But not one of them, April or the two U.N.C.L.E. agents, had spied Mr. Riddle quitting the scene.
April motioned toward one of the doors, silently. Fleming and Barnes, moving like a trained unit, fanned out and made their approach. April selected the other door for herself.
There had been no trick deciding that this had to be the trouble floor. Every other floor in the building was deserted. The apartment house was one of those that was going down in the summer, to make way for a new, larger, co-op apartment building.
Another THRUSH blind.
April moved to the strange door and set the box-lamp down on the floor. She transferred her weapon to her right hand and placed her ear to the panel. No sound came from within.
She took the knob in her left hand and kicked the door in, gun held high. Light flooded from the room, filling the corridor. In the split second that the insane tableau presented itself to her, Mark Slate's cheery voice piped up from somewhere near the floor.
"April Dancer, upon my soul. What kept you?"
Mr. Waverly Calls the Tune
Fried Rice and Pig Alley went for their weapons as soon as Walter Fleming and Pete Barnes crashed into their room. For a moment, the light caught the flashing reflection of a long stiletto jumping into Pig Alley's right hand. Fried Rice produced a wicked looking .38 caliber pistol from one sleeve of the purple mandarin robes.
Fleming and Barnes hardly paused for a moment. From either side of the doorway, they opened up. The odd-appearing weapons in their hands made coughing noises of sound. Splat! Splat! Splat!
Fried Rice and Pig Alley were halted. Their eyeballs rolled, their hands stopped moving. The stiletto and the pistol clattered to the floor of the room. Both of Mr. Riddle's subordinates sprawled forward in their chairs, faces falling down to the card table.
The U.N.C.L.E. agents holstered their weapons and quickly checked the room closets and doors for hidden threats. There were none. They hardly spoke or favored the unconscious men with a second glance. For that was all that Fried Rice and Pig Alley were. Unconscious; rendered so by the special "mercy" bullets in the U.N.C.L.E. guns. Harmless pellets of a drug which acted instantly upon contact with the skin. Murder was never committed if it could be avoided. And the two THRUSH underlings were more valuable delivered alive than dead. These would be, at any rate.
They hurried down the corridor to the other room to see if April Dancer needed a hand.
She had untied Mark Slate, righted the table, and was covering Arnolda Van Atta with her palm gun. The injured redhead was alternately moaning in agony and hurling murderous glances at Mark Slate. The velvet dress had run up, exposing half her thighs.
Slate, that cool-headed character, was flexing and working his arms and legs to get the kinks out. Fleming and Barnes restrained grins and comments. Slate was a dandy when it came to clothes as it was and now the blue jeans and Basque shirt made him look more like a male model than ever.
"Nice going, chappies," Slate smiled. "You and April arrived like the U.S. Cavalry in a John Wayne movie."
April shook her head. "We'd better get the lady to a doctor. That ankle is swelling like a balloon." She eyed Fleming and Barnes. "Any luck in the other room?"
"One Chinaman and one Frenchman," Barnes said.
"That would be the Messrs. Fried Rice and Pig Alley," Slate said. "You didn't find a Mr. Riddle by any chance?"
"Negative," Fleming said.
Arnolda Van Atta, her classic features contorted with agony, shrilled: "Get me a doctor, for God's sakes—"
"Shut up," April said coldly. "We ought to get you a firing squad. But let's move out, boys. No sense hanging around here." She checked her watch. "Nine thirty eight. The Old Man ought to be home by now."
"Check," Slate said.
Walter Fleming and Pete Barnes, without being asked, fashioned a sling of their arms, and hoisted Arnolda Van Atta's shapely figure between them. April undid the brooch that pinned the collar of her dress. A beeping sound filled the room.
"Dancer here," she spoke into the brooch. A crisp voice answered and she quickly reported the news. Mark hurried down the hall to see about taking charge of Fried Rice and Pig Alley. They would have to be transferred to Headquarters. It was a big catch for one day's work. And U.N.C.L.E. still had Zorki. The Great Zorki—even if the mysterious Mr. Riddle had flown the coop.
When they had the whole menagerie rounded up, April closed out her report and repinned the brooch to her throat collar. Her brown eyes and long dark hair were, as usual, eminently out of place, in the wake of the murderous hullabaloo.
In the crowded elevator, Slate smiled at her warmly, shaking his handsome head.
"Thanks for the nick-of-time routine, April."
"Sure, sure."
"She was ready to skin me alive." He indicated the glowering Arnolda Van Atta, suspended painfully between Fleming and Barnes.
"Losing your touch, Mark?" April laughed. "I should have thought she would have wanted to neck with you."
He winced in memory of the whip and how close he had come to matching Jenkins, the man in London.
" 'Fraid not. You see our lady here is a confirmed sadist. Worth knowing, April, should you ever desire to show her one jot of human kindness. A snake, this one."
"I'll keep it in mind."
She eyed Mark Slate affectionately, ignoring the venomous glares of the redhead. "Besides, I can't lose sight of you just yet, you refugee from an English fox hunt."
He raised his eyebrows superciliously. "Why not, pray tell?"
"You still haven't taught me the complete lyrics of 'I Want To Hold Your Hand.' "
Walter Fleming and Pete Barnes tried not to laugh but their sober faces relaxed in quiet smiles. Mark Slate said nothing.
April Dancer stared at the handcuffed pair known as Fried Rice and Pig Alley. It was too bad they had missed Mr. Riddle. But Slate was alive and that was all that mattered.
And Mr. Waverly was coming back; he could take over the whole operation again.
The Zorki Affair was coming to a head and it was high time things were finally resolved.
Still, she couldn't get out of her mind the plaintive young girl called Joanna Paula Jones and the whole business of U.S. Naval Intelligence being involved. Had the girl gotten out of that flood and fire alive?
April Dancer had her own ideas about a woman's role in life and there was nothing for herself but U.N.C.L.E. She didn't want anything else; she didn't care about anything else.
But she would have placed Joanna Paula Jones at the kitchen stove, cooking meals for a man and taking care of a houseful of kids. It just didn't add up. Not in the least.
There was something so damned strange, peculiar really, about that young lady. What was it; what could it be that was kicking around in her head dying for an answer?
She didn't know.
She still didn't know as they all piled into the two sedans that would take them back to Headquarters. Barnes drove the blue panel truck.
New York shone in the night. Neon gleamed. Cars squealed and roared. A horn tootled. Somewhere, a church bell ding-donged the hour.
Ten o'clock.
Two hours to midnight.
Midnight, when THRUSH wanted Zorki. But they had no bargaining power now. Mark Slate was out of their hands. So was she. What would THRUSH ask for now? April had a hunch that Mr. Waverly knew. Else why the sudden trip to Washington, D.C.?