The Mad Scientist Affair - Philifrent John T - Страница 13

• Предыдущая
• 13/30
• Следующая

Who would suspect one pleasant can of 3-B as being the pathway to a swift death? Certainly not the bus driver quenching his thirst, or an airline pilot, a motorcyclist—or a window-cleaner, a construction worker on his scaffold, a welder, a blacksmith, an electrician—or a doctor performing a critical operation—a jay-walker—The list was virtually endless. Anyone and everyone needs the critical counterbalance of due care and caution. And one can of 3-B was enough to destroy it utterly!

Solo groaned and rubbed his head as he considered it. O’Brien’s Beautiful Beers was a massive concern. From that brewery out there millions of gallons of the stuff flowed in rivers to all parts of the English-speaking world. The old man hadn’t been exaggerating when he had claimed to be able to bring the world to its knees on his own.

Sarah’s sobbing broke through his gloomy thoughts. He turned to see her hunched against the door, slim and white in the gloom, looking more lovely and more vulnerable than ever in her shock and despair. He straightened up, feeling his mind gradually growing more clear, second by second.

“How much of this did you know?” he demanded, and she dropped her hands from her face to stare woefully at him.

“Nothing at all!” she wailed. “Napoleon, I told you, I don’t know about the drug’s effects. You’ve got to believe me. I only work on the production side, the process. Making the stuff. And not very much of that, even. We made only a trial batch or two, until we could find some market for it. And that’s all I know. That’s the truth, so help me.”

“Hmm! Tell me, just how much of 3-B does your uncle own, if any?”

“Oh, just about all of it, I think. He’s a cunning old man, you know, in his way. I’ve always known he was a bit eccentric. But now! Napoleon—he’s mad, isn’t he?”

Solo nodded slowly, still hearing the irrational ghost in his own mind raging in fury and frustration. “What was all that nonsense about giving me his card?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything at all, any more.” Her voice began to quaver now; she was like a child who had been slapped and was just realizing it.

Solo scowled to himself, and turned to peer about the narrow cell. Against the wall and just inside the door stood a cardboard carton. He stooped to check it. Cans of beer. It had been opened and a few were missing, but he could estimate the total number easily. Four by six—two dozen to a pack. A big and burning question came to mind.

“Surely the old fool isn’t going to scatter this stuff indiscriminately? What would be the point in that? Where would he gain?”

She brushed a hand across her eyes to wipe tears away, then moved away from the door and came to stand beside him and look down. “I don’t know—I can’t seem to think straight. The cans are a new idea, I know that.”

“What d’you mean, new?”

“Well, you’ve never seen 3-B in a can before, that I know. Because we have only just had the canning plant put in. It’s a new line. And, so far, it is only for overseas. England, to start with.”

“You’re sure about that?’

“Of course I am! No self-respecting God-fearing Irishman would ever drink beer out of a tin can! We had a market-survey done, to be sure of it. So the first trial consignment will be for England.”

“Will be? You mean it hasn’t gone yet? None?”

“Not so far as I know. Uncle said something about waiting for the right moment to hit the market. I don’t know what he had in mind. I would have said, myself, that this weather was the perfect time—”

“I think I know!” Solo interrupted harshly. “This is a mass demonstration, all ready and standing by to convince Thrush. First he had to get Trilli, or somebody like him, to show interest, to let him see what the stuff can do. The next step is to stage a full-scale demonstration. And this is it. A bulk shipment to England.” He straightened up. “How much would there be in a consignment?”

“Oh! I know that. Three lorry-loads, a thousand cartons to each.”

“Oh brother!” he muttered. “Six thousand dozen! Death by the truckload! I have got to stop that, somehow!”

“First we have to get out of here,” she said, suddenly practical.

“You have a point there,” he agreed. He moved to the door and examined it with practiced fingers and a keen eye. The faint light was going fast. The window was hopeless. And so, too, was the door—he had to admit it after a hard examination. Apparently the feudal Irish had not believed in locks, keyholes or any other kind of openings, for there wasn’t a break of any kind in the solid oak planking. Even the hinges were safely established on the outside, where he couldn’t get at them. He tried one futile savage thrust, enough to assure him that nothing short of a battering ram would shake that massive portal. He guessed it was secured on the outside by some form of bar-and-hasp arrangement.

He went back to the carton, took out a can, hefted it. It would make a serviceable club, or something to throw. At what? Cans of beer, full of dope to drive men mad. Six thousand dozen! Hopeless. He dropped it, went back to here she stood by the door.

“What are we going to do?’ she asked softly.

“We are going to count on the fact that your uncle is a man who believes in doing a thing with style. That, therefore, he will remember and want to feed us. To do that, somebody has to come through that door. And that’s our only chance, so we have to make the most of it.”

“But—we’re not armed!”

“We have our brains," Solo said, and wondered briefly if this were just another brag caused by the fading drug in his bloodstream. Then he mentally shrugged—he felt normal enough now, and he didn’t have time to question each of his thoughts. Decisively, he said, “Let me have your stockings, will you?”

“What do you want them for?”

“Sarah, dear, I can’t help pointing out that you have a bad habit of talking too much. You’ll have to get over that. Now be quiet and listen while I explain. And listen carefully, because this has to be done just right!”

THREE

“Lovely Night For a Drive, Isn’t It?”

THE LITTLE PICKUP TRUCK stood just off the road, securely hidden by thick bushes blazing with wild red roses. Illya Kuryakin sat at the wheel and watched the purple sunset darken into dusk. The warm air was rich with smells and the quiet peace of eventide. Part of his mind appreciated the surrounding beauty, but most of his attention was on checking back over everything he had done, just to make sure. He had surveyed Cooraclare Castle from every possible vantage point. He had studied diagrams and sketches until he knew every wall and room in that stone fort by heart. Of one thing he was sure. The original builders had designed the place to be difficult to get into, and they had succeeded.. The only official way in was through the massive main gate into the forecourt, and he had no intentions whatever of trying that route. Careful questions and a bit of judicious gossip had taught him that the place was well-stocked with men, and crude but effective armament.

He watched the light fade, and reflected on his own chosen methods. He wore a lightweight and neat suit of tough black whipcord, its rather bulky outlines due to the varied assortment of equipment he had stowed away about his person. Over it all, now, he was going to fit something else. From a dashboard pocket he drew out a slim flat pack which unfolded into a two-piece affair of thin black stretch-plastic, tough and waterproof. When he had squirmed into this protective skin he began moving away from the truck, up the road, slipping a close-fitting black cap over his straw-blond hair. The sheer stuff hugged him tight, made sure there would be no projecting awkwardness to trap him. He was a slim black shadow as he crossed the road and came to a low stone bridge over a stream. He slid down the bankside like a cat, ducked under the stone arch, and touched the pencil-beam on his wrist. The spot of light searched and found the yawning black hole he had known would be there.

• Предыдущая
• 13/30
• Следующая