19 - The Power Cube Affair

by John T. Phillifent

"You're a fool," he told her. "A dangerous fool. Some amateur has been giving you lessons."

  "A karate black belt?" she choked.

  "An amateur, just the same. At fighting. He taught you some tricks, in some gymnasium or other. He didn't teach you the most important thing of all, which is to estimate the enemy accurately. You chose me. You made your mistake right there. Napoleon is more civilized than I am."

  "Do I have to listen to this lecture?"

  "Yes, or be partly bald for the rest of your life. Which won't be a long one if you persist in giving warnings. That's a silly thing to do. In a game it's right to give warnings, to play by the rules, even to lose your temper. But not in fighting. In a game, you win or lose. In fighting, you win or you're dead." He released her and stood away. She came upright panting hugely, stretching the flimsy suit she wore. Then, quick as a flash, she turned to the table, to grab at her guns. But they were now in Solo's care.

  "You don't want to do that," he told her gently. "What good would it do you? For one thing, you'd have to explain to Charles." He waited a moment, then replaced the two weapons in the thigh belts and pushed them over the table to her. "Here. Take them. Use them on the enemy some time."

  "A moment." Kuryakin came to stand by her shoulder. "Get that cat suit off, first."

  "What?" She stiffened, and Solo could have sworn he saw fear in her face. "What for?"

  "There's a bathroom in there. Off you go. Run a hot bath and have a thorough soak. You'll be as stiff as a board to morrow if you don't." He reached for her dress, handed it to her. "Go on!" She went.

  "That was murder," Solo murmured. "The perfect squelch. And she could be damned good, too."

  "She is good," Kuryakin retorted. "She almost had me with that knife. Where did it come from?"

  "Search me. I didn't see it until she was holding it out."

  "I don't suppose she would tell us if we asked. The trouble is"—Kuryakin took up his discarded apron thought fully—"she was trying to show off. If it had been some thing serious, an enemy, she would have reacted in a different way entirely. Here, you dry while I wash."

  The chores had been done and coffee was bubbling by the time she came back, looking very humble.

  "I don't like to say this," she said, "but I must. I have to thank you two for opening my eyes today. I must seem pretty dreadful to you, all brag and blow!" She looked around. "And you've washed up. I feel utterly useless."

  "Don't be silly," Solo told her. "We had all the advantages. Here, have a cup of coffee and relax awhile, or should we be getting back?"

  "We've a minute or two yet." She carried her cup over to the window to look out, and then down at the row of carvings. She studied them a moment, then took one up in her hand. "I noticed these before. They're beautiful things. I've never seen anything quite like them." Solo went and she showed him the one she held. "Look at this. It looks like nothing at all in particular, if you just look at it, but doesn't it make you think of a frog?"

  "It has that feel, what Picasso would call 'essence of form,' I'd say. And this one is a seal, isn't it. And that a tiger."

  "Do you know about these? Where they come from, I mean."

  "I know that much, yes. Out there. You were shooting at some, just now. Picked up from the beach."

  "Surely not. These have been carved!"

  "That's right. John Guard's work. His hobby, I mean."

  She put down the frog shape and sighed. "You're really putting me down, aren't you? Flattening me with all the skills and talents I can appreciate and understand. I think we had better go home."

  The drive back to London was a silent and steady one. It was late afternoon before she halted for them outside their pseudo-hotel and let them dismount.

  "You know the number if you have any orders or information for us later," Solo said.

  "I'm not likely to have much of either," she muttered. "Not for you two. Not for a bit, anyway."

  They went into the room they shared and shut the door carefully. They had achieved their objective, but neither of them felt happy about it. Kuryakin prowled the room restlessly. The phone buzzed and Solo grabbed at it. Even if it was a job call he would welcome it, rather than this waiting. The switchboard girl told him, "We have a lady on the phone, asking for you, Mr. Solo."

  "All right." Solo made a gesture for Kuryakin to get on the extension. "Go ahead, put her on."

  A very familiar coo met his ear. "Mr. Solo?"

  "That's Miss Thompson, isn't it?" Solo felt a delicate cold chill touch the back of his neck. "What does Captain Barnett want now?"

  "Fancy you recognizing my voice! But it's nothing to do with him. It's me. I can do something for you."

  "I can't imagine what."

  "Let us not play games, Mr. Solo. I don't know what it was you said to Captain Barnett, but you really got him in a flap. He sent me home yesterday, early, and told me I was on indefinite leave, until further orders!"

  "Sorry about that. I seem to have got you into trouble."

  "Oh, that's all right." She made a tinkling laugh. "I'm not likely to say no to a spot of leave. But you're in trouble. Whatever it was you said—and I think I know—you won't get away with it, you know. The service is very hot on that kind of thing."

  "What kind of thing?"

  "Well, I don't think it's something I should mention on the phone, but if you could come and see me tonight, both of you, I think I can show you a way out so that nobody gets hurt."

  Solo raised his brows and grinned at Kuryakin. Covering the mouthpiece, he said, "Do you get the same smell I do?"

  "Walk into my parlor. Ask her how to get there." Solo relayed the query, and she gave them detailed instructions.

  "I shall expect you about nine," she said blithely.

  "We'll be there," Solo promised, and hung up. "By rights," he murmured, "we ought to inform our Miss Perrell."

  "That's right. But we're not going to, are we? I mean, she might get hurt again!"

  SEVEN

  IT WAS a minute or two short of nine as they began climbing the shallow stone steps toward a row of very secluded villas. The whole area was upper class suburbia, and Solo frowned as they reached the top and struck a private road.

  "Mr. Green must pay well," he said. "This area must come a bit high for a Wren's salary."

  Kuryakin sniffed the rich odor of growing things, brushed the hedge that hid the villa gardens with his fingertips. "She may well be worth it, Napoleon, where she's placed. I imagine smugglers would give a lot to know just where the navy is at any given time."

  "I was thinking along those same lines, Illya. Only Charles assured us, and so did Barnett, that this business wasn't connected with service matters. And if the stuff is coming in by cross channel ferry, the way we saw this morning—oh, I don't know, the more I think about this the more mixed up I get."

  "This is it." Kuryakin halted by a gate which bore a rough wood panel painted in Gothic script, THE NEST. Solo caught a glimpse of light colored polish off to one side and hissed at his companion to follow as he crossed the grass to look. There, in the driveway, stood a car. They studied it carefully and with growing excitement.

  "Well now," Solo murmured. "Either Miss Thompson can also afford to run a nice new Jag, or she has company."

  "Maybe it's Mr. Green himself!" Kuryakin said, like one looking forward to a treat. "Or even the big cheese. That would be nice. Shall we go and see?" They returned to the door and pushed the illuminated bell button. A light came on beyond the half-glass door.

  "You're punctual," cooed Miss Thompson, opening the door wide. "Just go straight in through that curtain."

  Brushing the curtain aside had all the feel of tackling a short fuse bomb, but there was nothing explosive beyond, just a room. A lot of money had been spent on carpets, furnishings and decor but with little regard for taste. Solo eyed the geometric abstracts on the walls and the weird wire sculpture that mocked him from every ledge and made a face. Kuryakin sighed but kept his face straight
. Over to their right was a massive couch. On the left to match it was a sideboard bearing a generous selection of bottles and glasses. Directly ahead, a door stood half-open, yielding a view of the kitchen. She brushed past them and turned.

  "Make yourselves at home," she invited. "Just sit any where. I'm making coffee. Won't be a moment."

  "You're very kind," Solo breathed, watched her disappear into the kitchen and then looked at his companion. "Did you see what I saw?"

  "I think so. We seem to be destined to run into women with one idea in mind. I would say she was wearing even less than Miss Perrell!"

  "And what will you bet she's playing the same cards, for the same reasons?"

  "Dazzle and distract, and then—pow!" Kuryakin made a chopping gesture, and Solo grinned.

  "Only, this time, somebody else will do the pow part." He lowered his voice to a barely audible murmur. "In the right hand wall, past the couch, is a door that could be a bed room. It'll bear watching."

  There was no time for more. Miss Thompson came back with a tray. "You must sit somewhere," she reproved them.

  "Sorry," Solo said, and they both chose chairs which gave a view of that crucial door, Kuryakin reaching to slide a low table into place for the tray. She lowered it carefully, then stood up, deliberately giving them ample opportunity to observe her before sitting herself on the couch. She was wearing a transparent housecoat, decorated all over with Chinese dragons in gilt thread and leaving no doubt whatever that there was only her pink skinned self underneath. She smiled in complete self-assurance and began to pour.

  "I suppose you're wondering what this is all about!"

  "We're curious, yes."

  "Well, let me be quite frank. No point in beating about the bush, is there? I know quite a bit about you two boys. And Mr. Guard. You're on the wrong side of the law, aren't you? No, don't interrupt just yet, let me tell you. I know a lot more than you think. You see, I'm not just Roger Barnett's secretary. That's the obvious thing. My real job is to keep an eye on him and on anyone who comes to see him. All sorts of wicked people would give a lot to know what he knows, where every ship and group and squadron is at any time. So I have to keep a sharp eye on anyone who calls."

  "Like us," Kuryakin agreed. "You checked back. What did you find?"

  "Quite a lot. Not all by myself, of course, but I have contacts. You upset Roger badly by showing him that girl's picture. By blackmailing him, that was obvious. But it wasn't until we traced you two back to John Guard that the picture began to shape up."

  "What picture?"

  "Now, now, Mr. Kuryakin." She smiled archly. "Let's not play innocent, shall we? I'm sure you've heard of U.N.C.L.E.?"

  "Oh. Yes, I've heard."

  "Well, John Guard used to belong to that, but he was discharged some time ago. Tossed out in disgrace. And he is now working for the other side, for the criminal element."

  "He is?"

  "You know very well!" Her coo went up a tone or two. "Why do you suppose he has that isolated house on the coast? And why did he send you two with his dirty work, instead of coming himself? Because he can't afford to leave his lookout post, and he daren't risk being recognized. I've told you, I have my ways of finding out things."

  "Just what are you, anyway, Miss Thompson?"

  "Naval intelligence, of course," she told him, then smiled and shared the smile with Solo. "I'm only a small cog, of course. Nothing important. And there's no need to worry, really. I mean, we can be friends. You can trust me all the way."

  "Wait. Whoa! I'm a little confused just here." Solo put down his cup and sat forward. "You're saying that we are known to be associated with John Guard in some crooked deal or other, but it's all right with you? And with naval intelligence? Excuse me, Miss Thompson, but I don't get it."

  "Oh dear, must we be so formal? Call me Louise. You're Napoleon and Illya, right? Of course we can be friends, if you're willing to come in with us. It was a mistake to upset Roger. I mean, he can really set the big wheels turning, make a stink. And that would never do. But there are other jobs."

  "I think, Napoleon, the lady is offering us the chance to become double agents. To keep in with the baddies, but turn over our information to the goodies, to her. Louise?"

  "That's right!" she gave them a dazzling smile and sat up briskly. "Of course, you'll have to tell me what it is you have on Roger, so that you won't be able to use that again, but that's all. And then you'll be with us, on our side. You see?"

  Solo could see far more than she imagined. Her inadequate robe, which had only been loosely gathered around her in the first place, was now gaping invitingly. But now his mind was too full of other things.

  "Surely you don't have the authority to make a deal like that on your own? You said you were just a small cog."

  "That's so. I just observe and pass information along."

  "You've met your chief, though, haven't you?"

  "Naturally. He comes here to see me from time to time. And he pays me, of course. Let's not be so naïve as to think I can afford to live like this on my service screw." She leaned back in a deliberate pose against the cushions. "You see, there are benefits to it, if you want to be sensible."

  "I think we understand," Solo declared, feeling suddenly sorry for this gorgeous moron and hating the people who were using her. "Don't we, Illya? I believe we could even give a description of your chief."

  "Oh yes." Kuryakin sat up a little straighter, loosened him self ready for action. "We can tell you a thing or two, Louise. You are not intelligence, naval or otherwise. You're either very stupid or a good liar."

  She came bolt upright, her face a mask of astonishment.

  "You are being used," Solo told her, not unkindly. "The man you pass your reports to is a killer. You reported to him as soon as we left your office yesterday. Two men got out of a taxi just outside our hotel a short while later. Two men who, by chance, happened to look like us. They were jumped, beaten up, put in the hospital. Meant for us. He tried the same trick late last night, caught us coming home from a club. Pack of young hooligans set on us. They were unlucky. That's twice. I think he is all set to try a third time. I think he can hear every word I'm saying, right now."

  She got up, her face white, her beautiful breast stormy with agitation as she stared down at the two men. "You must be mistaken. You must be!"

  "I think not. I'll name him for you." Solo fixed his eyes on that enigmatic door. "Come out and show yourself, Mr. Absalom Green!"

  "How did you know?" she gasped. Both men ignored her, kept their attention on that door. It didn't move. Instead a cold and crisp voice came from the direction of the kitchen.

  "Don't move, gentlemen. You're quite clever but not clever enough. Do not do anything sudden. I have a nervous finger."

  Solo turned carefully, to see Green standing in the kitchen doorway, a pistol in his right hand. The muzzle was rock steady, the barrel sawn off short.

  "It's a modified shotgun, Mr. Solo. Made to my own order and very efficient. I'm sure you will appreciate that I am in no mood to trust anyone else's weapons these days."

  "You didn't do very well with John Guard, did you?"

  "I allow myself one mistake, Mr. Solo. So far I have never made the same mistake twice."

  "You can't count," Kuryakin told him. "Your schoolboy warriors had two tries and failed both."

  "They failed." Green's voice crackled with fury. "They have paid the price. I shall not fail." He took two careful steps forward. At his back showed a big, burly figure who slid by and moved away to one side. Then another, and then a third. Solo watched them, reflecting that they must have been stacked on top of each other in that tiny room. They were big men, coarse featured, roughly dressed in that curious badly bundled fashion that marks the seafaring man ashore. Miss Thompson came out of her shock and moved just a little. Green flashed her a glance like a rapier.

  "Sit down and keep quiet!"

  "Well, really!" she complained, but sat heavily on the couch just t
he same. Green shifted his attention back to his prey.

  "You warned Barnett that he was being spied on, didn't you? That she was working for me? How did you know that?"

  "Elementary. Your juvenile hooligans talk too much."

  "I see. Now tell me what message you carried to him from John Guard, and why, and what Guard has to do with this and with Barnett."

  "Sorry," Solo murmured "Sudden attack of amnesia."

  "Indeed!" Green flicked a glance around at his henchman. "Flanagan! No, Ponti, you're nearer. Make her scream, would you?"

  "Si. A pleasure." The man addressed showed vivid white teeth in a grin.

  "How dare you?" protested Miss Thompson. "Take your hands—" the words chopped off in a shriek that was as much outraged astonishment as pain. Solo stiffened, but Kuryakin's voice came, cold and chill.

  "You won't gain anything like that. You intend to kill us all anyway, so why should we tell you anything?"

  "Admirably put, Mr. Kuryakin, and impeccably logical. There's very little you can tell us, in any case, that we do not already know." His snake-like glance went to Miss Thompson again. "Come here. One silly move, gentlemen, and she dies first. Stand there, to one side."

  She was an inch taller than he and stared at him in open dislike, clutching the diaphanous robe.

  "You've ceased to be of any use to me, Louise. But you know far too much, and you talk too much. Your mouth will have to be stopped." There came the shock crack of his palm as he struck her across the face without any warning, sending her reeling backward. His glass cold eyes returned to the two men, the gun in his hand as steady as ever.

  "Your disposal presents a pretty problem. I am an artistic man. I like things to be done with a flair. Design and attention to detail is the factor that marks the intelligent man from the moron. Strip them!"

  Solo moved instinctively in rejection, and that pistol moved with him, its tunnel-like muzzle centered implacably on him. Over it Green's eyes were chill. Solo shrugged and permitted the rough hands of the seamen to wrench his clothing from him.

  "That will do," Green decided, when both men were down to underpants. "Leave the clothes here. Later you will douse them with alcohol. For now, come, and pay close attention. You two, march!"