"Solo!" The tone was chill dignity distilled. "Are you responsible for this? You fool!"
"Not so foolish as to believe you would honor a bargain."
Beeman's face rippled, indicating the whirlpool of thought beneath. "This man is raving." He turned to Willis. "I imagine he has spun you some fantastic story about a lady being held aboard this craft. She is here, of course!" He extended all the force of his personality now, radiating good fellowship. "I wouldn't be so silly as to deny that. But she is here as a guest. Lieutenant, we are men of the world. I ask you to understand how awkward this could be. She is at present with Mr. Green—"
"Nice try," Solo interrupted. "But no cigars, Beeman. Mr. Green has no say now. But Miss Perrell has. Let her in, Illya. She can still talk, Beeman, enough to tell what the real purpose is of her being here. And as an independent witness—Walker, show yourself to the man." Solo moved to one side to let Walker appear in the light, but he watched Beeman closely. The fat man was tense but far from beaten yet.
"Miss Perrell"—he ducked his head courteously—"and Mr. Walker. As witness to what? I wonder. Miss Perrell appears to be whole and unharmed. But what of Mr. Green? What have you two done to him?" That voice grew hard as Beeman snatched at a straw and turned it into a club. "We can't hear Mr. Green's story, can we? Because you savages have killed him. Murderers!" He revolved on Willis again. "Lieutenant, I insist you carry out your duty as a responsible person. I insist you carry out a search, now, for Mr. Green's body. And that you hold these two men responsible."
Willis looked disconcerted at this twist. He eyed Walker. The young sub-lieutenant shrugged uneasily.
"He's dead all right, Number One."
"That does it!" Willis became firm. "Cox'n, you'd better take a walk back there and check—"
"Hold it!" Solo spoke now, suddenly very tense. "Just a moment. I know this cabin. Illya?"
"That's right. I was just thinking the same thing. We've heard it."
"Yes. Hardwood floor. Table in the middle. Window." He went across to it, to verify that it went straight down to the sea, outside. "This is it, all right." He turned back to the occupants of the cabin. "Keep well away from that table, Beeman. Cox'n Armitage, I want you to do me a favor. Just a little one. I'd like you to get down and take a look at the underside of that table."
"What outrageous nonsense is this?" Beeman roared. "What do you expect to find, a bomb? Do I strike you as the suicide type?"
Solo ignored him, watched Armitage, who looked to Willis for a lead. Willis nodded resignedly and the chief petty officer went down on his knees to lean under and peer. And grunt.
"Blimey, there is something here, stuck up by the leg. A bomb?"
"It's not dangerous to any of us," Solo declared sternly. "Dangerous only to you, Beeman. It is a miniature tape recorder, planted there by the girl you called Marie. The girl you ordered beaten to death, right here in this cabin. And it recorded all that—I've heard it. You see, she took the tape when she left, when she hauled her broken body out of that window and drifted to the beach—"
Beeman exploded into action, moving incredibly faster than seemed possible for a man of his bulk. Nan Perrell went aside like a doll. Walker grunted and fell aside in the opposite direction. Kuryakin was hurled bodily aside as the fat man rampaged through the door and out into the dark. Solo tore after him, scrambling and hopping over the assorted bodies, charging out into the dark, peering about, just in time to see a gross form pose by the rail and then leap down into the sea. Without stopping to think, Solo ran like a hare for the rail, launched himself into a low dive, struck the water cleanly and plunged deep. Kicking, he arched over and shot back to the surface.
"A light!" he yelled. "Give us a light!"
Seconds later he heard Illya on the bullhorn. "Launch ahoy! Man overboard, port side!"
Then, very soon, a white beam split the darkness, and the launch snored capably through the water to pick them up, willing hands hoisted him inboard.
"Thanks," he gasped, "but it's not me you're looking for. There's another man down. I was right behind him, he can't have gone far."
He crouched in the bows, shivering and wet, while a sea man swung the searchlight on the wheelhouse roof and the launch quartered the sea patiently, but there was no sign. After half an hour Woods called him from the wheel."
"Dead or alive, Mr. Solo, he's a mile away by now. We'll never find him in this. She's starting to blow hard. Might as well give it a miss. Scrub around. You need a change of clothing anyway."
The launch put back to Trojan. So did the small boat that had carried the stop and check party. This time the gathering in the Trojan wardroom had a different feel about it. Hope made his own position clear.
"My orders were to render all assistance to you two. I think you'll agree matters have gone a bit beyond that now. I'm radioing a full report back, plus a message from Miss Perrell to her superiors. For now, I propose to put a skeleton crew aboard the yacht and escort her back to Harwich, where the higher ups can sort things out whichever way they think fit. That's for later. Right now I have a different kind of problem. You see, we're just a destroyer. We're not designed to accommodate guests. Or prisoners. Hanged if I know which you are, to be honest. So look here, if you can give me assurance that there'll be no more malarkey, I propose putting you back on that yacht. After all, she's got the space."
"Sounds like fun." Nan Perrell grinned her crooked grin. "A trip on a millionaire's yacht, plus a naval escort. It will be something to look back on while I'm in jail."
"You won't do any time in jail," Walker growled. "Not if I have anything to say about it. I saw that fishing line!"
"You'll get your chance to talk at the proper time, Walker. All right, then, let's get you lot back there and get moving, shall we?"
The three of them gathered in the cabin where it had all started, now silent and a little weary. Solo found a seat and sagged.
"It's all gone cockeyed," he complained, and she stared at him.
"Don't run yourself into the ground, Napoleon. You've done wonders, you and Illya. Green's gone. Beeman's gone. The customs people will take this craft apart and find—"
"They won't find a thing!" Kuryakin disagreed. "Oh, Beeman and Green were smuggling something, sure enough, but I doubt if it's here. If only we could have held Green, made him talk!"
"Sorry about that, Illya. I hit him too hard."
"Now look!" She came to stand between them indignantly. "What about me? You saved my life, remember?"
Solo looked up at her. "You're safe, yes, and we're glad of that. Very glad. You see, as soon as we saw Beeman's note it was obvious that we had blazed a trail back to you that even a blind man could have followed. So it was our fault that you fell in. And to be honest, we never expected to see you alive again. Knowing Beeman's form, we had to assume you written off."
"But you came just the same."
"Because he had given us a clue where to find him, that's all."
A tap at the door interrupted them, brought Walker with a companion, the small steward. Solo saw now that he was Chinese and very woebegone.
"Fu Manchu, here, is a good boy now," Walker chuckled. "Anything you want, just order. He's brought coffee."
The Chinese bobbed humbly. "Name Joe Lee, not Fu Manchu. You want supper, maybe?" He got no offers on that. Kuryakin asked:
"How about sleeping space?"
Lee blinked, recited as if from a map in his head. "This cabin, port forward, belong top guests. Four beds, two this side, two that. Clean and fresh all the time. Starboard forward used only for dinner and company, no sleeping, no sheets but can fix. Two little cabins midships. Two more aft, one for Missa Green. Which you want?"
"We hadn't better disturb Green and the evidence. If you can make up the two midships cabins for me and Illya—"
"That's enough!" Nan Perrell cut in again. "If I could sleep, which I doubt, I am not staying all alone in this cabin. Joe, you make up three of the four here. I'll
help you."
Beneath their feet engines started to throb. Lee looked up from the sheet he was smoothing down and sighed. "Go now. Be in harbor soon. Then police come, plenty trouble."
"For everybody," Kuryakin agreed, and added something that made the little man turn his head abruptly and then scuttle for the door.
"Bring breakfast, one bell. Egg-bacon-coffee-grapefruit for everybody, is O.K.?" and then he was gone.
"What did you say to him, Illya?"
"Very wise old Chinese saying, not by Chairman Mao. A wise man stops when he has one hand full of trouble."
"In other words, don't bite off more than you can chew?"
"Something like that. It looks as if we have chewed up a lot more than we can bite off, this time."
"And we can't call out for help, either," Solo pointed out. "Not this time."
"You keep on writing me off," she said, unbuttoning her dress and draping it over the foot of the bunk. "I'm still here, thanks to you. And this, I think, is where you are going to see just what Charles can do, when he tries. We will be taken care of, don't you worry
"I hope you're right," Solo poured a cup for himself and sipped it. "Incidentally, how did you come to get suckered into Beeman's clutches."
"Confession." She sat, extended a leg and began unbuckling her gun straps. "I overlooked the number one rule about phone calls. I got one, at seven-thirty. I was expecting Charles. Instead it was Monty Hagen, from Danby Hall. Would I care to run over and explain about your queer behavior the night before? And—I blush to admit it—I fell for it."
"How do you mean, fell for it?" Kuryakin asked, crossing over and dropping to a knee beside her. "Here, let me help. Your fingers aren't straightened out yet."
"I should have rung back. Obviously. I could kick myself. Especially when I think about it. I mean, when in the world did any of the Danby household ever see daylight before eleven A.M.?"
"So it was a fake?"
"But of course!" She smiled gently, changed legs. "I should have known. Monty would be easy enough to mimic. Anyway, off I went, eyes full of stars about you two. And you may remember that dip in the road, just before the left hand curve away past the turnoff for Beeman's place?"
Kuryakin looked up from his unbuckling. "Don't tell me you went down there to take a look at the wreckage?"
"I'm not quite that crazy, Illya, dear. No, it was better than that. I went sailing down into that dip, into what looked like morning mist. Only it was tear gas. And the road was full of those metal spike things they use to ruin tires. I had a lively couple of minutes keeping myself on the road as all four wheels went flat. And then I was peering, bleary eyed, into the business end of several lethal looking guns. And that was it!"
"Neat!" Solo sighed. "Beeman thinks fast. Rushed you to Croydon, a private plane, on to Dungeness, and aboard. You knew about the note?"
"I watched them write it. I guessed you'd play his game, but I didn't want that. You see, I had already written myself off. I saw him as he really was, and I knew there was not much hope. But now he's gone, and that slimy little man Green, and we're still here."
"Right. Nothing more to do now but pick up the odd ends and hope that Charles will work a miracle or two."
But it wasn't all over, and Solo knew it. As he stretched out on his bunk and courted sleep there were problems still. That damned cube of power, for one. That was the main item, and where was it?
He was still grinding mental gears over that as the yacht went in and alongside the quay the next morning. Trojan had gone alongside first, and young Walker, standing be side them on the upper deck, said in confidence:
"They'll shove a brow over in a minute, for a gangway."
But "they" didn't. Instead, many heads came to peer down at the yacht: then ropes were lowered and men came swarming down, sharp eyed men in the uniforms of customs officers. One, older than the rest and looking harassed, approached the three.
"Miss Perrell, Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin?"
"That's us. What can we do for your
"I have instructions to pass you three off just as you are." He made it sound like punishment. "Anything you'd care to tell me, first? I mean, like what we might be looking for?"
"Drugs, possibly," Nan offered.
"Also jewelry," Solo murmured. "Unusual stuff. Small black things, cut into odd shapes."
"You wouldn't just happen to have them in your pocket now, would you, by any chance?"
"I wish I had. It would give me the greatest pleasure to turn them over to you at once, believe me."
"I have instructions to do just that. Believe you, I mean. Oh well, it looks as if we have a right one, this time. You're Sub-Lieutenant Walker, I take it? Right. Nobody leaves this ship until I say so. Nobody—except you three, of course."
Kuryakin took hold of a dangling rope's end and waved for slack. Then he looped and knotted swiftly, held it for Nan. "Sit in this loop, take this one around your back, hold on, and fend off with your feet!"
"Entertainments for the forces!" she murmured, arranging herself. "So far as I'm concerned, they've earned it. Hoist away!"
"She's quite a girl!" Kuryakin declared, watching her exhibitionist progress. "It's a pity we're going to have to knock her down again."
"Eh?" Solo stared at him wonderingly. "Why?"
"That thing about the seventh stone. I think I've got it. You keep on trying for a bit, see if you get it too. Take it from that phony phone call and see where it gets you."
"I like you least when you're being all enigmatic and Slavic," Solo grumbled.
But he had to be content, knowing full well that Illya could be mulish when it suited him. Lieutenant Commander Hope met them on the Trojan deck and managed to look a trifle less sad than usual.
"You've given us something to talk about for months. Especially you, my dear. Thank you. My orders are to let you carry on. Your clothes are dry, Mr. Solo. And I'm to hang on to that recorder, as evidence. I think that's all. It's been very nice having you."
And then, surprisingly quickly, it was all over and they went once more along the quayside, until Nan Perrell halted with a snort of dismay.
"We should have borrowed some cash off him," she declared. "How are we going to get back? I haven't a penny on me. Can't even make a phone call!"
"I think we're saved." Solo peered ahead, saw a familiar black and shiny bulk. "Friend Charles has ordered the car."
He marched up to the tiny driver, smiling, and she grinned cheerfully back at him. "Ready when you are, sir," she said.
FIFTEEN
THE DAIMLER had a let down seat against the backrest which enabled Nan to settle herself facing the two men. It also gave her the chance, which she took, to show off her long and shapely limbs to great advantage. She leaned forward seriously. "What was all that about jewels? Little black things?"
"Your chance to prove that you are not just a pretty face, Nan. We know what Beeman was after, what Mary Chantry stumbled onto." With care, Kuryakin brought her up to date, relating what they had learned from Carpenter, what they had seen on Beeman's desk, and then he carefully reminded her, and Solo, of what Mary Chantry had said about the seventh stone.
"You think that comes into it, Illya?"
"Definitely. It's the key to the whole thing."
"Some key. Oh well, if you say so." Solo leaned back and scowled, chewing his lip. Nan looked from one to the other, settled on Solo.
"Is he often like this?"
"Pretty often. Likes to show off that he is a very smart Russian. The trouble is, he really is just that. The more foolish we look, the more his ego will swell."
"You want a clue?" Kuryakin offered, and she made a face at him, but had to admit it in the end.
"All right, clever dick, what's the clue?"
"That phone call from Monty Hagen—was genuine. No fake."
Her amusement withered instantly. "You can't possibly say that. It was an impersonation. It must have been,"
"Assume that it
wasn't and see what follows."
"But it's ridiculous! Monty Hagen?"
"You wanted a clue. Here's another. Exhibition is camouflage. You said so yourself. You also said, remember, that Lady Herriott always, somehow, seemed to be on that same channel steamer that the drugs came in by. So you add it up. You are trying to smuggle something highly valuable into the country. You carefully plant some drugs on an innocent party—you said yourself that the follow-ups were dead ends. You allow a tip to leak out. The customs men make their pounce. And your real smuggler walks through without so much as a glance from anyone."
"But they can't be!" she cried. "Not Maggie Herriott!"
"You mean you don't want to believe it, any more than you would have believed us about Uncle Henry if we had tried to tell you. You know, you keep on getting personal values mixed in with your thinking."
"I refuse to accept it," she said through her teeth. "Call Maggie anything else. A moral hedonist, halfwit, fool, any thing. But not crook!"
"Just like Uncle Henry," Solo stated grimly. "Dear, harmless, sweet old Uncle Henry. He couldn't be a murderer. He wouldn't cut your fingers off or put a garrote around your neck, not him! Never!"
She went white as death, and her voice was tight and small as she said, "All right. Yes, I asked for that. I was wrong about Beeman. But not. about Maggie Herriott!"
"She wears a halo?"
"Stop it! All right, you may have something. It's barely possible. But this time we must have evidence, some kind of proof. You two are not going to rampage all over Danby Hall, smashing and charging, breaking up the place, killing people, on some wild hunch! Not if I have anything to say about it."
"Certainly not." Kuryakin's voice was icily polite now. "That's the wrong way, isn't it? The next time your life is in danger I'll write a long letter to Charles, to tell him all about it, give him time to work out some careful plan, while you sit and count your fingers!"
"You know how to hurt," she whispered, "when you want to."
"Nobody is trying to hurt you," Solo growled at her, and then leaned forward to check with the Wren driver. "Miss Heston, do you have instructions where to take us?"
19 - The Power Cube Affair Page 15