Pulp Fiction | The Invisibility Affair by Thomas Stratton by Unknown Read Free Book Online Page B

said.
    Napoleon and Illya eased out their wallets and displayed the gold cards. One of the local agents took their wallets and inspected the cards closely, then handed them back and holstered his gun.
    "Okay," he said grudgingly. "You're who you say you are. But what are you doing skulking in the alley?"
    "We started picking up signals from the transmitter about half an hour ago," Napoleon replied. "Has anything been happening here?"
    "The bedroom light came on for a time about three quarters of an hour ago, but that's all. No sign of Thrush activity."
    Napoleon frowned. "We'd better check things out. You can turn the light out and go back to your posts. Illya and I will go in and find out what happened."
    The lock on the back door yielded to Solo in a matter of seconds and the two agents stepped silently inside. They stood motionless for a moment; gradually, the kitchen took shape in the darkness around them. The house was quiet except for an occasional snore coming from a room halfway down the hall.
    Napoleon inched up to the doorway and cautiously peered around the corner. There was just enough light filtering through the shades for him to make out a sleeping form. Napoleon drew back and motioned Illya into the kitchen.
    "We'd better wake her up and find out what happened," Napoleon whispered, "but how do we do it without frightening her half to death?"
    Illya shrugged. "Go back outside and ring the doorbell."
    Napoleon stared at him. "Your devious Russian mind is showing," he whispered. The two agents silently left the house.
    Two minutes later, they were standing at the front door, confronting a disheveled and confused Kerry Griffin. She smiled sheepishly when they had explained the situation.
    "After you left earlier," she explained, avoiding their eyes, "I went right to bed, but I woke up with a headache. It must have been force of habit, to take an aspirin from the bottle next to the bed. I'm not really very alert at times like that; I didn't think about the aspirin being your transmitters. I'm sorry I caused you all this trouble."
    "That's all right.' Illya reassured her. "It gave the instruments a good checkout. Now we know they work correctly. You get back to sleep and we'll see you tomorrow."
    "Incidentally," Napoleon said, "did the transmitter cure your headache?"
    Kerry looked startled. "Why...yes, it did! I feel fine, now."
    "Remarkable. Well, try not to take any more of them; we'll keep a check on this one and see how long it lasts."
    Kerry nodded agreement, said goodnight to the agents, and stepped back inside. Napoleon and Illya tracked down the local U.N.C.L.E. agents for a conference.
    "Just a suggestion," Napoleon warned them. "Don't be quite so efficient when and if the real Thrushes show up. Remember, the object is to get Kerry captured without getting yourselves killed, and coming out with guns in your hands is a bad way to do that. Let them get the drop on you; they won't shoot if they don't have to. Too noisy."
    The agents nodded. "It's just that we've been trained to never take a chance with Thrush, and it's hard to break the habit."
    "We sympathize," Illya said, "but remember that this time capturing Thrush agents gets us nowhere, and shooting it out with them is equally useless and could get you killed."
    "Good enough," Napoleon said. "Now we had better get back downtown if we're going to get any sleep at all tonight. He glanced at his watch and groaned. "One-thirty already. Let's get back to the car."
    Brattner looked up quizzically as Napoleon and Illya climbed into the car. "She took it by mistake while she was half asleep." Napoleon explained. "Keep the detectors on; we'll run a check of transmitter life. It varies according to whose stomach it's in, you know."
    As the car pulled out into the street, the detector beeped again. "Oh, shut up!" Illya muttered irritably, then stopped abruptly as he looked at his wrist detector. "What does yours show?" he asked Brattner.
    "Not much," he replied,