A dead smile dominated her battered, dirty face.
She wasn't exactly dressed for the Riviera though the costume could have been mistaken for clam-diggers and Bikini top. She was a ragged derelict, really, and she didn't even have the necessary dime to make a phone call to Headquarters. If she tried to bum a coin from people in the streets, the chances were they would shy away from her Bowery bum appearance. Yes, it was a great life for a girl. Still, she was elated to be alive.
The street was bereft of passersby, despite the pell-mell activity in the vicinity of the blaze. Or maybe because of it. April cut over the walk, toward Boston Road, away from the center of all attention. Ahead, the street lights glowed. Automobiles flashing by, hooted their horns derisively at her, taking her for some kind of kook. She stayed away from the fire. Nobody at the scene would have believed her. Least of all any tired Bronx policemen or far too busy firemen. No, she would have to get out of this mess on her own.
There was a cab parked at the intersection of 180th Street and Boston Road. April hobbled stiffly toward the driver, standing alongside his vehicle, munching a hot dog, watching the blaze lighting up the sky.
The cabbie recoiled when he saw her, raising his frankfurter as if it were a weapon, in self-defense.
"Mister," April said in her coolest and brightest voice though she knew she felt and looked positively terrible, "you wouldn't believe me if I told you I was a very secret agent who had to get downtown in a hurry and would see that you got twenty dollars for taking me there?"
The driver made a face. "Beat it, sister."
"I don't blame you. I'll make that fifty bucks if you'll do what I ask."
The man nearly choked in disgust on his hot dog. Sour-faced, he dug into his pants pocket and flipped a coin at April. "There. Don't bother me. You'll give me indigestion."
April caught the coin. A dime. Elation shot through her. She eyed the cab and the hackie's number on the badge pinned to his peaked cap.
"Thank you, Number seven-one-three-five-nine. This may be the nicest thing you have done all year."
"Sure, sure, sister. Beat it, wilya, or I'll call a cop!"
"Gently, sir, it's Mother's Day."
She blew him a kiss with her grimy fingers, winked and limped across the street to the luncheonette where the driver had obviously bought his frankfurter. The elevated subway overhead was just disgorging a flood of passengers. April became the cynosure of all eyes as she walked into the luncheonette and headed for the telephone booth at the rear of the establishment
It didn't matter. So she wasn't the Queen of the May. At least, she had a dime.
A dime to call U.N.C.L.E. and get back to civilization again.
And get some decent clothes and a good hot tub before she forgot she was a woman altogether. She could smell herself. A foul smell.
There were only two things on her mind, really. And both of those were human beings. One male, one female.
Mark Slate. And Joanna Paula Jones.
The carpeted corridor was long and deserted. A trail of red plush headed toward the twin elevator cages. There was one lone closed door at the far end of the hall. This led to a fire stairway.
One of the elevator cages whirred open. Arnolda Van Atta stepped out. She wore a long green velvet dress that clung to her statuesque body in enticing curves. A pendant of jade stones hung about her slim throat, falling across the swell of her abundant bosom. The flaming red hair was wound into a sophisticated bun atop her classic head. She was radiantly, exquisitely beautiful. Looking at her one would find it hard to believe she was capable of the very most inhuman, cold-blooded acts.
Her green eyes glinted in the subdued lighting of the corridor. A cold smile etched her regular features into a mold of sheer iciness. The oddest of her accouterments was the black leather riding crop she held lightly between her slim, tapering fingers.
It was now eight o'clock in the evening.
She stalked down the hallway imperiously, halting only when she reached the smooth-paneled brown door to the left of the twin elevator cages. The smile on her face evaporated as she turned the knob and stepped inside.
Mr. Riddle, Fried Rice and Pig Alley looked up quickly, stopping in the midst of a busy game of gin rummy. Mr. Riddle still wore the Frankenstein mask. His lanky, cadaverous figure seemed more ludicrous than ever. But an aura of terror clung visibly to the man. Fried Rice and Pig Alley were unnerved sitting with such a parody of a human being.
But they feared Arnolda Van Atta more. They all did. It was apparent in the almost subservient way they lapsed into silence at her appearance. She drifted to the table, eyes gleaming, the riding crop waggling impatiently in her slender fingers.
"Yes, Arnolda?" Mr. Riddle asked.
"Our man at Uncle has contacted Zorki. It seems Mr. Waverly intends to play games with us. Substituting a look-alike for our dear Alek Yakov." Her words were suffused with anger. "So we know where we stand. Waiting until midnight would be a farce now."
"What do you intend to do, then?"
"First I will deal with Mr. Slate. Then we will leave this place and station ourselves at a point I designated to the man at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. We'll get Zorki without making deals."
Pig Alley stared up at her now, wonderingly. "Sacre, but you are gorgeous, ma chère. What a charming dress!"
She ignored him and tightened her hands on the riding crop. She only had words for Mr. Riddle.
"Wait for me here. I shall be no longer than an hour. You understand?"
"Of course," Mr. Riddle's flat voice echoed hollowly in the mask. "We can play cards all night, if we must."
She laughed. A sarcastic, pealing laugh that had no humor in it. With that, she turned on her high heels and left the room. Mr. Riddle's Frankenstein head stared after her.
Pig Alley's Errol Flynn moustache twitched. He was not too young a man but he obviously found Arnolda Van Atta astounding in more ways than one.
"Did you see her? Dressed like a queen! To what end—and that whip in her hands—" He broke off, confused, staring at Mr. Riddle and Fried Rice.
"She always dresses that way," Mr. Riddle remarked, picking up his hand once more and riffling the cards. "Usually just before she is about to do something extremely vicious. What a woman."
"Yes," Fried Rice agreed, his purple mandarin's sleeves flung back to allow him to handle his cards. "I do not envy Mr. Slate the hour Miss Van Atta will spend with him."
Pig Alley swallowed nervously, dark eyes afraid.
"You mean she—"
"Sadism," Fried Rice said calmly enough. "She is a ruthless sadist. Thoroughly versed in the De Sade lores and customs. Come, cards please."
Mr. Riddle, Pig Alley and Fried Rice went back to their game. Each of them tried to concentrate on what they were doing. But it was far too interesting to dwell on what the redhead would do to the man from U.N.C.L.E.
Had they taken an informal poll among themselves, they would have found themselves in unanimous agreement on one major point.