[Magazine 1968-012] - The Million Monsters Affair - Davis Robert Hart - Страница 13

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ILLYA KURYAKIN closed his eyes

when he took his seat on the jet to Europe. He did not open them again until the stewardess shook him on their arrival in France.

He got up, still stiff and beaten from the punishment his body had taken. A small bandage covered the cut on his head and he walked with a slight limp.

The first thing that caught his eye at the airport was a copy of the Paris edition of the New York Times. Splashed across page one was a photograph of rioting teenagers. Except for the Montmarte background, the scene reminded him of the Sunset Strip fury.

On the drive into the city he carefully read the story. There was no mention of the Million Monsters film. A French police official from the Surete insisted that the madness was caused by a new type of drug - quite possibly of the LSD family.

Turning on to the amusement schedule, Illya noted, however, that the film was screening in Paris. One of the theaters was just off the Place Pigalle, not far from the, Moulin Rouge. The riot occurred only a short distance away.

Making a sudden decision, he decided to pass up his reservation at the sumptuous Champs Elysees tourist hotel. Instead he told the driver to find him a place near Pigalle.

The driver grinned and said,. “Oui, oui!”

Leaning back and closing his still weary eyes, Illya thought: “I wish you were right, buddy.”

After checking into a small hotel, Illya put through a call to the offices of the French film exchange that handled Mallon’s films in Europe.

A voice as heady as French wine asked his business. When he asked for Monsieur Maurice Leroux the wine turned chill. It was still polite, but there was an oddly apprehensive note that made Illya’s Slavic face screw up thoughtfully.

“I am so sorry,” the girl’s voice said. “But Monsieur Leroux he has not returned from the trip to Hollywood.”

“I see,” Illya said. “That is most unfortunate. When will Monsieur Leroux return?”

She hesitated. Then said, “Perhaps not for a week.”

“But I saw him in Hollywood only yesterday. He said he was returning at once.”

There was a dead silence, indicating that she had placed her hand over the mouthpiece to consult with someone else.

Illya quickly extracted what appeared to be a cigarette lighter from his pocket. He touched the base of the subminiature tape recorder built into the lighter. Able to pick up vibrations a hundred thousand times too faint for human hears, he hoped that it would be able to record what she said through the cover of her hand on the mouthpiece.

The girl’s voice came back clearly as she removed her hand. “I have a note here which I regretfully overlooked. Monsieur Leroux called this morning from Hollywood. He has extended his stay for three more days.”

“Oh!” Illya said, knowing that Leroux had left the United States, for he checked the plane manifest before leaving Los Angeles himself. “Mr. Leroux called this morning?”

“Oui, m’sieur,” she said in her honey-wine voice. “I took the call myself. I recall now.”

“Then there is nothing else for me to do but wait for him,” Illya said. “I notice that it is near office closing time in Paris. Perhaps you and I could -”

“I am so sorry, m’sieur, but I -”

“It isn’t as if we were strangers, mademoiselle,” Illya said quickly. He pulled a name out of the air. “I am Frank Hudson of the Fred B. Mallon Productions in Hollywood. You remember Monsieur Leroux introducing us when I was in Paris before.”

“Oh, yes, of course, Monsieur Hudson,” she said quickly. “I could not forget so handsome a man!”

“Then if you have an engagement for the evening, perhaps there is time for a before dinner cocktail?”

“Well -” she began doubtfully and then changed her tune abruptly, “But, yes! I must run home to freshen up a bit first. My apartment is in Montmarte.”

She gave him an address on the Rue de Clichy, not too far from where he was calling. “You may call for me at eight-fifteen,” she said.

After he replaced the phone, Illya stood for a moment staring thoughtfully at it. His first thought was that 8:15 was rather late for a before dinner cocktail. His second thought was that she had carefully arranged the time to coincide with darkness in Paris at this time of year. Also it was extremely suspicious how quickly she recognized the non-existent Frank Hudson.

Leaning back on the bed to rest his wearied bones as much as possible, he rewound the subminiature tape recorder. Then adjusting the volume for maximum gain, he replayed the area where she had her hand over the phone mouthpiece.”

He heard the girl’s voice say quickly, “It is Illya Kuryakin!”

Another voice, a man’s, asked suspiciously, “Who is Kuryakin?”

“One of the men from U.N.C.L.E.!” the girl replied breathlessly.

“How did U.N.C.L.E. - Oh, this is terrible. I’m sorry we ever got mixed up in this mess. What -”

“Call LeBlanc! He is our THRUSH contact here. I’ll get Kuryakin to Montmarte. Tell him I’ll do the rest!”

Illya switched off the machine. He closed his eyes with a grin.

“She’ll do the rest?” he said. “I wonder if ‘the rest’ is what she thinks it is!”

He took out his pen communicator and put through an emergency connection to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in New York. His secret coded call brought him directly to the organization’s information files.

“Do we have any information on a Parisian named LeBlanc in connection with THRUSH?” he asked. “And I also want everything I can get on the receptionist in Maurice Leroux’s International Film Exchange in Paris.”

“Stand by,” the chief librarian said. “It will take the computers ten seconds to research the files.”

The seconds ticked away and then the voice converter on the computers started to read off the punched card data: “LeBlanc - no given name known - is a professional assassin who works all over Europe. There is no description of him, for he has never been arrested. He is extremely efficient and works with an exceedingly lovely woman. This woman is an artist in changing her appearance. She also has no known description.”

“Is he connected with THRUSH?” Illya asked.

“We think so, but not enough is known of him to be sure. He is exceedingly clever.”

“Well, mark him down now as a sure THRUSH employee. And as for his girl accomplice, add to her description the fact that she has a voice that sparkles like fine wine.”

There was a short silence at the other end of the connection while the U.N.C.L.E. information office searched its computers for other data of importance.

“Now for your other question about Leroux’s receptionist,” the chief librarian said. “There is no file on any employee of the International Film Exchange. Your request has been referred to our Paris contact. Please switch your communicator to channel F-403. You will receive your answer direct.”

Kuryakin adjusted a tiny dial inside the pen cap. There was a fifteen second wait. Then the miniature speaker went into action again:

“The receptionist at International Film Exchange is named Fifi Montaigne. She was injured by someone who broke into her apartment last night. She is in Boulogne Hospital. She is near death and no one is permitted to see her.”

“Who took her place with the company this afternoon?” Illya asked.

“No one,” the report replied. “The office has been closed.”

“Can you get someone from the telephone office to make a routine check? I want to know if someone was in that office. If not, then how its phone was answered a few minutes ago.”

“It can be arranged. It will take about an hour. We have to clear all our operations with the police.”

Kuryakin looked at his watch. It was close to six and he had over two hours before his date with the fake receptionist.

“Go ahead. Call me here on the pen communicator. Do not use the telephone.”

The call was delayed. Kuryakin slept another two hours and then got up to keep his date with the fake receptionist. He was just going out the door when a tiny electric shock from the pen announced a call.

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