The Mesmerizing Mist Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  April motioned for Walton to precede them. The moonlight revealed another row of marble statuary on the inside portion of the wall. Bob's fingers probed again. The stone panel slid back into place.

  Young Walton led them through a wealth of tropical shrubbery to a grassy knoll. They ascended marble steps to a small, pillared pavilion. She and Mark exchanged glances. The place was a veritable fortress. Every inch of the lavishly planted acres was guarded by towering walls, topped by barbed wire. They had made enough exploratory trips in a small boat to realize that the wall on the lakeside was fully as formidable a barrier as the one they had just penetrated, via a secret panel.

  April surveyed the rambling wings of the Twombley mansion and drew both men close. "Lead us to your grandmother's suite," she whispered. "The next stop should be the guest quarters. Try to figure out where your grandmother would put a big wheel like Krause."

  Mark Slate interrupted her. "Now remember, kids. This is only a scouting foray. We'll keep under cover and stay outside. With luck and Bob's knowledge of the premises, we should be able to see who is in the house, without gaining entry. Careful now. Let's stay close together."

  April said, "Lead the way. Mark will be right at your heels. I'll act as the rear-guard."

  They climbed a marble staircase to a second floor terrace. Eight large windows shed soft light through louvered shutters. April peered through the narrow slits. She saw a huge, high-ceilinged room, crammed with Spanish-style furniture. Her eyes traveled to the figure seated before an ornate dressing table. The woman was combing her hair. Slate and Walton joined April Dancer at the window.

  Walton bent over and peered through the louvered slits.

  "That's Granny," he whispered. The three moved away from the window, into the shadows of an enormous banyan tree.

  Slate said, "Krause is our principal objective. Let's get cracking."

  April touched Mark's arm and nudged Bob Walton. She pointed to the stairs they had recently traversed. Both men heard the soft shuffling sound that had caught her attention.

  "Follow me," Walton whispered. He leaped high, caught a thick branch of the overhanging tree, drew himself up and reached down. A moment later, April found herself sitting breathlessly on the limb beside him. Walton reached down again. Slate joined them on the limb. They peered through the leaves.

  "That was close, Tarzan," April breathed softly.

  White-robed figures were swarming over the terrace they just had vacated. The trio in the tree held a collective breath. Slate counted six scurrying burnouses in the pale moonlight. The sound of a clanging bell split the silence. Voices peppered the shrubbery beneath them.

  April muttered, "Sighted sahibs. Sunk by same."

  THREE

  TIPTOE THROUGH THE TREETOPS

  April Dancer waited until the shadowy figures on the terrace joined the searching party in the gardens, before removing her sandals and peeling off her stockings. She placed them in the bag she carried over her left shoulder.

  Walton's teeth gleamed in the dim light. "Good thinking! We have plenty of maneuvering room up here, but this bark can be slippery."

  The two men removed footwear and socks. Slate took the bag from April, slipped their gear into it and tossed it over his shoulder. Walton pointed upward. They edged along behind him on the sturdy limb until they reached the trunk of the tree. The twisted tendrils, carved into the hole by nature, made it easy climbing.

  Mark Slate stifled a whistle as he reached the platform occupied by April and Walton. What a playpen! It resembled the tree-houses of his youth about as closely as a Rolls Royce duplicates a Volkswagen.

  Skillfully concealed in the heart of the tall, spreading banyan, a good fifty above the ground, this was the most elaborate arboreal residence he had ever encountered. Thatched roof, mats on the smooth wooden floor, two comfortable wicker chairs and an inviting wicker couch.

  Mark Slate made a beeline for the couch and stretched out, full-length. "A spot of tea, my good man."

  April made shushing noises as she sank into a chair.

  Walton said, "These leaves deaden sound very effectively.

  Anyhow, we're too high up for anyone to hear anything short of a shrill scream. Our only worry right now is whether someone down there will guess that we're up a tree."

  "You can forget that possibility," Slate said. "Nobody but a champion high jumper could even touch the limb you grabbed and muscled up to. I saw another set of steps at the end of the terrace. It's a thousand to one bet they think we went thataway."

  He stretched and yawned. "Some day, when you have nothing better to do, you must show us your athletic medals." He turned to April. "What now, peerless leader? Bob got us out on a limb and off of it. Now, it's up to you."

  "We're still in Tarzan's capable hands. Tell me, Nature Boy, does this crazy green umbrella spread over any part of the guest quarters?"

  “I remember looking directly into the guest rooms from a limb on the north fork."

  April said, "I hope we can get close enough to bug some conversation. Lead on, Bob. It sounds as though the Arabs have gone back to their hashish and houkas."

  Mark Slate picked up April's bag and started to fit it over his shoulder. She extended a hand. "Let me have it. I'll shove it into this squirrel hole. We'll pick it up later. I've got all the gadgets I need on my charm bracelet. "

  Walton began the descent. As they reached the lower levels and felt their way through dense foliage, April marveled at the banyan's magnificent spread. By the time they saw light from the house filtering through the leaves, she had decided that the tree must cover at least a half acre.

  They edged along a limb. The room they peered into was a slightly smaller counterpart of Mrs. Twombley's sleeping quarters. Slate nudged Walton as he caught sight of a woman in a throne like chair.

  "The glamorous Gandura," he whispered.

  The trio watched the tiny Indian, as she sat at a table, sipping something that looked like tea and poring through a sheaf of manuscript paper. April gazed enviously at the gold-embossed gown that ended at Gandura's dimpled knees. She had seen one just like it at Bergdorf Goodman's. The price tag was $3,000.

  Her eyes traveled from Gandura to a slowly opening door. The door opened and a man she recognized as Krishna walked in. As the man in the flowing robes joined the tiny Indian beauty at the table, April whispered, "We're wasting time here. Let's try another suite. Krause is our main objective."

  April turned to Bob Walton. "Push your eyes back into their sockets and lead us to some of the other rooms in the guest wing."

  Slate placed a detaining hand on her arm. "Wait a minute. We're close enough to listen in. Let's bug the room. We may not have another chance."

  April nodded. She slipped a tiny cylinder from one of the charms on her bracelet. Slate extracted a small, odd-shaped pistol, shoved the cylinder into the barrel, took careful aim and fired. The tiny object struck soundlessly against the window-sill and clung there. April and Mark inserted tiny ear-phones. They heard Gandura say, "Did you discover the reason for all the commotion?"

  The man ignored the question and leaned over to embrace the seated figure. Gandura pushed him away impatiently.

  "I asked you a question," she said. "I would appreciate an answer."

  The man helped himself to a cigarette before sinking into a chair on the opposite side. He gazed at the beauty across the table for a few moments in silence. When he spoke, his voice showed his anger.

  "I do not like being repulsed, especially by you. You see, I happen to know that, despite your proficiency in languages, you are lower-caste Hindu. If it had not been for THRUSH’s helping hand, you would still be in the slums of Calcutta."

  Until now, April and Mark had viewed Gandura and Krishna from afar. Neither had been close enough to hear them speak. As one of the top linguists in U.N.C.L.E., Slate not only spoke many languages fluently, but he was familiar with the dialectic nuances of each tongue. Both were speaking English, but Mark's s
ensitive ear found their accent revealing.

  He grinned wryly at Krishna's insulting remark. The man was right. Gandura was of low-caste origin. However, Krishna's accent was even more revealing. It showed that he was not a native born Indian.

  Gandura's low-pitched voice interrupted his thoughts. "May I remind you that our partnership is a business one? I am your equal in this venture and I do not have to tolerate either your advances or your insults. If you persist, I will report you to our superiors. I don't think I need tell you that THRUSH expects single-minded and dedicated service from its personnel. "

  The man opposite her glowered, then shrugged. His voice was placating. "Sorry I lost my temper, but that hands-off attitude of yours gets on my nerves. Frankly, I fail to see why we can't combine pleasure with business."

  Gandura made an impatient sound.

  "'Very well," he said, "In answer to your question, the commotion obviously was the result of a guard's overheated imagination. We found nothing."

  A cracking sound distracted the attention of the listening pair in the tree. They turned, just in time to see Bob Walton plunge downward. Mark steadied April with one hand. Both gazed down in consternation at the prone figure on the turf below.

  Mark released his hold. "I'm going down after him."

  April said, "You'll need me. From the way that leg is twisted under him, it's probably broken."

  They wormed their way through the tree until they reached one of the thick, sucker-roots that supported the banyan's heavy limbs. Shinnying down the root, they broke into a fast trot. Walton was struggling to his feet when they reached him. Mark knelt and pushed him back.

  "Relax, boy," he cautioned. "Let's see how badly you're hurt. Oh-Oh! You were right, April. A broken leg. I can feel the bone grate when he moves. Let's form a cradle with our arms and get him out of here."

  Walton protested. "I can get along on one leg. Let me lean on you."

  They helped him to his feet. Walton leaned on Mark's shoulder, took a tentative step and fell, dragging the latter to the turf with him.

  "Enough of this nonsense," April said.

  She and Slate helped Walton to his feet again. They formed a cradle with clasped hands. The injured man eased himself onto the improvised sling. Walton was amazed at the strength in the girl's slender arms and body. She didn't falter for a moment as they moved slowly toward the distant wall.

  The sound of excited voices galvanized the carriers into greater effort.

  "They're heading this way," Walton said. "Let me down. We haven't got a Chinaman's chance of making it like this. That wall is a quarter of a mile away."

  He pushed himself erect and balanced by holding onto both of them. His face was gray with pain.

  "Listen, and don't argue. If they find me alone, they'll think I'm nosing around on my own, trying to discover why Granny is giving Grace and me the brush-off. If they see you two, we're finished. They'll know U.N.C.L.E. is investigating them. On your way. Don't worry. They won't bump me off. Killing Mrs. Twombley's grandson wouldn't make sense."

  Walton handed his car keys to Mark, gently shoved them away and sank to the lawn. "On your way. Please!"

  April bent and kissed his cheek. "Bob is right."

  She reached into his inside jacket pocket and attached her fountain-pen, with its hidden aerial. Palming the tiny, flesh-colored earpiece that U.N.C.L.E. agents use with the fountain-pen transmitter, she dropped it into the same pocket.

  "Contact us the first chance you get. You saw how the combo works. You'd better put the ear-gadget in your wallet. The pen won't attract attention if you're searched, but someone might get ideas if they saw the earphone."

  The voices were getting alarmingly close. April kissed Bob Walton's cheek again. The two dashed toward the marble figures that marked the secret entrance.

  Slate inserted a deft finger. The wall panel opened. They were through and on the beach side in seconds. He eased the panel back into place with a sure touch. Their bare feet made soft crunching sounds as they ran through the sand. Neither of them paused until they reached the parked car.

  April Dancer looked back and Slate kept one eye glued to the rear-view mirror as they sped up the ocean highway. There was no sign of pursuit.

  The car skidded around a sharp curve and headed for the heart of Palm Beach.

  Slate eased up slightly on the accelerator. "Poor kid! I certainly hated to leave him there. He was right, of course. We couldn't have made it with him. They'll certainly think he was snooping around his grandmother's estate, for family reasons."

  April Dancer sighed. "We've put Bob in jeopardy and accomplished exactly nothing. We still don't know if Krause is in the house. We don't even know for sure that he has any connection with the Bahalia Movement. Incidentally, what did Krause do during World War II that makes him such a dangerous man?"

  "He was the Nazis' chief terrorist. He and his gang preceded the invading forces by infiltrating into each country. They dynamited railroad bridges, grounded planes, blew up ammunition dumps, destroyed vital factories and paralyzed transportation. Krause is the principal reason Hitler's invasions were virtually unopposed. He is an expert linguist. Speaks a dozen languages. He took his crew into doomed countries and softened them up, months before the military action began."

  "But, what makes him dangerous now? The Germans don't have an army."

  "You'd know the answer to that question if you hadn't been on vacation at U.N.C.L.E.’s last briefing. Krause has become one of the upper echelon of THRUSH since the war. Mr. Waverly thinks there's a frightening possibility that history may repeat itself, with THRUSH’s hand taking the place of Hitler's at the helm.

  "Remember when Hitler formed an alliance with Russia for his own purposes, then double-crossed his ally? Our top men think that the hard-core remnants of the Nazis have been persuaded by THRUSH to hook up with China's Red Guard. They've got a good sales talk for both sides. The war-mongering Nazis need man-power. The equally military-minded Red Guard needs atomic and other technical know-how.

  "Think what that combination could do under the malevolent guidance of THRUSH! Of course, both sides would be puppets. THRUSH always pulls the strings."

  "I see why Mr. Waverly considers this an important assignment. What a shame we couldn't have located Krause at the Twombley estate! We might have been able to clip THRUSH’s wings, whatever they're up to."

  "We did locate Krause." Slate smiled at April's obvious puzzlement. "You couldn't possibly have known, of course. You've never seen or talked with the man, as I have."

  April exclaimed excitedly, "Of course! That's the reason U.N.C.L.E. lost the trail in Tibet. Plastic surgery! Krishna is Krause. You recognized his voice."

  FOUR

  DIG THAT CRAZY BLIMP!

  The blinding beam of a powerful flashlight caused Bob Walton to wince and raise a shielding hand to his eyes, as several white-robed figures crowded around him.

  "Point that thing somewhere else," he said. "If you can't see by this time that I'm Mrs. Twombley's grandson, you're even more stupid than Granny's usual brand of domestics."

  He let out a yip of pain as two of the men yanked him to his feet and pinioned his arms behind him. "Take it easy! My left leg is broken."

  The tallest of the men facing him in the moonlight, spoke in a deep guttural voice. "Hold him securely. He probably is lying."

  Bob Walton glared at him. "Just what do you think I was doing, stretched out, full-length, on the lawn? Picking dandelions?"-

  "That is a good question. What are you doing on Mrs. Twombley's lawn at this hour?"

  "What right have you to question me? I'm here to see my grandmother, of course. Let's stop horsing around. I demand that you take me to Mrs. Twombley, at once."

  The tall man's teeth gleamed in the moonlight. "I find that very amusing. You are here to see Mrs. Twombley. Do you always call on relatives barefoot? You took a decidedly roundabout way to the front door. My men have been following you all over the grou
nds for the past hour."

  "So what? This place has been my home since I was a little boy. What I do and where I go on my grandmother's estate is none of your business. Are you taking me to Mrs. Twombley, or do I have to come back with the police and force my way into the house?"

  The tall man drew one of the robed figures aside. There was a whispered consultation. The shorter man returned, bent over the injured leg and ran unexpectedly gentle fingers over the surface. He straightened up with a grunt.

  "A very definite fracture. He will have to be carried." He gestured toward a shadowy figure in the background. "You know where the stretchers are in my laboratory. Please bring one here at once."

  "Herr Doctor," the tall man said, "you have skilled fingers. Would you be so kind as to search our bumptious invader? He obviously is a professional burglar. Mrs. Twombley's grandson would never be found barefoot skulking in the shadows. Please make the search a thorough one."

  Light fingers patted Walton from neck to toe, before probing into his pockets.

  "Nothing lethal," the prober observed. He handed the tall man the objects extracted from Walton's pockets. The latter examined them with interest. He seemed disappointed.

  "A well-filled wallet, some loose change and a fountain pen. He probably threw whatever weapons and burglar tools he has into the bushes when he heard us approaching. We will make a search in the morning." He started to place the assorted objects in the folds of his robe.

  Walton emitted a contemptuous snort. "You were right about one thing. There is a robber on the premises. My thieving friend, that wallet contains fifteen-hundred dollars of my money. Unless you like the idea of spending the balance of the season in a Palm Beach jail, I suggest you return my personal belongings."

  After a momentary hesitation, the man walked to Walton and slipped wallet and fountain pen into an inside pocket of his jacket. The change was dropped into a side pocket.

  "That's better," Walton said. "Now tell your goons to release my right arm so I can prove my identity. I have my driver's license, Diner's card and several personal cards in my wallet."