The Thousand Coffin Affair - Avallone Michael - Страница 7
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Solo thought a great deal about it as he spurred the jeep along, the needle far beyond the 60-mile mark. The mechanized bug shot over the road, whipping like the mechanical rabbit at a quinella. The slipstream flung Solo’s tie like a pennant in the breeze.
The stars had vanished behind a sudden all-enveloping darkness. It was hazardous going. Solo peered carefully through the windshield, his eyes alert to abrupt dips and bends in the roadway.
Partridge’s jeep had been delivered by a silent U.S. Army sergeant who had done little more than turn over the ignition keys and make an idle comment about the Le Bourget fire. Partridge had his own methods, obviously. Solo had quit the vicinity of the airfield as soon as was possible. He hadn’t quite forgotten the nasty set-to in Denise Fairmount’s company. Something was up all right, and it all seemed to point to Stewart Fromes—and/or Thrush.
Bright lights winked up ahead. Rouen.
Solo slowed for a high grade, put the jeep in low gear and rose sharply. The lights were to his left. He consulted his watch. Close to ten-thirty. He found a map in the glove compartment of the jeep and scanned it thoroughly. The compass needles set artfully in the watch face indicated northeast. Grimly, he swung the jeep where the road suddenly forked to the right. Landry’s airship shouldn’t be too far away, by his reckoning.
It wasn’t.
Past a cluster of houselights and streets of poor illumination, he spotted a dirt road leading to the northeastern end of Rouen, then a bevy of scattered farms. A cow mooed in the night. Solo concentrated. It would be easy to lose sight of his destination in the deepening gloom.
Then he saw what he was looking for: ten kerosene markers glowing in the night. There was a wide expanse of earth lighter-colored than the rest of the brown French ground, then a long, low hangar of sorts. Dimly against the horizon he spotted the trim outlines of the airplane.
Landry was waiting for him. “You fly, my friend?”
“Yes. I will pay you well.”
“Good—on both counts. I am sure you will like the plane we have for you.”
The man was a parody of France—fat, bereted, potbellied and dirty as a swine. A burned-down cigarette barely peeked from beneath a clump of walrus mustache. Solo’s nostrils curled. The man wasn’t worth trusting. Yet, Partridge had vouched for him.
“I would like to leave immediately.”
“As you will, my friend. The plane is already being warmed up.”
Solo reached into his pocket for his billfold. His eyes searched Landry’s unkempt face. Landry shrugged his mountainous shoulders.
“I prefer American money if you have it. One thousand dollars will do nicely.”
It was Solo’s turn to shrug. “Will ten traveler’s checks at one hundred each do?”
“Quite nicely, yes.”
From outside, came the muted roar of the aircraft. Swiftly, Solo signed ten checks, tore them neatly from the blue folder and handed them to Landry. The Frenchman grunted and tucked them in the waistband of his dirty trousers. Ludicrously, he wore a fashionable cummerbund about his expansive middle.
“How long will the flight take?” Time was the main concern now.
‘Where do you journey?”
“Oberteisendorf or any place near enough to make it worthwhile.”
Landry considered that. “Three, maybe four hours. As I say, the plane is a good one.”
“I’m sure of it. Au revoir, my friend.”
To Solo’s great surprise, he found the plane to be a modern, streamlined Beechcraft Debonair: a real custom-built American job, the plaything of millionaires and Riviera scions. His respect for Landry mounted. He waved back a farewell to the shed where Landry stood at the window.
Solo reached the ship, the fine swath of propeller shining like a million stars in the gloom. He spotted a figure, helmeted and goggled, sitting in the cabin, jerking a gloved thumb at him. Solo pulled the airdoor back and placed his Tourister in the roomy space beyond the two front seats of the cabin job. As he squeezed in, the helmeted figure slid over to the far seat. Solo frowned. Before he could mutter a surprised protest, the short, snout-nosed barrel of an automatic pistol jammed against his midsection.
“Climb in and close the door and don’t make any other moves,” a bright voice snapped.
Solo’s eyes went cold but he did as he was told. The closeness of the cabin made the gun held against his rib cage seem like the bore of a cannon.
“Is this part of Monsieur Landry’s plane service?” he asked drily.
“It’s my idea,” the voice answered. In the gloom of the cabin, he could not make out the face of his captor. “Now prove to me that you are Napoleon Solo. You look like him and you talk like him, but that’s not enough. Can you show me some proof?”
Solo sighed and stared straight ahead, eyes probing the night.
“May I reach for my identity card?”
“Go ahead. But no tricks.”
Very carefully, he took from his inner pocket a small stack of business cards and plastic-coated licenses, and handed them over.
“Here,” he said. “Leaf through those, find the one you want, and perhaps you will win a large, shiny automobile someday.”
“You fool!” But his captor said nothing else and took the cards. Solo folded his arms, listening to the smooth tune-up of the Debonair’s engine. For a brief second, he watched as the helmeted figure took his U.N.C.L.E. identity card and applied a small applicator of some kind to its surface. A drop of some form of liquid washed over the face of the card. Nothing happened. There was a satisfied grunt from the occupant of the other seat in the cabin.
“Very good. On all counts. You may take us up now, Mr. Solo. It’s time we got out of here.”‘
Solo shrugged and busied himself with the controls. He too wanted to get into the air. He swung the Debonair about, pointing its nose to the East, and began to taxi along the hard, lumpy earth. He checked his instrument panel and .hummed to himself. The slender figure at his side had pocketed the snout-nosed automatic quite suddenly.
He drew back gently on the stick, his mind occupied with the takeoff. The nose of the plane knifed forward, seeming to head straight for the high wall of trees before them. Gradually, almost unnoticeably, the wheels left the ground and the Debonair lifted like a graceful bird. The propeller clawed. The instrument gauges danced, the multiple needles busy with recording the flight into darkness.
The dark earth fell away; the trees vanished. Monsieur Landry’s fortuitous landing strip faded back into the past.
Solo rubbed at his right eye, yawning, feeling the strain of the night’s events. He looked idly at the figure who was now sitting quietly at his side.
“Well, unknown friend and fellow traveler. Are you going to tell me all about it or do we ride in perfect silence the rest of the way?”
His companion’s nose, in profile, was as straight as a ruler, the mouth almost lush. A confirming bell went off in Solo’s head. He laughed lightly, waiting for the answer to his question.
“You are not a man, I take it. Neither are you somebody who is crazy about airplanes and would do just about anything for a joyride.”
The snapping voice laughed back.
“You win, hero. I came here specifically to go with you on your trip. My destination is your destination.”
“I see. Will you unmask now or are you going to hide behind the helmet and goggles forever?”
The girl laughed—a warm, vitamin-packed laugh which had all the vigor and go-to-hellishness of a Marine drill sergeant. He looked on admiringly as the helmet and goggles were swept to one side by a long, taperingly slim hand. Coppery, shoulder-length hair spilled in a golden cascade. A bright, brown-eyed face smiled at him through a chocolate film of grease over the lower half, framing white, impeccable teeth.
“Allow me to introduce myself. This is your co-pilot, Geraldine Terry. On unchartered flight to Oberteisendorf, Germany. I tested your ID card with a special acid and since it didn’t corrode, it’s the real thing. I didn’t kill the man who was supposed to warm up your plane—just cooled him with a little Judo and helped myself to his clothes so that I could get onto the field. Any more questions to relieve your mind?”
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