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section7mfuSequel to The reluctant partygoer
Appearances can be very misleading
“Mr Kuryakin is very late,” said the Old Man sternly, looking up at his delinquent agent’s partner.
“Yes, I can’t understand it sir,” said Napoleon. “He was all right last night when he went home – said he had a date.”
“A date? Mr Kuryakin?”
“Even he sometimes likes to have fun.”
Waverley snorted. “I’ll soon give him fun,” he said, and picked up his microphone.
There was no response. “Having fun, with his communicator switched off. Against all the rules,” and he snorted again. “Go and find him.”
********
Napoleon’s luck with parking spaces held, and he was outside Illya’s block within twenty minutes of the Old Man’s order. He rang the bell and knocked at the apartment door. There was no sound from within. He tried again.
“Are you looking for Mr K?” someone said from behind him.
“Why yes, I am,” he said, turning. It was the old lady across the way. “Have you seen him today?”
“Saw him last evening. He was going out. Wearing a tux, too. Never seen him look smart like that before – not for a girl.”
“Did he say anything about where he was going?”
“Just, ‘Good night, Miss May, special date – see you tomorrow,’ as he went down the stairs. He looked like he was in a dream, I think he’s in love.”
Napoleon blinked. Illya in love? Since when?
“And you haven’t seen him today?”
“Nope. He didn’t come back. I don’t sleep much – I’d have heard. I guess he’da come back if she’d been a good girl.”
And maybe he hadn’t because she was, reflected the Man of the World.
But that wasn’t much to go on, and it wasn’t the kind of neighbourhood where people paid much attention to each other, so Napoleon returned to the office and reported his partner missing.
Mr Waverley seemed unusually alarmed – he would normally expect his agents to get themselves out of trouble; but this time – “See if you can find out where he went last night,” he said. “We must find him.”
Napoleon went out again and explored the places he knew Illya liked: jazz clubs in the Village, cafés and restaurants frequented by other Russian expats. There was nothing. He hadn’t been seen. Increasingly concerned, he tried further afield and more upmarket venues – he’d been wearing a tux; had there been a dance somewhere, a big dinner?
On a hunch, he went to see his Aunt Amy in her penthouse apartment in an Upper West Side hotel. She read the social columns in the press, and tended to know about big dress occasions, and he struck not just gold but oil – a gusher.
“There was something big, here, last night,” she said.
*****************
The light was very bright. He shut his eyes again, his retina registering only crimson with the glare on his eyelids. He tightened his lips – someone was kissing him.
“How are you feeling, my love?” said a voice. “I’ve brought you some coffee.”
He opened his eyes again. He could see properly now. Morning. She was there. Where was he? No longer quite so well-dressed, anyway; not dressed at all, in fact; and, bringing an unsteady hand to his face, not so well-shaved either. What had happened? A memory stirred… caresses – more than caresses – and then, nothing.
“Jeanne?” he tried to sit up, failed, and rolled onto his side and pushed himself up that way, his head spinning. “Is it Jeanne,” he said, more challengingly now, “or Debra?”
The girl recoiled. “Who’s Debra? Have you got another girl?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t recognise the style?” he demanded. “Did you think I didn’t know? What did you give me this time?”
“What are you talking about? You’re still dreaming. Darling Illya, it’s me, Jeanne! We’re lovers, remember? You asked me to marry you.”
She came to him and stroked his hair. He pushed her away.
“Oh, no. I don’t think so, Debra.”
“But you did! Last night, in bed. You said…”
“No. I didn’t. Your little game didn’t work. I always knew.”
She burst into tears and made as if to fling herself into his arms, but he held her away. “Stop it. Stop acting. It’s not even convincing.”
“But last night…”
“Last night, I was acting. I’m trained…”
Her eyes were dry as she glared at him. “Nobody acts that well,” she said.
“I’m well trained.”
The door opened, and another woman entered. An older woman, with red hair; very elegant; with cold, cold eyes.
“Dr Egret, I presume,” said Illya.
“Very astute, Mr Kuryakin.”
“No-one can disguise their walk, whatever they do to their face or hair.” Her eyes flashed, and he said, “Are you going to tell me why I’m here?”
“You are here as bait, Mr K. Your partner has drawn a blank every place he has been today, looking for you. And will continue to do so, however long he looks. The more anxious he becomes, the more desperate he will be to find you. He will take any hook – and we have some very attractive bait for him. And then, we shall have someone inside your organisation, and you…” Her gesture of finality was quite unnecessary.
He shrugged, a little surprised that she thought Napoleon would get that anxious. He knew everything would be fine, didn’t he?
**************
Napoleon called Mr Waverley and reported his news.
“That’s good. He should be in there somewhere. It’ll be a suite, booked by a woman for a group of other women.”
Napoleon looked down at his communicator, and frowned. “Did you know this before I started, sir?”
“I planned it, Mr Solo – that’s to say, I planned for Mr Kuryakin to be taken as some kind of hostage by Dr Egret, to draw us in. You’d better get on and find him.”
Drawing a breath, really anxious now, he put the communicator away, and looked at his aunt, who had been listening. “Aunt Amy,” he said, “would you do me a favour?”
She could charm a bat out of the sky. It took just minutes to get the information out of the hotel manager.
He took the stairs. Very few people ever used the stairs in his experience – except one, and he was stuck somewhere below on floor ten; alive and kicking, he hoped. He heard the elevator door close as he emerged from the stairway.
He kept away from the peephole and knocked at the suite door. When it opened, he thrust at it, flinging the young woman backwards.
Seizing her by the arm, he pulled her to her feet and demanded, “Where is he?”
“Who are you? What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about –” and he marched her into the suite.
Illya heard his voice and called his name. He was still lying on the bed, partly covered by a sheet, but now tied to the bedrail. Napoleon dragged the girl in with him.
“Dr Egret just left, did you catch her?”
“Are you OK?” he asked anxiously, ignoring the question, “… have they hurt you?”
“I’m fine. Just a little tied up at the moment. If you could see your way to releasing me, I could ...”
He would be – just fine. Forgetting the girl, and rather annoyed, as people often are when they find they have unnecessarily worried themselves sick, Napoleon started to undo the bindings and snapped, “Why wasn’t I told about this plan, partner?”
“Mr Waverley thought it would be more convincing if you didn’t know. He thought you would demonstrate real anxiety – though why you should do so escapes me.”
“Yeah, I guess it would. That’s why he didn’t put you in my position, and me in yours, I suppose. You wouldn’t …”
Even Illya understood that. “No, Napoleon. No. I recognised Debra when she came on to me as Jeanne, and I’ve been playing along – on Mr Waverley’s orders.” He looked up at his angry partner. “If it had been you in this position, I’d have scoured N…” he stopped. “I’d have scoured the world, you know that,” he finished, diminuendo. “Now, my friend, do you think you could finish untying me?”
They had both forgotten the girl by this time, and only now did Illya look beyond his partner.
“Hey, where’s she gone!”
As once before, the girl had slipped away, unnoticed. Dismayed, they looked at each other, then Napoleon grinned, lifting the sheet covering Illya’s body.
“Maybe you should go out like that – she might come back.”
“And she might not. Napoleon… just untie me, huh?” His smile was sly, “then you can think about how to break it to Mr Waverley that both she and Dr Egret have got away. Again.”
***********************************
Appearances can be very misleading
“Mr Kuryakin is very late,” said the Old Man sternly, looking up at his delinquent agent’s partner.
“Yes, I can’t understand it sir,” said Napoleon. “He was all right last night when he went home – said he had a date.”
“A date? Mr Kuryakin?”
“Even he sometimes likes to have fun.”
Waverley snorted. “I’ll soon give him fun,” he said, and picked up his microphone.
There was no response. “Having fun, with his communicator switched off. Against all the rules,” and he snorted again. “Go and find him.”
********
Napoleon’s luck with parking spaces held, and he was outside Illya’s block within twenty minutes of the Old Man’s order. He rang the bell and knocked at the apartment door. There was no sound from within. He tried again.
“Are you looking for Mr K?” someone said from behind him.
“Why yes, I am,” he said, turning. It was the old lady across the way. “Have you seen him today?”
“Saw him last evening. He was going out. Wearing a tux, too. Never seen him look smart like that before – not for a girl.”
“Did he say anything about where he was going?”
“Just, ‘Good night, Miss May, special date – see you tomorrow,’ as he went down the stairs. He looked like he was in a dream, I think he’s in love.”
Napoleon blinked. Illya in love? Since when?
“And you haven’t seen him today?”
“Nope. He didn’t come back. I don’t sleep much – I’d have heard. I guess he’da come back if she’d been a good girl.”
And maybe he hadn’t because she was, reflected the Man of the World.
But that wasn’t much to go on, and it wasn’t the kind of neighbourhood where people paid much attention to each other, so Napoleon returned to the office and reported his partner missing.
Mr Waverley seemed unusually alarmed – he would normally expect his agents to get themselves out of trouble; but this time – “See if you can find out where he went last night,” he said. “We must find him.”
Napoleon went out again and explored the places he knew Illya liked: jazz clubs in the Village, cafés and restaurants frequented by other Russian expats. There was nothing. He hadn’t been seen. Increasingly concerned, he tried further afield and more upmarket venues – he’d been wearing a tux; had there been a dance somewhere, a big dinner?
On a hunch, he went to see his Aunt Amy in her penthouse apartment in an Upper West Side hotel. She read the social columns in the press, and tended to know about big dress occasions, and he struck not just gold but oil – a gusher.
“There was something big, here, last night,” she said.
*****************
The light was very bright. He shut his eyes again, his retina registering only crimson with the glare on his eyelids. He tightened his lips – someone was kissing him.
“How are you feeling, my love?” said a voice. “I’ve brought you some coffee.”
He opened his eyes again. He could see properly now. Morning. She was there. Where was he? No longer quite so well-dressed, anyway; not dressed at all, in fact; and, bringing an unsteady hand to his face, not so well-shaved either. What had happened? A memory stirred… caresses – more than caresses – and then, nothing.
“Jeanne?” he tried to sit up, failed, and rolled onto his side and pushed himself up that way, his head spinning. “Is it Jeanne,” he said, more challengingly now, “or Debra?”
The girl recoiled. “Who’s Debra? Have you got another girl?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t recognise the style?” he demanded. “Did you think I didn’t know? What did you give me this time?”
“What are you talking about? You’re still dreaming. Darling Illya, it’s me, Jeanne! We’re lovers, remember? You asked me to marry you.”
She came to him and stroked his hair. He pushed her away.
“Oh, no. I don’t think so, Debra.”
“But you did! Last night, in bed. You said…”
“No. I didn’t. Your little game didn’t work. I always knew.”
She burst into tears and made as if to fling herself into his arms, but he held her away. “Stop it. Stop acting. It’s not even convincing.”
“But last night…”
“Last night, I was acting. I’m trained…”
Her eyes were dry as she glared at him. “Nobody acts that well,” she said.
“I’m well trained.”
The door opened, and another woman entered. An older woman, with red hair; very elegant; with cold, cold eyes.
“Dr Egret, I presume,” said Illya.
“Very astute, Mr Kuryakin.”
“No-one can disguise their walk, whatever they do to their face or hair.” Her eyes flashed, and he said, “Are you going to tell me why I’m here?”
“You are here as bait, Mr K. Your partner has drawn a blank every place he has been today, looking for you. And will continue to do so, however long he looks. The more anxious he becomes, the more desperate he will be to find you. He will take any hook – and we have some very attractive bait for him. And then, we shall have someone inside your organisation, and you…” Her gesture of finality was quite unnecessary.
He shrugged, a little surprised that she thought Napoleon would get that anxious. He knew everything would be fine, didn’t he?
**************
Napoleon called Mr Waverley and reported his news.
“That’s good. He should be in there somewhere. It’ll be a suite, booked by a woman for a group of other women.”
Napoleon looked down at his communicator, and frowned. “Did you know this before I started, sir?”
“I planned it, Mr Solo – that’s to say, I planned for Mr Kuryakin to be taken as some kind of hostage by Dr Egret, to draw us in. You’d better get on and find him.”
Drawing a breath, really anxious now, he put the communicator away, and looked at his aunt, who had been listening. “Aunt Amy,” he said, “would you do me a favour?”
She could charm a bat out of the sky. It took just minutes to get the information out of the hotel manager.
He took the stairs. Very few people ever used the stairs in his experience – except one, and he was stuck somewhere below on floor ten; alive and kicking, he hoped. He heard the elevator door close as he emerged from the stairway.
He kept away from the peephole and knocked at the suite door. When it opened, he thrust at it, flinging the young woman backwards.
Seizing her by the arm, he pulled her to her feet and demanded, “Where is he?”
“Who are you? What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about –” and he marched her into the suite.
Illya heard his voice and called his name. He was still lying on the bed, partly covered by a sheet, but now tied to the bedrail. Napoleon dragged the girl in with him.
“Dr Egret just left, did you catch her?”
“Are you OK?” he asked anxiously, ignoring the question, “… have they hurt you?”
“I’m fine. Just a little tied up at the moment. If you could see your way to releasing me, I could ...”
He would be – just fine. Forgetting the girl, and rather annoyed, as people often are when they find they have unnecessarily worried themselves sick, Napoleon started to undo the bindings and snapped, “Why wasn’t I told about this plan, partner?”
“Mr Waverley thought it would be more convincing if you didn’t know. He thought you would demonstrate real anxiety – though why you should do so escapes me.”
“Yeah, I guess it would. That’s why he didn’t put you in my position, and me in yours, I suppose. You wouldn’t …”
Even Illya understood that. “No, Napoleon. No. I recognised Debra when she came on to me as Jeanne, and I’ve been playing along – on Mr Waverley’s orders.” He looked up at his angry partner. “If it had been you in this position, I’d have scoured N…” he stopped. “I’d have scoured the world, you know that,” he finished, diminuendo. “Now, my friend, do you think you could finish untying me?”
They had both forgotten the girl by this time, and only now did Illya look beyond his partner.
“Hey, where’s she gone!”
As once before, the girl had slipped away, unnoticed. Dismayed, they looked at each other, then Napoleon grinned, lifting the sheet covering Illya’s body.
“Maybe you should go out like that – she might come back.”
“And she might not. Napoleon… just untie me, huh?” His smile was sly, “then you can think about how to break it to Mr Waverley that both she and Dr Egret have got away. Again.”
***********************************
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