The Mad Scientist Affair - Philifrent John T. Страница 2

Waverly swung his chair around to face Solo and Illya again. “And there you are,” he said, nursing his pipe and watching his two top agents curiously, trying to guess how their thoughts would run.

“That will be Thrush-Italian,” Solo mused, “and if you’d ever tasted the Italian version of bottled beer you wouldn’t be surprised about their trying to learn some Irish know-how. Perhaps they want O’Rourke to build a brewery in Rome for them?”

Kuryakin, characteristically, wasted no time on wit, but went for the key points: “Thrush believes he’s on to something useful. Trilli’s there to find out what, and grab it.”

Waverly nodded. “I would agree. For once, we can let Thrush do the hard work for us. If O’Rourke has developed something, Trilli will validate it for us. He will then try to grab it. That’s where we will step in. Until then, however, I think someone should keep a very sharp eye on Trilli.”

“Ireland!” Solo sighed softly. “County Clare at this time of year should be very pleasant.” He thought of the blistering heat outside and smiled. Very pleasant indeed. But Waverly looked to Kuryakin.

“You”—he pointed his pipe-stem—“will leave immediately. Fly to Shannon, which is right on the spot where it is all happening. Use your own judgment as to cover. Remember, your job is to let Trilli start something, then see that you finish it. Understood?”

“Isn’t that asking rather a lot of just one agent?” Solo asked hopefully.

Waverly swung on him, again aiming his pipe. “I have something else for you, closer to home. The other end of the thread, perhaps.” He swiveled to the screen again, which now showed a glowing picture of two very lovely faces side by side. The one on the left was Latin-dark and vivid, her heart-shaped face smoldering and exotic—the absolute converse of the girl on the right, who was roses-and-cream fair, with a shy smile, cornflower-blue eyes and masses of heavy golden-blonde hair. Solo stared and promptly forgot all about Irish scenery.

The impassive voice on the loudspeaker told him, “Bridget and Sarah O’Rourke,” and as the picture gave way to another, the shy-smiling blonde girl alone, it went on: “Sarah O’Rourke, single, age twenty-five, at present in New York, attending a convention of chemists and biochemists, to deliver a paper on ‘Some Aspects of Molecular Structure as Evidenced in New Synthetic Yeasts’ later this afternoon.”

Waverly spun his chair again. “That paper may or may not tell us something. Undoubtedly the girl herself can. You, Mr. Solo, will see that she does. You will make her acquaintance, gain her confidence, and get her to talk. You should be able to manage that, I imagine?”

Solo dragged his appreciative gaze away from the shy smile and looked down to see his chief’s quizzical stare.

He smoothed his face hastily. “I think I can manage, sir. I gather there’s a cover already prepared for me?”

“You’ll collect your official invitation and papers on the way out. A room is booked for you. That will be all for now, gentlemen.”

The two turned and marched away. Solo grinned and murmured, “Better watch yourself with Bridget, Illya. She bears all the earmarks of a real ‘femme fatale.’ Not your kind at all.”

“Considering what you know about biochemistry,” Kuryakin retorted with a smile, “I’m sorry I can’t stay to hear you trying to charm Miss Sarah. It ought to be interesting.”

Solo was looking forward to Miss Sarah O’Rourke, but not to biochemistry. Exhaustively thorough training within the U.N.C.L.E. organization had made him able to take care of himself in virtually any situation, but his store of technical information was necessarily superficial, enough to get by but not enough to fool a professional specialist. He hoped, wryly, that she wouldn’t prove to be a fanatic on her own subject. With a face like that? he thought, smiling.

The elevator let him out into a buzz of talk and the to-and-fro of many people, all with lapel-pins giving their names. His own was in place. He drifted, surveying the chattering groups without seeming to do so, making his way to where an easel stood supporting a blackboard decorated with notices. He found the schedule for the day, ran his eye down the listed entries, and there it was. And he stared in sudden suspicion, because someone had run a heavy blue line through Miss S. O’Rourke’s name and time, and alongside had scribbled “CANCELLED.”

Stepping back, Solo swept the room with a sharp eye, spotted one man who sported a blue tag against the standard white ones, and approached him, assuming him to be a person of some authority.

“Dr. Mercer? Can you by any chance tell me why Miss O’Rourke’s talk—?”

“Ah, tragic. Yes, indeed. Not five minutes ago. Lost her voice all at once. Most peculiar. Psychosomatic, probably. Stage-fright, you know?”

“I see,” Solo murmured, keeping an unchanged expression despite the sudden blaze of suspicion in his mind. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of an all-too-familiar face, swung hastily so that his back was to it, and smiled at Mercer. “It’s a bit of a blow. I was particularly interested in—”

“Ah, in that case!” Dr. Mercer seemingly didn’t like to let anyone complete a sentence. “This way, this way.” He led off smartly toward the side of the room, Solo following and frowning, keeping an eye out for any more of Thrush’s minions. He saw one more, and suspicion became certainty. Sarah had been clobbered in some way, to stop her delivering her paper. He moved warily on Mercer’s heels. They reached a long low table strewn with paper. Mercer cast his eye along the piles and reached for one. “Here you are, Dr.—er—Solo? This is a mimeoed copy of Miss O’Rourke’s paper. Your field, I gather?”

“Eh?” Solo took the sheets, snatched at his confused wits and managed to nod and smile. “Shall we just say I’m interested? This was quick work. I mean, you said it was only five minutes ago that Miss O’Rourke lost her voice, didn’t you?”

“These were run off this morning.” Mercer lost a little of his ready geniality. “It’s the usual thing, you know, where there are details and diagrams.”

“Of course. Forgive me. You wouldn’t happen to know where I might—?”

“The last I saw”—Mercer leaned forward with a confiding wink—“she was on her way to the bar. Drown her sorrows. Shame. A very pretty girl, too.”

Solo got directions to the bar from him and managed to detach himself and head for it. His thoughts were confused. The presence of Thrush agents and Sarah O’Rourke’s sudden speechlessness added up to dirty play somewhere. But if copies of the paper were being freely distributed—?

The bar was in a long, low-ceilinged and dimly lit room, not too crowded. She sat at a table in the far corner, all alone. As he neared her he saw that the picture had understated her beauty, if anything, and contrary to Mercer’s suspicions she didn’t look at all affected by her drink, merely miserable, not drowning her sorrows but just dwelling on them.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, gazing down at the delightful picture she made. Her figure was good enough to match her face, but as she looked up at him the effect was marred just a little by the storm in her eyes. “Yes, I do mind!” she retorted, in a croaking whisper.

“I don’t want to talk about anything, least of all that!” And she glared at the stapled sheets in his hand.

He put on his best smile, ignored her wrath, and sat. “There are several lines I could try at this point,” he murmured. “I could make a remark about having a woman at a disadvantage—speechless, you know? Or I could whip up a passionate interest in this stuff.” He frowned at the paper, then tore it neatly across. “I could say, with absolute honesty, that you’re the prettiest girl I’ve laid eyes on in a very long while and that I’m just trying to figure out some way of getting to know you. Or”—and he shrugged—“I could tell you the plain cold truth. You’re a scientist. Which would you rather have?”