The Mesmerizing Mist Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  He squinted nearsightedly at the pair. "Odd isn't it? No matter how advanced we become in various forms of warfare and reconnaissance technology, it is the man on foot who eventually has to complete the job."

  Slate's eyes showed his amusement. "I get it, sir. Leg-man Slate to the rescue. First time I can slip away from my butling chores, I'll perambulate into the forest.”

  Mr. Waverly's forehead creased. "I would advise extreme caution, both in your outside reconnaissance work and in ferreting out the secrets of the group in the Pine mansion. THRUSH would not hesitate to liquidate both of you if they discovered your identity.

  "There isn't much more I can say. Keep in touch with head-quarters. I'll have someone on alert day and night. I have a feeling you may have to work fast. It's just a hunch, but I think THRUSH plans to make some kind of a move very soon. I depend on you to find out what that move will be, before it is too late to prevent it."

  He extended a hand to both. "This is one time when you will really be on your own. We couldn't possibly come to your rescue without staging a full-scale paratrooper assault on that fortress-like plateau. I need hardly say that such an assault would never be permitted."

  His smile was wry. "The powers-that-be consider U.N.C.L.E. personnel expendable."

  April Dancer was thinking of the boss's parting remark as she watched the landscape slide by with startling speed. The pilot of the propeller-driven ice-sled smiled reassuringly.

  "Don't be frightened, Miss," he shouted over the roar of the motor. "I'm an expert with an ice-sled. Been running this one for years. "

  April smiled back at the pilot.

  Mark Slate, who had been calmly sitting back in his seat, suddenly realized that he was not acting like a butler. He assumed a sickly grimace and tried his best to look worried. It was obvious that Gandura had no need for pretense. She was pale-faced and shaking. When the power-sled roared to a stop at the pier below the cable-car, she breathed an audible sigh of relief.

  "That ice-monster terrifies me," Gandura confided as she, April and Mark were being transported up the sheer cliffs toward the island's top in a swaying cable-car, with the same phlegmatic pilot at the throttle.

  Slate's eyes were sympathetic. “You don't seem even slightly worried about this precarious vehicle," he observed, as the car lurched, dizzily on the almost vertical ascent. "Why the thing about the sled?"

  "I have no fear of heights,” Gandura answered. "Perhaps because most of my youth was spent in the mountains of Tibet. The motor-sled is another story. It seems on the verge of overturning every moment. After my first ride to the island, I had nightmares for a week. All the nightmares were alike. The sled had overturned and I was skidding helplessly across the ice toward the rocks, ashore."

  Slate cast a furtive look back at the operator of the cable-car, before speaking. "Frankly, Miss Gandura, I think that big ape deliberately tries to frighten the passengers. If he had a little more intelligence he would realize that the sled would capsize immediately, if he struck an unexpected snag at that speed."

  The little Indian's eyes were grateful. "Thank heavens someone feels as I do about that dreadful sled and its moronic pilot! When I speak to Mrs. Pine about him, she laughs at my fears."

  Mark and April exchanged glances. It was the first time the conversation had veered around to the mistress of the manse, since Gandura had met them at the railroad station.

  April said, "I'm surprised to hear that. I should think an elderly, well-bred woman of her type would be more sympathetic. Isn't she terrified when she rides in the ice-sled?"

  Slate stole another look at the man in the rear of the cable-car and lowered his voice another octave. "Don't be silly. I'm sure the fellow keeps the sled down to a moderate speed when Mrs. Pine is aboard."

  Gandura didn't comment until they had disembarked and were on their way to the manse. "Mrs. Pine is absolutely fearless. I shall never forget the day she took over the controls. Even this madman looked frightened. "

  She hesitated briefly. "I may as well warn you. Mrs. Pine is a little on the crude side."

  "Thanks for the tip," Slate said, as they entered the door of the house. "I always like to know what type of person I am working for."

  Gandura gave him a conspiratorial smile. April tossed Mark a mental bouquet. Her colleague was getting off to a favorable start

  April's elation was short-lived. As they followed the little Indian up a marble staircase, she saw Bob Walton descending the stairs. Her heart skipped a beat and she stole a look at Mark Slate. Only the merest flicker of an eye betrayed his alertness to the danger of the encounter. His face was an emotionless mask.

  Gandura greeted Walton cordially. April braced herself and looked directly at the young giant. There was not the slightest sign of recognition in the blue eyes.

  Gandura hesitated. It was obvious to the two newcomers that the tiny Indian beauty was at a loss as to the correct method of introducing a houseguest to just-hired domestics. April hurriedly bridged the gap.

  "I am Miss April Dancer, Mrs. Pine's new personal maid. This is Slate, the new butler," she said to the now motionless man on the stairs. "Are you Mr. Pine, by any chance?"

  Gandura's laugh mirrored her relief. She said, "Mrs. Pine has no family. This is Mr. Walton, one of the houseguests."

  Bob Walton smiled, nodded politely and continued down the stairs.

  April's eyes remained on the descending figure for a brief moment before she followed in the wake of Gandura and Slate. One nagging doubt marred her pleasure at having successfully hurdled their first obstacle.

  Walton's poise in the face of the surprise meeting had been extraordinary. He hadn't indicated by gesture or facial expression that he and April Dancer were "pen-pals." Was the youngster a surprisingly good actor---or had their transmitted conversations been erased from his memory by a subsequent brain-washing?

  TEN

  HE’S WITH THE BIRDS

  The conversation with Mrs. Pine was brief and to the point. Despite being visibly overawed by Slate's ultra-British accent, she was decisive and explicit.

  April's duties would be light, but she would have to be available around the clock, except for Thursdays and any evening that would not interfere with the comfort of the mistress of the manse. Miss Dancer should feel free to consult with Mrs. Pine at any time, on the matter of free evenings.

  Slate would have complete control of her domestic staff of twelve. He would order for and plan the meals and would have time off similar to that of Miss Dancer's. What they did with their spare time and there they chose to go, was entirely up to them---with two exceptions.

  "Gandura will brief you on that," Mrs. Pine said, as she waved a dismissal.

  The two looked expectantly at the Indian girl after they had followed her into the music room. Her smile was warm and friendly as she motioned for them to be seated.

  "As Mrs. Pine said, there are two taboos," she said. "Number one, the music room and this entire wing is off-limits to the staff during our religious conclaves. A gong will ring in the butler's pantry twenty minutes before each of our meetings. It will ring again when it is permissible for the staff to resume whatever cleaning and tidying chores may be necessary.

  "The second taboo concerns the scientific experiments our medical staff is carrying on. The laboratories and the experimental area are deep in the forest. They are off-limits at all times. Yes, Mr. Slate?" as Mark raised a hand.

  "Would you be kind enough to brief me thoroughly on this forbidden area? My hobby is long walks and I don't want to stumble into trouble. Am I to understand that I will not be permitted to enter the forest?"

  "No indeed. You will be able to pursue your hobby without interference. There is a picturesque walk along the cliffs that encircles the entire forest area. You may roam at will through the trees that border the walk. The experimental area is deep in the forest."

  She saw the question in Mark's eyes. "There's no danger of entering the area by mistake. It is enclo
sed by barbed wire."

  Gandura hesitated perceptibly. "I may as well be frank with you. The experiments being conducted by our staff are highly confidential and necessitate the utmost secrecy. There are armed guards patrolling the entire length of the fence. I would advise against any adventurous explorations. The guards are armed with high-power weapons. Their orders are to shoot to kill, if they find an outsider within the enclosed area."

  "Shoot to kill!" April repeated in shocked tones. "I think you'd better be very careful, Mark. You're always wandering around in strange places."

  "Don't worry, my little chickadee," Mark said. "I have a strange aversion to being shot at."

  The little Indian smiled as she rose to her feet. "I am sure Mr. Slate will not commit suicide." Her eyes travelled over April's modishly garbed figure in frank appraisal. "He has far too much to live for."

  Slate grinned as he recalled the flush that spread over his colleague's cheeks. Only his restraining gesture had stifled an indignant answer to Gandura's sly remark. He stopped to peer over the edge of the cliff.

  "Talk about suicide," he muttered, as he resumed his walk along the tree-shaded path. "These sheer walls would be sure death for anyone attempting to scale or descend them."

  He had circled the entire forest and examined the cliffs along the route carefully with powerful binoculars. Slate was no novice when it came to mountain climbing, but be doubted that even a skilled team, with plenty of time and every type of equipment known to man could safely complete that descent, or ascent, for that matter. He hadn't found a crack or a crevice in the marble-smooth surface.

  He looked at his wristwatch. He'd been away from the house about two hours. Time he was returning to his duties. He hadn't gone into the forest on this trip. He and April had decided it would be foolhardy to attempt a penetration until he had spent more time scouting the cliff area.

  He looked about him carefully. This might be a good opportunity to attempt a contact with Bob Walton. After that first accidental meeting on the staircase, neither he nor April had encountered the youngster. Walton had taken his meals in his quarters. Slate couldn't be sure that Bob Walton had attended the conclaves, since there was no way of checking, without wandering into forbidden territory. A closely guarded private elevator shuttled the disciples to and from the music room.

  Mark Slate continued to examine the adjacent forest and the path. No one in sight. Extracting his pen, he elevated the tiny aerial and adjusted the transmitter. He waited for five minutes and was about to lower the aerial when April's voice came through.

  "Watch it, boy! Krishna, or Krause---take your choice---is hot-footing it down the cliff path. I was bundling Mrs. Pine for her morning walk to the greenhouse, when I heard the tail end of a conversation between Krishna and Gandura. He was berating her for allowing you to wander around the cliffs. The last thing I heard him say, as he dashed out the front door was, I'll put a stop to this damn nonsense, right now,' ---Signing off."

  By the time the fulminating Nazi terrorist had penetrated the cliff walk a hundred yards, he had regained his poise. Slowing down to a walk, he moved ahead carefully. Booted feet made virtually no sound as he probed deeper into the forest, along the cliff.

  Krause had been on the path for about fifteen minutes when he sighted a bundled-up figure, seated on a large rock, just off the trail. He edged ahead cautiously. When he was close enough to recognize the butler, he saw that the man was huddled over something white. A few more steps revealed that the butler was sketching something on a large pad. The sound of a twig breaking under Krause's boots arrested the sketching movement. Slate turned and surveyed the approaching figure.

  Krause forced a genial note into his voice. “Well, well, Slate, what have we here? I understood that your hobby was walking. Are you also an artist?" He walked up behind Slate and peered over his shoulder.

  Mark Slate calmly continued his sketching. "Please speak softly," he said. "It took me quite a while to locate this fellow. I don't want to alarm him."

  The questing eyes widened in surprise. "By jove!" Krause said. There was a new respect in his voice. "That is superb! I've never seen color crayons used so skillfully. What a gift you have for detail! Remarkable!"

  Slate lifted his binoculars, leveled them at the cardinal in the tree, then resumed sketching. As he continued, he found himself thankful that he did have a penchant for detail. He had brought along his sketch-pad and crayons.

  Krause stood silent and intent until Slate put the final flourish to the sketch and smiled up at him.

  "I sense the interest of an artist," Slate said as he placed pad and crayons in the leather container strapped to his shoulder. "Do you paint?"

  Krause chuckled. "I do dabble with water-color and oils." His sigh mirrored genuine regret.

  "I don't have your talent, I am sorry to say. I wish I could paint with your touch. That bird is pure arrested motion."

  As they started toward the mansion, Krause gazed at Slate curiously. "Why does a man with your talent live the boring life of a butler?"

  Slate's eyes revealed his amusement. "Thank you for the compliment. I'm afraid I don't agree with you as to the extent of my talent. As for my butling, I am doing what comes naturally. My great-great-grandfather was in the service of the Duke of Marlborough. Great-grandpere was with the Prince of Wales. Grandpere headed the domestic household of the Duke of Kent. My late father died in harness as the butler for the Duke of Connaught. "

  His grin widened. "To put it crudely, there is a damn good living in domestic service, at my echelon. I get a salary in five figures and I keep it. No taxes. Also, there is the ten percent which I legitimately collect on all supplies that are bought for the household."

  Slate saw that Krause was intrigued. "Confidentially," he continued, "when my nest-egg has attained sizable enough proportions, I intend to devote myself exclusively to painting."

  They were nearing the house. Gandura, who had been awaiting their return, gazed incredulously as she noted that both faces were wreathed in smiles. She had been prepared for an acrimonious show-down.

  As she scurried away from her vantage point near the door, she thought, "I have always felt it was silly to say that someone can charm a snake out of a tree, but seeing is believing. And what a snake our Mr. Slate has charmed!"

  The Indian beauty was still smiling as she inserted a key into the lock of Bob Walton's living-room door. She noted with relief that the youngster was sleeping, with oxygen-mask attached. Carefully locking the door on the inside, she peered at the tiny jeweled watch on her wrist. They had just twenty minutes. This was one of the few times Gandura had managed to slip into Walton's quarters and administer the anti-mist oxygen before a scheduled conclave.

  Downstairs, Slate and his impromptu walking companion were shedding their outer garments, when they heard the gong in the butler's pantry announce the morning conclave.

  Mark Slate grinned mischievously. He decided to tryout the newly formed camaraderie. "Better hurry, my friend, if you don't warn to risk eternal damnation."

  The German's snort was eloquent. "Senile idiots! Thank God the care of their pampered egos is not in my department. All the gold in the world couldn't lure me into those meetings."

  He paused, wondering just how much he could say to this rather extraordinary young man. He decided it would be amusing to be partially frank.

  "You see, my artistic friend, I am somewhat in the same boat as yourself. You find butling a lucrative business. I do very well with religion. Fortunately for my sanity, I supervise the distribution of Bahalia's funds, while others perform its mumbo-jumbo."

  He studied Slate's face for a moment. "One of these days, we must have a long talk. From a scientific standpoint, the Bahalia Movement is accomplishing miracles in medical experimentation. The money we raise through these stupid women has helped us develop really revolutionary breakthroughs in medical science. I don't want to sound fanatical, but believe me, the entire world will eventually benefit fro
m the experiments we are completing now."

  "Sounds fascinating," Slate said. "I'd like to hear more about it when you have the time and the inclination. Well, we must go our separate ways; you to your business and I to mine."

  Slate counted heads when he reached the butler's pantry and the kitchen. All present and accounted for, except April. He didn't have to guess where the girl from U.N.C.L.E. was. He knew.

  ELEVEN

  SMART GIRL IN A DUMB WAITER

  April Dancer tugged at the rope again and stifled a sneeze. The thick layer of dust in the shaft of the dumb-waiter told a tale of disuse. She continued to propel herself upward. It soon became obvious that the doors that once serviced the four floors had been sealed off with plaster. She continued her ascent until a faint light from the top revealed the shaft's sole opening, a weatherbeaten metal door.

  The girl from U.N.C.L.E. tried the latch. To her surprise it worked smoothly. With very little effort on her part, the door swung open. She stepped through and found herself on a small, flat section of copper roof. Turrets, steep tile-roofs and chimney-pots stretched out before her. She gave a tiny sigh of satisfaction. There it was. The reason for her scouting expedition; the huge glass dome of the music room.

  Removing her shoes, April placed them out of sight, behind the tiny shed that housed the top, of the dumb-waiter shaft. She reached inside the lift, extracted the heavy woolen socks, sweater and knit cap she had brought with her, donned them and closed the lift door behind her.

  A moment later, she was climbing gingerly up the precipitous tile to the ridge. When she reached the copper gutter at the bottom of the descent, on the other side, she saw that the glass dome was further away than it had appeared from the ridge.

  April measured the distance with a practiced eye. A good five feet. She was relieved to note that the gutter encircling the dome was wide and free of ice. With only the briefest of glances at the snow-powdered brick walk, far below, the girl from U.N.C.L.E. leaped into space.