19 - The Power Cube Affair (20 page)

"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?"

"No, sir. Wherever you say."

"Right. Back with you in a moment." He fixed Nan with a hard eye. "We can go to your place first. You'll get Charles on the phone and ask him where he has been getting the tipoffs about the drugs. Maybe that will go part of the way to establishing some kind of evidence. Now, you tell her the route." She did more. She had the car stopped while she removed herself to the front seat, and then they roared on once more.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Illya," Solo muttered.

"By which I gather that you have not yet cracked the riddle?"

"You know damned well I haven't. But I will."

And by the time they pulled into the forecourt of Nan's home, he had. At least, he believed he had, but he left it unsaid as he saw the white lines of rage around her jaw and the way she strode indoors and to the phone.

"The inquiries will take a moment or two. No reason why we can't rest and have a cup of something. Curtis!"

"Very glad to see you safe and sound again, miss. And you, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin. I hope you dealt with them properly?"

"I'm afraid we were rather crude and rough," Kuryakin said, and Nan beamed him a glare of blue fire before putting on a smile for Miss Heston. It was almost fifteen minutes before Charles came through. Solo stood by her shoulder as she took it, and heard the old voice, tinged with irritation.

"I hope you have good reason for this, Nan. I don't usually betray my sources, and it's not always easy to back check them. However, you say Solo wanted to know, and I respect his guesswork. The tips have been corning, in the first place, from a chap called Hagen. That what you wanted?"

"That's what we thought." Solo grabbed the instrument as she choked on the words. "And not my intuition, Illya's. He's the inspired one between us. I just do the hard work. I think we're going to have that power cube for you, soon."

"Power cube? What the devil do you know about that?"

"Plenty. We'll get back to you later." He hung up and put a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. "Don't let it throw you, Nan. We can all make mistakes. I've made a few, one way or another. Come on, let's get it over with."

Again she sat up front with Miss Heston, to point the way, but now there was a droop to her shoulders. She turned to point as they took the sharp dip she had told them about.

"There's my poor old Princess."

Danby Hall didn't look nearly so fiendish by daylight, just an old and cozily weatherbeaten old mansion, with a gleaming white MG standing in the sunlight as they rolled to a stop.

"Nice car!" Solo commented, as they climbed out. "Who drives that, Evadne?"

"She and Monty share it between them. Shall we go in?"

They were approached by a stately butler, last seen by Solo in the guise of a Roman slave. He suppressed a grin at the thought.

"We'd like to see her ladyship, please," he said.

"I will inquire—" the butler began, and was cut short by a twitter from the top of a magnificent stairway. Lady Herriott came trotting down.

"Nan! And the two fugitives! What a lovely surprise! I'm furious with you two, of course, for running away the other night, but I'll forgive you if you'll promise to come again some other time. Will you?"

"That's hard to say. Lady Herriott, this is hardly a social call."

"Oh!" She fluttered a hand anxiously. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know yet. I'd like to see your rubies, if possible."

"These?" She twined her fingers in the string at her neck!

"And the other two sets. All at once, please!"

"Nan told you! Don't you think it was a clever idea?"

"Very ingenious," Kuryakin murmured. "Your own?"

"Heavens, no! I'm not a bit clever like that. No, Monty thought of it. He's bright, you know. Come along and I'll show you." She went trotting back upstairs and along a broad passage rainbow-lit by sunlight through stained glass windows. A door stood open at the far end, leading to an interior that was, predictably, in all shades of green. Lady Herriott scurried to an old-fashioned escritoire, then paused in indecision.

"Monty takes care of all my jewelry and trinkets. He really ought to be here. But I don't suppose he will mind. Here you are." She reached into a recess and brought out a lacquered work box, lifted the lid and set it down. Kuryakin went forward to look, to put in his fingers and lift out a string of egg sized bloodred stones, interspersed with delicate gold filigree. Lady Herriott. bowed her head and slipped off the string she was wearing, added it to the rest.

"There you are!" she said triumphantly. "I will wager you can't tell which is the genuine set!"

Kuryakin lifted out another, laid all three on the dark wood. He looked at her curiously. "You say this was Hagen's idea? And, I understand, you can't tell the difference yourself?"

"That's right. Aren't they good?"

"Very fine. Just one more thing. When you travel, you carry them all like this? All in that box?"

"Of course. That's the box I keep them in."

Solo sighed. He heard Nan Perrell gasp as it struck her. Kuryakin shook his head sadly. "Madam, you're not safe to be let loose. Don't you realize that this whole scheme to frustrate a possible thief, is useless? When all he has to do is lift the whole box and sort out one from the other later on, at his leisure?"

She stared, and then her face crumpled into total confusion. Watching her, Solo felt that she was either an incredible actress or just plain stupid. Then she said, "You must think me a fool. But still," she rallied valiantly, "you must admit that it works. I mean, they haven't been stolen, have they?"

"No? If you can't tell the real from the fake, how do you know that any of them are genuine?"

This time Lady Herriott staggered, her face chalk white and showing its age. "You'd better sit," Kuryakin advised. "There's more. A lot more." At that moment Evadne scampered into the room, dripping water and clutching a white bath towel negligently about her curves. She braked to a halt at the sight of company.

"Hello, you two! Hey, what's all the panic about? Monty just came bursting into the bathroom demanding the car keys—"

"Car keys!" Solo snapped, heading for the door. There came the sudden snarl of a revving engine from outside.

"Hold it!" Nan Perrell called, and stepped to the window. "You'll never catch him that way, but I can. She shoved the swinging pane, swept up her brief skirt with a double handed grab, rested her forearms on the ledge, and Kuryakin was there, looking over her shoulder. Her right hand weapon coughed and snapped. Down there the MG's rear right wheel exploded loudly, lifting the tail of the car up and around. As it swung her left hand gun spoke, snapped, and the corresponding front wheel erupted loudly. The car heeled over, hung a moment, then fell back and bounced heavily. She leaned out into the sunlight.