Back up the dim cement and tile hall he turned and took the stairs three at a time. On the second floor things got dingier, but he hardly paused. With no one in sight, he kept on up the stairs, heading for Gambol’s fourth-floor office. The carpeting gave out, and metal runners did their best to trip him up as he moved on. On the next level, he saw a girl standing at the elevator bank, pushing the down button and tapping one foot.
“Frontal attack,” he muttered. One hand pushed his hair back reflexively as he sucked in a deep breath and stepped out toward her.
“Pardon me, Miss,” he said, “but are you with the local satrapy?”
She didn’t blink an eye as she turned from the elevator to smile at him. “I’ve got to admit that’s a new one,” she said. Her micro-second smile didn’t have a lot of warmth in it. “But I’m not part of the satrapy, and I don’t want to join the neighborhood seraglio, either. This is a lousy neighborhood; a girl can’t even get an elevator.” She turned back to push the down button again, jabbing it with a great deal of force. Illya wondered how Napoleon would have fared with the same problem, and backed off, excusing himself.
“Really, I meant something else,” he said. She kept turned away from him. “By the way, some idiot has turned all the elevators off. I’m afraid you’ll have to walk down.” He turned to leave.
“I’ve got a better idea,” she said simply. Illya turned back and found a tiny gun pointed squarely at his midriff. With one hand she snapped her purse shut, and motioned him toward the stairs. “Why don’t we both walk up a flight, Mr. Man from U.N.C.L.E., and I can apologize for lying to you while some friends of mine tie you to a chair and question you. Or do you want to question my marksmanship at point-blank range?” Her eyebrows were wavering as she tried to look determined to shoot.
“My dear young lady, I wouldn’t dream of arguing with your abilities with the charming little pistol.” Even while he was talking, Illya moved half a pace sideways as if to turn to the stairs, and he watched her eyebrows shoot up when his left knee buckled under him. In the middle of a spastic fall his arm lashed out and he snatched the gun, nearly dislocating her trigger finger before she could move. He recovered from the collapse in a spry jig step, reversed the pistol and calmly removed its bullets. “The safety was on,” he said sorrowfully. “I wish I’d known that, because half the problem was turning it the second I took hold, to keep you from firing while my tummy was in the way.”
“Of course the safety was on!” she spat. “You didn’t have to be so rough. I only wanted to take you upstairs for questioning, and you nearly broke my hand. I wasn’t going to shoot you or anything!” She nursed her bruised finger, frowning at him.
“You still aren’t going to shoot me or anything.” He handed her back the cleared weapon, and turned to the stairs. “Point that at my back and herd me up there. Remember, if you tip off your friends that I’m not your prisoner, there’s liable to be a gunfight with you slam in the middle of it”
They went up to the fourth floor, and into Gambol’s office, side by side. The girl played her part well, keeping the empty automatic pointed fiercely at Illya. One of the toughs who had chased him down the alley met them at the door; the other two were across the room, and another man sat at Gambols desk. With more than he had counted on against him, Illya went back into the frontal attack mode.
The U.N.C.L.E. Special fell into his hand as he pushed the girl into the room past the startled Thrush. Karl, showing more in the way of guts than brains, tried to outdraw Illya from a foot away, and collected a steel-jacketed slug for his efforts. Frank, backing his partners play, caught two more bullets, one in the shoulder, and one to shatter the wrist that might have aimed his pistol. The third man froze, holding his hands well away from his sides. Illya spun the wounded Karl around and sent him sprawling into the room after the girl.
“You’re using real bullets!” she accused in a betrayed whine.
“You and your little friends here were using real bullets, weren’t you?” Illya asked as he frisked the third hood.
“That’s different, you’re not supposed to be using real bullets, everyone knows that U.N.C.L.E. agents use mercy bullets.”
“I prefer the real thing for close work, like this. The mercy bullets are all right, but they just don’t act fast enough sometimes. I’m really not in any sort of mood to have these three plug-uglies perforate me while I try to play nice. If this is a real life and death affair, you two may as well come out shooting, otherwise, I’d appreciate it if you would just kick those guns over here.”
The two wounded Thrush watched their blood flow for a minute, and then decided that Illya had position on them all the way. “Do we get the Geneva Convention?” asked one, unbuckling a shoulder holster.
“Last time I heard,” said Illya, “the Hierarchy was not among Geneva’s signatories. I can possibly guarantee not to use mustard gas, but we do want a bit more than your name, rank and serial number. Slide them out here so I can pick them up, and then we’ll snoop around for something to wrap you up comfortably.”
“We haven’t got anything; besides, Karl and Frank are bleeding.”
“Oh, you must have something useful for tying people up. After all, you promised to tie me up. I’m sure we can find something that will do; some adhesive tape perhaps, and we can make it double for first-aid. Sitting still in a good posture is excellent for flesh wounds, so we’ll tie Tweedledum and Tweedledee here firmly into those straight-back chairs.”
While the girl was working apathetically on bonds for her pals, Illya pulled out his communicator and called in to report to his headquarters. His progress ended with a request for Napoleon’s whereabouts.
“I can’t stay here and watch this lot all night ,” he said. “The girl has tied them so ineptly that I think I’ll have to do it all over again as soon as I tie her up. It would be an excellent idea for someone else to come out here and stand guard or search the place, while I take off after our decoy. He could be halfway around the world by now, strapped buck naked out on an anthill or tied to a railroad track.”
“An investigatory team will coordinate with you within the quarter hour, Mr. Kuryakin,” replied Waverly. “They will be prepared to handle your five captives and administer a measure of first-aid. The information we gathered from Mr. Solo’s search today has been quite illuminating, and it’s vital that we delve into the mysteries of Mr. Gambol’s business with all possible dispatch.”
“Yes, sir. But Napoleon can still be assumed active in the search, and I think I ought to start chasing his yellow blip.”
“Mr. Solo is secondary in importance now,” said Waverly. Illya looked at the fountain-pen communicator, considering things he could say to his chief about throwing a man into something and then not going in after him. He decided not saying them was a better idea. It was altogether too possible that Napoleon was cold meat now, anyway, and the job had to be done.
Waverly’s relayed voice kept its steady tone, businesslike and unflinching. “He could hardly have risen to his post with this organization if he had not shown a remarkable capacity for getting out of as well as getting into trouble. Without some link, proof of a connection between the numerous investors and someone in Thrush, we have no basis for acting in the matter of Breelen’s common stock; Mr. Solo knows this, and wherever he is he is probably working to help us establish that connection. We know many of the names of the investors after today’s analyses of broker records, but there’s nothing we can do yet; there is no law in this country against capitalism.”