THE MESMERIZING MIST AFFAIR
By Robert Hart Davis
Strange, deadly, was the Nazi madman’s dream of making the world his prey. But the crazy plan would work---unless April Dancer could escape from hell in time to flag U.N.C.L.E. into action!
ONE
TERROR FROM TIBET?
The man at the door did a hopeful double take. Could the girl in the corner be his blind date? She was about the right age and was seated at the designated table.
Practiced eyes roved over everything that showed above the table. Provocative features, lambent black eyes, raven locks with highlights that shone like burnished ebony and flowed dramatically to slim, delicately carved shoulders.
He prolonged the visual caress. The exquisitely molded figure did pleasing things to a white sweater.
The exploration continued below the table. He decided he had never seen more gorgeous gams. That did it! He sighed his disappointment and turned away. This smoky-eyed girl did not fit his sister's lukewarm description.
Gazing half-heartedly around room, he saw that Palm Beach's favorite pub was twittering with females, none of whom remotely resembled the bookworm Grace had described.
Drat that brother-in-law of his!
If John Shepard hadn't decided to yank his young wife back to New York at a moment's notice, Grace would be with him, at Taboo. There would be no need for this surreptitious surveillance.
He brightened perceptibly as he again feasted his eyes on the girl at the corner table.
"Why fight it?" he thought. "The little wren didn't show up, so I'll try bagging this gorgeous peacock. I've got a tailor-made opening gambit. I am looking for Grace's former schoolmate and that is the right table."
He bent over the table. The girl's direct gaze threw him off-stride for a moment. The confidence instilled by years of easy feminine conquests and a natural glibness came to his aid. He turned on his best smile.
"I'd be an awful liar if I said my sister described you accurately. No woman could. However, you are sitting at the right table. I'm Robert Walton. I was told to meet you here."
The sooty eyes softened. "Sit down, Bob. I assume Gracie couldn't make it." Walton closed his mouth with an effort, but his eyes retained the glaze of shock. The girl's features revealed a quick apprehension. She darted a quick glance over first one shoulder, then the other, before turning back to the widened eyes.
"What's wrong, Bob? You look as though you were seeing an apparition. "
Bob Walton continued to goggle, as he eased his long legs under the table. "Miraculous vision is more like it. How can that astigmatic sister of mine get around without a white cane and a seeing-eye dog? I can't believe it. You are April Dancer."
Her low-throated chuckle sounded like the purr of a baby tiger. The cadence set off a tingling sensation from the tip to the base of Bob Walton's spine.
The voice of the vision across the table matched the low music of her laugh. "How flattering! You were trying to pick me up. I'm a little puzzled, though. What made you so sure I wasn't April Dancer?"
"By the time Grace got through brain-washing me, I was convinced you would have squinty eyes, slightly stooped shoulders, lank hair, concave chest and knobby knees. She spent hours telling me how smart you were and that you put in most of your time at college with your nose buried in books."
Walton made a derisive gesture. "Sis bent my ear all the way to the airport with stories illustrating your scholastic accomplishments and superior intelligence. The last thing she said when I put her aboard the plane was, 'Please don't bore April with your gay boulevardier routine. It's important that she respects you. We need her help. April is not an ordinary person. She's a deductive genius."
April Dancer studied the smooth, tanned features and sun-bleached blond hair. Bob Walton was as attractive as his sister had pictured him. She liked the friendly blue eyes, the breezy charm and the casual way he wore his brown linen slacks and suede jacket.
"Gracie wasn't too clear about your problem," she said. "I gather that your grandmother has been acting strangely. Sounds as though she needs a competent psychiatrist."
"You couldn't get Granny within a mile of a headshrinker. She refuses to see her own physician. She won't even see Sis and me, and we're her only relatives, since mother died. She won't even sign a check without a counter-signature from Gandura and Krishna."
"Gandura? Krishna?"
"Gandura is the head of the Bahalia cult. She calls Krishna her spiritual consort. Between them, they've got Granny and a batch of her cronies mesmerized. The old girl and her fellow-disciples have been back from a so-called pilgrimage to Tibet for two weeks, but no one has seen them. They're all living at Granny's place, along with a way-out assortment of Hindus or Arabs or something."
Walton's voice rose indignantly. "Would you believe it? A half dozen of these turbaned weirdoes actually had the nerve to turn Grace and me away when we tried to drive in the gate to her estate the other day."
"Have you telephoned Mrs. Twombley?"
"Several times. The first was after I saw Gandura on Worth Avenue. I was driving down the Avenue and she was on the sidewalk, in front of Bonwit Teller. I called to her. She looked straight at me, so I know she heard me. By the time I parked the car, she had disappeared. I called Granny as soon as I could reach a telephone. Some character with a foreign accent said Mrs. Twombley was asleep and couldn't be disturbed. I tell you, I was really bugged. Grace and I hadn't even known she was in Palm Beach. I wouldn't have thought of calling if I hadn't seen Gandura. Granny was a washout when I finally got her on the phone."
"Were you on good terms with your grandmother when she left New York to go overseas?"
"The best. I drove her to Kennedy Airport in my car. She and Grace held hands all the way. Granny talked a blue streak about the great plans she had for us. She gave us a whopping big check and the receipts for a couple of maisonettes she had leased for Grace and her husband and for me, at the Everglades Club. That was six months ago."
He shook his head in obvious puzzlement. "She couldn't have been more affectionate. She cried a little, just like she always does when she leaves us for a while, as she and those two cult creeps went aboard the plane. The last thing she said was, ‘Be sure to meet me at the airport in Palm Beach, when I return.’ I tell you, I don't get it. Granny, Grace and I used to be virtually inseparable. Now, we can't get near her."
April nodded sympathetically. "I don't blame you for being upset. What did your grandmother say when you finally spoke with her?"
"Same old routine every time. She's busy with very important matters. No time for anything except religious meditations. She'll get in touch with us when she wants to see us and she'd appreciate it if we would not bother her at this time. Once, I heard Gandura's voice in the background. Granny was repeating what she was told like a parrot."
"How did Mrs. Twombley happen to meet Gandura and Krishna?"
"One of her pals in New York took her to a lecture at Town Hall. The Bahalia Movement had just become the dowagers' delight. Grace and I were stupid. We thought it was a passing fad. First thing we knew, she had swallowed the bait, hook, line and sinker."
"Did she discuss the Movement with you, at all?"
"Constantly. If I hadn't been a fathead I might have done something before it was too late, but I didn't even bother to listen, most of the time. Grace wasn't much more attentive, but she says now, she remembers that Granny used to talk about something she called The Mist that transported her into another dimension, where she received direct orders from a Divinity."
Bob Walton looked at April sheepishly. "I hate to admit it, but we thought the Bahalia Movement was doing her a lot of good. She
perked up amazingly. She owns the controlling interest in the country's largest railroad combine, but hadn't taken the slightest interest in what made the roads tick until she became a disciple. First thing you know, she started attending stockholder meetings and lining up proxies and things. Before we realized it, she had taken over active management of her enterprises. The old girl began to have the time of her life. Her eyes began to sparkle. She seemed to have a new lease on living."
"In other words, you and Grace weren't worried about your grandmother until she returned from Tibet?"
"Right. We wouldn't be too worried now, if it was nothing more than just giving us the brush-off, but the way she's doing it is crazy. Guards at the gate of her estate; all her checks countersigned by Krishna and Gandura; she and her cronies holed up in that place for two weeks without anyone seeing them going in or out. All that mystery stuff."
April's gaze was speculative. She decided to take the plunge. "There's something a lot more mysterious and unexplainable than the things you've told me, Bob. We've checked with every known form of transportation---trans-Atlantic and trans-Pacific plane lines, steamship lines, domestic airlines, all available charter-planes and charter yachts---both here and abroad. Also railroads, charter limousines and bus lines in this country. There is no record of your grandmother or any of her entourage entering the country and no one, not even your grandmother's neighbors or a stray taxi driver, saw her arrive in Palm Beach."
Walton's eyes were searching. "I'm beginning to get the pitch. Your talk with Grace wasn't just an accident. You're investigating these Bahalia crumbs. How come? Sis told me that you belong to an organization that combats international crime. I understood your outfit operates strictly in the upper echelons. This looks like a small time, pseudo-religious swindle to me."
April Dancer looked around carefully. "I'm going to confide in you. We might solve your family problem and you may be able to help us. Mr. Waverly, the head of U.N.C.L.E., is convinced that the cult is a front for an international power-combine called THRUSH. He has more reasons for thinking so than I can explain right now, but one of them is that Tibet, where the Bahalia group has its headquarters, is now under Red Chinese domination."
She lowered her voice. "The Red Chinese angle is only the starter. A couple of years ago, Kurt von Krause, who was the top terrorist in Nazi Germany and is now an upper-echelon member of THRUSH, disappeared from East Berlin.
"Our agents traced him to a Tibetan village. He disappeared from there without leaving a trace. Perhaps it was only a coincidence that his disappearance coincided with the Bahalia Movement's first sortie into the United States. So far, we can't prove Krause has any connection whatsoever with this outfit. It's one of Alexander Waverly's hunches. And, his hunches have an uncanny faculty of turning into fact."
April reached across the table and took Bob Walton's hand. "I was so confident you and Gracie would help us that I arranged for one of my associates to join us here at Taboo. Here he comes now."
Walton squeezed the hand and beamed. "You can count on me."
He rose to his feet as a slight, young man with a tousled mop of sandy hair smiled down at him. They shook hands. Walton's eyes roved over a beautifully tailored tweed jacket and red linen slacks, wine colored beach-sandals and---he blinked---the gaudiest waistcoat he had ever laid eyes on.
The newcomer chuckled as he followed Walton's bemused gaze. "Sixteen colors. Count 'em."
April said, "Bob Walton, Mark Slate. Mark, Bob has promised to help us."
Slate shook hands with Walton, slid onto the seat beside April Dancer and snapped his fingers at a passing waitress. "That is great news! Let's have one for the road and then get cracking. I've got news for dear old Uncle Waverly that won't keep."
He glanced at the bare expanse of table in front of Walton. His grin widened. "No drink in front of you, eh? You obviously didn't need alcoholic adhesive to keep you glued to April's table. I'm not surprised. She has that effect on young men. They even forget to drink."
Bob Walton smiled back at him. "Don't try to tell me you're too ancient to get the same effect, Daddy-o."
TWO
SIGHTED SAHIBS---SUNK BY SAME
Mark Slate released a long, low whistle as they walked out of Taboo and approached the white, low-slung sportscar at the curb.
"Special-built body. Probably by Frascatti," he muttered. "I've never seen anything quite like it. Hold everything, children. I've got to see what's under that crazy hood."
April Dancer took a firm grip on a tweedy arm. She pulled Mark Slate onto the front seat beside her, as Bob Walton slipped under the wheel.
"You can play with Bob's toys later, little boy. Right now, we have more important things to do. Give it the gas, Roberto. We're due to contact U.N.C.L.E. in five minutes. Do you think this monster can get us out of traffic and on a country lane in that length of time?"
Walton beamed like a happy child, as they zoomed northward on the island's main thoroughfare.
"You'll probably laugh yourself to death when you do see the motor," he said to Slate. "It was specially designed for me by Rolls Royce. I hit two-hundred and fifty on Daytona Beach with this mongrel heap."
Mark Slate chuckled. "Mongrel is right. Britain's finest motor in Italy's flashiest bit of chromium vulgarity. Only a pixilated millionaire with monoxide on his breath and petrol in his veins could dream up that combination. I usually avoid rich bums who can afford more powerful cars than I drive, but I'll make an exception in your case. Providing you take me with you the next time you bum the sands of time on Daytona Beach."
The girl from U.N.C.L.E. breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't have to see the broad grins on both faces to know that this was going to be a smooth-working combine. Her colleague's way of showing dislike was a sickeningly polite routine, larded with unction and loaded with hidden malice. When Mark Slate took the trouble to insult someone at first meeting, it augured a warm and lasting friendship.
"How's this for privacy?" Walton said, as he eased the car through sand dunes to the water's edge. "You know how to work the aerial telephone, don't you? Shall I take a walk while you contact your party?"
April said, 'The answer to your first question is 'perfect.' To the second, 'Yes.' To the third, 'No.' You're one of us, now. I want you to see how we operate."
She held up the twin to a fountain pen Mark had just removed from his pocket. Walton gaped, as tiny chromium antennas popped up from both pens and the two slipped small, flesh-colored discs into their ears.
Slate pushed up a detaining hand. "Before we tune in, I want to tell you what I stumbled onto today, by sheer accident. I would have told you sooner, but I didn't want to take the least chance of being overheard, back there." His eyes glowed. "It looks as though Mr. Waverly was---"
April checked the flow of words with a gesture. "I'll hear the whole story when you talk to the boss. Whatever it is. It's your discovery and you're darn well going to have the fun of breaking it to Mr. Waverly."
Slate smiled his thanks. They both touched the tiny buttons that tuned them in to headquarters. April signaled for him to begin.
"Slate here. Cheerio, Randy. Mr. Waverly there? Tell me the story of your misspent life while we're waiting for him. Yes, April is with me. What's that strange snuffling noise at your end? Sounds like a dog panting. No dog? I might have known. April always does that to your respiration. Carry on, dear boy. I'll plug out until the boss comes on."
Mark Slate winked at Bob Walton as he removed the ear-plug.
April said, "Hello, Randy. Yes, he's plugged out. What a nice thing to say! Thank you, Randy. I miss you too. He is? I want Mark to talk to him first. "
Mark Slate acknowledged her signal. "Mr. Waverly? April insisted I break the good news. No. It's not that good. I haven't seen Krause, but I did see Fritz Waller, his former Storm-trooper bodyguard. I thought you'd be pleased. He's right where you thought Krause might be. On the Twombley estate. I followed him there in a taxi.
"We
ll, every entrance is crawling with Arab guards. Yes. Arabs. In flowing bournouses. Right. It does smell like Krause. I think we can get in without too much trouble.
"Thanks to April's powers of persuasion, or something, we've got Mrs. Twombley's grandson, Bob Walton, on our team. It certainly is a break. I'll put April on. Here she is, sir."
As April Dancer began a detailed and concise report of their joint activities, Slate motioned to young Walton and pointed toward the front of the car. They were still huddled under the hood, discussing the motor in muted whispers, as she signed off.
When the girl from U.N.C.L.E wriggled out of the car, the movement raised her skin-tight miniskirt. There was a clanking sound under the hood and a muffled "ouch!" Walton's head appeared. His fingers were gently massaging his scalp. Mark's sandy thatch of hair came into view. There was reproach in his gaze as he surveyed the satin-like epidermis revealed by the hiked skirt.
"I'm surprised at you. Only a wicked wench would try to steal a boy from his motorcar."
April's expressive features contorted into a fetching scowl. The tip of a pink tongue extended briefly. "You're a nasty prude," she said. "I'm sure Bob will agree."
Slate grinned, said, "I listened in on Mr. Waverly's instructions, despite my preoccupation with this petrol-propelled Frankenstein. I know you are anxious to question Bob on ways and means of entry to his grandmother's estate. Kiss the bruise on his poor little head and proceed with the interrogation."
It was fairly dark when Walton tooled his powerful car onto a side road, a block from the Twombley estate. The trio padded silently along the ocean beach.
"This is the spot," Walton whispered. "Grandfather Twombley showed it to me when I was a little boy. Granny never did know about it. He used it to sneak out after she thought he was safely tucked in the feathers."
April and Mark looked at the towering stone wall, with its gaudy filigree of marble statuary. It looked as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar. Bob Walton smiled at their puzzlement. His fingers probed behind a statue. The stone panel behind the marble figure descended silently.
The Mesmerizing Mist Affair Page 1