"What is your friend Slate's life worth to you?" he bellowed in his more than passable English.
"Loads," April said, keeping the redhead from twisting out of her grasp. "But he knows the rules. No bargains with the competition."
The fantastic trio had approached the foot of the stairway. They now stood a mere seven steps from April and Arnolda Van Atta. The apache, a tawny, lion-faced man with an Errol Flynn moustache was poised as though to spring. The Chinaman, a bland and inscrutable cliché, smiled almost happily. The Hindu laughed harshly, his spade beard wagging.
"You will not shoot in cold blood. You are too scrupulous. As are all soft-hearted, weak Americans."
"Don't count on that," April leveled coldly. "Our soft hearts disappear when dealing with rats. Now, all of you, over against the wall. Quick, now. I must remind myself to report this apartment house to the police department. No sense of civic duty and pride. Not one head poking out of a doorway to see what's going on."
"The building is surrounded," the Sikh said simply.
"Sure. And so was Custer. But he took quite a few Indians with him. You want to try for a last stand? Back, I said."
She edged Arnolda Van Atta down the stairs ahead of her, flourishing the handbag gun. The outlandish trio moved to the side wall, raising their hands slowly. Even the Chinaman had unsleeved himself. Arnolda Van Atta stumbled once, falling back against April. She could feel the hard metal band of a wristwatch or bracelet of some kind scrape the soft skin of her left hand.
The redhead cried out. In fear, in apology. April growled and followed her down the stairs.
And suddenly, swiftly, the lights of the hallway began to flicker and coalesce in alarming waves of shadows. April swore under her breath. It was too late now but she realized what had happened. Grimly, she flung Arnolda Van Atta violently from her tight hold. The redhead sprawled headlong to the floor of the hallway, white legs flashing. April sagged against the wall, raising the automatic handbag. Even as her numbed fingers tried to do something about blasting away at the Sikh, the apache and the Chinaman, she knew with a sinking sense of doom that she wouldn't be able to—
Their faces and figures wavered before her, tilted alarmingly and then blackness rolled in. It was in this negative state of mind that her eyes closed and she toppled on the stairs, unconscious. The black tam on her head rolled down the steps.
"Quickly," the Sikh barked. "There is little time left." The apache and the Chinaman galvanized. They clambered up to April like agile monkeys, straightened out her limp figure. The Chinaman hurriedly produced a roll of poster-size paper from beneath the folds of his purple robes. Arnolda Van Atta rose stiffly from the floor, evened out her skirt and sweater and red hair with quiet, almost majestic satisfaction. A hard, cruel light shone in her green eyes.
"I thought I'd never get the chance to needle Miss Uncle," she remarked tersely. "She never let me get close enough."
The Sikh glared at her. "How is that? You could have hidden a dozen places in that apartment."
Arnolda Van Atta's eyes glinted with fury. "Small matter of a snake nobody mentioned to me, my friend. This woman saved my life."
"Snake?" The Sikh was too busy with the manner in which the Chinaman and the apache were preparing April Dancer for the street. "Speak plainly."
"No time now," the redhead snapped. "Let's get the hell out of here."
"Wah, Missy Sahib," the Sikh boomed, no courtesy evident in his tone despite the title of honor. "Hurry, you two!"
So it was that five minutes later, passersby on East Twelfth Street were treated to one of the odd sights of the day. People stopped to stare, gawk and wonder, shake their heads and move on about their business. It was the sort of thing one could expect in these sickening times of national crisis and world unrest. What with young men burning their draft cards, civil rights mobs picketing City Hall, anything could happen in New York, and very usually did. What could this be but one more way to state an opinion—or advertise a theatrical enterprise.
Still, it was a lulu, all right.
A Chinaman and a French apache character carrying the body of a very American woman. As though she were a corpse. Her body was as stiff as a board. Ahead of them, stalked a majestic Hindu, turban, beard and all. At his side walked a strikingly beautiful redhead. Tall and proud. The body of the American woman was tented with one of those sandwich-board posters so that the same message could be read from either side of the street:
WAKE UP, AMERICA!
OUR BOYS ARE DYING IN VIETNAM
SO ARE CIVILIANS!
WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?
The curious quintette, boldly proclaiming the presence in town of ROMEO'S LEAGUE OF NATIONS EXHIBIT, but not saying exactly when or where, turned down a side street and approached a large blue panel truck which was parked in front of a store that sold typewriters. The flat sides of the truck also advertised the fact that ROMEO'S LEAGUE OF NATIONS EXHIBIT was an enterprise on wheels.
Within seconds, just scant strokes of time away from the advance of one very inquisitive cop on the beat, the group had entered the truck and driven off. The redhead and the Hindu were seen to sit in the cab of the vehicle while the Chinaman and the apache entered the rear with the woman who was playing the role of the corpse.
The driver of the truck was an enormous Negro with visored chauffeur's cap and tremendous brown hands that dwarfed the steering wheel.
"You took your time, snake charmer," he rumbled crisply to the Hindu. "We may get a lecture about this delay."
"Drive," the Sikh commanded coldly. "We have succeeded and no one will quarrel with that. Not even Riddle."
Arnolda Van Atta flung him a sideways glance. "Riddle? When did he get in?" Her lovely, classical face became a mask of surprise.
The Sikh laughed hollowly, pleased that he had piqued her interest.
"Riddle is the answer to everything."
Romeo's blue panel truck merged with the flow of traffic on the East River Drive and headed North. The water lay like unbroken glass in the pale sunlight.
The driver hummed a Dixieland tune as he played with the wheel.
On the hard wooden floorboards of the van, April Dancer lay inert. The powerful drug which Arnolda Van Atta had injected into her hand via the platinum wrist watch, kept her drugged and unconscious. Her lithe figure was as supine as a felled tree.
The apache had relieved her of her handbag, personal effects, and even her bra (without having had to undress her). The bra had proven to be of black silk with a curious flexibility. The apache was certain that it was as innocuous as the other secret weapon. There was no telling until certain tests could be made.
The Chinaman was industriously examining a hand grenade—an American make, U.S. Army M-1. He handled the grilled, egg-shaped object deftly as his slanted eyes regarded the shapely beauty at his feet. A flicker of male interest shone in his expression. The apache leered at him, and pushed an expressive thumb ceilingward. Both men smiled at each other and continued with their own private business, and thoughts. On both sides of the panel truck, a veritable arsenal of weapons stood on view. More grenades, Thompson submachine guns, land mines and an amazing amount of drums and ammunition bandoliers. The blue panel truck was a veritable armory on wheels.
In the cab, the Negro driver still rumbled his disapproval aloud to the Hindu leader of the operation.