Kronk

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dr. Slink was alone with her secret persona in her twenty-fifth storey apartment in Margot Fonteyn House, Shepherd’s Bush. The apartment was lushly feminine with frills and fripperies all over the place. In fact, it was not so much an apartment as a boudoir of the soul. She had a plastic reproduction four-poster bed on which she hoped — one day — to be ravished by a prince, or at leas a high-echelon executive of NaTel. She had a Persian carpet, a tiger-skin and a goatskin rug. She had Blindman’s Buff by Fragonard over the mantel-piece and Napoleon in his Study by David in the bathroom. Sometimes when she was bathing and looked at Napoleon, she trembled a little. Perhaps there was just a hint of Dr. Perrywit in that penetrating gaze…

It was evening, and the door was electro-locked and the student alarms were set and the freezair pencil was by her bed, and Dr. Slink had abandoned herself to the strange whims of that disguised hamadryad, Dorothea.

She was sitting naked on the goat-skin rug, eating chocolate creams and listening to taped Strauss waltzes. She was in heaven. She was also in a Ruritanian day-dream of considerable poignancy. There were tears in her eyes but she bravely held them back; and there was a smile on her lips. The Lady Dorothea was not one to burden her lover with a woman’s weakness when he must immediately face cannon and musket and sword.

The Count of Organdie returned her sime gaily. One could hardly believe that, only a few moments ago, the colonel of the regiment had strode into the ballroom and said in that gruff, endearing voice of his: “Ladies, forgive me. Gentlemen, the enemy has crossed our frontier. It is our duty to ride and to stand firm at the Crimson River until the Grand Army relieves us.

Gentlemen, we are, I believe, one regiment against nine, but we know our duty. The enemy shall not pass us by nor, by the grace of God, shall he pass over us… Take your partners for the last waltz.”

And there was the Count, so young, so fearless. And there was the Lady Dorothea, bravely concealing the dread in her heart.

And there was the door-buzz, adding neurotic syncopation to the glorious music of Strauss.

Dr. Slink heard it and froze momentarily. Then, with lightning speed, she kissed the Count of Organdie and despatched him to the wars. At the same time, she dealt with matters practical. She cancelled the tape, snatched a green quilted cat-suit, zipped herself in and, as an afterthought, slipped the freezair pencil into a concealed pocket.

Finally, she went to the door and peered through the wide-angle spy lens.

The face on the other side was familiar. She released the electro-lock and opened the door.

“Why, Peter, how sweet of you to come! What a gorgeous surprise. Do, do come in.”

She opened the door. This time, it really was Peter. He came in.

“Dear Dorothea. You look more lovely than ever.” He signed. “One of these days I hope to be free to say things to you that…” There was no need to enlarge further. Dr. Slink was in a thrall.

“If I had known you were coming, I would have worn something special. Do sit down.”

With perfect hostessmanship, she offered him the genuine replica J.F.K. rocking chair. Peter Karamazov sat down.

“Drink?”

“Please.”

“On the rocks?”

“On the rocks.”

Dr. Slink pressed a stud on her antique book case, and the collected works of Charles Dickens sank to reveal a small array of bottles and glasses. She pressed another stud and Thackeray gave way to the ice compartment. Then she poured two generous measures of Scotch. It would be uncivil not to keep dear Peter company. Besides, the Scotch would help to relax her. The ethereal Count of Organie was no match for the reality of a handsome secret service agent.

“Salud.”

“À votre santé.”

“Dorothea?”

“Yes, Peter?” she curled herself up on a real Victorian fauteuil and gazed at him expectantly.

“You recall what we were talking about the other day when we met in the park?”

“I’m so sorry, Peter. I really am. I didn’t mean to pour my heart out about my own problems

- particularly when you had such a terrible time in Cairo… I do hope your psychiatrist has cured the amnesia. For one terrible moment, I thought you had completely forgotten me.”

Cairo? Psychiatrist? Amnesia? Peter Karamazov was temporarily thrown. The briefing by Ilyich had not included such matters. Perhaps they were irrelevant.

“Er, yes. All is well, thank you. Now, about Professor Greylaw.”

“Oh, the poor man! He’s dead now. I do hope he didn’t kill himself because—”

“Dorothea, I have something to tell you. I was there when he died.”

“But—”

“The long arm of coincidence, dear. The irony of fate that binds the lives of such as you and me together.” Suddenly, he realized that he was overdoing it, and came to the point. “I was sent to England to neutralize the activities of a dangerous Russian agent who, I may add, seems to have a confederate working in MicroWar itself.”

“My goodness! My goodness!”

“You may well be surprised. My task was rendered even more difficult because we did not know what the agent’s assignment was.”

“You mean—”

“I mean that a man who operates under the code-name of Dostoievsky was assigned to murder Professor Greylaw… Had I known this I might have prevented it. Unfortunately, I did not know.”

“But this is terrible. Really terrible. I must tell Dr. Perrywit. I must—”

“You must tell no one,” he said sternly. “No one is above suspicion. Indeed, I have reason to believe that your Dr. Perrywit is working for the East.”

“Impossible.” Dr. Slink was trembling. She drank some more whisky, but it didn’t seem to have any effect.

“You are the only one I can trust, Dorothea. Much depends upon your discretion and courage. As for your Dr. Perrywit, he is fairly new to MicroWar, isn’t he?”

“Yes, Peter.”

“What has he been doing recently?”

“He is trying to reduce the overall budget by fifty per cent.”

“This means the elimination of certain projects?”

“Yes, Peter.”

“Ah!” A triumphant glint came into the eyes of Peter Karamazov. “Doesn’t this suggest something, Dorothea? Doesn’t it suggest that Dr. Perrywit is, in effect, reducing MicroWar’s capabilities?”

Dr. Slink nodded miserably, not trusting herself to speak.

“Also, since Dr. Perrywit was responsible for Professor Greylaw’s dismissal, doesn’t that suggest that he knew that Project Tranquillity had been successfully completed and that, with the Professor out of the way, it would be easier to ensure that certain interested parties might exclusively enjoy the fruits of his research,”

Again, she did not trust herself to speak.

“Do you know anything about Project Tranquillity, Dorothea?”

“No, Peter. I — I don’t think anyone does.”

“Except, perhaps. Dr. Perrywit.”

“It doesn’t seem possible. He seems just as mystified by the project as I am.”

“He would, wouldn’t he — if he were working for the East?”

“I suppose so.”

Peter Karamazov finished his whisky and treated Dr. Slink to a penetrating look. “It is my conviction, Dorothea, that Professor Greylaw as a great humanitarian. It is my conviction also that he has developed some kind of drug that destroys the desire to kill. After all, you yourself told me how gentle his experimental animals were. I believe you mentioned a rabbit playing with a tiger… I believe, too, that They are prepared to pervert this tremendous discovery. What would happen, for example, if They succeeded in spreading this drug in the West — perhaps through reservoirs? We would be at their mercy, would we not?”

“Oh, no! Oh, no!” Dr. Slink had a sudden terrifying vision of Mongol hordes despoiling the very flower of English womanhood. One would prefer death, of course. And yet… She buried her face in her hands, tormented by unmentionable horrors.

Peter Karamazov rose from the J.F.K. rocking chair and knelt by Dr. Slink’s fauteuil. He put his arms round her shoulders. Gently. Chastely. “There, little one. Nothing terrible has happened yet. At least, I think not. But you must help me. It is for the good of our two great countries.”

“What do you want me to do?” she whispered.

“My dear, you are now involved in the most delicate and vital assignment I have undertaken. There is danger. I will not disguise the fact. There is danger… First and most important, say nothing to anyone. We do not yet know how deeply MicroWar has been penetrated. I suspect Dr. Perrywit, but suspicion is not enough. Therefore, you will be my eyes and ears. You will, if possible, search Dr. Perrywit’s papers for any reference to Project Tranquillity. You will, when convenient, list his contacts both inside and outside Insect Race.

You will do the same for any other colleagues who may be connected with this business. And you will also find out what is to happen to the remaining experimental animals.”

“I can tell you about the animals now,” said Dr. Slink eagerly. “I learned only today that Dr.

Perrywit plans to give them to the Marquis of Middlehampton.”

“So!” Peter Karamazov’s eyes glittered. “We have another lead… Dorothea, I must go now.

There is much to do. You are a brave woman, and when the time comes your contribution will be made known.”

Dr. Slink stood up. “It is so late,” she murmured. “London becomes a jungle at night. There are the students and the bounty hunters and some very nasty groups of children… You are welcome to stay here, Peter. I — I know you are a gentleman.”

Superbly, Peter Karamazov kissed her on the forehead. It was a brotherly kiss; but there was also the merest delightful hint of something more. “Dorothea, I respect you too much to compromise you. Do not be afraid for me. I must do my duty, and I know how to take care of myself.”

Dr. Slink went with him to the door. “Take very great care, dear friend.”

Again his lips brushed her forehead. Then, with a carefree smile, he was gone.

Dr. Slink reset the electro-lock. She badly needed something to take her mind off those terrible disclosures. She poured herself some more whisky, drank it quickly, then switched on the Strauss waltzes, increased the volume, stepped out of the quilted cat-suit and went to bed.

She recalled the Count of Organdie from the Crimson River with a vital despatch for the Grand Duke, so that he could have a few more precious moments with the Lady Dorothea. But the Count had a flesh wound, and he looked just like Peter Karamazov, and the enemy attack had been a feint, and even now Mongol hordes were rapidly approaching the capital…

And Dr. Slink slept very badly.

Spanish Inquisition?”

anyone else to love.”