"Shotgun, at close range," he murmured. "Some time ago, four or five hours at least." He extended a slim hand to touch, frowned, swung his head to Solo. "He's still alive, Napoleon. With a hole in his chest that size?"
"That's Johnny." Solo came to crouch. "Tough as bootleather. There's a call box back along the road a little way. Get the operator to help, Illya."
"The British are a law abiding people," Kuryakin quoted as he went out rapidly. Solo grinned, then leaned close as the man on the floor stirred.
"Hold still now," he warned. "Help's on the way."
Eyes opened, tawny yellow eyes that Solo knew well, and then the sun bronzed face creased into a faint grin. "Napoleon! It's been a long time."
"That it has, John, but save it. How the hell you've managed to live this long with a load of buckshot through the pump beats me, but you won't last much longer unless you hold still."
"You've forgotten." Guard's voice was a thread but quite steady. "Mirror image!" And Solo swore under his breath, for now he remembered that John Guard was one of those odd people who carry their heart and internal organs in reverse, right side instead of left.
"All right, but just the same you've lost plenty of blood. Whatever happened, it can wait until the wagon gets here."
"I can talk," Guard insisted. "Must tell you—" He broke off as Kuryakin appeared in the doorway.
"There'll be an ambulance here in ten minutes, Napoleon. What—?"
He came to crouch and listen as Guard told them, briefly but omitting nothing, exactly what had happened. "I don't know what Green did after he shot me, of course, but if he left that tape I'd like you to handle it, Napoleon. Find out what's behind it." Guard looked rigid with inner rage and thin as his voice was, it held inflexible purpose. "I'm also interested in the criminal idiots who sent a girl like that into the hands of such murderous thugs."
"Got the tape." Kuryakin came back from the bathroom. "And here comes the ambulance. I think you must have had an accident while you were cleaning your shotgun, eh?"
Guard smiled. "That will do very well," he whispered, "until I'm fit enough to let the real story come out, where it will do the most good."
The two agents, quiet and thoughtful, rode in the ambulance with him to the nearby hospital. They waited silently outside the operating room until the duty surgeon came to make a report.
"Your friend is an extremely fortunate man," he said. "There's surprisingly little real damage. Considerable hemorrhage, of course, but it was only dust shot. That, and skin erosion, and shock."
"How long before you can let him out, Doe?"
"Well now, he's an extremely fit man, tremendous vitality. He should be up and about in, say, eight or nine weeks."
"I see. Can we talk to him now?"
"Only for a few minutes. He needs rest and time to make good the loss of blood. Don't excite him."
Guard was startlingly brown against the white sheets. His tiger amber eyes fastened on Solo as the two men came to stand by the bed.
"I've no right to ask you," he said. "You have your own work, and this is nothing to do with U.N.C.L.E., but I would like to be kept informed."
"Forget that," Solo ordered. "This is personal, and we're on vacation anyway. We'll look into it, you can bet on that. But you're going to be laid up for a couple of months, and these boys may get away in that time. I wouldn't like that. At all. Show him the paper, Illya."
There was a large portrait on the front page, and over it, in screamer headlines: ANOTHER BATTLE OF HASTINGS! The editorial matter went on in rich prose to describe a large scale riot that had taken place on the beach and promenade at Hastings, just a few miles along the coast, at about midnight. Gangs of leather coated motorcyclists had descended on the seaside town, smashing and wrecking with a fine disregard for others, until a squad of police had come in haste to drive them away. In counting up the damage they had found the body of a young girl, floating in the surf. So far, it said, she was unidentified. Guard took one look and his eyes burned.
"That's her. That's Mary Chantry."
"And that's one way to get away with bloody murder," Solo muttered.
Guard shut his eyes in thought. "I can't ask you to step in. It isn't any of your business, and these people play rough, as you've seen."
"Somehow," said Kuryakin, "I don't fancy the idea of just idling around while this kind of thing goes on. I'd like a word or two with Mr. Green."
"So would I. And his boss." Solo laid the newspaper aside. "We'll keep in touch, John. Just you concentrate on getting well."
TWO
ON THE Thames Embankment, not far from New Scotland Yard, stands the venerable old graystone building which houses the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, British Sector. Even to the well informed eye it looks like a highly select residential hotel slightly gone to seed, and this is in fact its cover function, but there is an astonishing amount of space reserved for other activities which the public knows nothing at all about. It was in one of those "private" rooms that Solo and Kuryakin sat and listened to the tape Mary Chantry had lost her life to get.
The first thing they heard was a crackle that made the ear wince, then the slip-slap sound of sandaled feet going away over a hard floor, and the click-slam of a door.
"Stick it in place, switch on, then go away and leave it," Solo interpreted. Listening to the faint rhythmic creaks, distant shouts, the ding of a bell, he added. "That's a cabin, a ship at sea. Plain enough."
There came the purr of an engine, then the snarl of reverse to halt, more shouts and bells, then a clatter that sorted itself out into two sets of footsteps. The door again, noises suddenly louder for a moment, then the click of closing, and two voices, the first one crisp and cold.
"You saw the girl outside? She's the reason why I asked you to come aboard. She's on to something."
"Indeed!" This was a large and rounded voice, full of good living. "A pity. She's quite decorative. In view of those occasional times when we entertain guests, I've often wondered whether we need a stewardess, and she would fill that bill perfectly. Your note described her as a spy. You are convinced of that?"
"Completely, sir. She showed undue interest about two weeks ago, in France. The crew reported she was asking too many questions, of the wrong kind. So I advertised discreetly for a stewardess, she applied immediately, and I engaged her."
"The better to observe, eh?"
"Exactly. To my knowledge she has been through all the papers and documents she could lay Hands on. She has lockpicks and other devices, and she has a camera—"
"Has?" The well-fed voice became suddenly keen.
"Yes, sir, but it will no longer take pictures, although she doesn't know that. And she has not been able to pass on any of the knowledge she's gained. We haven't touched port since she came aboard."
"What other precautions have you taken?" This time the rotund voice held overtones that made both the listeners shiver.
"One or two. At my suggestion she has adopted the brief swimming costume you saw. Consequently we have been able to abstract her clothing and put it under lock and key. Also all her effects."