The single window was open a few inches from the bottom. Crossing to it, she raised it the rest of the way to clear the air, then put away her handkerchief.
The room was not very large and was furnished sparsely. There was a dresser in the corner near the door, one straight-backed chair and a single-width cot against the wall opposite the dresser.
Going over to the cot, she heaved the mattress onto the floor and looked down with satisfaction at the three round tins resting on the linen cover of the springs. She checked their labels just to make sure. They were labeled respectively: Lito's Fritos Commercial, Upsa-Daisy Commercial and Piggy-Wiggy Commercial.
The last sounded as though it would be even more revolting than the other two, April thought with a shudder. She was glad she didn't have to listen to it.
She opened the tins and, one at a time, let the tapes unwind into a pile on the floor. Then she took out her lighter, pressed a secret catch and flicked it alight. The flame which spurted from it wasn't the ordinary one used to light cigarettes. It was blue white and hissed out for a distance of six inches. It was also hot enough to cut through steel.
Stooping, she directed the flame at the tangled mass of tape.
The tapes had been reduced to ashes when the doorknob was rattled from outside.
"Hey!" Dingo's voice called thickly. "Who bolted this door?"
April moved over between the dresser and the door, set her purse on the dresser and reached out to slide open the bolt. Then she pressed her back to the wall next to the door.
The door crashed back against the wall on the opposite side of the doorway from April. The hairy Dingo, clad in purple pajamas and barefoot, loomed in the doorway, glaring around from streaming eyes. The U.N.C.L.E. gun was thrust out before him. The riding whip was in his left hand. Smoke billowed into the room from behind him.
April reached out and grasped the man's gun wrist with both hands. Twisting it down, backward and then upward, she swung her back to him and heaved with all of her one hundred and eight pounds.
Dingo did a complete flip and landed on his back with a crash. The gun leaped from his hand. April caught it in midair as it headed for the floor.
Through the thickening mist she saw the man bounce to his knees and pivot to face her. His face distorted into a snarl and his left arm drew back until the whip was behind him. It started to lash forward at her face.
April felt to make sure the lever of the U.N.C.L.E. gun was in the up position, aimed and pressed the trigger. There was a dull popping noise, Dingo's expression grew vacant and his body slowed to slow motion.
April jerked back her head and the tip of the riding whip just gently brushed her chin as it slowly swept past. Dingo's body continued to twist, also in slow motion from the momentum of the whiplash. He turned nearly completely around before falling heavily on the back of his left shoulder. He stretched out on his back and lay still.
Retrieving her bag from the dresser, April dropped the U.N.C.L.E. gun into it. The smoke was still thick in the hall, but when she slipped into the room housing the mentally retarded jingle writers, only enough had seeped beneath the door to cause a slight mist. She shut the door behind her to keep any more from entering the room, found a wall switch and turned on the overhead light.
The four men were all awake and sitting up. The expressions on their faces were those of frightened children.
"What that noise?" Carlos asked fearfully.
Until that moment April hadn't realized the bell had stopped clanging. Dingo must have turned it off while she was preoccupied with burning the tapes.
"Just a false alarm," April said reassuringly. "There isn't any fire. This smoke comes from some harmless smoke pots."
Carlos' expression turned to one of relief.
"This my friend," he announced to the others. "She going to take us take to the home."
They all looked up at her with wondering but trusting smiles.
Five minutes later April had picked the locks of all the leg manacles. The men had been sleeping in their clothes, except for shoes. She waited while they located those and put them on, then led them through the still dense smoke to the nearest exit from the building.
NINE
THE SECRET OF THE MOAT
It was two when April Dancer arrived back at the hotel. She alit from the front seat of a station wagon with lettering on its side reading; Lombodia State Home For The Mentally Retarded.
Thanking the driver, she said good-by to the four men seated in back and entered the lobby. At the desk she inquired if Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin had checked in.
About an hour ago, Senorita Dancer," the clerk said. "They inquired of you and Senor Slate and asked that you go to their room as soon as either of you came in."
"What's the number?" April asked.
"One-eleven, senorita. Just down the rear hall, off the lobby."
April walked down the indicated hall and knocked on the door of room 111. The door was opened by a slim but muscular man with a lean, sensitive face and long blond hair which drifted over his forehead and partially covered his ears. He was in shirt-sleeves.
Illya Kuryakin's usually serious face broke into a smile.
"Hello, April," he said. "We were beginning to worry about you."
"Hello, Illya," she said without any return smile. He stepped aside and she moved into the room.
Napoleon Solo, also in shirt-sleeves, rose from the far twin bed on, which he had been seated and rounded the nearer one. "How are you, April?" he asked.
''I'm awful," she said.
Both men sobered immediately. "Mark?" Kuryakin asked.
She gave a hopeless nod.
Solo said, "Mr. Waverly contacted us just as we landed and told us you were headed for some castle to rescue him. Were you too late?"
"Yes."
Solo took April's elbow and steered her over to the nearest bed. He had her sit down and sat next to her. Illya Kuryakin stood looking down at them.
"Let's have it all," Solo said.
In a low voice April Dancer recounted everything which had happened up to the time she led the four mentally retarded men from the smoke-filled building.
"There is a tavern only a couple of blocks from the studio," she concluded. "I looked up the number of the home for the mentally retarded there and got the superintendant out of bed. When I explained that I had four of his missing charges in tow, he sent a station wagon. The driver kindly dropped me off at the hotel."
"Didn't you phone the police also?" Kuryakin asked. "Moreno and his crew are certainly guilty of kidnapping and of involuntary servitude."
She laughed shortly. "Sancho Moreno has the chief of police in his pocket. The president of Lombodia, the mayor of Vina Rosa and the chief of police are all on Moreno's payroll. Look---the man who showed up driving the station wagon was the home's assistant superintendant. He was spitting nails over the treatment his charges received until I told him Sancho Moreno was behind it all. Then he turned pale and didn't say another word."
Napoleon Solo said, "In that case, I don't suppose the police would be very enthusiastic about investigating Mark's murder either."
"I doubt that they would even question Moreno, except perhaps as a formality."
Solo examined her thoughtfully. "All you really saw in the moat was Mark's vest and coat and some red in the water. It's not exactly what you'd call a corpus delecti."
"I had the piece of vest in my hand," April said. "It was torn in half and stained with blood. I know blood when I see it."
Solo rose to his feet with an air of determination. "Still, we're not going to write off Mark until we're absolutely certain. Let's drive out to this castle."
April gazed up at him hopefully.
"You think there's a chance?"
"Not much," he admitted. "I can't imagine why an alligator would be carrying around a piece of blood-stained vest unless Moreno carried out his plan to feed Mark to his pets. But, if he is dead, I still want to visit that castl
e. I have a vengeful nature."
"We're going to see if the alligators find Mr. Moreno as delectable as Mark?" Kuryakin inquired.
"Something like that. Illya, how are we going to get across that moat?"
The blond man pursed his lips.
"This drawbridge, April. Does it lie flat against the wall when it is drawn up?"
"No, it leans out at about a thirty-degree angle."
Kuryakin went over to a suitcase lying on a chair, opened it and rummaged beneath the packed clothes in it. He drew out a coil of thin nylon rope. Slipping his left arm through the loop, he drew it up until it was looped around his shoulder.
Going over to the closet, he drew out his suit jacket and put it on. The coiled rope was completely concealed under it.
"Shall we go?" he inquired. Napoleon Solo went over to the closet and put on a coat also.
April said, "We may as well phone for a cab from here."
Solo smiled at her. "We rented a car at the airport."
"Oh," April said.
Illya Kuryakin courteously held the door open for her, then followed her out, Solo bringing up the rear.
They fell in on either side of her as they crossed the lobby. April glanced from Illya's brooding, sensitive face to the serene, self-assured face of the slightly taller Napoleon Solo.
Neither man gave the impression that he would be a particularly deadly opponent, but April knew from experience just how ruthlessly deadly both could be when the situation called for it. She was glad they were on her side. She didn't hold out much hope for Sancho Moreno.
When the space between the slowly advancing steel wall and the pit had contracted to three feet, Mark Slate tested Moreno's claim that several tons of pressure were behind the steel wall by attempting to hold it back. It seemed apparent that Moreno had told the truth, because he couldn't even slow the inexorable advance.
He examined the other side of the pit for something he might hang on to. Both the microphone and speaker were set into the wan and there were no other projections. The light suspended over the pit hung from the ceiling on a chain, but the ceiling was a good eleven feet from the floor. And there was nothing to stand on.
There was only one desperate chance, Slate decided. It was one which would require superb muscular coordination, plus a great deal of luck.
Mark Slate possessed the former. He could only hope for the latter to develop.
In order to be encumbered by binding clothing as little as possible when it came time to make his desperate try for survival, he took off his suit coat and vest and lay them on the floor. Then he stood with his back to the steel wall and let it push him slowly toward the pit
When he was balanced on a ledge only a foot wide, Moreno's voice came from the speaker again.
"Mr. Slate?"
“Uh-huh," Slate said.
"You know you have only minutes now to make up your mind. Have you come to a decision?"
"Yeah," Slate said:
"What?"
"Go spit up a rope."
A sigh came from the speaker.
"I was afraid you would continue to remain heroically stupid. Goodbye, Mr. Slate."
"So long, Sancho," Slate said calmly.
The ledge had now contracted to six inches. The coat and vest lying on the floor had been pushed closer and closer to the edge of the pit, and now the coat slid over the edge into the water below.
The alligators, which had ceased their bellowing but were still hungrily eyeing the prospective meal teetering on the ledge above them, immediately began roaring and fighting over the garment.
"Mr. Slate!" Moreno's voice said sharply.
"Still here," Slate said. "They're just fighting for position. They all seem to want to be immediately beneath me."
The vest slid over the edge, causing another furious battle below.
By now the ledge had shrunk to three inches. Balanced on his heels, with his arms straight out from his sides, his palms pressed against the steel wall, Slate felt the moving wall nudge him forward another fraction of an inch. It shifted his center of gravity just enough so that he slowly tipped forward like a falling timber.
Deliberately he emitted a scream, then let it taper off into a gurgling gasp.
The scream muffled the sound of his outstretched palms slapping against the damp stone wall on the opposite side of the pit. With his heels hooked over the rim of the ledge behind him and his hands braced against the stone wall, he remained suspended over the pit at about a forty-five degree angle. Below, the famished monsters set up an increased roaring.
Another regretful sigh issued from the speaker and Moreno's voice muttered something about idiot Englishmen.
Now came the element of luck.
If Sancho Moreno allowed the steel wall to continue its movement clear to the very edge of the pit, Slate knew he was doomed. Only his heels hooked over the damp stone edge kept him from falling. If they were pushed off, he knew the moisture-covered stone would be too slippery for friction between his shoe sales and the wall to hold him in place. His feet would simply slide down the surface of the wall and he would tumble into the pit.
His only hope lay in Moreno deciding there was no point in letting the wall move farther, now that Slate had fallen into the pit.
The sheet of steel pushed at his heels. He felt his feet shoved forward until only half the forward edge of his heels rested on the rim of the pit.
He had given up hope when the movement of the steel wall suddenly stopped. Then it reversed itself. His feet slipped backward again a quarter inch and the heels of his shoes again solidly gripped the pit's edge.
The steel sheet retreated much faster than it had moved forward. Within a half minute it had reached its starting position. Slate allowed his body to move forward and down until his arms were bent nearly double, tensed his muscles and suddenly straightened his arms to thrust himself away from the stone wall.
His body erect now, he teetered on his heels for a heart-stopping moment, started to fall forward again and flailed his arms wildly. He managed to regain balance; his body slowly leaned backward; then his knees bent, his hands shot downward to break his fall and he gently sat down. At the last moment his heels slid out from under him on the moist stone floor so that his feet protruded over the edge of the pit, but it no longer mattered, because he was seated safely on the floor.
With catlike grace he was instantly on his feet again. The sheet of steel rumbled upward and disappeared through the slot in the ceiling.
Slate pressed his back against the wall next to the iron-studded oaken door and waited.
Apparently the steel wall was operated from some room above, for it was several minutes before he heard footsteps coming down the stone stairway into the torture chamber. Meantime, now that Slate was no longer in view, the alligators had ceased bellowing.
Slate could distinguish only one set of footsteps. He was afraid to peer through the small barred aperture in the door to check if only one person was coming, because it would be disastrous to be seen before the door opened. He could only hope that his hearing had been accurate.
A key grated in the cell door's lock and the door opened outward. Sancho Moreno came through the doorway and took a step toward the pit.
From the corner of his eye Moreno caught sight of Slate, and his reaction was instantaneous. He whirled and ducked just as Slate started a karate chop at his neck
The blow sliced air harmlessly.
Moreno kicked out at Slate's knee and the latter avoided the kick by jumping back. Then they were circling each other, their extended hands raised palm out in the traditional stance of judo opponents.
Moreno was as expert in the art as he was, Slate learned when he feinted the man into making an attack, then suddenly kicked him in the chest. The kick landed solidly enough to bring a grunt from the larger man, but Slate felt his ankle grasped and he was jerked off balance.
As his other foot slid out from under him on the slippery stone floor, Slate sho
t his hands beneath him to break his fall. The instant his palms slapped on the floor, he kicked upward with his free foot.
The kick caught Moreno beneath the chin. He released his grip on Slate's ankle and staggered backward.
Slate had bounced to one knee when Moreno recovered his balance by gripping both sides of the doorway as he staggered backward through it. Using the door frame for leverage, he instantly hurled himself forward again.
Slate, on one knee with his back to the pit, had no time either to bounce to his feet or spin out of the way. As Moreno's outstretched hands gripped his throat, he shot his right hand between them and gathered a handful of shirt-front. Letting Moreno's momentum carry him over backward, he rolled onto his back, planted both feet in the man's midriff and thrust upward.
Moreno's hands left his throat and the man's body performed an arc through the air. For an instant it was suspended upside down over the pit, then Moreno emitted an agonized scream as it plummeted downward.
There was a splash, a flurry of threshing noises and a final muffled scream which broke off abruptly.
Slate lay on the floor, listening, until the horrible noises from the pit began to subside. Then he rose to his feet. By now it seemed obvious that Moreno had descended to the dungeons alone, but nevertheless he peered out into the torture chamber with caution. No other enemies were awaiting him there.
The cell from which Slate had seen the face of the retarded prisoner peering through the barred aperture in the door was on the opposite side of the torture chamber. He took the heavy iron key which Sancho Moreno had left in his own cell lock and tried it in the lock of that door. Apparently all the locks were identical, because it opened.
The opening of the door awakened the prisoner, who had been sleeping on a straw-filled pallet fully clothed, except for shoes. Slate flicked on a light switch just outside the door. The man sat up and looked at him blankly. He was a thin scarecrow of a man with curiously vacant eyes.
"What's your name?" Slate asked.
"Juan," the prisoner said.
"My name is Mark, Juan. I'm not one of those who brought you here. I'm a prisoner too. You don't have to be afraid of me."
The Velvet Voice Affair Page 10