The Power Cube Affair - Phillifent John T. - Страница 11
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She was competent enough. Solo watched her work on his colleague's arm and winced a time or two at the forthright way she employed her strong and shapely hands. Then he noticed that Illya wasn't wincing at all. When it came his turn to be doctored, he realized why. She looked rough, almost most casual, but her touch was precise.
"You're pretty good," he admitted, as she finally smacked pads over the wounds and tacked them into place with strips of tape. "You look as if you're hammering dough, but you're gentle, really."
"Thank you. I've had lessons enough. Whatever I do, I like to do it right. There you are. You'll live. Now she whirled away to grab at a telephone that stood on the mantelpiece, dialed swiftly and made a gesture. "Move apart so I can sit between you and you'll be able to listen in. Charles? I'm at home. Napoleon and Illya are with me. No, shut up and hear me out, not fun and games but a little fracas. Mr. Green strikes again." She told the tale efficiently and without adjectives.
The old man waited until she was done, then simply asked, "Any harm done?"
"Mostly to them. On our side one crocked shoulder, on slit arm, nothing that won't be cured by tomorrow, I imagine."
"Good. I think Roger's office will have to be disinfected. I'll see to that. Can they hear me?"
"Loud and clear, sir," Solo said. "If I might suggest, it can't hurt to put a tail on Miss Thompson, find out who her boss is."
"That's one way of getting a lead on Mr. Green, certainly. I'll have it attended to. In the meanwhile you two had better stick close to Nan and communicate with no one at all. I presume you're armed?"
"No, sir." Kuryakin answered for both. "We have instructions against that while we're in the U.K."
"That's not so good. Nan, I'll lay on a routine jaunt for you in the morning, to get you and those two out of town for a bit, give you the chance to teach them a thing or two." The click as he hung up was quite audible. She rose, put away the instrument and turned to face them.
"I think I'm going to enjoy lessons with you two. Now, it's late and we need to be up and about early tomorrow. I'll bring you a drink each, tuck you in, kiss you good night, and that will be it."
The pajamas were laid out on each bed. The two men made the change swiftly and in thoughtful silence.
"She has something more than a chip on her shoulder," Solo said at last, as he slid between the sheets. "Damned if I don't think she is making an open play for both of us. And she called you a tiger?"
Before Kuryakin could offer comment there came a rap on the door and Miss Perrell came briskly in. She held a tray with bottle and glasses.
"I imagine I look like one of those California waitresses," she said, putting the tray down. "Say when!"
"If it would have achieved anything I would have said 'when' some time ago," Kuryakin declared. "I also was responsible for the idea of a truce between us, but I didn't mean to suggest fringe benefits."
The corner of her mouth came up again as she grinned. "Let me invent a proverb for you," she said. "Looking at the goods in the shop window doesn't cost a thing, but if you're thinking of buying, the price comes high. Very high. Good night now." With complete aplomb she bestowed a hearty buss on each cheek in turn and marched out.
"I know another proverb," Solo observed. "When pretty lady lays the kindling in the grate and applies a match, she certainly is not praying for rain!"
"I hesitate to correct an expert, Napoleon, so let's just say I think you may be wrong. However, I think we can agree that we should discourage such complications."
"Give her the brush, you mean? That's not going to be easy, Illya. There was no point in telling friend Charles, but we're going to need all the help we can get. We have precious little to go on. One yacht, one Absalom Green, one mystery man with a voice like Orson Welles. One reference to Gorchak, whatever that is. Reference to jewels, problem, twenty-five pieces with two more to go. Seventh stone—can you fit seven into twenty-five or twenty-seven, Illya?"
"This is going to take more than mathematics. A man doesn't kill and order killings unless it's something big. Even if we are on vacation there's no reason why one of us can't call in one afternoon at the office and see what gossip there is. If any."
"No harm at all." Solo snuggled down. "But it will have to wait a bit, until the evidence of assault and battery wears off. Meanwhile we both have to be polite—but nothing more—to Miss Perrell."
"As you say," Kuryakin sighed, "it's not going to be easy. I fancy she intends to teach us some tricks, and I hate to think what they might be."
FIVE
THE MORNING began pleasantly enough, if a trifle earlier than they would have chosen. Miss Perrel1 inspected their injuries, while Curtis returned their clothing almost as good as new, and by the time they all sat down to a tasty break fast there was no echo of the previous evening's strain, apart from a twinge or two. Miss Perrell was the perfect hostess, and they were all highly amused by the newspaper account of "gang-warfare again." In fact, Solo thought, if he could only get used to the lady's habit of wearing dresses that looked as if they had been designed for a stunted twelve year old, he could have enjoyed himself very much.
"I've had my instructions," she told them, "and we're all going for a brisk run down to Folkestone this morning. It will give me a chance to see the place where Mary got it, and where your Mr. Guard lives. You must tell me more about him."
"You'd probably get on with him," Solo suggested. "May be we could call in and see him if he's allowed visitors."
"All right," she said. "Now, the sooner we start the better, as it's a busy road. But you already know that, as you drove down there the day before yesterday, didn't you?"
"We went early. Tip from John to beat the traffic."
"Wise man. I like him already,"
By nine o'clock the A20 had taken them as far as Farmingham, and on her suggestion, they halted long enough to let Kuryakin take the wheel, so that she could sit between them in the front seat.
"Getting to be a habit," she chuckled. "Actually, it's only because I hate talking across somebody and I like to be in the middle of things. While we're on the subject, you two are going to need a car. Be advised, please. Not a hired job. Not a flashy great thing like this, either. I am deliberately conspicuous, as I've told you. But you two should aim at something old, second-hand, inconspicuous."
"Just how do we acquire that?"
"Very simply. I'll give you the name and address of a little dealer I know, and he will fix you up, no awkward questions asked. Now, tell me about John Guard. Is he as handy as you two at smearing the opposition?"
"I'll tell you this." Solo was suddenly very serious. "Johnny used to carry all the gadgetry and gimmicks we all do, but he never liked them. His feeling was that you grow to count on a gun or a minibomb or things like that. Then, after a while, you're leaning on them like crutches. You get fat and slow. He always preferred to use only his hands, and without any doubt at all he could put me and Illya away for keeps without turning a hair. If he wanted to, that is. But he wouldn't even move unless he was personally involved." He watched her profile, saw the breeze stirring pink in her cheek and the butter blonde hair whipping away from her face.
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