The Power Cube Affair - Phillifent John T. - Страница 37

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"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."

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