The Assassination Affair Read online

  Solo lifted his feet onto the coffee table and wiggled his toes contentedly. He had his shoes off, letting his feet recover from the afternoon of walking.

  Rachel stirred beside him, and then she had to say it. He had been waiting for it all through dinner and was glad she finally did.

  "I'm not protesting a single thing about the evening, mind you, Napoleon. It was nice."

  "And will be nicer," he said.

  "But, is it really the latest thing to entertain a lady in your stocking feet?"

  "Rachel, tonight it is, believe me. I'm sorry about the dancing I promised you, but -"

  "Your feet hurt," she finished the sentence for him. She sat forward. "Would you rather I left so you can soak them?"

  "That's not what I had in mind at all," Solo protested, his eyes playing over her.

  She rose from the sofa and walked a few steps away. "Well, I'm not going to massage them for you, Napoleon."

  "It might not be a bad idea - but, no." Solo leaned forward, grunting, and slipped his shoes on. She was going to build this thing into a pique if he didn't halt it now, and it would spoil the entire plan of the evening. He stood up, flexing his stiff body, and went to her. He touched her shoulders gently and turned her to face him. "You look nothing like a masseuse," he murmured. "You don't have the muscles."

  She smiled up at him and slipped into his arms. "At least there's nothing wrong with your after-dinner charm. I thought you were going to fall asleep and leave me to my own devices."

  Her mouth was waiting, expecting a kiss, and he followed through with a little one. She giggled gratifyingly, and he circled her with a strong arm and led her back toward the sofa. "This was a catered, sit-down dinner, love, so let's get on with it and not break the mood. Your redheaded temper is too much for a man to handle."

  "And you're too much for anybody." She came along willingly.

  A slight breeze stirred the curtains that were pulled back from the open terrace doors, and then they stirred again, moved by something that wasn't a breeze. A muffled ker-plow broke into the Bossa Nova and a whine passed Solo's head by a margin of inches.

  Bullet! He grabbed Rachel and pushed her down between the sofa and the coffee table, spilling the contents off the table as he made room for his own body, which he used as a shield to protect her from anything else that might come flying through the air. He held onto her hard so she would keep still and sense the danger. She trembled under his hands, but made no sound.

  His right hand knifed inside his coat, slapping for his gun, and came up empty. A quick vision of the gun resting in his bureau drawer flashed to mind as he cursed under his breath. But he had tucked the gun away for good reason. Rachel. It was never wise to prod a girl with a lump of steel when you were trying for an intimate evening.

  He strained to hear, wishing the damned record would come to its end and give him a chance. Was that a footstep? He couldn't remain a sitting target any longer, so he pushed down on Rachel hard to tell her to stay safe, patted her, and raised his head to peer around the edge of the sofa.

  He and Rachel weren't alone anymore. There were two men in the room, standing near the terrace doors, swiveling to find targets for the guns they held in their hands. One man was tall, thin, with a tight mouth and twitching eyelids. Nervous type, Solo mentally catalogued him. The other was of medium height and strongly built. Fighter, Solo thought.

  They came into the room looking stupidly about for something to shoot. Solo tightened his leg muscles, crouched for leverage, and hurled himself up and over the sofa in one leap, hitting into them both at once since they were foolish enough to stay close together. The impact of his weight made the smaller man lose his gun, and as it thumped to the carpet, the tall man streaked for the open door.

  The man went down under him and Solo took the first measure of his body. It was hard and steely, with no flab. The man's hand slithered for the fallen gun and Solo dropped harder on top of him, then pushed against his chest for leverage to stand. But his assailant grasped his right arm, made a churning maneuver and hammer-locked his right leg, struggling as though to pick Solo bodily from the floor and fling him over his shoulder.

  Solo thrashed, grappling for an edge. With his left hand, he smashed into the other man's face, pushing his bead back in a harsh, painful thrust that cracked his skull against the carpet. His right leg was free and he pulled it under him, getting to his knees, but the man was unhurt, protected by the carpet, and he, too, raised himself, gasping.

  Solo tried a left-handed chop to the throat, but the desperation in his opponent made his reflexes quick and he fended it off as a yell burst out of him. "Help me, Louie! Help me!"

  Solo wrenched free and got to his feet, the other man rolling away from him and coming up straight. They crouched, facing each other. Footfalls behind Solo told him the tall Louie had taken courage and come back. He swiveled to meet them both, but the move was too late. Louie's long body was full force on his back, taking him to his knees. Solo raised his hands, grabbed hair and suitcoat and flung Louie out onto the carpet, but now the shorter man was on him, and before he could rise, the two of them were pummeling him with blows designed to hammer him into the floor-boards. A shoe slashed in and the heel struck him in the temple, making the dim light black out. He lurched forward, hearing a frantic call through the momentary grogginess. "Come on, Robard, get out! Now!"

  A hand whizzed into Solo's view, grabbing the fallen gun, but no fire came from it. All that was left of the fight was the thud of two pairs of feet running for the terrace.

  Solo shook his head, ignoring the pain from his temple and the twinkling dots of light before his eyes, staggered to his feet, and followed. He sagged against the terrace doors and peered warily down the expanse of stone, dotted by the low walls that divided the apartments. His two assassins were setting records in the sprint and low-hurdles as they made for the end of the building and the fire escape. There was no point in giving chase. His gun was still in the bedroom.

  Hands touched his shoulders timidly, then clutched at him, and he swung around reflexively, tensed to throw off this new assailant. But it was Rachel. Her face was pale, makeup standing in blotches about her eyes, lip stick like a stab of pinkish blood on her lips. She panted, but said nothing.

  The silenced ker-plow of another shot flared orange from the end of the terrace and lead whined in to splinter the wood near Solo's head. He pulled himself back. Rachel cried out and ran for the sofa. Venturing a quick look, Solo saw the smaller man, Robard, halted at the fire escape, taking a last few potshots, afraid of pursuit. Two more rounds whizzed by and Robard was gone.

  Solo rotated his shoulders, trying to settle his hammered bones into their proper places so they would hold up his frame. Rachel's red hair peeped up over the front of the sofa, followed by her terrified eyes. When she saw his relaxed posture, she stood up, but had to clutch at the sofa to keep her trembling body from falling.

  "I'll get you a cab right away," he said, hoping to calm her.

  "What was that?" she wailed. "What was that all about?"

  "Whatever it was, I want to get you out of here."

  She stiffened, some weird determination taking hold of her and stilling her shakes. "No! Don't even come near me."

  He stopped where he was. He had been ready to reach for her, to comfort her, but she backed off from him.

  "I'll get my own cab," she said accusingly. "I'd rather. I don't like any of this, Napoleon. I'll go down alone. Those men weren't burglars. They were after you! I should have known anyone with a name like Solo would turn out to be a gangster." She became a flurry of movement rushing about the room, gathering her wrap and gloves and purse. Her feet hit the carpet in anger and fright. "I'll go down alone."

  He let her have her way. "I understand. You want to keep your distance from me. All right. I can't blame you." As she made quickly for the hail door, he added, "I'll watch you leave from up here. But there's nothing to worry about, Rachel. You're perfectly safe
. I promise.

  "Promise!" She laughed a harsh, nasty laugh. "Have fun with your playmates, but don't you dare ever call me again! The door slammed shut behind her and the room was quiet except for the click of the stereo shutting itself off.

  Solo hurried into the bedroom, almost pulled the drawer out of the bureau frame, and grabbed his gun. He headed back to the terrace, tearing his coat off on the way and strapping on his shoulder holster. The gun he kept hard and handy in his grasp. He edged onto the terrace and looked both ways, but it was deserted. There weren't even any lights showing from the other apartments. He smiled. He hadn't expected any. It would be a good hour before anyone took the chance of looking out for the source of the disturbance.

  He strode to the balcony rail and glanced down into the street, feeling guilty as he saw Rachel run from the entrance and dash for a taxi that waited for her. He should have gone with her. Yet from this vantage point he could protect her if she needed protection. The street was quite empty and, as the cab pulled away, he breathed easier. Rachel was safe at least. And hopping mad.

  He went inside, closed and locked the terrace doors, pulled the curtains, and drew his coat on over the holster and gun. The room was a shambles. The tipped coffee table had spilled the remains of dinner and cascades of champagne onto the rug, there was an overturned lamp, and things on one side of the room were just enough out of place to give the place a disheveled look. His cleaning woman would be hopping mad, too. He sat down, pulling out his communicator. Calling Headquarters was next in line. He wondered just how he would explain all this to Mr. Waverly.

  Before he could thumb the signal button, a sharp knock sounded on his door. He was on his feet, gun drawn, before the knock ended. Stepping quietly, he approached the door from the right and reached across to turn the knob. As the door swung in, he raised the gun, holding it out of sight, but leveled.

  He straightened as he saw the figure in the hall. There was nothing menacing in her. She was a young girl - maybe twenty-one, maybe not - with free-swinging blond hair and enormous blue eyes that were designed for showing surprise. She wore a red, white, and blue Mod style dress, clipped off well above the knees, and her hands were nervously twining and untwining about each other.

  Solo took her in with one glance, decided she looked innocent, but also decided not to trust anything today. He kept firm hold on his gun.

  "Oh - Mr. Solo," she said, her voice soft and high. "Are you all right?" Her blue eyes darted over him. "I thought you were hurt. I saw that woman leave in a hurry, and then you didn't make a sound, and -"

  Solo interrupted her torrent of worry with a short, curious, "You were listening?"

  "Of course! When you didn't make a sound I got frightened."

  Solo gripped the gun tighter, keeping it out of her line of vision. "Why were you -"

  She cut him off. "I didn't know whether to come, myself, or call the police. After all, I'm not used to this sort of thing, and -"

  "Look," he interrupted. "Do you ever run down?"

  She took a deep breath and smiled. "Not very often, I guess."

  It was a relief just to have a pause in her nervous tirade. "You do have a name?" Solo asked.

  "Elaine Michaels. But you can call me Lainy." With no warning, her hand was on the door and she pushed herself into the room, squeezing persistently to get by. "I was so worried. I heard those noises that had to be guns with silencers, and -"

  "Just what do you know about silencers?" Solo's neck tingled with suspicion. He kept to the door, easing his gun into his pocket, but keeping a hand on it. The girl seemed unarmed, but today – tonight - there was no telling.

  "Only what I've seen in the movies," she answered. "But I knew the sound when I heard it on the terrace. I saw those two men run away, and you were out there." She faced him, her hands making odd little movements, reaching for him, wanting to touch him, yet holding back from contact. At last her right hand managed to pat him. "Those men went right by my terrace doors!"

  "Low gear, please." Solo closed the hail door, deciding to play this her way since there seemed to be no other. "I have some questions."

  "Oh, really, Mr. Solo - I'm just telling you."

  He took hold of her shoulders to slow her down to something more nearly human and logical. "Now" - he made his voice stern - "you're Lainy Michaels. All right. So far. Do you live in this building?" He had mentally gone down the list of tenants, something he normally had to do for security reasons, and he could recall no Lainy Michaels.

  "Yes and no," she said. "Two apartments down."

  "Yes and no?"

  'Well, I've been living here for a whole month, but I don't actually live here, if you see what I mean. I came to visit a friend, Betty Carter, and she was called away and I've been alone for two whole weeks."

  Betty Carter. Solo checked his memory of the tenants again. That name was real. But it was printed all over the mailboxes so it would have been simple for this girl to pick it out and use it as a cover. But a cover for what?

  He had no time to guess because she started on again, picking up speed. "When I got up enough nerve, I just had to come and see if you were safe."

  Solo sighed and let go of her shoulders. "As you see, I'm fine," he said impatiently, holding out his arms to prove that he was all in one piece.

  "No, you aren't. There's blood on your temple."

  Solo's hand streaked up and felt the stickiness of his own blood. It wasn't much. Not even enough to really concern this strange girl. "Forget that. It's nothing a washcloth won't fix."

  "Have you called the police?" She walked about, examining the room, the mess of the floor, clucking her tongue as she went.

  "Everything is taken care of, Lainy. Except one loose end. You."

  "For heaven's sake, why me?"

  "That what I'm asking. Now stand still and tell me how you happen to know me!"

  A blush spread up from her neck to cover her cheeks with pink. "I suppose I have to admit it. I've been watching you, your comings and goings. I must say, you do more going than coming."

  Solo cocked his head, the usual twinkle of his eyes replaced by doubt at her answer.

  "Well, after all," she hurried to explain, "I live alone and I haven't any friends here - only my cat - and you're such an attractive man. I've been at it for two weeks. You never saw me."

  "I must be off my form not to notice I was being watched" - he smiled at her - "and by a girl who looks the way you look."

  "I thought maybe one day I could catch your attention, fall down or something so you'd have to notice me, and then we'd be off to a good start." She obviously took his grin to mean he trusted her, for she came close and whispered, "Have you called the police? You have to report burglars, you know. It's your duty."

  "And your duty is to stay out of things like this, Lainy."

  "Not at all." She was certain.

  He had expected that. Girls with big blue eyes and innocent faces, girls this young, were always certain of everything. He was quite sure, himself, that she was nothing more than she pretended to be, but he had to find a way to ease her out. He said menacingly, "How do you know I'm not a gangster and what you saw wasn't an underworld vendetta of some kind?"

  She laughed. "You? Mr. Solo, you're no gangster. You don't have the eyes for it. Even I know that much. You do have a gun, though. I saw you put it in your pocket."

  Solo shook his head. "You are observant. A practiced watcher."

  "I thought I might find you bleeding on the floor, and I wouldn't have known what to do."

  "There's only one thing for you to do, Lainy. Go back to your own apartment. And the next time you hear gunshots - especially with silencers - stay home! You could get into trouble. And don't spy on strange men. Didn't your mother ever tell you?"

  "I'm not a backward child, Mr. Solo," she said defiantly.

  He let his eyes roam over her. "I can see that."

  Lainy shivered. He had expected her to shrink from the appraisal, but inst
ead she cried, "Oh!" and came to him, chin out and stubborn. "You won't frighten me off that way."

  "Nevertheless, little girl" - he took her by the elbow, steering her to the door – "I want you out of here." He yanked open the door and strong-armed her gently into the hall, where she stood staring at him.

  "Okay," she said. "This time. But if you ever need me... and maybe once in a while you could knock on my door on your way by? Just to say hello? Surely you've heard of Love Thy Neighbor?"

  "I've heard. Now, will you go? I have things to do. Things that don't include young ladies with pet cats."

  She edged away. "Good night, Mr. Solo. It was nice meeting you - just as I thought it would be."

  Solo closed the door and leaned upon it for a moment, chuckling to himself. She was quite a girl. If she possessed any of the ordinary feminine wiles of feigning shyness or playing coy, she had simply thrown them aside for the time being.

  The gun in his pocket clanged against the wood of the door and brought him sharply back to the muddled room, the attack, and the report he was bound to make. He glanced warily at the terrace doors and went back to the sofa. He pulled out his transceiver and this time, before he had a chance to call, it started its own bleeping signal.

  "Solo here."

  "Yes, Mr. Solo!" It was Waverly, himself, and his voice sounded oddly high and vital, maybe relieved. "So good of you to answer. I wasn't certain that you would - or could."

  Solo digested that one quickly and felt his anger at the two surprise attacks in one day returning. "Is some thing going on that I don't know about, Mr. Waverly?" he demanded.

  "It would seem so. I want you down here right away. And be careful about it. I'm not sure what is happening, hut I do know there's a coffin waiting for you. Fifteen minutes, Mr. Solo. Come directly to me."

  The transceiver clicked dead in Solo's suddenly chilled hand. A coffin? He shuddered, focused his mind on the order to make the drive in fifteen minutes, and took to his feet.