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

"Take a look," Solo invited. "That's the chap we want. Assume he has a gun and will use it. We want to get in there, fast!"

"Let me," Walker suggested, backing off the width of the corridor. "When ready—I'll go straight through the door."

"Right!" Solo nodded. "You keep down. In and down, flat. We will take care of him. On three. One—two—thee!"

Walker launched himself like a thunderbolt, the door bursting and yielding like so much cardboard. Solo went into a flying dive over his bent back, slapped the polished table with both hands and slid swiftly, heedless of the glassware, his hands outstretched and grasping, to get Green by the throat. He grabbed and squeezed furiously, remembering the foulness this gray little man had been responsible for. He was dimly aware of someone else struggling at his side and the table heeling and canting, and then the fury abated a trifle and he slackened some of his grip.

"Got the gun," Kuryakin grunted, heaving his shoulder against the table edge. "He was holding it in his lap. You can let go, Napoleon. He won't bother us any more."

Solo relaxed his grip altogether now and stared dazedly at the bleak little face. The head lolled limply. The shock, the impact, and the surprise had been too much for Absalom Green. Walker scrambled up from the floor and flexed his shoulders, looked around.

"Hey! What the hell—!" be growled, and started forward. Kuryakin was ahead of him. Miss Perrell sat on cushions against the far wall of the cabin. She sat very still, her head up, her pose unnaturally stiff, but her eyes were alive and blazing.

"Careful, darling," she breathed. Kuryakin looked closer and caught his breath. A fine thread was looped under her chin and drawn up and away to the solid hinge of a port hole behind and over her head. "It's monofilament fishing line," she explained. "You'll have to cut it." Solo came, fumbling for his knife. With care they cut the tremendously strong line and released her head. "Now my hands," she said, and leaned forward. "Mr. Green knows all kinds of pleasant tricks."

Walker came to stare and clench his hamlike fists. "A pity you broke his neck, Mr. Solo," he said very softly. "That was too good for him!"

"You'll be all right?" Kuryakin demanded, and she smiled grimly.

"Give me a moment or two to get the circulation back and I'll be right with you."

"No need. You relax. This is our fight now." Solo whirled in time to see Walker grabbing a stranger, a small man in white drill, picking him up with one hand and cuffing him into silence with the other.

"Steward," he suggested.

"Probably sent along to fetch the owner. But Mr. Green can't come. We'll go instead. Illya, you can hold on here and look after Nan."

"Not likely!" she objected at once. "I'm coming!"

"All right!" Solo shrugged and led the way, moving fast but warily. They regained the upper deck and heard again that greasily self-satisfied voice speaking not very far away.

"—duties, of course. But there are certain limits. I presume you are required to produce some kind of warrant before conducting a search?"

"We have already explained, sir." First Lieutenant Willis was very patient. "We have no instructions to search, just to inspect the log and the articles of ownership, to be satisfied as to your identity. That's all."

"Not my identity, as it happens. I am merely a guest. But I have sent for the owner, and he should be here at any moment. If you gentlemen will step this way. I'm sure there's no reason why we can't do this in a civilized manner.

"Forward cabin, by the look," Walker muttered. "There!" A flood of golden light spilled out from an opened door, a rectangle through which two slim figures moved, and then a third, a huge one. Solo slid forward and halted by that door, as it remained half-open.

"In a moment Mr. Green will be here—"

"I'm afraid he won't." Solo shoved the door open and stood in view. "Mr. Green won't be able to make it. Sorry!"

Beeman whirled around. Just for one moment he lost that fine gleam of urbanity that covered him like a glaze. Hatred gleamed from his eyes. Then, just as swiftly, he had recovered.

"Solo!" The tone was chill dignity distilled. "Are you responsible for this? You fool!"

"Not so foolish as to believe you would honor a bargain."

Beeman's face rippled, indicating the whirlpool of thought beneath. "This man is raving." He turned to Willis. "I imagine he has spun you some fantastic story about a lady being held aboard this craft. She is here, of course!" He extended all the force of his personality now, radiating good fellowship. "I wouldn't be so silly as to deny that. But she is here as a guest. Lieutenant, we are men of the world. I ask you to understand how awkward this could be. She is at present with Mr. Green—"

"Nice try," Solo interrupted. "But no cigars, Beeman. Mr. Green has no say now. But Miss Perrell has. Let her in, Illya. She can still talk, Beeman, enough to tell what the real purpose is of her being here. And as an independent witness—Walker, show yourself to the man." Solo moved to one side to let Walker appear in the light, but he watched Beeman closely. The fat man was tense but far from beaten yet.

"Miss Perrell"—he ducked his head courteously—"and Mr. Walker. As witness to what? I wonder. Miss Perrell appears to be whole and unharmed. But what of Mr. Green? What have you two done to him?" That voice grew hard as Beeman snatched at a straw and turned it into a club. "We can't hear Mr. Green's story, can we? Because you savages have killed him. Murderers!" He revolved on Willis again. "Lieutenant, I insist you carry out your duty as a responsible person. I insist you carry out a search, now, for Mr. Green's body. And that you hold these two men responsible."

Willis looked disconcerted at this twist. He eyed Walker. The young sub-lieutenant shrugged uneasily.

"He's dead all right, Number One."

"That does it!" Willis became firm. "Cox'n, you'd better take a walk back there and check—"

"Hold it!" Solo spoke now, suddenly very tense. "Just a moment. I know this cabin. Illya?"

"That's right. I was just thinking the same thing. We've heard it."

"Yes. Hardwood floor. Table in the middle. Window." He went across to it, to verify that it went straight down to the sea, outside. "This is it, all right." He turned back to the occupants of the cabin. "Keep well away from that table, Beeman. Cox'n Armitage, I want you to do me a favor. Just a little one. I'd like you to get down and take a look at the underside of that table."

"What outrageous nonsense is this?" Beeman roared. "What do you expect to find, a bomb? Do I strike you as the suicide type?"

Solo ignored him, watched Armitage, who looked to Willis for a lead. Willis nodded resignedly and the chief petty officer went down on his knees to lean under and peer. And grunt.

"Blimey, there is something here, stuck up by the leg. A bomb?"

"It's not dangerous to any of us," Solo declared sternly. "Dangerous only to you, Beeman. It is a miniature tape recorder, planted there by the girl you called Marie. The girl you ordered beaten to death, right here in this cabin. And it recorded all that—I've heard it. You see, she took the tape when she left, when she hauled her broken body out of that window and drifted to the beach—"