by Gale Force
Part 7 of a 7-part story in which Emma Peel copes with the dangers of 1970s Europe, where eagles...and vultures... are gathering.
The file on Kelly Robinson and Alexander Scott
Kelly Robinson is a "tennis bum," he travels around the world playing tennis with the wealthy, in return for food and lodging. He participates in tournaments as well, and has been ranked in the Top 20 for the last three years. This is thanks to his trainer, Alexander Scott, an African-American. Robinson looks uncannily like the actor Robert Culp, and Scott resembles Bill Cosby.
It has been rumored that Robinson and Scott are actually operatives for the American government, but this has never been proved.
...File ends
Part Seven:
Emma - Chapter Three
My dear Nicola (wrote Jason King to his publisher),
I hope you get this letter...my captor has promised me that whatever my fate (he is currently waiting to hear from a colleague what that fate should be), he will send this letter to you. As long as I mention no names, and give no descriptions of people, he stresses.
I'll summarize how I got here...
This morning I was wandering around the Harbor of Monte Carlo and people-watching, and I saw an individual enter a taxi. His appearance gave me the idea for a character ...I won't describe him or the character he would have played, but he would have made a splendid villain, almost as good as George in my The Death of Rats. ...
[That was probably too obviously a planted clue, Jason thought – that his prospective assassin resembled, in features, the character George in his masterpiece The Death of Rats. Well, leave it for now and put more subtle clues in later. Perhaps he'll only do his censoring via a black felt-tip pen and some of the clues will survive. What's the time? How long is that woman going to wait for me to reappear before she calls the police? Although what they can do...never mind...there is plenty of time...Just need to stoke the old brain cells. He lit a cigarette and went back to the letter.
Indeed, several of the cabbies interested me, and I decided to do some research among them all - as is to be expected from any author who desires to put verisimilitude in their work.
Well, later on in the day one of the drivers drove his cab into the harbor and drowned, and that kind of put me off writing any kind a story featuring cab drivers. I'm rather sensitive, as you know.
Well, that's the way the plot crumbles.
Then, tonight, I was playing black jack at the Casino and not doing very well, so I decided to leave, and walk back to my hotel, the Grand. As I walked along, I saw in front of me a passenger who had been in one of those cabs, and I decided that perhaps I had abandoned my plot too precipitously. I decided to follow that man, just as a common exercise from an author who is concerned about verisimilitude.
[Perhaps he was over-doing the emphasis on his quest for verisimilitude, but that had been his story when he'd been caught and he was sticking to it.
As you know, I like to put myself in the character of Mark Caine, and see if my ideas/solutions, etc. will work.
So, I was following this man, purely as an exercise, and followed him into the hotel...I'll leave that nameless, as per my instructions! My captor is quite the little Napoleon and I shan't disobey him!
[Another too obvious reference...although his captor was British and not French and so might not know the history behind the hotel's name – L'Aiglon. He would have to hope so.
As I entered the lobby, I saw that it was empty of guests, but that a beautiful woman was behind the counter. As is my habit, I went over and chatted with her. I don't need to explain to you my charm, Nicola. Suffice it to say, she was soon telling me the name of the man who'd entered the lobby just before I had done so, and what the number of his hotel room was.
Now at this point I should have left, I admit it. My exercise was complete and it was a success. But then the dear girl made a remark that caused me to think perhaps I should extend my exercise a bit further.
She asked me if I were part of the company that Mister... Let's call him Mister X, Nicola... that Mister X was expecting that night.
"I didn't know he was having a party," I told her. "But I certainly wouldn't mind attending it. Any celebrities? Drinks?"
"No celebrities. But I think...(she looked from side to side, even though there was no one in the lobby) I think he has private poker games up there. One time he came downstairs with another gentleman and said something about losing all his chips...something like that."
Anyway, Nicola, I decided that I'd just take a brief stroll through the hallway, just on principle, before returning to my own hotel room to start work on my book. Perfectly innocent.
So I took the stairs up to the top floor, which is where my quarry's room was, and just started to stroll down the hallway...when a door opened behind me and before I knew it, I was knocked unconscious.
For innocently walking down a hallway! I do not blame myself at all for being in this little predicament!
My captor has explained that the whole top floor is given over to him and his organization, and that anyone who walks on this floor who is not recognized is knocked unconscious. I must say that I think that behavior is very reckless, and foolish. There might be any number of innocent reasons why someone is walking around the top floor of a hotel. Typically the best-furnished floor in the hotel, it must attract lots of innocent curiosity.
So here I am, sitting in this room. My captor has made a phone call, and is now waiting to hear back. He has very kindly provided me with brandy, however, and has no objection to my smoking.
[At this point, there was a knock on the door, and a woman's voice called out in French, "Maid service. Messieur, I have the towels you requested."
Jason felt a sudden chill - he recognized that voice. It was Emma. Why hadn't she called the police? What was she doing?"
His captor - Riordan, swore under his breath, and aimed his gun at the door.
"It's just the maid," Jason barked out. "For god's sake, man. She says she's brought towels."
Riordan glared at him. "Okay. My gun goes in my pocket. You stay where you are. If you move - she'll get it, and then you. Understand?"
"Completely," Jason said calmly.
"And don't go talking French at her. You say anything to her that I don't understand, she gets it, and then you."
Riordan opened the door wide. Emma Peel walked in. She was dressed in a maid's outfit - frilly cap, white apron over black dress, and sturdy white shoes. She was also carrying an armful of towels - so many that they obscured her face.
"'Allo, messieur...your towels."
"Right. Put them in the bathroom."
"Where else do you think she'd put them?" Jason asked sourly.
Riordan darted a furious look at him, as Jason had expected. And obviously as Emma expected, because she dropped the towels, stepped forward, grabbed Riordan's gun hand in both of hers, and raised it to her mouth. She bit, hard. Riordan screamed and dropped the gun. Emma kicked it toward Jason, then twisted and karate-chopped Riordan across the throat.
He fell backward, gasping, white-faced, staring at her.
"Emma?"
"Riordan."
She stepped forward. He attempted to punch her - despite the fact that Jason had now picked up the gun, and Emma twisted past the blow, and kneed him in the groin. He folded over.
She knelt beside him, grabbing hold of his tie with one hand and tightening it.
"Where's John Drake?" she demanded.
"...Village..." choked Riordan. "The Village."
"The Village? What's that?"
"It's where...agents who retire...go."
"What are you talking about? I've retired."
"It's where...unhappy agents who retire...go."
"Where is it?"
There was the crash of a gun shot from the doorway, and Riordan went limp, a bullet through his forehead.
With the speed of light Jason twisted and shot at the figure in the doorway. He also didn't miss.
They looked at the bodies ruefully.
"We'd better get out of here," said Jason. "These walls and floors are amazingly thick, but someone must have heard those shots."
"Yes," said Emma, very quietly. "Let's go."
Jason folded up his letter and put it in his pocket. Then he followed her out into the corridor. They didn't speak again until they were outside the hotel, walking back towards Emma's car.
"So you're an agent," said Jason.
"A retired agent," said Emma, absently.
"Thank god you're not an unhappy retired agent."
She glanced at him. "Yes..."
"You're going to track down this Village, aren't you?"
She shrugged. "I don't know what I'm going to do yet. What are you going to do?"
"I have a novel to write."
"You better be careful, Jason. Mention anything about this Village...you'll upset somebody."
"Ye-es."
They got back to the car and Emma drove toward the hotel. They rode in silence. Emma Peel was thinking back over her years risking her life to serve her country...Steed had spent his whole life serving his country...and this is how they were repaid...well, how some of them were repaid.
And John Drake was there. Still alive. In the Village.
She was going to find this Village. She was going to find John Drake. And she was going to get him out.
Emma parked in the carpark, and she and Jason walked into the hotel.
"Would you like a nightcap?" asked Jason.
"No, thank you, Jason. I have an old friend I need to get in touch with. I'll be leaving Monte Carlo tomorrow."
"Yes, I thought you would."
"Thanks for your help."
"Such as it was."
Emma smiled, and stepped forward, and kissed him on the cheek. Then she turned and walked away. Jason watched her walk out of his life. Then he turned and went to his own room. He sat down in front of his typewriter, removed the letter he'd been writing earlier, and began to type. Soon he was engrossed in his creation, and the incidents of the night were forgotten.
THE END
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