Pulp Fiction | The Howling Teenagers Affair (February 1966) Read online

  "Nice, real nice," Joe Hooker said as Mahyana finished her chorus and The Beavers took a breather. The bearded banjo man squatted down on the platform. "This moving is too much, Dad. Yesterday Kandaville, today Down Under, crazy."

  "Mr. Hooker," Illya said.

  "Joe, Dad, just Joe. Mister is for TV stars over fifty."

  "All right, Joe," Solo said. "What can you tell us about The Bedlam Trio?"

  "Local group. This is home base," Hooker said, "Only—"

  "Do they travel a great deal?" Illya broke in.

  "No, man, they sit, you know? I mean, this is their pad. Only thing is, they—"

  "Is there anything peculiar about them? Anything unusual," Solo said.

  "They're on, Dad, if that's what you mean."

  "On?" Illya said.

  "Turned on, man—the pot, you know?"

  "Marijuana?" Solo said.

  "They smoke up a storm, and that's kind of funny, you know? I mean, the new rock and roll boys don't usually make that scene. They're the only group I know, way out. Only, Dads, maybe you've got another sort of group in mind."

  "Why?" Solo snapped.

  "Well, The Bedlam gang here ain't a trio. They're a quartet. See, over there."

  Illya, Solo and Mahyana turned quickly to look at the four muscular young men on the last bandstand across the dancing room. There were four-and they were also very strange looking. They wore black leather jackets, bulky jackets that could hide almost anything. But it was their eyes.

  Solo whispered "Look at their eyes!"

  "The same as in the pictures—maniacal," Illya said.

  "Are thinking what I'm thinking?" Solo whispered, his voice still smiling as if he was talking about nothing more important than the music.

  "I am," Illya said. "A trap. That ticket was left for me to find. It must be a standard booby trap, intended to bring anyone who captures or kills on of their men straight here."

  "I agree. And I think we are going to have trouble getting out," Solo said.

  "I would say a diversion is indicated," Illya said.

  "But we should talk to them, The Bedlams," Solo said.

  "Later would seem wiser," Illya said.

  "I agree," Solo said.

  The two agents spoke low and casually to Mahyana. The girl nodded her understanding. Joe Hooker squatted down again on the bandstand above them.

  "If you're interested, Dads, The Bedlam boys look mighty interested in you."

  The bearded banjo man nodded toward the far bandstand. The four muscular young men in the black leather jackets had put down their instruments and were looking toward Illya and Solo. Illya pointed to the doorman standing with them. Solo nodded.

  "All right, now. Listen," Solo said. "We'll head for the door together. If they start to cut us off, I'll drop a smoke bomb; that should shake this place up. When I do, make a run for the door. I'll cover the rear."

  "Now!" Illya said.

  The three agents started for the door. From the bandstand, the four leather-jacketed youths began to move to cut them off. Illya and Solo pushed the girl ahead of them. It looked for a moment that they would make it.

  Then it happened.

  From out of the hordes of dancing teenagers, single young men and girls began to appear—all wearing black leather jackets. The boys wore jackets and blue jeans, the girls the same jackets and tight stretch pants. They seemed to appear all through the room—and al their eyes had a steady, fixed, maniacal glaze. Eyes that were almost insane, yet happy, exhilarated.

  "They've got us blocked off!" Solo said sharply. "If I throw the bomb it won't stop them all."

  Illya looked around quickly.

  The three agents had stopped now. They stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the wildly dancing young people, the bands beating a frenzied rhythm. Everywhere in the room the strange teenagers in the leather jackets seemed to come up out of the floor. Then there was a voice.

  "Looks like you need the Paul Revere act again, Dads."

  Joe Hooker had come up to them.

  "I know the back way. Make with the feet, fast!"

  They nodded. Solo suddenly threw his bomb. Smoke billowed up in a great cloud in the room.

  The screaming began.

  Illya, Solo, and Mahyana followed Joe Hooker toward the rear, under the rear bandstand and crouched low, emerged into a concrete corridor.

  Two black-jacketed teenagers appeared with guns at the far end of the corridor, their eyes blazing insane joy.

  "This way," Hooker cried.

  Illya snapped off two quick shots from his Special at the two black jackets. The two did not even duck. But they did not fire; they just came forward at a trot. Illya turned and ran after the others.

  They came out of a door into a dark parking lot. Behind them black-jacketed teenagers poured into the corridor like a boiling river. Now they began to howl like wild beasts on the trail of food.

  The three agents raced across the parking lot, Joe Hooker with them.

  Mahyana stumbled, fell.

  Joe Hooker stopped to help her.

  Another horde of teenagers, all in black jackets, poured around the corner of the building. Illya and Solo stopped for a second. Hooker and Mahyana were up again and running.

  "They're cut off!" Illya cried.

  "We can't help now; too many of them."

  "Run, Napoleon!" Illya cried.

  Solo ran. Illya ran behind him. They reached the far side of the parking lot, where there were buildings and a street. Solo went around the corner of the first building, with Illya twenty yards behind him. Illya cried out.

  "I'll lead them off. They can see me."

  Solo did not pause. He knew that Illya was right. He, out in front, could turn the next the next building and be out of sight. The raging, howling mob behind was too close to Illya. The weird horde of black-jackets had already swarmed over Mahyana and Joe Hooker. One of them had to remain free.

  Solo turned the corner. He was out of sight for a full thirty seconds.

  Illya came around the corner, the mob in close pursuit.

  Solo had vanished.

  Smiling grimly, Illya ran on down the dark Sydney street. They were persistent, the teenagers behind him, not like a simple mob, but Illya was a trained athlete and he slowly pulled away. He ran on toward the outskirts of Sydney.

  The mob poured after him.

  For a long minute the dark street was filled with howling, raging black jackets. Ten teenagers forced Joe Hooker and Mahyana into a black car that appeared from nowhere. The street shook as the horde poured on after the fleeing Illya Kuryakin.

  Then, suddenly, the street was empty again.

  Nothing moved on the dark Sydney street under the Southern sky.

  Then a manhole cover opened slowly. Napoleon Solo climbed out into the night. Alone, he listened for a moment, then turned and walked quickly away in the opposite direction.

  TWO

  The sun rose slowly over Sydney. In his hotel room, Napoleon Solo spoke urgently into the tiny radio set in his hand, the two thread-like antennae extended.

  "Bubba, this is Sonny! Come in, Bubba. Report, Bubba. Come in, come in, this is Sonny."

  Solo pressed the receive button. There was only silence. He rubbed his chin. The set had a range of five miles on local transmission. Illya knew that Solo would be in the hotel. But Solo had been trying to raise the small Russian for hours. By now, if Illya had escaped the mob, he should have managed to make his way to within five miles of the hotel.

  "Bubba, come in. Sonny is here, come in. Bubba?"

  There was only silence.

  Solo made a tiny adjustment on his miniature set and pressed the send button again.

  "Anzac, this is Sonny. Come in."

  He pressed the receive button. Immediately a crisp female voice spoke.

  "Sonny, this is Anzac Control."

  Solo spoke urgently to the girl at U.N.C.L.E. in Sydney. "Has Bubba called in?"

  "No repor
t from Bubba," the crisp female voice said. "A report to the Sydney police detailed a riot at The Bedlam. Many hurt—no mention of Agents Kuryakin or Mahyana. The report stated that a musician, one Joseph Hooker, was missing."

  Solo thought for a moment. Then he pressed his send button again. "Overseas relay to New York, Section-I priority."

  "Immediately, Sonny," Anzac control said.

  Solo waited. The room had come to seem stifling now. Where was Illya? Had they caught him? And where were Mahyana and Joe Hooker? Dead—or just captured? There was one hope: THRUSH always tried to capture U.N.C.L.E. agents if it could.

  Solo paced. Joe Hooker was of no use to THRUSH. Solo only hoped the bearded musician had the sense to let them think he was with U.N.C.L.E. It would be safer for now. Solo paced. Where was he to go from here? The only lead was The Bedlam, and with his escape they would have abandoned The Bedlam by now. He had to have a lead.

  The tiny transmitter-sender wailed its undulating bell-like signal. He pressed the receiving button.

  "Sonny, overseas relay from New York. Proceed." Anzac control said.

  "Are you there, Solo?" the familiar voice of Waverly said.

  "Yes, I'm here, sir. Illya is missing. They have Agent Mahyana, African Section-II, and a musician named Hooker."

  The voice of Waverly showed no emotion. "Very well, Mr. Solo. Section-II, South Pacific, will conduct a search for Mr. Kuryakin. However, I think we must continue with our problem. I have a possile area of investigation for you."

  "Yes, sir," Solo said. He did not protest. In the work of U.N.C.L.E., only the problem counted. The people were expendable—all, including Waverly, if that had to be.

  "With the aid of South Pacific Section-II we have identified the suit worn by the council member N in your picture. A tailor in Sydney, one Max Booth, verifies that he made it. We do not wish to approach Booth for details with local people. So I think it should be in your hands."

  "Yes, sir," Solo said.

  The tiny set went silent. Solo looked at it for a moment. Then he went to work. His weapons in order, a clean suit on, he left the hotel and walked out into the Australian sun.

  A simple check of the telephone directory showed that the shop of Max Booth was only a few blocks form the hotel clerk. The hotel clerk informed Solo that Booth was a very good, if expensive, tailor.

  Solo found the small, exclusive shop without incident. He walked in, the picture of the young executive looking for a suit. A small, wizened man hurried to him.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "I'd like a suit," Solo said simply. The small man cocked his head. "American? May I ask how you heard of me?"

  "Through a friend. He saw one of your suits on a man he met and liked it," Solo said.

  "You know this man who wore my suit?"

  "No, but he was small, thin, about sixty, I'd say. My friend thought he was an industrial scientist, probably a chemist. They were at a chemical convention."

  "Ah," Max Booth said. "Yes, small, thin, and a chemist. I made him a fine tweed."

  Solo nodded. "That was it, a good tweed. Just what I had in mind. What did you say his name was?"

  "Fitzhugh, Marcus Fitzhugh," Max Booth said. "A very wealthy man. One of my best customers. Ah, he's a great man, is Mr. Fitzhugh."

  Max Booth turned and walked back toward a curtained fitting room.

  "Tweed, you say? Well, perhaps we can suit you. Of course, it will take some weeks. I have a long list."

  Solo spoke to the tailor. "He has a strange voice, this Mr. Fitzhugh?"

  The tailor stopped, turned. "Voice? Hardly, young man. Marcus Fitzhugh is a deaf-mute. Are you sure you have the right man?"

  "I never met him, myself," Solo said, but he was thinking of something else. A deaf-mute! Of course. No wonder they had no record in the files of that voice! A man like Marcus Fitzhugh was certainly in U.N.C.L.E.'s files, but without a voice to cross-reference.

  Marcus Fitzhugh never spoke in public, he had said that himself! No wonder. Now all he had to do was contact Waverly and run a check on Marcus Fitzhugh. The man was sure to be in the files. All.

  Solo looked up. The tailor was gone. His sixth sense was suddenly alert. It had been too easy. The tailor had told him too much. Why? To throw him off guard. It was a trap.

  Solo whirled, half ran for the door. He reached the door and opened it. No one was in the shop or on the street. He pulled on the doorknob.

  A puff of cool vapor struck his face.

  Solo froze like a statue with his hand still on the doorknob. He could see, think, but he could not move.

  * * *

  Illya waited four hours in the dank cellar of the Sydney slum. The mob did not return. By the time Illya cautiously left the shelter of the cellar the sun was up over the city. He took out his miniature sender-receiver.

  "Sonny, this is Bubba. Come in?"

  He pressed the receive button. There was no response. Illya put his tiny set away. Napoleon had certainly gone back to the hotel if he had escaped. The hotel was out of range, and so was Anzac control from here.

  Carefully, cleaning up his clothes as much as possible, he worked his way toward the center of Sydney. The people going to work stared at him. He knew he must look odd—a small blond man wearing a black shirt and tight black trousers all stained with mud.

  To be sure, Illya took evasive action every time a long black car came near. He wondered about Mahyana and Joe Hooker. He felt angry about the innocent young musician. Still, they would probably be safe enough for now. THRUSH would want to `talk' to them.

  His progress was slow. The sun was halfway up the morning sky when he reached the range of the hotel. He took out his radio set again and raised the two threadlike antennae. He sat in a hidden doorway to be unobserved.

  "Sonny, this is Bubba! Sonny, come in."

  Solo did not answer. Illya felt cold. He made the tiny adjustment on his set.

  "Anzac, this is Bubba."

  The female voice was cool. `Bubba, Anzac control. Where are you?"

  "Safe," Illya said. "Have you heard from Sonny?"

  "Yes, an hour ago. He was instructed by New York to proceed to Max Booth's tailoring shop. Are you well?"

  "As well as can be expected," Illya said dryly. "Any word on Mahyana or Hooker?"

  "None on Agent Mahyana. Hooker is reportedly missing."

  "No other word?"

  "No. You are coming in? Arrange contact."

  "No," Illya said grimly. "I am not coming in."

  He clicked off his set and went to the nearest telephone. He located the address of Max Booth's shop. As fast as he could he walked toward the shop. The address was in range of his radio set, and Napoleon had not answered. Illya walked faster.

  When he reached the street of Max Booth's shop he stopped. The street was deserted. That was strange at this hour. Then he saw the policeman directing traffic away from the street. What had happened? Had something happened to Napoleon? He was about to approach the policeman when he saw the long black car drive up.

  The policeman waved this one through!

  Illya flattened back against the wall in the shadow, where he could see the street.

  The black car glided to a halt in front of a shop. It was Max Booth's tailor shop! Illya watched. Moments later, two men—a giant and a big, dark-haired man—came out of the tailor shop. Napoleon Solo walked between them.

  Except that Napoleon was not walking. He was being carried by the two men—carried upright, rigid, like a statue carved out of stone.

  Behind the two men, and the grotesque Solo, Illya saw a third man. This man was small, thin. The small man turned to look up and down the street. Illya shuddered. The man's face was only half a face—the left half was a mass of scars.

  The three men pushed Solo into the black car, climbed in after him. The car turned and came back the way it had come. As it paused at the corner near Illya, the policeman who had been directing traffic, suddenly jumped into the car.

  The car roar
ed away.

  But in the instant of pause to pick up the policeman, Illya had run quickly to a parked car. It was only a matter of seconds for the blond U.N.C.L.E. agent to press his small, round electronic circuit activator to the ignition. The car started with a roar.

  Illya drove off in pursuit of the black car.

  THREE

  Solo was aware of all that was happening. He could see the giant shape of Gotz in the front seat, the man in police uniform driving. He could see the big, deep-voiced chief agent of THRUSH on his right, and the small, thin, horribly disfigured man on his left. The small man had not yet spoken, but solo knew that this was Council Member N—Marcus Fitzhugh, famous and respected scientist and industrialist.

  He was aware of the barren land. It stretched all around the speeding car as far as the eye could see. Bleak, hot and dey, with twisted trees. Low sand hills, patches of tough grass, rocks and glaring clay. Here and there tall structures stood above the parched earth. They were, Solo guessed, the heads of mine shafts. This was Central Australia.

  It looked more like the surface of Mars—deserted, barren, malignant.

  He was aware of it, as he had been aware of the whole trip the thousand miles or more from Sydney. First the black car to a small airport, then the cargo aircraft with the car loaded right in it, then the hours of driving since they landed here in the center of nowhere—a nowhere that looked like the borders of hell. A dry, empty land like the white and glaring land around Green River, Wyoming.

  He was aware of all of this, and of the fact that he was alone.

  But he could neither speak nor move.

  Rigid, propped upright in the seat, even the muscles of his eyes were frozen; he could see only what was directly in front of him. But his brain was as clear and active as ever, and he could hear.

  Marcus Fitzhugh talked in that horrible hissing voice. "You see, Solo, your escape was only temporary. You have caused us far too much trouble. Because of you we have lost men, have had to close down two of our operational centers, and been put to all the inconvenience of chasing you. Such foolishness slows down my work."