The Ugly Man Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  Illya climbed down the bluff again. He started toward the big pine trees in a limping walk. Then professionalism got the better of him. He turned back. He limped into the villa through the tradesman’s entrance. He started up a short staircase which evidently led to the main part of the house. His hand was slippery with sweat as he gripped the rail.

  Ah, he thought wearily, I should skip the whole thing. They’ve gone. It’s fruitless to search.

  That was the moment when he heard the sound of a human voice from somewhere in the cellar, a man’s voice, hoarsely crying out for help. Had his imagination tricked him? Illya listened hard. The cry came again. He plunged down the cellar steps in a stumbling run.

  ACT IV

  THE NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRE

  “And to think,” said Napoleon Solo, “That you almost neglected your professional duty!”

  “But Napoleon,” Illya protested, “how was I supposed to know that my professional duty included saving you? To all intents and purposes Beladrac’s house was empty.”

  “Good lord, what kind of an excuse is that? Think of all you might have overlooked! The operating theater, for one thing---“

  “And you, inside the oubliette, of course. You remind me of it constantly.”

  “Well, it was my hide in the soup. Another two minutes and I’d have swallowed a couple of quarts of that germ culture and that would have been it.”

  “I very nearly didn’t have strength to move the stone cap,” Illya said.

  “That’s obvious,” Solo bantered back. “I did most of the work from underneath.”

  “I was half dead on my feet. I wanted to get back to Nice and check in. I think Mr. Waverly would have accepted that explanation.”

  “But I wouldn’t have.”

  “How could you? You’d have been dead, I believe.” He grinned.

  They’d been arguing that way, on and off, most of this long droning Monday, ever since they first took up their positions in a couple of comfortable chairs behind a folding screen on the balcony overlooking the salon of the Hotel Penti in Rome.

  Solo felt guilty about idling around in such comparative luxury, courtesy of the hotel management whom he browbeaten via a phone call from Waverly. The management had smuggled them onto the balcony overlooking the large horseshoe conference table under the great chandeliers in the glittering hall. This wasn’t exactly the toughest duty, simply sitting and waiting for Elisabeth d’Angelo to appear for her scheduled part on the program.

  Yet the enforced idleness, the luxurious surroundings, the feel of a good sharkskin suit against Solo’s arms and legs, only emphasized, somehow, the tremendous things at stake.

  After the rescue from the oubliette, the agents had contacted the U.N.C.L.E. man on station in Nice by phone from the villa. An ambulance came. Illya was given medical attention, his wrists and palms treated and bandaged. The bandages showed white at the edge of Illya’s dark blazer cuffs now.

  Solo had contacted Waverly from the villa. Within a few hours a team of U.N.C.L.E. search experts arrived in Nice via chartered plane. Presumably the team was still going over the villa, ripping the operating theater apart and hunting all over the house for concealed records and files.

  Count Lugo Beladrac would have gotten a bit of surprise if he had returned. But he never did. Perhaps one of his henchmen had come back, seen the official cars all around the place, fled and gotten in touch with Beladrac somewhere. At any rate, Beladrac had probably chalked the villa off as a tactical loss; he had left, confident that both Illya and Solo were out of action.

  And he had his most important asset with him, anyway, wherever he was, Elisabeth.

  Beladrac had vanished. More U.N.C.L.E. agents, flown in from Bonn, Paris, London, were combing Rome now. But thus far no positive reports had come in.

  Napoleon Solo slouched deeper into the chair, fanned back his cuff. The hands of his watch stood almost at ten to four. Elisabeth was scheduled to present the U.N.C.L.E. evidence at four sharp. If she didn’t show, they would have a real crisis on their hands. The delegates on the two sides of the great table in the hall below hadn’t been doing so well today, even after taking the weekend to cool off.

  And if Elisabeth did show, Solo was prepared for an even worse crisis. Her presence would mean that she was still in THRUSH’s control.

  “---and so I say to the delegates that no proof has been forthcoming at this conference table of the good intentions of the other party concerned. Rather, we came face to face again with the evidence presented by the intelligence officers of our own country, evidence which indicates that those who now come here pretending good faith are actually as ravening wolves in the fold---disguised. Bent upon sinking the fangs of their imperialism into the throat of my country, the Shaikhdom of---“

  In singsong English the speaker droned on. He was robust, middle-aged man wearing white robes and a flowing white burnous. He spoke from a raised podium at the closed end of the horseshoe table. The plenary session of the Mid-Eastern Peace Conference numbered perhaps fifty. About twenty were from each of the countries concerned. The rest were diplomats from neutral nations who were attempting to keep the negotiations on the track. The representatives of the Shaikhdom were launched upon a tirade, vilifying those from the other country. The accused, hook-nosed men in Westernized morning coats, looked and listened with stiff fury. The companions of the delegate in the burnous applauded at various points during his harangue. One of them went so far as to exclaim, “Hear, hear!” in a precise Etonian accent.

  The delegate in the burnous grew louder, his voice actually shaking the public address system. His arm-waving image was multiplied a dozen, two dozen times by the mirrors on the walls of the Gran Saloon. His voice reached a climax:

  “---and therefore we refuse to insult our intelligence further by listening to the petty subterfuges of the delegates seated opposite us at this table!”

  “One moment, one moment!” cried the conference chairman, a Swede. He leaped up to seize the microphone. “We cannot allow such accusations! They violate the spirit of this---“

  A delegate in morning coat from the opposite side was on his feet, shaking his fist. “And we’ll listen to no more! We have tried to negotiate in good faith, but---“

  His voice was drowned under a storm of shouts and boos from the opposite side, plus shouts of approval from his fellows. Illya rubbed his nose, looking depressed. “Sound the bugles. Advance the colors. To arms! Let the war begin!”

  Solo was about to reply when he heard a faint beepa-beepa from an inner pocket. He whipped out his communicator, adjusted the calibrations. “Channel B open. Solo here.”

  A voice crackled faintly against the background of shouts and oaths from the floor of the conference hall. “Gunther, outside the hotel. She’s arrived. In the Rolls-Royce.”

  “Is Beladrac with her?”

  “No. A chauffer dropped her off and parked the car in the hotel lot. She’s already in the lobby.”

  “What about the little travel case?” Solo asked. “Does she have it with her?”

  “No, she’s carrying nothing except her handbag and a file folder of papers.”

  “Stay in position,” Solo ordered. “I’ll call if we need you.” He switched off the communicator, thrust it back in his pocket, his face pale with worry.

  “You heard it, Illya. She hasn’t got the tapes or the microfilm records. That means the count has ‘em, and she’s still operating under his control.”

  Solo’s mind worked swiftly, rolling with the terrible new contingencies of the situation.

  “We can’t let her get to that microphone. If she’d brought the travel case, we’d know she at least had the evidence. We could get her out of the way and present it ourselves. But that file folder probably contains a prepared speech the Count’s ghosted for her. I suggest we get down there on the floor, take the chairman aside and tell him he can’t let Elisabeth speak. Otherwise---“

  Illya had turned ashen. “I think it�
�s too late for that, Napoleon. Listen.”

  Solo edged toward the screen, shoved it aside so that he could look out onto the great floor of the conference room. He saw the delegates in their burnouses craning their heads toward the rear of the hall. Their opposite numbers in morning coats did the same, along with all the diplomats from the neutral countries.

  The Swedish chairman was at the podium, having displaced the fiery orator. He was attempting to inject some measure of calm into the proceedings by talking in a firm quiet voice:

  “---and I ask you to direct your attention to the rear of the hall, gentlemen, so that I may introduce the young lady who is scheduled to speak at this hour. Her name is Miss d’Angelo. She carries some important documentary evidence which it is imperative that she present to this conference. We are of the opinion that her evidence will show conclusively that the disastrous international incidents which have brought us all to this table are not the work of terrorists employed by either government represented here. Rather, they are the work of a third party---the supra-nation which styles itself with the code name THRUSH.”

  Faces paled at the horseshoe table. There was a murmur of whispering. The Swede went on smoothly: “---we hope to demonstrate that THRUSH has been exploiting all those of us concerned with world peace, and exploiting your two governments most specifically, to serve its own ends.” The chairman unfolded a yellow sheet. “Before I present Miss d’Angelo formally, I wish to read this cable.”

  Listening, Solo strained for a glimpse of Elisabeth. But she was evidently standing far back beneath the balcony at the rear of the room.

  “The cable says, This is to inform the delegates to the Mid-Eastern Peace Conference that Miss Elisabeth d’Angelo is our authorized representative, that she presents her evidence with our complete approval, and that her findings are fully validated and endorsed by this organization. Signed A. Waverly, Policy and Operations, United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.”

  Stunned silence gripped the conference table a moment. Then excited talk broke out, even louder than before. The chairman rapped his gavel once, twice, three times.

  “Gentlemen. Gentlemen! Time is rushing. Miss d’Angelo, if you please?”

  Smartly dressed in a tweed suit, Elisabeth walked out from beneath the balcony. She was white-cheeked. Her expression was dazed, foggy, uncertain.

  “Let’s get her out of here,” Solo growled, already moving.

  He thrust the screen aside, headed for the balcony rail. Illya was right behind him.

  The conference chairman boomed on the microphone, “Miss d’Angelo, are you quite all right?”

  Elisabeth passed a hand across her eyes. Her speech was labored, but her voice carried despite the lack of a microphone. The delegates all turned toward her as she moved down one side of the great horseshoe table, speaking as she took step after uncertain step:

  “Yes, Mr. Chairman, thank you. But---I’m afraid the evidence which I have for you---“

  At the balcony rail, Solo checked. He gripped the rail with hands whose knuckles had turned white. He wanted to hear this, wanted to be absolutely sure.

  Illya stopped beside him. Though the two U.N.C.L.E. agents were quite visible now, no one below noticed them, so intent were all the delegates on Elisabeth.

  As though some power stronger than her own will were forcing the words out of her, she continued: “---the evidence gathered by the United Command for Law and Enforcement, does not support our original conclusion that---THRUSH has been causing the trouble in the Middle East. No. Mr. Chairman, we now have new facts to indicate---“

  Elisabeth kept walking, up past the side of the conference table behind the delegates in bournouses who screwed around in their plush chairs to watch her.

  “---new facts to indicate that all of the incidents are the work of terrorists employed by the government of just one of the nations whose delegates are seated---“

  Solo vaulted over the balcony rail and dropped the ten feet to the carpet inside the U of the table.

  He landed with a jolt. Perfect coordination kept him on his feet. He flipped back the lapel of his jacket, whipped out the long-muzzle pistol even as he jumped up on the table and leaped off the other side. In a second he’d slipped behind Elisabeth, grabbed her elbow and was pulling her toward the main entrance of the great hall.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he said with a tense, wolfish smile,” but we’re relieving Miss d’Angelo of her authority to speak for U.N.C.L.E.”

  Elisabeth began to struggle. “Take your filthy hands off me!” She swung a gloved hand at Solo’s head. Her eyes were glassy. She didn’t recognize him. “I will speak! I have orders---“

  “From the wrong side,” Solo whispered, pulling her steadily toward the door.

  Illya had landed nearer the door after jumping from the balcony. Gun drawn, he saw Napoleon approaching with his struggling captive, wrenched the doors open. Startled, the pair of security guards stationed outside swung around.

  One spotted Illya’s pistol, pulled out his own walnut swagger stick. Illya muttered an apology and whacked the man across the back of the head with the butt of his gun. Illya caught the man as he fell, shoved him into the other guard who was charging forward. Solo had nearly reached the door. His arm was around Elisabeth’s waist now. She was kicking at his shins, caterwauling, screaming, “No! Let go of me! They’ll kill me!” Tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Elisabeth, stop it!” Solo cracked out. “You’re safe. Don’t you recognize me? Napoleon---“

  “I don’t know you! Let me go! They’ll kill me if I don’t speak!”

  Emotionally torn by the anguish in her cry, Solo had a tough time bringing himself to manhandle her. But it was necessary. She was scratching at him with her nails, ripping his cheeks.

  “Hurry!” Illya called from the doors, alternately watching Solo and the interior of the vast Hotel Penti lobby where guests and hotel staff turned to stare in puzzlement and then alarm.

  Deftly Solo jabbed the index finger of his free hand against a nerve control center beneath Elisabeth’s right ear. Her protests stopped. All the stiffness went out of her body.

  As she sagged Solo caught her like a meal-sack. He slung her over his shoulder and turned to run, just as Illya spotted a flurry of activity out by the triple bank of revolving doors on the lobby’s far side.

  “Someone’s coming in the main door, Napoleon. I think I see one of our people trying to---“

  A shot rang out. One of the revolving doors spun rapidly. A man caught inside pitched into the lobby with blood streaming down the right side of his face.

  “It’s Gunther!” Illya cried. Count Beladrac came through the same revolving door.

  Beladrac looked quite sporty in dark slacks, a houndstooth jacket, white shirt, ascot and soft Tyrolean hat. The half dozen THRUSH thugs who crowded into the lobby behind him looked less fashionable. The count caught sight of the two agents and Elisabeth.

  Napoleon Solo had to give the count credit. Beladrac was quick. It took the man only a split second to comprehend what must have happened. He let out a bellow of outrage that brought all the startled guests in the lobby swinging around toward him.

  “Stop those men! They are criminals! Kidnappers! They are kidnapping my fiancé!”

  No one in the lobby knew otherwise. A couple of bellboys began to run towards Solo and Illya. Solo saw a staircase leading down on to their right. “Let’s go.” He bawled, already running.

  Carrying Elisabeth with not too much difficulty, Solo hit the brightly lighted marble stairs leading downward. He bowled a stout, fashionably dressed woman out of the way. She screamed at the sight of the pistols, clutched her bosom and fainted. Above, in the lobby, the shouts of Beladrac and his men in pursuit grew louder.

  Solo reached the stair landing, turned and went down the other short flight into a brightly lit arcade of shops. Illya’s bangs flew every which way as he skidded to a stop beside his friend. He was the first to see the il
luminated sign at the arcade’s far end.

  “That way to the car park, Napoleon.”

  They ran.

  Hatless, Beladrac appeared at the bottom of the stairs. A manicurist popped out of one of the shops and squealed. Beladrac’s crew of half a dozen Thrushmen had drawn their guns. So far they hadn’t started firing. It would be a different story once they got outside.

  Solo was growing conscious of the burden of Elisabeth’s weight. Illya reached the little stair beneath the illuminated arrow and dodged through the doorway. Solo followed. Up a short flight of stairs again, and they were outside in the cool twilight.

  Lemon-colored clouds drifted near the horizon. The remainder of the sky was darkening as twilight came on. In the east the heavens were full of roiling gray. Thunder muttered.

  Their car was parked in the second rack. Solo and Illya pounded toward it. Solo was levering open the rear door with his free hand when a gun crashed.

  He ducked instinctively. The window of the door he was trying to open dissolved in a shattering of glass. Bits of it struck Solo in the face. He wrenched to one side, almost fell under the weight of Elisabeth’s limp body. Egged on by Beladrac shouting orders in Italian, the THRUSH agents began to fan out among the parked cars.

  Crouching, Illya reached up. He levered the door open far enough for Solo to roll Elisabeth inside. Illya stayed low, went up around the front end of the automobile and around to the other side.

  From behind the cover of the hood he fired one, two, three shots at the pursuers. A Thrushman peeking out from behind a huge Lincoln parked a dozen spaces away screamed and slid out face forward on the concrete.

  Solo slammed the rear door, reached up and opened the right front. He wiggled up into the seat of the right-hand drive machine, got his keys, turned on the ignition as Illya slid in the other side.

  A man was running toward them down the parking aisle. Solo recognized one of the local U.N.C.L.E. agents assigned to help them cover the Hotel Penti. Illya shouted, waved his arms frantically. The agent didn’t see or hear. A THRUSH killer picked the running agent off with a single shot. The man fell in a welter of blood.