[Magazine 1966-­06] - The Vanishing Act Affair - Lynds Dennis (читать книги онлайн полностью .TXT) 📗

Although the picture on the match book was a drawing, and the picture on the screen was a photograph, the long nose, satanic eyebrows and general countenance, and thick shock of white hair were unmistakably the same.

"Who is he?" Solo asked.

"Morlock The Great," one of the strangers said. "The world-famous magician. I've seen his act once; it's pretty good and downright creepy. He's a first-rate magician. But we've thought for a long time that he's considerably more than that."

Waverly cleared his throat, his fingers searching in the pockets of his waistcoat for a match to light the pipe. As he searched, he talked.

"Perhaps I had better introduce you gentlemen. Uh—Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin, these two gentlemen are from Interpol. Mr. Fellini is from the Italian branch, and Mr. Dawes from the London office. As you both know, it was Interpol who first asked us to look into the problem."

Dawes, the taller of the two strangers in Waverly's office, nodded. "As far as we can find, chaps, there is no crime. Without a crime we have no jurisdiction. So—"

The shorter Interpol man, Fellini, broke in. "No crime, no, not yet! But there is something very bad, very evil!"

"Quite," Dawes agreed with his more volatile companion. "Something is jolly well up, but nothing we can come out and put a finger on. So we came to you chaps."

Illya leaned forward across the circular conference table. "Perhaps you could summarize for us. All we really know is that there is something peculiar about this cult, the Things To Come Brotherhood."

Dawes looked at Waverly. "You haven't told—"

Waverly found his matches, lighted his pipe, puffed thoughtfully. "I find it useful sometimes not to tell our people all the details of a case until they have learned a certain amount by themselves. However, with what Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin found in California, I think we can now proceed."

U.N.C.L.E.'s New York chief turned his placid eyes toward his two agents. "Briefly, gentlemen, there has been a series of rather odd happenings. I think you will recognize the picture. About six months ago an Italian coastal patrol ship opened fire one night. No reason was ever found for the action; there was absolutely nothing to fire at!

"Guards at two American installations, one in Turkey and one in Venezuela, fought for an hour each to repel an attack, and later it was found that there had been no attack! No one to fire at, and yet they had been sure they were being attacked.

"Then, only last week, soldiers at an English airbase shot down two civilians under the impression that their base was under heavy attack from Soviet forces. There were, again, no Soviet forces, no enemy action of any kind!"

Illya and Solo looked at each other. It was Solo who turned to Waverly.

"Almost exactly what we saw happen out in California," Solo said.

Waverly puffed on his pipe. "Precisely. Also, in each case the soldiers and sailors involved blackened out for a period of an hour afterwards. In addition, there have been a series of robberies in which the guards claimed to have been attacked by hordes of bandits. In each of these cases, no evidence of enemy action was found, all the guards blacked out, much money was taken by the non-existent attackers!"

"Exactly as we saw," Illya said, "except in our case no money was taken!"

Waverly nodded. "That, I believe, tells us how the robberies were accomplished—one man caused the strange hallucinations, and when the guards blacked out, he helped himself to the loot. However, in your case, you were there and scared the man off."

"And the hallucination got me," Illya said.

"It would seem so. But you have confirmed the suspicions of Interpol—the Things To Come Brotherhood is involved in all of this," Waverly said.

Solo narrowed his keen eyes. "Confirmed the suspicions? Then Interpol had reason to think the Cult was involved before we went to California?"

Dawes answered. "Yes, we did, but very stickily. We had an anonymous message, through secret but reliable channels. It came two weeks ago. All it said was that the Things To Come Brotherhood knew about shadows that attacked. Naturally, we put two and two together.

"Of course, the message was anonymous and as such rather unreliable, to say the least. But we did feel it important enough to act on. Since there is still no provable actual crime, we decided to drop it in the laps of you chaps."

Waverly took up the story. "I decided to send you two out to the only known chapter of the Cult in this country. The results seem to have warranted the effort, I should say. We now know that the Cult is involved in all this. What we don't know is why or how."

Illya nodded. "And Morlock The Great?"

"We have definite proof that he is connected to the Things To Come Brotherhood. He may actually be its leader," Fellini said. "The Cult is growing; we have proof. It is no longer as innocent a collection of fanatics as we had thought."

"They're all crippled in some way, you know," Dawes said. "They always seemed a harmless collection of poor unfortunate people. That ridiculous long, shaggy hair they wear. But now we're not at all sure. Especially if Morlock is running the show, as we suspect."

"Where is Morlock The Great?" Solo asked.

"In London, I'm sorry to say," Dawes said. "Naturally, we're watching him, but we haven't a shred of evidence to go on."

Waverly frowned at his pipe that had gone out. "Perhaps we will have. Our man in London is expected to report quite soon. With some luck, we can hope for more than we found in California."

"Who is there?" Solo asked.

"Mr.—uh—Morgan, I believe. A good man, despite his limp. He should give us something to go on."

There was a silence as Waverly and his two best agents all looked toward the overseas communication receiver.

* * *

DEEP BENEATH the city of London, in a dank and dim cellar room, the small horde moaned and chanted around the blaze of the great open fire.

The room was low and vast, its corners hidden in shadows not reached by the macabre flicker of the flames from the giant fireplace. In front of the fireplace, where the flames licked at logs, there was a large, flat stone like some ancient savage altar.

The small horde of people chanted and shuffled in a kind of weird dance, a grotesque shuffle, awkward and strange. At first glance an observer would not have been sure why the shuffling dance seemed so peculiar. Then he would have seen—all the people in the vast room were crippled in some way.

Crippled, and with thick, shaggy hair that hung down almost to their shoulders.

They chanted in some strange language, moaned, and shuffled.

But their eyes were all focused on the great, flat stone.

They were waiting.

The fire burned high, the flames licking up, the flickering light creating giant shadows against the encrusted stone walls.

And he appeared.

A puff of thick white smoke and a man stood on the flat stone. A figure on the ancient altar-like stone. Perhaps a man, perhaps not. A monster, certainly.

One thick puff of smoke and the figure stood above all the chanting people. There was a great, low moan of joy.

The figure raised its hands.

Silence.

The figure stood there—a long, satanic face with thick, V-shaped eyebrows, a shock of thick white hair. A sardonic face of normal size—on the body of a child. The figure, the man, was less than five feet tall and very think but his head, shaped like the head of the Devil himself, was full sized and his eyes glowed with power.