by Unknown
"Peaceful," the girl agreed. "At least, it is now. I'm not so sure about the past." She pointed to the ring of rough-hewn stones. "That flat one in the middle was the sacrificial altar. You can see the little step where the Imperial Wizard, or whatever they called him, got to work with the cleaver. I suppose the other boys stood around and cheered."
"Cozy!"
"Yes. I can never figure out whether it's a genuine relic or just something dumped down to amuse the kids.... So you're my Russian cousin?"
He made a formal bow. "Illya Kuryakin. And you are Blodwen — or should I say Cassandra?"
She grinned. "I thought that would get under the old buzzard's skin. Not that it isn't true. This business is a stinker. That's why I yelled for help."
"I'm glad you did," he said with a warmth which would have annoyed the girl on U.N.C.L.E.'s admissions desk. "Have there been any developments?"
"A few. The police have identified the departed. He was a small-time crook from the Birmingham area. Nothing on his sheet but petty larcenies. God knows how he got involved in this set-up. It seems he came into Newport by long-distance bus from Corwen, a little market town in Merionethshire, North Wales. What he had been doing there is anybody's guess. He had been released from Walton Prison, Liverpool, about a mouth ago."
She put the poodle on the ground and stood up. "Let's walk a little. The park is worth seeing. For my money, it's one of the most beautiful in Britain."
Released from its leash, the poodle bounded over the grass, yapping joyously in a high-pitched key, its big ears flapping like wings.
"One of these days," Blodwen said, as they followed, "she's going to take off and fly. The first jet-propelled dog in history."
Illya said, "So he could have picked up the money either in Liverpool or somewhere in North Wales. The question is where he was taking it."
She shrugged. "Obviously, he was just a courier. My bet is that whoever met him in the pub would have taken the cash down to the docks. There's a big trade between Newport, Russia and the Scandinavian ports, and it would be no trick to smuggle the stuff aboard a ship. I think the idea was to start distribution in Europe, not in Britain. That would be logical."
"Have any of the notes shown up here?"
"A few. One or two fivers in Newport and a couple in Cardiff. But the police traced them back to the big scramble in Market Street. They didn't come from the main stream — wherever that is."
They strolled past the children's playground, where West Indians, Arabs, Sikhs, Chinese and whites from the mean streets of dockland crowded the swings and slides in noisy amity. The bright print dresses of the little girls made the place look like an animated flower garden.
They stopped to watch, and Illya said, "Integration at last. It seems a pity they have to grow up."
"Oh, I don't know. There's no color problem in Newport or Cardiff. The races have been living together for years. They've learned to get along with each other." She smiled suddenly. "Maybe it's because we're a minority nation ourselves."
He said, surprised, "But you're not Welsh?"
"Back to the sixteenth century, both sides of the family," she said. "Don't let the voice fool you. My grandmother was one of the last of the great Welsh witches."
"That figures," he admitted. "The spell lingers."
They walked on toward the red-brick bulk of the Royal Gwent Hospital, which overshadows the eastern end of the park.
Illya said quietly, "Don't look now, but we're being followed."
"You're joking, of course."
"No. He's a medium-sized character with gray hair and a cavalry moustache, and he's wearing a sheep-skin jacket. I noticed him dodging around the mulberry bush as I came into the park. And he's still tailing."
She laughed. "It's your suspicious nature. He's probably just an innocent bystander."
"I don't think so. But we can soon find out. Let's get off the main path."
"All right, Sherlock." She turned to the right and headed across the grass toward a circle of eight weather-gnarled may trees.
"You know," she said, "this park is a kind of living history book. These trees were planted to commemorate the last-ditch stand of the First Monmouthshire Regiment between Wieltze and Verlorenhoek in 1915. Somewhere around a thousand men went into the line. Only a handful came out alive. But they did what they had to do. They stopped the German advance. Now, every spring, these trees are a cloud of blossom. I guess you couldn't find a lovelier memorial anywhere.
"That's how people are around here. When something big happens, they plant trees. Over there" — she pointed to the left — "another ring marks the arrival of the first U.S. naval contingent in World War II." Her voice changed. "And you're dead right, brother. We've got company."
The man in the sheepskin coat was bending down, ostentatiously studying the metal plaque that told of the coming of the American forces.
Beyond the may trees Illya saw a terrace thickly bordered by trees and bushes. He said, "Make for the steps. Move fast. When you get to the top, duck into the shrubbery."
Blodwen picked up the poodle and ran, with Illya close on her heels.
The shadower was taken by surprise. He straightened, and after a momentary hesitation pounded up the steps in pursuit. As he reached the top Illya stepped from behind the bushes and chopped down with an expert karate blow. The man crumpled. His head hit the pavement with a hollow sound, and he lay still.
Illya said, "Now, my friend, we'll see who you are."
He yanked open the sheepskin jacket and searched swiftly. The inside breast pocket of the man's hairy tweed sportcoat yielded a leather wallet and two envelopes. The wallet contained a driver's license in the name of John Carney, a few receipted bills and ten one-pound notes. The envelopes bore the inscription: John Carney, Esq., The Paddocks, Llandrillo, Merioneth. One contained a final demand for payment of water bills; the other, a bookmaker's account.
Illya memorized the name and address, then replaced the wallet and envelopes where he had found them. He put his hands under the man's armpits and dragged him to a bench. Then, with an effort, he hoisted him into a sitting position.
Blodwen, cuddling the poodle, emerged from the shelter of the trees. "Is he... ?" She let the sentence tail off apprehensively.
"Certainly not," Illya said indignantly. "I detest violence. He'll have a headache when he wakes, but that won't be for an hour or so. Meanwhile, I suggest we get out of here."
They made their way to the gates leading into Friars Road, climbed the hill and emerged by St. Wollo's Cathedra. Illya pointed to the bus stop. "Back to town?"
"No. We'd better go to my place. I have a feeling we'll be safer under cover for a while."
Blodwen's apartment was on the top floor of a stone-built Victorian house overlooking the Civic Center. The windows gave a view of distant green mountains marred by sprawling new suburbs. The living-room furniture was a comfortable mixture of good pieces and auction-mart bargains. There was a big stereo set in a teak cabinet and a television set with a twenty-three-inch screen. The wall-to-wall gray carpet gave evidence that the poodle had been hard to train.
Blodwen took off her coat and flung it on a Danish-type settee upholstered in royal blue fabric. In the tight black sweater and narrow-hipped pants she looked like a ballet dancer. Only, Illya amended with satisfaction, better built. She put a Mancini album on the turntable, flicked the switch, and opened a wall-cabinet. "Scotch, gin, vodka or rye?"
Illya settled himself in an elderly, chintz-covered armchair. "Scotch will be fine."
She went into the pint-size kitchen and returned with a bowl of ice cubes from the refrigerator. As she poured the drinks, she asked, "So what did you learn about our woolly chum?"
"I got his name and address. Wait. I'll have to write them down. The place reads like a new kind of instant cake mix."
He picked up a newspaper, scribbled in the margin and passed it to her.
She read aloud: "Llandrillo, Merioneth...That's interesting. Corwen's in M
erioneth, too. It can't be coincidence."
She took an A.A. guide from a row of books on the mantel and thumbed the pages. "Here we are. Merioneth. Corwen is on the branch railway line from Ruabon to Barmouth. (That'll be closed down now, of course. Dear old Dr. Beeching, though you wouldn't know about him.) And — well, well! Would you believe it? Llandrillo just happens to be the next village along the line — only five miles away."
Illya took a thoughtful pull at his drink. "I think," he said slowly, "I had better take a look at your North Welsh countryside. It gets more interesting by the minute."
"Want me to come, too?"
He sighed. "You'll never know how much," he said. "But just for the moment you had better stay here and hold the fort. Meanwhile, I think we'll call for reinforcements."
"The legendary Mr. Solo?"
"Who else?"
She crossed the room and turned the volume control at the side of the television set. The screen swung away, revealing a black, military-type radio transmitter.
"Be my guest," she said.
Chapter Four
The battered Ford Zephyr trundled leisurely along through little villages with unpronounceable Welsh names and it was uphill all the way. There were frequent stops while Illya confirmed his map bearings and not a few unscheduled halts to let the engine get its breath back for another climb.
The car nosed into Corwen around five in the afternoon. Near the market place Illya found a large iron-mongery store bearing the improbable name of Jones. A friendly assistant inside directed him to the Cader Idris as being a hotel where they spoke English and took foreigners from across the border.
It was a comfortable, old-fashioned inn with a great deal of old oak, gleaming brass and a permanent smell of boiled cabbage. And it was tactically situated on High Street between a chapel hall and a cinema (Saturdays only). Smack, in fact, at the hub of Corwen's roaring night life.
Illya checked in, had a meal and went down to the hotel bar.
Trade was not booming but here was enough business to keep the wolf from the vestibule. Three or four natives who looked like farmers were arguing in Welsh over tankards. A couple of traveling salesmen were adding up the day's total of glass bead and trade gin and plotting new skullduggery for the morrow over glasses of whiskey hot. And sitting by himself at a table near the open fireplace was a character in hairy tweeds and a fold-weave tie with a flannel shirt to match. He had a plate of bread and cheese and a bottle of Guinness in front of him
Nobody paid much attention to Illya's entrance. The farmers returned his "good evening" with a hasty "nos da." The two salesmen looked up, nodded briefly and returned to their figuring. The tweedy man said nothing at all.
The landlord drew a pint of bitter and Illya retired with it to a corner. Something seemed to tell him the boys could get along without his company.
All the evening his eyes kept returning to the man near the fireplace. Despite the natty country suiting he looked out of his element. He had a shaggy mop of jet black hair and his lantern-jawed face was deeply lined. His brown eyes, when he looked up to order another bottle of stout, were sad yet with a look of burning in them. All in all Illya figured his right setting was one of those groups of artsy-craftsy eggheads who hang around Greenwich Village or London's Hampstead area.
At about nine o'clock he got up, muttered "nos da" to nobody in particular and went out.
The farmers looked after him and grinned. One of them tapped the front of his head meaningly. Then they got on with their argument.
Feeling as wanted as a two-way stretch in a nunnery Illya went up to bed.
Next morning he was out bright and early, sizing up the terrain and fraternizing with the locals.
Corwen is no metropolis, being just a largish handful of gray Welsh-type houses thrown picturesquely between the mountains and the River Dee. When you've seen the main street, the cattle pen, the open-air market and the bowling greens you've been the rounds. But that was the kind of town Illya liked and he wished he was there with nothing more than a vacation on his mind. He would have enjoyed talking fat-stock prices with the farmers and rambling around the less vertical portions of the scenery.
Around eleven o'clock, while discussing Owen Glendower with a citizen who looked as if he might have been a contemporary, he saw the shock-headed man again. He was still wearing a tweed jacket but it was ancient and bleached by sun and rain. With it he wore battered cord breeches and gumboots that were streaked with dried mud. He walked with a curious forward stoop — almost a lurch. He passed Illya, going fast, his eyes staring angrily ahead. Although he was alone he was talking in a low monotone.
"That one's an oddball," Illya said. "Who is he?"
"Der!" said the ancient. "There's a pity for him. Poor fellow, indeed. It makes my throat dry to think of him."
"I understand," Illya said. He steered the old man into the Cader Idris. The bar, fortunately, was empty. Illya settled him at the far end and bought two pints.
The oldster raised his tankard in a fist like a withered ham. "Davis is the name," he quavered. "David Davis, Pant-y Pwll."
"That guy out there?"
"No, man. Me! I do like to know who I am drinking with, you see."
Illya said, "My name's Carson. I come from Canada."
"Canada, is it? Well, well! I had a brother went to Canada. Time of the Boer War, it was. I ain't never heard from him since." He clucked regretfully.
"The mails are dreadful," Illya said. "But we were talking about the queer fellow in the gumboots."
Davis looked at him under bushy white eyebrows. He pulled out a clay pipe, blew through it, put it between his gums. Then he went through a long pantomime of pocket patting.
"Oh, dammo!" he cackled. "There's an old fool I am, now. Come out without my pouch. And not a bit to my pipe."
Illya sighed and went to the counter again. The bar only carried black shag and he hoped it would poison the old bandit's declining years. He threw the packet on the table.
"Now give," he said.
Davis stuffed the pipe to a running commentary of "t'ck, t'cks' and "dear, dears," but the first swig of beer seemed to lubricate his vocal chords.
"Hugh ap Morgan," he said. "A foreigner like yourself, true — a Cardiff man — but a Welshman of sorts, I suppose, after all. Yes, a sad case indeed."
Illya said, "Let's get this straight. You're talking now about the guy outside, not some relation of yours by marriage?"
"I'm telling you, aren't I? Hugh ap Morgan of Cardiff. Bachelor of Science, University of Wales. Jailbird!" He spat the last word out with vicious relish.
Illya held himself in. The science and jail motif was interesting but it was too early to be optimistic. He asked patiently, "How did he come to get in the can?"
Davis wagged his head slowly. "Misled, he was. Those Welsh nationalists, as they do call themselves! T'ck, t'ck!"
His feelings overcame him. He had to take another drink. That meant more business with the pipe, which he had allowed to go out.
At last he went on: "It was before the war. A big case it was, they tell me, in all the newspapers. Long sentences they all got."
"But for what?"
"I'm telling you, aren't I? Nationalists, they were. Wanting Home Rule for Wales. So they went about burning airports, blowing up bridges and such nonsense. What they call sawbooters."
"And this guy Morgan was one of them?"
"Ay, indeed." He wagged his head again. "Three years he got, because of his youth. And sentence remitted for good conduct, too."
"But that's thirty years ago."
Davis went on as if he hadn't heard. "Of course he was finished. Never got a decent job again, poor dab. Lived hand to mouth, as you might say."
Illya said as casually as he could, "What is he doing now?"
"Oh, he's with the lot up by Cwm Carrog. The ban-the-bomb lot, long hair and no guts." Mr. Davis spat emphatically. "I'd ban-the-bomb 'em if I was ten years younger. And my boy Dai, Welsh G
uards, dead out there in France..."
Illya bought him another pint.
"This Cwm Carrog," he said. "What is it?"
"Duw, man! Don't know the Cwm Carrog? There's ignorance for you. A big old farm it is, right up on Berwyn, very ancient. Property of Mr. Price Hughes. A gentleman. Openhandedness, itself."
"And these ban-the-bomb types work the land for him, eh?"
"Ay," he cackled. "Six of them it takes to do the work of two good Welshmen! And nowhere near so well, neither."
Illya said, "The boss is easy to please, it seems."
"Yes, indeed. A very easy man. Mr. Hughes Cwm Carrog. A shame it is the way they do take advantage of him. Loafing about half the day."
"Hmm. I suppose his family has been settled there since the Flood and he's past caring what happens."
Davis shook his head. "No, no. He bought the farm about....let's see now....about six years ago. Came from foreign parts, I'm told. London, I shouldn't wonder. A great traveler, Mr. Price Hughes. That's how they can cheat him, you see. For when he is wanted, there he is — gone again. And not a sight of him for months perhaps."
"Well, if he's so widely traveled he must be wise to these smart guys," Illya said. "Why doesn't he throw them out and work the place with local hands?"
"But why, man?" Mr. Davis leaned close enough to give Illya a strong shot of mixed leek and beer. His rheumy eyes bulged impressively. "Because not a man, woman or child would set foot in Cwm Carrog except in broad daylight. Haunted it is, you wouldn't believe."
Illya ginned. "You're a great old kidder, all right."
If the old man had been a Druid that somebody tried to kiss under the mistletoe he couldn't have been more offended. He put his gnarled hands on the table and slowly hoisted himself to his feet.
"In other places, so I am told, it is different," he said. "But up here there is things we do not make a jest of. I will thank you for your beer and wish you good morning."
He started to walk out of the bar.
"Hey! Wait," Illya called. "You forgot to finish your drink."
Davis hesitated, turned, then stalked back to the table like a flouted patriarch.