The Mad Scientist Affair - Philifrent John T - Страница 14

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This was the main drain outlet from the castle, a generous four-foot pipe. He blessed O’Rourke’s scientific forethought in wanting a really serviceable drain. He had studied this pipe-system at great length in the drawings. Now he ducked and went crawling in, gauging his progress with great care, the fine beam searching ahead continuously. Odd and irregular gushes of water came along the bottom of the pipe to meet him. After half-an-hour of steady travel he came to the first of a series of smaller inlets, stumps of lead piping that dripped or poured. He went more cautiously now, comparing the scene with what he had in his memory. Ahead of him a pipe suddenly gushed vaporous hot water with a pleasant perfume to it. Somebody had just finished taking a bath. He stopped, let the flood go by, and drew out from his store a small contact-microphone and earpiece.

He lay still and listened. Then he stirred, moved on and listened again. Nothing but random clicks and bumps, so far. He moved on, shifting the microphone from one spot to another on the glaze of the pipe over his head. All at once he froze and kept very still as he heard footsteps. They were very near. He searched with the beam and saw another pipe, larger than the rest, which led straight down into the main. He knew exactly where he was now. He kept still, listening. He heard voices, quite plainly:

“—is the prototype plant only, of course. A bench model. The full-scale equipment is in the new wing of my laboratory, over at the brewery. I’ll be letting you take a look at that tomorrow.”

“So. Dr. O’Rourke, besides yourself, how many people know the full details of this process?”

“Not a one, Dr. Trilli, not a one! Various people know various bits and pieces, to be sure, but I’m the only one that knows the whole thing. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the wisdom of that, eh? Well now, if you’ve seen enough, I think it’s time we went and had supper—” The voices went away. Kuryakin nodded to himself. Right under the dungeon laboratory, just as he had calculated. He put away the microphone and earpiece and got out a slim tool with a diamond tip.

Spurts of dust and glittering specks of glaze hung in the air as he scored a deep line in the glaze of the pipe until he was through to the stone-grit below. Patiently and steadily he cut another line, then another, until he had made a cambered square. When he was satisfied, he put away the cutter, drew off his shoe, braced himself, and struck upwards a hard, precise blow. Then a quick traverse along the breaks with a slim chisel, and a curved section of pipe fell into his waiting hands. Dirt dribbled for a moment, then he set to work with the chisel again. He struck the close-matched edges of floor tiles, pried one up and away, then another, making a hole. Soon it was big enough to pass his shoulders. He went up through, touching the underside of a bench with his hand, grasping and hauling himself clear.

With no change whatever in his seriously intent expression, he sent the pencil-beam of light winking around the laboratory. It was well-appointed. A glance got him that much, enabled him to identify much of the equipment. Centrifuge, evaporator, distillation flasks, a balance, chromatograph column, an oscilloscope—and a row of cans of 3-B. He raised an eyebrow at those. Then the beam picked up something much more interesting. On the floor beside a tall filing cabinet stood a heavy old-fashioned steel safe. He went across and crouched to study it, then turned to scan the laboratory again. He tried a drawer or two in the cabinet. All free and open.

Everything out in the open—except this safe. This, therefore, would be where the valuable stuff was, if any. The secrets. He tapped the thing with a gloved hand and saw that it wouldn’t be too hard to break into it.

He groped into pockets, hauled out a close-rolled strip of putty-like plastic explosive, pinched off a length and stuffed it delicately into the small gaps by the hinges of the door. He worked swiftly and with total concentration. It had to be done just right. Slim wires and a detonator went into place. He glanced around and caught up a couple of small cushions from the laboratory seats, took a white dust-coat from its hook on the inside of the laboratory door, rolled the lot into a thick pad, patting and folding. He pressed the pad into place, set his back to it and crouched to hold it in place, leaning against it. He held a bared wire, touched it to a contact, and there came a dull thump, a muffled blow that pitched him forward to his knees. He scrambled up immediately and whirled around to slap at the smoldering cloth and put it out. Then he braced himself and lifted the heavy door clear, laying it aside.

The dancing light showed him a few casual papers, nothing important, a small clutch of bottles and boxes—and a flat, black-bound notebook. He grabbed that, crouched and let the light shine on the pages as he flipped them. Molecular diagrams. He read a few hurried words, flipped another page and saw a flow-diagram schematic of a process. This was it, he decided.

He was stuffing the book safely away when his alert ear caught the nearing tramp of footsteps. He killed his light instantly, drew out a pistol, and crept quickly to the laboratory door, listening intently. The steps came closer, were on stone and with echoes. He readied himself, easing back. There was an odd jinking clatter, as if someone carried a tray with plates and cups. The pistol leveled in his grip. The steps grew very loud, and went steadily on past the door. Frowning, he tried the handle and eased it open just a crack, then wider, and squinted out. The passage outside was stone-floored and garishly lit with a row of naked bulbs in the vaulted roof, bright enough to show him Schichi with a tray.

He was setting it down now, grunting as he stooped, setting it just beside a massive wooden door. Then he stepped cautiously back, pulled out a gun and spoke loudly.

“You in there! I’m going to loosen the door. You wanna eat, you gotta come and get it!” Then he ducked forward, grabbed the massive beam that held the door fast, slid it noisily along, beat once with his fist, and ducked back again. “All right, now!” he called again.

“Come on out real slow!”

There came no sound, no move, no response at all. Kuryakin watched curiously as Schichi fidgeted and frowned and then ducked forward again, holding his gun ready, to seize the door and heave-and jump back. The heavy door creaked slowly open. Schichi raised his voice.

“Come on, now, cut the comedy! You want grub—Hey! What the hell!” His voice sharpened in sudden astonishment and he went charging in through the door. Kuryakin, moving like a cat, whipped along the passage to watch, heard him take three heavy steps, and then there was the grunt and thud of a vicious blow. Schichi went down flat on his face, and the man who had chopped him from ambush against the wall now made a frantic snatch and seized the gun from that limp hand as it fell. Kuryakin saw that. He also saw, over the crouching figures of the two combatants, into the cell and over to the far wall, where, from the thick bars of a tiny window, hung the hideously limp shape of a girl, her head twisted to one side, the silk stocking around her throat stretching up to those bars. Hanged by the neck! Kuryakin’s steely gaze dropped again to the man who was now straightening, gripping the gun, spinning.

“Hello, Napoleon,” he said mildly. “I’ve always thought you were a lady-killer, but this is a bit extreme, isn’t it?” Solo stared, then relaxed with a crooked grin. “It worked, though, didn’t it? And it’s not as bad as it looks, at that.” He spun around and went over to the wall. “It’s all right, honey, all over. Hold still a moment there, you can come down now.” The ”dead” girl shook her hair from her face, slid out of the belt that had held her under the armpits, released the twisted stockings from her throat and left them dangling from the windowbars. Solo took his belt and slung it around his waist. The girl looked at Schichi with a shudder, then her eyes fell on the new arrival and she caught her hand to her mouth. “Who—who’s that?” she quavered.

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