"To make sure she doesn't run away, of course. Now, who's behind it all, eh?"
"Some newspaper I would think, sir, judging by the notes we found. But she is freelance, not professional. That's just a feeling."
"You have a flair, Green. An intuition that I am prepared to trust, or you'd not be working for me. Hmm!" Into the silence of consideration came a crackling rhythmic beat, and over It a keening melodic whistle that made Kuryakin raise his brows in surprise.
"'Sir,' " he said, "is tapping the table while he ponders, and he is whistling Bach. 'Jesu joy of man's desiring,' I think."
Solo hushed him as the overfed voice started up once more. "We'll have to shut her mouth, Green, that's obvious."
"Yes, sir. I wanted your decision on that. I can arrange for her to fall over the side—"
"No. Not missing. That way would lead to inquiries, an open file. We can do better than that. A decisive end. How soon can you arrange one of your lamentable demonstrations of juvenile delinquency, somewhere along the coast?"
"This evening, if you wish. Nearby? How about Hastings?"
"Why not? Very well, you go and arrange that and send her here to me as you go. And send Rambo along in about five minutes."
Feet marched away, the door clicked open and shut, and then there was only the chilly sound of that thin, precise whistling. Solo started as the tape ran out and stopped with a crackle.
"Automatic reverse," he said, with his hand over the play back button. "I can't say I'm exactly looking forward to hearing the other track."
"We have no choice," Kuryakin muttered. "Go ahead."
The whistling came again, then broken by a sigh and the rotund voice musing aloud. "A crystal, a jewel to some, a curiosity to others, but to the insane genius of Gorchak a way of setting a man an insoluble problem. My loss that I never met him, but I'll solve his damned problem in a way he never dreamed of. Twenty-five pieces I have. Two to go. And I'll solve it, if it kills me!" There was a curious sliding and clicking noise, and labored breathing, then a knock at the door, a scuffle, and the voice said:
"Come in! Ah yes. What's your name, my dear?"
"Marie, sir. Was there something you wanted?"
"Many things, indeed, but for the moment you might bring that tray and the brandy." Judging by the noise, she set the tray down on the table. There came another knock, and the whistler greeted this newcomer as "Rambo."
"Shut the door. Bolt it, and pay attention. Now, Marie, my dear, I fear I have bad news for you. You are going to die."
"I beg your pardon!" There was surprise only in her voice, no fear as yet. Solo felt sweat spring out on his face and saw that his companion was equally disturbed.
The voice went on almost jovially. "This must be done just right. Bodies are a nuisance to dispose of, but not impossible if one uses thought. Rambo, you will beat her very hard until she is almost dead, but not quite—"
Then the girl screamed. Solo ground his teeth in futile rage at the terror he heard, as she realized the incredible reality to come.
"You see," the jovial voice explained, in between thuds and grunts, "if we put her in the water at the right time, still alive, she will drift in to shore to be found. Examination will show that she died of injuries, but in the water. Speculation will find two avenues. Concealed rocks and a rough sea, perhaps? Or some brainless melee, which will be provided to order. That will be enough to keep the authorities from guessing the correct answer, and enough to keep her people from suspecting anything at all."
This was delivered in between the thick thuds of bone breaking blows. Solo tucked his emotions away for future reference. He forced his stomach to behave.
The voice in charge said, "That will do, Rambo. Leave her here. We'll go and check up on time and tide."
In the almost silence of the cabin came a faint labored sound, a moan, then a cough. Scraping noises. Sobbing. The scraping noises getting louder. Then a sudden crackle. And then the tape reels turned on total silence. Solo let them spin;
"She got the tape, stuffed it in her swim-suit, climbed out of the cabin window, fell into the sea—and then Guard found her." He looked at Illya and shook his head. "First of all we have to find this Captain Barnett. To deliver the tape, of course, but I think I'm going to have a few words to say to him first. I've heard various things about British Naval Intelligence, but if this is the way they work things out I must have heard it all wrong!"
The two had decided on the way back to London that this was something U.N.C.L.E. had no part in, yet, so they had made no report, but they had been able to use the comprehensive information services to get some useful data, among which was a telephone number that would put them in touch with Roger Barnett, RN. With the tape cassette stowed in a safe place, Solo dialed the number and waited. Sharp after the second warble an exquisitely modulated voice cooed at him, repeated the number, and added:
"Dispositions. Thompson."
"Speak to Captain Barnett, please," Solo kept his voice level, trying not to imagine what exotic creature he had on the line.
"You have an appointment?"
"Afraid not. I just want to talk to him."
"I'm afraid you can't do that," the delicious voice regretted, "without an appointment"
"I can't, but you can. Tell him it's about his girlfriend."
After a moment or two another voice came on, chesty and thick with suspicion and surprise.
"Barnett here. What d'you want? Who are you?"
"My name is Solo. It doesn't mean a thing to you, but the girl's name should. Initials are M. C. and it reminds me of singing."
There was a distinctly audible gulp and then the voice again, but now in tip-toe apprehension.
"What has she told you? Is she there with you now?"
"She is not, and she didn't tell me a thing that I can repeat on the phone. Personal message. I have to see you, right away."
"Not right away!" Barnett was almost squeaking. "Wait! I can fit you in after lunch. Find your way to Earl's Court and ask anyone for Admiralty House. You can't miss it. I'm Roof Nine. I'll leave word. And Solo—"
"Yes?"
"Don't—do not, whatever you do—bring her with you. No matter what she says. Understand?"
Solo hung up with a sense of disgust and the shattering of a dream or two. So this was the form of the Royal Navy, fabled in song and story? Kuryakin, who had been listening on an extension, met his gaze stonily.
"Jolly Jack Tars and all that," he said. "Nelson would flip!"
"So will Captain Barnett, when I'm done with him. Come on."
The unfortunate captain had been completely accurate about one thing, though. You couldn't miss Admiralty House. Three columns of concrete, each twenty-seven stories high, stood in a triangle to support sweeping convex façades of window glass, and a pedestal on the roof resembled nothing so much as a mighty gun turret without guns. Against the mixed architecture of this borderland between Chelsea and Fulham it stood out like something from a futurist dream. The staff work had been done too. They were expected, shown to the elevator, and efficiently decanted away up on the top level, where the interior decor was pale unstained wood and cherry pink enamel. Solo rapped on a door bearing the figure "9," and as it opened they met the owner of the delicious voice.
For once in a lifetime of wry disappointments Solo had to admit that Miss Thompson matched her voice. In that first slow second of meeting he knew he was looking at near perfection. Her wealth of copper red hair shone as if polished. Crushed violet eyes opened very wide and dazzling teeth were vivid against her perfect complexion as she smiled and said: "Mr. Solo?"