptics, investigating their wounds, and the hot water was running out, and she could hose them down with cold, the two men were almost normal again.

"Right." She shut off the spray. "Dry yourselves, put those towel robes on, and come into the bedroom when you're ready. I'll have brandy and coffee for you."

Curtis was just going out as they entered. "Glad to see you're not much the worse," he said, and Solo grinned wearily.

"We'll live, I think. How is Louise?"

"They said it was all right, sir, they were in time."

"That's good. She did us a very big favor. I'd hate to think anything would happen to her on our account."

"You had quite a night, by the look of it." Curtis looked almost envious. "How many men did you have to kill to get that lot?"

Kuryakin frowned in thought. Nan Perrell, coming up by his shoulder, stared at the two men wide eyed. "Let's see, there was Louise's three first. Napoleon, right?"

"Right. And then Hopwell, Wendig, and Rambo. Say six, at least, and maybe one or two more, we don't know yet."

"My God, you're not joking, either. Six! This I want to hear. All right, Curtis, you can turn in now."

"Yes, miss. I'll take the clothing from the bathroom. Six!"