The Corfu Affair - Phillifent John T. - Страница 11

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"The skin is a remarkable thing, the foundation of all true health. For example, it is the only body tissue that is alive on one side and dead on the other. Think of that!" She stretched a forefinger to prod Adam's arm as he leaned over her with a plate. Then he curled the finger round to touch her own bosom. "A dead outer shell, in both cases. The living tissue is on the other side."

Solo began to sweat again. This woman was a nut about health and beauty, just as Miss Winter had warned him. He was so engrossed in trying to keep track of everything, listening, watching the other members of the feast, that he missed the first taste of his soup altogether. The second spoonful tickled his attention and the third insisted on it. He tasted, then turned to Miss Winter, who had taken the vacant seat by his left hand.

"You certainly are a cook. This never came out of a can!"

"Glad you like it." She smiled shyly. "It's really simple, though. Just green pea, but with added sour cream and wine." He savored the soup again, noting that the others also approved. Adam brought the next dish, and Miss Winter looked a little apprehensive. Solo employed knife and fork, bit, chewed and swallowed, then sighed. "What is it? Or them?"

"You approve?"

"I most definitely do. My stomach will think I'm dead at last and in Heaven. Why?"

"I call them beef-marrow dumplings. Chopped beef marrow bulked out with bread crumbs, spiced with wild thyme and grated lemon rind, bonded with egg and boiled in a strong meat stock. I made quite a lot, if you want more."

He did. So did the others, in various accents. Then came a salad that was crisper and tastier than he would have believed possible, and a layer-cake so delicious that he felt regret at not having room enough for a third helping. By the time Adam brought the wine and the coffee Solo was sure of two things. One, that he was full and happy; two, that Kate Winter was no crook. Cook, yes. Crook, no. Nobody with a criminal mind could possibly come so close to being divine!

Then Miss Winter bade everyone goodnight and departed, and the table atmosphere modulated suddenly and subtly. Countess Louise lost her beaming charm and seemed to be engrossed in some rapid chatter with the others, each in his own tongue and in argot, which Solo could follow only with a great deal of difficulty. German, French, Italian or Spanish, those he could manage, provided the speaker spoke slowly and was prepared to be patient with him. But he had no chance at all as these five people plunged into a quick-fire torrent of interchange in slang and cant phrases. In a while he took what he thought was the offered hint and created a yawn, stifling it with a palm. The Countess had her eyes on him in a flash.

"You are bored, M. Summers?"

"Call it tired. I've had a big day. And this air. And the food."

"I see." She eyed him, and there were fires in those eyes. "Would you prefer to retire to your room now?"

"If that's all right with you, yes."

"Very well. We have some business to discuss, but it will not take all night. Come..." She rose briskly and led him to the door, summoning the silent Adam with a crook of her finger. Outside, she halted and brought on her dazzling smile. "Business is so boring. Tomorrow will be another day, yes?" Before he could anticipate it, she surged close and put her long arms round his neck, drawing his head down. He would have been less than human if he had not responded in the most natural way. By the time she released him his head was reeling and his breath was coming fast.

"There!" she whispered. "Dormez bien. Perhaps the talk will be not too long. Maybe I shall see you again, soon?"

Then she was gone and Adam had his suitcase and was padding impassively on ahead towards a staircase. Solo followed, wondering whether he was on the polished floor or walking in mid-air.

CHAPTER FIVE

IT was quite a room. In any other circumstances Solo would have been impressed by it. Now he inspected it simply as a routine precaution, touching the wall hangings, trying door, then studying his bemused face in the triple mirrors of a magnificent dressing table by the window. He was not quite conceited enough to believe that Countess Louise was pulling out all the stops on him simply because of his male charm. There had to be a catch somewhere. Something was hatching inside that beautifully decorated skull of hers. But what? He was absolutely certain he was in for trouble, but just as certain that he didn't know what kind. At last he settled on the bed edge and reached for his communicator, feeling relief in being able to call on routine.

Waverly needed to know about the Thrush gathering, if nothing else. He drew out the extension antenna, thumbed the switch and was about to ask for Overseas Relay, when the words halted on his tongue. The instrument in his hand gave off a steady crackling whine of interference. He glared at it in unbelief, switched off then on again, jarred it with the heel of his hand, but still the smothering crackle persisted. Now the flesh really began to creep on the back of his neck. Either his talker had developed a defect, which was highly unlikely, to say the least, or somebody had rigged this area—this room—with a jammer! And that logical assumption carried with it so many other inferences that he was up off the bed and on his feet before he had added up all of them.

The communicator went away with a practiced move that drew his pistol on the return. He started for the door, then halted as there came a soft tapping. Crouching a little, he called, "Who is it?"

The door swung open and the Countess stood there a moment then came in, her eyes widening at sight of his weapon.

"Why?" she whispered. "You will not need that!"

"Stop right there. I don't trust you any closer than you are right now. Back up and turn round. You and I are taking a little walk."

"So unnecessary," she pouted, then turned obediently, but not to go out of the door again. Instead she caught it, pushed it shut, then set her back to it, facing him. "You have nothing to fear," she said, and smiled. "See, I am unarmed." And she did something rapidly to the rear of her dress, spread her arms wide, and the rustling white material fell to the floor.

She was definitely unarmed, unless one could count the volcanic beauty of her unclad curves. Solo froze for a moment that was his undoing. A large hand swung down and across from his right side, numbing his wrist, to send the pistol skidding across the floor. He ducked and sprang away from the movement, and found himself face to face with Adam.

Over that muscular shoulder he saw a gaping hole where the dressing-table had swung away from the wail. He caught a glimpse of the Countess as she swooped nakedly to snatch up his gun. Then he went cat-like forward to meet the impassive servant. Adam showed no more expression than a shop-window figure, but waited silently, arms down and out, ready.

Solo feinted a left, leaped and chopped down with all his strength and weight in a right-hand neck-breaker. Adam, with perfect anticipation, leaned and tensed his muscles—and the chop bounced, shocking Solo's arm right up to his elbow. Surging in the opposite direction, the statuesque servant swung a haymaking right-hander, low down, that contacted Solo's ribs and bombed him bodily backwards, smashing all the wind out of him. If there was science in this, it was none that Solo had ever met before.

With that kind of strength, who needed science?

Fighting off the instinct to curl up, wheezing for breath, he shambled forward again. It was no time for delicacy. He poised himself, then leaned and launched a kick where it would do maximum damage. But Adam had speed out of all reason in a man of his bulk. An arm like a beam swept down and across, smashed into Solo's shin as it came up, knocked it aside so that he spun and almost fell, cringing as his weight came on that leg. It felt broken. Then Adam moved in, taking the offensive. Again that bombing right hand to the body.

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