The Thrush from Thrush Affair

by jhalpin322@aol. com

  Solo looked at Manfred Burton, who was standing to applaud. And then, smiling, glanced toward where the man who had been writing was sitting.

  The man was slumped over the table.

  Solo jumped up and walked casually but swiftly out of the bar and across the crowded, now noisy room toward the slumped man. A tall, very skinny waiter was at the table. Solo, so as not to be observed, approached the table and the slumped man obliquely, as if going somewhere else.

  The waiter saw him but was not aware that Solo was coming to the table also. As Solo came near, the waiter picked up the paper the man had been writing on, slipped it inside his jacket, and walked away.

  Solo reached the man. The man’s face was down on the table, his shoulders against the edge of the table, his arms dangling limp. Solo touched him, turned him to look, but he did not have to---he knew a dead man when he saw one. His keen eyes saw no marks on the body, but the lips were blue. Solo sniffed the man’s glass without picking it up. Bitter almonds---cyanide. Almost certainly administered by the tall, skinny waiter, but on whose order?

  Solo turned quickly to see Manfred Burton watching him. Near the door, and at the entrance to the bar, other men were now watching---men of a type. Solo knew too well. Solo looked for the tall, skinny waiter and saw him just reaching the side, where a curtain covered an alcove. The waiter had walked casually so as not to attract attention. Solo saw Illya watching the entire action.

  Before anyone knew what was happening, Solo ran across the room, among the crowded tables, in pursuit of the skinny waiter. Illya stood against the wall to cover him in case anyone followed. Solo broke through the curtain and found himself in a small corridor that led to a door. The door was open.

  Solo ran down the corridor and out through the door. He ran out into a dark night. Light shimmered on the river below. He was in the dark alley that ran narrow between the café and the river. He looked for the waiter. The alley was dead end to his right; the river was in front. He looked to the left. At first he saw nothing. Then he saw the waiter.

  The skinny man was just up the alley where it opened into the small street in front of the café. He still held the paper he had taken from the dead man. In his other hand he held something else. Solo started to move toward him and stopped. The waiter raised his arm and threw the object in his right hand.

  Solo jumped back.

  A cloud of yellowish vapor burst in the alley between Solo and the waiter.

  Illya Kuryakin stood against the wall at his waiter’s station and watched Manfred Burton and his men. Solo had gone past him, and Illya’s small, Slavic face was alert as he observed the men of THRUSH. But they did nothing. Manfred Burton simply walked to the dead man, looked at him, called the maitre, and told the maitre to call the police.

  By now the crowd of Lilli Kessler fans had begun to notice that something was wrong. They milled throughout the room, talked at their tables, and many looked toward the slumped form of the dead man. The THRUSH men had vanished, Illya left his post and went backstage.

  In the corridor that led to the dressing rooms, the disguised U.N.C.L.E. agent paused long enough to observe the entire corridor. His bright, quick eyes were shrewd beneath the habitually lowered brow. Kuryakin was listening. He moved soundlessly along the empty passage until he came to the door with a star marked simply: Kessler. He did not knock. The door was not locked. He opened it silently and slipped inside.

  Lilli Kessler was not there, Illya heard sounds behind the dressing screen in the corner. His sharp eyes took in the room at a glance. There should have been a maid, or a dresser. Illya heard footsteps hurrying outside the door. The door opened and a big, grey-haired woman came in. She walked straight to the screen.

  “Miss Kessler? There’s trouble. A man’s been killed out front.”

  The petite blonde appeared from behind the screen. She was wearing a dazzling green robe now.

  “Zip me up, Helga,” the blonde said.

  The big woman walked behind her and zipped up the robe.

  “Right at his table, dead,” Helga said. “That man who was writing.”

  “All right, don’t start---“ and Lilli Kessler stopped.

  The big woman stared. They had both seen Illya. Lilli Kessler did not blink.

  “What do you want? Did I order something?’ the petite singer said.

  “Did you?” Illya said, his quizzical eyes on the woman.

  “When I need a waiter, I’ll send for one. Now get out of here if you value your job!”

  “Did you order something, Miss Kessler? Say, perhaps, a murder?’

  The big woman grunted, stepped toward Illya Kuryakin. The Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent watched the big woman carefully. She moved like someone who knew how to use all the strength she had in her big frame. Lilli Kessler waved the big woman to a halt.

  “No, Helga, our friend is playing a game,” the blonde said. She smiled her most charming smile. Illya saw the danger in the smile---the smile of a tiger. “So, you are not a waiter, my young friend. And that, I am sure, is not your face, no? Not the police, no, your hands are too clean. Tell me what you are, liebchen?”

  “You sang straight to him,” Illya said. “No one else really noticed him. You talked to him. Perhaps you knew what he was writing.”

  “CIA, perhaps, or MI-Five? You have an accent. British, I think, and yet not a native. Russian, yes, there is a touch of the Russian. What does a Russian agent want with me?”

  “Let me handle him. Lilli,” the big Helga said.

  Illya smiled his enigmatic smile. “Perhaps she did it for you. What was so important about him? Was he against Manfred Burton?”

  The big Helga snarled. Lilli Kessler watched Illya.

  “Get out of here!” the petite blonde said.

  Illya never heard them approach. One minute he was facing the two angry, shaken women, and the next four men stood in the room all around the U.N.C.L.E. agent. They ringed him, their faces set and hard.

  FIVE

  Napoleon Solo threw himself backwards in the alley. He covered his face with his handkerchief. Beyond the cloud of spreading yellow vapor he saw the indistinct shape of the skinny waiter running away into the small street. He would not catch the skinny waiter now. The yellow gas was beginning to reach him. Solo went over the parapet into the river in a long dive.

  Under the surface of the fast moving river he went down and down. He battled the treacherous current of the river, which was not really a river but a swirling tidal arm of the sea. The currents caught him and tumbled him. He was swept down. He fought and broke free of the current. His lungs were on the edge of bursting when another current swept him up and he burst out onto the dark surface in the night.

  Solo immediately began to swim back toward where he had dived into the river. The current buffeted him. He headed for a series of steps that led him up from the river to the small street of the café.

  He saw the boat. It came out of the shadows at the foot of the steps that led up to the street. It came fast and directly toward him where he trod water. A man stood at the wheel of the fast speedboat, and the skinny waiter stood beside him. Then a blinding light shone full in Solo’s face. Where he trod water he calculated the speed of the boat. The light was a great dazzling ball when he took a breath and submerged. He forced his body as far down as it would go.

  The boat roared over him, its propellers missing with the force of the wash of water tumbling him about like a chunk of cork.

  He came up in the churning wake. The boat did not turn, but roared straight on and vanished into the dark night. Solo watched it until it was out of sight. Whatever had been on that paper the waiter had stolen from the dead man was more important than a second attempt to kill him. Solo knitted his brow. What had the murdered man been writing so diligently in the café?

  Still considering this, Solo began to swim for the steps at the foot of the small street.

  Illya Kuryakin looked slowly around at the four men had come into Lilli Kes
sler’s dressing room. They ringed him. One of them smiled at him.

  “Well Mr. Kuryakin. This is a pleasure.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Illya said.

  Lilli Kessler was furious.

  “Now we have a meeting, yes? Apparently you are all friends. Perhaps you will tell me what this is about?” the petite blonde said angrily.

  The leader of the four still smiled. “We are indeed all friends, eh, Kuryakin? As to what it is about, Miss Kessler, I fear it is a simple mistake. My friend Kuryakin is in the wrong room. Isn’t that right, Kuryakin?”

  “I think---“ Illya began. He did not finish. He smiled as two of the men stepped closer to him and he felt the faint prick of a needle against his arm. One of the men held a hypodermic against his arm. They all smiled at him. He smiled back.

  “I think I have made an error,” Illya finished. “My friends here have convinced me. I got into the wrong room it seems. My apologies, mademoiselle.”

  Lilli Kessler looked from one to the other. She threw up her hands.

  “Madmen! First this one comes in and makes insane statements, then you four appear and say it is all a mistake! Imbeciles, get out! An artiste cannot even get dressed in peace! Go!”

  The leader bowed. “Immediately, Madam. I’m surprised at you, Kuryakin. Such a mistake, to bother the lady.”

  “I’m a little surprised myself,” Illya said. “I really---“

  He felt the touch of the needle and said no more. The leader of the four men beamed at him.

  “Then I really think we should leave. A lady must have her privacy. A thousand apologies, madam, for my ill-mannered friend.”

  “I shall try to forget it all,” the petite blonde said.

  “My admiration,” the leader said with another faint bow.

  “And mine,” Illya said.

  The needle touched his skin through his waiter’s jacket. He straightened up. The four men led him slowly from the room with the leader still expressing courtly apologies.

  In the empty passage outside the dressing room, the four men moved quickly. The leader instantly dropped his elegant manner. He curtly motioned his men toward the stage door. He snapped at Illya.

  “Very well, Kuryakin, move!”

  “That’s more like the THRUSH I know,” Illya said.

  “Move!” the leader hissed.

  Illya felt the needle, and he moved. He walked between two of the men, each one holding an arm. They paraded this way along the corridor until they reached the stage door. The leader pushed Illya through and out into the night in the alley beside the river. Sirens split the night; already the revolving red light of a police car blocked the end of the narrow alley.

  “Be very careful, Kuryakin,” the leader of the THRUSH men said. “We are all friends out for a casual stroll. You understand?”

  “I understand,” Illya said.

  “Let us hope so. If you should do anything foolish it would not be pleasant for you or for some of those policemen. We are quite ready.”

  “Of course,” Illya said.

  His quick eyes took in the entire scene in a glance. Police were in the alley and inside the café. The single car was parked so as to block the alley. Two policemen stood near the car. The river was to the right, and the end of the alley was the only other way out.

  “Just be casual,” the THRUSH leader said.

  They walked him toward the mouth of the alley and the police patrol car with its revolving red light like a splash of blood in the night. The point of the needle just brushed his skin through the sleeve of the waiter’s jacket. They were on all sides of him. The police looked at them as they approached. One of the policemen stepped forward. The leader of the THRUSH group smiled.

  “Good evening, officer. A very unfortunate affair.”

  “Messy,” the patrolman said. “You boys going somewhere?”

  Illya tensed. The police were not letting anyone leave yet. It was his only chance. If the police tried to stop them, they would probably attempt to fight their way out. In the fight, Illya would have his only opportunity to break away---he did not think he would get another chance. They had probably killed the man in the café; they would not hesitate to use the same poison on him, or on the police.

  He gathered his muscles in readiness.

  The THRUSH man only smiled again. He held out a piece of paper. The policeman took the paper and looked at it.

  “Your lieutenant already interrogated us, officer. He gave us the pass. He has our names and addresses.”

  The policeman looked at the paper, nodded, and stepped back. He half saluted the THRUSH spokesman.

  “Okay, sir. I guess that lets you out.”

  “Thank you,” the spokesman said.

  The THRUSH men all began to walk past the patrol car. Illya felt the needle and there was nothing he could do but walk with them.

  As he raised himself from the river and began to climb the steps up to the small street, Solo heard voices directly above. Sirens in the distance were coming closer. Directly above him a red light flashed intermittently like a bloody finger in the night.

  He moved up the steps and raised his head cautiously. He saw the police patrol car that blocked the mouth of the alley. Two policemen stood beside the car. Far up the alley another policeman stood at the stage door. But it was not the policeman Solo looked at. It was a group of five men who stood at the police car, one of them talking and smiling with one of the patrolmen. He did not recognize the four men, but he knew the fifth---Illya Kuryakin!

  They continued to talk, and Solo watched. There was something wrong. He saw that it was the way Illya was standing, the way the two men on either side stood so close to the small Russian, their right hands not visible. He saw one imperceptibly move his right hand. The man had something threatening Illya.

  Then two things happened at the same time. Illya, and the four other men, began to walk away past the police car and into the small side street. Solo saw a long, black car parked in the side street. At the same instant, a squad of police and customers came out the front door of the Café Leider. For the next few moments the street would be filled with people.

  Solo came up into the street. His clothes dripped from the water of the river. As he stepped into the small street he slipped and staggered. He saw the patrolman at the police car look at him and smile. The patrolman thought he was drunk. He decided instantly to let the police think just that.

  Solo began to stagger along the street, straight toward the four men slowly walking Illya to the black car. The squad of police came toward the river. The patrons leaving the Café Leider en masse filled the street. The four men leading Illya were clearly worried about the sudden crowd and did not look behind them.

  Solo, moving fast despite the drunk act, was right behind the four just as they reached the black car. The police were close. The crowd of agitated customers milled around, looking for cabs. Solo knew he had to time it perfectly, had to make the one necessary move before anyone knew what had happened. Suddenly, he began to sing loudly and bumped into the man on Illya’s left---the man who had made the move revealing that he had some threat against Illya.

  Solo, singing and staggering, hit the man’s arm hard. The man swore. Solo grabbed his arm as if to catch his balance.

  “Whoops! Whoa there! Who you tryin’ to knock down?” Solo said, holding the arm very tight and then pulling it sharply.

  “Get the hell---“ the man snarled.

  The other THRUSH men, caught by surprise, stood there uncertain just what to do. Solo staggered, twisted the arm of the man he held. The man grunted. There was a sharp tinkle of glass falling to the street and breaking.

  Now Illya Kuryakin moved. He knocked down the man on his right who was reaching into his pocket. The THRUSH spokesman hesitated. Solo swayed and shouted. The THRUSH leader hesitated too long. Solo swayed and shouted. The police came toward the group. Illya held Solo up. Smiling and talking very soothingly.

  “Take it
easy, Mr. Jones,” Illya said. “Now, come on; we’ll get you home before you catch pneumonia. Come on, now.”

  The police arrived. They looked at Solo. Illya smiled to them. The four THRUSH men stood wondering what they could do. The top policeman of the group, a sergeant, nodded to Illya.

  “Your friend is a little drunk.”

  “I’m afraid he is very drunk, officer,” Illya said. “It seems he took a midnight swim. But I can take care of him now.”

  “Well---“ the sergeant began, and looked at the four THRUSH men. “You all together?”

  “We---“ the THRUSH spokesman began, seeing a chance.

  Illya was quicker. “We never met. These gentlemen were just good enough to help me look for Mr. Jones. We were all in the café, you see, but you lieutenant already talked to us. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”

  The THRUSH spokesman stared at Illya for a long second. His hand was in his pocket. Then he shrugged, and took his hand out.

  “Yes, that is correct officers. Now, if you don’t mind, I think we have to leave.”

  “And I’ll just help my friend to our car,” Illya said.

  “Well,” the sergeant said, “all right. But you see that he doesn’t get into any trouble, you hear?”

  “Of course, officer,” Illya said, and grinned at the four THRUSH men. “Thank you for the help gentlemen.”

  “Think nothing of it,” the spokesman said. “Perhaps we will meet again.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Illya said. “Come on, Mr. Jones.”

  Illya helped the staggering Solo along the street. Solo continued his act, singing and waving his arms. The police were still watching them. They staggered along the small dead-end street and went around the corner out of sight. Instantly Solo straightened up.

  “Thank you,” Illya said.

  “Don’t give it a thought,” Solo said.

  “You went for a swim,” Illya said. “A sudden urge?”

  “Our friends play rough,” Solo said, and told Illya about his escapade with the skinny waiter.

  “They did not want what that man wrote to get out,” Illya said. “My friends were definitely THRUSH, but were they connected to that waiter?”