A wild thought insisted on being present in his mind. Perhaps Solo had not dropped his pencil camera by accident—but deliberately. And had added this enigmatic diagram at the same time. But why? It was tempting to believe that Napoleon was somehow playing both sides against the middle and acting some peculiar part, but there could be no doubt at all about his recent invasion. That had been intended murder.
Back in the office of M. Lafarge, Solo reported his success with a confident grin.
"Nothing to it. He gave me a fight, sure. I expected that. He was one of their best men. But not any more."
"You are absolutely sure?" Lafarge insisted.
"I didn't hang about for a medical report, if that's what you want. But I shot him I was as close to him as I am to you now. He went down. I waited, outside, to see the doctor come, and go away again, shaking his head. And then the meat-wagon came, and went. And so did I. What more do you want? He's dead!"
"Very well!" Lafarge shrugged. "I suppose it is fortunate that you were here to spot him. But unfortunate that now we shall not do business with the Soviets. That would have been profitable. Alas. Now, about this other matter. For two days you will remain under cover. Then, it is all arranged, you will fly direct to Miami Base, which is in Coral Gables. There you will be met. You will collect one dozen more radio-modules. You will leave again, almost at once, but you will not return here. You will proceed direct to Corfu, to Madame la Comtesse herself. These are her instructions. You understand?"
Solo looked up from cleaning his pistol and snarled angrily. "You bet I understand. I already knew all that, Louis."
"But how could you? The orders are sealed, and private to me!"
"Never you mind how, but I know exactly what the Countess wants from me, at any time. I just know." And he put up a hand to stroke the top of his head.
The little man with the busy steam-press in Del Floria's had to look a second time, and grin, before he was sure that it was Illya Kuryakin. The golden straggle of moustache and beard was bad enough, to say nothing of the bulky jacket and hairy pants, but what put the topper on it was the rakishly askew circlet of white bandage around his head. The little man widened his grin, opened his mouth for a brisk comment, then met the glacial stare in those blue eyes and forgot entirely what he had intended to say. Instead, he manipulated the trap that released the robing room panel; and wondered in silence just what the hell Illya had run into this time?
A similar stifled twist of amusement showed on the lips of the pretty receptionist as she pinned a badge on Kuryakin's lapel.
"I'll tell Mr. Waverly you're on the way up," she said, and her finger was on its way to the intercom automatically until he stopped her.
"You won't," he said coldly, "use that. You won't do anything at all until you hear directly from Mr. Waverly, which will probably be by telephone. This is an emergency. The condition is black!"
He walked stiffly away from her, fighting the tendency to limp. His leg ached. His head hurt. But that was only the minor stuff. There was a fire in his mind that he could hardly wait to unload. For once in his uncertain career he had the dubious satisfaction of seeing Alexander Waverly completely surprised.
"Mr. Kuryakin! You should still be in Paris!"
"Let us hope that a certain interested group of people also think so, and believe that I am, permanently. Don't touch anything yet, sir. I have to report that Thrush has got Napoleon Solo. Alive!"
For a long breathless moment the lead-lined office crackled with an utter silence. Then Waverly sighed and sat back.
"Have they, indeed? Sit down, Mr. Kuryakin, you look weary." He took up his desk telephone, pressed a button on it, and spoke. "Miss—close all forms of communication to and from this office except this telephone line to you that I am now using. Then issue firm instructions to cease all outgoing messages of any kind until I personally countermand that order. Is it understood? Good. Now, Mr. Kuryakin, I fancy I can guess what you mean by saying Thrush have got Mr. Solo, but I would prefer that you told me. In full detail, please."
The old man was a good listener. Apart from one early move, to reach out for a pipe to fondle in his sensitive old hands, he kept quite still. His leathery face remained impassive, his eyes down turned and half-closed, and he asked no questions until the account was complete. Then,
"There can be no doubt it was Mr. Solo?"
"None at all. I had some doubts, myself, at first. It is possible to fake likenesses, to impersonate with care, but you can't fake the way a man moves, or handles himself in a fight. That was Napoleon, all right."
"Hmm!" Waverly sighed again. "May I see the exhibits you've brought?" Kuryakin dipped into his pockets while the old man took up his telephone. "Send Mr. Cronshaw along to this office at once, please!" At the reply, he added:
"Advise him that it is to do with his new pencil-camera device, and to bring appropriate equipment."
He took up the pencil, put it down again, brushed his finger over the paper diagram, was about to ask a question when he saw the three extra objects lying to one side.
"Bullets?"
"Yes, sir. I thought it worthwhile to extract those that were fired in the room. We can compare them with the rifling-pattern of Napoleon's gun, which ought to be on file. I'm sure it was him and his, but it can't do any harm to confirm."
"Agreed. But these would at once confirm one thing, at least—that his intentions were lethal."
"That's what puzzles me, sir. I've tried to believe that he was playing some kind of trick, but hardly with real bullets. I'm afraid there is no doubt about it. He was out to kill me."
The words were not easy to say. Waverly nodded in sympathy. He knew better than anyone just how close these two men had been. Kuryakin was something of an enigma to everyone, and Solo had managed to get closer to him than anyone else. Now he had turned renegade, Kuryakin was, in a real sense, utterly alone.
Jeremy Cronshaw came briskly in, carrying a developer-projector outfit, and took up the camera-pencil without further word.
"This won't take more than a minute or two," he announced. "This is a fast developer film, in here. I'll be able to project it for you right away, soon as it's dry." His busy fingers made skilful movements under a black velvet shroud, then there was a hum as he switched something on. His sharp eyes wandered to the much creased paper.