19 - The Power Cube Affair

by John T. Phillifent

  Solo shrugged, not knowing what it was all about, and looked to Miss Perrell for a lead. She had a gleam in her eye.

  "I'll see about it. I may bring them myself, yet. I'll let you know what I decide."

  As the gleaming Rolls crackled away over gravel and then into the road, Solo turned to her. "What was all that about an orgy?"

  "I'll tell you in a minute, soon's I see what kind of fish I've caught. Get in the car, I'll be back in a minute." She went away swiftly.

  "What d'you think, Illya?"

  "I think it's time we got out from under, Napoleon. We have things to do more important than attending society gambols."

  Miss Perrell returned to the ear, slid in behind the wheel, and started up the engine, but there was a faraway look in her eyes as she said:

  "Guard's place is along the coast road on the way to Hythe, isn't it?"

  "Right," Solo told her. Then, after they had been rolling awhile, "What's on your mind?"

  "Am I that obvious?" She laughed harshly and flicked a glance at the two men by her side. "All right, try this on your experienced minds. I have just caught two hundred thousand pounds' worth of heroin and assorted hard drugs, on a tipoff. Good, yes? But wait a bit. That's the eleventh tipoff in two years. Always accurate, always the same type of people, and always the same story. That couple will go through the mill, and the answer will be—nil! No leads, commercial connections, contacts, distribution network, nothing! It's crazy. They will swear they don't know a thing."

  "Maybe the stuff has been planted on them for some body else to grab?"

  "We've thought of that. We've had other people shadowed, followed. Same answer. Nothing. Somebody has just lost two hundred thousand pounds' worth of dope, and we have no idea who, nor where it was going. Mad!"

  "Always on that same boat?" Kuryakin demanded, and she frowned.

  "Now you come to mention it, yes. But that's just a coincidence, I'm sure. Maggie travels on the Continent regularly, for her charity work."

  "Charity?" Solo demanded. "Pardon me, but the countess struck me as being far removed from anything as real as that."

  "She's real enough." Miss Perrell began to grin. "I've known her for years, and she is absolutely genuine. Charity!" She laughed softly to herself, and Solo realized all over again just how attractive she could be.

  "Let us in on the joke," he said.

  "All right, Maggie––she used to be Margaret Wallace, daughter of a fairly well off family, bitten with the stage bug very early, had something of a career, then married Danby—all strictly story book stuff up to that point. But she was also bitten by the goodwill bug after seeing the seamier side of life. And she is, as she said, completely without any sense of propriety. For Maggie, so long as there's no law against it, it goes. She hit on her orgy notion, oh, a long time ago now. And they are orgies, literally. Bacchanalia in the Nero Roman style. Once a month at Danby Hall, and no holds barred. Everything goes. Everything!"

  "But isn't that breaking half a dozen laws?"

  "No, Illya, not at all. Maggie is very careful who she picks. Only the best people. Rich people. People with status, reputation, fame and renown. Quite clever people, too, mostly."

  "How does that make it legal?"

  "It doesn't, in itself, but so long as the affair takes place on private property, and the people are there by invitation only, and no one complains, the law cannot intervene. The only other way anyone can interfere is by moral protest, and there would be plenty to do that, but their guns are very neatly spiked. Because, you see, she really is operating a charity. Every guest is expected to contribute a substantial sum—and they all do—which then goes to famine relief. And it does, every last penny. That has been checked a score of times, and it is quite genuine."

  "Very neat," Solo approved.

  "It is. You see, the 'holier than thou' brigade can't say a word. And, so I'm told, everybody has enormous fun. Including Maggie herself. When you come to think of it, the kind of people she invites seldom have such an opportunity to let their hair down and relax."

  "You're speaking from hearsay," Kuryakin pointed out. "You've never been to one of these Roman scandals?"

  "I have other things to do." She snapped the words off sharp, then. "What did you think of her rubies?"

  "Those hideous red beads were rubies?"

  "They were," Miss Perrell said carefully, "either the genuine Danby rubies, which are something like five hundred years old and famous, even if they are hideous—or a replica—or a replica."

  "Why the echo?" Kuryakin wondered, and she laughed again.

  "Because, as you saw, Maggie has no taste at all, no color sense, but she adores those rubies. And they are immensely valuable, as antiques. And she likes to wear them whenever possible. So a long time ago now, she had them copied, twice, so perfectly that even she can't tell the real from the copy. At least, that's the story. And she switches them at random. So, if you were a jewel thief, would you care to try to snatch them, in those circumstances?"

  "She sounds quite a girl," Solo chuckled. "That orgy might be fun after all." Before she could comment, he put a hand on her wrist. "Johnny's place is just around the next corner, left hand side."

  As the car slowed to a stop, Solo got an idea. "Look," he suggested, "it's still a mess in there. You drop Illya and me here, while you go on to the hospital, see Guard and tell him how things are moving. By the time you get back we'll have the place tidy enough for visitors, maybe a meal if we can find the ingredients for it. You can find this place easily enough on the way back."

  They watched the car glide away then went indoors to dried blood and silence, to find mops and buckets, to use hot water and muscle and clean the place up fit to be seen. And all the while a strange idea circulated in Solo's mind. Stones. Here the beach was full of them. Some on the window ledge. Red stones in a necklace. And the crystal jewels the greasy voiced man had spoken of, on that tape, were stones too. Solo felt certain of that. But why the "seventh stone"?

  SIX

  MISS PERRELL came back with a strange glow in her eye. "I saw him, talked to him," she told them. "The doctor was very kind and understanding, spoke to me privately after wards. Apparently Mr. Guard will be on his feet again in a week, would be up and about now if they would let him. He really is a fantastic man. So quiet and gentle, and yet you get the impression he would charge straight through a brick wall if it got in his way. He said he wished he had been there when you had your little mixup with the thugs,"

  "That sounds like him," Solo grinned. "What do you fancy for lunch? There's a fair stock of supplies, and Illya is a fine short order cook."

  She wasn't very interested in food. Instead, she made Solo show her exactly where and how they had found Guard and what they had done.

  "It's hard to imagine," she said, "now that you've cleaned it all up. Stone floors don't leave traces. I shall have to get Charles to let me hear that tape for myself."

  "I wouldn't," Solo advised. "It's not nice, nor necessary for what you'd learn from it. We've told you all the bits that matter."

  "Will you stop trying to protect me?" She eyed the room, then looked out of the window. "Do you suppose we could find the actual place on the beach where she died?"

  "We can try. Johnny described it fairly well."

  "Please," she said, and Solo exchanged resigned glances with Kuryakin. They went out of the beach side door onto a small platform and then down a flight of wooden steps to the narrow concrete strip which ended just a yard beyond the house. She paused a moment to take in the scene, the headlands on either side, the sea, which was far out now.

  "Your man certainly likes to be isolated," she said, as they started to walk. "I gathered he was that type, just talking to him. We are all isolated, of course, from each other, but very few of us dare to face that fact. And don't quote Donne at me!"

  "No man is an Island—why not?"

  "Donne was talking in terms of responsibility. We have to feel some kind of respon
sibility for each other, or civilization would perish. But we are in fact, each one of us, isolated from the other. Napoleon, do you think I am morbid, actually wanting to see the very spot where Mary died?"

  "Let's just say I don't see how it will do any good."

  "But it will. It will help to keep me aware of the hard facts of life. I have to keep reminding myself that this isn't just a game, that people do get killed, and that it could be my turn any time I get careless."

  "It's a point," he agreed, then halted to raise an arm. "I think that must be it. A hollow in the pebbles where he crouched to watch, and there's the water line at high tide."

  Solo had to admit, if only to himself, that there was an unreal sense about this business. Here, with a breeze gently tugging at her little girl dress, the bright sunshine striking highlights from her pale blonde hair, it was hard to imagine that Miss Perrell was standing, then crouching, at the very spot where one of her colleagues had coughed up blood and died an inglorious death. Still harder was it to believe that John Guard, involved purely by chance, had been immediately attacked and left for dead. That kind of thing didn't fit this beach, the quiet sunshine. Miss Perrell stood up, looked out to sea, then turned and came back to him.

  "That will do it," she said. "Let's go back."

  They went up the slope to the concrete wall, and she scrambled up, disdaining his help, then stood and looked down at him.

  "Wait a bit," she said, and he waited. The breeze tweaked at her skirt, so that he saw for a moment the glitter of the buckle on her thigh strapped holsters. "I want some stones," she said, "About so big," and she indicated with a finger and thumb something the size of a tennis ball. "I think about ten or twelve. Pass them up."

  He shrugged, gathered up stones for her until she was satisfied, then climbed up to join her, took some of them. They started walking back to the steps.

  "Aren't you going to ask why?"

  "You'll tell me when you're ready."

  "That I will. You'll see."

  They halted at the foot of the steps. She moved to the upward edge of the concrete and arranged the stones in a row, about six inches apart, right on the edge.

  "Let's go and eat now," she suggested, and led the way lip the steps. Music met their ears as they went inside.

  "What on earth—?"she tilted her head to listen to the cascade of interwoven sound. "I'm sure I know that, but not in that form."

  "Bach," Kuryakin explained.

  "But that's keyboard music. Heavens, I used to play this thing once. They are ringing it!"

  "Haven't you ever heard the Swingle Singers?"

  She hadn't and was most intrigued. All through the meal she and Kuryakin talked music, and Solo got the impression that she was rather put out by the depth and range of the Russian agent's knowledge.

  She's obviously interested in music, he thought, but Illya's making her sound like a stumbling amateur, and she doesn't like it a bit. Guard had four Swingle albums in his record collection, and by the time they had been played Miss Perrell had had enough.

  "Leave the washing up a moment," she said, pushing away from the table. They followed her out on to the little balcony. She indicated the stones; then with a smooth movement she drew one of her guns.

  "Target practice," Kuryakin guessed. "You're not giving yourself much of a mark to shoot at, are you?"

  "You two said you'd seen weapons like these before, but have you used them at all? Care to show me?" She offered one gun to Solo, who put up his hands in rejection.

  "I'm no expert. I've handled one, yes."[1]

  Miss Perrell sat on the top step, braced her forearm on a knee, took careful aim, and fired. There was a quiet pop and then the delayed whip crack sound far ahead of the muzzle. Down there a chip of concrete sprang away in dust by the side of the center stone, close enough to stir it.

  On her second shot it leaped away into the sunshine with a howl. She opened her palm and handed the gun to Solo.

  "Let's see you," she said. He took it, shrugged as he examined it.

  "I said I'm no expert, and this thing isn't intended to be accurate. The slugs are miniature rockets, which throws the customary trajectory all cockeyed. For one thing, they take off slow but accelerate past the sound barrier within the first few feet. The real virtue of the thing is the hitting power. As you know, the impact value derives from half the mass times the square of the velocity, so there's quite a clout at the far end. Still, if you insist!"

  Kuryakin, elbowed on the balcony to one side, hid his grin. He knew what was going to happen next. Solo wrapped his hand around the weapon gently, gazed at the patient row of stones, and took seemingly casual aim. The gun spoke softly but fast—six snap cracks of sound—and from the end of the line six stones sprang smartly into the air, spraying dust.

  "Not bad at all," he said, handing it back to her, "once you get the hang of it."

  He thought he had never seen before such naked hate as was in her eyes at that moment. She took the gun and smacked it into its place.

  "Don't I get a try?" Kuryakin complained, and she wheeled on him.

  "All right, so you're both pretty smart with guns. But there are other things. Come on inside!" She led the way with hard angry steps. The two men shook their heads at each other and followed. She seized the table, sent it rolling away from the center of the room with a vigorous shove, then turned on Kuryakin again.

  "Your turn," she said, "and this time we'll see how good you are with no weapons at all." She put fingers over her head to a button or two, grasped her hem and hoisted, took the dress up over her head and off.

  "Goods in the window," Solo murmured, moving to the table and hitching his hip on it.

  "You said one tends to lean on gadgets, to get fat and slow." She peeled off the holsters, laid them on the table, then stared at him. "Fat and slow?"

  "I was quoting John Guard," Solo defended. "And he had a point, but it didn't refer to you. Just what are you trying to prove?"

  "That I am not the weak and defenseless female you think I am." She wheeled away, trod to the center of the room and faced Kuryakin. She kicked off her sandals and now was wearing only a sheer body clinging garment of some kind in black cobwebby stuff. It left absolutely nothing to the imagination. He saw her chin come up and out as she challenged his colleague, and seeing the pair of them like this he realized there was very little difference between them in height, weight or reach. The difference was entirely in the arrangement of adipose tissue.

  "You can have me," she said flatly. "All you have to do is come and get me—if you can!"

  Illya was wary. "Suppose I don't want you?"

  "Then I am going to get you. I mean it!"

  "You're a fool. This is a stone floor. You'll get hurt."

  "Save the excuses for when you need them." She crouched and spread her arms in readiness. Kuryakin sighed, unbuttoned his coat and half-turned to shrug it off. She sprang instantly, one arm flashing up and down in a neck chop that should have finished him there and then, except that he rolled with it and away from it and came up as far as one knee with the coat off and clear.

  "Lesson one," she said. "Don't be careless."

  "Thank you," he said, flexing his neck carefully.

  She came in fast then, darting out a hand. He reached past it with seeming ease and clamped on her wrist. She whirled and ducked, twisted, coming in to get his arm over her shoulder, ready to throw him away. Only it didn't happen like that. Before she could heave he had brought his arm across and under her chin, together with her wrist. Then she heaved. And grunted. And heaved again. Illya merely stood there and let her use up her strength. After a few fruitless moments of that he lifted his unused left hand, chopped her smartly in the ribs, and shook off her grip on his right hand. Then he slapped that hand smartly between her shoulder blades and sent her reeling to her knees. She was up again in a flash.

  "Care to try that again?" he asked mildly, and offered his right arm.

  She snarled, flung a
t his offer, grabbed, went past and around him, bringing her other arm under and around and over and clasped both hands behind his head in a classic full nelson.

  "What do you say now?" she hissed.

  "You want a speech?" He raised one hand to touch her elbow and she clamped on more pressure savagely. He sighed, shifted his feet just a fraction, then squirmed suddenly, snapping his arm down hard, smashing his elbow into her midriff powerfully. He turned to watch her double up and whoop for breath, clutching her stomach. Then he put both hands on her shoulders, pushed, and sat down hard on the stone floor. The thud brought a grunt from her. She went to rise instantly, and he sat her down again, hard. Solo winced, watched her try again and go down again, wallop! She shook the hair from her face and glared at Illya.

  "Let me get up!"

  "So that you can make an even bigger fool of yourself? All right." He stood back. She tucked long legs under, crouched, came up with a rush, her left hand flailing across in a chop at his jugular, right hand stabbing stiff fingers for his solar plexus. Her chop met his forearm and skidded harmlessly, her dig was foiled by his down cutting palm. He spun, extending a toe to sweep her feet out from under, and again she sat, this time with such force that she was momentarily stunned by the impact. Now there were tears in her eyes, but she gathered her long legs for another try.

  "Your head is almost as hard as this floor," he observed, then tensed as his alert eye caught the twinkle from a slim knife she had plucked from somewhere.

  "Damn you!" she choked, coming in. He went straight to meet her, to get inside the point, hit her hard in the ribs, grabbed the dangerous wrist and twisted. Still in the same forward impetus he jarred into her with a shoulder, snaked his free arm around and up and got a good handful of her hair. Then he bent her back over his knee.

  "Now," he said, very quietly, "drop it or I'll break your arm." She panted violently but let the blade go. Still holding her bent, he stared into her tear filled eyes.