Assault on Soho

by Don Pendleton

Whistles were sounding back there, and a sudden swirl of blue suits in the area they had just vacated revealed to Bolan the narrowness of their escape. And they were not all that clear yet.

  The little car swerved into the street below Russell Square and skidded off into an easterly run. Bolan threw a leg over and fought his way into the front seat as a tootling wail of sirens rose up to plague their rear. He asked the girl, “Do you know where you’re going?”

  “Not just yet,” she gasped. “Never worry, they’ll not catch us.”

  Bolan could believe it. She was an expert driver, and she was pushing the car to the limit of the terrain, zig-zagging through the London maze in a way that would make downstream interceptions very unlikely. After several minutes of this it became evident that they had gotten away. The sounds of pursuit became fainter and more confused, and Bolan told her, “You’re some wheelman.”

  “It’s my first time,” she admitted, the dark eyes flashing with excitement. “I mean, very nearly.”

  They were running easy now, angling toward the Thames and slowly working into a westward swing. The town seemed fully awakened, and the streets were becoming choked with buses and private vehicles as the off-to-work crowd descended on the inner city.

  The girl told Bolan, “I believe I’ve decided where we shall go.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Soho Psyche, for now. We’ll spend a few hours there, until things cool off a bit, then we’ll be off to Brighton. I’ve a cottage there. And it will be a perfectly smashing place.”

  Never mind smashing Brighton, Bolan’s mind was still hung up on that first place. His eyes narrowed somewhat and he echoed, “Soho Psyche?”

  “Yes, there’ll be nobody about but the cleaning personnel—and surely no one would think to look for you there. Then the cottage in Brighton will make an ideal layover. We’ll keep you concealed there until we can find a way to smuggle you out of the country.”

  “Wait just a minute,” he growled. “What’s the deal on Soho Psyche? I don’t know that I—”

  She interrupted with a peal of nervous laughter. “How rotten of me, I assumed you knew. The Psyche is my place, at least half of it is.”

  “Who owns the other half?” he asked darkly.

  “Major Stone is my partner. But never worry, if you’re still thinking of your dreadful suspicions. The Major rarely visits the place, he’s what you would term a silent partner.”

  The whole idea was a bit too overpowering for Bolan to assimilate immediately. He mulled the thing through his mind, finally growling, “Okay, we’ll try it.”

  She smiled. “I have a flat there. We shall be quite comfortable.”

  “It seems that you have flats all over London,” he replied drily.

  She tossed her head and said, “Not really. The place back at Queen’s House is merely a convenience for me. You’ll never realize what a luxury absolute privacy can be until you’ve lived my life of the past few years. Sometimes I simply must get away from all of it. Queen’s House is my getaway place.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that,” he said, still watching her narrowly.

  “The flat at the club is another convenience, a business one though, I assure you. Frequently I’m there until all hours. It’s nice to have a place to refresh one’s self from time to time.”

  “Uh-huh.” Bolan was not enjoying the thoughts that were crowding his mind. “And, of course, you share another place with Major Stone.”

  “Yes.” She looked at him and smiled. “Cheer up. I just sleep there, and even that as seldom as possible. It’s a matter of family, actually. I grew up in that house.”

  “And then there’s Brighton.”

  “Yes, well, that’s my weekender. Brighton is on the sea, you know. A very nice resort, really. I love it there, by the sea.”

  They drove in silence for several minutes, during which time Bolan was attempting to organize his mind. They swung past Piccadilly and began angling into Soho. The big house with the iron gate slid past. Bolan noted that the vehicles had returned. He asked Ann, “Who’s place is that?” He wouldn’t have been surprised to hear her identify it as the old family home.

  She had sensed his hostility, and her own mood had suffered a marked deterioration also. Coolly, she replied, “It once belonged to the Earl of—”

  “I mean now. Who lives there now?”

  She shook her head and told him, “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  He almost grinned and said, “You’re sure of that?”

  A smile hovered just beneath the surface of her lips. She murmured, “Whatever is the matter with you? Honestly, you’re the bloodiest, most suspicious person I have ever known.”

  He sighed and told her, “It keeps me breathing, kiddo.”

  “Well, please don’t start to get edgy with me. I’ve plans for you this beautiful morning.”

  “What sort of plans?”

  One hand dropped away from the steering wheel and found Bolan’s in a warm grip. “I’m going to ask you to prove something to me.”

  “And what’s that?” he asked, though he already suspected the aswer.

  “It’s high time I discovered whether or not I’m a natural woman. Don’t you think so?”

  Bolan thought so. He murmured, “Just so you know exactly what you’re doing, Ann.”

  “But I’m leaving all that to you,” she said, with what he was sure was a forced smile. She was an open gal, yeah, but she wasn’t brassy. “I intend to place myself entirely into your hands.”

  Bolan was looking at her and visualizing all that entirely in his hands. Either he was the most fortunate man in London or the biggest sucker. He sighed and said, “Wrong.”

  “What?”

  “It’s the other way around, m’lady. I have placed myself entirely in your hands.”

  She understood his meaning. She shivered slightly and said, “Trust me, Mack.”

  “I guess I have to,” he said solemnly. But not entirely. Bodies like that one had launched armadas, sure. They had also brought down Samsons and Caesars. No. Bolan would never be entirely in her hands. Or so he thought at the time.

  Chapter Sixteen

  PROOFS AND SYMBOLS

  Ann Franklin’s “plans” for Bolan’s morning seemed headed for a readjustment the moment they entered the club. There was a sizeable crowd in the bar, there was considerable churning about, and voices raised in loud argument were spilling into the entrance lobby. Several girls stood idly just outside the doorway to the bar, and these reacted to Ann’s appearance there with noticeable good humor.

  “Thank heaven you’ve arrived, Miss Franklin,” said a tall beauty in tight pants. “Perhaps you could go in there and set that ruddy Donovan straight over our rest periods.”

  Apparently they had walked in on a heated labor-management dispute.

  “Some cleaning personnel,” Bolan remarked to Ann Franklin, looking the girls over in an overtly masculine appraisal. He knew better. The tight seated one who had addressed Ann was the blonde tube girl Bolan had seen the night before. He was wondering if Ann “staged” the entertainment here, too. She murmured an excuse to Bolan and pushed into the bar with the girls. The blond hung back at the door to send Bolan an over-the-shoulder examination, then she smiled and went on.

  Bolan lit a cigarette and paced about the lobby, wondering what the hell was he doing there. Ann reappeared, looking flustered, and pressed a key into his hand. She pecked his cheek and told him, “You may as well go on up. I’ll be along as soon as possible. I’ve some trouble here.”

  Bolan asked, “Go on up where?”

  She pointed out a drapery-concealed stairway at the end of the lobby, kissed his chin, and hurried back into the bar.

  Bolan went up, with misgivings, and found a stunningly luxurious apartment. Here was no masculine austerity such as he had found at Queen’s House. Persian carpets and oriental tapestries put him more in tune with the motif of the harem room at Museum de Sade, and the incidental decorat
ions did little to refute that image.

  Life-sized nudes, both sexes, dominated the walls and complemented a scattering of figurines and bronze castings of couples coupled in a variety of positions. Bolan whistled softly and went on through.

  It was a single large room with a bed-in-the-round platform at dead center, raised several smooth steps above the rest of the place; like a stage, Bolan couldn’t help thinking; and an Arabian Nights sunken bath just below with circular marble steps going down into a bubbling-fountain pool which could cheerfully accommodate a fairsized guest list all at once. It was filled with water and some sort of rotating light arrangement set into the fountain was sending sparkling psychedelic patterns all around.

  A small kitchenette was thrown in, amost as an afterthought, and completing the arrangement were a well stocked bar and a tiny secretary shoved casually off to the side.

  Yeah, Bolan decided, it would be a perfect spot to refresh one’s self from time to time—any time. One half of his mind saw Ann Franklin fitting beautifully into the place; the other half saw her more naturally in Queen’s House, at least a full world apart from the screamingly overt sexuality of this unbelievable pad. A virgin, eh?

  So what could it all add up to, what could it possibly mean?

  Bolan found a telephone at the center of the outrageous bed. He bounced gingerly on the soft fluff, then pulled the phone across by the cord and dialed the number Leo Turrin had given him.

  It rang three times before a cautious voice responded with, “Yeah?”

  “Leo the Pussy,” Bolan growled.

  “Just a minute.”

  Bolan waited more than a minute. Then he heard the click of an extension phone coming off the hook and Turrin’s voice asked, “Who’s this?”

  “You ast me to call you when you come in.”

  “Oh. This th’ iron man?”

  “Right.”

  “Say I can’t talk to you right now, kid. We got a meeting going on.”

  Bolan grinned into the mouthpiece. “Well it’s your show. But you better know, I don’t have a lotta time. I’m about to get tied up on something myself.”

  “Well, I’d like to talk to you, kid. How ’bout meeting me somewheres?”

  “You name it,” Bolan replied.

  “You know the Tower of London?”

  “I can find it.”

  “It’s down by the Thames, down past London Bridge and, uh, let’s see, like going down to th’ docks. You got a picture?”

  “Yeah, I’ll find it. When?”

  “Listen, meet me on Execution Row in about an hour.”

  Bolan almost laughed into the telephone. He controlled himself and said, “What’s that Execution Row?”

  “Aw, it’s part of the sightseeing kick down there, it’s where Ann Boleyn got hers, you know, a historical spot. Just ask a guide when you get there. Uh, kind of mix in with the tourists, you know, don’t look obvious. I gotta talk to you about something important. It’ll be worth something to you, don’t worry.”

  “Okay, in about an hour.”

  “Uh, wait a minute. Somebody just told me it don’t open ’til ten. Tell you what, meet me there at ten thirty.”

  “Ten thirty it is,” Bolan agreed.

  “Okay, and remember I said to don’t look obvious. Nothing personal, kid, I mean I’m not ashamed of meeting you in the open, nothing like that. I just don’t want no London cops busting me, you understand that.”

  Bolan understood perfectly. “Okay, and here’s one for you, Leo. You come alone, nobody but you. I get nervous in a crowd.”

  Turrin chuckled and said something in an aside to a third person, then he told Bolan, “Don’t worry, I’ll be alone. You just watch your end.”

  Bolan growled a goodbye and hung up. It had been obvious that Turrin had been speaking in a crowd, probably from a table-top conference. Now he would be explaining to those listening that the call had come from a guy who could put him next to Bolan.

  Okay, fine. So what happened if someone else at that table decided to get next to Bolan first? Bolan sighed. He would simply have to trust Turrin to handle that possibility.

  It seemed that all of a sudden he was having to trust an awful hell of a lot of people to keep his head on. And Bolan didn’t like it, not a bit. The jungle never saw after its own; in the jungle, survival was always an individual proposition.

  A sound from across the room brought him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Ann Franklin quietly regarding him. He waved to her from the bed-stage-whatever and called down, “It’s a swinging pad. What’s a nice girl like you doing with all this schmazz?”

  She ascended the steps with a hesitant smile and said, “Schmazz, is that good or bad?”

  He shrugged and grinned at her. “Depends on what ticks you,” he replied in the same light tone. “Did you get your labor problem settled?”

  She jerked her head in a curt nod and did something behind her to make her dress fall off.

  Bolan’s eyes flared at the spectacular view. She wore little bikini panties which were a mere technicality, and a no-bra bra that wasn’t even that. His earlier recollection of the flawless skin proved valid, and even somewhat unfair. He had viewed it then through wearied and bloodshot eyes. Now they were neither weary nor bloodshot and the beauty of this woman was almost appalling. He said, “Dammit, Ann!”

  “I told you,” she murmured. “I’m in your hands.”

  He pulled her down beside him and she fell onto her back, curving around in a graceful sprawl with one knee slightly raised and both arms yoked up above her head. He touched her here and there, almost reverently, and she responded with a purring little sigh.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered.

  He did so, and found the inner man of him rising to mingle with the heady sensuality of the moment. Yeah, yeah—it could be love.

  “Oh I love you, Mack,” she whispered, voicing the thing he could not.

  He touched her again and she squirmed under the sensation, catching her breath in a sharp intake and rising toward him for another soulful mingling of lips and teeth and tongue and all of it.

  He got away from it, smiled, and asked her a hell of a question, all considered. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

  She held his face with both hands and gave him a shivery confirmation. “Oh I’m sure.”

  “You already have the proof you wanted,” Bolan pointed out.

  She gave her head an emphatic shake and whispered, “Well not quite.”

  Bolan showed her a solemn smile and said, “Everybody turns off at the same switch, Ann. It’s what turns us on that makes the difference.” He waved a hand over her head in a mock ceremonial gesture. “I now pronounce you a natural woman.”

  “Mack for God’s sake make love to me,” she pleaded in a half-strangled little voice.

  He whispered a very ragged, “Okay,” and pushed himself clear and began coming away from his clothing.

  She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, lying still as death except for the rapid rise and fall of her breath, the pink tip of a delicate tongue curled into the corner of parted lips.

  He snapped off the gunleather and dropped it to the floor, very close to the bed, attacked the skinsuit then halted suddenly, aware of her intent gaze.

  She giggled and said, “Carry on. I’ve seen it before. I put you to bed yesterday, remember?”

  “You haven’t seen it like this before,” he growled, and peeled off the suit and threw it at her.

  She squealed and flipped over onto all fours, and Bolan scooped her up and dragged her off the bed. She clung to him and their lips merged again, after which he told her, “I’ll have a bath first, m’lady. Want to come in with me?”

  She nodded starry-eyed approval of the suggestion and Bolan carried her down from the stage of a bed and deposited her at the edge of the bubbling-fountain pool. She slipped out of the bra and clung to Bolan’s shoulder with one hand as she stepped out of the silken bikini.

&n
bsp; Then she froze in that position, her fingers digging into Bolan’s shoulder, and she let out a scream that shivered him clear to his feet. He overreacted, snatching her away from the pool with a violence that sent her sprawling across the floor. Then he saw what she had seen, and he was shivered all over again.

  The dead eyes of Harry Parks were staring up at him from beneath the water. The naked body was arched back with the head drawn between the knees in almost the same position in which Edwin Charles had died, and he was bound into that position with a thick tapestry cord. A heavy metal figurine was holding the body submerged.

  Bolan went into the water and pulled him out while Ann Franklin had a mild case of hysterics on the sidelines. Except for bruises made by the bindings, no marks of violence showed on the body. Harry Parks had undoubtedly died down there with his lungs full of water, his nose barely beneath the surface and straining to break clear—it all showed in those horribly staring dead eyes. Rigor mortis had arrived, and Bolan did not even attempt to straighten the body. He covered the crouching figure with an oval throw rug and led Ann Franklin back to the bed, rounded up her clothes, and tossed them to her.

  “You’d better get dressed,” he said listlessly.

  She did so mechanically. Bolan got into his and went directly to the bar. He found the brandy and poured two stiff doses and carried them to the bed. Ann took hers without looking at him, and held the glass with both hands, peering down into the liquid as though hoping to find something written there.

  Bolan tossed his down, then whirled about and heaved the glass against the far wall. It hit with a crash, and Ann flinched.

  Bolan muttered, “Hell, I am sick of this!”

  The girl woodenly murmured, “Poor Harry,” and delicately tasted her brandy.

  “Poor Harry’s been dead a long time,” Bolan informed her. “When was the last time you were up here?”

  “Last night,” she whispered. “For a moment.”

  “What time last night?”

  “Directly after you left here. Or a short time after. The police had a few questions. We answered them. Then I came up to change my clothes. I went straight back out. Harry and the Major were in the bar. I had a word of goodnight with them. Then I went straightaway to Queen’s House. That was the last time I saw Harry.” Her eyes strayed to the lump at the bottom of the platform. She shivered and added, “Alive.”