NINE
NEXT MORNING, the room phone rang again. Solo answered it, to hear the switchboard girl tell him there was a lady on the line. With a fast gesture to Kuryakin he said:
"Thank you. Put her on," and he held his breath. But it wasn't Miss Thompson this time, although the voice was equally familiar.
"Mr. Solo?"
"Good morning, Miss Perrell. Nan. Nice to hear you. I was about to ring you, as it happens."
"Oh! Why?"
"Well, you remember that business about us being invited to the orgy at Danby Hall? We'd like to take it up."
"Are you deliberately trying to provoke me?"
"Not at all, but it seems a pity to miss such an occasion, especially since there doesn't seem to be anything else urgent. Or is there? I'm sorry, you rang me, didn't you?"
After a pause she sighed. "It wasn't urgent. I wanted to give you the name and address of a dealer who will fix you up with a small car and ask no awkward questions."
"That's very kind. One moment." He fished out a note book and pen. "Just off Tottenham Court Road," he noted.
Then, "About the Danby riot," said Miss Perrell. "You really want to go? Seriously?"
"Seriously," he confirmed, and heard her sigh again.
"It's a charity, you know. Can you afford it? There is no maximum, but the taken-for-granted minimum is one hundred pounds. In dollars—"
"Around three hundred, yes, I know. And yes, we can stand it."
"Very well, there's nothing more to say, I suppose. You can pick me up at my place in your new car, and I'll take you from there. Please be in properly formal clothes."
"All right. Not fancy dress?"
"No. Only the ladies are spectacular in this affair!"
Solo replaced the instrument and smiled thoughtfully; then he caught the glint in Kuryakin's eye and shrugged. "You heard. Charity."
"Some vacation! Thanks for helping me spend my own money!"
"Never mind. Think about the excitement, the thrills that set the blood coursing vigorously though the veins!"
"That part is fine. It's when it starts gushing out of the holes that I don't care for it. Napoleon, you go ahead on your own on this car business, I'm going to eat in. I'll pick you up later."
"Oh! Something in mind?"
"Nothing special. Only, the way the opposition is working at putting us away, they must be after something very important, and we have a very good information service right here. I thought maybe if I kept my ears open I might get a lead or two."
"Watch it now," Solo warned, "and see they don't wish some kind of job on you. Or us. Where'll I meet you?"
"Hmm!" Kuryakin mused. "For lunch, around twelve- thirty, at the Old Cock Inn. That's at the lower end of Fleet Street."
"Sounds something special. Is it?"
"Historical interest. As used by Charles Dickens, among others."
The "little car dealer" turned out to be a large and busy double fronted garage and service station, but by mentioning the name he had been given, Solo was rapidly passed from one to another until he wound up in an open area backing the gas pumps.
"Stone's the name," said a small, sharp eyed man in stained overalls. He put out a wiped hand in greeting. "You'll be Napoleon Solo, I reckon. I had a call about you."
"Good staff work. You'll know what I'm after, then?"
"I have just the job for you. This way." They halted by a car that made Solo lift his brows in wonder.
"She said small and inconspicuous, but this is a joke, isn't it?"
"Not on your life." Charlie Stone patted the red Mini affectionately. "This job may not be much to look at from the outside, but it's been worked over by an expert, let me tell you. Hop in!"
By the time Solo hopped out again he was convinced, and impressed. He was still a trifle breathless at the way a mere touch on the gas pedal brought instant and surging acceleration. Stone gestured him into a lean-to office and closed the door after them carefully.
"You'll have no trouble with her," he said, raking in a drawer for the necessary documents. "All I ask is, when you're done you bring her back here. On paper it will be a sale, and a trade in afterwards, but we don't need to bother about that, between us."
"That's very understanding of you."
"Never mind. There's something else you might be interested in. I don't know anything official, mind," Stone grinned wolfishly, "but I have a hobby. Might be in your line. This kind of thing." He slid something on to his desk, and Solo picked it up curiously. At first glance it looked like a rather thick strip of adhesive tape, flesh colored, eight inches long and an inch wide. Stone said:
"You peel off the backing, when you're ready, and stick it. Anywhere handy, like up the inside of your wrist. Or between your shoulder blades, if you like that better. For a woman, what with the way modern dresses are, on the inside of the upper arm is a good place. Anyway, once it's on, it won't come off easily, and it can't be seen. On this side, now..." He took it from Solo, and tugged at one end, where the surface was serrated, and all at once he had a knife in his hand. Three inches of it were pink padding, the remaining five were flexible steel. "This side's a razor edge, that's a diamond hard file along the other. Very handy."
"I agree. I've seen something just like this recently."
"I thought maybe you had. That's yours, if you want it."
Solo decided he did, and reached for his pocket, but Stone put up a hand.
"Compliments of the house, Mr. Solo. Just a hobby. I like to do what I can. There's all sorts of ways of helping out."
Solo reached the Old Cock about five minutes ahead of his appointment time, to find Kuryakin seated in the saloon nursing a pint mug of beer. The Russian agent looked up and grinned.
"Ask for Flowers," he advised, "and you'll get a pleasant Surprise."
"Got the car," Solo said, returning from the bar. "Show you it later. What did you get?"
"A lead or two. I dug up a newspaperman who used to work pretty closely with John Guard, swapping information. His name's Ray Carpenter; he should show up any minute now." Right on cue a long limbed, gangling man shoved through the door, stopped to look around, then came over to them with long strides.
"Kuryakin? Solo? I'm Carpenter. Shall we go straight in? I'm hungry, and I hate to rush a meal."
They followed him through into the rear regions, where there were small four seat tables in booths, red checkered tablecloths, old oak beams and an atmosphere of age. Carpenter ordered for all three, at their request.
"You can come back another time and soak up the atmosphere," he told them, "but right now the grub's the thing. You ask away, I'll do what I can to answer. All I know is that you're in the same game Johnny used to play, and he's caught it. At last. Can't say I'm surprised, the way he used to go at things, but anything I can do to hit the opposition, I will."
"He's not dead, you know," Solo offered. "In fact, unless we get on the ball, he's liable to break out of the hospital and go chasing them on his own. And these boys play it rough!"
"Can we get something straight first," Kuryakin murmured. "You're a newsman. We wouldn't want to strain your discretion."
Carpenter laughed. "I'll have to educate you the same way I did John. Look, forget the movie and TV version of a reporter, please. By them, all that comes in the ears pours out in print, regardless. Not true. I hear a thousand things I would like to see in print, but I never will, because they aren't the kind of things the public is prepared to buy. And I assure you, I would never dream of reporting any thing from or about you, or U.N.C.L.E., without your express O.K. first. All right now?"