19 - The Power Cube Affair (12 page)

"Last bus?" Solo queried. "Shouldn't worry, sir, I think it will be along. We're in a lucky mood tonight. Ah, there it comes now!"

The bus growled to a halt to let them aboard. They ran upstairs and were hardly seated before they felt the bus take a violent swerve to avoid a flaring obstruction. There, just off the left hand lane, a car stood on its nose in the ditch, ablaze. Five more minutes and the bus driver had to swerve again as a fire engine roared past, closely followed by an ambulance. Solo sat back and smiled.

"That's that," he murmured. "Up to Louise, now. I hope she tells the story properly."

"She will," Kuryakin said. "She's quite intelligent, despite her shape," and he whistled softly, paying no attention to Solo's stare.

NINE

NEXT MORNING, the room phone rang again. Solo answered it, to hear the switchboard girl tell him there was a lady on the line. With a fast gesture to Kuryakin he said:

"Thank you. Put her on," and he held his breath. But it wasn't Miss Thompson this time, although the voice was equally familiar.

"Mr. Solo?"

"Good morning, Miss Perrell. Nan. Nice to hear you. I was about to ring you, as it happens."

"Oh! Why?"

"Well, you remember that business about us being invited to the orgy at Danby Hall? We'd like to take it up."

"Are you deliberately trying to provoke me?"

"Not at all, but it seems a pity to miss such an occasion, especially since there doesn't seem to be anything else urgent. Or is there? I'm sorry, you rang me, didn't you?"

After a pause she sighed. "It wasn't urgent. I wanted to give you the name and address of a dealer who will fix you up with a small car and ask no awkward questions."

"That's very kind. One moment." He fished out a note book and pen. "Just off Tottenham Court Road," he noted.

Then, "About the Danby riot," said Miss Perrell. "You really want to go? Seriously?"

"Seriously," he confirmed, and heard her sigh again.

"It's a charity, you know. Can you afford it? There is no maximum, but the taken-for-granted minimum is one hundred pounds. In dollars—"

"Around three hundred, yes, I know. And yes, we can stand it."

"Very well, there's nothing more to say, I suppose. You can pick me up at my place in your new car, and I'll take you from there. Please be in properly formal clothes."

"All right. Not fancy dress?"

"No. Only the ladies are spectacular in this affair!"

Solo replaced the instrument and smiled thoughtfully; then he caught the glint in Kuryakin's eye and shrugged. "You heard. Charity."

"Some vacation! Thanks for helping me spend my own money!"

"Never mind. Think about the excitement, the thrills that set the blood coursing vigorously though the veins!"

"That part is fine. It's when it starts gushing out of the holes that I don't care for it. Napoleon, you go ahead on your own on this car business, I'm going to eat in. I'll pick you up later."

"Oh! Something in mind?"

"Nothing special. Only, the way the opposition is working at putting us away, they must be after something very important, and we have a very good information service right here. I thought maybe if I kept my ears open I might get a lead or two."

"Watch it now," Solo warned, "and see they don't wish some kind of job on you. Or us. Where'll I meet you?"

"Hmm!" Kuryakin mused. "For lunch, around twelve- thirty, at the Old Cock Inn. That's at the lower end of Fleet Street."

"Sounds something special. Is it?"

"Historical interest. As used by Charles Dickens, among others."

The "little car dealer" turned out to be a large and busy double fronted garage and service station, but by mentioning the name he had been given, Solo was rapidly passed from one to another until he wound up in an open area backing the gas pumps.

"Stone's the name," said a small, sharp eyed man in stained overalls. He put out a wiped hand in greeting. "You'll be Napoleon Solo, I reckon. I had a call about you."

"Good staff work. You'll know what I'm after, then?"

"I have just the job for you. This way." They halted by a car that made Solo lift his brows in wonder.

"She said small and inconspicuous, but this is a joke, isn't it?"

"Not on your life." Charlie Stone patted the red Mini affectionately. "This job may not be much to look at from the outside, but it's been worked over by an expert, let me tell you. Hop in!"

By the time Solo hopped out again he was convinced, and impressed. He was still a trifle breathless at the way a mere touch on the gas pedal brought instant and surging acceleration. Stone gestured him into a lean-to office and closed the door after them carefully.

"You'll have no trouble with her," he said, raking in a drawer for the necessary documents. "All I ask is, when you're done you bring her back here. On paper it will be a sale, and a trade in afterwards, but we don't need to bother about that, between us."

"That's very understanding of you."

"Never mind. There's something else you might be interested in. I don't know anything official, mind," Stone grinned wolfishly, "but I have a hobby. Might be in your line. This kind of thing." He slid something on to his desk, and Solo picked it up curiously. At first glance it looked like a rather thick strip of adhesive tape, flesh colored, eight inches long and an inch wide. Stone said:

"You peel off the backing, when you're ready, and stick it. Anywhere handy, like up the inside of your wrist. Or between your shoulder blades, if you like that better. For a woman, what with the way modern dresses are, on the inside of the upper arm is a good place. Anyway, once it's on, it won't come off easily, and it can't be seen. On this side, now..." He took it from Solo, and tugged at one end, where the surface was serrated, and all at once he had a knife in his hand. Three inches of it were pink padding, the remaining five were flexible steel. "This side's a razor edge, that's a diamond hard file along the other. Very handy."

"I agree. I've seen something just like this recently."

"I thought maybe you had. That's yours, if you want it."

Solo decided he did, and reached for his pocket, but Stone put up a hand.

"Compliments of the house, Mr. Solo. Just a hobby. I like to do what I can. There's all sorts of ways of helping out."

Solo reached the Old Cock about five minutes ahead of his appointment time, to find Kuryakin seated in the saloon nursing a pint mug of beer. The Russian agent looked up and grinned.

"Ask for Flowers," he advised, "and you'll get a pleasant Surprise."

"Got the car," Solo said, returning from the bar. "Show you it later. What did you get?"

"A lead or two. I dug up a newspaperman who used to work pretty closely with John Guard, swapping information. His name's Ray Carpenter; he should show up any minute now." Right on cue a long limbed, gangling man shoved through the door, stopped to look around, then came over to them with long strides.

"Kuryakin? Solo? I'm Carpenter. Shall we go straight in? I'm hungry, and I hate to rush a meal."

They followed him through into the rear regions, where there were small four seat tables in booths, red checkered tablecloths, old oak beams and an atmosphere of age. Carpenter ordered for all three, at their request.

"You can come back another time and soak up the atmosphere," he told them, "but right now the grub's the thing. You ask away, I'll do what I can to answer. All I know is that you're in the same game Johnny used to play, and he's caught it. At last. Can't say I'm surprised, the way he used to go at things, but anything I can do to hit the opposition, I will."

"He's not dead, you know," Solo offered. "In fact, unless we get on the ball, he's liable to break out of the hospital and go chasing them on his own. And these boys play it rough!"

"Can we get something straight first," Kuryakin murmured. "You're a newsman. We wouldn't want to strain your discretion."

Carpenter laughed. "I'll have to educate you the same way I did John. Look, forget the movie and TV version of a reporter, please. By them, all that comes in the ears pours out in print, regardless. Not true. I hear a thousand things I would like to see in print, but I never will, because they aren't the kind of things the public is prepared to buy. And I assure you, I would never dream of reporting any thing from or about you, or U.N.C.L.E., without your express O.K. first. All right now?"

Carpenter went silent as he ingested a large mouthful, then broke out again. "To give you a sample, look at the current ruction going on about population control. Every newspaper in the land ought to propagandize in favor, but they don't. You know why? Freedom of the individual. Every man likes to think he is free to choose for himself whether or not he's going to have a family, and he won't like any newspaper that tries to tell him he has no right to that freedom. You know why, again? Subconscious. He can't help thinking that if that kind of idea was accepted in society, he might never have been born!"

"About playing rough." Solo brought the talk back to business. "We might be able to drop something for you, at that. The girl who was found in the sea at Hastings, for instance. Her name's Mary Chantry, and she didn't die at Hastings, but on the beach outside John Guard's bungalow. That's how it all started. Then, you may have heard about a teenage riot on the Embankment, night before last. That was us. Somebody tried to have us removed. Again, last night, over Watford way, somebody broke into a villa, smashed the place up, scared the occupier into hysterics, then crashed their car as they drove off. Three drunken seamen. That, also, was us. Same idea."

"You move around, don't you?"

"We try. But we don't know who we're striking at, and that's where you could come in. What do you know about one Absalom Green, for instance?"

"Nothing for you." Carpenter frowned over a couple of swallows. "He is a connoisseur-dealer objet d'art man, specializes in gem stones and small carvings, trinkets, jewelry that kind of thing. Wealthy, owns a yacht, is reputed to skate close to the fringes now and then, but nothing to prove it."

"Suppose I told you the yacht is not his, but belongs to the man he works for?"

"You told me, now I know what I didn't know before. Sorry."

"All right." Solo sighed, made passes at his plate. "What about the Countess of Danby, then?"

"You can have her, Hippies make news. So do love-ins and pot, and any kind of improper sex and/or sadism. Flower people, even. But when a lot of very important and rich society folk get together for a party and have fun, that's no good to us. Lady Herriott's affairs are on the level. No crime. And for charity."

Solo scowled at this insider's view of press ethics. "What about a certain Miss Nanette Perrell, then?"

Carpenter straightened up a fraction, disposed of his current mouthful carefully, then asked, "Just how involved are you with her?"

"What difference does that make?"

"Plenty. I prefer to tell the truth as I know it, but not if it means you are likely to take me outside and beat my brains out. You know?"

"That's all right," Solo grinned. "We are not that kind of involved."

"Both of you? Well, that could be one way—I'll tell you, to us unfortunate sensation sellers Nan Perrell is known as the Deadly Peril, or the Kiss of Death, to taste. She is very rich, completely single, and extremely easy to get, at first glance. The pattern runs like this. She catches lions. The society kind. Men who are good at something and fool enough to brag about it. Swimming, shooting, wrestling, swords or arrows, high diving—you name it, brag about it where she can hear, and she'll flutter those baby blue eyes, kid you on to show off—and then smear you at your own game. She is good. Very, very good. What are you two good at?"

"Listening," Kuryakin murmured. "How long has she been fighting this private war of the sexes?"

"About seven or eight years. My guess is her father wanted a boy and never got over it. Jim Perrell was a mining engineer. Tough, like leather and piano wire. You know"––Carpenter pushed his plate away—"I have a theory about her. Someday she is going to run into the man who can beat her. And that will break her all to pieces. Then, if he cared to pick up the pieces, he would be able to do what he liked with her. End of sermon. Anything else I can do?"

"Yes." Kuryakin inserted himself into the discussion now in a tone that made Solo prick up his ears. "I hear rumors about what could be a silly season story. Something about it crazy Hungarian inventor who discovered a new electronic crystal formula that is supposed to amplify mental powers?"

"Hah!" Carpenter threw back his head in a laugh. "We've all heard it. That's the kind of thing that always creeps out of the woodwork about this time of year. Various versions. Some say it's yttrium iron garnet, others claim it's gallium arsenate."

"Arsenide," Kuryakin corrected. "I've checked on it. Peculiar stuff. In certain circumstances it displays negative resistance—"

"Hey!" Carpenter brought his head down again, and his eyes narrowed intently. "It's not a silly season rumor?"

"It may not be. What have you heard?"

"Basically the inventor is supposed to be one Devos Gorchak—"

"Right," Kuryakin nodded. "I know about him. Thrush has used him a time or two, but they won't hold him down, because he's unreliable. Crazy. Besides being a chemical electronics wizard, he is also a mathematics puzzle fanatic. The story I heard is that he's dead, but you can never believe that, with Thrush in the background."

"What'd he do?" Solo demanded, and Carpenter scowled.

"The story is that he perfected this crystal stuff and discovered that merely by touching a bit of it with a finger it amplified certain mental powers. According to the shape, it tunes in to different powers, like command, suggestion, sex attraction, inspiration, that kind of thing. According to one version, Gorchak took a bit of this stuff in his hand down the village street and he had every woman in the place following him like sheep."

"Just holding it in his hand?" asked Solo.