19 - The Power Cube Affair

by John T. Phillifent

  "Just how did you come by that, sir?"

  "This? A kid with a bicycle chain."

  "I hope you accounted for the murdering young devil, sir?"

  "You could say that. I tried to bounce him off a brick wall, but he didn't bounce very well. Just fell down and lay there."

  The leathery face twitched. Long arms reached for the shirt and coat Solo had discarded. "I'll see what I can do for the jacket, miss, but I'm afraid the shirt's had it. And you, sir. Let me look." He inspected the three inch gashes in Kuryakin's right arm and clicked his tongue.

  "No need to ask about that one. You were very lucky, sir. Do you think we need a doctor, miss?"

  "For a scratch like this?" protested Illya.

  "That's no scratch," snorted Nan Ferrell. "Nor is that crack you've got, Napoleon. You're damned lucky you didn't crack your collarbone. But we won't call a doctor, because they ask awkward questions and have to make reports and things. Righto, Curtis, see what you can do with the repairs to the clobber, while I patch up the bodies. And the brandy, I think, in about half an hour."

  She was competent enough. Solo watched her work on his colleague's arm and winced a time or two at the forthright way she employed her strong and shapely hands. Then he noticed that Illya wasn't wincing at all. When it came his turn to be doctored, he realized why. She looked rough, almost most casual, but her touch was precise.

  "You're pretty good," he admitted, as she finally smacked pads over the wounds and tacked them into place with strips of tape. "You look as if you're hammering dough, but you're gentle, really."

  "Thank you. I've had lessons enough. Whatever I do, I like to do it right. There you are. You'll live. Now she whirled away to grab at a telephone that stood on the mantelpiece, dialed swiftly and made a gesture. "Move apart so I can sit between you and you'll be able to listen in. Charles? I'm at home. Napoleon and Illya are with me. No, shut up and hear me out, not fun and games but a little fracas. Mr. Green strikes again." She told the tale efficiently and without adjectives.

  The old man waited until she was done, then simply asked, "Any harm done?"

  "Mostly to them. On our side one crocked shoulder, on slit arm, nothing that won't be cured by tomorrow, I imagine."

  "Good. I think Roger's office will have to be disinfected. I'll see to that. Can they hear me?"

  "Loud and clear, sir," Solo said. "If I might suggest, it can't hurt to put a tail on Miss Thompson, find out who her boss is."

  "That's one way of getting a lead on Mr. Green, certainly. I'll have it attended to. In the meanwhile you two had better stick close to Nan and communicate with no one at all. I presume you're armed?"

  "No, sir." Kuryakin answered for both. "We have instructions against that while we're in the U.K."

  "That's not so good. Nan, I'll lay on a routine jaunt for you in the morning, to get you and those two out of town for a bit, give you the chance to teach them a thing or two." The click as he hung up was quite audible. She rose, put away the instrument and turned to face them.

  "I think I'm going to enjoy lessons with you two. Now, it's late and we need to be up and about early tomorrow. I'll bring you a drink each, tuck you in, kiss you good night, and that will be it."

  The pajamas were laid out on each bed. The two men made the change swiftly and in thoughtful silence.

  "She has something more than a chip on her shoulder," Solo said at last, as he slid between the sheets. "Damned if I don't think she is making an open play for both of us. And she called you a tiger?"

  Before Kuryakin could offer comment there came a rap on the door and Miss Perrell came briskly in. She held a tray with bottle and glasses.

  "I imagine I look like one of those California waitresses," she said, putting the tray down. "Say when!"

  "If it would have achieved anything I would have said 'when' some time ago," Kuryakin declared. "I also was responsible for the idea of a truce between us, but I didn't mean to suggest fringe benefits."

  The corner of her mouth came up again as she grinned. "Let me invent a proverb for you," she said. "Looking at the goods in the shop window doesn't cost a thing, but if you're thinking of buying, the price comes high. Very high. Good night now." With complete aplomb she bestowed a hearty buss on each cheek in turn and marched out.

  "I know another proverb," Solo observed. "When pretty lady lays the kindling in the grate and applies a match, she certainly is not praying for rain!"

  "I hesitate to correct an expert, Napoleon, so let's just say I think you may be wrong. However, I think we can agree that we should discourage such complications."

  "Give her the brush, you mean? That's not going to be easy, Illya. There was no point in telling friend Charles, but we're going to need all the help we can get. We have precious little to go on. One yacht, one Absalom Green, one mystery man with a voice like Orson Welles. One reference to Gorchak, whatever that is. Reference to jewels, problem, twenty-five pieces with two more to go. Seventh stone—can you fit seven into twenty-five or twenty-seven, Illya?"

  "This is going to take more than mathematics. A man doesn't kill and order killings unless it's something big. Even if we are on vacation there's no reason why one of us can't call in one afternoon at the office and see what gossip there is. If any."

  "No harm at all." Solo snuggled down. "But it will have to wait a bit, until the evidence of assault and battery wears off. Meanwhile we both have to be polite—but nothing more—to Miss Perrell."

  "As you say," Kuryakin sighed, "it's not going to be easy. I fancy she intends to teach us some tricks, and I hate to think what they might be."

  FIVE

  THE MORNING began pleasantly enough, if a trifle earlier than they would have chosen. Miss Perrel1 inspected their injuries, while Curtis returned their clothing almost as good as new, and by the time they all sat down to a tasty break fast there was no echo of the previous evening's strain, apart from a twinge or two. Miss Perrell was the perfect hostess, and they were all highly amused by the newspaper account of "gang-warfare again." In fact, Solo thought, if he could only get used to the lady's habit of wearing dresses that looked as if they had been designed for a stunted twelve year old, he could have enjoyed himself very much.

  "I've had my instructions," she told them, "and we're all going for a brisk run down to Folkestone this morning. It will give me a chance to see the place where Mary got it, and where your Mr. Guard lives. You must tell me more about him."

  "You'd probably get on with him," Solo suggested. "May be we could call in and see him if he's allowed visitors."

  "All right," she said. "Now, the sooner we start the better, as it's a busy road. But you already know that, as you drove down there the day before yesterday, didn't you?"

  "We went early. Tip from John to beat the traffic."

  "Wise man. I like him already,"

  By nine o'clock the A20 had taken them as far as Farmingham, and on her suggestion, they halted long enough to let Kuryakin take the wheel, so that she could sit between them in the front seat.

  "Getting to be a habit," she chuckled. "Actually, it's only because I hate talking across somebody and I like to be in the middle of things. While we're on the subject, you two are going to need a car. Be advised, please. Not a hired job. Not a flashy great thing like this, either. I am deliberately conspicuous, as I've told you. But you two should aim at something old, second-hand, inconspicuous."

  "Just how do we acquire that?"

  "Very simply. I'll give you the name and address of a little dealer I know, and he will fix you up, no awkward questions asked. Now, tell me about John Guard. Is he as handy as you two at smearing the opposition?"

  "I'll tell you this." Solo was suddenly very serious. "Johnny used to carry all the gadgetry and gimmicks we all do, but he never liked them. His feeling was that you grow to count on a gun or a minibomb or things like that. Then, after a while, you're leaning on them like crutches. You get fat and slow. He always preferred to use only his hands, and without
any doubt at all he could put me and Illya away for keeps without turning a hair. If he wanted to, that is. But he wouldn't even move unless he was personally involved." He watched her profile, saw the breeze stirring pink in her cheek and the butter blonde hair whipping away from her face.

  "In a way, it was a handicap to him in U.N.C.L.E. You see , we get our orders, instructions that say so and so is a menace, get rid of him. Or here's a group that has to be smashed, go and do it. And we do as we're told. Most of the time, anyway!" he added, as Kuryakin cleared his throat thoughtfully. "Johnny obeyed orders too, but he never liked it. On the other hand, just let him get the conviction that so and so really was a rat, and you wouldn't stop him with a concrete wall!"

  "You obviously admire him," she said.

  "I hadn't met him before," Kuryakin offered, "so I can speak from first hand experience this time only. But Green shot him in the chest with both barrels of a shotgun, from no more than two feet. That was about eleven-thirty. We got there just before eight o'clock the next morning and he was still conscious. He hung on simply because he knew we were coming and wanted to be sure we knew all about it. Not because of the shot, but because of Mary."

  "What's more," Solo endorsed, "I'll gamble they're having a time of it just keeping him in bed while we're chasing his game. He's that sort of person. You'll see."

  "And you think I'm like that?"

  "Well," Solo drawled, "let's just say you're not the type that gives up easily. Let's talk about you, eh?"

  "Oh no!" she was prompt and firm. "No you don't. As I told you last night, I'm willing to put the goods in the window. They are good goods, and I know it. I welcome inspection, any time."

  "But the purchase price comes high."

  "That's right. You'll be surprised just how high. In other words I don't mind you looking. I like it. As they say in the shops, what you don't see in the window please ask for. We'll be happy to exhibit our wares. But I keep my soul to myself."

  "And I was just about to ask," Kuryakin murmured, "what's a nice girl like you doing in a bloodthirsty racket like this?"

  "No comment," she said flatly. "But I can tell you what we're going to do when we get to Folkestone. It is, as I said, a routine chore. Every so often we get inside tips. Charles does, I mean. And this is one, to say that a consignment of filth is coming in on the boat we'll be meeting, from France. Dirty stuff, the addictives. That's what Mary was watching out for. I have a detailed description of the people carrying the load. My job will be to pass it on to the customs men and observe while they collect. The rest will go through regular channels and won't concern us, so we'll have plenty of time to go visiting."

  She took the wheel again for the delicate business of threading a way through the seaside town's busy streets, rolled to a halt in a parking area alongside the customs shed, and asked the two men to wait a moment while she made herself known to the authorities.

  "Can't make her out," Solo confessed, scratching his head in the sunshine. "I've run into some fancy lines in my time, but hers has me beat. In any case, a dame with her assets doesn't need a come on line, doesn't need to do this kind of job at all."

  "Hmm?" Kuryakin was only half-listening; his attention was caught by a magnificent black Rolls that was parked not far from them. "Why is she involved? Ask yourself, Napoleon, with her looks and talents and money—kicks must be pretty hard to come by."

  "Talent?"

  "She dances like a professional, as you know. She is a highly competent nurse. She drives extremely well. She is very handy with those pop guns of hers. And she puts up a firstclass impersonation of being one of the idle rich. I would call those talents. There is much more to Miss Perrell than meets the eye."

  "You had me worried for a moment there, Illya. You do notice the 'meets the eye' parts, then?"

  "Strategic arrangement of adipose tissue can create quite an effective diversion, and she knows it. There she is now!"

  Miss Perrell came to stand in the doorway where she had disappeared and waved them to join her. She led them away and into another door, the customs shed.

  "They say," Kuryakin murmured, as they took up a position to one side and away from the check point, "that customs men develop an instinct, which is just another way of saying they are good guessers. But you have a detailed description of the smugglers, Miss Perrell?"

  "That's right. Want to match your intuition against the facts?"

  "All right," Solo agreed readily. "See if we can spot 'em." He bent his gaze on the thin straggle of people now coming up the ramp into the shed. Which? That stout and harassed man with the small boy? The elderly dragon with her subdued companion? This newly rich couple with two doll-like little girls? Or that brisk and black suited businessman with his briefcase? Surely not that sloppy young couple so badly in need of discipline about their actions, faces and grooming? Which?

  Then came a group to delight his eye. First a small, bustling, pattering woman, as lively as a hummingbird and almost as gaudy. She was twenty years older than beauty but could have been attractive if someone had persuaded her out of the shrieking green of her shapeless dress and a staring orange hair rinse. Piling poor taste on criminal error, she wore a string of enormous red stones about her neck. Genuine rubies that size, he mused, would be worth quite a packet. Striding at her heels came an obvious chauffeur. In his wake came a neutral martyr of a woman all in black, a "companion," with all the grace and dignity her mistress lacked, and devoting immense care to a double armful of smaller boxes. Next in the line was a truly exquisite male, groomed to perfection, his black hair gleaming, a pencil slim moustache arched over a straining mouth as he struggled with large suitcases.

  Then, dawdling along at the end of the line, came the mother's daughter, a girl of no more than twenty, the likeness to the gaudy dame unmistakable but enhanced by the full blush of insolent youth. For all her boredom, the only adjective appropriate for her was "luscious." Solo stared, felt warm all over, and stared more, absorbing her from red gold mane to tiny toes. The in between of her was draped in a dress as brief as Miss Perrell's but paper white and pin pleated from neck to hem. He drew a deep and careful breath and reflected that he was looking at an unexploded bomb. Illya could say what he liked, but that was no camouflage. That was the real thing. The idea started another one. He whispered an aside to Miss Perrell.

  "You were talking about dazzle to distract the eye," he reminded her. "On that basis, there are your smugglers."

  "You couldn't be more wrong if you tried," she retorted, then put up a hand to pat her hair and make a covert gesture of pointing. Solo frowned as he saw the officials brisk up, dismiss the musical comedy group with a wave and then close in on two people he would never have given a second look. That red faced beery man and the skinny drab women with the lines of age and the mouth of a nagging drudge—were smugglers? Miss Perrell made a move, and they followed her outside into the sunshine.

  "Fancy picking on Maggie!" she chuckled.

  "Maggie?"

  "Margaret, Lady Herriott, Countess of Danby, and entourage. Brinkley, her chauffeur. Maid companion Augustine. Secretary—and thinly disguised gigolo—Monty Hagen. Daughter Evadne. Like to meet them? It will be an education for you." She marched them across to where the eccentric group had gathered around the shiny black Rolls and greeted them as old friends.

  "Hello, Maggie. Vad. You look disgustingly healthy and brown, the pair of you. Meet a couple of friends of mine. This is Napoleon, and this one's Illya."

  The luscious red head opened her emerald green eyes wide on the two men, her boredom fading away as she took them in. "Very healthy," she murmured, to no one in particular. "Very nice." She drifted close, gazing up. Lady Herriott ran around in a small circle and came back to her starting spot, sighed and complained.

  "Isn't it hot? Hot everywhere. You know, we decided to have three days on the Isle of Levant. You know, where everyone goes nude. But it was just as hot there." She shook her head as if puzzled by that, then bea
med at Miss Perrell. "You're looking as delicious as ever, Nan. I don't know how you do it.?' Turning aimlessly she brushed her daughter gently aside and took Solo's hand as if seeking stability in an uncertain world. "There—I've forgotten your name already!"

  "You try to do too much," Miss Perrell put in. "You really ought to take life a little easier, you know."

  "Oh, but I like to do whatever I can while I can. So long as it's legal, of course."

  "That's very commendable," Solo murmured. "Rather unfashionable, too, these days."

  "Isn't it dreadful?" she agreed. "I mean, once the law goes where are you? What I say is, keep to the law and you need never worry about being virtuous. That will take care of itself." She patted his hand approvingly and trotted away to supervise baggage loading operations. Evadne surged in close again, seemed to trip and would have fallen had it not been for Kuryakin's quick and strong arm.

  "My!" she breathed, leaning on him and almost purring. "You're very strong, aren't you?"

  "Strong enough. You didn't like Levant then?"

  "Dull! Unutterably tedious. I mean, everybody looks the same in the raw, don't they? There's no scope left. I'd rather have a good old orgy any time."

  "An orgy?" Kuryakin repeated, raising his brows at Solo. Lady Herriott came trotting back in time to hear his words and smiled.

  "We have marvelous orgies regularly. Only for the right people, of course." Her smile gave way to a calculating stare as she eyed Solo and then Kuryakin. "Of course, if you're friends of Nan, you're bound to be all right. Are they, Nan?"

  "I really don't know." Miss Perrell seemed to be struggling with inner amusement, probably at the expression on Kuryakin's face. "I can find out and let you know. Will that do?"

  "Splendid! Tomorrow night, then? And why don't you come along too, just for once?"

  "You'll never persuade Nan," Evadne exclaimed, with edges on her voice. "She has her own diversions. But you'll come, won't you, both of you? Please?"