For some frantic seconds they rolled and snarled over each other like a pair of animals too evenly matched to have any advantage over each other. Then one squirming roll brought Solo's head up against the leg of the brass-bound bedstead, and Kuryakin seized the head by the ears and pounded hard. Solo wrenched strongly, kicked out, his shoe striking Kuryakin where the bullet had plunged into his leg, wincing the Russian into momentary agony and the chance to break free. He was away at once, diving into the corner after his gun. Again Kuryakin plunged after him, got a grip on one wrist and hung on desperately. He knew he was failing. This was a killing pace, and he was losing blood. Grunting with effort, his gaze began to fog up, magnifying the dusk of the room. He felt Solo rear up powerfully, and all he could do was to hang on for very life.
Then Solo gave a tremendous wrench, tore his wrist free, and the effort sent Kuryakin reeling backwards, to catch the back of his knees on the bed. Too late to stop himself falling, he went with it, flung himself all the way over in a backward roll, over the bed and to the floor on the far side. He landed heavily, gasped for breath, fought his way erect, and as his head cleared the bed level, he saw a blur of movement. He threw himself desperately aside. There was one more shattering roar from Solo's gun. The room filled with a great light, just for a moment, and then there was nothing at all but deep black darkness.
"Monsieur! Monsieur!" A cracked and quavering voice demanded his attention. He screwed his eyes open to peer up at the strained old face of a woman. She was in black, with lace edges to her apron. He remembered her dimly. The concierge. "You are alive, monsieur?"
"I think so," he mumbled, and accepted the loan of her arm to sit upright. His head thumped like a brass bell filled with mud. The old woman stared fearfully at him as he put delicate fingers to his head. There was a tender place at his temple and his finger tips came away red.
"The doctor has been summoned," she told him. "He will be here soon. It was an assassin?"
"Something like that. You didn't see him, I suppose?"
"Me? Praise be to Heaven I did not. I was on the stair. I heard a shot, then another, and another. I remained still, and screamed. And I waited for some time, then screamed again. What would you? It is not good, to be shot. Then Jules came, with questions, and we waited a while more. All was silent. We opened the door and found you, like this."
Heavily deliberate steps crackled across the floor and an old man with a white moustache came to stand and stare down at him.
"He escaped, monsieur. Through the bathroom skylight and up. That was formidable! The window has not been opened since I can remember. Ah, the doctor comes now. Do you wish that I summon the police?"
Kuryakin had been thinking as hard as his aching head would permit. He declined this last offer.
"It would not achieve anything, would it? The man is away, and with no traces or description, what can we do? I also wish to leave very soon. I would rather not be delayed with many questions. You understand?"
He reached for his wallet to facilitate their understanding, and his fingers brushed a folded piece of paper that he had not noticed before. He put it aside, passed crackling bank notes to the staff, then seated himself on the edge of the bed to make the doctor's inspection easier.
"You were fortunate, monsieur," the medical man informed him, after the blood had been sponged away and the bleeding halted. "This much to one side—" he held a finger and thumb very close, "—and you would never have needed a doctor again." Kuryakin thought that over carefully. It must have seemed to his assailant that he had been shot dead. And possibly it would be a good idea to let him go on thinking that. At the leg wound the doctor looked grave, and shook his head.
"For that, you should be in bed for a week, at least. If it is not convenient here, I can arrange an ambulance and hospital for you."
"That's all right. Just fix it so that I can travel. It will be cared for but I have a very important appointment to keep. Please?"
The doctor departed eventually and Kuryakin, while appreciating his professional skill, was glad to see the back of him. He needed time to think. The crisp memory of a grim, snarling and murderous face, dreadfully familiar, shook up all his preconceived ideas. He reached for his communicator, then stared at it a long while before putting it back in his pocket unused. That was out. He recalled the defection of Frank Stanton, and the total revision of communication methods that had made necessary. Now Solo had gone bad too, with all the inside information he had. Kuryakin set his jaw hard. All at once he felt very much alone.
But there were other channels. He screwed his head round stiffly, to stare at the telephone and think hard, in an attempt to remember the proper routine. Then he rose and limped round the bed to get at it. On the way he saw a dark slim object lying along the edge of the carpet, easy to miss if the light hadn't caught it just right. He kept his eyes on it as he settled on the bed again, lifted the telephone from its bracket and asked for a LOUVRE number. In a while there came to his ear a male voice in a bad mood. Yes, it agreed, this was the UNCLE Carpets and Furnishings Emporium and Wholesale Dealers, but there was no one present at such an hour except himself, the night watchman, and what else would anyone expect? Kuryakin wasn't put off. UNCLE Carpets was the front for U.N.C.L.E. Paris in just the same way that U.N.C.L.E. New York had an innocent front office.
"You will please inform M. Raymond Boncourt that his elderly and very impatient avuncular relative wishes urgently to speak with him. Il y a un situation tres desagreable." There was a click and a wait of approximately forty seconds, then a totally different voice asked, cautiously:
"Volga?"
"Right. Seine?"
"Oui! 'Allo, Illya. Why the round-the-houses approach, mon vieux?"
"Because all other channels are dangerous. Very dangerous. Leaking."
"Oh! All the other channels? You are positive?"
"Confirm. It is very bad. The little Corsican has turned his coat."
There came an audible gasp of shock. "Bleu! That is very bad. And very hard for me to believe."
"Me too. I got shot, twice, finding out. I am most probably dead right now."
"Comment? Oh. I comprehend. You need a funeral cortege, yes?"
"Nothing elaborate. Just get me out of here fast. I have to get this sad news to Greatuncle as quickly as possible. What about flight times?"
"A moment!" The voice went away, came promptly back. "A flight leaving Orly in thirty-five minutes. That suit you?"
"That will do very well. Now bring on your ambulance and carry the body away."
With that fixed he racked the telephone and went to pick up the odd object he had seen. As soon as his fingers touched it he knew what it was, and that Solo must have dropped it in the struggle. To the innocent eye it was no more than a propelling pencil with an eraser. But that eraser served as cover for a very fine lens, and the clip was the trigger that operated the camera up to a maximum of twenty exposures on a cunningly arranged roll of microfilm in the barrel of the pencil. Kuryakin slipped the pencil-camera into his pocket and pondered a while. Then he recalled the folded slip of paper that he had felt in his pocket, and groped for it. He unfolded it very carefully, because the paper was extremely thin and opened out into a fair sized sheet. It was an odd wiring diagram, not too well drawn, and at the first glance it didn't make much sense. Kuryakin scowled at it. There would be plenty of time, later, to puzzle out what it meant. His immediate problem was to account for its presence in his pocket.