Pulp Fiction | The Stone-Cold Dead in the Market Affair by John Oram (12 page)

Anna Soo Lee watched her unceremonious entrance from her throne-like chair. She said calmly, "I must apologize for Luigi's manners. I assure you that I did not order you to be ill-treated. I wished merely to talk to you."

"You could have called me," Blodwen said. "It would have saved us both a lot of trouble."

Anna smiled. "I doubt whether you would have answered my questions over the telephone."

"Well, before we go any further, I've got a question for you," said Blodwen. "Where's my poodle?"

The delicate eyebrows arched. "Poodle? I am afraid I do not understand you."

"You understand, all right. I was carrying a poodle when I went into Merle's apartment — just before your thugs jumped me — and I haven't got her now. What have you done with her?"

"I know nothing about this," Anna said. "No doubt she is still in the apartment...with your friend." She smiled again. "If you are reasonable, we shall endeavor to reunite you."

"What do you expect to get out of me?

"Simply a little information. You must realize I know a great deal about you already. I know, for example, that you and your friends Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin, are agents of U.N.C.L.E. I am aware that you made great nuisances of yourselves in Wales and, indeed, quite seriously hampered certain operations of the organization which I have the honor to represent —"

"Thrush," Blodwen interjected.

"Exactly. You will notice that I used the word 'hampered,' not 'defeated.' Our plans are too carefully devised and too far advanced to be defeated by your clumsy intervention. You have been watched ever since your masquerade brought you to my club. Your quarrel with the woman called French Louise was a bad mistake. That brought you into the open."

"Then what's your problem?"

She made a deprecating gesture. "Please do not attempt to be facetious. I wish you to tell me exactly and in detail how far your investigations have gone."

"That," said Blodwen, "will be the day."

Anna was unmoved. She said, "I can assure you the day has come. The only question is whether you tell me of your own free will the things I wish to know. If you do not, the alternative will be unpleasant but inevitable."

Blodwen laughed. She said, "I don't suppose another murder would worry you. But I won't be much good to you dead."

"I did not mention murder. It is conceivable, however, that death might seem preferable to continued existence." Anna rose and went to the bellpush in the wall. When she returned to her chair she said, "No doubt you have been told many times that you are a very pretty girl."

"So?"

"You will see."

There was a tap on the door and Luigi entered.

Anna said, "Bring Emile to me."

He looked at Blodwen and grinned unpleasantly. "Right away," he said.

The creature with whom he returned was barely human. He was not more than five feet tall but his chest under a ragged plaid shirt measured all of forty-four inches. Long arms, gorilla-like, swung loosely as he shambled into the room. Coarse, matted black hair hung low over the vacant eyes of a cretin. The thick-lipped mouth hung half-open, showing yellow, broken teeth.

Luigi said, "Stay!" as one would to a dog, and he halted obediently, his unfocused eyes shifting from one woman to the other.

Anna spoke gently. "Emile," she said, "do you like this pretty lady?"

He turned his head slowly toward Blodwen and made an inarticulate sound halfway between a growl and a moan. She stepped back involuntarily as he reached out a paw to touch her.

Anna said, "That is enough. Take him away."

Then, to Blodwen: "In a few moments Luigi will take you back to the cellar. I will give you exactly one hour in which to consider your position. If at the end of that time you have not become more amenable, I shall send Emile to persuade you. To make the experience more interesting, I have instructed Luigi to remove the light bulb. You will be able to have a pleasant game of hide-and-seek though I fear the end will never be in doubt."

Luigi came back and stood waiting in the doorway.

"There is still time," Anna said. "Are you sure you have nothing to say to me?"

"As a matter of fact, I have," Blodwen said. "Fry in hell, you Chinese cow."

Detective-Inspector Jevons arrived at the Berwick Street apartment within minutes of Solo's telephone call. He brought his detective-sergeant with him. Hard on their heels came the police photographer, the fingerprint experts and the divisional surgeon.

"I'll want statements from you both," Jevons told Solo and Illya. "It's a pity you weren't candid with me in the first place. Have you touched anything?"

"Only the telephone receiver and the outside of the door," Solo said.

"Good. There'll be enough fingerprints to check, without your complicating the issue. She wasn't exactly a nun."

He turned to the doctor, who had just finished his examination of the body. "What's the verdict, Doc?"

"In non-technical terms, a clean stab straight to the heart, delivered from above by a right-handed assailant."

"Man or woman?"

The doctor took off his glasses and polished the lenses. "It would have taken a pretty hefty woman to deliver a blow of such force," he said. "And it was a strictly professional job. I think I should be inclined to go for a male."

"Time of death?"

"Give or take a few minutes, not more than an hour ago. You'll get my report in due course, but it looks like a straightforward case." He nodded, picked up his bag and hurried out of the room.

Illya, still carrying the poodle, looked gloomily at the photographer busy with his pictures. He asked, "What do you make of it, Inspector? Another Bambini job?"

"It could be. He knew the woman," Jevons said. "But it doesn't look like his style. He'd have been more likely to cut her face to ribbons. And the weapon doesn't tell us much. It's an ordinary Commando dagger. There must be thousands of them in circulation. There are no prints on the hilt. The killer must have worn gloves. Like the doctor said, he was a professional."

"And a kidnapper," Solo said. "Whoever he is, he's got Blodwen. She would never have walked out of here without the dog. It was like a kid to her."

Jevons brought a pouch out of his pocket and began to fill the pipe. "What was she doing here?" he asked. "Did you know she was coming to see the woman?"

"You know as much as we do," Illya said. "You heard her say in the restaurant that she was going back to the hotel. We haven't seen her since."

Jevons called to the fingerprint men: "Have you finished with the telephone?"

"All clear, sir."

"Good." He picked up the receiver and dialed the number of the Savoy.

"Well, that's that," he said at last, replacing the instrument. "She went back to the hotel but left again with the dog shortly after eleven o'clock. She got into a taxi and the doorman heard her tell the driver to take her to this address. We'll but out a call for the cabbie, of course, but I don't suppose he'll be able to tell us much."

The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver again and listened. Then his expression lightened. He said, "Right! We'll be over."

He turned to Solo, "They picked up Bambini in Stephen Street. They've just brought him in. You'd better come back with me."

The three men went down the stairs and pushed through the crowd of rubbernecks gathered around the front of the building. Reporters struggled to get at the inspector before he could gain the sanctuary of the police car.

"No statement," he told them. "Ring the press room." The car moved off, leaving them still shouting questions."

Back in his office Jevons told Solo and Illya, "You realize that you're here quite unofficially. I can't allow you to be present while I interview Bambini. What happens after he's been charged is something else again. Maybe your people will get in touch with the Home Office and regularize the position. Meanwhile, I'm hoping you may be able to help by filling in on the background of any statement I get out of him."

"Where is he?" Solo asked.

"Down below, in an interview room. I'm going to talk to him now. It may be a long job, so make yourselves at home."

He picked up a file from his desk and went out.

After a while a constable appeared with the inevitable mugs of tea. He looked at the poodle, which was padding moodily about the room, bent down and scratch its ear. "Nice little chap, isn't he?" he said. "Though personally I prefer something with more meat on it."

Illya said, "The he's a she. Is there anywhere she could get a meal and bed down for a couple of hours?"

"I think we can manage that, sir. What's her name?"

"Dolly."

"Ah! Dolly. All right, then, Dolly girl. Let's see if we can find you a few biscuits and a drop of milk."

When the door had closed behind him. Illya said to Solo, "Napoleon, my friend, we are wasting too much time. As the inspector said, breaking down Bambini may not be easy. I don't propose to wait."

"There's no need for both of us to stay around," Solo agreed. "I'll make your excuses to the Law. You've got your transmitter?"

"That," said Illya, offended, "is almost an indelicate question."

He flagged down a late-cruising cab in Bridge Street and rode to Leicester Square Underground station. The length of Newport Street was deserted and the sign over the Gloriana was dark. The double doors of the club were shut and locked.

He walked on, noting the dark form of a man standing motionless in a doorway across the street. Jevons was plainly taking no chances, even though Bambini had been arrested.

It was equally obvious that if Blodwen were in the club she could not have been taken in through the front doors. And it was a safe bet that the stakeout included coverage of the service entrance. There must be still a third way into the place.

Illya turned right into St. Martin's Lane and walked in the direction of the Coliseum Theater. He saw a block of small apartments in a small court. Light shone from the vestibule but no porter appeared to be on duty.

There was an iron fire escape against the far side of the building. Illya climbed it to the top floor, then stood on the guard rail and hauled himself on to the flat roof. Crouching low to avoid showing a silhouette against the night sky, he moved across the roof to the side nearest Newport Street. He made out, in the glow of the street lights, the chimneys of the building that housed the Gloriana. To get to them would mean a suicidal journey over rooftops of varying heights and slopes and dubious holding power. Illya offered a silent prayer and lowered himself over the parapet.

The climb took him fifteen minutes of sweat and fear. When he finally lay panting against the gray slates his fingers were bleeding and his ribs bruised and sore. He rested until his heart had ceased to pound, then infinitely carefully began to work his way toward a skylight.

He tried the frame gingerly. It gave under his fingers. Slowly he inched it open and shone his pencil flashlight into the black cavity. The light showed an empty attic. He balled his handkerchief and propped the frame half-open while he took off his shoes and hung them around his neck by the joined laces. Then he eased the skylight open and dropped silently into the room.

The landing outside was in darkness. He flashed the light again and saw stairs a few feet ahead. He listened a moment, then began the descent.

There were three doors opening off the landing below. He tried them, but the rooms were bare and tenantless. He went down a second flight of stairs to the first floor.

Illya breathed a sigh of thankfulness when the light showed that the landing was covered with heavy matting. He sat on the stairs and replace his shoes before going on.

Like the one above, the landing had three doors. A thread of yellow light showed under the middle of the three. Illya listened. No sound came from the room. He flattened himself against the wall, took a penny from his trouser pocket and dropped it. It made a plunking noise as it hit the matting and rolled away.

The door swung open and Dancer stepped out into the corridor. Illya's right hand, fingers stiff, chopped down expertly. As Dancer slumped Illya caught him and dragged him back into the room. He lowered him to the floor, and shut the door.

The room was evidently Dancer's living quarters. It held a divan bed with a green folkweave coverlet, two armchairs, a stereo and a bookcase that contained old magazines. A bottle of John Haig, a soda-water syphon and a half-filled tumbler stood on a table by one of the chairs.

Illya took off Dancer's belt, rolled him onto his face and strapped his hands behind his back. He pulled him across the floor, propped him in the chair by the table, took the syphon and squirted soda water over his head.

Dancer groaned. His eyes opened. He looked at Illya dazedly and struggled to free his hands.

Illya said, "If you try to shout I'll kill you. What have you done with the girl?"

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about. What girl?"

Illya took the P38 from its shoulder holster and cocked it. He said, "My friend, I am in no mood for games. In one second I am going to shoot you right in the belly. It will take you about five hours to die and every minute will be agony. Now talk!"

The P38 came into line.

Luigi was a gutter rat singularly lacking in the traditional Italian courtesy. As he prodded Blodwen back to the cellar at gunpoint he described with relish and in infinite detail what she could expect at the hands of Emile. It was with genuine relief that she heard the iron door clang behind him.

The darkness in the cellar was absolute. It was like being already dead, Blodwen thought. She took the Mauser from the skeleton holster strapped to the inside of her thigh, slipped out the magazine and assured herself that the shells were still there. Anna had a peculiar sense of humor. She might have found the gun, unloaded it and replaced it.

Blodwen slid the seven rounds back, rammed the magazine home and worked the jacket to slide the first shell into the chamber. With the gun in her hand she searched methodically along the wall to the rear of the cellar. Somewhere there had to be a ventilator and a possible, however remote, route to safety.