"On the phone? Not from Waverly?"
Solo nodded. "Just a message. The Commendatore told me that New York had left word that your friend Trevitt has definitely tied the kidnap car in with a known Thrush member."
"So that means we are dealing with one adversary... not two?"
"Exactly. And it also means that Carlsen and Lala Eriksson are Thrush since they were behind the snatch. And it means, for good measure, that Carlsen must moreover be the Supreme Council Member for Southern Europe—and of course that it was from the house where I was kept that Leonardo stole the list."
Kuryakin gave a low whistle. "It certainly simplifies the scene; but I can't say it makes me wild with joy, all the same!"
"No. They're playing for the highest stakes, so they'll be bound to play it rough. But we have something to go on at last. I told you I was glad the heat was off because I wanted to act. I haven't yet told you why ... for there was one thing more I learned from the Commendatore."
"And that was?"
"I asked him a question. His answer was... that the body of Leonardo, when it was brought to the morgue, was without glasses."
"But... but. Napoleon..."
Solo inclined his head. He picked up the S.I.D. dossier and leafed through it again. "I know... 'He was clean-shaven and his eyes were open'—that's the porter... 'He was on his back, sort of staring at the sky'—that's the beauty from the tie shop... and yet Signora Rastoldi speaks of a 'tall man in dark glasses' lurching about on the steps, and the woman who saw the smoke from the gun also mentions 'a tall man in sunglasses' coming towards her. What do you make of that?"
"If he was wearing glasses, especially sunglasses, the witnesses would hardly have noticed whether his eyes were open, or whether he was staring at the sky."
"Exactly. And the statements which mention the glasses are those from people who were in at the kill, as it were. Whereas those which seem to imply no glasses are from witnesses who arrived after Leonardo had already fallen."
"There are only two possibilities, then, Napoleon. Either the dark glasses were knocked off when he fell—"
"In which case," Solo interrupted, "they would have been picked up and taken to the mortuary with the body, one would think. And they weren't."
"Or else..."
"Quite. Or else ... Or else some person or persons unknown removed those glasses between the time Leonardo was hit and the arrival of the later witnesses. What we have to do now is find out who that was and why they did it!"
CHAPTER TWELVE
Questions And Answers
There was no doubt about it whatever. The redhead who ran the tie shop was a most beautiful girl. Solo and Kuryakin had never found it easier to think up questions to ask, especially as they could talk in English, which she understood.
"And this Dutchman who was shot—would you say, signorina, that he was typical of his race?" Solo asked when they had led the conversation round to the shooting.
"Dutch? Him? You must be joking!" the girl said. She undulated across to a display case where Illya was fondling a selection of cravats in amber and orange and beige.
"No, really. It's true!"
"Well, honestly," the girl said. "If he came from Holland, then I'm... "
"... a Dutchman!" Illya and Solo chorused, bursting out laughing and then looking rather sheepish.
The girl repressed a smile. "This one is rather nice, don't you think? The color's definitely you," she said, sidling up to Kuryakin and picking up a length of oyster-green silk. Her voice was husky and her skin, dark above the decolletage of a white pique dress, positively glowed.
"No, but I'm interested," Solo pursued. "I believe there is such a thing as a national type and Leonardo was typically Dutch. Tall, big-boned, with those bland features and opaque blue eyes—"
"What d'you mean, blue!" the girl interrupted. "His eyes were brown."
"Never!"
"But they were! I noticed particularly. They had already filmed—"
"I don't see how you could tell, anyway," the agent cut in, "since he was wearing dark glasses."
"He wasn't wearing glasses. I tell you I particularly noticed the color of his eyes."
"Oh, well," Solo shrugged. "It's not important, I guess... I think I'll take this one with the double stripe, please."
"Yes," Illya said, "and I'll have the black-and-white spot and that one in turquoise and charcoal."
"Don't you like the oyster-green cravat?" the girl breathed.
The Russian dragged his eyes away from the tight contours of the pique dress. "Oh... yes—er—very much," he gulped. "I'll... I'll have that too..."
"Thank you very much, gentlemen," the girl said demurely. "That will be three thousand lira each for the ties, and four thousand five hundred the cravat, thirteen thousand five hundred altogether. I'm much obliged."
"Be my guest!" Solo said, putting away his wallet and accepting the long, thin paper bags.
Out in the street, they discovered that the prognostications of Illya and the post office porter concerning the weather had been justified. Rain had begun to fall and in the warm desk street lamps trailed streamers of light through shop window reflections on the wet pavements. They were unable either to congratulate the porter, however, or question him on his memory of the murdered man, for the post office was closed and he had gone home.
The wider of the two ladies in the flower shop was nevertheless able to confirm that the unfortunate gentleman had in fact been wearing dark glasses; and her leaner cousin in turn corroborated this. By the time Solo had bought some cigarettes from the kiosk across the road and heard once more that Leonardo was in sunglasses "as usual'', their theory looked like being confirmed.
"Oh—and I'll have a box of matches too, please," the agent said as he paid.
The fat man who ran the kiosk leaned forward across the counter. "If you do not mind, signore," he said, "you can get them from the blind man beside you—there, just at the foot of the steps to the post office."
The agent raised his eyebrows.
"It is unusual, I agree," the man explained. "Especially as here in Italy the sale of cigarettes and matches remains—as it does in France—a government monopoly, issued to the public only through licensed tabacci." His shoulders heaved up in an immense shrug. "But what would you do? The poor man must earn a living. Officially, for the books, he is an employee of the kiosk. The local police are good fellows and they turn a blind eye to the fact that he sits physically outside it."
"How apposite of them," Solo murmured as he moved across to the stairway.
The matchseller sat with his back against the column flanking the flight and his feet stretched out in front of him. There was a grey stubble on his wizened face and his eyes were hidden behind the circular lenses of a pair of old fashioned steel-rimmed sunglasses. Below his tray, a cardboard notice announced that he had lost his sight in the service of his fatherland in North Africa and that he had no other means of support.
"Buona sera," Solo said. "Mi dia scatola di fiammiferi, per favore."
"Si, signore. Quanti ne vuole?"
"Me ne dia due di questi." He picked up two of the miniature boxes and dropped some coins into the man's seamed and dirty hand. As he turned to leave, he stumbled clumsily against Kuryakin and one of the boxes spun out of his grasp towards the blind man's face. Instinctively, involuntarily, one of the peddler's hands darted up protectively, was arrested in mid-flight, and then gently lowered again.