"The Night of the Kiss of Death"
A Wild Wild West Fanfic
By Niecie Sparrow
Act 1 ~~~~
"Welcome back to the red clay of Georgia," Artemus Gordon commented as he glanced out the window of the varnish car. The Wanderer had chugged straight through Atlanta and was now pulling up on a sidetrack in the little speck-on-the-map town the Count had indicated. West and Gordon disembarked, then crossed a few tracks to enter the depot where they immediately sought out the station master for a few quiet words. Glancing around the waiting room, the station master pointed to the far corner where sat a fussy little man wearing fine dapper clothing and a pair of pince-nez glasses.
Thanking the station master, the two agents headed off to meet the man.
"I certainly hope he'll be more help in person than he was in his telegram, Artie."
"Doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands, does he, Jim?"
For the little man was constantly taking off his glasses, polishing them, then putting them back on to peer anxiously about at anyone who wandered near him. But when he saw West and Gordon coming purposefully toward him, he sprang up from his seat and rushed forward.
"Doctor Rodin?"
"Ah, mais bien sûr, c'est moi!" cried the little man. "And you, messieurs, you are les agents des États Unis?"
Once the introductions were made, the little tutor grasped at their hands the way a drowning man would grasp at a rope. "Ah, messieurs! I am so very glad to see you! Asseyez-vous, s'il vous plaît - please, sit down." Polishing his glasses once again, he added darkly. "And peut-être maintenant - perhaps now, that is, someone at last will listen to me…"
West and Gordon exchanged glances. "Listen to you, Doctor?" Jim prompted.
The tutor continued polished his glasses vigorously as he said, "The constabulary here, messieurs, are singularly inefficient, bien sûr! Ce qu'ils sont fous! Mule-headed they are! Sitting upon their…" With a pause and a frown, he gave noticeable thought to choosing just the right word. "…chairs!" At which point he went off into a rapid-fire rant in French, gesticulating so violently with his pince-nez that Artie reached out and grabbed his hands. "Careful, M le docteur! You will break them! Et, s'il vous plaît, parlez en anglais."
"Ah, pardonnez-moi, mes amis, je regret - I am sorry; I should, I know, speak the English for you. It is only, vous comprenez, you understand, that I am so very worried. The more worried I am, le plus français je suis. N'est-ce pas?"
"Mais oui, of course," Artie agreed. "It is easiest to worry in one's native tongue."
"Ah, oui, précisement!" exclaimed Dr Rodin.
"Now," said Jim, "to get back to what you were saying - and what were you saying? I didn't quite catch that."
"Ah," said the tutor. "That is to say, euh…" Embarrassed now, he glanced at Mr Gordon.
Artie smiled. "It's all right, Jim. It doesn't really bear repeating. Merely an eloquent dissertation, shall we say, on the pig-headedness of those who make up their minds before hearing all the facts."
"Ah," said Jim. "A little matter of 'Pardon your French'?"
Dr Rodin blushed.
"So what have the local constabulary done?"
"Rien du tout! Nothing at all! They have inquired, c'est vrai - it is true - and they tell me that there are no dead bodies found, and les médecins - parbleu! there is no hospital in this town! - the medical doctors do not report any patients they do not know. C'est incroyable! And the sheriff! Do you know what he tells me? He tells me…" And here the Frenchman switched to a quite passable Southern accent. "…He says: Don't you worry none, Doc. Them girls, they're smart girls. They jes' made arrangements to meet up with their sweethearts is all, an' they done run off an' give you the slip. You jes' wait, they'll be showin' back up agin once their money runs out, yep." Frowning, Dr Rodin leaned forward, taking off his pince-nez and jabbing with them first at West, then at Gordon. "Mais ce n'est pas possible! It is not possible! Les jeunes dames did not to me give any slip to run off with sweethearts!"
"You're certain of this? These are nineteen-year-old young ladies we're talking about…"
"Absolument! Bien sûr, I am certain! They have not run off with sweethearts, because there are… no… sweethearts." He emphasized each of the final three words of that sentence with a thrust of his pince-nez. "Entendez." He leaned still further forward. "Zernkje Irenje, she is her father's heir, vous comprenez? Very family-proud, she is. Men who rank below her?" He shook his head. "They are to her as the dirt. And men who rank above her? Ah, to them she will not bow! Already she knows her own mind - and I know her mind. She is one who will never marry."
"And the other?"
His face wreathed in smiles. "Ah, ma petite Anushche! Ma chérie! I call her my droshche. In Pterovnian…"
"It means 'Sweetie,' yes," said Artie.
Dr Rodin nodded happily. "And that she is! All sweetness, quelle mignon, quelle naïve! Anushche tells to me everything. Everything! She calls me," he turned to Gordon, "her 'djenko.' You know this word?"
Jim turned to Artie as well; Artie was smiling, nodding. "Then you are a dear friend of the family," he said to the tutor.
"Oui, mon ami."
To Jim Artie explained, "The Pterovnian language often manages to pack a lot of meaning into a single word. In the case of the word 'dienko,' it means a dear family friend of an older generation, someone whom the speaker would never betray. It, uh, has a long story behind it, far longer than you'd want to hear right now." And to Dr Rodin Artie added, "Then I suppose you call her 'katjenje'?"
"Mais oui!"
"Is that another term with a three-minute definition?" asked Jim.
"No, not unless you want to delve into Pterovnian history. That word means 'almost-daughter.' "
Almost-daughter. Jim decided to let that one pass.
"But as I was saying," Rodin continued, "Anushche, she is curious about men, vraiment, for she is a young woman. But she is…" He paused, grasping for the word he wanted. "It is not that she is afraid of men, mais non. Wary?" He brushed that word away as well. "Ah! Cautious! She is cautious about men! She says to me, 'Ah, djenko mujo, how will I know? How will I tell who is genuine with me, who is honest? Who is not' - how do you américains put it? Ah, a gold-digger!
"And so," he concluded, "this sheriff, he is wrong, wrong, wrong! They have not run off with sweethearts, because sweethearts they do not have!"
"Pity," commented Artie. "If only there were sweethearts, this would all be much simpler."
"And it would explain the lack of a ransom note," added Jim. Turning back to the tutor, he said, "All right, Dr Rodin, now that we've established that there are no sweethearts - just what did happen?"
Dr Rodin smiled and leaned back in his seat, looking like years of tension had just been lifted off him. "En fin! At last! Someone who asks the right question!" Polishing his glasses once more, he said, "We arrived in Atlanta. Et les jeunes dames, they make the shopping, they regard the sights. Ainsi en le matin - excusez-moi, then in the morning of the day they disappeared, we gather everything and mount the train and off we go. Vous voyez?" He shook his finger. "Ah, but not quite everything is gathered, messieurs. For [i]Zernkje Irenje, she has forgotten… something. Something unimportant… inconsequential. Not something special or unique. Vous comprenez? What that something was, I do not now even remember! I tell her, 'Quel problème? When we arrive in New Orleans, you shall purchase another. Ce n'est pas important.' Mais non! This one she must have and no other! And so it is imperative for us to get off at the next stop - here. Avec tous les bagages, tous les cases. And I inquire with le maître du dépôt - 'Tickets back to Atlanta?' Et le maître du dépôt me dit que le prochain train sera en deux heures. Deux heures!"
"En anglais?" Artie prompted gently.
"Ah, je vous prie pardon!" Rodin paused, trying to think how far back he had switched over. "Euh…"
"You arrived and disembarked with all your luggage, then asked the station master for the next train back, and you were told it would be in two hours. Then…?"
"Ah, merci beaucoup, M Gordon! Ah, we, ah… Tiens! We waited!" And he adopted a pose of exaggerated loitering, one elbow planted firmly on a knee for that hand to prop up his chin, the other hand drumming on the bench beside him. "Mais alors - but then, droshche muje Anushche, she spies…" and he pointed first at his eye, then out the door, "a peddler woman."
"Where?"
"Just there, across the street. Not now, she is not there now. But then! There she was, avec des fleurs et les bonbons - ah, selling flowers and candies, that is. And, and some sort of local fruit - or nut peut-être? The Pea-can?"
Waving a hand, the tutor went on, "Mais ce n'est pas important. Anushche, she rushes out in delight to buy, oh, something. Zernkje Irenje, she follows, going to stand behind her sister to complain to her in Pterovnian how dirty the peddler woman is, how smelly, calling her a tuvnjeche - which is the lowest class of peasant. And I too am standing there, bien sûr, watching over mes jeunes dames.
"Et maintenant le maître du dépôt calls to me, telling me that we cannot abandon les bagages en le dépôt. Je lui assure - ah, pardonnez-moi - I assure him that we are not abandoning our baggage; we are merely buying quelque chose de la… euh… buying something from the peddler woman across the street. I commence to return to les jeunes dames, mais le maître du dépôt calls to me encore to demand - demand! - that I must put les bagages into the storage, for which I must pay money. Pourquoi donc? Why thus? We are not going anywhere, not here! Merely are we awaiting le prochain train!" Eyes smoldering, Rodin added, "Bien sûr, now the money is paid and les bagages are in the storage. For when the argument avec le maître du dépôt is terminated, I go to the door to speak to mes jeunes dames - and they are gone. Zernkje Irenje, katjenje Anushche, the peddler woman - all gone. To where, I do not know."
West and Gordon were already on their feet. "Show us."
Dr Rodin led them across the street. The local hotel stood there, curious mythological creatures painted on the sign board and across the façade. Up and down the street stood other typical small-town businesses: general store, stable, sheriff's office, newspaper office. And adjacent to the hotel was a vacant lot surrounded by a tall board fence. Not much in the way of traffic was passing, but it had been enough in the meantime to have scuffed and obliterated any signs that the two young ladies had ever stood here in the street.
"And here I stop," said the tutor glumly, gesturing at the hotel, "awaiting the hour when mes jeunes dames 'run out of money.' "
"Thank you very much, Dr Rodin," said West. "You've been a great help."
"Merci beaucoup," added Gordon. "And you've certainly cleared up the mystery of how the young ladies came to disappear from here."
Taking their leave of the little tutor at the hotel steps, the two agents now took in the surroundings once more. "Hmm," said James. "If I were a kidnapper and had just snatched a pair of young women from right in front of the hotel in broad daylight - what would be my next move?"
"Gotta get 'em out of sight, fast, before someone sees what's happening and raises the alarm…" Artie responded. "Ah!"
As one, the men strode to the board fence at the adjacent vacant lot and began checking each board, pushing at the tops, rattling the middles, certain they would quickly find…
"…a loose board," said Jim, swiveling it out on its nail like a hinge. "After you, Artie."
"Why, thank you, James my boy."
"Tiens! You have something, mes amis?"
"Mais oui, M le docteur," said Artie, not yet passing through the opening but hunkering down to look through it instead. "Yes, we have found something. And something else as well. Isn't that interesting, Jim?" he said, pointing at the ground only a foot or so inside the fence.
"A wilted flower," said Jim.
"And that's not the only one. There's about half a dozen of them at irregular intervals, leading all the way across the lot." Artie leaned to one side, making room for Jim to get a better view through the opening. "What about the tracks, Jim? What are they telling you?"
Jim's keen eyes took in all the nuances of the dust just inside the fence. "Two men. Two women in high heels. One… person… in house slippers."
"House… house slippers?" said the tutor. "Mais c'est incroyable! How do you know what you have just said? All I see is the dirt."
Patiently Jim pointed at various marks near the flower. "See the small hole there, with the narrow wedge a couple of inches in front of it? That's the print of a woman's high heeled shoe. And there, the thick capital-D shape with the long wide wedge in front of it. That's the print of a man's shoe. While the big flat shuffly mark with no heel break - that's the house slipper."
"Mais… mais… Je me souviens! I remember now! The peddler woman, she was wearing indeed the house slippers!" He was nearly dancing with glee. "It is they! It is they! Mes jeunes dames! You have found them! Allons-y!" And he tried to push his way through the opening in the fence.
"Oh no you don't!" cried Artie, spreading his arms wide to block the opening. And Jim did even better; he pushed the loose board back into its place, then leaned against it, arms folded, immovable. Fixing Dr Rodin with a cool gaze, he said, "What do you think you're doing?"
Baffled, the Frenchman stared at the two américains. "Mais… mes jeunes dames," he sputtered. "You have found them. Allons-y!"
Coming to his feet, Gordon pointed at himself and his partner. "We are going," he said. Then, pointing at the tutor, "You, M le docteur, are not going. You," and he pointed beyond him, "are going to wait at the hotel."
"Mais… mais… mes jeunes dames… You have found them..."
"You keep saying that. Listen. We have not found les jeunes dames yet. What we have found is a trail that looks promising. However! It could also be a false trail. It could even be - consider this now! - a trail that leads whoever follows it into a trap. Perhaps even a death trap," Gordon enunciated slowly. "Now my partner and I are trained Federal agents. It's our job to face danger. Your job, mon cher Rodin…" He looked the man over and shook his head. "Your job is to take very nice young ladies out on shopping trips and to the opera, and to teach them to appreciate Molière. What Jim and I are doing, this is not for you. This is dangerous, M le docteur. You just go on back to the hotel right now and wait for us to let you know what we find."
"Well if it's that dangerous, Artie, now I don't even want to go," quipped West.
Artie shot his partner a look.
Dr Rodin folded his arms. "Dangerous, you say, M Gordon? Mais mes jeunes dames, they are there in the danger, and shall I play the coward and hang back from the danger they face? Mais non!" He lifted his chin heroically.
A moment later a thought hit him and he added, "Besides - they hate Molière."
Now Artie shot the tutor a look. "And that makes a difference why?"
"Here's the final word, Dr Rodin," said West evenly. "You're not going."
"I shall not be left behind!"
"I'm not going to argue with you, Doctor," said Jim. "I've made my decision and that's all." He turned away.
"You may have made your decision, M West, votre dernier mot. But I tell you this: As soon as you et M Gordon go through that broken fence, I shall follow. And I shall continue to follow and follow until Zernkje Irenje and katjenje Anushche are safely returned to me, that I may safely return them to their parents. And there is nothing you may do that will stop me!"
Artie rubbed at the back of his neck and glanced at his partner. "Well, he's got a point there, James my boy. Shall we lock him up in his hotel room, handcuffed to the bed?"
"Sounds like an excellent idea to me, Artie. You got some handcuffs?"
"Right here, James!" And Mr Gordon instantly produced a pair of metal shackles.
Dr Rodin's eyes bulged at the sight of them. "Ah! Euh! Non… non… mais non. That is to say, euh… I… I will, ah, go up to my room à l'hôtel and, and will wait there, mes amis. I will not follow. D'accord?"
"Agreed," said Artie. To which Jim added, "We have your word then, Dr Rodin? You won't follow us, and you will wait in your room?"
"Ah… oui. Oui."
Jim nodded. "Good day then, Doctor," he said and shook the tutor's hand in farewell. Artie also shook the man's hand, adding, "Bonjour, M le docteur. A bientôt." And as they watched the tutor disappear into the hotel, Artie murmured, "What do you think, Jim? Can we trust him do keep his word?"
"Trust him?" Jim replied. "Maybe about as far as we can throw him."
"Mmm. Yep, that's what I was thinking too." Then, turning back to the fence, Artie held the board open and said, "After you, James."
Shortly the two men were through the opening and Artie carefully swung the board back into its place, endeavoring to make that loose board look as solidly placed as all the rest. Satisfied, he turned to see James, squatting to the side of the trail a foot or so from the next flower, intently surveying the ground.
Artie joined him. "How's it look to you, Jim? Still just the five sets of prints?"
"Yeah, Artie. If there are more in the gang than the three who grabbed the girls, they haven't shown up yet."
Gradually they crossed the vacant lot, continuing to study the tracks. "Well," said Artie as they approached the final flower, "it's still five sets of footprints, no more."
"Yeah," said Jim. Gesturing toward the far fence, he added, "Another loose board, you think?"
"Oh, most likely." Glancing back at the line of flowers behind them, Artie muttered to Jim, "You know what's bothering me?"
Jim gave a small nod. "The flowers."
"Exactly. Either they're a false trail, luring us on, or else that was one blind set of kidnappers. How could they not spot such a large and showy gesture as these flowers being dropped, one by one, like breadcrumbs?" He shook his head. "I just hope whichever girl was dropping these - and my money's on Anushche, since she was the more likely to have bought the flowers - Jim, I just hope she's all right."
Again Jim nodded.
And now they were at the far fence. They checked the tracks - again no changes. West and Gordon set about pushing the boards of the fence and shortly found, as expected, that one board was loose. Artie took hold of it, slowly and cautiously pressing it outward…
And froze. His throat constricted. "Jim!" he hissed, his voice sounding strangled.
"What is it, Artie?"
Artemus nodded toward the gap he had made in the fence. "Look."
Both looked. Just outside the fence, lying on the ground, was a whole armful of wilting flowers, kicked and trampled and covered with dust.
"They caught her," Artie breathed.
Jim slipped on through the opening, finding himself in an alleyway. No one was around. No one at all. There was nothing here except the flowers and more footprints.
And that was a relief. West had been nearly certain he would find what was left of the young woman who had been dropping the flowers. But there wasn't a body, nor any signs that there had been a body. And so, as Artie came through the opening as well and replaced the loose board, Jim began to read the trail.
It ran off to the right. He followed it for a few yards, frowned, then went back to the beginning and checked it again. Hmm. Gesturing toward the ground, Jim said, "Hey, Artie, what do you make of this?"
Finishing up with the loose board, Artie joined his partner. "Why, what've you got, Jim?"
"Curious set of tracks. And an unusual tale they're telling."
Hmm? Artie took a look at the tracks for himself, following them a few paces to a point where something had obliterated a couple of square feet of the trail, leaving it looking almost swept. What…?
"Her skirt," said Artie. "She was on the ground here. They knocked her down? Punishment for leaving a trail?"
"Just wait," Jim replied. Moving on a few feet, he said, "Now here."
"Well, she was on her feet again and… Jim, she was limping."
"Yeah. Limping. But now look here."
Artie looked. Frowned. Looked again. And then, just as Jim had done, he went back to the pile of flowers and came forward again slowly, checking, thinking.
"Jim, she got up here and she was limping on her right foot. But then a few steps further on, she's limping on her left foot. Then back to the right foot again here. It's like she couldn't decide which side was hurt…" He broke off and shot Jim a look. "She faked it. She faked the injury."
"Mm-hmm," said Jim.
"Then she might well have faked the fall in the first place," Artie added. Moving briskly on up the trail, he said, "Ah! You see? Look here. She wound up on the ground again. Probably was making a big show of how much her ankle hurt, slowing then down, and… and… Wait a minute." He tilted his head to the side, tilted even more, then carefully stepped over the tracks to get a better angle on what he was seeing. "Jim, look. This is writing!"
Instantly both agents hunkered down to inspect the marks drawn by finger in the dust. "That's why she faked the injury. To give herself an excuse to sit down so she could write a message. Clever girl!"
"But what did she write, Artie? I can't read this."
"Hmm? Oh, it's in Pterovnian. It says, 'Help us.' "
"Pterovnian. She wrote in Pterovnian? Why would she do that?"
"Hmm." Artie's eyes narrowed. "Maybe she used her native language thinking her captors would be less likely to recognize it as writing and scuff it out. And she was probably expecting that the first person to come looking for them would be Dr Rodin; he already told us that he speaks Pterovnian."
"Could be," said Jim. They moved on.
"All right, Artie, what do you make of this?"
Artie took a close look at what Jim was examining. Once again the girl had managed to sit on the ground and make marks in the dust with her finger. But this time it wasn't words.
"Some kind of bird," said James.
"You're right," Artie agreed. "But what is it? A flamingo?"
"Beak's all wrong."
"True. This one's is longer and thinner than that. Looks more like, oh, a stork, perhaps?" And then the lights went on in Artie's brain and he began to chuckle.
"All right, Artie. What is it?"
Grinning, Artie clapped his partner on the shoulder and responded, "The common European house stork, James my boy. Famous for making its nest on top of chimneys. Known in Pterovnia as the 'zelnurmof.' Ever heard that word before?"
Jim nodded. "Yes. Zelnurmof, as in Ambassador Zelnurmofko. That's the girls' family name."
"Mm-hmm! She just told us precisely who they are."
"The beak points in the direction they were going. I wonder did she realize that their very footsteps were already telling us that."
"Who knows. I said it before, James, she's a clever girl. However…"
"Yeah, Artie?"
He shook his head. "Anushche - and we're still assuming our little artistic actress is Anushche and not Irenje - she kept her head and has done what she could to help us find them. The kidnappers on the other hand are not exactly the brightest bunch I've ever seen, you know?"
"True. You would have thought that, once they realized the girl was making a trail of flowers, they would have removed the flowers and destroyed the trail."
"Right. Or backtracked. Laid a false trail. Something! But you know what? I'll bet you six bits when we get up to the corner there, we won't find any attempt to throw us off there either. They'll have just gone right along their merry way taking the girls straight to wherever they were going, as if the kidnappers didn't have a care in the world." Shaking his head, he concluded, "No, James, I don't think we're dealing with the brains of the operation here."
"Could be, Artie. Or it could be that the whole thing has been a false trail right from the start and we know nothing."
Silence. Then Artie rubbed at the back of his neck and said, "Ah. Right. I, uh, mentioned that before myself, didn't I?"
"Well, Artie," said Jim, "they do say the memory's the first thing to go. Still," he added, "I think it's more likely that you're right. These guys are a bunch of rank amateurs and don't have a clue what they're doing."
"Nor, apparently, what Anushche was doing."
"Let's hope it stayed that way. Come on."
When they reached the corner, they found that Artie would indeed have won his proposed bet if only Jim had taken it. The trail went off to the left here; a block further on, to the right. There had been little other traffic through these alleys to confuse things, and of course every few yards Anushche had sat down and drawn another stork.
At length they came to a door in the middle of the latest alley and here the trail ended. Five people had milled about outside this door, then passed in through it.
"Wonder what this place is."
"Be right back," said Artie. He sauntered off for a casual stroll around the block, returning in a few minutes to report, "No business sign. Most likely a private home. It takes up the entire block. Oh, and all the curtains are drawn."
"Someone doesn't like prying eyes," observed James. He laid his hand on the doorknob and gave it a gentle turn.
"Locked, huh?"
"Oh yeah." Flipping over his lapel, Jim pulled out the lock pick he kept there and bent to the task of letting them in. Artie immediately glanced about, watching out for any possible witnesses.
Jim sprang the lock easily, and as he was putting away the little pick, asked, "What do you make of that, Artie?"
"What'd you find?" Artemus took a closer look. There, at the base of the wall, directly on the door frame itself… "Oh! Now it's a pencil sketch of a stork. Hmm. I suppose she realized that, once she was inside a building, she wasn't likely to find enough dust to draw in anymore?"
"Possibly." West turned the knob carefully, slowly, then eased the door open and peered inside. The door opened into the middle of a long corridor stretching off to the right and left. At either end were corners where the hallway turned and plunged deeper into the building. There were a few doors opposite. And no one in sight.
Artie tapped Jim's arm and pointed. Off to the left, just at the corner, there was a little mark near the base of the wall. It was too far away to make out what it was, but both men were reasonably sure it was yet another stork.
Artie jerked his thumbs in either direction, looking the question to Jim of: which way? Jim considered, then pointed off to the right. Artie nodded, and hitching his head to the left, mouthing: Then I'll follow the birdies.
Both set out. Artie crept up on the first door, listened at it, tried the knob, glanced inside. No one there, and nothing in it of particular interest; it might have been a storage room. He closed the door and continued on checking his side of the building.
As he was checking the second room, Artie thought he heard voices out in the hall and pressed himself against the door frame inside the room, listening. Waiting…
Shortly he heard the sound of a door closing and the voices ceased. Cautiously he came out, looked around, saw only Jim up the hall, and moved on.
Soon he reached the corner. So far he had found no one, and no one had found him. Listening intently - no sounds - he risked a glance round the corner. Still no one. The corridor stretched on for several yards before him, with a half-dozen doors evenly spaced along the wall to his right.
Artie continued on, checking each door in turn and finding nothing, until he reached the final door. Hmm… well, wasn't that interesting? There, near the base of the wall, right on the frame of that final door, there was another stork. But this one was a bit different from the previous ones. All the others had been drawn in the classic one-leg-crooked pose of a standing stork. This one instead had no legs, only a messy scribble just below its body.
Or wait… no… not a scribble, a nest! Artie smiled to himself. This stork had come to roost. And its beak was pointing at this final door. Clever girl, he thought once more.
Unless… Well, there was still the possibility of this being a trap. And if so, now would be the time for it to spring.
Artie listened at the door and heard something other than silence within. Hmm… that might be the soft sigh of someone breathing… the squeak of a chair from someone shifting in it… the crisp snap of a sheet of paper as someone turned a page…
He took hold of the doorknob and gently turned it. Of course it was locked.
A gasp sounded from the other side of the door. And then a voice - clear, feminine, young - called out "Who is there? Is somebody there?" Her English was lightly tinged with a British accent, and underlying that, a definite undercurrent that spoke of Eastern Europe, which was the right part of the globe for Pterovnia.
Quietly, and in his best Pterovnian, Artie replied, "I am searching for Irenje and Anushche Zelnurmofje."
Again the gasp. "But that is I! I am Anushche Zelnurmofje. Who are you?"
Judging that his own name would have little meaning for her, he responded, "I have been sent to find you by Count Ljudko Mechtenko and by the President of the United States."
"Oh, my father's private secretary sent you! And… and - oh my! - the President of the United States as well?"
"Yes, Miss Anushche," said Artie, switching over to English. "And I'll have you out of there shortly." Glancing about to be sure there was still nobody around, he produced from one of his many pockets a small device that looked like a perfectly ordinary key. This he fitted into the lock on the door, then snapped the free end of the key off and dodged to the side. A spout of flame came out of the keyhole as the device did its work. A moment later, the door swung inward an inch or so, its latch destroyed. He nudged the door open, stepped through, then pushed it to behind him. "Miss Anushche?"
She looked very much like her photograph: heart-shaped face, deep-brown eyes, chestnut curls framing her face with the rest of her hair swept up into a stylish coif. She was sitting in a chair alongside a lamp stand, its light shining down onto a large book on her lap. The rest of the room around her looked like another storage closet, with shelves upon shelves of curiosa. The only other bit of furniture was a small cot near her chair.
For a moment she merely looked up at the stranger who had just ruined the door of her prison. Then she closed her book and set it gently on the cot beside her, sprang up to her feet with a grin of delight and, clasping her gloved hands together under her chin, she said - she really did! - "My hero!"
Artie had to stuff down a tremendous temptation to burst out laughing when the girl came out with that. But he mastered the impulse and instead swept a very low bow before her, introducing himself as, "Artemus Gordon of the United States Secret Service. At your service, Miss Anushche."
"Oh, that was capital!" she responded. "I have never been rescued before. I have never needed rescuing before." Her eyes were sparkling up at him, full of mischief and fun. And he realized that not only was she the wide-eyed ingénue Jim had noted her to be, as well the possessor of wits sharp enough for her to play lame and mark the trail with storks, but she was in essence still a, well, a kid! Perhaps she was nineteen years old according to the calendar, but in heart she was much younger. More like a fifteen-year-old playing dress-up in fine fashion and high-buttoned shoes, or perhaps a fairy princess smiling at her knight in shining armor.
Frowning, Artie pointed out, "You haven't been rescued yet, Miss Anushche. I've only opened the door. I still need to get you out of the building and safely home to your parents."
"Oh. True. And sjerche muje - my sister! You have of course come to rescue her as well."
"My partner is working on that even now."
"Oh, capital! I have not seen Irenje in, oh! I do not know how long! Not since they locked me up in here. I… I do hope she is all right. Wherever she is in this horrible place."
"You don't know where she is?"
"Alas, no."
He nodded. "We'll just have to hope that Jim finds her then. Now. Are you ready to go?"
"Ah, dasda! Yes, I am ready. Although…" She tilted her head at him, a sparkle in her eyes again. "It is possible that we will need to… to run?"
"Possibly. Why?"
"Oh, capital! I love to run! But you see, it is that my sister and droshko djenko mujo Dr Rodin - my tutor, you know - they are always telling me that I am not ladylike enough. I must be more… more refined, you see. Especially before the gentlemen. They tell me that I act too much like a… a tom girl?"
"Tomboy," he corrected.
"Ah, dasda! Yes, that is the word! And so they tell me that a lady must never run."
Fixing her with a stern glance, Artie said, "A lady certainly does run if, for example, she wants to get out of a burning building. Or in this case, the lair of a bunch of kidnappers."
She clapped her hands and beamed at him. "Oh, I like you, Mr Gordon!"
Bemused, he asked, 'Why, for giving you permission to run?"
"Oh, yes!" Then her face fell. "Oh, no."
"What's the matter?"
"Oh, it is these shoes! They are very fashionable, you see. And I cannot run in them."
"Simplicity itself: take them off."
"Capital!" She sat down in the chair and set about removing them. Artie, with a show of chivalry, turned away. "And you won't be limping?" he added.
A gasp. "Limping! You know of that?"
"Yes, my partner and I could tell from the footprints you left. Most amazing medical phenomenon I've ever seen: first you'd be limping on one foot and then on the other."
"Oh. I, ah, did not do that very well, did I?"
"Your captors didn't catch on, and that's the important thing. Aren't you done with those shoes yet? Do you need some… help." Without thinking, Artie had turned back to face her as he made the offer to help, caught a glimpse of a healthy portion of feminine ankle, thought again of how very young the girl was, and hastily turned away again.
"It is these gloves!" she complained, apparently not noticing his faux pas. "I cannot undo the buttons on my shoes while wearing the gloves!"
"Then take the gloves off," he suggested reasonably.
Silence answered him at first, followed by: "Professor Smiler said that I was never to take them off."
Her voice had become so strange - high-pitched, tight, frightened. Keeping his own voice light and even, Artemus asked, "And who is Professor Smiler?"
"He is the man who kidnapped us, or had his people do so. He is the one who put us into the machine of the chairs. After that he made me put on the gloves and told me I must never ever take them off. And then he had me locked up in here." As she spoke, her voice kept rising higher and higher, with a definite raw note of hysteria creeping in.
Pitching his own voice lower than usual to compensate, Artie said, "Miss Anushche…"
"Yes, Mr Gordon?"
"Are your shoes off yet?"
"No, Mr Gordon."
"Then take off your gloves, and take off your shoes."
"But…"
"And then when your shoes are off, put your gloves back on." He waited a minute, then asked, "Are your shoes off now, Miss Anushche?"
"Yes, Mr Gordon."
"And are your gloves back on?"
"Yes, Mr Gordon."
"And is everything fine now?"
A tremendous sigh. "Oh. Oh yes, Mr Gordon!" And her voice was now back to normal.
"Good." He turned to her. "Ready to go now?"
"As soon as I put my shoes away into my handbag, yes. Oh, and my book!" She grabbed up the remarkably thick volume and tucked it under her arm.
"Your book," he repeated. "And just what do you need with a book in a rescue, my dear Miss Anushche?"
"Why, to read it afterwards, of course! Besides," she added with a lift of her chin, "they gave me this book. I insisted on something to read, and one of them supplied me with this. I choose to consider this book a bit of recompense for them stealing part of my life!"
"Oh, very well!" said Artie. "And now are we ready?"
"Yes, Mr Gordon."
"Good. Now, I'm going to need you to do something for me, Miss Anushche. This is very important. As we're escaping through the building, whatever I many tell you to do, I am going to need you obey me, and to do so instantly. Can you do that for me, Miss Anushche?"
"Oh, yes, Mr Gordon! Dasda!" she agreed brightly. Too brightly.
"Ah, Miss Anushche, I don't think you're taking this seriously enough. None of this is a game. If, for example, we should wind up having to run, it won't be because you like to run, or because someone's going to give a prize to the winner; it will be because the bad guys are chasing us, and may well want to kill us. Do you understand?"
"Oh, yes, Mr Gordon." She blinked up at him, the complete ingénue.
Artie sighed and closed his eyes. "No, no, I don't think you do. Sweetie… ah, droshche…" He took her hand and spoke to her very earnestly, as to a child. "We are dealing with kidnappers, who may very quickly become killers as well. We are in a very dangerous situation here. Now, we're not that far from the outside door, so I hope we'll be able to get through it and away before anyone knows we're on the loose. But if we should be spotted, whatever I tell you to do, you must do it instantly and without question. My partner and I have been doing this sort of work for a long time now, and we're fairly good at what we do. So you can trust me that I know what I'm doing. But believe me, Miss Anushche, this is no game."
"Oh but it is, Mr Gordon," she replied just as earnestly. "A most important game. Because the prize is my life, and I want that back! And so I agree to obey you, Mr Gordon, and to trust you with my life." She looked up at him with those wide, girlish eyes . "I know for you this is no game. But for me, it must be. You see…" She glanced away for a moment, and when she looked back, Artie saw now neither the fashionably dressed nineteen-year-old nor the little girl playing dress-up. Instead he saw in her eyes a woman - old, and weary, and fragile. "It is as if, Mr Gordon, I am walking in a very dark place with a very small candle. And as long as I tell myself, 'This is only a game,' the candle stays bright. But if I begin to think how serious all this is, how dark the darkness and how small my candle, ah, then the darkness grows stronger and my candle dimmer. And if the candle goes out, then I will start screaming. Maybe not out loud, but…" She smiled apologetically. "Once I start screaming, I do not think I will ever be able to stop. And then I will have lost, because I will have lost what is inside me that makes me Anushche. And that I am determined not to lose."
Artie was silent a moment, taking all that in, wondering how he had ever taken her for a little girl playing dress-up. And then she smiled up at him again and suddenly she was that little girl again. She dimpled at him and said, "I am ready now, Mr Gordon."
"Ah," he said at last. "Let's, uh… let's go then."
Artie eased open the door and checked; the coast was clear. Drawing his gun, he stepped out, gesturing for her to follow.
He didn't think it was likely anyone had shown up and occupied any of the rooms he had just checked a few minutes earlier, but to be on the safe side, he paused as he drew even with each door to press his ear to it and give a listen. So far, so good, he thought as they reached the corner without incident. Gun in one hand, he spread his free hand toward Miss Anushche, warning her to keep back.
He glanced. Only empty corridor lay ahead. Pointing to the outside door, he mouthed to his companion, "The exit."
She peeked round the corner herself and nodded. With a follow-me gesture, Artie led the way into the final corridor. Only a few yards left to reach the exit now, and only three doors remaining to sneak pass. Artie pressed his ear to the first door, then stole past it. And the second door as well. And now the third…
He heard the click of the latch just as he got solidly in front of the door. Flinging out his free hand to warn Miss Anushche back, he flattened himself against the wall just beyond the door frame.
The door swung inward and a stranger stepped out, turned to his left - and found himself eye-to-chin with Artemus Gordon. The little fellow jerked back slightly, looked up, and came out with a startled, "Huh? Where'd you come from?"
Rarely one to be caught flat-footed like that himself, Artie had already realized that the gun in his hand was currently useless; Miss Anushche had drawn back to the other side of the door and was now directly behind the man in the doorway, and therefore in Artie's line of fire. Artie was also sure that the sight of himself had so captured the stranger's attention that he was unaware of Miss Anushche's presence, and Artie was determined to keep things that way.
Instantly, Artie developed a squint in his right eye and a Hail-fellow-well-met personality. His free hand came forward, clapping the stranger on the shoulder as he called out, "Why, there you are, my good man!" The stranger jumped a bit and peered up at Artie's face, confused by the chummy greeting. In that moment, Artie subtly twisted his gun hand and holster leg back, quietly getting the weapon out of sight and put away. Grinning broadly, he then brought his now-empty right hand forward to join his left in grasping the stranger's right hand in an enthusiastic double-handed handshake. "So glad I found you, my dear fellow! Alonso P Farnsworth's the name. Purveyor of the finest in alcoholic refreshments; let me give you my card." Dropping the stranger's hand, he reached inside his jacket, purportedly to bring out his wallet, but actually going after one of his handy-dandy, pride-and-joy little knock-out gas smoke bombs. Unobtrusively Artie caught and held his breath, feeling a bit bad that Miss Anushche, unfortunately, would also be overpowered by the gas. However, she was a slight little thing, barely came up to his chin, and he was sure he would easily be able to carry her out of the building and away.
Still smiling brightly at the stranger, Artie grasped one of the smooth glass orbs; he was ready to throw it…
When suddenly he didn't need to. There came a thud; a moment later the stranger's eyes, which had been captivated by Artie's antics, rolled up into the man's head. As if he had just turned to jelly, the man melted into a puddle at Artie's feet.
Artie took in that sight, then looked up. Miss Anushche was standing opposite him, her hands wrapped firmly around that big book of hers, still holding it at the bottom of her downswing.
Artie blinked, then chuckled. "Why, bless you, my child," he said. "And here I wondered what you would do with a book in a rescue!"
She just stood there for a moment, a bit stunned herself perhaps at what she had just done. Then, with a little laugh, she held the book up so Artie could see its title and proclaimed, "Tolstoy!"
"Ah," Artie responded. "And I'm sure the poor fellow found his introduction to Russian novelists heavy reading indeed."
"Oh, touché!" said Anushche approvingly. Tucking the book back under her arm, she pointed at the unconscious man and said, "That is Lou. He is one of the kidnappers."
A sound deep within the room attracted their attention then. Artie and Anushche's heads both snapped up; their eyes met. And then their eyes slid to the side, followed by their heads, turning to look inside the room.
All in one breath, and in Pterovnian, no less, Miss Anushche gasped out, "Oh no and here comes Herk!"
"Who's Herk?"
"The other kidnapper!"
Before he had even finished asking the question, Artie had already snatched his gun out with one hand and snatched Miss Anushche solidly behind his back with the other.
Deep inside the storeroom a behemoth was moving toward them. It took Artie a second to make sense of the misshapen form. But then he sorted it out into an enormous man carrying an enormous bag of some sort slung over his shoulder.
Herk - that just had to be short for Hercules, thought Artie. The man could easily pass for the big brother of Dr Loveless's giant henchman Voltaire - and with emphasis on the word "big." Instantly assessing the situation, Artie glanced at his pistol and said, "Oh no no no; I'd need an elephant gun to bring that down. Miss Anushche?" He holstered his weapon.
"Yes, Mr Gordon?"
"Run!"
Run they did. Artie grabbed the doorknob of the exit as he nearly slid past it and gave the knob a turn. Turned it again. Wait - locked? "I thought Jim left this unlocked!" he groaned. He patted at his pockets, started to bring out another of his little door-unlocking devices, glanced back toward the store room where Lou still lay in the doorway, and shook his head. Not enough time! Setting a hand firmly on the small of Miss Anushche's back, he propelled her toward the other corner of the corridor, the corner that Jim had set out to explore, and hissed to the girl, "Go go go!"
They ran. A pencil sketch of a stork on the wall just short of the corner registered in Artie's peripheral vision as he barreled around that corner and pulled Miss Anushche to a halt just beyond. It wasn't his favorite plan ever, entering an unknown area without reconnoitering first, but since Herk hadn't yelled yet, raising the alarm, then perhaps they had escaped the big brute's notice. He could hear a rumbling voice echoing from around the corner, saying, "Wha…? Hey, Lou, whazza matter wit' you?" And Artie knew that pursuit would commence shortly.
Taking in this new corridor quickly - it was much like the left-hand corridor where he had found Anushche, but with doors on both sides, a staircase leading upwards, and best of all, no one in evidence - Artie strode to the closest door and tried the knob. It opened. Immediately he whisked Anushche through that door and closed it behind them.
Well, thought Artie, that's how my day's going. Wonder how things are with Jim?
He was about to find out.
As soon as Artie set off to the left, Jim drew his gun and went to the right, leaving the exit door unlocked for ease in escaping later. Unfortunately, the unlocked door made something else easy as well. As Artemus was disappearing into the second of the rooms on that end of the hall and Jim was about to turn the corner on this end, the knob of the outside door turned, the latch gave a soft click, and a figure slipped into the hall.
West whirled at the sound behind him, automatically aiming his revolver, only to find himself inadvertently threatening…
Yes, the tutor.
West lowered the weapon and frowned at Dr Rodin. Moving quickly to the Frenchman's side and speaking as quietly as possible, Jim hissed at him, "You gave your word that you would not follow us and would wait for us in your hotel room."
"Euh…" Dr Rodin responded, and not at all quietly.
Instantly West clapped his hand over the Frenchman's mouth. "Shh!" he insisted. "Are you going to keep quiet?"
Eyes round, the tutor nodded.
West released him, only to have the man immediately began justifying himself. "Mais bien sûr, M West, I did wait à l'hôtel!"
"Keep your voice down! For how long: five minutes?"
"Euh… Peut-être, ah… ten?"
West was not happy. "And of course you also kept your promise not to follow us."
"Oui! I did not follow. I merely, ah… took a walk, which happened to proceed in the same direction…" A moment later the tutor squeaked, "Euh! Mais, M West! Qu'est-ce que c'est? What are you doing?"
For West had holstered his weapon, taken hold of Dr Rodin's elbow and returned him rapidly but quietly to the exit. Opening the door, West thrust the tutor outside, said to him softly, "Go to your room, Doctor," then closed the door after him. The next second there came the quick twist of the lock pick, and Dr Rodin found himself locked out.
Down the hall, Artie finished checking the second room and entered the third, and by the time he exited that room and was preparing to turn that corner, West had already turned this one. Stealthily Jim moved up the new corridor. Hearing voices approaching from his right, though, he quickly slipped through a door to the left and waited for them to pass.
"…a 100-pound bag, Herk. And I want it right away. Lou, you go with him and make sure he don't mess it up."
"Yeah, yeah, sure, Matilda." Two sets of footsteps - one light and quick, the other much more ponderous - moved off in the direction West had come from. A third set shuffled off in the opposite direction and began to mount the stairs. Waiting until the sound of the steps had made a turn at the landing, West came out of hiding, glanced about, spotted another stork hiding on a riser of the staircase, and decided to follow Matilda.
West reached the top of the stairs and peeked out to spot the shuffling form of a stoop-shouldered woman turning into a doorway midway down the upper corridor. The door closed behind her. Swiftly West sped after her as silent as a ghost, reached the same door, then eased it open a crack to find a conversation to eavesdrop on.
"…and if that ain't enough, you done give her the run o' the house!"
"So? I make the decisions here, Matilda! I don't need my big sister to tell me what to do!"
The first voice was that of an older woman, likely in her sixties, weary with bearing burdens that were not necessarily physical. And the second - male, not far behind the age of the woman, but with a younger and more vigorous tone - the second voice had that delicate mixture of arrogance, superiority, and rank pig-headedness that all great megalomaniacs seem to exude so richly.
"But think about it!" Matilda went on. "If she's got the run o' the house, what's to stop her from just leavin' the house whenever she wants?"
A sigh. "Locks on the outside doors. And of course, there is the - heh heh! - 'insurance.' "
"In a pig's eye! You may think it's insurance, keepin' her sister locked up like that. But I'm tellin' you, she don't give two hoots and a holler fer that sister o' hers. Why, she ain't gone to see her sister once - no, not once! - since we locked her up." A pause. "If you was locked up and I was runnin' free, I'd come see about you."
A sound of scoffing. "Really, Matilda, you are so melodramatic."
"Maybe so. But I'm tellin' you, Angus, this one oughta be under lock and key, same as the other. I don't trust her!"
"But I do." Pause. "Is that what this is about, Matilda? Are you… jealous? Were you imagining all this time that when at last my greatest invention was complete, I would waste its powers on you?"
"I… I just don't think bringin' in a pair o' strangers…"
"But there was always going to be the need for fresh blood in this project, Matilda. After all, who did you imagine was going to sit in the second chair? Lou? Herk?" As if on cue, the professor brought forth an exquisite display of maniacal laughter. "Besides, who would ever want a kiss from you?"
Footsteps started coming toward West in a rising sound of someone climbing stairs. Closing the door back completely, West sprang into the shadows nearby. The door opened again and he heard Matilda fuming, "…and to think I used to change yer diapers when Mama was busy, Angus Smiler!" She stormed away, but somehow storming off in a huff just didn't have the proper effect when done in floppy house slippers.
As soon as Matilda was gone, fulminating away down the other staircase, West slipped back to the door, eased it open again, then melted through it. Who was this Angus Smiler, and what was his greatest invention he was bragging of? Were the pair of strangers Matilda objected to the kidnapped twins? And curious that one was locked up and the other not.
West crouched in the darkness just inside the door for a moment, getting his bearings. The place had the feel of a vast open space; the conversation he had overheard had been from a distance. There was a low wall in front of him and West glanced over it. The room was mostly dark, lit in a few disjointed areas. In shape it was an amphitheater, sloping upward and outward in a series of concentric circles, each larger than the one below, connected by a number of narrow stairways. Though the room was mostly in shadow, West got the impression that most of the levels were crowded with various machines in varying stages of completion. Reaching into his jacket, he produced a compact telescope which he expanded and put to good use to get a closer look at the amphitheater. Hmm - parts of machinery, yes, and other things as well. Some of the stands seem to be general catch-all zones, including one region filled, curiously enough, with exercise equipment. West continued sweeping the lit spaces with the telescope, working his way lower and lower.
Until at last his surveillance reached the ground floor of the room, which held the largest illumined area. In it stood a number of tables, each one filled with beakers and flasks and burners in wild profusion. West thought of his partner's much smaller laboratory aboard the Wanderer; wouldn't Artie just love to have a huge lab like this one!
And then the eyepiece of the telescope isolated the master of the domain. A hunch-shouldered man, his white lab coat splattered with the ghosts of experiments past, thick black gloves on his hands, thick shining goggles over his eyes, a thick shock of going-to-gray hair spilling over his forehead. He seemed happily engaged with his chemicals, and his body language told West that the man believed himself to be completely alone - that, and the fact that he suddenly began to soliloquize.
"Alas, poor foolish Matilda - jealous of the pretty girls she brought to me! Well, she will see. She will see when the one she reproached me about, the one with the run of the house, accomplishes my revenge for me. Our revenge, that is! Ah yes, the honor of the name of Smiler shall shortly be restored!
"Imagine, those short-sighted Philistines on the committee denigrating my work! Ha! Saying that the ingenious alterations I had performed upon Herk had transformed him into a monster. A monster! Really! When the only thing monstrous in this whole business is how blind the committee members were, not to be able to recognize the genius of my creation! Well!" And again he laughed maniacally. "They shall rue the day they cast out the name of Angus Smiler as a lunatic, indeed they shall! Except… my, the ability I've given to that young lady works so fast, they might not have the time to rue it! Perhaps I should tell her to mete out my vengeance more lingeringly…"
So, that was Angus Smiler. And his greatest invention, where would that be? In a room that is an amphitheater, thought West, surely the spot for the greatest item, the pride of place, would be the very center of it all.
And yes, there it was. Picked out by a shaft of light even. A curious machine, it seemed to consist of a pair of chairs which were both bolted and wired together. In each seat was laid what looked like a crown or helmet that was absolutely bristling with wires. West could also make out leather straps on the armrests and front legs of the chairs, apparently to make sure that whoever sat in those chairs stayed in those chairs.
Somewhere far below, a door opened and shut. And a voice said, "Matilda is so tiresome."
It was a soft and languid voice, like the purr of a cat. An exotic musky voice. Feminine - oh, thoroughly feminine. The voice of a woman who expected to get her own way, and generally did.
"Matilda was born tiresome," Smiler responded. "But she is my sister, and she keeps the household running." West could see the scientist easily enough even without using the telescope. But where was the man's visitor?
"She thinks I should not trust you," Smiler continued. "She thinks you will escape." He set down the flask he had been working with, tugged off his goggles, then looked off to his right. "But there is no escape. I assured her, and I assure you: there is no escape!"
Her laughter was deep and throaty, an extension of the purr of her voice. West saw her move now, a shadow against shadows, walking - or better said, slinking - toward the scientist. She produced something from the bosom of her dress and tossed it toward Smiler where it landed with a clatter on the laboratory table.
Smiler picked it up and West quickly aligned the telescope to focus on the item. A key. "The house key!" Smiler cried. "Why, where did you get this?"
A chuckle. "I listen," replied the woman. "I watch. I learn. And then, whenever I want to, I take."
"You - you can't leave; I have too much invested in you! Besides, if you do escape, rest assured, your sister will suffer for it!"
That feline laughter again. "My dear Professor Smiler, if I had wanted to leave, I would be gone already. Why would I show you the key, indeed, actually give back to you the key, obliging myself to steal the key once more in order to make my escape? And with you on the alert, knowing I had stolen it from you before!"
Smiler stammered, not succeeding in putting together a coherent answer.
"You see? You did not think this through."
"Then why did you show me you had taken the key?"
"Oh, a minor matter. I did not go out, you see. I instead used the key to let someone in."
"You did what?" shrieked Smiler.
She laughed merrily. "Really, my dear Professor, you shall give yourself a heart attack!"
"How… how dare you…!" he spluttered.
"How dare I?" Her voice deepened, hardened. "What I dare, I do. I will not be rebuked by you, little man! Besides," she added, the claws retracting, the purr back and smooth as silk once more, "the one I have let in, he will be of no trouble. You see, I gave him a little kiss…"
Smiler blanched at the statement, beads of sweat springing out on his forehead. "What? What?" he cried. "No! I tempered you for my purposes, for my revenge! You cannot waste it…"
The velvety chuckle again. "Professor. A woman has many kisses. Perhaps even one for you?"
The scientist blanched again, and West saw him extend a hand toward something on the lab bench. It looked like a gun, but instead of a normal barrel, the business end consisted of a pair of prongs, something like a tuning fork.
"Besides," the woman's voice continued, "now I have tested your invention for you. And you will be happy to know that it works."
Smiler hesitated. "Yes," he said at last. "Yes. We did test with the animals, but now to know that it has the full effect on a human…!" He looked exultant, for a moment. "Oh, but under what conditions did it work? And how rapidly? Really, unless the test is conducted under proper parameters, the results are worthless to me. You should have…"
Again the chuckle. "You wish me to test again here in the laboratory? On you, perhaps?"
"Oh no no no. That's… that's fine, my dear. I'm, ah… sure the results were completely, ah, satisfactory. Ah… But who… who was the fellow?"
In a dismissive voice, she replied, "Oh, someone of no consequence. There was a little man - but they are all little men in the end, are they not? - running about outside the house, shaking all the doorknobs, wanting to come in." The purr. "So I let him."
"But who was he?" Smiler insisted.
"Such a silly, fussy little man! He was so glad to see me when I opened the door for him. And I made the wide eyes at him, and he thought I was his droshche!" A chuckle. "But I made sure he knew his mistake, at the end."
"Where have you left him?"
"Downstairs, in the study." Her voice dripped indifference.
"I'll have to get Herk to dispose of him, I suppose."
West decided he had heard enough. There was more going on here than just the kidnapping! He closed the telescope and slipped it back into his jacket, then softly opened the door, closing it behind himself just as softly. Back down the corridor he went, and back down the stairs. Just as he reached the ground floor again, however, he heard someone running ahead of him, beyond the corner. Immediately he opened a door to his right and got out of sight.
The lamp on the desk in this room had been left lit. Automatically, West took in the details of the room: desk, bookshelves, grandfather clock, free-standing globe. The fact that there was a far door particularly drew his attention; he crossed to it and took a quick look out, noting that it opened onto a corridor. The key was in the lock, so he locked it and pocketed the key. He turned back…
"I was afraid she meant you," he said to the body lying just this side of the desk. He knelt by the man, checking for heartbeat and respiration, but found neither. He noted the ashen pallor of the man's skin, the vivid kiss-print in lipstick on his cheek, the stark look in his fixed and staring eyes. He also noted that, despite the man's pallor, there was not a trace of blood anywhere at all. And apart from the kiss-print, there wasn't a mark on him to show how he had died. He thought of the shadowy woman's brag of having given a man a "little kiss." Hmm... poison lipstick, perhaps? Artie could probably figure that out back at his lab on the Wanderer.
Reaching out, West laid his hand over the man's eyes, closing them for him forever. It was the least he could do.
Suddenly the door West had entered through burst open and two people rushed in, quickly shutting the door behind them. From his hidden position kneeling behind the desk, West peered out at the newcomers. One was a nicely-dressed, though curiously unshod, young lady with an impressively large book tucked under her arm. And the other was…
"Artie!"
Artemus turned at the sound of his name to see his partner pop up like a jack-in-the-box from behind the desk. "James! Fancy meeting you here, my boy!"
"Here, catch," said Jim. He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it to Artie, who caught it, saw it was a key, and promptly fitted it into the lock on the door they'd just entered through and locked it.
"You've been busy, I see," Jim observed, then turned to the young lady and said, "Miss Zelnurmofje, I presume?"
"Yes, this is Miss Anushche Zelnurmofje, Jim. Miss Anushche, my partner, James West."
She smiled and stepped forward, holding out her hand to him. "How do you do, Mr West?" she said.
Jim immediately came out from behind the desk. Moving to his right, he took the young lady's hand in his own, murmuring banalities to her, smiling charmingly, his amazing now-blue now-green eyes locked on hers as he gave her the full I-only-have-eyes-for-you treatment, all the while continuing to hold her hand and to move to his right. It was only when he had in this fashion turned her back to the desk completely that he, all in a split second, caught Artie's eye and glanced at the desk, then back to her before she could notice his momentary inattention.
Hmm. Casually, quietly, without doing a thing to draw Anushche's notice to himself, Artie stepped closer to the desk. He did not need to go all the way around to find what Jim had alerted him to. The out-flung arm lying on the floor told him all he needed to know.
And the broken pair of pince-nez glasses, still attached to their black ribbon, told him too much.
While Jim continued to keep Miss Anushche oblivious, Artie disappeared behind the desk to give the dead man a swift and thorough examination. Pulling out a small envelope and a penknife, Artie took a small scraping from the lipstick mark on the all-too-white cheek. And just as he tucked the closed envelope into his pocket, there came a noise. Someone was rattling the doorknob at the far door. Artie sprang to his feet instantly, hoping fervently that Miss Anushche, who had gasped at the sound, would not wonder what he had been looking at on the floor.
"We'd better get out of here," Artie said as he strode quickly to the door they had all entered by. "Problem is, we came in here because I thought we were about to be pursued, but I haven't yet heard… Oh, here he comes."
The ponderous thud of Herk the behemoth's step could be felt now, coming around the corner, heading this way, causing the pictures on the walls to shake and clatter. His big slow voice called out, "Matilda, somethin's wrong wit' Lou!" A door across the hall opened, then closed again, muffling Herk's voice as his steps faded away.
Jim and Artie exchanged nods. "Let's go."
"Oh!" said Miss Anushche suddenly. "But what about my sister?"
"Right now we're going to get you to safety," said Jim. "Then we'll come back for her."
"Ah, I see. Very well then."
Artie unlocked the door and made a cautious check. "It's clear," he said. Jim took point, leading them to and around the corner. Together they hurried down the corridor to the exit. Jim's lock pick was already in his hand; quickly he fitted it into the lock and began to work the tumblers. "Miss Anushche," said Artie quietly, pointing toward the far corner from which he had originally brought her, "you keep watch that way and let us know if you see anyone coming. I'll watch the way we just came from."
She nodded and turned toward her corner, and stiffened. "Lou is gone," she announced.
"I noticed," Artie replied as he turned toward his own corner. "That's probably what kept Herk so long, checking on Lou and then picking him up to… DOWN!"
The other two had not seen what Artie had: the old woman appearing around the corner with a side-by-side shotgun in her hands, a grim look on her face as she brought the weapon up to her shoulder to aim it.
Right at them.
~~~ FREEZE FRAME ~~~
End of Act 1
Author's Note: See my profile page for a link to the drawing I made for the end of Act 1.