"Overblown trollop!" she repeated savagely. "Talk about pearls before swine! Overblown!"
"I too was acting a part," he said placatingly. "That was merely corroborative detail, intended to lend artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative!"
"Good grief!" The car did an involuntary swerve as she twisted her head to stare back at him. "Where did that come from?"
"The words are W. S. Gilbert, but the sentiment is mine. The pearls were appreciated, but it wasn't the proper time to say so. Not called for."
"Oh!" Her head went forward again but there was uncertainty in the tone and a slight easing of the stiffness of her neck and chin. "I see!"
"We were thinking of other things," Solo endorsed. "Not really the right moment to appreciate the finer things of life."
"Hmmm!" she muttered. "Smart, aren't you. You made Charles lose his temper, which is something I've never seen before, and now you're trying to con me into making an exhibition of myself."
"We admire pearls."
"I'll bet you do. Look, we're almost there. You'd better give me a phone number in case I need to reach you."
Solo gave her the number, noting with appreciation that she made no move to write it down. She gave him one she said was hers, a residence the other side of Norwood.
"I'll ring you tomorrow," she promised. "You need to learn a few things about the way we work. I'll drop you here."
"Here," was the same corner where the two had witnessed the murderous assault earlier that same day. Both men felt a tensing of nerves as they got out and started into the dim lit side road. The premonition was accurate. One lone street light left the corners in shadow. From those shadows came lean, black jacketed youths, all unkempt of hair and grin- fling with feral anticipation. They closed in, and the two agents immediately forgot all about Miss Perrell and her moods.
FOUR
THERE WAS no need for words. With the instant cooperation of long experience, both men moved to get the concrete lamp post base at their backs. They were unarmed, because the law in Britain takes a very poor view of guns, but there are other things than official weapons. As Solo eyed the dozen sneering thugs, their ludicrously long and pomaded hair wisping alongside weakly vicious features, he felt a sudden lifting of spirit at the promise of action.
"Name of Solo, I hope," said one, stepping just a fraction in front of his fellows. "And Kuryakin eh? Wouldn't want to make another mistake. Missed you this morning."
"You won't miss us this time," Solo promised, scanning the group with a hard eye. "Twelve against two. Makes it awkward!"
To his left there came a click and then the glitter of a six inch knifeblade. Its owner sniggered.
"Going to be more than awkward for you. Going to be dreadful!"
"Not for us." Solo corrected, talking off the top of his mind while he and Kuryakin eased themselves into the best position for handling. "For you. You see"—he spoke gently, as if lecturing to a class—"if there had been five, say, or six, we'd be able to handle you gently. But with so many, we won't have the time. We'll have to get rough. Of course, you're only youngsters—"
"Stuff that!" The self-appointed leader abandoned his grin. "You talk too much. Save it for the angels, compliments of Mr. Green!"
As he lunged, Solo muttered. "Let's go, Illya!" and grabbed the lunging wrist, wrenched and twisted, lashed out with a hard driving foot to a knee, let go and whipped a flailing arm up to meet the agonized face that bent down by reflex. Delete one with a shattered kneecap and broken wrist. All in the same movement he spun to meet the lad with the knife, reached for the wrist that held it, yanked it forward and down across his own knee coming up. The knife wielder screamed, the noise snapping off as Solo's open palm came up all the way from down there under his chin to lift him bodily into the air. Delete two. Catching a flicker of movement from the corner of his eyes, he reversed his spin, bringing his arm around like a club but with wide open palm. It met the face and cheek-bone of a gaping blond youth, the impact sounding like a pistol-shot. Delete three.
The coldly detached mechanism in Solo's mind counted them off as he came back to a balanced stance and found himself between two attackers, both charging him together. With right and left hand he reached and grabbed hold of two ornate neckties, hauling the pair inwards, together, head to head, solidly. Cancel two more. He grunted as something hard, flexible and massive slammed down across his neck and shoulder, paralyzing his right arm and beating him down almost to his knees. It hurt like the devil, but he surged up and ahead, grappled the weapon wielder with his one good arm and ran him full tilt backward against the solid stone wall. The crunch was solid enough to be convincing.
Just for one breath he stooped to investigate the damaging weapon. A bicycle chain! Then he wheeled, back to the wall, in time to see Kuryakin enjoying himself. Gripping luxuriant locks in either hand, the Russian agent heaved himself backward, brought the two heads together with a very satisfying dull thud.
From the dark came another with a leap, full on to Kuryakin's back. Solo started forward but there was no need. Kuryakin reached back and with both hands, took a f grip of hair and head, then spun and heaved violently. The attacker hung on as long as he could, but at last came free and yelled with fright as he flew through the night air. The flight ended as he met the concrete lamp post, curled around it, hung a moment, then slid limply to the ground. Solo winced as he moved his shoulder, then spared a moment to count up the scattered bodies.
"Eleven—twelve! That's the lot, Illya!" he announced in credulously.
"A pity. I was just beginning to enjoy myself. What—?"
He broke off, and both men whirled tensely as they heard a soft whistle from the roadway. They saw Nan Perrell, sitting at the wheel of her car, but with the door open, watching. She waved them, urgently.
"Thought you'd gone," Solo said, straightening his coat and finger combing his hair. "You saw all that?"
"Blow by blow. Hop in. You need to get away from here, fast!"
Shrugging, the two men climbed in the back and she was gunning her motor before they had the door shut. At a furious pace she took them away, around several corners and turnings, then found a place to pull in to the side, and stopped. "Stay right there!" she commanded. "This won't take a minute."
She strode to a public call box, spent no more than thirty seconds in talk, then returned to the car still urgently and drove off on a winding trail once more until they were safely tucked away in a traffic stream.
"Are we supposed to know what that was all about?" Solo asked.
"Tell me something first. Have you any idea who laid on that little lot for you?"
"One of them was kind enough to say Mr. Absalom Green."
"Good. I guessed right. Now for what I did. I made a nine nine nine call, to inform the police where to collect some interesting debris."
"Let's have the rest of it. Why are we running?"
"It's very simple. I'll draw you a diagram. Say some passerby or beat constable finds them, those that are left, then what? Report, alarm, inquiries, knock up everybody all around. You wouldn't like the publicity at all. And they could, possibly, pin an assault and battery on you. How do you fancy a longish term in clink? Our opponents can buy law, remember."