[Magazine 1968-012] - The Million Monsters Affair - Davis Robert Hart (читать книги TXT) 📗

Moreau sank down on a chair to get his breath. Illya braced himself against the back of the adjoining divan. Three feet from him Theresa LeBrun stood against the wall. She was looking at Kuryakin rather than at the fire which gripped everyone else’s attention.

She was, he noted, holding her purse up. It struck him that she was holding it in an excellent position to extract a gun in a hurry if such should be necessary.

He was not yet ready for a showdown with the beautiful woman. So he moved to allay any suspicion that he might suspect her of implication in the plane bombing.

“You are very fortunate your companion’s delay kept you from boarding the plane, mademoiselle,” he said, still breathing hard from his narrow escape from death.

Moreau got up. He was too agitated to notice the girl.

“I’ve got to call in a report on this,” he said to Illya. “This is no ordinary act of sabotage. That bomb was planted on the plane to destroy you, Mr. Kuryakin!”

Illya nodded. “If it had not been for your call which held me back, THRUSH would have succeeded, Monsieur Moreau.”

“Then you will stay and help us get to the bottom of this terrible monstering menace that is attacking our children?”

“I am afraid that is impossible,” Illya said regretfully. He was looking at Moreau, but he was talking directly for the benefit of the woman he suspected.

“You see, Monsieur Moreau, we have certain definite leads in Hollywood. Here there are none. We are working against time. Mr. Waverly, our operations chief, is convinced that we can make better progress getting to the root of this evil from the Hollywood angle.”

“We have absolutely nothing to go on here,” Moreau admitted.

“That is right,” Illya said, watching the girl from the corner of his eye. “There is not a person in all France whom I can honestly say I suspect of complicity in this terrible affair.”

“But someone is!” Moreau said savagely. “These riots, this strange ‘camera.’ And then this monstrous bombing -”

He stopped and said, “But I must get about my business. We will find these criminals, Monsieur Kuryakin.”

“Working from all three ends - you here, April Dancer in London, and myself in Hollywood - I am certain that we will smash this menace,” Illya replied, a confidence in his voice that he did not really feel.

Then as an extra goad to the woman, just in case his suspicions of her were true, he added: “We have some pretty good leads in Hollywood.”

Illya was not surprised when he boarded the next plane to find that Theresa LeBrun was also a passenger. She took the seat beside him, but all attempts to start a conversation met with a very cold shoulder.

The flight went from Paris to Copenhagen and then across the North Pole for a direct route to Los Angeles. When they passed the Pole Theresa went to the pilot’s compartment for a better look at the arctic view.

She had no sooner left than the stewardess - a girl Illya knew well from previous flights he had made to Paris - stopped by his seat.

“That attractive girl who sits beside you -” she whispered.

“Yes?” Illya said.

“She tries to act as if she does not want to talk to you, but it is an act.”

“So?” Illya said. “Tell the lady she is wasting her time. If I have a spare moment in Los Angeles, I’d prefer - say, something about five-five with cute little bangs that set off the prettiest eyes -”

“Please!” she interrupted sadly. “You are wasting your time. With the other plane lost we must make a turnaround and return to Paris. I’ll have no time to listen to such pretty words in Los Angeles.”

“What a pity!” Illya said sadly. “But there is always tomorrow.”

“If I can keep you away from that hussy!” she said somewhat spitefully. “Did you know she gave the other stewardess a thousand franc note to make sure she got the seat beside you. Does that sound like she has no interest in you!”

“I fear the lady’s interest is purely professional,” Illya replied slowly. “I’d like very much to know more about her. Sometimes a pretty girl can find out things the police can’t. Can you do a little sleuthing for me when you get back to Paris?”

“If it will help you and put her in jail, yes!”

Illya Kuryakin grinned. “It may do both,” he said. “I need to know everything I can find out about her past.”

The stewardess looked up as Theresa started back down the aisle.

“And I’ll bet she has a past!” the French girl said as she moved away before Theresa got back to her seat.

That mysterious young lady slipped easily into her seat. She did not look at Illya. He also paid no attention to her. He waited until she closed her eyes. Then he spoke softly to her. When she ignored him again, he extracted his pen communicator from his pocket. Extending the antenna, he softly called the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters code.

“Mr. Waverly,” he said in a low whisper. “Please do not reply. This is just a quick report. I have a definite lead at last.”

He pushed down the antenna and slipped the worldwide communicator back in his pocket. He turned his attention back to the in-flight movie well satisfied. He thought he detected just the slightest stiffening of his supposedly sleeping companion when he made his overly optimistic report to Waverly.

“Now,” he thought, “if she is with THRUSH, then I have baited the trap as much as I can. We’ll see if the rat bites on it.”

He was well aware that he was setting himself up as the bait in a very dangerous game.

But Illya Kuryakin was not foolhardy. He had his share of prudence. The call he made to Waverly was actually a secret code asking for a Los Angeles Police Department shadow crew to follow him when he arrived at Los Angeles International Airport. If what he suspected was true, Theresa LeBrun would try to lead him into a THRUSH trap.

And he intended to follow her into it. Even with the police on their tail it would be decidedly dangerous for, as he had scars to prove, anything can happen when fighting THRUSH.

“But,” he told himself, “I’ve got to make an immediate contact with THRUSH. And I haven’t a lead. If setting myself up as a decoy to drag them out will do the job, then it is worth the risk.”

Bored by the bang-bang spy thriller on the screen, he closed his eyes while the big jet cut through the arctic air, roared across Canada and homed in on Los Angeles for the end of its non-stop flight from Europe.

The big plane sat down on the runway just at dusk. Theresa LeBrun was just ahead of Kuryakin as they went through customs. He could have used his U.N.C.L.E. status to bypass the formality, but wanted to stay as near Theresa as possible.

She ignored him when he attempted to speak to her in the customs line. She finished ahead of him.

When Kuryakin came into the main terminal a couple of minutes after her, he saw her standing by the baggage chute. The bags were sliding down the ramp and circling on a large turntable for passengers to pick out their grips.

“Mr. Kuryakin,” she said.

He turned with a smile, but Theresa LeBrun gave him a cool glance.

“I am afraid there is no one to meet me,” she said. “Is it possible for me to share a ride with you?”

“It is not only possible, my dear,” Illya said quickly, “it is also delightful!”

“I believe you said you were going to Hollywood,” the girl said.

Illya did not believe he said any such thing to her, but did not debate the point. The important thing to him right then was to keep contact with her as long as possible.

“Absolutely,” he said. “I am supposed to have a car. If it stands us up too, then we’ll walk. It is only twenty miles or so.”

She regarded him with grave, unsmiling eyes. “You are what the Americans call a kidder, no?”

“No, but I’d like to be,” Illya replied. “Anyway, I think this is my car.”

He nodded toward a two-year-old Ford that pulled up at the curb opposite the baggage recovery point. He recognized the plain-clothed man who got out from behind the wheel as Sergeant Hosking of the Los Angeles police homicide squad. They had worked together before.