19 - The Power Cube Affair (2 page)

"I know that feeling," Kuryakin agreed.

"So Johnny decided to opt out, about three years ago. No hard feelings on either side. In fact, there's a standing invitation to Mr. Waverly, any time he's over this side, to call in. So, as we're on a kind of vacation for a couple of weeks, I sent him a wire and he said to come ahead."

"What does he do with himself, these days?"

Solo grinned and became cryptic. "Well now, you've seen that bit of carved stone on Mr. Waverly's desk? That thing that looks like nothing at all and yet makes you think of a lion crouched and ready to spring?"

"I've seen it, yes."

"Over to our right, any time now, we'll see the sea. The beaches all along here are shingle and pebbles. That carving was once one of those stones. Guard's hobby is to stroll about among the pebbles and pick up any odd ones that look like something possible; then he carves them. He more or less promised another one to match that lion, which is another part of the reason why we're calling in." He leaned over to peer at the roadside. "I think we are home. That's it. Pull over."

It was a quarter to eight. The two men eyed the untended garden; then Solo saw the folded end of a newspaper still caught in the letter slit and frowned as he raised his hand to knock. A second knock got them no reply. He tried the door and it yielded.

"No harm in going in," he said. "But this doesn't feel right, somehow." They crossed the tiny hail, opened the door opposite, and stood still for a shocked moment at the sight. Flat on his back, with just a towel across his hips, his arms flung wide, John Guard lay in a dark pool of drying blood on the stone floor. He lay very still. Kuryakin sniffed, went forward catlike, avoiding the blood pool, to crouch and stare.

"Shotgun, at close range," he murmured. "Some time ago, four or five hours at least." He extended a slim hand to touch, frowned, swung his head to Solo. "He's still alive, Napoleon. With a hole in his chest that size?"

"That's Johnny." Solo came to crouch. "Tough as bootleather. There's a call box back along the road a little way. Get the operator to help, Illya."

"The British are a law abiding people," Kuryakin quoted as he went out rapidly. Solo grinned, then leaned close as the man on the floor stirred.

"Hold still now," he warned. "Help's on the way."

Eyes opened, tawny yellow eyes that Solo knew well, and then the sun bronzed face creased into a faint grin. "Napoleon! It's been a long time."

"That it has, John, but save it. How the hell you've managed to live this long with a load of buckshot through the pump beats me, but you won't last much longer unless you hold still."

"You've forgotten." Guard's voice was a thread but quite steady. "Mirror image!" And Solo swore under his breath, for now he remembered that John Guard was one of those odd people who carry their heart and internal organs in reverse, right side instead of left.

"All right, but just the same you've lost plenty of blood. Whatever happened, it can wait until the wagon gets here."

"I can talk," Guard insisted. "Must tell you—" He broke off as Kuryakin appeared in the doorway.

"There'll be an ambulance here in ten minutes, Napoleon. What—?"

He came to crouch and listen as Guard told them, briefly but omitting nothing, exactly what had happened. "I don't know what Green did after he shot me, of course, but if he left that tape I'd like you to handle it, Napoleon. Find out what's behind it." Guard looked rigid with inner rage and thin as his voice was, it held inflexible purpose. "I'm also interested in the criminal idiots who sent a girl like that into the hands of such murderous thugs."

"Got the tape." Kuryakin came back from the bathroom. "And here comes the ambulance. I think you must have had an accident while you were cleaning your shotgun, eh?"

Guard smiled. "That will do very well," he whispered, "until I'm fit enough to let the real story come out, where it will do the most good."

The two agents, quiet and thoughtful, rode in the ambulance with him to the nearby hospital. They waited silently outside the operating room until the duty surgeon came to make a report.

"Your friend is an extremely fortunate man," he said. "There's surprisingly little real damage. Considerable hemorrhage, of course, but it was only dust shot. That, and skin erosion, and shock."

"How long before you can let him out, Doe?"

"Well now, he's an extremely fit man, tremendous vitality. He should be up and about in, say, eight or nine weeks."

"I see. Can we talk to him now?"

"Only for a few minutes. He needs rest and time to make good the loss of blood. Don't excite him."

Guard was startlingly brown against the white sheets. His tiger amber eyes fastened on Solo as the two men came to stand by the bed.

"I've no right to ask you," he said. "You have your own work, and this is nothing to do with U.N.C.L.E., but I would like to be kept informed."

"Forget that," Solo ordered. "This is personal, and we're on vacation anyway. We'll look into it, you can bet on that. But you're going to be laid up for a couple of months, and these boys may get away in that time. I wouldn't like that. At all. Show him the paper, Illya."

There was a large portrait on the front page, and over it, in screamer headlines: ANOTHER BATTLE OF HASTINGS! The editorial matter went on in rich prose to describe a large scale riot that had taken place on the beach and promenade at Hastings, just a few miles along the coast, at about midnight. Gangs of leather coated motorcyclists had descended on the seaside town, smashing and wrecking with a fine disregard for others, until a squad of police had come in haste to drive them away. In counting up the damage they had found the body of a young girl, floating in the surf. So far, it said, she was unidentified. Guard took one look and his eyes burned.

"That's her. That's Mary Chantry."

"And that's one way to get away with bloody murder," Solo muttered.

Guard shut his eyes in thought. "I can't ask you to step in. It isn't any of your business, and these people play rough, as you've seen."

"Somehow," said Kuryakin, "I don't fancy the idea of just idling around while this kind of thing goes on. I'd like a word or two with Mr. Green."

"So would I. And his boss." Solo laid the newspaper aside. "We'll keep in touch, John. Just you concentrate on getting well."

TWO

ON THE Thames Embankment, not far from New Scotland Yard, stands the venerable old graystone building which houses the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, British Sector. Even to the well informed eye it looks like a highly select residential hotel slightly gone to seed, and this is in fact its cover function, but there is an astonishing amount of space reserved for other activities which the public knows nothing at all about. It was in one of those "private" rooms that Solo and Kuryakin sat and listened to the tape Mary Chantry had lost her life to get.

The first thing they heard was a crackle that made the ear wince, then the slip-slap sound of sandaled feet going away over a hard floor, and the click-slam of a door.

"Stick it in place, switch on, then go away and leave it," Solo interpreted. Listening to the faint rhythmic creaks, distant shouts, the ding of a bell, he added. "That's a cabin, a ship at sea. Plain enough."

There came the purr of an engine, then the snarl of reverse to halt, more shouts and bells, then a clatter that sorted itself out into two sets of footsteps. The door again, noises suddenly louder for a moment, then the click of closing, and two voices, the first one crisp and cold.

"You saw the girl outside? She's the reason why I asked you to come aboard. She's on to something."

"Indeed!" This was a large and rounded voice, full of good living. "A pity. She's quite decorative. In view of those occasional times when we entertain guests, I've often wondered whether we need a stewardess, and she would fill that bill perfectly. Your note described her as a spy. You are convinced of that?"

"Completely, sir. She showed undue interest about two weeks ago, in France. The crew reported she was asking too many questions, of the wrong kind. So I advertised discreetly for a stewardess, she applied immediately, and I engaged her."

"The better to observe, eh?"

"Exactly. To my knowledge she has been through all the papers and documents she could lay Hands on. She has lockpicks and other devices, and she has a camera—"

"Has?" The well-fed voice became suddenly keen.

"Yes, sir, but it will no longer take pictures, although she doesn't know that. And she has not been able to pass on any of the knowledge she's gained. We haven't touched port since she came aboard."

"What
other
precautions have you taken?" This time the rotund voice held overtones that made both the listeners shiver.

"One or two. At my suggestion she has adopted the brief swimming costume you saw. Consequently we have been able to abstract her clothing and put it under lock and key. Also all her effects."

"To make sure she doesn't run away, of course. Now, who's behind it all, eh?"

"Some newspaper I would think, sir, judging by the notes we found. But she is freelance, not professional. That's just a feeling."

"You have a flair, Green. An intuition that I am prepared to trust, or you'd not be working for me. Hmm!" Into the silence of consideration came a crackling rhythmic beat, and over It a keening melodic whistle that made Kuryakin raise his brows in surprise.

"'Sir,' " he said, "is tapping the table while he ponders, and he is whistling Bach. 'Jesu joy of man's desiring,' I think."

Solo hushed him as the overfed voice started up once more. "We'll have to shut her mouth, Green, that's obvious."

"Yes, sir. I wanted your decision on that. I can arrange for her to fall over the side—"

"No. Not missing. That way would lead to inquiries, an open file. We can do better than that. A decisive end. How soon can you arrange one of your lamentable demonstrations of juvenile delinquency, somewhere along the coast?"

"This evening, if you wish. Nearby? How about Hastings?"

"Why not? Very well, you go and arrange that and send her here to me as you go. And send Rambo along in about five minutes."

Feet marched away, the door clicked open and shut, and then there was only the chilly sound of that thin, precise whistling. Solo started as the tape ran out and stopped with a crackle.

"Automatic reverse," he said, with his hand over the play back button. "I can't say I'm exactly looking forward to hearing the other track."

"We have no choice," Kuryakin muttered. "Go ahead."

The whistling came again, then broken by a sigh and the rotund voice musing aloud. "A crystal, a jewel to some, a curiosity to others, but to the insane genius of Gorchak a way of setting a man an insoluble problem. My loss that I never met him, but I'll solve his damned problem in a way he never dreamed of. Twenty-five pieces I have. Two to go. And I'll solve it, if it kills me!" There was a curious sliding and clicking noise, and labored breathing, then a knock at the door, a scuffle, and the voice said:

"Come in! Ah yes. What's your name, my dear?"

"Marie, sir. Was there something you wanted?"

"Many things, indeed, but for the moment you might bring that tray and the brandy." Judging by the noise, she set the tray down on the table. There came another knock, and the whistler greeted this newcomer as "Rambo."

"Shut the door. Bolt it, and pay attention. Now, Marie, my dear, I fear I have bad news for you. You are going to die."

"I beg your pardon!" There was surprise only in her voice, no fear as yet. Solo felt sweat spring out on his face and saw that his companion was equally disturbed.

The voice went on almost jovially. "This must be done just right. Bodies are a nuisance to dispose of, but not impossible if one uses thought. Rambo, you will beat her very hard until she is almost dead, but not quite—"

Then the girl screamed. Solo ground his teeth in futile rage at the terror he heard, as she realized the incredible reality to come.

"You see," the jovial voice explained, in between thuds and grunts, "if we put her in the water at the right time, still alive, she will drift in to shore to be found. Examination will show that she died of injuries, but in the water. Speculation will find two avenues. Concealed rocks and a rough sea, perhaps? Or some brainless melee, which will be provided to order. That will be enough to keep the authorities from guessing the correct answer, and enough to keep her people from suspecting anything at all."

This was delivered in between the thick thuds of bone breaking blows. Solo tucked his emotions away for future reference. He forced his stomach to behave.

The voice in charge said, "That will do, Rambo. Leave her here. We'll go and check up on time and tide."

In the almost silence of the cabin came a faint labored sound, a moan, then a cough. Scraping noises. Sobbing. The scraping noises getting louder. Then a sudden crackle. And then the tape reels turned on total silence. Solo let them spin;

"She got the tape, stuffed it in her swim-suit, climbed out of the cabin window, fell into the sea—and then Guard found her." He looked at Illya and shook his head. "First of all we have to find this Captain Barnett. To deliver the tape, of course, but I think I'm going to have a few words to say to him first. I've heard various things about British Naval Intelligence, but if this is the way they work things out I must have heard it all wrong!"

The two had decided on the way back to London that this was something U.N.C.L.E. had no part in, yet, so they had made no report, but they had been able to use the comprehensive information services to get some useful data, among which was a telephone number that would put them in touch with Roger Barnett, RN. With the tape cassette stowed in a safe place, Solo dialed the number and waited. Sharp after the second warble an exquisitely modulated voice cooed at him, repeated the number, and added:

"Dispositions. Thompson."

"Speak to Captain Barnett, please," Solo kept his voice level, trying not to imagine what exotic creature he had on the line.