Pulp Fiction | The Invisibility Affair by Thomas Stratton (14 page)

"Where is everybody?" Napoleon demanded, assuming an authoritative air. "Forbes said this was urgent; why don't you take us to him instead of wasting time talking?" He can identify us."

"Forbes ain't here, and neither is anybody else but me. They took the dirigible out just a few hours ago. They ain't gonna be back, neither, so taking care of you two is up to me. Lessee now, if you're from Dubuque you got identification. Beard's a bureaucrat at heart; all his boys are loaded down with cards and countersigns. Let's see your identity card."

"Certainly," said Napoleon, reaching for his inside coat pocket.

"No sudden moves," said the caretaker. The Ithaca swung to point directly at Napoleon's stomach, and his hand halted abruptly. "Now then," Sanders continued, "just slip that identification out nice and easy, and toss it over to me so I can look at it."

Napoleon slipped his wallet out of his pocket and gingerly tossed it toward the caretaker's feet. At it struck the ground there was a muffled pop and a cloud of gas shot up to engulf the old man. Illya and Napoleon leaped sideways as a double charge of buckshot ripped though the space where they had been standing. Charging forward, Illya grabbed Sanders from behind while Napoleon wrestled the gun away from him. As soon as Napoleon had the gun, both agents released the man and stepped back, leaving the caretaker to stand with his eyes streaming tears and his mouth streaming profanity.

"Good work, Napoleon," Illya said. "I never really thought that tear gas cartridge in the wallet would ever be useful. Powerful stuff." He wiped his own eyes and retreated a trifle further.

"Now then, Ezra, we'd like you to answer a few of our questions. Where are Forbes and McNulty and the dirigible?"

The old man wiped his eyes and glared. "You're U.N.C.L.E. agents, you are! Think I'll tell you anything? Why, back in the Great War, I..."

"You mean World War I?"

"Nah, I mean the real war—the War with Spain!"

"You fought in the Spanish-American War?"

"I lied about my age. Anyways, I was a prisoner for two years, and nothing they did could make me talk."

"The Spanish-American War only lasted four months," Illya said.

"Who's tellin' this, you or me? Anyways, if the Spaniards couldn't make me talk, you two fancy-dressed punks can't."

"Are you sure?" Napoleon asked blandly.

"Sure I'm sure. You ain't got any truth serum or you'd have had a hypodermic in me by now; you U.N.C.L.E. boys are too lily-livered to use torture, and even if you did you wouldn't find out anything because I don't know anything. Forbes and McNulty and Hunter don't tell me all their little plans. You two might as well pack up and go home."

"You know, I hate to say it," said Napoleon, "but I think he's right. We could wait here for the dirigible on the chance that he's lying, but if he's telling the truth we'd be wasting valuable time. Brattner can get some men over here to clean the place and post a guard on it in case anyone shows up."

Reluctantly, Napoleon and Illya climbed aboard the elevator. The controls were plainly marked at this end. At the top they needed Illya's powerful flashlight; the moon seemed to have gone under a cloud for good. Wearily the agents tramped back to the gate. Halfway back, Napoleon flung the Ithaca into the woods beside the trail. "If he wants to hunt for it, let him have it," he said. "I'm tired of carrying it." He gained a little satisfaction by blowing the gate off its hinges with plastic explosive. It was a long walk back to the car.

As they reached the county road, Illya spoke. "How many bugs did you plant down there?"

"One in the shed, one in the elevator itself, one in the hangar and a tracer in the caretaker's pants cuff when we jumped him."

"Not bad. I put a couple of microphones in the hangar and one in his shirt pocket. We should be able to hear his inmost thoughts, at least until he changes clothes."

"He doesn't look like the type who changes clothes often," Napoleon said. "I only hope he was lying about the rest of Thrush having left the place for good."

"We'll soon know." They climbed into the car and headed for Richland Center.

Illya had just turned the care onto a state highway and headed north for Richland Center when Napoleon checked their direction finder and noticed that the tracer he'd planted on the caretaker had moved. He checked more closely. As near as he could tell, the caretaker was traveling behind them, heading east. He checked the instrument at short intervals and after some time decided that the man was not going to turn north but continue east.

"It would seem," he remarked, "that the bird is on the wing."

Illya nodded without taking his eyes from the road. "Whither, midst falling dew, while glow the heavens with the last steps of day, far through their rosy depths pursue thy solitary way?"

"William Cullen Bryant," said Napoleon, "and since when did Thrushes become waterfowl?"

Illya shrugged. "Very few poets have written about Thrushes. Are the mikes picking up anything?"

"Not a sound; not even a hum to show they're operating."

"That one in his shirt should at least pick up his heartbeat. He's found them; that old man is pretty sharp."

Napoleon agreed. "We're lucky he hasn't located the tracer in his cuff, and we'd better get after him if we want to stay lucky."

"What about the girls?"

"We'd better get Kerry, at least, since we're driving her car. But I don't think we should get Lee involved any further."

Illya nodded agreement. "So far, Thrush doesn't know about her, and she'll be a lot safer if they never find out. They've probably left the area, but we only have Sanders' word for that."

"And his other statements aren't proving very reliable," Napoleon said, watching the direction finder. After a second, he switched on the communicator and told Kerry to be ready to move as soon as they arrived. "And ask Lee if she can put together something for us to eat on the road."

Illya raised his voice enough to be picked up by the communicator. "Something other than peanut butter, if you have it," he said.

The sound of a bell came faintly through the communicator. "What was that?" Napoleon asked sharply.

"Just the phone," Kerry replied. "Lee's getting it." There was a minute's silence, punctuated by occasional fain background outbursts from Lee; then Kerry continued. "It was Edwin Mallard, the naturalist. He's read Lee's last book and is going to stop and see her on his way through town tomorrow, and—"

Napoleon interrupted. "Is she sure it really is Edwin Mallard, and not a Thrush agent? This strikes me as a pretty large coincidence."

"It
must
be him!" Lee's voice suddenly burst through the communicator. "Why should Thrush...I mean, they don't even know I exist, do they? Didn't you say...And this is the only chance I'll ever have to meet...He doesn't often..."

"Hold it a minute!" Napoleon broke in. "I think we can check this out for you. You just start packing something for us to eat. We should have an answer for you by the time we get there."" Before Lee had a chance to get started again, he signed off and contacted Waverly, who listened politely to Napoleon's request.

"Very well, Mr. Solo. I really can't see how a naturalist could be connected with our type of Thrush, but I'll have the information for you in a few minutes." They were pulling up in front of Lee's house when he called them back. "Mr. Solo? Edwin Mallard is on a speaking tour. Tonight he is at the University of Wisconsin at Madison; day after tomorrow he is to be at the University of Minnesota at Minneapolis. Is this sufficient?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you very much. Solo out." He smiled at Illya. "That's a relief. I didn't want to bring Lee along, and I wasn't too sure how we were going to keep her from coming."

Kerry let them in the door and Lee bounded from the kitchen, a half-assembled peanut butter sandwich in one hand. Illya grimaced; Lee didn't notice as she advanced directly on Napoleon.

"Is it all right?" she asked excitedly.

"It seems to be," Napoleon replied, deftly avoiding the sandwich. "Edwin Mallard is in the area. Even so, it wouldn't hurt to have your friend Lavell present when you meet him."

"Wonderful!" Lee exclaimed, then looked worried. "You won't need me, will you? I mean, I'm positively thrilled at helping out secret agents and all, and I don't want to back out if you need me, but, well,
Edwin Mallard
..."

"Perfectly all right," Illya reassured her. "I suggest we get started, however. Sanders isn't wasting any time, and that tracer does have a distance limitation."

When Kerry had collected a large paper bag full of sandwiches from the kitchen, the three of them walked to the car. Lee waved briefly from the door, then ducked back inside to begin preparations for greeting Edwin Mallard.

"Whither, midst falling dew..." Illya began as he switched on the ignition.

"You said that." Napoleon checked his Wisconsin map and the direction finder. "Back down the highway," he directed. "Our quarry seems to be heading back to Milwaukee."

Illya made a U-turn in front of the house and headed for the highway. "Surely they wouldn't take the dirigible back there?"

Napoleon shrugged. "Possibly he'll turn at Madison." Sometime later he nodded in satisfaction. "He did turn. Now he seems to be angling northeast." He looked back at the detector. "And we seem to be gaining on him a little."

"Only a little?" Illya stepped harder on the accelerator. "He had to slow down going through Madison, and so will we. If he drives fast enough, he could lose us while we're getting through the city."

"Wait a minute," said Napoleon. "Now that we know the direction he's going, we can bypass Madison altogether. Turn left on Wisconsin 78—it should be a mile or two ahead—then we'll swing right and come out behind him, north of the city."

A few minutes later they were driving over a narrow, curving blacktop road. They screamed around one turn on two wheels, and Illya prudently reduced speed. "You and your shortcuts," he muttered.

Nevertheless, they eventually emerged on a major highway, and Napoleon triumphantly announced that they had gained on their quarry. "He's not more than fifteen miles ahead of us now. We should be able to cut that down a bit, on the open highway."

"And what happens if we get stopped for speeding?" Illya inquired. "Better to stay well behind than to lose him altogether."

Napoleon reluctantly agreed. "If he stays on the highway, the next town of any size is Fond du Lac. There doesn't seem to be a shortcut there; if he goes through, so do we."

Sometime later, Napoleon exclaimed, "He's stopped!"

"Where?"

"In Fond du Lac, apparently. He hasn't moved for the last ten minutes; take it easy when you get to the city limits. I wonder," he mused, "where anyone could hide a dirigible in Fond du Lac."

They swung into the city, whit Napoleon hovering over his tracer. "We're close; not more than a few blocks. We...no, he's moving again!"

"Tally-ho," Illya murmured.

They crossed the business district and Illya nodded at a gas station on a corner. "He probably stopped for gas."

"Must be. He's leaving the city now, at any rate. Drop back a bit, Illya. At this distance he could spot our headlights in open country."

Illya obeyed and drove northeast out of the city. They wound along the Lake Winnebago shore for several miles, then swung up across the ridge of land, east toward Manitowoc and Lake Michigan.

Kerry yawned. "Is he going to drive all night?

"He can't go too much further unless he takes to the water," Napoleon assured her.

At Manitowoc, the tracer pointed northeast. They followed, and had just left Two Rivers when Napoleon announced, "He's stopped again."

"This might just be it," said Illya.

"If he's stopped for gas again, he's getting very poor mileage. Drive by slowly; don't alert him by stopping."

They drove north along Lake Michigan, past a sign that announced YOU ARE NOW ENTERING POINT BEACH STATE FOREST. The highway was still winding through the forest when they spotted a rutted path leading off the highway. In the edge of their headlights, Napoleon noted a sign a few feet along the path.

"Dead end," he read, smiling. "How convenient. I do believe our Thrush is up a tree; the tracer shows him down that road somewhere. Pull on ahead and look for an inconspicuous place to pull off the road. Not too far, though, in case we have to run for it."

A few moments later, Illya pulled off the road. They got out, stretched, and began walking back toward the path. Once they flattened out in the ditch as a truck rumbled by, but traffic was light and they reached the path without further trouble.

"Do you have any idea how far it is to the lake?" Napoleon asked Kerry.

"Not for sure. I was here once a long time ago; it shouldn't be more than a mile or two from her to the water."

"All right." Napoleon gave instructions in a low tone. "We go slowly, and as quietly as possible. We'll have to stick to the road; I don't want to go blundering around in a strange forest after dark. I'll go first, Kerry in the middle, Illya last. Stay back as far as you can and still keep the person ahead in sight."

To Kerry, the advance down the pitch-black path seemed endless. They soon discovered that the moonlight didn't penetrate the branches overhead and Napoleon's plans to keep separated had to be abandoned. They kept close together the rest of the way, occasionally blundering into bushes, trees, and each other; sometimes tripping over an unexpected rock or branch lying in the trail.

At last, after what seemed several lifetimes, there was a glimmer of light ahead and they emerged from the trees onto a narrow, sandy beach. A large dark object bulked ahead of them. Careful reconnoitering proved this to be an empty boat house, with a dilapidated pier extending from behind it into the chilly waters of Lake Michigan.

The area was utterly deserted.

Napoleon consulted his tracer and waved at the lake. "According to this, our quarry is out there, not more than a couple of hundred yards from shore."