Assignment - Black Viking Read Online Free Page B

equipment put there for me—a radio, to be exact. I’ll pick it up, and then we’ll go.”
    The narrow street bordering the canal was quiet and empty. The Flemish houses cast placid reflections in the still waters. The lobby with its, hand-carved desk and paneled walls was empty. A smell of cigar smoke lingered briefly in the air, and Durell wondered about it with one part of his mind as he followed Sigrid’s magnificent figure up the dark, heavy staircase to his room. He thought he heard footsteps moving softly somewhere in the back of the rambling, complicated old house, but he wasn’t sure.
    Sigrid stood to one side as he put his key into the ornate bronze latch.
    The moment the lock clicked, the world dissolved in a blast of red flame and thunderous, explosive noise.
5
    SIGRID’S scream echoed through the ringing in Durell’s ears. He picked himself up from the landing. He felt a pain in his chest as if someone had taken a plank and slammed it across his body. He examined himself for blood and wounds, and saw Sigrid rush toward him from the other side of the shattered doorway.
    “Are you all right, darling?”
    “I think so.”
    “What was it? I mean—”
    “A bomb. Set for me. Stand back.”
    He had escaped the full force of the blast, but every muscle in his body vibrated in reaction. Anger and chagrin mingled in him as he drew his gun and plunged through the smoking, broken doorway. The lovely diamond-paned windows of his room were bulging and shattered. He heard shouts and running feet below, but he ignored them. He’d had nothing in the room, but it had been thoroughly searched. The bomb, powerful as it was, could not have opened the drawers and doors of the heavy wardrobe chest against the plastered wall. He saw the small radio McFee had ordered left for him against contingencies in the North. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with a string. He picked it up gingerly. It was not another boobytrap. Then he went to the window and looked down at the narrow street and the canal beyond.
    A man was running away under the trees there. Durell swung abruptly and bumped into Sigrid. “Come along.”
    “What is it?”
    “Our bomber. Let’s go.”
    “Darling, you look awful. Your clothes—”
    “I feel awful. Hurry.”
    He went down the stairs three at a time. The girl’s heels clattered behind him. The fat Flemish host of the Black Swan Inn, wearing a cook’s apron, barred his way with waving hands and a spate of excited questions. Durell shoved him aside and plunged outdoors with Sigrid. Anger roweled him, spurred him to more speed.
    His chest ached and his left arm tingled. The street in front of the inn was empty except for some cars parked diagonally on the brick sidewalk. He ran along the front of the inn and charged down a narrow slot to the canal. By the time he turned the corner, however, the man who had been running away was gone.
    He did not check his speed. He had not seen the man’s face, and had only a vague impression of a stout body and dumpy legs in a brown sack suit. He ran under a row of copper beech trees, dodged the parked cars, and came to the next street. A flicker of brown caught his eye. But the blank wall of a church made a dead end here. Durell glimpsed a white, strained face, open-mouthed, turned his way. Then the man darted to the left, down a small alley. Durell followed. Sigrid’s sharp, clattering heels were close behind him.
    The bell of a police car clanged near the inn. Shadows flickered in the alley. Puffy white clouds sailed in the serene blue sky. Another canal, another bridge, showed at the end of the alley. The running man in the brown sack suit was almost to the bridge when Durell fired. He heard an echo to his shot as Sigrid, who had somehow managed to get a gun from her black shoulder bag, shot at the fugitive, too.
    He never knew which bullet found its mark.
    The man suddenly lifted on his toes like a ballet dancer, his face a pale moon of astonishment.