The Thousand Coffin Affair - Avallone Michael - Страница 13

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“You could fill me in a little, Mr. Waverly.”

“Yes, I suppose I could. But before we return to Fromes’ curious case, I would like to tell you that the Fairmount woman is definitely a Thrush agent. Our file on her is most extensive. Oddly enough, Fairmount is her real name. She uses it on special occasions. It is interesting that they wanted to sacrifice her when they employed the maser device. I must confess to no surprise at its existence. It has been employed once before, against an Israeli scientist. The poor fellow was driven out of his mind. But I don’t think they have managed yet to lick the problem altogether. There seem to be a few bugs in the thing, still.”

Solo nodded. “Then you don’t imagine Thrush has worked it into a large-scale weapon?”

Waverly pursed his lips. “Time enough for that later on, but no, I do not think so. We seem to have other secret weapons to think about at this time, Solo.”

“And Denise Fairmount?”

“She was not at the hotel when investigators arrived. For your information, she is a ranking Colonel in Thrush circles. Thanks to her beauty, her value has been considerable for Thrush. She also seems to be a brilliant young lady.”

Solo’s smile was tinged with bitterness.

“I should have killed her, then. I had her in the palm of my hand.”

Waverly shrugged. “Forget her for a time. Let us now discuss what you have just placed in the palm of my hand.”

Solo was more than willing to forget the subject of Denise Fairmount.

“What I handed you—that little silver gizmo—that could be a Booby Trap for Booby Troops.”

Waverly shook his head, smiling. “Nothing so romantic or so simple, I’m afraid. You see, Solo, I don’t know how much you’ve learned on this assignment as relates to Fromes, but you did know why we sent him here in the first place. I’m sure your friend Kuryakin gave you some clues.”

Solo nodded. “Yes, I remember. There was some idea of a powerful drug or some such that crippled whole populations, and the organization had somehow imagined that Oberteisendorf might be the next testing ground. Am I correct?”

“Partly. I’ll take you back a bit. The obscure village of Utangaville and a Scottish whistle stop called Spayerwood. Last year—two months apart—one day all the people in both those tiny spots turned into completely mindless creatures. Utangaville was first, then Spayerwood. The people were incapable of speech or coherent, coordinated action. It was quite as if they had been transformed into gibbering idiots. Both towns literally died—everyone in Utangaville was dead within two days, and in Spayerwood it all happened overnight. There were three hundred and fifty natives in Utangaville. Spayerwood was practically a hamlet—ninety-seven adults and twenty-seven children. The smaller number of people there may partially account for the shorter time-period.

“It wasn’t determined exactly what caused their deaths. All sorts of notions were formed, of course. Mysterious virus, some epidemic—a plague of some kind. Yet there was nothing conclusive. The situation has not reoccurred, and everyone has breathed a trifle easier. But—” He paused meaningfully.

“You expect it to happen again.”

“Decidedly. It has the mark of Thrush written all over it. For one thing, the markedly shorter amount of time it took to finish off Spayerwood—it couldn’t have been just because there were fewer people. I’m afraid it sounds like some organization has been experimenting with and improving its methods of killing whole populations.”

“Thrush, then,” said Solo.

Waverly nodded. “Yes. And judging from the state of Fromes’ body, they seem to be continuing their research.” He paused. “Anyway, Fromes uncovered something in the lab. I’m not familiar with the terms but he claimed there was some pointed similarity between Utangaville, Spayerwood and Oberteisendorf which made him insist the trail led here. I saw no harm in assigning a fine man and excellent chemist to follow a hunch, as it were. I’m sorry it turned out this way but I’m quite certain Fromes was correct. Otherwise he would not be dead.”

“With his clothes turned backwards.” Solo sighed. “I hope the silver ball means something.”

“It does and it will. Depend on it, Solo.”

He drew out his cigarettes and extended one to Waverly without thinking. The old man demurred and Solo shook his head.

“I am tired. I forgot the pipe routine.”

“What do you think about this rearrangement of clothing, Solo?”

“Two things, sir. I’m positive Fromes did it as a message. He was leaving a calling card for us after death.”

Waverly’s eyes narrowed. “Odd you should jump to that conclusion. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to leave a written message in code or some such?”

“No good, sir. Thrush would have seen it, and would have understood it sooner or later. No, he was leaving something only we would comprehend. Don’t you see? It adds up. If what you say about this drug or whatever it is is true, maybe there was no time for anything else. Maybe his last conscious act was to reverse his clothing while he was dying.”

Waverly shrugged.

“You may have it, my boy. I’m not sure I can disagree with you.”

Sunlight was streaming through Herr Muller’s windows. Waverly blinked against the light. He looked at his watch.

“Takeoff in fifteen minutes. Well, Solo, here are your new instructions. I will return to New York with the body. The Air Force is most obliging. You will return to Paris with Miss Terry. You have wings, I understand. As soon as you settle down somewhere—may I suggest you avoid the Hotel Internationale this trip—call me and I’ll let you know what we have learned about Fromes.”

“You trust Miss Terry?”

“Dear boy, we must. She is all that she says she is.” Waverly stood. “Clear now, as to what is to be done?”

“All the way down the line. By the way, did you ever hear of a fairly large cemetery in this vicinity? Place called Orangeberg. Seems to be quite famous around these parts.”

Waverly frowned. “Can’t say that I have. Why do you ask?”

“Herr Muller, the Burgomeister, seemed pretty keen on my burying Stewart Fromes’ body there.”

“A kindness, perhaps. Never be too suspicious of everyone. It could be a bad habit to develop. You will lose your perspective.”

“Could be. I’m not so sure in this case.”

“You should think more, Solo, of why even a town of this size makes it difficult for you to keep a body preserved. Something strange there. But nothing to worry about now.”

“No,” Solo said. “Thanks to you.”

Waverly glanced at his watch again. “I should say it was time I was joining the Air Force. Goodbye, Solo. See you in New York.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Waverly.”

Napoleon Solo stood where he was for a full five minutes after Waverly had gone. An idea had kindled in his head, only to flicker out again. It was annoying. He was certain that it had had something to do with Stewart Fromes having his clothes on backwards. Those clothes had to mean something.

Repressing his disgust, he went out to see about the plane and Jerry Terry.

They stood at the end of the meadow, watching the shining helicopter climb out of sight. The roar of its passage overhead whipped the knee-high stalks at the end of the field into a leaning pattern of graceful design.

Jerry Terry squinted in the sunlight of a warm, balmy afternoon.

“Hey, Solo,” she said. “Want to go for an airplane ride?”

“I’m with you, Miss Terry. Can you fly one of these things as well as warm it up?”‘

“Try me. You could use the rest.”

The cabin was sleek, smooth and familiar. Like an old friend. Solo locked the door on his side and settled back. His face wore a frown, however.

“What’s the matter with you today, lover? You look blue.”

“I’m just surprised we got out of town without any shooting going on. I usually have to blast my way out of places like Ye Olde Oberteisendorf.” He indicated the throng of curious townspeople and children crowding the edge of the meadow.

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