[The Girl From UNCLE 01] - The Birds of a Feather Affair - Avallone Michael - Страница 31

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"There's writing equipment in the drawer of the nightstand by the lounge. Shall I get it?"

"Stay where you are. I will. I'll kill you if you cross me, Miss Dancer."

"I've no doubt of that."

The Frankenstein head loomed out of the chair. The ill-fitting suit, concealing the woman's body, moved across the red carpet toward the stand that April had indicated. It was no more than a yard or two from Mr. Riddle's chair. Sober, walnut-hued drawers mounted on three curved legs. Atop was a small, shaded lamp composed of a bronzed Cupid shooting an arrow at lovers the world over. It was a favorite of April's.

Mr. Riddle stepped to the nightstand, gun trained on April, and clasped the metal handle, tugging outward. Which was the wrong way to open that drawer if one really wanted the writing equipment that was inside. The trick was to depress the handle first before pulling it out. But Mr. Riddle didn't know that. Mr. Riddle was an enemy, not a friend.

For instinct, the Frankenstein masked intruder was a marvel. He-she seemed to sense that something was wrong almost before it happened. April tensed in her chair, ready to spring, but waiting for the death shot from Mr. Riddle's gun.

There was a puff and an explosion. A thick cloud of gas instantly surrounded the Frankenstein head. Mr. Riddle fell back, and turned the gun toward April. But too late. The noxious, irritating vapor closed in like a well-directed swarm of bees. April now at last leapt from her seat, thanking the Gods and U.N.C.L.E. for the inventiveness and genius that provided such hidden weapons for the agent-at-home.

She chopped a karate blow at the Riddle neck, just where the mask ended in a rubbery spread. Her left hand sliced down on Mr. Riddle's gun wrist. The weapon went sliding across the carpet. Mr. Riddle grunted something, it sounded like a curse, and the long arms folded about April Dancer's middle, as Mr Riddle pulled away from the black cloud of smoke. Actually, the ridiculous child's mask had saved him, even if it had created the necessary diversion.

April could feel the rounded, woman's body beneath the ill-fitting clothes. There were fullsome curves to Egret-Riddle. But now was no time to count discoveries. The Frankenstein mask rammed into her face, trying to butt her profile to pieces. April twisted out of the way and Mr. Riddle fell down, kicking long legs. April sailed over like an acrobat, hurled across the lounge, coming down on the carpeted floor with enough force to break her back. But she had doubled herself properly. She came up on her feet, standing, breathing hard.

Now, a long knife appeared in Mr. Riddle's gloved hand. The awesome figure charged toward April, the knife flashing. April dodged and Riddle swept on by her. The dim lights of the room played over the weird combat. Joanna Paula Jones' huddled, silent corpse bore witness.

It was that age-old, ancient cliche, a duel to the death. But April had no weapon. No protection save her training, and her skill.

Mr. Riddle charged, knife tip forward and a yard of April's dress, at the right shoulder, tore apart with a ripping noise. Riddle chuckled behind the mask. "He" drew in again, more slowly this time, the knife making wide, slashing arcs.

April feinted with her right arm, as if to throw a punch, then heeled over, lashing out with her left leg in an approved maneuver of the Japanese kendo school of battle. It worked. The toe of her shoe caught Riddle's knife blade and sent it spinning. Exultantly, she closed in on the bogus man monster and threw a half nelson around the Frankenstein mask-head. She wrenched. Riddle swore again, pulling loose. The mask came away in the crook of April's arm. Mr. Riddle fell back toward the windows, the gloom of the drapes shadowing the head of the man-woman called Mr. Riddle. The man-woman who was really Dr. Egret.

April stood her ground. There were only the draped windows now. And the lounge. She was between Dr. Egret and the door. Both women stood, panting, waiting for the other to make a move.

"Come on, pretty face," April cried, hands ready. "Let's see that puss of yours. I want to remember it. You're not going anyplace this time, lady."

She saw the peach-fuzzed outline of Dr. Egret's head. The erect carriage of the beautiful, chiseled face, whose features she could barely discern.

"Your round, Miss Dancer," Dr. Egret breathed in a fierce, low whisper. "But again you underestimate me."

"Do I?"

"Yes. You will never take Egret prisoner."

"We'll see about that—" April, who had been edging forward, charged. The tall figure at the draped windows suddenly whirled, spread the crimson drapes and leaped to the sill. April cried out, arms reaching. The figure of Dr. Egret, was limned, like a window dummy against the glass. Beyond her, the darkened building across the street rose like a tower in the night sky.

April clawed out. But Dr. Egret launched herself through the panes of glass, arms raised to protect her face. She disappeared with a crash, falling safely to the sidewalk below. April stared out the window unbelievingly.

She swore at herself bitterly as she watched the tall, flying figure of Mr. Riddle—Dr. Egret take off down the street, under full sail. The shadows of the night followed the peach-fuzz head and the flopping man's suit of clothes. Now, windows were running up, lights going on. A man's voice yelled for quiet. April drew the crimson drapes and walked back into the living room, still holding onto the grotesque Frankenstein mask.

It was lousy to lose this way. Lousy to let a big one like Egret wriggle off the hook, fly the coop.

When she saw Joanna Paula Jones' body, she moaned.

And a second later, after checking the pulse in the limp wrist, she sat right down on the floor and cried.

A good, long woman's cry.

The kind she had not indulged in since the day the news had come about her father.

Dammit, she was being female. No doubt about that. But how else was she supposed to feel when a nice, harmless, sweet young thing was murdered in front of her very eyes and there wasn't one thing she had been able to do to prevent it.

Not for all her special training, special equipment and extra-special intelligence.

At that particular moment, she would have traded it all for Joanna Paula Jones' sitting up, opening her eyes and saying, "Hi, fooled you didn't I?"

But she didn't.

She never would.

The dead do not pop back like that.

Bye, Bye, Egret

The restaurant was a good one. Off on a side street in the Twenties. Dim lights, quiet waiters and a pleasant Musak arrangement that filtered soft, subdued melodies over the room. Mark Slate had found them a fine table somewhere in the rear. The cuisine was French and the veal cutlet had been exquisite, but April Dancer hadn't had much of an appetite.

"If you're not going to eat, April, then drink at least. How about another Gibson?"

"Make it a double."

"That's better."

Slate motioned to a hovering waiter, made a sign with his expressive fingers and then reached for his cigarettes. He extended his case to April. It was silver, quite flat and unusually heavy for its size and shape.

Mark Slate lit her cigarette for her with another silver lighter, also heavy. His smile was rueful.

"If I ever press the wrong latches on these things—" He laughed and then frowned. April was staring moodily into her empty glass.

"Old stick-in-the-mud," he protested. "It wasn't your fault. None of it."

"She was with me. I should have been smarter. More careful. I knew Riddle-Egret was still on the loose, didn't I?"

"Fortunes of war. You aren't responsible for maniacs like our Thrush friends. Nor can you be held accountable for mishaps and the normal amount of human error. I didn't see Waverly scolding you. In fact, he's quite pleased the way matters worked out. They didn't get Zorki, did they?"

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