Assignment Unicorn by Edward S. Aarons Read Free Book Online Page A

The
features were blank. The open eyes were blank. The irises of the eyes were very
dark, the pupils dilated. He cocked the prisoner’s head to one side; there was
no muscular resistance. Then he held the man’s face with his left hand under
the jaw, wet the tip of his little finger, and lightly touched the cornea
of the prisoner’s left eye, withdrew his finger, and came up with a tiny
contact lens. The eye was now gray. At no time had there been the slightest reflex
in the patient‘s face.
    “Ah. Gray eyes.” Colonel Ko was pleased. “Very good, Mr.
Durell.”
    “It proves little,” Durell said. “He’s a member of a team of
assassins, not merely Malays running amok. These were men from abroad, who
sneaked into Palingpon with one object: the killing of Premier Shang or Hugh
Donaldson, or both.”
    The Indian doctor was listening with some interest.
    Durell went on. “A gang that was either hypnotized in some
way, given posthypnotic suggestions—it is well known that a man in a trance can
have extraordinary physical powers—or perhaps drugged, given some stimulant—”
    The doctor said, “There is no such stimulant known to the
medical profession.”
    Colonel Ko’s boots squeaked as he turned. “Not known to you , perhaps, Doctor.”
    Durell bent over the prisoner again. He touched the man’s
lower left bicep. “Doctor, come here, please. Is this a mosquito bite? An
insect sting?”
    There was a small red mark on the man’s pale washed skin.
The white-jacketed doctor bent forward, holding his stethoscope in his pocket.
“Very difficult to tell.”
    “You can’t tell the difference between a hypodermic and an
insect sting?”
    “Sir, an insect’s sting is a hypodermic. Like a needle,
precisely. This one is small. Very small. It is not possible to differentiate
between them. It is also several days old, of course. You can see how this tiny
puncture has already healed. There is no sign, however, that the sting was an
irritant. You can see, on the skin around it, no sign that the prisoner
scratched or rubbed at it.”
    Durell looked down into the prisoner’s staring eyes.
    “I’d like to have this man transferred to the state hospital
for exhaustive tests, Colonel Ko.”
    “Impossible.”
    Durell raised his head. “Why?”
    “He must be executed.”
    “That’s foolish,” Durell said.
    “It has been decided.”
    “Who decided on killing him?”
    “I did,” said Colonel Ko.
    “When do you propose to do this?”
    “In Palingpon, considering the internal security measures
that must be taken since Premier Shang’s death, it must he demonstrated that
justice will be swift and merciless. The prisoner will be executed directly we
are finished here.”
    “Even if he doesn’t talk?” Durell asked.
    “He cannot talk,” said the doctor.
    “He will not talk,” said Colonel Ko.
    Durell looked into the prisoner’s face and eyes.
    “All right,” he said. “Kill him.”
     
     
    11
    A HUGE old sapodilla tree, a heap of old lumber and scrap
metal, and heavy, fleshy-leafed vines made the prison courtyard even
gloomier than the interior. Durell followed the little procession out along a
brick path to a stake thrust into a small mound in the center of the yard.
Arched, barred windows surrounded them, and in most of the windows a face
appeared, hands gripping the bars, watching. Colonel Ko’s boots were silent on
the moss-grown bricks. There was not a breath of air within the courtyard. The
stench of the swamp and the sewage floating in the Palingpon klongs attacked
Durell’s nostrils. He tried to breath lightly. No one else in the procession
seemed to notice.
    The prisoner had to be supported by two armed soldiers of
the firing squad. Everything about him sagged and flopped bonelessly . His head lolled on his shoulders. His arms
dangled. His legs and feet dragged behind him. He had to be tied to the stake
with secure lashings to keep him upright.
    Colonel Ko said quietly, “You will not