The Scorpia Menace (5 page)

"A pleasure, Mr. Cringle. Besides, you just tipped me."

"Sure, I did, creep," Cringle said. He smiled a cold smile. "I was just testing you."

He got back in the Fleetwood and drove out of town.

Cringle hunched over the wheel, fighting the steering on the corners as he took the big car up to high speed. Presently, he turned off the turnpike onto a rough, gravel road that led into the hills. He dropped the speed down to a crawl as the tires drummed over rocky ridges and sank into potholes. It took him more than half an hour, climbing all the time, before he came in sight of his destination.

The tires thudded over the slats of a rough-hewn timber bridge that spanned a torrent foaming white over dark boulders. Then, Cringle turned uphill for the last time and pulled the Fleetwood off the road into a private drive. He stopped the Cadillac in the big half-moon forecourt of a rambling old two-story farmhouse whose frame was sagging with age and neglect. The great boarded porch seemed stooped with the weight of the years as he went up the steps to the paint-blistered front door with its curved skylight.

He put the key into a well-oiled lock and went through into a cavernous hall that was lit by a single bulb from a ceiling fixture. The light shone on nineteenth century furniture covered with dust. Choking clouds of it rose from the worn carpet as Cringle padded up the staircase. It creaked ominously with every step he took. He ascended two flights and stopped in front of a door from which emanated a pale yellow light. He knocked three times. A key turned in the lock and the door opened.

The room into which Cringle blinked his way was in marked contrast to the staircase he had just left. It had cream-painted walls; modern, comfortable furniture, and his feet sank into luxurious carpeting. It was like stepping a hundred years ahead in time without warning. The man who had opened the door took his place again on a comfortable couch and fingered the leather cover of a book he had just put down.

He was about fifty and had a smooth, bald, egg-shaped head. Below his vast expanse of brow a broad, soft face complemented the upper half of his features. His mouth was wide and fleshy; he had strong yellow teeth and the tufts of hair at his ears gave him the look of a benevolent uncle. The resemblance ended when he raised his eyes to look at Cringle, who sank into a chair in front of him. The eyes were hard and deadly, those of a born killer, and their ruthless grey pupils drilled into Cringle's own. Hardened as he was, Cringle felt a curious little shiver whenever he looked into them.

The plump man had a comfortable body to match his face; he wore a lightweight grey suit which sat baggily on his big frame, a flaming red tie over a black and white stripped shirt, and red carpet slippers. A big cigar protruded from one corner of his wide mouth, and every once in a while a hot ash would drop from it onto the front of the big man's coat. Then he would absently brush the ashes away; but the jacket retained a greyish hue.

"Is everything O.K.?" the fat man asked quietly, leaning back on the couch.

"That depends on what you mean," said Cringle in a hard, cold voice.

"Give me a straight answer," said the fat man.

"Have you seen these newspaper items, Otto?" said the blond man, waving the two copies of the
Gazette.

"No, and it's hardly likely that I'll be able to read them if you continue to wave them about," said the fat man jovial-

iy.

"Let's hope you'll be as relaxed when you've read them," grunted Cringle. "They're about the Scorpia."

The fat man's eyes hooded suddenly, as he dropped his lids over them. Then, the grey pupils were drilling into Cringle's eyes. The atmosphere in the room suddenly seemed to become electrified.

"You don't really mean it, Cringle," he said softly. "You'd better read them to me."

Cringle gulped; his throat seemed constricted and he swallowed once or twice. He was reminded vividly of the little man in the Chevy earlier that evening. Otto had the same effect on him. He unfolded the papers, finding the palms of his hands sticky with sweat.

"There were two articles," he explained. "One yesterday, one tonight. Both about Diana Palmer, the Olympic swimmer. She lives in Westchester. Apparently, she's been studying the history of the Scorpia at college."

Otto had closed his eyes and sat with his hands folded across his fat paunch.

"Go on, Cringle," he said with a sigh. "I'm still waiting."

Cringle read the two articles aloud. There was a long silence when he finished.

"That's not all," Cringle went on, when the fat man showed no signs of continuing the conversation.

"I looked at today's television guide earlier. The Palmer girl is going to be on a local talk show tonight. Do you suppose they'll ask her about her Scorpia research?"

"I really have no idea," said Otto calmly. He opened his eyes suddenly and the steely gaze was like a searchlight in the room. "What time?"

Cringle fumbled with the paper.

"Channel Five," he said. "Nine-fifteen."

He consulted his watch.

"That's ten minutes from now."

"You'd better tune in then," said Otto.

He leaned back on the couch as Cringle fumbled with the knobs of the TV set.

"I know two things, Cringle," the fat man went on, as though talking to himself. "One is that Diana Palmer had better not do any talking about Scorpia on television or she'll be in trouble."

"What's the other?" said Cringle, the image on the screen growing clearer with his manipulations.

"It's your job to keep her from talking, Cringle," said Otto.

His deadly gaze seemed to wither his subordinate as it passed over him.

"You know as well as I that no one talks about Scorpia without risk of sudden death."

He leaned forward, his stare pinning Cringle almost physically to the front of the set.

"If you don't stop her, Cringle, you will also be in very serious trouble."

5

CASTLE TOEPL1TZ

Otto gave an impatient sigh as Cringle continued to fiddle with the dials of the TV set.

"We'll miss the program, you clown," he said softly. "Then I shall be annoyed."

"Sorry, Otto," said Cringle, nervously. He relaxed as a clear picture came into focus. He adjusted the sound and went to sit at the other end of the couch as introductory music announced the local news program. Otto sat motionless as two boring items on animal husbandry and teen-age education were dealt with.

Then both men stiffened as the announcer said, "Now, education with a difference. The Olympic swimming champion and woman explorer, Miss Diana Palmer of our own Westchester Palmers, has come up with some unusual facts after researching for the University's medieval history course."

Then followed a two minute analysis of Diana Palmer's public career; some film of her home and an interview with her mother and Uncle David, who said crisply, "Everything my niece does is news."

The screen dissolved to a panel with the interviewer in the middle, Diana Palmer on his left and Miss Welch on his right. Miss Welch was saying, "I was surprised. It's the first time any of my students has had her research mentioned in a newspaper social column."

The interviewer and the studio audience laughed. Diana Palmer was speaking now.

"At first I thought I was studying an ancient pirate band destroyed over four hundred years ago," she said.

Cringle felt sweat running down the palm of his right hand, He wiped it surreptitiously on his trousers.

"What do you mean by that, Miss Palmer?" the interviewer went on.

A close-up of Diana Palmer followed as she replied, "This was a band of ferocious criminals. They began as pirates, originally, and I've traced them almost up to modern times. I believe they might still exist."

"It sounds incredible, Miss Palmer," the announcer said. "You are certainly following an original line of research."

"Yes," Miss Welch broke in. "And it's also the first time that such an apparently academic subject has attracted such publicity."

"What do you consider the significance of your discoveries, if any?" the commentator queried.

"Who knows?" said Diana brightly. "I haven't reached any conclusions as yet."

"But do you believe that a related and unchanged band of criminals could continue to exist through hundreds of years?" said the commentator.

Diana shrugged.

"Anything is possible. But it's difficult to tell at this stage. I have a lot more checking to do before I can come to any definite conclusion."

"What do you think, Miss Welch?" the commentator continued.

"I agree with Diana," Miss Welch replied. "Anything is possible. I think she has chosen a most extraordinary subject to research. I admit I didn't think much of her choice at first. But like most things Diana Palmer sets her mind to, some amazing facts have emerged. I only wish I had a few more students like her."

Otto sat impassive as the interview went on. Cringle glanced at him from time to time, but it was impossible to read anything from his flabby features. Only his grey eyes were alive. He sat relaxed on the couch, his plump hands folded in his lap, the smoke from his cigar going straight up to the ceiling in the still air of the room.

"Miss Palmer," the commentator continued with a smile, "what would happen if you did discover that Scorpia was still in operation in some parts of the world?"

"Well, I hardly think it's possible that I could uncover 40

anything that the International police wouldn't be aware of," said Diana diffidently.

"But if I uncover anything concrete, then, of course, I would give my information to them."

"And you intend to go on with your research?" the interviewer asked.

"Of course," said Diana. "I have a great deal more material to sift through. And, naturally, Miss Welch will expect a first-rate paper after all this publicity."

There was another burst of laughter from the studio audience and as background music began, the announcer said smilingly, "Well, we'll try and bring you the sequel to this story in a week or two. In the meantime here's a late news report. . ."

His voice faded and the screen went blank as Cringle turned the set off. He went back to the couch, looking anxiously at the slumped form of Otto.

"You see why I was worried. . ." he began.

"Shut up," said Otto softly but authoritatively. There was so much menace in his voice that Cringle fell silent.

"I must think about this," Otto went on.

He turned his deadly grey eyes toward his subordinate.

"And we can't have any bungling at this stage."

Cringle cleared his throat awkwardly. He thought it wiser not to interrupt.

The fat man got up abruptly. Despite his bulk he moved as swiftly and almost as gracefully as a ballet dancer. He glanced over at Cringle, saw with approval that the blond man was watching him intently. He relaxed his forbidding attitude.

"You were right to bring this to my attention, Cringle," he said.

"It could be serious."

He went on pacing up and down for another few moments.

"On the other hand," the fat man went on, "we don't want to make fools of ourselves. As sure as my name is Otto Koch I can't afford to make any mistakes with Center. They've been getting very touchy lately."

"That's why I thought it might be important, Otto," said Cringle ingratiatingly. "You think we ought to contact them?"

"My mind is moving along those lines," Koch said, shooting his subordinate another quelling glance. "But let's analyze the situation first"

"Here's a little girl doing a history paper," said Koch in a faraway voice as though he was talking in his sleep. "Nothing special in that, except that she happens to be a famous personality, which makes her news. So the local sheet runs a few paragraphs about her hobby of studying history."