"No," April said evenly as Mark Slate waved good-bye, wheeling the sedan down the block, turning the corner and zooming out of sight with a roar. A deep, pitch-black night hung over the city, the solitary corner street light shining with the radiance of a full moon. April sighed and took Joanna Paula Jones' arm. "Come on. It's only one flight up. Not a bad duplex. You'll see."
When she had first come to town to take up her duties fulltime as an U.N.C.L.E. agent, April had decided that a woman of her age and appearance and dress, would seem less conspicuous living in the environs of a neighborhood such as the fashionable East Thirties. Also, it placed her at a convenient distance from Headquarters. If any inquiries had been made or her postal matters checked, it would have been seen that on the first or second of every month she received a substantial check from Augusta, Maine. From her parents, of course. Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Dancer. The Dancers were rather well-fixed and did a lot of traveling around the world, so why shouldn't they provide for their beautiful young offspring in the wilds of New York?
April had actually been born in the little town of Old Orchard on the coast of Maine. Her father had been a dedicated Army man, having attained the rank of full colonel before being killed by a sniper's bullet in the early days of the Vietnamese conflict. April had been a service brat all her formative years, living on one military base after the other. From Hawaii to England to California. Until she had had to come home to finish her education at Radcliffe. Her mother had died only two months after her father's death. So, in truth, she was an orphan. But the world didn't know that. U.N.C.L.E. had seen to that. If anyone investigated, there was still a Colonel and Mrs. Dancer, alive and kicking, traveling about the globe on special military duties.
"This is keen," Joanna Paula Jones marveled. "It's really super."
It was.
The apartment was a notable combination of the modern and old in furnishings and decor. No frills, however. There was a round inlaid coffee table set before a superb brick fireplace. The hearth was lined with fanciful pewter mugs and metal tankards; on the mantle was an impressive bust of Beethoven. April had always liked his fighter's scowl, likening it to the bulldog features of Winston Churchill, whom she also admired.
The chairs, lounge and Danish modern furniture had been selected and arranged with taste. A wide picture window was concealed behind high deep red drapes that operated by drawstring.
A low staircase spiraled to the upper level, where the bedrooms were. The carpeting on the steps matched the wall-to-wall crimson of the carpet on the floor below.
A quiet collection of oil paintings adorned the beige-colored walls. None of them were identifiable. One was a seascape, another a landscape and still another, a beautifully impressionistic version of the Manhattan skyline. Joanna, after April had taken her coat and put it in a hall closet, ran around the room, admiring one thing and cooing over another. April laughed. It was like having a kid sister home for a holiday from school, spending the weekend. The glass-doored bookcase against the wall, beside the drapes, was choked with thick, big books, of every size and description. And language.
"This is all so exquisite, April. Are you rich?"
"Just practical. You can pick up a lot of bargains in New York if you know where to look. See those paintings? Got them for a song downtown from a junk dealer who had no eye for art. Good, aren't they? As for old Beethoven, he's a gift from Mark Slate, who believe it or not, plays the guitar and likes rock 'n' roll."
"But those books—Chinese, Russian, French, Italian—"
"Oh, I read them. I traveled a lot as a kid. Guess I can handle about twelve languages. Es verdad, señorita."
Joanna Paula Jones blinked. "Are you fooling me?"
April laughed. "I just said in Spanish that it was true what I said about knowing languages. Want some coffee? Tea? A drink?"
"I could go some coffee, thanks. I'm pooped."
"Ditto." April started for the kitchen, turning on wall switches. Joanna Paula Jones followed her, exactly like the kid sister, anxious to tell all. April was humming. It had been a long, merry chase, over hill and dale, finding Mark Slate and fitting all the pieces together for old, dear U.N.C.L.E. And now it had come to the right end. The proper end. The books were closed on Mr. Zorki. Too bad they had lost Mr. Riddle and that Egret or whoever the heck she was. She turned on one jet and rummaged for some cups and saucers in the cupboard.
"How are the neighbors?" Joanna Paula Jones laughed.
"Never see them. You seldom do in places like this. People have all kinds of jobs, all hours."
"Any interesting men?"
"Just pushers and whiners and hand-trouble types. That's about all. Why? Are you shopping?"
"Mark Slate doesn't look pushy or whiny and if he had hand trouble, I don't see how that could be so awful."
April turned to look at her, wagging a spoon.
"You stay away from that poor man's Rex Harrison. I told you. He likes rock 'n' roll, guitars, fast cars and faster women. He's a swinger. Forget him unless you just like laughs."
Joanna chuckled slyly.
"Ho, ho, ho. You do like him, don't you?"
"Of course, I do. He's like a brother to me, no joke. We just never got around to thinking about birds and bees. I told you, he's a very popular fellow with the ladies. He's not hungry."
"Well, I am. Nothing interesting ever happens to me. Except for yesterday and today, I could write my biography on a post card. Oh, April, you think I could transfer from Naval Intelligence to U.N.C.L.E.?"
"Don't spell it out. It won't bite you. What would your father say? Come on, bring the cups in for me and I'll carry the pot."
They went back to the living room, toward the coffee table, with Joanna Paula Jones still yammering about how her father felt about the Navy. She stopped only because April Dancer had suddenly halted in midstride, the coffee pot clenched in her right hand. Joanna Paula Jones came around her side, took one look and tried to scream. She couldn't. The sound froze in her throat, ending in a gurgle of disbelief and fear.
There was a man seated in the cushiony chair facing the kitchen. The Frankenstein mask concealing his face was just a little more demoralizing than the long, snout-nosed pistol pointing out of a gloved right hand. The nose of the weapon was mounted with a conical perforated drum of some kind.
"Good evening, ladies," Mr. Riddle said in the curiously flat but muffled voice. "One scream, one outcry and you will both be very dead. Is it necessary for me to tell a pair of trained lady agents that there is a silencer on this gun? I think not."
"Welcome home, Mr. Riddle," April said calmly, still clutching the coffee pot. The spoons and china were rattling uncontrollably in Joanna Paula Jones' trembling hands. "I thought it was too early in the year for Halloween. I see I was mistaken."
A dry hollow laugh came from behind the mask.
"You are correct. I haven't come for games. Just information. And perhaps, conclusions. Don't waste my time or the little time you both have left. I want to know all that has happened at Uncle Headquarters. I seem to have misplaced Mr. Zorki and his dear brother. They didn't keep an appointment with me. I don't like that. Perhaps you can ease my mind for me."
"Maybe, but I wouldn't bet on it."
Mr. Riddle elevated the nose of the gun. The Frankenstein mask leered. The gun made a low, coughing sound. No more audible than a low sneeze in a movie house.