“Yes, Mr. Solo, I quite anticipate your question. If he is unimportant, you are wondering, why are we concentrating so seriously on him and ruining your evening?” With a gesture to the screen, Mr. Waverly indicated that the question would answer itself.
The chipmunk squeaks became human speech and the clock ran at a normal pace in the London drama. One of the men in white hammered out a question.
“I don’t know about the States,” answered the prisoner in a blurred monotone, rocking his head from side to side as if under physical torture. The question was rephrased and repeated in a softer tone.
“I don’t know about the States,” the prisoner again assured his questioners. “I only know the numbers, just before some shows. All I do is slip them in, and make sure they know Thrush said so.”
More questions, digging deeper as resistance slipped to nil, revealed he was an actor from the London West End, using only his single name, Alain, professionally. He had been running errands for Thrush for years, attempting all the while to become a recognized artiste in the theater on his own. Throughout the questioning, he kept repeating the phrase his interviewers never sought: “I don’t know about the States.”
“We don’t know about the States, either, Mr. Solo,” interjected Waverly with some dryness, after asking the London projectionist to skip the interrogation forward to the next breakdown of Alain.
The men in white began to skip around again. Their voices rose in pitch. Alain, slumped deeply into the chair supporting him, seemed the only normal part of the scene. After some minutes, the two agents again slowed to normal speed. Napoleon noted that the interrogation had lasted for nearly three hours.
Alain, under a deep hypnotic sleep, was repeating back a long sequence of numbers to his questioners. The numbers all referred to money, possibly the price of some commodity. Alain didn’t know what it was he was passing along, or to whom, for certain. He admitted that on the nights he had numbers to pass on, the audience of the play he had written and was producing swelled enormously.
The questioners brought him back to consciousness. Napoleon watched them bait the poor actor with the bits and pieces of information they had gleaned from his unconscious mind. Alain sat, dumbly ignoring them, until one insulted his abilities as an improvisor. He had a professional’s pride in his ad libs, and caught fire when the other remarked that the whole job was badly bungled.
“Bungled!” he bellowed around his drug-thickened tongue. His head snapped back, and his huge eyes chilled Napoleon even across three thousand miles. “One filthy spy, accidently suspecting my code, is not a bungle. With the same task, sir, you would stammer like a schoolboy caught stealing biscuits. I am Alain, and to everyone else the art of interpolation is thickest mystery.”
All of his strength was spent in that outburst; he fell back and lapsed into a burbling, uneasy doze. The two men in white tried to rouse him again, but the questioning had come to an end. The projectionist speeded the film once again, and abruptly Waverly closed a switch which turned the wall into dead plaster.
Lights came up to full and Alexander Waverly reached for one of the several pipes lying on his desk. “That, gentlemen, is the lot. This actor, Alain, was taken about five hours ago by one of our agents who quite literally stumbled across him.” His fingers idly tamped the pipe as he continued. “Alain was passing along one of his ‘numbers’ to a theater audience this evening and our man …” Waverly put down the pipe to reach for one of the many reports on his desk. ” … Ah, yes, our man Kimberly-Phelps happened to be present. He was apparently curious enough about Alain’s ad lib to speak to him about it, whereupon this loyal subject of the Crown pulled a gun and pumped two rounds into what he supposed was a coppers’ nark.”
Illya darted a glance at Napoleon, who asked sotto voce, “What sort of a snark?”
Ignoring the non sequitur, Waverly consulted the report and continued, “Our agent was shot twice in the lower abdomen, but was, luckily, able to answer with a mercy bullet. The show’s leading lady, attracted by the shots no doubt, ran in from an adjoining dressing room to find both Kimberly-Phelps and the actor unconscious. Our man had tried to communicate with London Headquarters and the girl figured out how to answer them on his communicator. Her quick thinking is the only thing that saved his life.”
“A fine thing,” said Napoleon, “when our white knights have to be rescued by fair maidens.”
“Ironically enough, our, ah, white knight seems to have been there only through his interest in the fair maiden. Alain was not suspect, and if he had not gone off the deep end it is doubtful we would have ever discovered this particular Thrush plot.” He emptied the unlit pipe and proceeded to fill it with fresh tobacco.
“Gentlemen, it is apparent from this fellow’s answers that some part of the plot includes Thrush activities in this country. We must take immediate appraisal of that fact.” Reaching for another file, he continued. “Alain has revealed that he was distributing information to a large group of Thrush investors. Our research department in London has concluded that the investments are in gold.”
Both Enforcement agents sat up with refreshed interest. “Gold,” said Illya reflectively. “Gold stocks have fluctuated unusually for several months now,” he recited, remembering the current-affairs briefings they audited whenever stationed at headquarters.
Solo looked from one to the other in question. “But anyone can give tips on the market, even in code. We seem to have this clown cold on a charge of assault with a deadly weapon, and were throwing in a charge of being a gold-stock tout. But that isn’t illegal.”
“Mr. Solo,” replied his implacable section chief, “the emphasis here is placed on the constant reference to the States. Alain’s relay of information may be part of an international conspiracy to manipulate securities in two countries. That is illegal. Many stocks are traded in both London and New York. Thrush could easily work havoc with any one of them, by forcing the price up or down in London, and using the five hour time difference to buy or sell to their advantage here.”
Reference to another file gave Napoleon and Illya time to light fresh cigarettes before the gray-haired U.N.C.L.E. executive continued. “As Alain has given us no leads to his-hmm-clients, we can only work backwards from fluctuations in the price of gold stocks.” He spun the table top, placing the file directly before Napoleon.
“These are the results of our computer’s analysis of the recent price fluctuations.” Waverly waited for Napoleon to open the file.
“You will note the strong correlation between the numbers we dredged up out of Alain and the price of Breelen’s common. It is almost certain that Breelen’s is the victim in this little play. The S.E.C. has agreed to allow trading in Breelen’s to continue unchecked for two more days. You will have to find the Thrush organization in that time and take whatever steps you find necessary to defeat them in this venture.”
Waverly sat back. Looking directly at his two top agents, he idly filled a second pipe with tobacco. “Tomorrow, Mr. Solo, you will make the rounds of the New York brokerage offices. You will openly question them about gold trading with emphasis on Breelen’s stocks.”
Solo groaned, and looked at his chief in dismay, wondering if he had understood the assignment clearly. But Waverly promptly turned his attention to Illya. “Mr. Kuryakin, you will report to Communications, where you will pick up two of our experimental continuous signal tracers.” Illya allowed just the hint of a smile to move his lips, knowing that Solo would writhe under the beat-pounding assignment in hot envy if Waverly gave him an action spot.