"Were those the only positive samples?" Napoleon asked.
"The only ones, Mr. Solo. Do you know who services the vending machines in Midford?"
"No sir, but it shouldn't be difficult to find out. Actually, vending machines explain many of our problems, including the big one of why there was no pattern as to who was affected. We didn't think to include a question on whether or not the individual patronized vending machines. And they would be ideal for conversion of almost everyone in a big industrial plant like Falco."
"Umm, yes," Waverly agreed. "But it does not explain what Thrush is planning. It seems an unlikely way for them to raise an army to do battle with U.N.C.L.E., especially since we have found no similar situations any where else in the world."
Napoleon reluctantly agreed. "But we may know more once we've located the vending machine company. I'd be willing to bet that Jabez Whateley has a hand in it somewhere."
"I don't recall that name, Mr. Solo."
Napoleon explained their meeting with Whateley.
"Incidentally," he added, "I think it would be a good idea to provide Illya with more freedom of action. There is no need for both of us to remain under Whateley's eye. After we have moved, I'll report to you. When I do, you order Illya back to New York. I'll make sure Whateley is listening. Then Illya can go back to Thompson's, away from prying eyes. The limelight will be focused on me, and Illya will be free to skulk about and run down any leads I uncover."
"Very well, Mr. Solo. I will await your call."
As Napoleon turned the car into the long driveway leading to Jabez Whateley's home, he decided that Rita's use of the term "mansion" had not been an exaggeration. The house was a huge, rambling affair. The gravel drive curved around the front yard, with an extension at one side leading to an oversized garage in the rear. A few, outbuildings were visible beyond. House and garage were covered with ivy; a fence, sagging under a load of the same vines, straggled off at one side of the yard. Napoleon started to apply the brakes in front of the house, but the skeletal form of Whateley appeared and motioned for him to bring the car back to the garage.
"Glad you could make it, gentlemen," Whateley said as the agents got out of the car. "You're just in time for what is called supper in these latitudes. I'm sure you will appreciate a simple, nourishing meal after a long day of agenting." He smiled in his usual sinister fashion and motioned them to a door. It opened on a broad hallway that apparently ran the length of the house.
Whateley led them to an enormous living room, dominated by a huge fireplace. Napoleon's eye was caught by the picturesque but morbid paintings adorning the walls. A reproduction of Bosch's "Garden of Delights" hung over the fireplace, and he noted works by Hogarth, Dore, Klee, and Prosser. Whateley noticed his gaze and brought forth his sinister chuckle.
"I find they lend a homey touch and a certain individuality all too often lacking in most modern homes," he said. "Just make yourselves at home while I check on Casimir. He's a good cook, but he does need prodding." With that, he disappeared down the hail, leaving the agents on their own.
After a few minutes inspecting the paintings, both agents began wandering idly about. Just off the living room, they came upon a large entrance foyer with a wide marble staircase leading to the second floor. Some thing on the staircase caught Napoleon's eye; he walked over to peer through the balustrade. When Illya joined him a moment later, he was curiously inspecting a long length of log chain lying on the stairs. He picked up a section and held it up for Illya's inspection.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say this was a chain," he observed.
"Remarkable deduction," Illya returned. "Rather strange placement, wouldn't you say?"
"Conspicuous to say the least," Napoleon agreed, looking past Illya toward the front door, only a few feet from the bottom of the stairs. "I suppose it's possible that Whateley is addicted to orgies and human sacrifice in the dark of the moon."
They were still speculating when Whateley reappeared a minute later. He saw the chain and sighed.
"That girl! I've told her a thousand times not to leave her things lying around the house." Whateley turned to what looked like a stuffed vulture on the mantel above the fireplace. "Flay!" he bellowed into the bird's beak.
"Yes, Father?" came a feminine voice, apparently from an ornamental tapestry depicting the Salem witch trials.
"We have guests," Whateley said to the vulture, "and you've been littering the stairway again. Come up here to meet the guests and remove your chain."
"Yes, Father," the tapestry replied obediently.
Whateley turned to the agents. "Never could locate anybody around this place until I put in an intercom system. You'll have to excuse my daughter; she's a good girl, but occasionally a trifle untidy about her hobby."
He led them back to the living room and motioned to a pair of overstuffed chairs. As they waited for Whateley' daughter to appear, Napoleon had time to consider the sort of hobby which would make use of a thirty foot chain and be appropriate to the Whateley mansion while Illya speculated on what the chairs might have been stuffed with. Both agents shuddered inwardly but maintained calm exteriors.
Flavia might well have been a lovely girl, but it was hard to tell. She appeared in army fatigues and an old sweatshirt, with her long black hair tied up in a ragged scarf. She came over to the agents without waiting for an introduction.
"You must be the two U.N.C.L.E. agents that Rita is so excited about," she said, extending a hand. "And I can see why," she added.
"Flavia," her father interrupted. "Don't forget your chain."
"I'm sorry, Father," she said. "I was going to take it down to the basement but the phone rang and I forgot." She hoisted the chain and formed it into a coil as she spoke. Napoleon sprang forward with an offer to help.
"Oh, no," she declined. "It's all part of the job."
Napoleon and Illya looked blank.
"Didn't Father tell you? I do metal sculpture. Would you like to see some of it after supper?" She paused, the chain looped over her shoulder, and looked closely at the agents. "In fact, would you have time to pose for me? I just got in some new bronze castings. You in particular, Mr. Kuryakin, have the look of a refined savage that would go well in bronze."
Illya smiled graciously. "I'm sure the spirit of Mr. Solo could be caught more completely in brass, if you have any available," he said pleasantly.
Flavia looked a trifle uncertain as she shifted the chain and edged toward the stairs. "You must excuse me, though. I have some iron rods heating and I must get back and shape them while they're at the right temperature." She clanked down the stairs.
"Now, gentlemen," Whateley said, "I'll show you to your rooms."
Napoleon nodded, then snapped his fingers as if he bad suddenly remembered something. "We haven't informed New York that we've moved yet," he said. "If you'll excuse me a moment..." He pulled out his communicator.
Waverly answered promptly, accepted Napoleon's report with bland unconcern, and requested that Illya return to New York that evening. Illya turned to Whateley.
"It appears I must eat and run," he said. "I'm sorry to appear so ungracious."
Napoleon watched Whateley closely as their new host assured Illya that he understood perfectly, and that Illya was welcome to return at any time. Whateley's expression was, as always, somewhat unpleasant and a trifle frightening, but it was not at all informative.