The Cross of Gold Affair - Davies Fredric - Страница 7
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Napoleon was unsure which question he should field first. Before he could make the decision, MacInnes was talking into an intercom.
“Mrs. Stark, get me the billing records on Breelen’s common, for the last six months.” He smiled at Napoleon again, and asked, “Is there any other stock you’re interested in?”
“Ah … no, no thank you. Just Breelen’s.”
MacInnes started chatting to fill the time. His conversation was a series of questions. Napoleon gave up trying to follow them, much less answer. Minutes later, the huge door swung open, and two young men entered, carrying a portable file between them.
“That is it, Mr. Solo. The list you asked for.” With satisfaction, MacInnes watched Napoleon’s eyes begin to glaze over. “Breelen’s common has been one of the most active stocks on the Exchange in the past few months. There have been thousands of short term speculations. We have made a tidy sum in brokerage fees. One of our most popular stocks.”
Napoleon brought out his U.N.C.L.E. communicator. “Illya, are you there?”
“Yes, Napoleon, what is it?”
“Get a team up here for some data collection. Have them ask for Mr. MacInnes. In fact, you’d better have Mr. Waverly get a couple of teams on this. There’s probably quite a bit more coming at our next stop.”
“Right! By the way, what’s a four-letter word for South African money?”
MacInnes looked up. “Rand, Mr. Solo. Tell him R-A-N-D.”
“R-A-N-D.” Napoleon repeated obediently. “What’s a rand?”
“You’re investigating Breelen’s and you don’t even know what a rand is? Weren’t you informed that Breelen’s is worth hundreds of millions of rands? Weren’t you told that the stock is actually backed by the rand?” The series of questions continued.
Napoleon excused himself, and left MacInnes still barking questions.
“Hundreds of millions of rands?” he asked. Mrs. Stark gave him her severest look. A vision of an African in a loin cloth, pushing a wheel barrow full of colorful paper money through the automatic doors of a modem supermarket, flitted irreverently through his mind.
“Mrs. Stark, how much is a rand? How many hundred to the dollar?”
The secretary paused. “Rands are about two to the pound sterling, sir. That’s about a dollar forty.”
Napoleon’s eyes glazed over again. It took two close misses in crossing the street to jar him back to reality. He consulted the list of seventeen brokers suggested by U.N.C.L.E. Research. At somewhere between half an hour minimum and an hour maximum per visit they would easily fill the two days. Picking the furthest away from U.N.C.L.E. headquarters to start, he put the car into motion and turned into the one way traffic on the avenue.
“Who was Peer Gynt’s mother?
“Mrs. Gynt, of course,” Napoleon answered, without hesitation. “Why don’t you take up chess problems, or knitting?” Illya retreated into silence.
The second through fifth brokerages, much smaller than MacInnes’, gave Napoleon nothing more in the way of leads. The sand under his eyelids felt as though it planned to take up permanent residence. Lunch gave him a chance to rest his aching feet, then it was back to bearding brokers.
By the ninth stop Napoleon was well on the way to hating the world of high finance. To make things worse, Illya had run into a snag in the crossword puzzle.
“Look, why don’t you just call headquarters? It’s almost five; surely Mr. Waverly solved the puzzle hours ago. He can fill in all your blanks and I can have some peace.”
Illya’s return look was filled with soul-pain. Obviously Napoleon didn’t understand crossword puzzles. “You’re the type who would cheat at solitaire.”
“At least I finish the game.” He backed the sedan into an open alley. “One more and we call it a day.”
Napoleon, limping slightly, dodged hot dog venders and taxis as he crossed to Gambol and Associates. He was received by a young blonde who escorted him in to see Mr. Gambol without ado.
“Yes, sir.” Gambol was the youngest and most earnest looking broker Napoleon had yet met. “How can I be of service, Mr. er, ah … ?”
“Solo-Napoleon Solo.” Napoleon went into the little spiel he was perfecting. “I’m with the U.N.C.L.E., and I am investigating the possibility of a large scale stock manipulation.” The little speech continued by itself as Napoleon glanced around the dingy room. Gambol and Associates wasn’t doing too well.
“But, Mr. Solo, surely you must understand that the trust my clients place in me cannot be, er, ah.” The sentence petered out, but Napoleon felt he knew what Gambol meant. He had met variations on this same theme since leaving MacInnes.
“U.N.C.L.E. isn’t asking you to betray a trust. We have good reason to believe that most of the buyers of Breelen’s common stock are working in a conspiracy. You owe it to the rest of your customers to help us.”
“I’m afraid I can’t just take your word for it. I’ll have to call your office to check your bona fides.” Gambol picked up the telephone at his elbow and clicked the receiver rest several times. “Miss Burke, get me the U.N.C.L.E., please.” He smiled apologetically to Napoleon. “I’m sorry, Mr. Solo, but I really must check. You might be who you say, but you might just as easily be a spy of some sort.”
Wondering just what Gambol thought a spy would be doing in his office, Napoleon smiled reassuringly.
“Oh, hello. This is Jason Gambol of Gambol and Associates.” Gambol was more brisk now. After a pause he continued. “Yes, that’s right, the broker.”
“I have a gentleman here by the name of Solo, Napoleon Solo. He claims to be an agent of the U.N.C.L.E. He has asked me questions about gold stocks and my clients.” He paused again.
“I just wanted to check. How much can I tell him?” Gambol smiled earnestly at Napoleon.
“Thank you, I shall. Yes, goodbye.”
He turned back to Napoleon. “Well, Mr. Solo, I had no idea you were as important as all that. Ask me anything, anything at all.” Gambol was fairly bursting with enthusiasm.
Napoleon wondered what the girl in U.N.C.L.E. Reception had told Gambol, as he repeated his spiel. Gambol shouted for his Miss Burke. “The billing files on Breelen’s, Miss Burke.” The blonde scampered from the room, followed by Gambol himself, shouting further instructions.
Napoleon sat back, wearily. His eyes burned, his head hurt, his feet hurt, and he needed about twelve hours’ sleep. The communicator in his pocket beeped.
“Go ahead, Illya,” he said quietly.
“What’s a petty annoyance in fifteen letters?”
“Crossword puzzle! The answer is crossword puzzle.” He slapped the communicator silent and closed his eyes again.
“Sit quite still, Mr. Solo.” The voice was Gambol’s, but the inflection was deadly. Napoleon opened his eyes and counted three pistols pointed his way. Gambol wasn’t alone.
Wishing he hadn’t cut the Great White Hunter off quite so quickly, Napoleon smiled up at Gambol. “Do you treat all of your clients this way? Or is this a special, today only?” One of Gambol’s burly assistants stepped forward. The pistol in his hand slammed down. Napoleon managed to roll with the blow. Faking unconsciousness, he slumped forward. The second blow knocked him into darkness. He didn’t even feel the third.
“One of you get his communicator and gun, and help me get him into the car. Porpoise wants to ask him a few questions.” Gambol tied Napoleon’s wrists with some shipping twine. Another of his assistants picked Solo up and carried him like a sleeping baby.
“You two check out front-Solo doesn’t travel alone. Kuryakin is probably out there waiting for him. Get him-dead will do; Porpoise doesn’t need to question them both.”
Napoleon’s inert form was bundled into a service elevator. He was half dragged into the alley behind Gambol’s and dumped into the rear of the car. Gambol tossed a trench coat over the body and prepared to drive away.
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